Health Care

Sam’s cooking does not disappoint me. Perhaps this is because he did not a lot of cooking, aside from frying off chicken, onions and peppers. He cooks me fajitas and serves up a plate of nachos. He insists we sit on the floor.

“We could sit on the sofas,” he begins. “But then we’d be constantly bending down to pick these up,” he holds up a tray of salsa, soured cream, grated cheese, mayonnaise and other suitable condiments before setting it down on the floor.

“Do you not have a coffee table or anything?” I ask. Sam shakes his head.

“I’ve been meaning to head to IKEA for well, years,” he says. “The majority of this furniture is by donation-only,” he says, settling down on the floor and crossing his legs.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, interested. “Donations from who?” Sam checks the floor around him as though he has lost something. Eventually he sighs and stands up again. He disappears into the kitchen and pulls glasses out from the cupboards.

“Oh well, y’know,” he calls over the sound of beer cans hissing as he opens them. “My parents; grandparents; friends. I was so ready to get out of the last house I lived in, I didn’t take much with me whatsoever, so everyone felt pretty sorry for me.” He hands me a beer and smiles knowingly. He’s left me on a cliff-hanger and he knows it.

“That’s right girly,” he smirks. “Now it’s my turn to talk about my exes.” I gulp a little and take a large glug of beer. Is it a good job I’m sitting down? Sam senses my apprehension and sits back down on the floor, this time a little closer to me. “It’s nothing to look so worried about,” he says to me, laughing slightly. “I don’t have a chip on my shoulder or anything. At least, I don’t think I do,” he grins at me again and I relax slightly. “I was just, I don’t know, cheated on and lied to, if you want the short of it. We were together for three years. Moved in and everything. Then I found out, and well, it was pretty shit. I got as much of my stuff as I could fit in my car and got the hell out of there. Went back in with my parents, and got this place three months later.”

I smile sadly at him. I wonder why it didn’t work out. I wonder what she was like. I wonder what kind of girl could cheat on Sam. Surely life with him would just be so much fun? I bet he wanted to know what the ‘other men’ were like. Maybe he does know who they are. God, so many questions, but I bite my tongue.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I say. “But you’re obviously worth a lot more than that.” Sam shakes his head as if to dismiss my sympathy.

“It’s old news,” he says. “Besides, I’m much happier you’re sat on my floor.” We smile and begin tucking into our fajitas. I load mine up with salad and grated cheese and stick it together with layers of soured cream. It’s delicious. The tangy sauce drips from the bottom of my tortilla and runs down my wrist. Sam notices. He catches my arm and twists it upwards. He stares deeply into my eyes as he licks it off my arm. We raise our eyebrows at each other.

“No guessing what’s for dessert then,” I deadpan, pulling my arm away from him.

“I’m suddenly ready to skip to dessert,” he mutters. I pretend to swat him away. No way sunshine, these fajitas are way too good, and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.

*

Sam collects my plate for me. I begin loading the tray back up with the condiments, but he stops me. He instructs me to settle onto the sofa and leave him to it. I attempt to protest.

“Chill out,” he says. “It’s not like I’m going to wash them. I’ll dump them in the sink until I’m in the right frame of mind.” He’s being deadly serious. I giggle. Sam’s so laid back and relaxed. On the contrary, I remember the first night I stayed at Christopher’s.

Unsurprisingly, he still lives with his parents. They don’t expect him to move out until he’s finished his Medicine degree, which is another two years.

“It’s just so much more convenient, having him here,” I remember his mother telling me once. I nodded back, understandingly. As if! I remember thinking. What twenty-something year old should still be living at home because it’s ‘convenient’? Of course it’s convenient for anyone to have a free roof over their head and have their washing done and their meals cooked for them, but that’s no reason why you shouldn’t still look for a place of your own. Despite all his ‘maturity’ and sincerity, Christopher still had a lot of growing up to do.

Their house is set within a small thicket of trees and looks out over the majority of the village. It’s an old Tudor-style building; a black and white frontier and a lavish driveway. Inside, the colour scheme varies from glossy white to warm cream, with glittering silver chandeliers and photo frames. Before you’ve even stepped over the threshold, you just know this is the sort of house you must remove your shoes instantaneously in. I always did so, lining them neatly against the wall and hoping Christopher’s mother didn’t judge me on them. Even her slippers were gleaming white.

