Authors: Ava Bloomfield
The summer I
turned fifteen, Peter and I had our one year anniversary, even though we’d
never really described each other as boyfriend and girlfriend.
We
knew
what we were, but the time away was too painful to make it official.
We spent the
day on the cliffs like usual, lying down on the grass, kissing, keeping it
private from our families. I was especially grateful that dad never knew how...
far
we were going, for obvious reasons. He wouldn’t have liked it at all.
Neither would Diane, though I had the feeling that Dennis might understand. I’d
always had the feeling that he’d been a lot like Peter when he was fifteen.
On the cliff
we were far away from everyone, and nothing level with the harbour mattered to
us while we were up there, practically amongst the clouds. We kissed and held
each other for hours, sometimes the whole day, and I’d go home at night and
dream of us doing it all again and so much more.
In mid August,
Peter’s family threw a bonfire night to celebrate Dennis’ 50th birthday.
It was to be,
at first, the most wonderful night of my life so far. Later, it was to become
the worst, most excruciating time of my entire life.
The guests had
gathered in Dennis and Diane’s back garden, scattered about over their lawn
while dad, Dennis and some of their campsite co–workers built up the fire
inside the old oil drum. Peter was sixteen already, so Diane let him have a
couple of drinks, and even though I wasn’t old enough Pete slipped me some
vodka in my diet Coke. Pretty soon the popping fire seemed so much brighter,
and when Diane wasn’t around I sat on Pete’s lap and entwined my arms around
his neck.
It was a beautiful
clear night, the stars illuminated by the bonfire and the sky like a sheet of
dark velvet. Dennis, dad and their work mates were swallowing can after can of
lager while Diane ferried food to and from the garden table for their friends.
She was far too busy to notice us.
Pete leaned in
and shouted to me over the music. When I couldn’t hear him, he pressed his
mouth against me and spoke directly into my ear, his mouth tickling. ‘I said
Dave isn’t coming.’
‘Oh how
awful,’ I said back, practically shouting in his face. Diane had put on some
awful
Best of Whitney Huston
album and the noise was so loud I could
barely think straight, let alone have a normal conversation with Peter.
‘He says he
doesn’t feel comfortable about me and you,’ Peter shouted.
‘Who cares?’ I
said back, running my fingers through the coarse dark curls at the nape of his
neck.
‘It’s the
first time he hasn’t showed up to something,’ said Pete, looking pained. ‘He’s
being a real dick about everything.’
‘He’s always a
dick about everything,’ I said.
Peter
shrugged. ‘It’s hard making time for him when he won’t see us together, you
know? I wouldn’t do that to him.’ He took a sip of his drink and swallowed
hard, grimacing as if the drink was sour. I knew that wasn’t the reason.
I watched his
Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, admiring his thick neck and the tendons in
his wrist as he clutched the can. He looked so adult compared to me; so much
taller and larger, and he showed no signs of stopping. Sometimes I’d catch
Diane looking at Peter the same way, as if she couldn’t quite believe her
little boy had grown so large, almost as big as Dennis.
The looks she
gave him weren’t just curious, either. She had a glint in her eye of fear,
knowing, I suppose, that in the coming years Peter was going to leave home and
make his own way. I liked to dream of us moving to London together permanently,
or going on tour together when Peter joined a band.
Whatever
fantasy I had, one thing was certain: Dad wasn’t in any of them. Once I had
Peter, I wouldn’t need anybody else. I’d be free of him for good. Diane could
look as afraid as she liked, but she couldn’t stop us.
‘Thing is,
you’re a decent person and he’s a selfish idiot. He’s jealous,’ I said,
planting a kiss on Peter’s cheek.
He smiled,
hugging me closer. ‘Course he’s jealous. He’d be a real idiot not to be.’
‘Shut up!’ I
said. I blushed so hard I was grateful for it being so dark outside, but Peter
knew me too well. He stroked my cheek, feeling my hot skin.
He leaned in
closer and said, ‘Let’s go and talk inside, I’m sick of shouting.’
I nodded and
got off his lap. We both glanced over at Diane, who was pre–occupied with her
friends from the bank with her back to us, before making our way indoors.
