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Neill’s hand guided her shoulder as the words softly reverberated in her ear; you know we’re going to have to practice, don’t you?… and it felt at once delightful and imposing, walking in the dark to the doors of the Welcome Break as if this were, indeed, the break from reality they were thoroughly entitled to, and he had the authority to appoint her lips as an upcoming GCSE exam.
‘Morning!’ Neill greeted a smiling white-hatted lady as Natalia began to unbutton her coat that, having just been warmly done up by Neill’s deft firm fingers, felt almost a shame to do so, but was traded now for the brush of his mouth at her hair again: ‘Full English, Natalia? Two Full Englishes please, one with tea, and I’ll have a filter coffee,’ as he pulled out his wallet.
‘I’ll bring it over for you love, go take a seat.’
They chose a plastic table at the far end of the cafeteria, both aiming their bottoms for the soft bench side.
‘Ah well, shuffle up - and grubs up!’ announced Neill, as two plates of hot counter food immediately arrived. ‘Although, lower expectations,’ after the dinner lady had left, enthusiastically thanked by both of them, ‘have you ever been to a service stop before?’
‘Nope.’
‘They call it a shit stop for a reason,’ as he sawed through a sausage skin. ‘Still, it’s good to refuel.’
‘You said we’re having food when we get to London?’
‘Yes, but that won’t be for a few hours, especially as the traffic’s picking up,’ he glanced up at a news screen. ‘Crap milk for your crap tea?’
‘So tell me about your friends,’ as she poured in five milks, ‘do I need to know anything beforehand? Are we going to tell them it’s my birthday?’
‘Yes. And we’ll be partying like it’s 1999, because according to them it’s your 19th,’ he said, trying to hold in a mouthful of bacon whilst taking up his steaming coffee.
‘Oh, really?’ she laughed. ‘How many will there be?’
‘Not many if you eat a fry-up like this every day.’
‘Friends, not breakfast!’ She knocked-nudged his knee. Ah, this canteen was all theirs.
‘I’m expecting five or six from my gang. Justin and Monica are coming down, and Max and Alice - both are couples - Eddie’ll be there, and Claire said she’ll make it.’ He continued ploughing through his breakfast at marathon pace as Natalia hurriedly took up her fork. ‘They’re a good lot. It was a shame to leave them behind when I made the move, but one mustn’t let friends hold one back.’
‘Are they in teaching?’ Natalia asked, halfway nibbling through a sausage and toast, her stomach slowly opening in chick-mouth increments for the greasy food she was only used to watching her hungover mum eat.
‘Claire is. She was a teaching assistant when I was a Deputy Head. Alice - was studying for a PhD last thing I heard. Eddie’s a writer, Max a doctor. Justin’s in banking.’
‘And Monica?’
‘Well remembered. Monica used to be a model. Trying her hand at being a creative director for some agency now. Guess she can cock up as much as she wants when she has Justin at JP Morgan.’
‘That’s a nice mix. And to get this right so I don’t cock up - I’m 18 and we met at Leeds Art College?’
‘I’ll just say I met you in the student bar.’
‘Better to steer away from drink…’
‘Right. I met you in the library, right in the corner, as quiet as a dormouse.’
‘Shut up. Better to have met, oh I don’t know, at an Open Evening at the college. Nice and innocuous.’
‘We found it so boring we made out in the loos?’ he said with a straight face.
‘Hope you’re not expecting to rehearse that now,’ she nodded at the huge toilet sign.
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘But, like I said, there’s a few things we’ve got to discuss if you’re pretending to be my girlfriend.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
They finished and pushed away their plates - over half of Natalia’s uneaten, Neill swiping a piece of bacon from it - just as the lady came over.
‘Shall I take these away? More coffee, love?’ - as he thanked her and held out his cup.
‘So, you’re very petite,’ Neill suddenly said, as Natalia looked up in surprise at him glancing down her body. ‘I’ve only had a few girlfriends your size but when I do, she ends up in my lap a lot. It’s instinctive as picking up and stroking your pet kitten. Almost rude not to, really.’
‘Ohh-k…’ she murmured, as if acknowledging a sundry traffic report, as her head started to whirl and the creaking weight of the food in her stomach, little as she just ate, was making her feel as bloated as an obese person.
