Twist Of Fate

Forty Nine

CHLOE

Two years earlier 

It has been a week since we first slept together. He came into the Flute a couple of days later during one of my evening shifts, accompanied by the same group of mates, and asked me if I wanted to hang out again. Worried about offending him, or worse, alienating myself from a potential group of friends, I accepted and found myself once again alone with him in his bedroom. I had hoped the second time would have been more enjoyable, given that I knew what to expect now. I was wrong. It hurt just as much as the first, and I was too shy to ask him to be gentle for fear of highlighting my inexperience. Thankfully it was over quickly again, and I wonder how many times I will need to go through this before it feels good, or at least stops hurting.

Friday is my night off from the pub. He texts me to say there is a house party on the estate and wants to know if I want to go with him. I accept readily, if only because he won't expect me to have sex with him at someone else's house, and maybe I can get to know him and his friends a bit better. I'm sure that beneath the one-word answers and monosyllabic grunts, they are intelligent, interesting people. 

The evening is warm and close as I walk across the grass between my high-rise block and his. I am wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a short sleeve blouse and sandals, and I have made an effort with my makeup, trying out a sexier look I found on a YouTube tutorial and feeling a little selfconscious but overall good about myself. He looks me up and down as I approach the group huddled on the corner by the OneStop corner shop, and immediately I feel overdressed compared to the rest of them in tracksuits and trainers, including a couple of girls I have never seen before. He doesn't comment on my appearance and I don't want to draw attention to myself further by asking him to wait while I get changed, so I fall into step with them as they make their way across the estate, kicking litter and shouting at each other as they go.

The music is blaring from the windows of the house and can be heard before we have even turned into the street. I follow them at the back of the line as they file through the front door, high-fiving people I don't know and shouting unintelligible greetings. Cans of cider are passed around, and this at least I can stomach better than the wheaty taste of cheap lager. A couple of them make their way out to the garden and spark up, but he and a couple of others, myself included, stand in the tiny, crowded kitchen and talk. I don't really understand much of what is said. They seem to talk in some sort of code, with weird slang for things and nicknames for people: Wizz, Meat, Damo. Pods, Slammer, Red. No one seems to be known by their real name.

I manage to make one can of cider last the same length of time as they drink two or even three. It isn't enough to relax me, and even by the end of my second can I am still keyed up and on edge, feeling totally out of my depth, if a little tipsy. He hasn't said much to me most of the evening - no one has. So I feel a small rush of relief when, after a whispered conversation with the owner of the house (I'm guessing), he leans over to me and asks if I want to escape for a bit somewhere quieter. He leads me down the hallway and, to my surprise, up the staircase two at a time onto a small landing with three doors, one of which is firmly shut, one clearly the bathroom, and the third which is ajar. He pushes this one open and inclines his head for me to enter. 

It is someone's bedroom: small, with a double bed crammed into it, cheap furniture and no pictures on the walls. It barely looks lived in, and resembles student digs. I perch cautiously on the edge of the bed while he closes the door behind us and comes to sit next to me on the bed.

"Just thought you might like to get away from the noise for a bit."

"I'm fine," I laugh nervously.