Instinctively I went towards Peter’s room upstairs, but when we got to the
landing he turned me towards his parents’ room, holding me by the hand.
‘I want to
show you something,’ he said, turning on the light. The room was decorated to
Diane’s tastes with deep purple sheets and matching curtains; a Louis–style purple
chair in the corner with a patchwork cushion on the seat. Everything was neat
and stylized. None of it spoke a word of Dennis; not unless he liked satin and
lace.
There was just
one thing, however. Peter pointed to it, stood in the corner like a shamed dog.
‘Dad’s been playing that guitar since he was seventeen. He bought it with his
own money from his first job.’
I looked at
the red Gibson Les Paul, a little battered and bruised, but still standing. I
only knew the type because Peter scoured the internet for hours sometimes,
drooling over different guitar bodies and makes. I didn’t understand the
significance exactly, but Peter looked so proud to point it out to me that I
couldn’t help but smile.
‘It’s lovely,’
I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. How else could you respond to a
guitar when you didn’t know anything about it? I didn’t know the first thing
about Les Paul, whoever he was.
Peter laughed.
‘It’s all right, you don’t have to pretend. Dad says he’s going to give it to
me one day when he’s too old to play in a band.’
Dennis’ band
was called
Sonny and the Rascals
and they mostly played covers down the
pub; old rock ballads, that kind of thing. ‘I can’t imagine Dennis getting too
old to play.’
‘Me either,’
said Peter, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. ‘It makes me a bit sad looking
at it like that. It’s the only thing dad’s really had for himself and it never
did make him famous.’
‘It’s a
shame,’ I said. ‘He’s a really good guitarist. He’s talented like you.’
Peter snorted.
‘Other way around, you mean.’
We drifted
towards the bed and perched nervously on the edge, both of us seeming very
aware of the soft mattress beneath us. I definitely was, I knew that much. I
smoothed down the skirt of my black party dress and kicked off my shoes.
‘Why did your
dad come down here from Liverpool? It’s hardly rock and roll,’ I said, leaning
back on my elbows.
Peter watched
the guitar longingly, a sadness in his sea–green eyes. ‘They never really told
me, but I think dad got in a bit of trouble with his old crowd around the time
mum got pregnant with me. They moved here for my sake.’
‘Seems a shame
that I’m the one who gets to live in London, doesn’t it?’ I said, making Peter
look from the Les Paul to me.
‘How come?’
I shrugged. ‘I
don’t make any use of it. I prefer being here where it’s quiet, and by the sea.
Something about it just makes me feel better. You and Dennis ought to be the
ones living in London, making a go of it with your music. I put the place to
shame.’
‘You don’t put
anything to shame,’ he said, meeting my eyes, making my heart burn and ache the
way it had since we first met. ‘There’s nothing shameful about you. You’re
beautiful.’
I couldn’t
hold myself back, then. Something about those words struck me so hard that I
just had to be with him, be close to him.
Tears came to
my eyes as I pulled him close and kissed him, and before long we were laying
back on the bed, Peter’s hand on my skirt, tugging it up, and every inch of me
was screaming for it to happen
now.
It happened
fast, and with Peter’s weight on top of me, his lips on mine and his hands all
over me, I didn’t have a chance to recognize a very important fact —not until
after, when we were lying together.
That was my
first time.
It was
beautiful; everything I’d been dreaming of late at night in the cottage.
First time.
That’s what it was; the first only time, no matter what had happened in the
past. I didn’t want to think about those other times; they made me squirm and
wretch and cry, but this, this never could. I’d lost my
true virginity
that night.
I refused to
believe I’d been robbed of that special title by my own father, even though I
was too old to pretend anymore. And during that moment with Peter, it was
almost as if it had never happened at all, none of it.
This was the first
time and the only time; my body sighing with relief when finally,
finally
,
Peter and I gave into every aching fibre of our being.
Peter kissed
me, his top lip salty from sweat. ‘I love you Ell’,’ he said.
I nuzzled in
close. ‘I love you too Pe—’
A noise on the
landing startled us. Peter pulled his jeans back on while I frantically tried
to zip up my dress, my knickers missing, my hair in disarray, but the noise was
getting closer and it was too late, it was all over. The door swung open.