‘So when I pull you into my lap, as I inevitably, and very often will,’ he lounged on those words with an emphatic look at her, watching her trying to halt a growing blush as she double-blinked to meet his eye contact: ‘Go with it. Don’t resist and make it look awkward. Just let your body go limp and let my hands fall where they need to fall.’ He took a swig of coffee.
His words blew like a small gust inside her; the curious feeling of an empty can rattling down an alleyway, as she coughed: ‘Well, no I won’t.’
‘You don’t want me to do that?’
‘No, no I meant, I won’t make it look awkward,’ she smiled with her mouth; eyes staring.
‘Oh, good. I’ll be a perfect gentleman though, and I won’t touch your, er, naughty parts,’ he waved vaguely. ‘Hopefully my friends won’t think it’s too odd for me, and really, they shouldn’t be looking at your breasts or bottom, should they?’
He looked quite comically earnest on that point, holding his gaze on her as she duly shook her head in glazed-over agreement.
‘Anywhere else is by the by. Up for grabs, as it were.’ He sipped his coffee again, as she suppressed a smirk behind her tea rim.
‘Ok. Come here,’ he said with a peremptory sniff, as her eyes faltered.
‘Er, what…’
‘Stand up. Right there,’ he nodded in front of him. She glanced around; there was no-one nearby. The dinner lady had disappeared into the kitchen, two men who’d been sitting a little way away had left, and a cleaner with a trolley was far over by the toilets.
She stood up, feeling that she’d better push an amiable smile lest she look like a morose lap dancer being cajoled into an audition. But his eyes were busily levelled at her waist, and within a flash his hands too, gently but firmly pulling her down into his, as a soft gasp came from her, sat sideways into his thick denim lap, her head tucking below his neck so her blush could fire up unseen, his arm curling around the small of her hip, and his other arm around her knees, as her heart banged like a bedraggled beggar at a door, and it felt like the whole breakfast was sitting on her diaphragm, as he purred into the crown of her hair:
‘Yeah… that works.’
One shapely Neill-hand squeezed her knees. The whole Neill-body pulsed hers, rhythmically, as if to test how limply his piece of modelling clay was relenting, and on each pulse she loosened - sparks flying through her scalp - moulding into the shape that slotted into his pull, as though squeezing out; ironing over, the tension that now emitted in soft breaths through her lips. Her arm that fell and hung loosely round him, now moved half-hesitatingly up his jumper, with a strange crawling hesitation for it to touch the Headmaster’s back of its own volition.
His mouth upon her forehead breathed coffee and bacon mixed with that fag-tainted aroma that was divine to her, with an air of this-is-a-hard-job-but-someone’s-got-to-do-it insouciance, muttering with a new mounting inhale:
‘Ok. Very good.’
Now upon a lighter, musing exhale, he was playing his fingers along the strands of her hair down her back, as her eyes fluttered closed in serene pleasure of this, just as self-consciousness etched the expression of a giggle into her face and made her rummage her bottom upon his stout femurs like a bird slipping down and fluttering back up its perch.
‘What,’ he said deeply, but so softly - oh so softly: ‘Hmm?’ His fingers, still tousling her hair had now reached the skin of her neck, and the sensual moans it elicited from her throat she converted to safe, small breathy laughs, fearing she might vomit tea back over the table, and still not daring to look into his face, but hanging her head over his shoulder, she looked out behind him whilst gnawing her hand.
He pushed forward now to reach for his last gulp of coffee, and she, like a koala clung to his flexing thick neck like a leaning tree; the branch of his arm bracing her as he raised his chin high to the cup, fronds of blonde Neill hair tickling her cheek. This short but delirious moment of test-sitting in Neill’s lap now came to a close with a conclusively sharp inhale, a rap of her thigh and the loosening of his hands.
‘Mmm. Right. Let’s get back on the road. I’ll need a fag first.’
They rose and headed to the doors, with a gregarious ‘thank you, my darling!’ to the waitress and her ‘you have a good day!’ back, whilst Natalia walked stun-gunned, baptised in Headmaster scent, as though her insides had been defibrillated, and the food she’d eaten slowly descended into her stomach piece by piece after being spun in a washer for the last fifteen minutes.
‘Deodorant!’ she croaked, her clammy armpits feeling as though that morning’s spray failed her anyway, as would a hundred more. ‘I need to buy some for tomorrow!’
