Are You Experienced?

She’s acting differently

‘This seat doesn’t go back properly.’

‘Of course it does.’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Look. Let me show you.’ I wrestle with the aeroplane seat. It won’t budge. ‘You’re right. It’s broken.’

She smirks – in a half-hidden way, which is the most hostile way she could do it. She’s hiding it as if to say, ‘You’re a jerk who can’t take the fact that I’m laughing at you.’ A few weeks ago, she would have grabbed me by the ears, laughed in my face and called me an impotent chauvinist twat. Now she shows me just enough of a smirk to let me know that she’s noticed me being an idiot, but that I’m not allowed to share it with her.

‘Can we change seats?’

I don’t answer. I arrived at the airport on time, checked in (asking specifically for a window-seat), and waited an hour and a half for Liz, who turned up with minutes to spare, and didn’t even have any traveller’s cheques on her and had to get the whole lot at the airport and there was only one place open and if that had been closed I don’t know what we would have done. I’d… I’d have been travelling to India alone for three months. Or I’d have had to lend her my money for God’s sake – but we would have run out half-way through – it wouldn’t have been possible – and it’s not my job to lend her money. I wouldn’t have done it. She had weeks to get herself organized…

‘Can we change seats? You’re reading anyway – you don’t need to lean back. I want to sleep.’

She’s lying. We’ve only just taken off, and it’s a clear day. There are still excellent views. I specifically wanted a window-seat so that I could see the views – and I know it’s childish, but I love flying, OK? I’m not ashamed of the fact that I enjoy the view from an aeroplane. So maybe I am a bit old for that, but I don’t care. I just happen to be interested in it.

‘David…? Are you listening?’

She glares at me, her features arranged into a look of absolute scorn which says ‘I dare you to tell me that you just want to see the view. I dare you. Go on, say it. Then it’ll be out in the open – we won’t be able to deny – either of us – that you are a twelve-year-old in the body of a nineteen-year-old – that you have no shame about being an absolute prick.’

I’m not being paranoid – it’s all there, written into the curve of her nostrils and the squint.

The most annoying thing is that I wasn’t really reading. I was only glancing at my book, and was really looking out of the window. But now she’s caught me in the act I can’t tell her that I wasn’t really reading, because that’s exactly what she wants me to say to make me look selfish.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘In a few minutes.’

I close the book and pointedly look out of the window to demonstrate that I’m not selfish, and that switching seats is a significant sacrifice. I hear Liz sigh, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see her shaking her head. She’s fixed it so that whatever I do, it confirms what she thinks of me.

She hates me. She thinks I’m immature, selfish, bigoted and arrogant. I’m giving her my seat, for God’s sake – at some point, I’m going to want to sleep, and I won’t be able to because I’ve given her the reclining seat – and she’s sitting there shaking her head because I’m selfish. It’s outrageous.

I don’t understand why it’s happened. I don’t know what’s changed. A few weeks ago, we were best friends -we were almost in love. Now we’re stuck together, heading to India for three months, and she’s treating me like a piece of rotten meat. Maybe I am immature, selfish, bigoted and arrogant, but she used to like me. I haven’t changed. So I don’t see why I should alter my behaviour now, just because she’s acting differently.

Pure blind fear

I had heard the old cliché about how when you arrive in India, it’s like stepping into an oven, but this hadn’t prepared me for the fact that when you arrive in India, it is like stepping into an oven.

Delhi airport was… it was just taking the piss. That number of people simply couldn’t fit into such a small space and not end up eating each other. It wasn’t possible. And no one else even seemed to notice that it was crowded.

After queuing for several hours at immigration, we escaped the airport and discovered that it was even madder outside. The minute we were in the open air, several rugby teams of smelly men launched themselves at us and tried to pull us to bits, so that we could send separate limbs to town on different forms of transport. It was disgusting. I felt like I was being mugged. Mugged while inside an oven. And all the guys who were trying to get us into their taxis looked so poor and desperate that I just wanted to go home straight away.

Liz noticed that the other backpackers from our flight had got on a bus, so we breast-stroked through the crowd and clambered in behind them. The engine was already on, and we took our seats, relieved that we had made it in time. The driver pointed angrily at our bags, then at the roof of the bus. I noticed that no one else on the bus had their bags with them, so we got out of the bus and found ourselves back in a different crowd of people, all of whom seemed to be offering to put our stuff on the roof of the bus. I was convinced that they’d steal our rucksacks the minute I turned my back so I tried to climb up myself, but some guy with a red turban on, which gave him the appearance of being the chief bag-putter-on-roofer, pulled me off the ladder and tugged at my bag. I relented, and let him take our rucksacks. I watched him all the way and saw him lash down the bag with a rope. He looked as if he knew what he was doing, and there were several other bags up there already, so I decided that maybe it was all reasonably legal. When he came back down, he started doing a strange upward nodding gesture and saying ‘munee – munee’.

‘He wants money,’ said Liz.

‘Why should I give him money? It’s his job. I was quite willing to put it up there myself.’

‘Just give him some money, for God’s sake. I’ll get in and grab some seats.’

‘I haven’t got any money yet, have I? It doesn’t exactly look like he takes traveller’s cheques.’

‘Just give him anything.’

‘Like what? A roll of loo paper? Yesterday’s Guardian?’

She ignored me and got on the bus.

‘Munee. Munee.’

‘I haven’t got any.’

‘Munee.’

He was beginning to tug at my clothes now, and the crowd of onlookers was closing in.

‘Look, mate – I haven’t got any money yet. I have to go to a bank.’

‘MUNEE!’

I turned out my pockets to show him that I didn’t have any money, and out fell a whole load of English coins. He gave me an evil stare, then bent over to pick up the coins. There was a mini riot while several people scrabbled for the cash, so I sneaked away and got into the bus, hoping that I’d be out of sight before they realized that it was only English money.

During the bag episode all the seats had gone, and Liz was standing somewhere near the back. I went and joined her.

‘Just in time,’ I said.

Half an hour later, with the bus jammed full of people, the driver started revving the engine.

Half an hour after that, with the bus containing twice as many people as it had when I’d thought it was full, and with the man in the red turban still shouting at me through the window, we crawled out of the airport.

‘This is awful,’ I said.

‘What’s awful?’ said Liz.

‘This. Everything.’

‘What did you expect?’ she said, with an unforgiving glare.

‘Is this what it’s meant to be like?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘This is what we’ve come for?’

‘Yes. It’s India.’

‘Jesus. I don’t believe this.’

I suddenly felt as if my stomach had been filled with pebbles. This was all wrong. I’d come to the wrong place. I hadn’t even eaten anything yet, and I felt sick already – from the heat, the crowds, the claustrophobia – and pure blind fear.

What the hell had I done? Why had I come to this awful country? I was going to hate it. I already knew. There was no way I could possibly get used to any of this. And now I was stuck here.

This was bad. This was very bad.

J

After the bus dropped us off, we went to the Ringo Guest-House, which sounded cool, and was the first place mentioned in the Lonely Planet. It was a short walk from the bus-stop, down a side-street.

Not that our route bore much resemblance to what I’d call a street. There was no Tarmac for a start – just compacted mud which was thick with dust and dotted with green puddles, piles of rubbish and the odd cow-pat. Amazingly, most people were walking around in flip-flops.

I took a good look at the people, and they didn’t look anything like the Indians in England. It wasn’t that they looked physically different, or even that they were wearing weird clothes. There was something else I couldn’t put my finger on that looked completely alien. Something in the way they moved, and in their facial expressions. Whatever it was, it scared the shit out of me. And wherever I looked there were hundreds of them – shouting at each other, or shouting at me to ‘Take taxi’, ‘Eat best food’ or ‘Make international best rate telephone call’ – all of them jostling past, laughing, chatting, arguing, and generally swaggering around as if they owned the place.

The hotel was up a dark staircase, and consisted of a few double rooms positioned off a cramped roof courtyard. A man with a fleshy golf ball growing out of the side of his neck told us that there were no double rooms available, so we’d have to take beds in the dorm. He then led the way up a ladder to a higher corner of the roof, on which a corrugated-iron hut had been built.

