‘Catrin’s been out with a man,’ Mom says. ‘I know white trash when I see it. Tell her to be sensible, Arthur, tell her—’
‘Goddammit.’ My father scowls. ‘Kit-Cat’s old enough to know her own mind.’
I tiptoe away. Behind the closed door of my room, I want nothing but the luxury of thinking about Sam. You’re beautiful. I want to hold the memories close, write them in my diary, find the exact words to describe everything that’s happened. I open my diary and turn to a clean page, pick up my pen.
I got him so wrong. It’s shocked me to my core that he’s not what I thought: full of himself, a womaniser. There’s something inside him that makes him doubt himself. He’s funny and kind. And it’s weird how at home I feel with him – this English guy who’s lived a completely different life from me.
Exhaustion overwhelms me and I slump onto my bed, sprawled sideways over rumpled covers. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, I think, as the diary slips from my fingers.
I slept, of course, waking hours later, still in my clothes from the night before, drool slick on one cheek. I grab the clock and stare at it as if I could will the hands to spin backwards. No time for a shower. But the dead don’t care how bad you smell. I pull on my work clothes, grab a handful of crackers and sprint out of the door.
Ray shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘What’s up with you, girl? You been acting weird for a couple of days now.’
I would like to take his hand in mine, turn it over and stare into the leathery palm, and explain about Sam. But I can’t give Ray any reason to be suspicious. He rules this place like a castle. Knows it like his own skin. If I disturb the dust in a corner, he’ll guess it was me, and he’ll wonder why I was sneaking around here after hours.
We don’t have the luxury of time, the privilege of counting out days and nights, ticking them off until he’s allowed to get to first base like we’re in high school, waiting the correct amount of time before we have sex. We only have three weeks. I don’t want to waste a second agonising about whether I’m doing the right thing, or what anyone else will think, or whether he’ll respect me in the morning. I am going to have sex with Sam. Period. I just don’t want it to be a disaster because of my lack of experience. Since coming to Atlantic City, I’ve only had one boyfriend. When we finally got around to it, we were both so nervous we drank a bottle of tequila between us, and the squishy fumbling that followed didn’t seem to add up to anything in particular.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never had good sex. It didn’t start off well, daring myself to lose my virginity to a football jock at high school. Mission accomplished at a party on a bed lumpy with other people’s coats. He couldn’t remember my name afterwards. Then there was that guy in Reno I liked. He made me laugh. But he drank too much, and that scared me, because his lack of control reminded me of Dad. Sam’s different. I want to be as close to him as it’s physically possible to get. The whole point of sex (apart from procreation) has become clear as a lit-up bulb.
The day passes slowly and then quickly, like a ride on a crazy house at a funfair, the floor lifting and falling beneath me. At the end of the afternoon, Ray tells me, ‘You did good, Catrin. You’re learning how to handle death with dignity. I’m proud of you.’
Guilt sweeps through me, guilt at what I’m about to do. The sacrilege of it. Frank comes to my rescue. Lighten up, kid. You’re not doing anyone any harm. The stiffs won’t mind. And you need somewhere to be with this guy. He’s one of the good ones.
On the way home, I hold those funeral parlour keys in my hand like a talisman, clutching them as if they’re the holy grail itself.
I meet Sam at the club. After the set, he pushes his way through the crowd to get to me, looking sweaty and happy and pleased with himself. As soon as he reaches me, he folds me into such a passionate embrace, he rocks me off my feet, which makes me laugh and clutch his shoulders. I catch other women giving me dirty looks. I’m spinning away into an alternative universe. I want to enjoy every single moment, so I can relive them when he’s gone.
‘So,’ he says, outside the club. ‘Are we really going to the funeral parlour?’
I take his hand and squeeze. ‘You bet.’ I hope he doesn’t feel the tremor in my fingers.
When we get to Greenacres, I see with relief that the windows are dark. The tree on the corner bends a little in the breeze, a silent sentry. I take the keys out of my bag.
‘Wait,’ Sam says. ‘This is it?’
I nod.
He gazes up at the gables. ‘I was expecting something different.’
‘There’s outbuildings at the back built for purpose,’ I say. ‘But this is what the public see. I was surprised too, when I first saw the veranda and shutters. Just seems like a regular home, doesn’t it, not gloomy at all.’
We go up the steps and I slip the key into the lock, repeating the code for the alarm in my head, punching in the numbers. Nerves tingling, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of him right behind me. The ticklish weight of my hair on the back of my neck makes me breathless to feel his touch there.
Sam steps ahead of me as I deal with the alarm. He’s walking through the lobby, past the heavy desk with its vase of white lilies and helpful leaflets. ‘I had no idea there were so many choices,’ he says in a subdued voice.
I remember what he said about his parents. I wonder what kind of funeral they had and if they died together in an accident.
‘Are you close to your sisters?’
‘Eleanor lives in Australia, so I don’t see much of her. Mattie’s in London and married with a kid. We’re pretty close. Why?’
‘Just wondering … with your parents being dead and all …’
The atmosphere has changed. There’s an awkwardness again, a sense that he’s retreating from me. I look at the ground.
But then he’s in front of me. He takes my chin and tilts it upwards, looks into my eyes. ‘Cat, are you okay?’ His voice is gentle. ‘We don’t have to do this, you know. Only if you want to.’
My arms go around his neck, and we’re kissing. The yeasty taste of lager on his tongue. He pulls me in so we’re rib to rib. I break off just enough to say, ‘I do. I want to.’
His fingers are fumbling for the zipper on my corset dress, getting tangled in my long necklaces. ‘Jesus,’ he gasps. ‘What are you wearing? Is this a chastity belt?’
I’m tugging at his sweatshirt, finding the taut skin of his stomach underneath, how warm it is, how smooth, the trail of hair leading from his belly button downwards. Then we’re naked on dark blue carpet tiles, under shelves carrying examples of cremation urns.
‘I’ve got a rubber in my pocket,’ he pants. ‘Do you want to put it on?’
My mind is blank. ‘On … me?’
He bursts out laughing, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll do it.’
And immediately I understand my stupid mistake, but it doesn’t matter. I laugh too, we’re both laughing, and he’s rolling the damn thing on, and telling me to stop, because he has to concentrate.
We’re kissing as we embrace, tipping one way and another.
The other occasions were nothing like this. I rise to the joy of his fingers and tongue inside me, the slide of his legs and arms against mine, setting my skin alight. It’s impossible to stay quiet. I can’t stop myself crying out.