What I did next does me no credit at all Read online



 

  What I did next does me no credit at all

  Copyright 2010 Dave McGee

 

  What I did next does me no credit at all

  I wasn’t online then; few people were; and, like me, they used those Internet cafés which have largely passed into history. The place I used was located in a Victorian shopping arcade in the heart of the city, and sat between a sandwich shop and a cosmetics store; I can’t bring it to mind without recalling the aromas of chicken tikka and bath bombs, and to access the shop I’d usually have to step over a Big Issue seller or a busker. I minded neither: it was just part of life and a welcome break for me. I worked in a nearby call centre and I loved lunchtime and the chance to escape its frenetic, yet sterile atmosphere.

  I’d taken quite a lot of time off work lately. Mum hadn’t been too well, and, though she never complained, I knew she depended on me. She had no one else and I suppose I had no one either, until Alex, that is. We met in a bar about three months ago. At first things were great. I never found out where he lived, but then he never came to my place either, so it really came down to meeting in his car. The girls at work told me not to be so stupid. It was clear that he was in a relationship. At any rate, as the weeks passed it seemed they’d got it right; he became ever harder to contact.

  Then things changed. Twelve days ago Alex arranged for us

  to meet, and today was the day. I booked the afternoon off work, but I heard nothing from him until yesterday when he sent me a text to say that he couldn’t make it, he’d call me instead. No call had come, so now it was time to bring this all to an end. Not wanting to hear his voice in case I weakened my plan was to end things using the Internet.

  I entered the café. All about me students, shoppers and office workers were doing research, booking cheap vacations, and buying bargain CDs - or so I believed. I fidgeted with my cell phone and set it down on the table, checking once more the last received message from Alex. ‘Can’t make today but will speak later’. I logged on and made a stalwart attempt to look casual as I checked mail and messages.

  I’d booked on for thirty minutes and planned to get round to messaging Alex, but in the meantime why not try the site my co-workers had been telling me about? My girlfriends had assured me that there was no real risk attached to this site, it was simply a way of meeting people. My best friend Sandi had even set up a profile for me, though I’d done little with it.

  Once online, I saw that six people had sent messages to me.

  All thoughts of Alex and what I was going to say to him left me. I clicked to access the first of these communications when, without warning, the screen burst into life and a message appeared.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’

  Taken aback I responded that I was fine, and frantically I sought to discover who this messenger was. The words kept coming.

  ‘I liked your profile. Where are you now?’

  I panicked, knocking my cell phone and bag to the floor. I typed a brief reply requesting some time, and having composed myself I checked to see exactly who was messaging me. He was Fidel. I scanned the details he’d provided and discovered he was 29, Hispanic and taught Spanish at the local university. His preferred pastime was ‘working out’ and he described himself as ‘in a relationship’ but seeking fun.

  Despite the craziness of the situation I could feel my fingers continuing to type and my eyes scanning the pictures he had displayed. Fidel was undeniably handsome, with curly dark hair, brown-black eyes and the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on a man! Moments later I responded.

  ‘Do you give private Spanish lessons?’

  I hardly had time to re-read this question and reflect on how stupid it seemed when he continued.

  ‘Where are you? I am in the Stephens Building and can meet you in the café there in 15 minutes’

  I took time to think. He’d completely ignored the whole issue of Spanish lessons: maybe he didn’t teach Spanish, or even teach. Maybe he, as such, didn’t exist. However, in one of those moments that I’d live to regret I agreed, logged off, left the café and hurried in the direction of the university, which, as it happened, was close by.

  Awkwardly I entered the building, reading some posters on the entrance wall and trying to appear casual, but he had already seen me. He sprang to his feet and shot me one of those smiles that confirms at once the utter confidence of the wearer.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘I have water. What would you like?’

  His English was crisp and polite but the Spanish accent was as full blooded as Rioja.

  ‘I’ll have a tonic’ I suggested.

  ‘Go sit down, over there’ he instructed ‘and I’ll join you’

 

  I did as I was told while he chatted easily with the waitress. Moments later he was at my side.

  ‘You say on your page that you like interior decorating; that’s marvellous. I live just ten minutes away and we’ve just had part of the house redecorated. I’d be interested to see what you think about it’

  I began to regret some of the stuff Sandi and I had put on my Internet site, and was busy trying to devise a way of escape when Fidel rose to his feet and put on his jacket. I was free all afternoon so I’d need to think of a convincing reason to leave. But the words didn’t come. And as we walked briskly to his car I found myself listening to his comments on decor and feeling that he did indeed know rather more than I.

  The car journey gave me little opportunity to contribute to the conversation. My new companion talked constantly about the recent refurbishment, the new shower, pretty much everything, but as yet no mention of his partner.

