She Needs a Montage!

I flicked through the consultation book and prayed for an empty day...or at least, just a birthday or baptism job. Gah. Two tastings scheduled for sappy, happy couples.

"Do I have to handle these?" I groaned to Mila, my boss.

She pushed her wire glasses up her nose and adjusted her apron.

"Yes."

"No sympathy vote?"

"You've had enough sympathy to redeem third world debt. You work in weddings -- get over it."

I wanted to direct some of my Fury at Mila, but truth be told...she's a lovely boss. And she let me hide in the back for the first two days (mainly because the mere mention of love made me dissolve into a tearful mess).

It's not her fault that I suddenly want to be nowhere near the froufrou lacy icing or the pink sugar roses. It's not her fault that I met Craig while I was working in the shop.

He came in with his sister on a Wednesday lunchtime to book a cake for their parents' anniversary. I remember how stocky and smart he looked in his shirt; he'd obviously popped out of work and it seemed like such a nice, organised thing to do, you know? He kept complimenting my portfolio, asking how things were done...he seemed genuinely interested. I gave him a business card with my mobile number on and when he sent me a text the next day, I actually did a little dance around my bedroom. He was very sorry if it was presumptuous and rude, but he couldn't stop thinking about me...would I like to go for a drink?

Yes, yes, YES.

We met in a wine bar the next evening, he took advantage of my inability to hold my drink, and it took off from there.

Even after we'd been dating for a month, for a year...I still looked forward to him surprising me on my lunch break with the little packs of sushi he knew I liked so much. We'd wander round to the park and eat them by the river, even if the air was raw with cold, and those memories still make me go all toasty before the waterworks start. All this stuff the lads were talking about last night...did it really matter?

I mean, don't get me wrong -- it's not that I don't like sex. I like it a lot, and I liked it especially with Craig. Sure, I got frustrated on occasion (I might have even touched myself a couple of times after he fell asleep. Ahem) but maybe I stopped expecting anything more, and so I stopped --

"Bailey? Keith and Elizabeth are here." Mila tapped me on the shoulder.

Ok, ok. Time for the game face. Time for Tekken face.

I straightened my shirt, tucked up a few curls that had escaped my clip and walked through to the display room where we held our consultations. It was full of iced polystyrene "cakes" in glass cases, framed photos and a little fridge full of samples that Mila stocked in advance.

I have raided that fridge on more occasions than I should admit to.

"Hello." I smiled brightly for the smart-looking couple; Elizabeth was blond and petite, with something of the fey about her. Keith was a bit broad around the middle but his eyes went gooey as soon as he cast them on to his fiancée. Bleugh. "I'm Bailey Frost -- we've met before, haven't we?"

We shook hands, they took a seat, I poured them glasses of elderflower Champagne. Then I took the samples tray from the fridge and teased off the cover.

"I understand that you want something chocolaty? These would be my recommendations." I sat opposite them and pointed to each of the flavours. "This one is butterscotch; it's very dense, fudgy. The caramel beside it is a little lighter. White chocolate is really sweet and I'd advise that you only pick that if you're going with some tart fruits on your design, such as redcurrants or strawberries..."

I watched as they fed each other little morsels, locked eyes, giggled. Shared private jokes.

I always thought Craig was going to propose to me. When he took me to Euro Disney for my birthday two months ago, I had been so sure. So what if we were young? We'd named our kids (Francis and Lucy)...planned our honeymoon (Gibraltar)...everything.

"What kind of icing would you pair with the butterscotch?" said Elizabeth.

"It depends on the effect you'd like, but I'd go with a vanilla royal."

I hope you get divorced.

Keith blotted blunt fingers on a napkin.

"How about the dark chocolate -- isn't royal a little sweet for that?"

"Not necessarily; we can use a rich, Peruvian cocoa," I smiled.

I hope you get divorced and go bald.

They both looked at each other and burst into identical, sickening smiles.

"So...the butterscotch. Could we still have fruit?"

"Absolutely. You can stick with the red fruits, though we do a delicious caramelised banana..."

I hope you get divorced, go bald, and that she never orgasms. In fact I hope neither of them orgasm ever again. Take that! Bah.

Oh God, I almost said that out loud.

I poured Keith and Elizabeth some more Champagne, and got out my sketch book.

****

When I got in that evening, there was an almost-melodic riff booming from Olly and Linc's studio. I hauled my shopping into the kitchen and checked on the rats, who were smooching in their hammock, before starting a huge pasta bake (it was my night to cook).