The metal walls and roof turned the dorm into even more of an oven than the rest of the country was anyway. The room was crammed with beds, and as my eyes adjusted from the outside glare to the murky dormitory, I could pick out a few depressed-looking travellers lying around on their beds. They all looked so thin and miserable that you could almost have mistaken the place for a prison. A few of them were reading, one was asleep, and a couple were simply lying on their beds staring into space.

This did not look like a bunch of people having fun. Having escaped the insanely frantic streets, we had somehow stumbled on something worse: a kind of morgue like gloom. Although we stood there for what must have been several minutes, no one so much as turned to look at us. Whatever was going to happen to me, I did not want to end up like those people. I wanted to go home.

Attempting to gauge how long I was stuck in India – to sense what three months really felt like, I suddenly felt dizzy with despair.

‘What d’ you reckon?’ said Liz.

‘Grim.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Do you think we’ll get anywhere better?’

‘Maybe.’

‘We could always ask someone,’ I said.

‘The people here are bound to think this is the best place, or they wouldn’t be here, would they?’

‘I suppose so.’

The thought that this could be anyone’s idea of the best place in Delhi was depressing beyond belief. Due to the heat, however, wandering around with our backpacks until we found somewhere we liked simply wasn’t an option.

Liz fished the guidebook out of her pack, and we saw that there was one other recommended hotel in the area, called Mrs Colaço’s. The book described it as ‘basic, crowded and rather hard on the nerves,’ which didn’t sound particularly inviting, but it was the only one nearby that was mentioned, so we hauled ourselves through the hot, soupy air towards Mrs Colaço’s.

This had a marginally less spirit-crushing atmosphere than Ringo’s, and wasn’t quite so full of catatonic hippies. Again, there were no actual rooms available, but we gratefully took dormitory beds, relieved to have at last found somewhere to flop.

We flopped.

Lying on my hard bed, staring at the ceiling fan, which was rotating just slowly enough to have absolutely no effect on the surrounding air whatsoever, I realized that I had never really been hot before. I mean, I’d had hot skin, in the sun, and I’d got hot from running around, but I’d never had this strange sensation of feeling like a slab of meat cooking from the inside. I genuinely felt full of heat – as if my limbs and internal organs were huge, half-cooked lumps that I had to carry around with me. And the breath coming out of my nose felt like a miniature hot-air dryer blowing on the skin of my top lip.

How could people live like this? How could a country function in these conditions? How could so much air possibly reach such a temperature without heating up the entire planet?

We couldn’t unpack, since there was nowhere to put anything, so once we’d had a good flop, we didn’t really know what to do. I had always wondered what travellers did all day – and now I was sitting on a bed in Delhi, having just arrived, not knowing what to do. We were both too hot and knackered to move, without the will or the courage to go outside and face the reality of being in India.

There was one other person in the room. He was lying on his back with his elbows on the bed and his hands in the air, staring into space. It looked like he was reading a book, except that his hands were empty.

‘Hi,’ said Liz.

‘Peace,’ he said.

‘Peace,’ she replied.

He sat up and gave her a lecherous look.

‘What’s your name?’ said Liz.

‘J.’

‘J?’ I said, in a tone of voice that somehow communicated the instant dislike I’d already taken to him – an impressive achievement, given that I only had one letter to play with.

‘J – cool,’ said Liz, trying to compensate for me.

‘What’s your real name?’ I said.

‘My real name?’

‘Yeah.’

He had ‘Public-School Git’ stamped all over him.

‘J.’

‘That’s what your parents call you?’

‘No. It’s short for Jeremy.’

‘Right. Sorry, Jeremy. I mean, J.’

‘Where are you from, J?’ said Liz.

Jeremy chuckled, and gave her a long, meaningful look.

She tried to avoid looking confused.

‘You haven’ t… been here very long, have you?’

Liz forced out a bashful-young-virgin blush. ‘No,’ she said, fiddling with the bedsheet. ‘We only just landed.’

‘I could tell,’ he said.

‘Maybe it’s the airline tags on our rucksacks?’ I offered.

He ignored me. ‘When you’ve been here… a few… months… you stop asking that question. You begin to belong as much to India as to your native land.’… ‘

Right,’ said Liz. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Where are you from, though?’ I said.

He ignored me.

‘England?’ I said. ‘We’re English.’

Reluctantly, he nodded.

‘Whereabouts?’ I said.

‘Oh… the south.’

‘Excellent. So are we. London?’

‘No.’

‘Which town?’

He was pissed off now.

‘Tunbridge Wells,’ he said.

‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Must freak you out being here. Coming from a rich area like that, I mean.’

‘Not any more. Not any more,’ he said, looking deep into Liz’s eyes.

‘How long have you been here?’ she said.

He chuckled. ‘Ohhh – long enough. Long enough to love it… and hate it. Long enough to wonder if I can ever go back.’

‘What’s that – a week?’ I said.

Neither of them was amused.

‘D’ you get ill much, then?’ I said.

‘What do you mean by ill?’

He looked at me as if he’d said something devastatingly intelligent.

I looked at him as if he’d said something devastatingly stupid.

‘You know – ill. Delhi belly. The shits.’

‘Look – if you want to survive in this country – you’ve got to redefine your terms. Ill means one thing in the West and another thing in the East. An Indian accepts his fate –it’s the West’s constant fight against destiny that has created a nation of hypochondriacs. It’s all so fleeting – to me it hardly matters.’

‘I see you don’t drink the water, though,’ I said, nodding at the bottle of mineral water by his bed.

He scowled at me. Liz scowled at me.

‘Do you mind if I have a sip, Jeremy – I mean, J?’

He nodded.

I realized I didn’t want to share his germs, so I tried to drink without touching the mouth of the bottle, but it didn’t really work, and most of it went down my front. I don’t think they noticed, though.

Prompted by Liz, he started spouting off about all the places he’d been to, while she jotted down all his suggestions, muttering things like ‘Wow, it sounds amazing!’, ‘I don’t know if we’re brave enough for that,’ and ‘Where exactly do you find the camel man…?’ After this had gone on for long enough to make me feel nauseous, I asked Liz to step into the corridor for a word.

‘Why do we need to go outside?’ she said, reluctantly looking up from Jeremy’s maps.

‘Because I want a word.’

‘But…’

‘In private.’

She exchanged looks with Jeremy, and stepped into the corridor with me. Before I had a chance to say anything, she laid into me.

‘Why are you being so rude?’

‘The guy’s an arsehole.’

‘There’s no need to talk to him like that.’

‘Why shouldn’t I? He’s a prick.’

‘If you bothered to talk to him, you’d know that he’s actually very nice.’

‘Oh, come on…’

‘He is. He’s also been here a long time, and has a lot of information which both of us will find very useful.’

‘And that’s why you’re flirting with him, is it?’

‘I’m not flirting with him.’

‘You are. He’s been giving you the eye since the minute you walked in the room, and you’re just lapping it up.’

‘Oh, give me a break.’

‘It’s true. That’s why I don’t like him.’

‘Oh, grow up.’

She spun round and returned to the dormitory.

I followed her in and said, ‘Well you can stay here as long as you like – I’m going to take a look at the city.’

‘Aren’t you even interested in this?’ she said. ‘Don’t you care where the good places are?’

‘I’m absolutely fascinated, Liz. I really am. But there’s a world out there to explore, you know. You can’t hide from it much longer.’

I strode out, sensing victory, but feeling like a bit of a sad twat.

Outside, it was somehow even hotter than inside.

The hotel was in a quiet street, and I walked back towards the main road where the airport bus had dropped us off. Right, I thought. I’m walking down a street in India. I can handle this. I’m doing OK. Those look like proper houses, too – it’s obviously not such a poor country.

Then some kid, who I have to admit did look pretty grubby, emerged from behind me and started tugging at my sleeve. She cupped her other hand in front of me.

That reminds me, I thought. I have to change some money.

‘No, sorry,’ I said, and started walking again.

The kid didn’t let go of my arm, though. She just carried on walking down the street with me, tugging at my sleeve.

