My Fake Wedding(58)

He goes straight for Croissants. What’s more, he seems to know what to do. And he doesn’t volley off a huge fart afterwards and then expect me to play Dutch Ovens, which I’m very grateful for. So all in all I have a nice time. Not wonderful, by any stretch of the imagination.

But nice. In the sort of way Madeira cake is nice. Pleasant.

It’s only post-shag, while I’m still basking in that warm, tingly glow, that the alarm bells start clanging. You see, instead of stubbing out his fag and turning his back on me, as could only reasonably be expected of even the best one-night stand, Max props himself up on one elbow and pats the space on the bed next to him.

‘What?’ I eye him suspiciously. I mean, sorry to rain on his parade and all that, but I’ve got stuff to do. I’ve got to rake all that sick out of my spiral-bound address book before it starts to rust, for a start. What’s he doing? Is he expecting me to congratulate him on his performance or what?

‘Cuddle up.’ He grins.

I gape at him in shock. Now I’m not much of a connoisseur re one-nighters, or even one-afternooners, come to that, but I do know this kind of behaviour isn’t quite the ticket. I mean it’s not normal, is it, expecting me to get slushy when all I want is a kip? Shouldn’t he be fucking off out of it about now? Max smiles at me again, showing off a row of perfect pearly whites. Actually, I can’t help noticing that they’re starting to look a little too perfect. Like some cheesy toothpaste advert.

‘I want to know everything about you.’ He grins lazily, pulling my head down onto his chest in sloppy Mills & Boon fashion.

‘You do?’ I grit my teeth.

’Everything.’ He seems to expect me to be pleased.

God, I hate it when people ask me to tell them about myself. I’m never quite sure how to answer. Or how much detail to go into. Does Max, for instance, need to know that I occasionally piss on people’s toothbrushes when I’m annoyed with them? Or that I once used one of Sam’s girlfriend’s face flannels as loo roll at her birthday dinner because they’d run out and I hate having to drip dry. Or is that just too much information? Whatever I say, it’s bad enough when it takes the form of self-congratulatory bullshit at some godawful dinner party. Talking about this stuff with someone who’s just been nuzzling my nether regions really does seem rather de trop.

‘What do you want to know?’ I ask, more than a little perturbed as he searches for my icy feet under the duvet with his own warm ones. This is way too intimate for my liking. Couldn’t we have just left it at the bunk up? Or the Croissants, even. But footsie? Forget it.

‘Whatever you feel like telling me.’ He grins again. I reluctantly tell him about the least interesting bits of my life in the hope that I’ll actually bore him to death. Either that, or he’ll feel claustrophobic and leave. Anything just to get the bed back to myself. All this attention is just plain freaky. I tell him about how I’ve been sacked, due to self-motivation issues. Which, I may add, I blame entirely on the exceptionally high standard of daytime TV these days.

Unfortunately, Max seems to find all this more amusing than offputting. And in the end, I’m actually quite flattered by him laughing at my jokes. So much so, in fact, that I even manage to find the energy for another quick shag. It’s against my better judgement under the circumstances but what the hell?

I’m just stuffing the used condom into an empty black cherry yoghurt pot when I feel an odd, prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I turn round to find Max looking at me really intensely. I check myself. Do I have crusts of food round my mouth? Bits of orange kebab sauce under my nails?

Shit. Do I have a great big booga hanging out of my nose?

Whatever it is, I don’t like him staring at me like this. The skin on the back of my neck feels as though I have a clutch of spider’s eggs hatching underneath it. It’s nothing short of disgusting.

‘Aren’t you supposed to roll over now and start snoring your head off ?’ I joke.

I’m only half-joking, actually. Surely any self-respecting bastard would have done just that? Shouldn’t Max be waiting for me to fall asleep now so he can vanish, evaporating like a puff of amyl nitrate into the dusk? He should have started feeling trapped the second he heard the squelch of the condom coming off.

Shouldn’t he?

Buggery bollocks.

He’ll be getting so intimate he’ll be going to the loo in front of me next.

‘Not me.’ He shakes his head and smiles at me. ‘I’m not like that.’

Just my blimming luck then.’

I want to get to know you properly.’ He beams. ‘Spend time with you. Stuff like that.’