I like our little flat. Well, I say little -- we're at the top of an old water mill and the ceilings are high, so it feels huge. The kitchen was what swayed it for us (well, me) -- polished wooden units and an oven big enough for the most manic of baking days. When we decked the windowsill with basil and chives, it smelled like home.

It's not your average bachelor pad; I haven't filled it with pink satin cushions, but I like things to be comfortable. (I also vetoed a turd board, like we had at uni: Olly and Tom would take photographs of their most impressive poos and pin them up in the hall. Classy, huh).

Once the hiss of boiling water died, I could hear Olly singing to a synthy keyboard track (Linc was the composer).

"Werewolves...very faggy werewolves...put yo' fangs in my ass..."

I couldn't help it; I started giggling to myself as I chopped the red onions.

"I'm a very faggy werewolf

With a furry, faggy cock

You think I'm howling at the moon

I'm wanking myself off..."

I was sniggering like a child.

"I'm a very faggy werewolf

With a deep and primal ache

To chug your slimy were-manfat

My name is Hairy Craig --"

Whaaaaa --?

"I'm a very faggy werewolf

You know why I switched to dick?

I couldn't please my were-girlfriend

'Cause I'm a selfish prick..."

I nearly sliced half my finger off. Olly had launched into an impressive soprano for "were-boys are easy!" when I burst in, gripping the handle so tight that my knuckles were white as paper.

"You can't sing that!" I shrieked.

The synth and drums ground to an awkward halt; Linc blushed riotously when he clapped eyes on me.

"You heard what I said," I croaked.

"Aww, come on, Bails. He'll never know that it's about him." Olly tried smiling but I glared in return.

"Of course he'll bloody know! Why would you even write something --"

"I wrote it."

Linc was swinging in his chair, biting the nail on his index finger. I blinked at him.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Sorry. We thought it'd cheer you up."

"You thought that splashing my inadequate sex life all over YouTube would make me feel better?"

He added a second finger for the chomping.

"It's not for YouTube. It's just for you...and I didn't see it that way." He pressed his lips together. "You being inadequate, I mean."

I'm not sure how a song about your ex being a sperm-hungry werewolf can be called sweet...but it kind of was. In an abstract way, obviously.

"I wish I'd never told you about that." Now I was the one blushing like an idiot. "Stupid Jäger. I should never have said --"

"It's ok. Why would it not be?" Olly cocked an eyebrow. "Now, you already ruined that take...want to stay and do some backing vocals? Could use somebody for the homo growling on the bridge."

"I'm not much for the...growling." I jabbed a thumb behind me. "I'm cooking anyways."

"Sweet. I'm starving."

"I'm glad somebody is."

I wasn't.

****

I couldn't stop thinking about the orgasm thing. When I'd fed both sets of boys (rats and humans) that night, I locked myself away and just laid there, thinking. My own little catalogue of anti-climaxes.

There was Jamie, the boy I'd lost my virginity to. I came pretty close a few times with him, especially in the early days when we were just fumbling. I still get wet thinking about the way he would draw my nipples into his mouth while he stroked my clit. It wasn't like he never made the effort, I just...I don't know. I would go all tight, the way I did when I climaxed alone...I'd get breathless, I'd even get that rosy flush across my collar bone...but I never quite tipped over the edge. Half the time, I did hurry him because I wanted to be fucked. Other times, if he asked me whether I'd orgasmed, I'd just say yes.

I suppose that didn't help.

It was the beginning of a vicious little circle. When I think about it, though, Craig didn't try as hard as some of my other partners. He never asked if I liked anything, or wanted to do something new (once, I got drunk and asked him to spank me. There was suddenly this disgusted twist to his brow as he said, what, like I'm your dad or something...?). But Craig was so broody and dark that looking at him did half the job anyway, and...gah, maybe I'm just shallow and this is my punishment.

I can come perfectly well by myself, though. My flesh gets all sticky and swollen at the thought of it. I've felt the way my cervix pulses with my own fingers...I know I can. So why not with a guy...?

****

"Bailey?"

The pillow was so warm and soft against my face; ugh. Who wanted me at this hour?

Another door knock.

"Bailey, it's Chan."

Chan is Olly's girlfriend. He calls her his Hentai princess (if you don't know what that is, I suggest a slug of gin before you Google).

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and staggered to the door.

"Everything ok?"

"Um." She drummed painted nails on her arm. "I don't really know how to tell you this."

"Go on," I said, roused by the suspicion.

She cocked her head towards the end of the hall.