Diane’s mouth dropped
open to see me tugging my skirt into place while Peter’s T–shirt was only
halfway down. She even yelped, I remembered, the tears springing immediately to
her eyes. ‘Get out!’ she shrieked at me, her hand shaking as she cupped it over
her mouth.
I did as I was
told, abandoning the search for my knickers — our beautiful first time already
looked tacky enough without that — and picked up my shoes as I hurried out the
door. I went to Peter’s room and heard Diane’s bedroom door slam, followed by
her incessant shouting.
My knees shook
while I stood there in his little box room, listening to her shrill cries of
anger and disbelief, followed by Peter’s warm voice begging her to calm down. I
wasn’t upset, I was just frustrated — how
dare
she ruin our first time?
But there was nothing I could do. I caught sight of myself in the little square
mirror on Peter’s wardrobe door. I was flushed and rosy and...Alive, for
Christ’s sake.
It was the
first and last time that I ever really, truly looked alive.
In hindsight I
wished I’d had more time to recognise that fact, but I still wasn’t wearing any
knickers and that posed a pretty big problem.
I searched
Peter’s chest of drawers and plucked out a pair of his clean pants. They were a
little big, more like shorts on my skinny legs, but they were stretchy and
clung to me just fine. I sat and waited on his bed for their argument to stop,
smiling to myself about what had just happened. All the while Diane screamed
and cried and made a huge great fuss over the inevitable — her baby growing up.
I thought
about it over and over again while I waited, telling myself repeatedly,
I’m
in love with Peter Denton.
Half an hour
passed. I checked his radio alarm clock: ten thirty. The sounds from Diane’s
room had quietened to a stop, and I started to wonder if they were even still
in there. Reluctantly I crept across the landing to her room and braved opening
the door, my curiosity taking over. I was annoyed that Diane was taking up
Peter’s time, ruining everything, keeping him all to herself.
I walked in to
find Diane resting her head on Peter’s lap, crying, while he stroked her hair.
He looked too adult, too concerned — and she looked too childlike. Dad’s face
came into my mind, his face whenever he cried about mum, and it made me feel sick.
It was too close for comfort, her expression, laying on him like that.
I looked at
Peter in bewilderment, and when he noticed I was there, he said firmly, ‘Go
downstairs, Ell’. Just leave us alone for a minute.’
‘What?’ I
said, outraged. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean leave
us alone,’ he said. ‘I’ll be down in a bit, OK? Just leave it, Ellen.’
Diane didn’t
even acknowledge me, but just kept on crying into his lap like a great big
baby, clutching his legs as if she was afraid to let go. I didn’t feel one ounce
of sympathy for her. I couldn’t, not with dad’s face in my mind. Not knowing
that he was downstairs, laughing it up with Dennis, hiding his filthy secret.
Knowing that I
was hiding it too.
I ran from the
room and hurried downstairs, tears streaming, and ran straight into Dennis.
‘Hey! Hey!
What’s the matter with you, eh?’ he said, looking down at me from his great
height. ‘Has my wife upset you? I’ve been wondering where she’s been all this
time. What’s gone on, eh?’
I shrugged,
wiping my eyes, choking on my own tears. Now I felt like the big baby.
‘Come on, eh?
What’s been going on?’ he looked past me up the stairs, his face softening,
recognising the situation. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Come in to the living room for a
minute.’
I followed him
into the quiet sitting room and sat down on one of their creamy white
armchairs, while Dennis perched on the edge of the settee. ‘So,’ he said,
keeping his voice calm. I could smell the drink on him, but he was being
serious. ‘You and Peter got caught doing something you shouldn’t have been?’
‘No,’ I said,
unconvincing to say the least. Dennis let out a long breath.
‘My wife’s a
bit techy about our Pete,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry she’s upset you. Come on, don’t
cry. She’ll get over it eventually. Did you two use, you know, well—’
‘Stop it!’ I
said, covering my face with my hands. We had, but I wasn’t going to tell him
that. Peter had taken it from Dennis’ bedside drawer for one thing. ‘Just don’t
worry yourself about it,’ I snapped.