Christopher’s room was the third along the landing. I never got to explore the majority of the rooms, but Christopher assured me they weren’t of any particular interest.

“Manly just storage,” he said casually, waving his arm across the line of closed doors. They seemed to have more rooms than were necessary.

His room was of a considerable size. The walls, like the rest of the house, were painted white. A glossy black desk sat in the corner of his room, complete with a top of the range desktop computer, wireless mouse and keyboard. The small cubby hole left beside the desk is where he stored his bags: gym bags, rucksacks, designer ‘man bags’. His window looked out across the sizeable garden and the neighbouring houses set lower down on the hill. If you wanted to be a pervert (which I think Christopher sometimes was), you could see directly onto the neighbour’s bedroom balcony. Christopher had a double bed layered in blue and cream sheets, and next to it was a fine oak wardrobe filled with only the finest clothes. Christopher owned only two pairs of sweats: a navy blue pair for the gym, and a grey pair for sleeping in. The first night I stayed over, I placed my overnight bag on his bed and looked for a place to plug in my phone charger. Christopher bit his lip and looked anxious.

“What’s up?” I asked him.

“Hm, yeah,” he stammered. “That’s the thing, erm, you can stay in the guest room.” He blushed slightly. A hundred possibilities ran through my mind, all of them absurd. Does he wet the bed?

“Guest room?” I asked. “Why?”

“Just for the start,” he reassured me. Start of what, exactly? “It’s just my mum’s rules.”

Finally it clicked, dear old Mrs Thompson didn’t approve of me laying my filthy claws into her 'vulnerable' son just yet. She had to get to know me first, make sure I wasn’t about to rid him of all his innocence and then fuck off at two in the morning, hastily stuffing the cash from his wallet down my bra, ready to give to my pimp.

I slept uncomfortably the entire night. The spare room bed was stiff and the sheets hadn’t been slept in for years, I could tell. The whole thing just seemed a façade. Christopher had been texting me from his bedroom next door for the past hour, but had since fallen asleep. I suppose with Christopher living at home, Mrs Thompson had forgotten that he was in fact twenty-one years old.

Suddenly, Sam pokes his finger into my side as I snap back out of my daydream.

“Hey you,” he says. “What’s eating you?” Perhaps I’ve been pulling faces while reminiscing. Oh God, don’t tell me he can read minds or something. He seems charismatic enough to have super powers.

“Oh nothing,” I dismiss. “I’m happy to be with you.” With that, Sam grins broadly. He seems to hunger for my compliments and comfort. I suppose due to his back story, he needs his self-esteem restored. Tugging on his arm, Sam relaxes around me on the sofa, lying with his head on my breasts as I gently trace shapes across his shoulders. He wiggles as it tickles but I don’t stop. God, I could have him here forever. I nuzzle my nose into his hair and kiss him softly. His hair is blissfully soft and sticks up at the most adorable angles. He smells like testosterone, icy cool sports deodorant and Mexican spices.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks me suddenly. I think. It’s Wednesday tomorrow.

“Nothing,” I say. “Why?”

“I’ve had a thought,” he says. “Your response to my lack of a coffee table has got me thinking. Tomorrow we could leave mine earlier and head back to Bristol. That way, we can go to Ikea and I can buy a coffee table of your choice, just to please you. Then, maybe, I could stay over yours and go back Thursday? It’ll be early because I start work at ten, but that could work? Could that work?” he sits upright and waits for my reply. Gee, has he been planning this the whole time I’ve been thinking about Christopher? I suddenly feel immensely guilty. I try to shake my conscience’s head in attempt to get Christopher off my mind. It doesn’t work. Instead I begin to picture Melissa sleeping in Christopher’s guest bed, that still probably smells like me, unless his mother hasn’t washed the life out of it, thinking I must be some sort of hussy if I left her son in order to go on some boozy holiday.

“That sounds great!” I beam. I mean it, too. Perhaps the longer I spend with Sam, the easier it will be to get Christopher off my mind.