"I think one of your rats might be dead."

What?!

I'm ashamed to say that I pushed past her (not hard; she's teeny) and almost fell over my too-long pyjamas. When I reached the cage, Bruce was looking decidedly stiff and lifeless beside the water bottle.

"I'm really fucking sorry," said Chan. "I normally say hi to them before I go out to work and he was just all -- " She sniffled. "Look at him."

I unhooked the cage door and Tarquin stirred in the hammock; Bruce couldn't have been out for long because his brother hadn't even realised. When I brushed Bruce's belly with my fingers, though, it was cold.

"Oh crap," I whimpered. "Chan...um. Could you grab one of the Tupperware boxes from the cupboard by the fridge?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Of course."

She shuffled off to the kitchen and I lifted Bruce out gently. I wanted to get him out before Tarquin realised that he was dead; he was going to pine badly as it was. Cross-legged on the carpet, I cradled him in my palms. I'd always thought Bruce would go first because he was so rotund, but still...looking at him like this was horrible, and familiar tears fizzed in the corners of my eyes.

"Here you go. I put some kitchen roll in." Chan knelt beside me, bangs of pink hair obscuring her face. "Poor little fucker."

I laid Bruce in the box and quickly pressed the lid on. A mental note was made to buy kitten milk, Tarquin's favourite food. I would need to tempt him into eating.

Goodbye, little buddy. I know I'm not supposed to say so, but you were my favourite.

So...no boyfriend. No orgasms. Dead rat.

It sucks to be me right now, huh.

****

A day later, we buried Bruce in my mum's back garden and headed to the pub for a ratty wake.

We went to the Bridge and Staff, which is a little place on the riverside that we've frequented for years. We used to do the quiz on a Tuesday but they stopped it when people kept cheating on their mobiles (not that we ever did it. Oh no).

Olly, Tom, Linc and I huddled in our favourite booth with its cracked leather seats. They nursed pints of cider and I went for a small glass of wine (I intended to walk home sober. Ish).

"To Bruce," said Tom, holding his glass aloft. "He was a noisy little bugger who kept me awake when I had exams, but if you're going to be kept awake, I choose rats dry-humping plant pots."

"As opposed to what?" I asked.

"As opposed to Olly and Chan, or you and...arseface."

"You can say his name." I took a long sip of wine. "Craig, Craig, Craig. There. I said it."

"Don't do that again." Linc tutted. "He might be like Beetle juice -- say it three times and he'll appear."

"He's not going to come back in here. This is my territory," I sulked.

"What's wrong with listening to me send Chan to the moon?" Olly pouted. "You can't tell me she doesn't sound hot, Tom."

"Your girlfriend sounds like expensive porn. There. Are you happy?"

"Oh, I will be." Olly grinned like the Cheshire cat. "For Valentine's -- on Saturday -- she's going to let me pretend to rape her."

Tom pursed his lips and made a hissing noise.

"Yeah...glad I'm going out."

"Where are you going?" I tried not to sound bothered but I failed quite miserably.

Now it was his turn to smirk.

"There's this nurse on my rotation...she's a redhead. Huge tits. I'm taking her to the cinema."

"Go on then, Linc," I groaned. "Who are you molesting for Valentine's?"

He shuffled about next to me and I caught the fresh top-notes of his aftershave on the air.

"I'm not doing anything," he said gruffly. I think he was a bit embarrassed.

"That makes two of us, then."

"Yeah." He smiled at me; dimples flashed. "Fuck Valentine's."

"Fuck it." I clinked my glass to his.

"Er, Bailey?"

I glanced up at Tom.

"What --?"

"Nothing," Olly hissed. He threw a sharp elbow into Tom's ribs. "Nothing."

I saw him mouth it at Linc: Beetlejuice.

And then I saw him at the bar.

Him with her.

Ohgodohgodohgod. It's been a week and Craig is out with somebody else. In my pub, the one I went to before him. What the very fuck?

My cheeks were scorching and I buried my face in my hands.

"Has he seen me?" I demanded. "Has he?!"

"I don't think so, Bails." Tom nudged my wrist. "You don't have to hide, you know."

"Yes I do," I croaked. "Look at her. He's with somebody else already. Look at her!"

The table fell silent. We were all thinking the same thing, and it sucked the air out of me: he hasn't just started seeing this girl.

I took great, heaving breaths.

"Tosspot wank-bastard fucktarded nonce captain," said Olly.

Trembling with adrenaline, I peered through my fingers.