‘No, sorry,’ I said again.

She carried on tugging.

‘Look – I haven’t got any coins.’

She tugged harder, and whined a word at me that I couldn’t understand.

‘NO COINS,’ I said, and walked off at a brisk pace.

Although she was now half running, she kept up with me and tapped my arm whenever she could reach it.

I stopped walking. ‘LOOK – NO COINS. I’M GOING TO THE BANK NOW. NO MONEY.’

We stared at each other. She didn’t flinch. It was clear that whatever I said, she wasn’t going to leave me alone.

I set off again, as fast as I could without breaking into a run, but still she kept up with me. When I stopped, she tugged at my sleeve again.

‘Get off,’ I said.

She didn’t move.

‘Leave me alone.’

She stared at me, with enormous miserable eyes. I really did wish I had some money now, partly to get rid of her, but also because the sight of her made me feel like a disgusting human being. It felt as if she were an inhabitant of hell who had been sent to haunt me – to remind me how rich and lucky I was, and how I didn’t deserve anything that I had.

I didn’t want to be reminded how rich and lucky I was – especially since at that moment I was feeling particularly unlucky: trapped in unbelievable heat in a repulsive, filthy, threatening country, pinned to the spot by a five-year-old girl who wanted my money.

We stared at each other. I tried to stop myself thinking about what kind of a life this girl must lead, and even fleetingly imagined that she was looking into my eyes, wondering what kind of life I led. A snapshot of home popped up in my mind, making me feel instantly homesick and guilty.

‘Go away,’ I said, weakly.

She didn’t move. I took a couple of steps, and again she followed me, still tugging at my sleeve.

Exasperated, I turned round and pushed her away, gently enough for her not to fall over, hard enough to make her take a couple of steps backwards. She stayed there, still eyeballing me.

I walked away, and this time she didn’t follow.

I tried not to let myself think about what had just happened. It was just something I would have to get used to. There must be a way of shrugging them off. There must be a way that Indians deal with it. I’d just have to learn.

For an instant, I felt excited. This was going to be a battle. I was at last properly challenging myself.

Then I felt depressed again. The pebbles were back in my stomach.

By now I was in the main street. Over the road, I could see a bank. I crossed over and went in.

They ignore it

When I got back to the hotel, Liz and Jeremy were curled up on a bed with a map of India, giggling together. As soon as I entered the room, they both stopped laughing and gave me guilty looks, followed by badly concealed smirks.

‘Do either of you want to go and eat?’ I said.

‘Why not?’ said Liz, giving me a weak don’t-worry-nothing-happened smile.

‘Where can you get a good Chinese round here?’ I said.

They both frowned at me.

‘Joke,’ I explained.

‘Oh, right,’ said Jeremy. ‘I see.’

‘Where do you recommend?’ said Liz, with a pout.

‘A number of places,’ said Jeremy. ‘I presume you want vegetarian.’

‘Of course.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘You’re not a vegetarian.’

‘I am now,’ said Liz. ‘It’s the best way to stay healthy. Eat what the locals eat. Indigenous food.’

‘Did you tell her that?’ I said.

‘Of course. It’s well known that the meat here is unhealthy. You only have to see the way it sits around covered in flies. Of course, I’ve been a vegetarian since I was five. I never could stomach the stuff, and it took me five years to get up the courage to say so. It’s deeply ingrained in Western culture that the only real meal is a meat-based…’

‘Are you saying that the meat here’s not safe?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You reckon that if I eat it I’ll get sick.’

‘Almost certainly, yes.’

‘I don’t believe this! Are you serious?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘No – you’re joking, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not. It’s common knowledge.’

‘You are. You’re joking.’

‘Look – eat what you want. I couldn’t give two shits. But I won’t be around to carry you to hospital.’

The minute we stepped out of the hotel, the girl who had been trying to beg from me earlier started following us down the street, tugging each of our sleeves one by one. For a while, no one spoke.

Then, suddenly, Jeremy spun round, gave the girl a menacing look, and shouted in her face, ‘NO. NO BAKSHEESH.’

She didn’t move.

‘PSSHHT!PSSHHT!’ He hissed at her, waving her away with his arms, trying to frighten her off as if she were an under-intelligent dog.

Then he grabbed her upper arm and shook her once, quite hard. Her expression remained totally blank, and she didn’t move.

‘PSSHHT!’ he hissed.

This time she obeyed, quietly turning round, and heading back to her waiting spot outside the hotel.

The three of us walked on in embarrassed silence. I was shocked that Jeremy could be so callous. Registering the look on my face, he gave a you’re-so-naïve-I’m-so-wise chuckle. ‘They’re not real beggars those children,’ he said. ‘They just target the tourist hotels. You’d never see an Indian giving them any money.’

‘Looked like a beggar to me. She wasn’t exactly plump, was she?’

‘They’re run by gang leaders who take whatever money they get.’

‘The kids don’t get anything?’

‘Of course not. It’s all run by pimps.’

‘What happens if they end the day without any money, though?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he chuckled. ‘They make a lot of money. Some soft-hearted soul who’s just stepped off the plane will casually give them fifty rupees because they know sod all about the country. That’s what one of those little children’s fathers will earn in a week’s honest labour. It’s a terrible thing. Tourists who act like that completely screw up the local economy. And the kids are disgustingly persistent. It really shouldn’t be allowed.’

This guy was a fascist. A hippie fascist.

‘But you can’t treat people like that,’ I said.

Jeremy laughed again. ‘It’s the only way to survive. If you got upset by every beggar, you’d end up killing yourself. You have to lose your Western preconceptions about materialist wealth and deal with it in the same way as the Indians.’

‘And how do Indians deal with it?’

‘They ignore it.’

Jeremy was enjoying this. He thought it made him sound clever.

‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘within a fortnight, you won’t even notice the beggars any more.’

‘How can you fail to notice someone when they’re pulling on your sleeve and won’t let go of you?’

‘You just do. You get a look on your face – an impervious look which the beggars can spot, and they stop bothering you because they can tell that you’ve stopped noticing them and won’t give them any money.’

‘Why did that girl go after you, then?’

‘She wasn’t after me, she was after you two. I just did you a favour by getting rid of her. Besides, Delhi’s different. They’re more organized.’

‘And you reckon,’ said Liz, ‘that within a fortnight they’ll stop bothering us?’

‘I guarantee it. They’ll stop bothering you just as soon as you stop being scared of them.’

‘We just have to toughen ourselves up a bit,’ said Liz.

‘Exactly. We’re all far too pampered in the West. It’s one of the best things about coming to India – you have to face up to horrible things and develop an immunity to them.’

‘Who says immunity’s a good thing?’ I said.

‘Look – if you don’t develop it, you’ll never be happy here,’ said Jeremy with a sigh, suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

‘You’re right,’ said Liz. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

I saw the worry-line begin to move from her forehead, as she set her face into a new expression. Her chin jutted forward a fraction, and her eyes narrowed.

Liz had set about toughening herself up.

Here we go, I thought. As if she wasn’t bossy enough already.

In the restaurant, only one part of the menu looked appetizing.

‘Are you really serious about the meat thing? You’re not just trying to convert me or something?’

‘I’m not talking about it any more. Eat whatever you want, and enjoy it. I don’t give a shit,’ said Jeremy.

‘I can’t believe I’ve come all the way to India, and I can’t even have a curry.’

‘Of course you can have a curry,’ said Liz. ‘Just eat a vegetarian one.’

‘That’s not a bloody curry. That’s a side dish.’

They ignored me.

‘How did you find this place?’ said Liz.

‘Oh – I’ve been here lots of times. Just dug it out, I suppose. It’s not in the book or anything.’

‘Which book?’ she said.

‘The book. The Book. There’s only one worth having.’

‘We’ve got the Lonely Planet – is that the right one?’ Her face was overcome with anxiety.

‘It’s not the right one.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s the only one.’

Liz sighed with relief.

‘If it’s not in The Book, how come there are so many Westerners here?’ I said.

‘Word of mouth.’

‘And how come the whole menu’s translated into English?’

Liz snapped. ‘When are you going to stop sulking?’

