‘Where are you going?’ I frowned suspiciously as he closed the doors to my glorified cupboard of a walk-in wardrobe behind him. After several minutes, one of the doors was flung open to reveal Joe’s bare, hairy leg extending playfully behind it like a burlesque dancer starting their opening number. I hugged myknees to my chest, giggling as Joe hooked a second stocking-clad leg around the edge of the door, sliding it up and down as heda-dahedwhat I could only assume was supposed to be theCabarettheme tune. Black-silk-gloved fingers strummed teasingly around the doorframe before the other door was thrown dramatically open to reveal Joe in all his glory. He’d somehow managed to entice one of my wrap skirts around his waist, a dangerous amount of pale thigh peeking out from between the gap where the two sides refused to meet. My black t-shirt bra strained across his chest, the clasp threatening to ping free at any moment, and the ridiculously oversized floppy hat with my name around the brim that Instagram had influenced me to buy wobbled precariously on his head as he flung the end of my red tartan scarf theatrically over one shoulder, strutting around the bedroom like a model at Fashion Week.
‘What do we think?’ he asked, stopping at the end of the bed to pose, one leg performing a half-lunge atop the ottoman.
I shrieked with laughter as the skirt, which had been valiantly holding on for dear life until this point, finally admitted defeat and dropped with a sigh to the carpet.
‘Ryan Reynolds has got nothing on me, baby,’ Joe winked, puffing his chest out like a prize gorilla, in an uncharacteristic show of masculinity that he instantly came to regret when a sharp snap confirmed the inevitable.
‘Oww!’ The bra clasp had finally given up the good fight, whipping Joe around the face as it pinged free. We both looked at each other for a second, lips quivering, and then erupted into fits of giggles.
‘You’re right,’ I hiccupped, gasping for air as the tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. ‘Only you could pull that look off.’
‘It’s really working for me, right?’ Joe turned to admire himself in the full-length mirror, his bra-related injury quicklyforgotten as he flexed and posed, twiddling the end of the scarf coquettishly in one hand.
‘Work it, baby,’ I cheered, whooping with delight as Joe started slowly removing each layer of clothing that hadn’t already deserted him. He threw his shoulders back, letting the scarf drop to the floor before flicking it in my direction with his toes. He stalked towards the bed, the promise of something hot and delicious swirling in his eyes as he slipped beneath the sheets.
‘Get the light, Joe,’ I mumbled, snuggling over towards his side of the bed until I felt the subtle dip of the mattress that had moulded to his shape after all these years.
‘Hmmm?’
‘The light.’
‘It’s your turn.’
‘No, you were the last one into bed!’
A resounding snore vibrated beside me and I turned to see Joe pretending to be asleep, mouth open, head slumped in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. Oscar-winning performance it was not.
‘Fine,’ I huffed, breaking the silent stand-off we had most nights. Flinging the duvet back, I stomped over towards the light switch, glaring accusingly at the matching bedside table lamps still in their dust-topped, unopened boxes in the corner of the room. ‘You know, maybe one of these days you’ll finally get round to wiring those lamps we bought five months ago,’ I said pointedly, flicking the switch and plunging the room into darkness.
‘Honey, if you wanted a handyman, you should have gone with Brad Pitt.’
‘There’s still time,’ I maintained, sliding back into bed and pulling the covers right up to my chin with a shiver. I sensed him move closer. Could almost feel the tickle of his breath against thenape of my neck.
‘You know,’ he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper in my ear, ‘I can think of something even better than you in my clothes.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You out of them.’
My toes curled in anticipation, my body moving with a will of its own as it surrendered, rolling over to face Joe’s side of the bed.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
2
On 6thFebruary 2008, precisely two days before my 13thbirthday, I fell in love.
It wasn’t some cute boy-meets-girl story. Fate didn’t partner us up to play Romeo and Juliet in the school play. Fingers didn’t accidentally touch as we both reached for the last chocolate sponge with lumpy skin-topped custard at lunch time. In fact, the very first words that Joseph Carter said to me that day, or indeed ever, wereyou do know everyone can see your knickers, right?
It was a Wednesday. I remember it so vividly it’s like it was yesterday. Double English Lit had just finished. The main locker-lined corridor was heaving with students, the air vibrating with excitable chatter as if we hadn’t just been sat next to those very people for the past hour. At first, it was just a few double takes. Heads snapping back and forth at an unnatural speed. Two girls whispering together in a doorway, one pointing me out to her friend. I smiled delightedly to myself, thinking they were admiring my new butterfly hairclips. I’d practically begged Mum forTop of the Popsmagazine that weekend, purely so I could be the proud new owner of six sparkly clips that Kimberley from Girls Aloud had been seen wearing the week before.
‘You do know everyone can see your knickers, right?’ came amatter-of-fact voice to my right.
I closed my locker door a fraction to reveal Joseph Carter’s spectacle-clad face behind it. He had a camera slung around his neck, something I quickly learnt he never went anywhere without. It was a vintage Kodak with a pillar-box-red leather strap, a model that still used film even though digital cameras were very much all the rage. Despite having been at the same school for almost two years, I’d never really noticed Joe. He wasn’t the most popular kid in school, but then he wasn’t unpopular either. He was that guy who was friends with everyone, somehow managing to deftly traverse the horribly cliché cliques that dictated secondary school life for the rest of us. Which table we sat on at lunch. Who we hung out with. What so-called specialism we’d been pigeonholed into, because God forbid you were a Maths-loving rugby player who played the French horn.
‘Huh?’
‘Your skirt,’ he said calmly, removing the strawberry lace he was chewing from his mouth and waving it at my waist region. ‘It’s stuck under your backpack.’