No, Craig hadn't seen us. He was wearing the pale green shirt that I like on him so much, untucked and over Levis. The girl beside him had swishy chocolate hair and she was wearing a short skirt and boots. He kept stroking the small of her back as they chatted. Date clothes, date moves.

I think I'm going to throw up.

"Want me to go and say something?" said Olly. "Because I will. We all will, won't we, lads?"

Linc cleared his throat, nodding.

"I'll play him the werewolf rap. I've got it on my phone. See what his bit of stuff has to say to that."

"You don't know that he's actually been cheating," said Tom. "I mean, I know what it looks like, but maybe --"

"If it looks like a prick and quacks like a prick, it's a prick," Olly cut in. "Even if he did just meet her, it's fucking moronic to bring her here. Shall we go and say hello? Bailey?"

"No, no." I went to finish my wine -- my mouth was so dry -- but my churning stomach wouldn't allow it. "I just...I can't do this, not now. Ok?"

"Do you want to leave?" Linc nudged my knee with his gently.

"Um...yeah, actually." I eyed the pub door. "Think we can get there without him seeing us?"

"We'll walk around you. Don't look at him, ok?"

The boys downed their pints and we threw coats over our arms. I wedged myself between Tom and Linc, and we shuffled towards the door together like one of those moving bushes you get in bad films. God, I felt ridiculous.

Craig's new whorebag turned at just the wrong moment. Olly knocked her shoulder by accident and before they exchanged apologies, Craig clapped eyes on the boys...and me.

The last time we saw each other, it was on my lunch break and he'd taken me to the park like he always did. We sat by the river and he broke the horrible news that he didn't want me any more. I was a lump of heaving sobs; he looked sad and awkward, trying to rub my back while I screeched at him to leave me alone. After that -- after believing everything he said about just growing apart -- I felt so fucking humiliated.

When Craig and I looked at each other, I let out an audible whimper.

"Twat," said Olly, purposely shoving past him.

Somehow, I managed to get outside and into the fresh air. I took great gulps of it and it burned cold in my chest to the soundtrack of thump, thump, thump. My battle-roused pulse wouldn't die in my ears.

"Want me to go back in and punch him?" Olly offered.

I shook my head, wrapping my arms round myself.

"You'll get barred," said Tom.

"It'd be worth it."

"Let's just go home, yeah?" said Linc. He offered me his arm and I let him scoop me in against his torso Felt strangely warm.

"Oh, all right then." Olly threw a scowl back at the pub. "I'm having words at some point, though."

Tom fell into stride with us.

"Christina Hendricks, Christina Hendricks, Christina Hendricks," he muttered.

"Dude," said Linc, "what are you doing?"

"Hey. It's worth a go!"

****

I did a bad thing the next day: I called in sick to work.

I know, I know. I let Mila down. I let my clients down. But the memories kept heaping on top of me at home, threatening to smother...there, they'd be so much worse.

The boys hid my mobile when we got home. At the time, I was livid; now I can see their point. Drunk, angry texting was not going to solve anything (also, I think Olly wanted to be the one to compose those texts, what with all his righteous metrosexual anger).

I did what depressed, moony girls do: lounged in bed. Watched Buffy on DVD. Ate random things from the fridge, like pickled beetroot with crackers. I topped up Tarquin's kitten milk and gave him lots of smooshy snuggles...poor little guy was pining like mad. Olly said I was being ridiculous but I don't care what he says -- eyes can be albino and stricken with grief. They can!

When the doorbell rang that evening, I plopped him back in his hammock and went to answer it.

Linc was doing his usual oh-it's-you-what-a-surprise-this-is-awkward pose, half leaning into the doorframe. There was a cardboard box under his arm.

"Hey."

"Hey." He nodded at me. "Can I come in?"

"No. There's a new rule, actually. You can't come into the flat anymore and you have to communicate with Olly by paper plane. Or pigeon."

A dimple bloomed in his left cheek.

"I came to see you, actually."

"You did?"

He slid past, lingering by the rat cage.

"I brought you a present."

"I don't need sympathy chocolate, Linc. Or sympathy anything, come to think of it --"

"It's not chocolate, and it's not out of sympathy, ok?" He held the box out to me. "Go on. Have a look."

I put the box on the cage and teased the card panels open; lying in a heap of yellow bedding was a silky, sniffly black rat.

"Oh!" I clapped a hand to my mouth. "Linc, he's so gorgeous!" I reached in to stroke him, and paused. "It is a he, right? Because --"