‘I’m not sulking.’

‘If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have come.’

‘I do like it. I just need to get used to everything.’

‘Well, stop whining all the time and make an effort.’

‘I’m not whining.’

‘You are whining. And you’re being very hostile to Jeremy – I mean, to J.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘J – am I being hostile towards you?’

‘I think maybe you just feel a little threatened. It’s perfectly natural.’

‘Threatened? By you? Nauseated, maybe. Threatened –I’m afraid not.’

‘Dave. Stop it. I’m not amused,’ said Liz.

‘What are you – my teacher or something?’

‘Are you going to behave?’

‘Liz – don’t be…’

‘Are you?’

‘Jesus. OK, OK. I’m sorry. I’ll behave.’

Liz gave me a hard stare, then clicked her fingers at the waiter.

‘Waiter! We’re ready to order.’

‘No we’re not!’

She glared at me.

‘Was that a whine? Are you classing that as a whine?’

She glared harder.

‘Fine. Sorry I spoke. I suppose I’ll just have one of whatever you’re having.’

‘Very imaginative,’ she said, and maliciously ordered something made of lentils.

It was a big moment taking my first mouthful of Indian food. I started with a few grains of rice. That seemed O K. It tasted of rice. I then moved on to the lentil dish, chewing slowly at first to see if anything strange was going to happen. It tasted hotter than most curries I had eaten, but went down easily enough and didn’t seem to provoke any instant adverse reaction.

Due to my anxious state I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I forced down most of my portion in the hope that it would help me keep my spirits up. For desert, we each had a malaria tablet.

On the way back from the restaurant, just before we arrived at the hotel, we were accosted by the same beggar. Having already failed with Jeremy and me, this time she targeted Liz.

The newly toughened Liz wasted no time, and after one tiny sleeve-tug, she spun round, grabbed the kid by the shoulder and said, ‘NO–NO MONEY. GO HOME,’ shaking her violently for emphasis. The girl, displaying considerably more skill than me at recognizing a psycho when she saw one, backed off immediately.

Liz marched on to the hotel, victory stamped on her jawline. I could read what was going on in her head. Dave can’t handle this, she was thinking. He’s struggling. But me – I’m doing just fine. I can cope.

For an instant, I felt the burnt-rubber aftertaste of a malaria tablet in the back of my throat. This whole thing just wasn’t going to work.

It’s not compulsory, you know

I had first met Liz only a few months previously. It was coming up to Christmas, and a group of us from school, all in the middle of our year off before university, were meeting up for a final drink together. The group was about to break up, with most of us setting off on various trips around the world.

James (nominally my best friend, but in fact we’d been getting on each other’s nerves for at least three years) turned up with Paul, and with his new girlfriend – Liz. This struck me as slightly inappropriate. You don’t really want a newcomer around when old friends are getting together for an emotional farewell. It’s inhibiting.

‘Have you two met?’ he said, trying to sound casual. We both knew that he had told me all about her, in explicit and tedious detail, while deliberately keeping us apart. I had assumed that this meant he was embarrassed by Liz, and by her inability to live up to his ludicrous claims about her beauty, but one sight of her instantly demolished that theory. She was amazing. And exactly how he’d described her. With an affronted jolt, I realized that James hadn’t introduced us because he was embarrassed by me.

‘I don’t think so,’ I replied.

‘Liz. Dave.’

‘Hi,’ she said, offering me a cheek to peck. (Fantastic skin, too. )

‘And have I introduced you to these?’ said James, taking a step back and indicating two pairs of identical brown-leather boots, sported by him and Paul.

‘What the hell is that?’ I said.

‘Walking boots. Brand new,’ replied James. ‘We’ve done our final big shop. Look.’ He lifted a huge green Y H A -shop bag on to the table, and we all sat down.

‘Rucksack; money belt; mosquito-repellent stick; mosquito-repellent spray; mosquito-repellent gel; water-purification tablets – eight packs; travel wash – four tubes…’

While the pile of junk mounted on the table, I caught sight of Liz’s face. She was squinting slightly, and her mouth was set in an angry pout. James, you see, was doing his big trip with Paul (oldest friend and general obedient stooge), while Liz was stuck in London doing an art foundation course.

‘.… mini sewing kit; water-resistant torch; special sweat-absorbent socks; nylon emergency towel; rubber all-purpose sink plug; and, best of all… this.’

In his hand, James held out a palm-sized piece of square black plastic.

‘What is it?’

‘Da-daaah.’ He prised open the plastic, revealing a square of paper which, after delicate unfolding, showed a map of the world.

The last thing I wanted to see was a map of the world, since it inevitably indicated that he was about to force-feed me with yet another account of the latest, infinitesimal changes to his ‘master plan’. I opted for swift diversionary tactics.

‘Walking boots? What do you need walking boots for?’

‘For our trek. We’re doing a trek in the…’

‘Since when have you been into walking?’

‘Since always.’

‘Bollocks. You always said you hate the countryside. You think it’s boring.’

‘This is the Himalayas we’re talking about, Dave. It’s notcountryside.’

‘It is. It’s just big countryside.’

‘David – we’re going to see three eight-thousand-metre peaks. Do you realize how many eight-thousand-metre peaks there are in the world?’

‘No, and I’m not int–’

‘Six.’

‘Seven,’ said Paul.

It’s six.’

‘There are seven.’

‘Six.’

I turned to Liz. ‘Fascinating company, these two.’

She shrugged and half smiled at me.

‘James,’ I said, cutting in on their argument, ‘you’re boring. The pair of you are piss-boring. Talk to each other about your trip in private, OK? There are two other people here, and we’d like to stay awake, so can we try and talk about something real?’

‘Hah,’ said James.

‘What do you mean, “hah”?’

‘That’s… just… not very elegant.’

‘Elegant?’

‘I mean – that kind of… open jealousy… is… is just embarrassing.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m not bored – I’m jealous.’

‘Yes.’

‘And in my heart of hearts, I really am desperately interested in how many hills there are that are a little bigger than lots of other hills.’

‘Dave – you can’t face us talking about our trip because it reminds you that you are pissing away your year. You’re pissing it away because you haven’t planned anything, and you haven’t planned anything because you’re basically too scared to go travelling.’

‘I’m going abroad.’

‘To Switzerland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oooh – aren’t we brave? You’re really risking life and limb there. Waiter in a Swiss hotel! Hazardous stuff.’

‘Don’t be an arsehole, James.’

‘Shocking hygiene, too. You’re going to get really ill in Switzerland.’

‘James, you’re being annoying,’ said Liz. ‘Maybe he wants to learn French. Or German. Which part of the country is it?’

‘I’m going to the French-speaking bit, near to the…’

‘Do you want to learn Fwench, David? Something pwactical for your CV?’

I could feel my face going red.

‘You’re jealous, and you’re a coward,’ he said. ‘You can’t face doing any real travel because you don’t think you could survive in… in a different culture.’

‘I could survive.’

‘Why aren’t you doing it, then?’

‘Just…’

‘Will you lay off him,’ said Liz. ‘Not everyone is like you, James. If he doesn’t want to travel, he doesn’t want to travel. It’s not compulsory, you know.’

That was it. The moment I fell in love with her. Or started to fall in love with her.

James bit back a scowl and tried to smile. He didn’t like being contradicted in public by his girlfriend. (That’s the kind of arsehole he was.) ‘Yeah, but… I mean, you’d go travelling if you weren’t stuck in your art foundation course.’

‘I’m not stuck in an art foundation course. I chose to do an art foundation course.’

‘Yeah, but if you had the time, you’d go off to Asia or something, wouldn’t you?’

‘I probably will go to “Asia or something”. I’ve got a perfectly long summer holiday.’

‘I know. We’ve discussed that. All I mean is, if you had a year off like Dave, you wouldn’t waste your time pissing around in Europe.’

‘And all I mean is, stop showing off. We all know where you’re going. We think you’re very clever and very brave. Now drop it.’

Silence descended. They stared at each other. Veins were standing out on James’s temples. I was almost fainting with delight.