‘You want to grab it from that WHSmith there?’ He handed her his credit card. ‘Just tap this as you see me do. There’s no-one around to kidnap you - all but one - and he’ll be waiting just out there.’
‘Erm, you’re ok for me to take this? What if I need the PIN?’
‘5207. I’m off to the loo, make sure you go too because we won’t be stopping again for a while. Straight back out to the car when you’re done please. Scream if the cleaner lady tries to mug you.’
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Walking past the cleaner who looked about 87 years old, feeling rather privileged to be holding and charging Richard A. Neill’s Barclaycard for a Dove aerosol, she was glad for a moment to recover - and reflect. The way he’d put her in line with the ‘only few petite girlfriends he’d had,’ of what copious quantity was he implying? Probably oodles, with his charm and impertinence. The intimidating gorgeousness to sit in his lap, the feel of his hands flitting lightly to wherever they wanted, barring her ‘naughty parts’ that now tingled to be called naughty parts… she lingered on the toilet seat, still feeling his mouth on her forehead and the light stubble that pricked there now, as well as the notes of his purring voice like the remnants of a tuning fork.
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*
‘All good? You keep warm in there for a bit,’ Neill reached to open her door and turn the engine on, continuing his fag leaning up the side of the bonnet, whilst she sat with her heated seat cranking back up into her bottom to make her pelvis feel like an even bigger, warmer pool of liquid.
The smell of metallic outdoor air and fag smoke now interrupted the warm interior as he climbed back in.
‘Just need to fill her up and then we’ll be on our way. My card, please?’
He crawled them round to the Shell Garage where he clunked the whirring pump to fuel their getaway vehicle even further from Leeds. And as she watched his long coat breeze along towards the kiosk doors, she thought of how what he was doing was all so wrong, and definitely unlawful, and how much trouble he would get into. And yet as he jogged back, pulled open the door and tossed a fresh packet of Marlboro into the middle holder with a genial ‘did you know, darling!’ everything was ok, everything was just fine, even before he finished his sentence - ’I just saw a sign. You’re legally not allowed to fill up my car today, but you are tomorrow.
He flung his coat like a huge brown parachute into the back, as she laughed. ‘Following the law. We’re good at that.’
‘What do you mean? I always listen to The Police,’ And flicked on the music player as they moved out: Don’t Stand So Close To Me.
‘See?’
‘Very funny. Isn’t this song about the schoolgirl shagging her teacher? It mentions the Lolita book doesn’t it?’
‘This song was released 1980. The year I was born! Your Beadle-doting mum educated you with this too? And here we are?’
‘No, I watch documentaries that come on the TV about these old bands. I also watched one about - ah - the Rolling Stones,’ she spied on the screen. ‘I know of them a bit.’
‘A bit? One of the most famous bands in the world and history?’ He pressed to shuffle their Greatest Hits. The marimba percussion of Under My Thumb began, as Neill began grooving along, rocking his leg and tapping his hand on his thigh, and this obscure Stones track Natalia hadn’t heard before, had Mick Jagger crooning in a low vicious tone of keeping a girl down under his thumb, as she threw a sidewards glance to Neill gesticulating along like a mock-rockstar.
‘It’s down to me!’ - all cool guy, zero inhibition, miming and vibing to the song, and then upon a lyric about the girl doing exactly what she’s told, his hand swam out, air-jabbed a finger right at her - almost into her lap, as her ribs hummed like an electric fence.
She looked to him, as she winked at her, and still engrossed in the music, he carried on indifferently, whilst she could only stiffen in response, thinking secretly how sexy he looked, continuing to sing of the girl being under his thumb! Ah, ah, say it’s alright!
Shifting under the seatbelt that pulled taut around her middle, he went on fondling the steering wheel as if addressing - in her imagination - previous lovers, ex-wives as ‘squirming dogs, Siamese cats’… or Neill’s new, fine-smoking bit of meat Joan of Arse, tied to a stake of submission to his commands. Or Miss Barnes pinned down in the gym - was he taking away this young and inexperienced slip of schoolgirl because he wanted to banana-pound her - would a man like him even entertain the notion if he didn’t? Or would he risk his livelihood for a cerebral road trip to talk Shakespeare and family history? Her thoughts flew as fast as the flashing M1 road lamps illuminating, strobing Neill’s animated face like a disco light till his tirade-serenade faded out.
