Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
The Importance Of How You Take Your Tea
I show Marcus into the kitchen through the back door and invite him to sit down while I put on the kettle. I feel really selfconscious about turning my back on him. Every part of my skin feels uncomfortably hot and my T-shirt is starting to stick to my back a little.
"What's that you're reading?" asks Marcus, lifting Slaughterhouse 5 off the table and thumbing through it nosily. "Looks sort of depressing. I mean, I liked Saving Private Ryan but reading war books is just too much."
"Oh, it's not just about war!" I say, turning round. I don't think I can pull off a conversation over my shoulder. Besides, Marcus probably won't be here for that long - I want to savour every second.
"The guy starts to time travel - he sort of gets stuck in time, you know? It's a little philosophical too."
"Oh, it sounds all right actually," nods Marcus, holding the book out so he can see the front cover. He smiles appreciatively.
"It's a little - I don't understand some of it," I admit. Some of it is a little confusing to be honest. I think I might be punching above my weight with it to be honest.
"What are you reading?" I ask, taking myself by surprise a little.
"The last thing I read was a biography."
Would it be intrusive to ask whose it was? Maybe a little. You'd only read the biography of someone who was a hero, wouldn't you? And to ask who his hero was would definitely be rude. Well, not rude but a bit . . . well, intrusive.
"But the one before that was The Uncommon Reader. Alan Bennett. It's quite short, just a little story about how the Queen develops a hobby for books and then wants to write as well. She actually abdicates at the end. It's sweet, but not all that exciting. This sounds much more interesting," Marcus adds, tapping Slaughterhouse 5 with the tips of his fingers.
"It is," I agree. "You can borrow it when I've finished if you like."
"Thanks, I'll take you up on that."
For a moment, I think he's going to say 'I'll take you out to say thank you' but, of course, he doesn't.
"How do you take your tea?"
This is definitely a personal question but it's fantastic. I must remember this. This is very important. The way a person takes their tea is integral to their personality. Only, I've started to have nothing except the teabag in mine - does that mean my personality is lacking?
"Milk, no sugar, thanks sweetheart."
Sweetheart?! He called me sweetheart! That's MUCH nicer than baby.
I make his, trying my best to get it just right and then splash a tiny bit of milk into mine, just to make it look more like his. I don't want Marcus to think I'm strange because I don't have milk in my tea.
I carry the two mugs over - I've given Marcus the mug my Dad used to use - and gently place it down in front of him.
Marcus smiles at me and says thank you. We sip our tea in silence for half a moment. I'm in agony. The silence is obviously my fault. I'm being a bad hostess, I should be asking him insightful questions about his band or school or if he's having driving lessons.
But all I keep thinking is, are we going to kiss today? Did you ask Bridget where I lived?
"How did you know where I lived?" I ask suddenly, unable to stand the silence any longer.
"I've been in the car before when Seb dropped Bridget over to yours for sleepovers," explains Marcus. "It's OK Ella, I'm not stalking you or anything," he adds with a grin.
I laugh a little. Damn, I would love it if Marcus was stalking me. It would definitely mean he liked me. Although . . . he must like me a little because otherwise he would have just asked Seb to tell Bridget to give me my phone back.
Then, out of the blue, Marcus asks me, "Is your Mum not home?" As I shake my head, his eyes glint slightly. "Really?"
"She goes out early on Saturday mornings," I tell him. "The gym, and shopping . . . and stuff. She doesn't get home til quite late."
Marcus's lips stretch into a half smile and he half snorts too. "Is that so?"
"What?"
"Well, since your Dad's away, she might be - " Marcus widens his eyes, leaning his head forward in a way that's supposed to be significant " - you know."
My mouth hangs open - what sort of thing is that to say to someone? Why does everyone think my Mum's having an affair?
"You don't have to feel bad Ella. It's not your fault." Marcus is patting my wrist now, smiling at me in a comforting way. "This is out of your control."
"You - you don't know what you're talking about," I retort quietly and in a robotic voice that sounds stupid. Artificial. It's almost like I want him to keep talking. Do I want him to talk me into believing my Mum's having an affair? I'm almost convinced anyway.
If I start crying, maybe he'll hug me.
"What makes you think she's having an affair?"
"Well," Marcus leans back, taking his hand off my wrist. "For one thing . . . there are no pictures of your Dad."
"You've only been in one room," I remind him shyly.
Marcus looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I can't blame him. It was a rather transparent statement. It's obvious what the purpose of that comment is.
Marcus seems to be living proof that not all boys are thick when it comes to reading what you're 'really' saying. Because he stands up, tea in hand, mine in the other, and together we go through the other room. Marcus leads the way.
He stops when we get to the living room.
"Can't see any in here," he says, peering around the room, taking everything in, like a detective on TV. I exhale vague amusement. Marcus puts his mug down on the table with the phone on it. There's a picture of my Mum there from when she was a little younger.
Marcus doesn't comment on her face. I'm glad. Because she's prettier than me. It's embarrassing.
The truth is, Mum took all of the pictures down of Dad. I tried to put a few up again, thinking she'd just forgotten. She told me not to be so dramatic and took them down. I didn't try again after that.