‘Shall I get more drinks?’ said Paul, with a cough. ‘What do you…? Urn… how about the same again?… I’ll get that, then.’

Paul retreated to the bar, his shoes squeaking slightly as he walked. James and Liz continued to stare at each other.

‘I need the toilet,’ I said, standing up. ‘Oh, no I don’t. I’ll go later.’ I sat down again, trying to hold in an evil smile. James gave me an angry look. I shrugged, pretending not to understand what he meant. Turning my head, I realized that Liz was also holding in a smile, but rather less effectively than me. A smirk was playing on her lips, and it wasn’t directed at James, but at me.

‘How long are you going to be in Switzerland, Dave?’ she said.

‘Just for the ski season. About four months.’

‘Well, with Dr Livingstone here heading off, my social life is in danger of withering away. Will you give me a ring when you get back?’

Tunnel vision. Racing pulse. Cold sweat. ‘Um… yeah. I haven’t… um… got your… ‘

‘Here’s my number.’ She pulled a pen from her bag, and wrote on a beer-mat.

‘Thanks.’ I smiled at her, and she blinked back. I turned to smile at James, but he seemed to be exhibiting the symptoms of advanced flu, and couldn’t even look at me.

I know it’s bad to think about your friends this way, but for several years it had been obvious to both of us that James had the better of me. It wasn’t anything specific, but an accumulation of little things had put him on top. Now, with that beer-mat in my back pocket, for the first time since we were fifteen I felt as if I had the better of him.

I floated home from the pub, my fingers fluttering every few seconds to touch the small bulge, square with rounded corners, in the back of my jeans.

You are. You’re asking me out

I had spent the first half of my year off working at the Sock Shop in King’s Cross. When you work in a clothes shop, all you do is walk around folding up what the customers have unfolded. This makes the Sock Shop a particularly weird place to work, because you can’t fold a sock. Your life begins to have so little meaning that you start wondering if you’re still alive. After that, you even start doubting whether or not socks actually exist.

Most of my friends had done similar (though usually less surreal) jobs, and were now spending their money on a trip to India, South-East Asia or Australia. Everyone seemed to have big ideas about how they had to find themselves, whatever that meant, through some journey to a poverty-stricken flea-pit half-way up a malaria-infested mountain on the other side of the planet. There was a general belief that a long and unpleasant holiday was of crucial importance to one’s development as a human being.

At this stage, I still had no plans for what I was going to do when I got back from Switzerland, but felt pretty certain that the last thing I fancied was going somewhere dirty. Basically – I hate being ill, and I just couldn’t see the point of packing myself off to certain dysentery and probably worse. I also couldn’t figure out what you do all day in a country that’s too poor to have museums. Not that I like museums particularly -1 just mean that sightseeing’s O K for a while – a few weeks, maybe – but what do you do if there aren’t any sights? Do you just wander around looking at the poor people and eating disgusting food that ruins your liver for the rest of your life? What do you do all day?

The most eloquent defence of travel I got was from Paul, who said, ‘Dunno. There must be something to do. Apparently the dope’s really cheap.’ James had then launched into some enormous long-winded theory about imperialist cultural assumptions and putting yourself into a situation where you’re challenged to think about things that are taken for granted in the West, but I could tell that what he actually meant was ‘The dope really is cheap.’ Besides, anyone who talks about challenging their cultural assumptions and then goes to Thailand is clearly talking out of their arse.

Even though I thought the whole thing sounded pretty pointless, I still felt under a certain amount of pressure to do it. However I rationalized my desire to stay in Europe, I always ended up feeling that in all honesty, it came down to cowardice. No other explanation was possible. If I couldn’t face going to the Third World, I was a coward.

In the back of my mind, I was hoping that something would happen which would whisk me away to a land of suffering, danger and poverty, but I wasn’t willing to make it happen myself. I wanted to have one of those big trips behind me, but I’d never get around to putting myself through it. Suffering, danger and poverty are all fine by me, but din and disease are two things I happen to hate. I just didn’t want to go.

As for what I’d do when I got back from Switzerland, I felt depressed just thinking about it. I would have earned plenty of money by then, and the obligation to travel would be more powerful than ever. I needed to think of some way to spend it that didn’t look like too much of a cop-out.

My job in Switzerland turned out to be just as dull as the one at the Sock Shop, with Alpine boredom differing only from the metropolitan variety in that it is slightly more sweet-smelling. I somehow failed to meet a horny millionairess with months to live, and arrived back in England with no plans as to what I should do with the rest of my year. By now it was March, and all my friends were either abroad or at university.

After repeated desultory flips through my address book, I was forced to acknowledge that something radical had to be done if I wanted to have a life. I dug out the beer-mat and stared at Liz’s phone number.

For several days, whenever I passed within reach of a telephone, my pulse accelerated slightly. But I couldn’t quite make myself ring her.

After doing the old dial-half-the-number, walk-around-the-house-a-few-times, dial-half-the-number, go-and-buy-some-milk, dial-half-the-number, nip-out-for-a-newspaper, dial-half-the-number, go-into-the-garden-and-torture-a-small-animal routine each day for almost a week, I finally forced myself to go through with it.

‘Hello – is Liz there, please?’

‘Yup – speaking.’

‘Oh.’

I didn’t know what to say. What was it you were supposed to say in these situations?

‘Hi,’ I tried.

That was it. That sounded right.

‘Hi. Who is this?’

‘Um – it’s me. Dave. Dave Greenford. James’s friend.’

‘Dave! Shit – it’s good to hear from you. How’s things?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Oh – this and that. You know. I’ve just got back from Switzerland.’

‘Oh yeah. Of course. How was it?’

‘Crap. They’re all wankers.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What – all of them?’

‘Everyone I met.’

‘God. That’s bad luck.’

‘Not really – more a statistical certainty.’

‘Right. Sounds like you really got into the local culture.’

‘Absolutely. Yodelling and rubber cheese – what more could a guy want?’

‘You’re going back soon, then?’

‘Soon as I can. Anyway – what about you? What are you up to?’

‘Nothing. I’ve been bored to piss.’

‘Bored to piss? That sounds serious.’

‘Everyone’s away. All my friends have just vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘I’m so pleased to hear you say that. I’ve got exactly the same problem. It’s tragic. Everyone’s disappeared. I’ve been having the social life of a maggot.’

‘I would have thought maggots had quite a good social life,’ she said. ‘I mean, you never see a lonely maggot, do you?’

What a weird thing to say. I felt my cheeks flush. This was it. I was falling in love with her again.

‘Make that a maggot with a speech impediment and acne,’ I said.

‘A wiggle impediment, maybe.’

This was amazing! We were really bonding now.

‘Imagine being a maggot with a wiggle impediment,’ I said. ‘No one would talk to you. If you had, like, half a wiggle, you’d only be able to go round in circles, and everyone would take the piss really badly.’

‘Do you reckon there’s such a thing as a really sexy, popular maggot? With a curvaceous wiggle?’

I was almost helpless with lust.

‘Look – Liz. Are you doing anything?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know – are you up to anything, like, this week?’

‘Are you asking me out?’

‘No, no, no. I’m not, I’m not. I just… sort of wondered if we could sort of meet up for a drink or something.’

‘You are. You’re asking me out.’

‘No – it’s nothing like that, I just…’

‘Stop squirming, you pratt. I’m winding you up. You’re James’s mate. You’re not exactly going to turn round and start groping me the minute he leaves the country, are you?’

I chuckled weakly.

‘You two are still going out, then?’

‘Of course we are. Look – I’ve got sod all to do this evening. Do you want to meet in Camden around eight?’

‘Right. OK. Cool.’

‘I’ll see you at the station exit.’

‘There’s two.’

‘At the main one, then.’

‘They’re the same.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a knob. I’ll see you at the prettier one.’

Then she put the phone down.

Shit!I’d never been bossed around like that before. I ormally spent a good twenty minutes negotiating a suitable meeting place, and she just .. . bloody hell! This was amazing.

Another plump, juicy, bursting peach

I was late for our meeting at Camden station, but Liz was even later. I noticed for the first time that one of the exits was marginally less ugly than the other, and that was where she turned up.