‘Ahh! Great track!’ he enthused.
She opened her mouth to speak when the piano notes of Let’s Spend The Night Together crashed on. Oh dear. She leaned to turn down the volume.
‘Neill. I’ve just thought of something.’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Your friends. They’re probably on Facebook. What if they take pictures with me in?’
He paused. ‘I’ll just have to tell them not to take any photos of us. After all, I don’t use Facebook, what with my work - you know. So I’ll just say you’re the same as I am, and to keep us out.’
‘Ok. Good.’
The sun had risen; barely perceptible on this dull January morning. She sat back in silence to a calmer concert of Stones songs until they came onto a busier motorway than she’d seen.
‘Welcome to the M25!’ He turned up the rattling riffs of Undercover, as Jagger snarled them through bridge after bridge of signs for Watford and Richmond and Leatherhead and Heathrow Airport, and repeated red-ring variable speed limits that Neill simply hurtled through.
Natalia turned the volume down again. ‘Haven’t you ever been done for speeding?’
‘No. But I did almost once squash a pedestrian’s toes.’
‘Really?… Oh—’
He grinned.
The excitement and caffeine and rhythm of the car began to lull her heavy eyelids closed as a sleepy Stones ballad started.
‘Go to sleep darling. We’ve got a fair while. Do you need a blanket?’
‘Have you got one?’
‘Only your coat. Which is too far to reach. Pull mine’ - she yanked its tail, and together their hands hauled up the heavy, suede-lined material, arranging and snuggling it up to her chin, wondering if she’ll ever be able to fall asleep with the strong smell of him impregnating her nostrils.
‘Good girlfriend training really. Get you used to my scent like the squirming dog you are this weekend.’
‘So funny, Jagger…’ She covered her face in his coat to do exactly what he just said. Just her eyes peeping out, losing focus, hypnotised by flying lamp posts, the dim sky, and the rush of the car’s noise - curiously, Neill’s smell goes from exhilarating into lulling, and she feels her ears filling with liquid cement, her head lolling down to one side as though she were dozing on Neill himself, and she dropped into a long overdue sleep, too deep to dream.
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*
Expecting to see the top of her wardrobe, she softly moaned to the sight of vast residential roads, red bus-stops and red buses.
‘Well, good morning - again! Welcome to North London!’
‘What’s this in your pocket?’ she fumbled at something sticking in her arm. ‘Half a packet of Fruit Pastilles?’
‘Or are you pleased to see me!’
‘There’s me thinking I was the sweetaholic,’ as she tore the paper down to eat them.
‘It’s the influence of being around one. Give them here!’
‘No, I’ll trade you cookies.’ She reached for her bag.
‘Oh you made some! What a good girlfriend. And you got bedhead just like I promised.’
‘How long till we’re there?’
‘It will take at least an hour getting through Central.’
‘We are going to stop somewhere aren’t we? I need to change?’
He promptly came off a roundabout. ‘Decent sized one; they’ll have toilets. I’ll park well over here,’ he drove past the HGV pumps, ‘so I can have a cheeky fag and phone Ed whilst you go in.’
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In the toilet she grimaced at a puddle of liquid left on the floor, and sighed in the mirror. Her morning mascara had smudged in her sleep, and her chin spot looked even worse with the shine of cookie grease.
Weak-legged after an unfamiliarly long car ride, light-headed after her nap and decidedly nauseous after six Fruit Pastilles, she pulled off her clammy top, sprayed some perfume over her sticky armpits, slipped off her leggings and squeezed into the red lycra dress. Heeled boots, long cardigan and blue coat all back on, she brushed her hair, did some makeup, and looked at herself again.
Good, she looked older, she thought as the perfume went up her nose and stiffened her throat. She coughed, a sudden pounding in her chest, upon aggressive Southern accents outside, punctuated by the heave of lorries in and out of the forecourt. Neill was waiting out there for her, ready to gawp like Santa without the Santa outfit, for it’s pretend girlfriend time!…she was in Lap-Land-on!… and his friends were waiting, what, a few roads away, to see her go all limp on command in his arms, oh dear God, she’d go limp alright, she’d pass out at this rate…
She’d better get back before he hunted her down. There he was by his car door, phone to his ear, eyes trained on her, uttering the last syllable of his chat as he slipped the phone back in his pocket and smiled politely, casting a look up and down her as she stood in front of him.
