The Cheek Perforation Dance. Sean Thomas

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      Patrick does not cry. He stares forward.

       Wasp-face! Dog-features! Badger-breath!

4

      — Great arse?

      — … Yes

      — Great arse?

      — So?

      — Ha! This Patrick guy – Murphy picks up a pencil, waggles it – Smooth-talking bastard!

      — It was a book …

      —Yep OK

      — I was looking at a book, of French rococo art

      — Sure, Becs

      — No you don’t understand he was looking over my shoulder, at that picture by Boucher – Murphy not responding, Rebecca goes on – The painting of that girl with her bottom in the air, so you see it was really quite sharp

      Murphy percusses the end of the pencil against her lips:

      — It isn’t big and it isn’t clever

      — Murf!

      — I don’t mind you lying to me, it’s when you lie to yourself

      — Ohhh

      Amused but frustrated Rebecca says no more. Instead she leans against the edge of Murphy’s desk: the only furniture of note in the pale-blond-wooden-floored, mostly white-matt-walled emptiness of Schubert & Scholes, Murphy’s gallery.

      Rebecca:

      — How long has it been since you had a shag Murf?

      — He just sounds rough. Very rough … – Murphy is twirling the pencil like a tiny baton between her fingers – Tell me about his criminal record again?

      — It’s nothing heavy

      — Oh, only a tiny little bit of GBH

      — He got in a couple of fights when he was at Uni

      — A couple of fights. Jesus! – Murphy sticks the pencil into her hair, twists hair around the end — That’s why they threw him out of his college, the University of Tesco’s Car Park, or wherever it was? Right?!

      — Yyyess

      — Let’s face it, he’s a bloody caveman

      Rebecca tilts her head:

      — Mmm. Sexy, isn’t it?

      — No – Murphy snaps – It’s not. It’s wanky. The guy’s a musclebound fuck-wit and you’re all gooey-eyed. Christ! – Murphy gazes into the eyes of her friend – What about all that feminism stuff we studied at Edinburgh, what about Simone de Beauvoir and … that other French cow?

      — You should see him when he’s got a bit of stubble

      — Ohhh … – The pencil falls from Murphy’s fingers, bounces off a two-month-old edition of Blueprint magazine, and spins to the pale-blond-wood floor. Murphy looks down, says – I presume you’ve shagged him already?

      — He’s such a spunk

      — So that makes it OK? You atrocious slut

      Surveying a pile of oversized metal film canisters stacked carefully in one corner of the gallery, Rebecca says:

      — Actually we haven’t – Looking back at her surprised-looking friend, meaningfully – I only went down on him

      A clucking noise from Murphy; Rebecca:

      — Which I thought was rather restrained

      — Restrained?

      — Comparatively

      Murphy:

      — Fifteen minutes after meeting the bloke you’re on your knees wrestling with his zipper … restrained?

      — Nice and big, by the way

      — ?

      — And thick

      Murphy laughs:

      — Girth?

      — Gerrrrrrtthh!

      — We Like Gerrrrrtthhhhh!!

      Their chorus done, Murphy shakes her head and says:

      — Just don’t come running when he goes and dumps you you hairy old SLAPPER

      A pause. Murphy is bending to pick up the pencil from the floor. Watching her friend bend over, Rebecca assesses her friend’s shortish brown hair; her lithe figure; the cuttlefish tattoo she can see above her friend’s new jeans-belt. Rebecca, idly:

      — Love the belt

      — Yeah?

      Saying ‘yeah I do’, Rebecca sits back against the desk again. Looking at a grainy art photo of a power station on the wall, Rebecca says:

      — Actually, we’ve only kissed

      — Yeah right – Murphy looks sarcastic and uncomprehending and pleased at the same time – Three dates: and you’ve only kissed? Honestly?

      — Honestly

      — Wow … – Murphy pretends to get up from her chair – Do you want to lie down? I’ll get you a blanket

      — I think … he’s a bit … inhibited

      — Inhibited?

      — Well, I told him

      — No!

      — Couldn’t help it. He took me to some club he knows … and we started talking about sex and – Rebecca grins self-consciously – I just stupidly came out with it

      — Jesus

      — I know – Rebecca mumbles a laugh – Maybe it was a slight mistake

      — I’ve told you, Becs: it frightens them

      — But it’s just the truth

      Murphy shakes her head:

      — Twenty-eight different lovers is quite a lot for a twenty-two-year-old Rebecca, smiling:

      — Rather more than he as it turned out

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