We went to the World’s End pub, and I ordered a Guinness in the hope that I’d come across as a bit of an intellectual.

It was the first time we’d ever been alone together, and once we’d sat down with our drinks it became clear that we didn’t really have very much to talk about. Our only connection was James. I didn’t want to encourage her to talk about him, but I didn’t want long silences either, and when the first one began to gape open, I chickened out and took the easy option.

‘Any news from James?’

‘Yeah, lots. He seems to be getting on fine. Got a letter every few days at first, then it started going down. Haven’t had one for about a fortnight now.’

‘When’d he go?’

‘January.’

‘Shit – three months.’

‘Five more to go.’

‘I didn’t realize it was that long.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘That’s a long time. Eight months. Don’t you reckon he’ll get bored?’

‘Bored? You think he’ll polish off everything there is to do in Thailand, Hong Kong, Bali, Australia and America in eight months, do you?’

‘No – it’s not that – it’s just… eight months away from home. That’s ages. No Marmite. No EastEnders. Warm beer.’

‘Warm beer?’

‘Apparently, yeah. Except maybe in Australia.’

‘I was hoping that he’d be marginally more worried about missing me.’

‘Exactly. That too. Eight months…’

‘It’s hard enough already.’

‘And you don’t mind him running away like that and leaving you alone for all this time?’

‘He didn’t run away. It’s his year off for God’s sake. I wouldn’t want to go out with someone whose idea of fun was sitting in St Albans working as a filing clerk all year.’

‘I suppose not. Didn’t you want to go with him, though?’

‘Of course I wanted to go with him. D’ you think I’d rather be in a pub with you than on a beach in Thailand with James?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘There is the small matter of my own life to consider. I can’t just leave like that. I’m in the middle of a course.’

‘Oh yeah. I forgot. Still – he could have waited. I mean, you get a summer holiday, don’t you?’

‘He’s been planning it for years. Since before I even knew him.’

‘You don’t mind, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say I don’t mind. I’m not exactly over the moon about being on my own all year. But it’s what he’s got to do.’

‘Got to?’

‘Yes – got to.’

‘Why’s he got to?’

‘Just because he has. That’s what he feels.’

‘What – so he can find himself?’

‘You’re so cynical about all this. What’s your problem?’

‘I haven’t got a problem. I just don’t think… you know… I don’t think he’s treating you very well.’

She laughed and shook her head.

‘You’re funny.’

‘Why?’ I said, smiling.

‘Well – not only are you jealous of him going away, you’re also jealous of his girlfriend. And you’re supposed to be his mate. I mean, if that’s what you think of your friends…’

That wasn’t what I was expecting her to say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘About what?’ She was smirking.

‘What do you mean, “jealous of his girlfriend”?’

She spun in her chair, pretending to look around the pub for someone. ‘Shit – I think I must mean me,’ she said. Then she gave me one of those looks. One of those looks that you have to look away from.

‘I don’t think you realize what kind of a relationship I have with James,’ she said. ‘We’re not kids any more. This isn’t teenagers snogging behind the bike sheds, you know.’

‘You’re still teenagers.’

‘Yes – but we don’t snog behind the bike sheds. We make love.’

She said that just to freak me out. There really was no call for that kind of language.

‘I’m so impressed.’

‘Dave – do you understand what I’m talking about? It’s a proper relationship. We’re in love.’

‘All right, all right, all right, all right. I’ve got the message. OK. Change of subject – please.’

There was a long silence. I was still avoiding her eyes.

‘You know what?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘The funny thing is…’

‘What?’

‘We talked about this before he left.’

‘What – about me?’

‘No. About this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About infidelity.’

‘Right.’

‘And we decided…’

‘What?’

‘Well – you know. Me and him have been together, what – about five months. Now he’s gone away for eight months, and we just thought – that you can’t force these things.’

‘What things?’

‘You know – whatever happens, when he comes back, things aren’t going to be the same. We won’t be able to just start again where we left off.’

‘So…?’

‘So, we just thought – that it’s better to play things by ear. We both reckoned that with him so far away, for so long, the chances of him – like – behaving himself are really very low, and the more pressure we both feel under to stay – celibate, or something – the harder it will make things. Basically – we both reckon that the more pressure there is, the more likely we are to be unfaithful.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Just that… we both decided to be a bit open about things. That if anything happened, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. That we should both do what we want.’

‘And what do you want?’

I was trying to stop myself from smiling.

‘Well – I dunno. It’s just that me and James – we used to – you know – have a great time. We had an excellent time together. It was always great. Well – maybe not at first – I mean, in the beginning he didn’t know what the hell he was doing – but once we got going – you know it was always… we always had a lot of fun. And up until he left, we were together almost all the time – for weeks. I was virtually living with him. He was always there – and I mean, to be honest…’ She let out a chuckle. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. ‘Look – can I be frank here? To be honest – you get used to it.’

She let that thought sit on the table in front of us, until it was ripe.

‘It’s only three months, now – and I’m getting – you know… almost – like – desperate.’

There was another one. Another plump, juicy, bursting peach. I was very, very excited.

‘And…?’ I said.

‘And what?’

She didn’t seem to know what I meant.

‘I mean .. . why are you telling me this?’

I gave her a flirtatious look.

‘Oh right. I see. Yes – I remember. I was just thinking – that’s what’s so funny.’

‘What? What’s funny.’

‘You. You’re funny.’

‘What? Why?’

‘It’s just funny. You know – the whole thing just seems really ironic.’

‘Why?’

‘It just makes me laugh. There you are, making these hilariously clumsy passes at me, and if you weren’t… who you are I’d probably go along with it, just to get it out of my system.’

‘What? Who am I? What am I?’

‘You’re James’s mate.’

‘So? So what? You happened to meet me through James. So what?’

‘So what?’

‘He’s gone. He’s not back for ages.’

‘Jesus! You might have no scruples, but it makes a difference to me. Besides, it’s all wrong, anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘Well – we’re friends, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s wrong. You know – if you were some guy, and this was the first time I’d met you, we could just – you know – in out thanks very much bye bye. But we’re friends. It couldn’t work like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It just couldn’t.’

This was bad news. I pulled my grieving-bloodhound face. Liz let out a half-laugh-half-sigh and gave me a consoling squeeze on the knee. Some consolation that was.

‘Look – have you forgotten what we said on the phone already?’

‘What?’

‘All our mates are either out of the country or at university. We’re stranded. Look – I’m really glad you’ve come back from Switzerland. It’s great to have someone to hang around with other than the pricks from art college. The two of us can have a laugh together. I wouldn’t want to throw that away just for one quick screw.’

‘Right. I see.’

She patted my thigh.

I would have gladly thrown away just about anything for a quick screw – and who said it would have to be quick, anyway?

Her definition of the word ‘desperate’ obviously wasn’t the same as mine.

Does it have to be India?

In the weeks after our drink in Camden, I saw Liz increasingly often. I began to realize that, in a strange way, she had been right about not shagging.

Because of that conversation, we both knew exactly what the other one thought, and all the sex stuff could be left on one side. I still fancied her, and she knew I still fancied her, but we both knew that nothing was going to happen (or at least acted that way) and as a result, we could become like normal mates.

It was the first time I’d ever had a proper female friend. She really was a good laugh, and it was genuinely possible to get on well with her, despite the fact that I wanted her body but couldn’t do anything about it. I actually got on with her better than I could remember getting on with any of my regular friends. We could have a laugh and everything, then, sometimes, if we were in the mood, we had quite serious conversations. I mean, what we ended up saying was occasionally properly… well, intimate. I ended up telling her things that I’d never really told anyone before. I can’t actually remember what they were now, but at the time I remember thinking that it all felt very deep.

Although we were just friends, and I didn’t make another pass at her, over time it became obvious that we were getting closer and closer. Whenever we sat down, we always found ourselves right next to each other. When we went for walks, we often held hands. And in the cinema, it was quite common for us to squeeze various bits of each other’s legs.