‘Aw, I wanted pigtails!’
She scoffed.
‘Are you… ok?’ he smiled. ‘All good?’
She nodded as she stepped to pass the bonnet, when his arm came across her. ‘Hey.’ He gently grasped her face to turn it to him, as though he were looking to see if she’d been crying, but without the evidence for it, gave her another smile.
‘Are you… nervous?’
Her eyes cynically circled. ‘No, I’m ok.’
‘Are you feeling ill?’
‘No, no…’
‘Tired?’
‘No, no, I’ve just slept, haven’t I…’
‘Come here, come here. Give me a hug.’
He pulled her into him, and in the same moment that his body contact felt good to her, the force of his pull made his chest stiffen, which she pressed up against like a red rigid pole under her coat. His hands now went to her shoulders, holding her out in front of him and peering into her face as he had done before in the shed and in his office, this time with time-starved urgency:
‘What’s wrong? Hey? Look, we’re going to see my friends now. And, you know’ - dancing his head with tact - ‘you’re supposed to be my girlfriend, and well, you look absolutely lovely, but with an expression on your face like you’re going to a funeral. It’s not really going to work like this… is it?’
A wall of failure drew up inside her, and her body that was already like hard plasticine felt it would turn to stone.
He sighed. ‘Shall we go somewhere else first? Chill out for a bit?’
‘But they’ll be waiting…’ She blinked away the prickle in her tear ducts.
‘Fuck them. Let’s just relax, hm? Do you want a fag?’
‘No.’
‘Weed?’
‘No, I don’t want a fucking fag or fucking weed or anything like that right now, I—’
‘Ok, well I can’t exactly suggest a stiff drink to a fifteen-year old either. I don’t know what more to suggest…’
‘I don’t know.’ An embarrassing lugubriousness was growing inside her. ‘Maybe I just shouldn’t have come—’
‘No! Bollocks!’ he barked. ‘…No way,’ he resumed in a lower voice, pleased to catch her bemused eye, and running his eyes around her face and sighing again: ‘Don’t be silly. Come here. Come here darling…’
He pulled her into him so his jumper wool was up her nostrils, and rubbed her back, whilst she felt, evidently to him, just as stiff as he felt to her.
‘No, this is not right.’ He held her away again.
She frowned despondently.
‘You need to hug me like you want to hug me,’ he suddenly said.
‘Huh?’
‘Not huh. Hug. Like you once did. In the shed. Hug me like you did in the shed at school.’
‘Wha…’ she croaked, her eyes wandering down his torso. ‘You want me to cry?’
He shrugged. ‘If you want.’
‘I’ve just put mascara on…’
‘Oh sod that. You don’t need it anyway.’
‘I do to look 18—’
‘Just do what I asked, now.’
His hands gently on her shoulders, as she slowly comprehended, and put into action, the response to his request: pushing her hands through the crook of his elbows, and over about twenty seconds, turning her face into his chest like it was a feather pillow, her body softening just like one, her eyes closing and lips falling apart, circulating her temple at his collarbone. His hands ventured slowly to rub her back as he did a moment ago but at one hundredth the speed.
And over the next minute that passed like ten, she squeezed harder, and harder, till they were ensconced in a bear hug as much a bear hug could be, and his lips were brushing against her hair, puckering the slowest and longest kiss there as though not to be noticed as one, till a murmur came from him:
‘Wow… yes.’
A prickle of pride flickered her lips, still nestled to him, where she could hear his heart beating, then she wondered if it was in fact her own pulse in her temple, or both; and suddenly she realised how much her heavy heart had lightened, and breath had slowed, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she had done what he wanted her to do, or what she wanted to do.
He was muttering something now, as the roar of a huge HGV pulled in next to them, and their heads turned abruptly upon the honk of a horn and the grin of the driver watching them, which must have looked from the distance like two entwined spaghetti noodles.
Natalia dropped away as Neill continued to stare at the drive. She wondered if he took issue with the honk.
‘Follow me,’ he said now, taking her hand toward the truck.
‘Neill, wait! What are you gonna—’
‘That was part one,’ he called, pulling her across the forecourt. ‘Hey!’ he shouted at the beefy bearded driver who was twice his size.
‘Neill, please don’t—’
‘Hey chap!’
The driver had just jumped down, and Neill was talking in his ear and looking to Natalia.
