makes him feel pressurized.
‘Go on then,’ says Darren. ‘Show us yer moves.’
Karen sighs again. ‘Sorry about him,’ and she gets hold of Fraser’s arm. ‘Let’s move along.’
But Darren’s not having any of it.
‘Where you going, you wanker?’ he shouts after them. ‘Where are you going with my fucking girlfriend?’
Fraser sighs and looks skyward. He’s knackered; he’s used up all the concentration he possesses in the dance class, and now he’s a bit drunk and all he wants to do is to get on the bus and to get home and go to sleep, his head resting on those soft, pillowy boobs. But Darren has other ideas.
‘Oi. I said, where are you going, dickhead?’
Karen’s grip tightens on Fraser. ‘Just ignore him,’ she whispers, hurrying him along. ‘He just can’t handle it, he really, really can’t.
‘You just can’t handle it, Daz, can you?’ and she turns round and shouts at him. ‘I’m with Fraser now, OK? You thought I’d never get a boyfriend again, didn’t you? You thought you’d ruined me, scarred me for life, but you were wrong!’
I should be saying something now, thinks Fraser – what should I be saying? He becomes queasily, acutely aware he is saying nothing.
‘Whatever, you’re still fat!’ Darren shouts back. ‘You’re welcome to her, mate.’ And inwardly, Fraser winces, because now he knows he really should be saying something, that there’s no call at all for that sort of behaviour.
‘I don’t think there’s any call for that,’ he says, turning around. ‘You’re pissed, mate. Now go home.’
But it seems this is perfect ammunition for Darren, who is not pissed, no he fucking well is not, and he is certainly not going to be told to go home by some Northern wiener in crap trainers.
Fraser isn’t prepared for what happens next; all he knows is that he hears the sudden, quickening sound of shoes on the ground and then is wrenched – him letting out a sudden and involuntary sound like he’s being choked – by the hood of his top and pulled to the ground. Then he feels a dull ache in the head – no, actually a really, really sharp pain in the head, and can hear Karen screaming, ‘Darren get off him! Get off him now!’
Fraser has never been the fighting type – the odd scrap as a teenager but he could never be bothered and, anyway, deep down he knew he had a pathetically low pain threshold, and would he – this is the question – would he be able to stop his eyes watering if it really hurt? But this time, from somewhere deep inside of him, the adrenaline kicks in, the male instinct that he is supposed to make an effort here. He can’t shout: ‘Ah, you’re fucking hurting me and please don’t break my nose! It’s buggered enough as it is!’ So he at least has a go at pushing him off, tries to summon every manly, fearless cell in his body to dodge a punch, even throw a couple back, but he loses out and suddenly his back is against a wall and he hears something crack and feels a stab of pain that gets him right in the throat. There’s the familiar trickle at the back of his nose and then splosh, splosh. Fat splashes of vibrant red on the floor.
‘Oh, my God, Fraser! Oh, God. You fucking bastard, Daz!’
Then Karen has rushed over to him and is kneeling down beside him, a look of pure horror on her face, but Fraser is seeing stars, far too dazed to say anything, except eventually, ‘Ow. I don’t think there was any need for that.’
‘No, there was not. There was NOT, Darren. You total fuck-head!’
Karen screams at Darren who is walking off now, swaggering, coolly, not even breaking into a jog, thinks Fraser. That’s how menacing I am.
‘Fraser, baby, are you all right?’ Karen kneels right down beside him and the look on her face just kills him.
‘Are you OK, sweetie?’ She’s brushing the hair from his face.
‘Yeah, yeah, just a bit of blood,’ says Fraser, sitting up, feeling quite pleased with himself for the phrase ‘just a bit of blood’, when what he really wants to scream is, FUCK ME THAT FUCKING KILLED!! His top is already covered in the stuff.
‘OK, pinch your nose at the bridge and put your head back and I’ll clean you up a bit. I once did St John Ambulance, I know what I’m doing …’ Karen roots in her handbag and comes up with a packet of handy wet wipes. ‘Might sting a bit.’
‘Thanks, Karen, thanks. I’m sorry about this …’ says Fraser, practically gurgling on the blood that’s now running down his throat.
Karen takes his face in her hands and he tries not to say ‘Ow’ because his whole head kind of hurts right now. She dabs at him with her wet wipe. ‘Now you listen to me, Fraser Morgan, you have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all, OK? In fact …’ She stops.
Oh, God, here it comes again, that look.
‘I should be thanking you.’
She looks straight into his eyes
‘You know it really meant a lot to me what happened there, it really showed me something, you know?’
‘No,’ says Fraser. ‘No, I don’t know.’
‘Well, you took a punch for me back there, didn’t you? You nearly bloody broke your nose for me! Maybe you have actually broken your nose!’
Fraser smiles, weakly. Great, he thinks. What a hero. ‘And I appreciate it, hun, that’s all I’m saying. I was touched, Fraser, like, really touched.’ She pauses for a minute, for her words to sink in, then she says, ‘Right, let’s get you home.’ And yet another little part of Fraser dies, right there on the pavement, because he realizes he has just spent one of the most humiliating hours of his life (and that was just the dance class) and probably broken his nose, all for someone he really is not sure about. He didn’t bargain for this.
SIX
The next morning
Lancaster
Careful to hold in her post-baby belly, Mia rolls off Eduardo, reaches for the water on her bedside table, downs the glass and flops back down on the pillow.
‘Ow! Cramp!’ Then she sits bolt upright, clutching her right thigh, which has gone into involuntary spasm.
Eduardo laughs his low, maddening laugh.
‘You always do this, you always get the cramp,’ he says, yawning, as if it’s some sort of personality flaw, like always picking a fight when drunk.
‘That’s because I’ve been straddling you for the last ten minutes and in case you’d forgotten, I had a baby nine months ago,’ she says, trying desperately to keep an air of humour. ‘My hip flexors aren’t what they used to be, you know.’
He rubs her back, then places a lingering kiss on her shoulder. ‘I’m going for a smoke,’ he says, pulling back the covers, and Mia watches as his tiny, brown Brazilian bum – like a hazelnut she always thinks – disappears around the