Now I’m no expert, but it seemed obvious to me that something sexual was going on. I wasn’t making advances to her or anything, but between us, things were just happening – almost of their own accord. And the more we sat around fondling each other, talking about our deepest, darkest secrets and exposing the depths of our hearts to each other, the more there was this massive thing that neither of us was mentioning.

And I knew – you just know when this happens – you do – I just knew that if I had said that we were acting like a pair of honeymooners, she would have acted all shocked, got angry, and the whole thing would have disappeared in a puff of smoke – because if the physical stuff had vanished, the whole friendship would have collapsed almost immediately. We couldn’t have gone back to not touching without feeling like complete fakes.

Occasionally, she’d say things like, ‘You’ve got a very close sense of personal space, haven’t you?’, which is bollocks – it’s just so wide of the mark. I’ve got a bigger exclusion zone than Chernobyl, and I hate touching people, I really do – but I’d have to just lie, and tell her that she was right.

She must have known that the whole friendship was a farce, and that something heavy was on the way, but she made damn sure that neither of us could admit it.

I had always assumed that things would come to a head in one sweaty guilt-ridden frenzy, then we’d never be able to talk to each other again. But one day Liz, completely out of the blue, floored me with a suggestion that opened up more sexual possibilities than I had dared dream about.

It was coming to the end of April, and Liz was skiving off college for the third time that week. We had just spent the afternoon lounging around on Hampstead Heath, and both of us were lying on our backs on the ground. I was flat on the grass, and Liz had her head on my belly.

‘What are you going to do, then?’ she said.

‘About what?’

‘With the rest of your year.’

‘Aaah – that’s the five-million-dollar question, isn’t it?’

‘Six million.’

‘It’s not that important.’

‘You’ve got over four months left.’

‘True.’

‘You going to work?’

‘Not if I can avoid it.’

‘Do you need to work?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I don’t. I’m Mr Moneybags now.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup. Doesn’t it show?’

‘No – you’re still as tight as ever.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘How come you’re so rich, then?’

‘Basically – the minimum wage in Switzerland is over a grand a month. And since I didn’t have a social life, I saved most of it up.’

‘Over a grand a month?’

‘Well – they nick back most of your salary in accommodation and food costs – even though they put you up in the cellar and feed you on leftovers from the kitchen. But still – I came back with more than a thousand.’

‘Really?’

‘Plus what I earned in the Sock Shop.’

‘You rich bastard! And have you taken me out for one meal? Have you bought me so much as a lollipop?’

‘Look – I’m saving it.’

‘What for?’

‘For the rest of my year out.’

‘So you can travel?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But you just told me you didn’t know what you were going to do.’

‘I don’t.’

‘But you know you’re going to travel.’

‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

‘What do you mean, “You suppose so”? You’re acting like I’m persuading you to go away against your will.’

‘No.’

‘So you do want to travel?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think so.’

‘Well – I mean I want to. I definitely want to. I’m not scared of it. But I don’t… I don’t want to go on my own, and I haven’t really got my arse in gear yet, but everyone else has already left. So I don’t really know what to do.’

‘I see. Right. Blood out of a stone or what?’

There was a silence, while Liz stared out over London, thinking.

‘I’ve got a long summer holiday, you know,’ she said. ‘I break up in early June. That would give us three months.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Deadly serious. I don’t want to be left out of all this, just because I’m doing an art foundation. And I’m not going to trot after James and join up with him in America either.’ She looked at me and broke into a smile. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to India, you know.’

‘India?’

‘I’ve got some savings. Do you want to go to India with me? This summer?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I’m on for it if you are.’

‘Does it have to be India? Couldn’t we do Australia?’

‘I’m not wasting my money on that. It’s India or nothing.’

I thought for less than one second, a vision popping into my head of a spartan hotel room with a marble floor, a ceiling fan, and Liz and me fucking like bunny rabbits on a huge double bed.

‘All right,’ I said.

‘Shake on it.’

We shook on it.

Just touching her hand like that turned me on. Liz and I were going abroad together for the whole summer. Sharing hotel rooms. There was no way, given the circumstances, that I could possibly fail to shag her.

She gripped my hand, and gave me one of her stares. ‘As mates,’ she said. ‘It’s only going to work if that’s absolutely clear.’

‘Fine. As mates,’ I said, leaning forward to give her a peck on the cheek.

The hot, wet gusset of James’s boxer shorts

Liz’s dad agreed to pay for her ticket, on condition that he met me first. I was duly invited to her parents’ house for dinner, along with my mum and dad. This turned out to be one of the most stagnant social occasions I had ever attended. If an alien had landed in the room, he would have thought that human beings communicate by clanking cutlery together. Still, I seemed to fulfil whatever criteria he had in mind, and he gave her the money.

Liz and I started spending whole days together, poring over maps, flipping through guidebooks, and gradually planning a route. We would fly to Delhi, head north to the Himalayas, do a little loop into Rajasthan, then head south to Bombay, Goa, and right down to Kerala at the very bottom. After that we’d go back up the other side from Madras to Calcutta, across to Varanasi, north to Kathmandu, then back to Delhi to fly home. The middle of the country is apparently really boring – just loads of people growing food and getting hot, so doing a loop around the edge was the best route to avoid missing anything.

A lot of these planning sessions went on late into the night, and I occasionally slept at her place. This was a cramped student house which she shared with three other girls from her course, and there was no spare bedroom, so I had to sleep on a few cushions on her floor. There was something deeply erotic about this. Lying there chatting, after we’d switched the lights out, felt almost like pillow talk. A serenely post-coital atmosphere hung in the air, only marginally spoilt by the fact that I usually had a screaming hard-on.

Once, we’d already been pillow-talking for some time, when she told me that she had a stiff neck.

‘Would you like a massage?’ I said.

‘Are you any good?’

‘All right,’ I said, meaning, ‘Never done one before in my life, but I’ll give it a go.’

She turned round to lie on her front, and I climbed up to her bed, pushed aside her duvet, and started squeezing the back of her neck.

At first she lay there giving me all the reasons why she had a stiff neck that day, and telling me how James was an excellent masseur. She went on and on about him, so I switched off and stopped listening. As I gradually figured out how to do it, I noticed that her speech slowed down, and the gaps between her sentences got longer and longer, until the gaps were winning.

Then she started making these noises. I don’t think I can actually call them moans. That would be overstating things. They didn’t quite qualify as moans, and they weren’t exactly sighs – they were kind of hums-plus-a-bit.

Soon I wasn’t just doing her neck; I was doing her shoulders and the top of her back. Then I started catching my fingers in the neck of her T-shirt – trying to give the impression that it was getting in the way and making a real massage impossible.

It was an odd scene, really. There I was, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, sitting astride her, massaging her back, while she hummed-plus-a-bit, and every few minutes told me what good mates we were, and how much she loved James.

I began to inch her T-shirt upwards until it was gathered around her armpits. Under cover of doing an upper-arm, forearm and hand massage, I straightened her arms out above her head. Then, in a gentle swoop, the T-shirt came over her head, down her arms, and on to the floor.

Whoosh!

I smoothed her hair back in place, and looked at her back.

Her long, sweeping, elegant, gorgeous back.

Now, without the T-shirt in the way, I could sweep, slide and rub in long, easy, unimpeded movements.

She stopped talking, and the hums-plus-a-bit turned into moans.

At the side of her back, I could feel the bulge of her tits. They were right there, uncovered, pressed into the sheet. And I was right there with them.

After a while, I moved down and started on her legs. On the way past, I noticed that all she was wearing was a pair of men’s boxer shorts.

Now she was definitely moaning. Up and down I went, over her whole body, my hands subtly slipping into the pant area on the way past. One of these little explorations flipped over the elastic on her boxer shorts, revealing, of all things, a name-tag. In the half-light bleeding through the curtains from a street lamp, I could just make out the words. ‘JAMES IRVING’, it said.

I snapped the elastic back into place.

Gradually, I started focusing my attention on her thighs, then on the inside of her thighs, then on the top of the inside of her thighs. In a series of tiny adjustments, her legs parted, accommodating my hand.