She watched the man’s expression change to bemusement, then a nod of agreement, as Neill took Natalia’s hand and ushered her toward the three steep steps that led to the high driving seat.
‘What the heck? We’re not test-driving this thing now are we?’
‘We’re not going anywhere. Just climb up, climb up,’ he pushed her hips. That’s it…’
She went up the steps too dazed to think.
‘Then turn to me at the top… that’s it, that’s it…’
From two foot up, she was looking down at Neill holding his arms open like a one-man rescue mission.
‘Now jump! Jump, right into me!’ his wide smile urged, as the driver stood grinning with his arms crossed.
‘Come on, beautiful!’ Neill beamed, ‘jump down right into my arms!’
The B word fired a cannon inside her, as her inner awkwardness caved, as though he had already half-‘cured’ her simply from the hilarity of his hair-brained idea, and she sighed, utterly mortified at the same time as utterly willing, after all, here she was, in the alien land of London, in a stinky perfume-petrol-cologne-dazed haze, in some strange man’s juggernaut, her mum thinks she’s with some imaginary Sarah, how much weirder can it get?
She may as well jump, as carefree as a child, into what looked as good a daddy as she ever saw, as she put her arms out into the air and dropped forward, firmly but gently scoop-caught by Neill like a displaced mermaid, her laughing face sliding down his ear… and now she was being spun, round and round on the spot, her legs flying out, as the grunty laughs of both Neill and the lorry driver echoed as if in a dream, and a third man’s voice was heard:
‘That’s one way to get down on his knee!’ - ‘Did she say yes?’ - ‘They’ll want confetti next!’
Her feet found the ground, and her mouth found itself laughing as much as the men’s, as Neill thanked and walked Natalia under his arm back to the car, opening her passenger door as if for a VIP, as she landed with a plop and a sigh.
‘So I spoke to Eddie, and they’re all there.’ He set his phone back in the cradle. ‘Are you ready now?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled and squeezed her hand, and she found herself squeezing it back.
‘Right… an hour to Côte. Kensington Court. French brasserie,’ as he tapped his phone. ‘It’ll brush you up on your exam, mademoiselle! I’ll educate you on the way better than Williams!’
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*
After slow crawling through traffic, Natalia knowing at least twenty more French words and remarking with surprise that none of them were rude, they eventually reached Kensington. She watched the elegant rows of white Victorian houses sail by, punctuated by parades of quaint cafés and boutique shops, with small bustles of affluent looking people breezing about to start their weekend.
Soon, parked up in a small side street, they were slamming doors, hauling on their coats, and Neill taking a fat plastic bag from the boot under his arm, as he took Natalia’s hand in the other.
‘Zero percent chance anyone from Thornwood would be at a place like this.’ He gripped her with a new insistent fullness, on through the heavy doors of the dark-fronted brassiere, as she took a breath knowing that their pretence was publicly commencing.
‘There they are! Eddie! Monica!’
Over in the corner, a cluster of freshly smart shirts and jeans and blouses, with a toothy-smiled chorus resounded of ‘hey!’ and ‘it’s Rich!’
Neill went forward to embrace a short, bubbly-looking plump woman with honey-blonde hair who rushed forward with arms outstretched.
‘So good to see you, Claire!’ kissing her on each cheek, then ‘Edward!’ - a hug and a backslap to a grinning, tweed-suited bald man. ‘Monica, darling! How are you!’ Neill enthused with a loud double-smooch on the chiselled cheekbones of a beautiful woman with Mediterranean locks, who took Neill’s bag from his hand with her demure smile falling on Natalia - and at this point Natalia was drawn forward by the pull of Neill’s hand back on hers.
‘Natalia, Claire; Claire, Natalia,’ as Natalia hurried to copy the embrace: an ebullient ‘hello!’ followed by a light hug, then a smile, then a kiss on each cheek; the faint taste of cosmetics on her lips as she watched Neill greeting ‘Alice!’ - a pale ginger lady - and then blonde Max - old fella! - in crisp ironed cotton, and Justin - my man! - dark and suave with a goatee beard.
‘This is Natalia,’ Neill pushed forward his dainty accomplice almost swallowed up behind them. ‘Oh, it’s nice to meet you!’ they greeted, as her efforts rejoined accordingly - to make those pretentious sounds pretentious adults make to other pretentious adults, she smirked inside - play along now!