  We drew up at the door of an elegant late Victorian terrace. I reflected that Fidel had no qualms about parking outside the premises and escorting me through the door. He led me into the front room and said he would return in a moment. I took stock of things and looked around a room that was lavish and overstated. An ornate bookcase contained works by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, as well as numerous works on cinema and the arts. Fidel returned and sat beside me; I could not hide the excitement this proximity created.

  ‘Would you like to smoke?’

  I declined.

  ‘Some wine?’

  Once again I said no.

  ‘Well, we have a proper Miss Goody Two Shoes here’

  He was smiling but I felt the force of the comment and knew that I was colouring.

  ‘It’s just that it’s early’ I said, and so it was.

  ‘Well, I shall bring you a white wine and you can reconsider’

  I bridled slightly at his arrogance and yet it attracted me. I accepted the glass with good grace and composed myself. Fidel now moved to the chair opposite and reclined, holding his glass at an angle. After a few moments of silence he put it down and said:

  ‘Excuse me, but I must go upstairs’

  After some time I could hear the sound of running water. Finally Fidel shouted,

  ‘Come up and see the new shower.’

  What I did next does me no credit at all.

  With no thought for the consequences I ascended the stairs and entered the bathroom. It was a spacious room, and it had been redecorated in magnificent fashion. An impressive shower, located midway in the room was running and Fidel stood alongside, wearing only a dressing gown.

  Nothing excuses the stupidity of my actions. I still had time to leave, but I chose otherwise, and my mind had already exonerated my seducer. Perhaps he had been in a relationship but was no longer. How else could he act so freely in broad daylight?

  Not wishing to take any calls, I switched off my cell phone. As I d
id so I saw a recently received text. Too late! I laid down the phone on the vanity unit. I undressed and joined Fidel in the shower.

  I fully expected my host to be arrogant, confident and narcissistic and he didn’t disappoint. His body was a fitting tribute to the massive investment of time and training he had committed to it. I ran my fingers over his taut abdomen.

  ‘Firm’ I smiled.

  ‘Daily workout’ he answered, cocking his head to one side.

  I glanced further down,

  ‘And that?’

  ‘Again, daily workout, I guess’

  He laughed, and holding my head between his hands he kissed me roughly. He stopped, then began again much more tenderly. As the steam built up around us he took the soap and slowly ran his hand over my arms and shoulders, easing me towards the jets of water to wash away the lather. I wanted the moment to last forever. All too soon, and with some abruptness he turned off the shower,

  strode towards the towel rail and casually threw me a towel.

  ‘We’ll have to use the back bed room’ he said. ‘It’s OK’

  I tiptoed out of the shower and began to dry myself. It was at that point that a vague misgiving I had began to grow into certainty: if the shower had been unwise, then the bedroom would be a disaster. Sadly, reason was not governing my actions as I followed him into a room at the rear of the premises.

  I can never be exactly sure what it was that froze my blood at that moment: the juxtaposition of the familiar with the unfamiliar, perhaps. True, my surroundings were strange to me, however, from the back lane came the sound of a car engine that struck more than a chord.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s back!’

  Fidel’s voice was hoarse and frantic.

  ‘Shit, SHIT! He never said he had the afternoon off’

  ‘He’s back. HE! Who’s HE?’ I screamed.

  But my questions were the least of Fidel’s problems. He’d sprung from the bed and was dressing with wild haste, pulling on a track suit and trainers. I could not think. My heart was thumping, and my tongue, now dry and bloated, was sticking to the roof of my mouth. Vainly I tried to co-ordinate thoughts and hands as I ran to the bathroom and grappled with clothes. Fidel tore downstairs and his voice, sharp as a scythe was screaming at me.

  ‘Get out. Use the front door. Go on! Dress as you go’

  I bolted downstairs towards the hall. I appeared to have re-clothed myself without realising how. As I wrestled with the vestibule door I could hear the frantic Spaniard at the back of the house.

  ‘Alex, just stay in the car, I need you to run me down to the corner shop’

  Alex?

  Once again it was time for my heart to thump. Now I felt sick. The heavy front door had just closed and locked behind me. I stood on the pavement conscious of the incongruity of my position. I supposed I must get away from there as soon as possible, but how? I gazed up the street, neither seeing, nor registering a thing: not until a car, I knew only too well, drew out of the back lane, paused at the junction then sped away.

  Alex.

  In a moment I felt as though I had been out all night drinking. My head was spinning, my stomach churning. How I must have looked as I stood there, fumbling in my jeans pockets. Where were my keys, wallet, ‘phone? Then it struck me. These weren’t my jeans. But I did recognise them, and knew who they belonged to.

  Alex.