Slowly, her hips rose a fraction from the mattress. I followed the invitation, and found my fingers in the hot, wet gusset of James’s boxer shorts. After this, I just held firm and watched. I hardly needed to move. Her hips rocked back and forwards over my hand, gradually faster and harder, until she made this funny squeaky noise, had a little shudder, then pushed my hand away, rolled over and fell asleep.

Instead of going back to my bed, I curled up behind her and tried to doze off, with my erection pressed firmly into her bum.

In the morning I was the first to wake up, so I crawled to my bed and woke up again there, in order to do my bit for the illusion that nothing had happened. Having done that, I went downstairs, made two breakfasts, and took them back to the bedroom. I balanced the tray on Liz’s clock-radio, and got into bed with her. She was still half asleep, but had somehow conveniently put her T-shirt on.

Together we chomped through our cereal and toast like two good mates who just happened to be having a companionable breakfast on the same mattress. Neither of us mentioned what had happened, even though with every mouthful I took, I noticed a thrillingly salty odour on my fingers.

Later that week, Liz and I bought our tickets. We would leave immediately after the end of her term, and return almost three months later, just in time for me to start university.

Not now having sex

After a while, sleep-overs with massage became a regular occurrence. The massage technique gradually developed until it involved both of us stripping down to our pants and rubbing different bits of our bodies together.

Since Liz never raised the topic of our burgeoning sexual relationship in conversation, I decided to play along with her and let us continue with the illusion that we were two good mates who just happened to have a fondness for near-nude medicinal massage. The healing properties of this massage gradually found themselves focused more and more on the genitals, at which point underwear became a bigger inconvenience than ever, and suddenly we were naked.

It is a well-known fact that if two people lie in bed, without clothes, rubbing each other’s genitals together, sooner or later, one genital will slot into the other.

This is what happened. A very advanced form of medicinal massage.

It was at this point that we chose to discuss contraception.

‘You’re on the Pill, aren’t you?’

‘No. I stopped.’

‘Have you got any condoms?’

‘No. I threw my spares away.’

‘Why?’

‘As a gesture.’

‘For fuck’s sake! A gesture of what?’

‘Fidelity, of course.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘You’d better pull out.’

‘All right.’

‘NOT YET, you idiot.’

‘Oh, OK.’

I wiggled my dick around a bit, until it started to tingle, then pulled out.

‘Will you toss me off?’

‘No!’

‘Go on. Please.’

‘Why should I?’

‘I’ve done you loads of times, and you’ve never even touched me.’

She scowled, and reached under the duvet. Having somehow found the only part of my penis without any nerve endings, she tugged it until it ached. Cradling her hand, I showed her what to do, and within seconds, I had squirted on to her belly.

It was, I feel I must stress, only the semen of friendship. A form of natural massage oil, if you will. For there was nothing sexual between Liz and me. Absolutely not. Further proof of this can be found in the fact that she still refused to kiss me.

Afterwards we both went to sleep, probably more out of tact than anything else. I knew she’d need time to decide what to say. It would now be very hard indeed for her to deny that something had happened. With any luck, we’d wake up the next morning, have a bad-breath kiss and officially name ourselves lovers.

The second Liz opened her eyes, she leaped out of bed. I followed her downstairs, and we had breakfast in silence until I popped the big question.

‘Liz? Why won’t you kiss me?’

She carried on eating, staring into her cereal bowl and chewing slowly while she decided on an answer.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she mumbled.

‘In the circumstances, nothing seems very obvious at all.’

‘I don’t love you,’ she said.

‘So?’

‘What do you mean, “so”?’

‘I know you don’t love me. I know where we stand. It’s just that if we’re going to… you know… have sex, then we might as well try and enjoy it.’

‘I love James. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

‘Not much. Look – it’s ridiculous that you keep on about him while you’re doing all this stuff with me. I don’t see why you can’t just acknowledge what’s going on – then, when he gets back, we can all return to normal.’

‘Is that really what you want?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you think things work like that, do you?’

‘I don’t see why not. We could always give it a go.’

‘You are so naïve. I find it hard to believe that you can know so little about relationships. You’re talking shit.’

‘Why? What would go wrong? You think I wouldn’t be able to let go?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d be fine. If I’ve agreed in advance, then I won’t be able to complain, will I?’

‘And there is the small matter of James. Have you never heard of a thing called jealousy ? I don’t think he’d be exactly over the moon.’

‘I thought you agreed to have an open relationship so that he could screw around in Asia without feeling bad. It serves him right.’

‘I don’t believe you. I don’t know why we’re even discussing this. You’re just so naive that I don’t know where to start. You don’t seem to know anything. And I’m not just a piece of meat that you two can trade between you.’

‘We’re the ones that are being traded. You’ve traded him in for me.’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Of course you have.’

‘I have not. If… if you feel that just because you have clawed away at me, preying on the fact that you know I miss James… and now that you have finally got some pathetic piece of gratification for your efforts – if you think this means you have taken James’s place, then you’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like… like… everything. You don’t seem to know a single thing about how relationships work. It’s as if you’ve never heard of human emotions. It’s as if you haven’t even got the imagination to realize that what happens on the surface isn’t always the sum total of… isn’t always the most important thing.’

‘Oh, right. I see. I’m superficial because I think that having sex means something. At last I understand. It’s all my fault for making the… the naïve assumption that because you are now having sex with me instead of James…’

‘I am not now having sex with you instead of James. Look – you’ve been groping me for long enough, and you’ve finally got your way, and I hope you’re satisfied, but now it’s going to stop.’

‘Great. And I’m the superficial one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Look. Even if you stop doing it we both know that you want it. We both know that we’ve done it.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Yeah, right. I forced you.’

‘You did.’

‘WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’

‘You did. You forced me. Over a matter of weeks, you have gradually forced yourself on me.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘It’s true. I don’t know how you can deny it.’

‘I didn’t force it to happen. It just happened. And I didn’t notice you resisting.’

‘If I haven’t been resisting, why didn’t it happen straight away?’

‘Maybe I didn’t want it to happen.’

‘Yeah, that’s likely. You’d shag anything.’

‘You’re really flattering yourself, here.’

‘Anyway – we haven’t had sex. There is a difference between wanking on to someone’s belly and making love.’

‘It was your hand.’

‘My hand was limp. You were moving it for me, if you don’t remember.’

‘And you’ve forgotten what happened before that, have you?’

‘Oh yeah – you dabbed your weenie at me for about ten seconds. Wow. That’s what I call passion. I’ve never had it so good.’

‘If you’d had some condoms…’

‘But I didn’t. For precisely this reason.’

‘If you hadn’t been afraid that we were going to make love, you wouldn’t have had to throw them away.’

‘We did not make love, and we’re never going to. If that’s your idea of love-making, then you’ve had a very sad life indeed.’

‘Oh, fuck off.’

‘And I hope I’ve answered your question. That’s why I won’t kiss you. Because you’re a fucking prick.’

Nothing much

It was a week before I summoned the courage to give her a ring.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hi.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘Shall I come over?’

‘No. I’m busy.’

‘I thought you said you were doing nothing much.’

‘Yes – but I’m about to do something, aren’t I?’

‘What?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Fair enough.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Shall I come over later?’

‘No – I told you. I’m busy.’

‘But I’m not allowed to ask what you’re doing?’

‘Look – I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. I don’t want to fail my course, you know.’

‘What about after that, though? Shouldn’t we do a bit more planning?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We already know exactly where we’re going. We’ve decided as much as we can decide. You can’t control everything, you know. If we try and plan anything else we’re just going to kill the whole thing dead.’

Given that I had used the word ‘planning’ as a euphemism for sex (possibly a linguistic first), her answer was a very bad sign.

‘I’m fed up of planning,’ she said, ramming the message home. ‘We’ve decided what we’re going to do, and we should just leave the rest until we get there. You’re far too anal – you know that? You can’t decide everything in advance for your whole life.’

I didn’t know what to say. This is it, I thought to myself. I’ve blown it, and we haven’t even got to India yet.

‘Look – I’ve got to get on,’ she said.

‘OK.’

‘Bye.’

Click.

‘Bye.’

She put the phone down before I even said ‘bye’.

There were only three days left before our departure. In that time, we didn’t speak.