…’Hi! Nice to meet you! Hi, I’m with Rich. Yes, we travelled down from Leeds. Yeah, I’m from Leeds,’ her heart racing with the social whirlwind, the risky charade, and the sugar crash from the cookies earlier, in this fragrant clash of colognes and perfumes that was all at once so intimidating to her, lubricated by sweet beaming smiles she had only ever seen on Aisha and Alana - who were dwarfed in her mind now by all of this - and trying her best to hold the consistent eye contact with her own copy-and-pasted smile.
Turning back to Neill, to whom she felt truly sheep to the shepherd now - for this was no Thornwood canteen - this was a poncey, little-finger high-tea brasserie with perfumed Londoners hundreds of illicit miles from home. She fingered at his hanging palm, as he turned his face in pleasant surprise. Grasping her fingers into his, he continued in clamorous travel-talk to his friends, she gazing at the side of his face moving in animated worldly confidence like a mouse taking notes from the lion.
‘Shall we go outside so we can smoke?’ - ‘It’s a bit cold, Rich!’ countered by one of the girls’ claims that ‘oh they have oil heaters!’ and seconded with a ‘let’s go!’ from Max.
Neill’s arm wrapping around Natalia with the tickling chuckle in her ear, ‘I’ll keep you warm, girlfriend,’ triggered her nervous smile as they walked out in a fashionable assembly of Neill’s friends, and she had the first moment of glee amidst being all at sea, of being safe upon the raft of Neill, her Headmaster! Good heavens!
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A waiter was joining two tables whilst Ed and Justin nudged the heater towards the girls, Neill plonking Natalia down right next to it, then himself on the other side. Claire, who in particular had been throwing Natalia and Neill repeatedly delighted looks, sat on their other side. Ed opposite, with Neill grunting open his fags to him, whilst Justin and Monica stood chatting and lighting up close by. The waitress appeared and drinks were ordered: lattes, cappuccinos, none of which Natalia really understood - other than that they had something to do with coffee. Then talk of brunch: Eggs Florentine, Royale, and Benedict; smashed avocado on sourdough, breakfast cassoulet, viennoiseries, all of which further confounded Natalia, till Neill’s murmur in her ear came, ‘we’ve already had a breakfast darling, how about a Caesar salad as I’m having?’ to which she nodded, then ‘would you like tea? Or are you tea’d out sweetheart?’ - ‘Whatever you’re having.’ And when all the orders were taken, attention turned to Natalia, starting with Eddie.
‘Well it’s great to see you Rich. And to meet your new…’ He gestured toward Natalia. ‘How long have you been going?’
Neill’s arm now curled round Natalia’s shoulders, and his sweet tobacco scent breathed right on her face with: ‘What, about two months now?’
‘About that,’ blinked Natalia.
‘Aw! And where did you meet!’ enthused Claire, who looked as though she’d been brimming with intrigue to find out more, as Monica and Justin now sat down, drawn into the coo-fest with a mutual lover’s thigh stroke.
Natalia looked to Neill, who was already answering:
‘We met at the art college in Leeds. She’s a student there’ - he turned back to her - ‘studying fine art.’
‘Wow, amazing, so how old are you?’ asked Max, promptly adding, ‘if you don’t mind me asking! You look so… young!’
There was a genial murmur from Claire and Alice who looked to each other as if to agree.
A moment of silence followed as Natalia waited for Neill to answer, whilst Neill judged it as a question for her to answer, and then turned to each other.
‘She’s…’ - just as Natalia piped up: ‘I’m eighteen.’
Whooshing whispers and smiling eyebrows as Neill added:
‘Well, it’s her birthday. She’s nineteen tomorrow.’
There was a round of smiles as the girls cooed, ‘oh, happy birthday!’ and a half-whistle from Max.
‘Whew. I think you’re the youngest Rich’s ever had, isn’t that right Rich?’
‘Quite possibly,’ Neill grunted. ‘And it’s the oldest you’d go for, right Max?’
The table laughed.
‘Oh, but you look lovely together,’ Claire chirped. ‘It’s great you’ve come all the way down, Natalia. What’s Leeds like?’
She responded without hesitation: ‘Shite, mostly.’
The table laughed, including Neill.
‘So why’s our Rich up there then, can you tell us that?’
‘To meet me, obviously.’