It's then I notice that Marcus has one foot on the stairs. He looks at me searchingly.
"Shall we see if there's any up here?"
"What's that you're reading?" asks Marcus, lifting Slaughterhouse 5 off the table and thumbing through it nosily. "Looks sort of depressing. I mean, I liked Saving Private Ryan but reading war books is just too much."
"Oh, it's not just about war!" I say, turning round. I don't think I can pull off a conversation over my shoulder. Besides, Marcus probably won't be here for that long - I want to savour every second.
"The guy starts to time travel - he sort of gets stuck in time, you know? It's a little philosophical too."
"Oh, it sounds all right actually," nods Marcus, holding the book out so he can see the front cover. He smiles appreciatively.
"It's a little - I don't understand some of it," I admit. Some of it is a little confusing to be honest. I think I might be punching above my weight with it to be honest.
"What are you reading?" I ask, taking myself by surprise a little.
"The last thing I read was a biography."
Would it be intrusive to ask whose it was? Maybe a little. You'd only read the biography of someone who was a hero, wouldn't you? And to ask who his hero was would definitely be rude. Well, not rude but a bit . . . well, intrusive.
"But the one before that was The Uncommon Reader. Alan Bennett. It's quite short, just a little story about how the Queen develops a hobby for books and then wants to write as well. She actually abdicates at the end. It's sweet, but not all that exciting. This sounds much more interesting," Marcus adds, tapping Slaughterhouse 5 with the tips of his fingers.
"It is," I agree. "You can borrow it when I've finished if you like."
"Thanks, I'll take you up on that."
For a moment, I think he's going to say 'I'll take you out to say thank you' but, of course, he doesn't.
"How do you take your tea?"
This is definitely a personal question but it's fantastic. I must remember this. This is very important. The way a person takes their tea is integral to their personality. Only, I've started to have nothing except the teabag in mine - does that mean my personality is lacking?
"Milk, no sugar, thanks sweetheart."
Sweetheart?! He called me sweetheart! That's MUCH nicer than baby.
I make his, trying my best to get it just right and then splash a tiny bit of milk into mine, just to make it look more like his. I don't want Marcus to think I'm strange because I don't have milk in my tea.
I carry the two mugs over - I've given Marcus the mug my Dad used to use - and gently place it down in front of him.
Marcus smiles at me and says thank you. We sip our tea in silence for half a moment. I'm in agony. The silence is obviously my fault. I'm being a bad hostess, I should be asking him insightful questions about his band or school or if he's having driving lessons.
But all I keep thinking is, are we going to kiss today? Did you ask Bridget where I lived?
"How did you know where I lived?" I ask suddenly, unable to stand the silence any longer.
"I've been in the car before when Seb dropped Bridget over to yours for sleepovers," explains Marcus. "It's OK Ella, I'm not stalking you or anything," he adds with a grin.
I laugh a little. Damn, I would love it if Marcus was stalking me. It would definitely mean he liked me. Although . . . he must like me a little because otherwise he would have just asked Seb to tell Bridget to give me my phone back.
Then, out of the blue, Marcus asks me, "Is your Mum not home?" As I shake my head, his eyes glint slightly. "Really?"
"She goes out early on Saturday mornings," I tell him. "The gym, and shopping . . . and stuff. She doesn't get home til quite late."
Marcus's lips stretch into a half smile and he half snorts too. "Is that so?"
"What?"
"Well, since your Dad's away, she might be - " Marcus widens his eyes, leaning his head forward in a way that's supposed to be significant " - you know."
My mouth hangs open - what sort of thing is that to say to someone? Why does everyone think my Mum's having an affair?
"You don't have to feel bad Ella. It's not your fault." Marcus is patting my wrist now, smiling at me in a comforting way. "This is out of your control."
"You - you don't know what you're talking about," I retort quietly and in a robotic voice that sounds stupid. Artificial. It's almost like I want him to keep talking. Do I want him to talk me into believing my Mum's having an affair? I'm almost convinced anyway.
If I start crying, maybe he'll hug me.
"What makes you think she's having an affair?"
"Well," Marcus leans back, taking his hand off my wrist. "For one thing . . . there are no pictures of your Dad."
"You've only been in one room," I remind him shyly.
Marcus looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I can't blame him. It was a rather transparent statement. It's obvious what the purpose of that comment is.
Marcus seems to be living proof that not all boys are thick when it comes to reading what you're 'really' saying. Because he stands up, tea in hand, mine in the other, and together we go through the other room. Marcus leads the way.
He stops when we get to the living room.
"Can't see any in here," he says, peering around the room, taking everything in, like a detective on TV. I exhale vague amusement. Marcus puts his mug down on the table with the phone on it. There's a picture of my Mum there from when she was a little younger.
Marcus doesn't comment on her face. I'm glad. Because she's prettier than me. It's embarrassing.
The truth is, Mum took all of the pictures down of Dad. I tried to put a few up again, thinking she'd just forgotten. She told me not to be so dramatic and took them down. I didn't try again after that.
It's then I notice that Marcus has one foot on the stairs. He looks at me searchingly.
"Shall we see if there's any up here?"
♠ ♠ ♠
You've really got to feel a little sorry for Ella sometimes.