Again a wave of amused laughs. ‘Very funny you,’ Neill mock-jolted her.
‘Does that mean you’d prefer it down here with Rich?’ Alice asked. ‘Fancy London?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ replied Natalia - the table quietening every time she spoke - ‘I guess it depends on how interesting you lot are.’
Again a round of laughs as Max retorted: ‘Well I can tell you the coffee you’re about to have will be better than anything you have up there,’ followed by more merriment, as the waitress arrived to serve up beverages, and Natalia whispered to Neill:
‘What exactly the fuck is a flat white?’
‘Just coffee,’ he smirked, ‘with a higher proportion of espresso in it than a latte or cappuccino… just drink it.’
‘Jesus, what’s that taste?’
‘Coffee? Or should I say real coffee. You want Yorkshire Tea instead?’
‘No no, I’ll just stick more sugar in.’
As everybody sipped, Monica drummed the table with ten manicured fingertips.
‘Well, guys and gals, I have an announcement to make.’
‘Ooh! What!’ enthused Ed.
‘Well,’ she beamed round to Justin, with a wring of her hands, ‘I’m four months pregnant.’
There were whoops and wows from everyone arising, as Neill jumped up, and Natalia realised that like church mass or royalty she should rise too, each taking turns to encase the seated Monica’s neck in a lingering sentimental squeeze, whilst Claire was practically in tears, and Natalia stooped and patted her shoulder with an amicable word of congrats.
Neill was standing, slapping Justin’s shoulder: ’And how are you, dad-to-be? Excited? Nervous?’
‘Oh, a mix,’ smiled back Justin.
‘Crapping his pants,’ grinned Ed.
They all laughed, moving back to their chairs, Neill’s hands landing on Natalia’s shoulders as he edged past her to sit down first, and then those hands were on her hips, and she knew what was coming, and that all those feelings that had bubbled up at the breakfast stop were about to be fired up again…
‘Due date?’ asked Alice. ‘Must be around… June?’
‘24th,’ replied Monica.
‘Keep your fags away from Lady M then, lads,’ sighed Neill, as now in one deft tug, he brought Natalia swiftly down into his lap, this time more determinedly - or was she more relenting? - slotting sideways neatly across his thighs, her limbs moulding to the pull of his hands without any instruction from her brain. Her arm went automatically around his back as he shuffled her snugly into position, his left arm cradling her hip like earlier; his other hand drawing a fag from his packet on the table, slipping it between his lips and lighting it as she watched in macro vision, and with his first puff, whispered into her ear:
‘Now that’s better, girlfriend.’
She smiled, blinking round at the rest of the friends; Claire with a smiling half-eye on them whilst mid-chat to Monica; the others drinking, Ed smoking; Max recounting his work that week as a GP, with Alice talking about her training, and how’s she ‘learning on the job,’ as Natalia tuned back into Neill who seemed to be sniffing at her earlobe, ever so gently rubbing a lip there, and whispering right there:
‘Guess you’ll have to learn on the job too. I’m sorry.’
‘Huh?’ She looked to him in surprise, then, as if her eye contact had made the cue, he dropped his arm from behind her back so she fell backwards with a silent gasp; his hand slid under her neck and before she knew it, he was leaning into her face like she was a supine damsel, the moistness of his lips was upon pressing down on hers, intermingled with pricks of stubble, stupefying her into blinking shock of receiving her first kiss in front of all these people, but trying all the world to not convey that a firecracker was quietly blowing through the fifteen-year old body that is too young to have a stiff drink or hold a petrol pump but not to receive her Headmaster’s lips, foisted on hers from above like one of her wicked wank fantasies come alarmingly true. He now withdrew, casually tossed her upright again, and took a puff on his fag whilst she nuzzled onto his shoulder to conceal from the others that her blood was racing like a greyhound’s.
‘Aww, but you’re wearing the perfect camouflage,’ he murmured, as the thumb of his fag-holding hand rummaged to find and stroke the blushing cheek he knew was there, as she nuzzled it further into his jumper, to chafe the tickling, wet, alien post-kiss feeling at his collarbone, waiting a moment to feel brave enough to move her eyes back out to the party, to see Eddie looking on bemused, and the others now making way for two descending trays of food from the hovering waitress’s arms.
‘Ooh, la la!’ cooed Ed. ‘Food’s served, guys!’
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