ADULT VIRGINS ANONYMOUS
He looked around him. Was this a joke? Had his friends done this? Or Damien somehow? No, Baz and Wayne didn’t have any idea, at least he hoped not. Damien then? They rarely talked about this kind of thing, but was it possible that in the process of living together, Damien had figured it out? No, even if there was the chance he had, Damien wouldn’t have been seen dead in this pub, and he could have had no idea that Freddie would be here at this exact time and place.
ADULT VIRGINS ANONYMOUS
Are you still a virgin?
Want to talk about it in a safe space?
Meetings every other Tuesday.
You’re not alone
That was the bit that got him. The bit that made his stomach try to twist inside out, made the back of his neck sweat, made him look around nervously to check for the secret cameras. Because Freddie had always been alone. Had come to presume that he was always going to be alone. Couldn’t possibly entertain the thought of being otherwise. He was the last virgin left in the entire world, and it was his deepest, most shameful secret.
Freddie heard some movement behind the door and figured that Carmen must be making her way back. After checking over his shoulder one more time to see that the hoovering guy was still lost in his own private hoovering world, Freddie pulled his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick picture of the card.
‘The bag,’ Carmen said, her tone profoundly bored. She plonked his rucksack up on the bar, leaving Freddie feeling somewhat bewildered. Had that really mattered so much just a short while ago?
‘What’s in it?’ Carmen asked.
‘What?’
‘What’s in your bag?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’ It was strange, being so intensely proud of a comic book collection, while at the same time being so utterly embarrassed.
‘To check it’s yours. Tell me what’s in the bag.’
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to. It wasn’t as if there would ever, in any remote universe, parallel or otherwise, be any possibility of Carmen fancying him, but still. Sure, comics were cool now, and everybody seemed to fancy themselves an amateur historian of the Marvel or DC wider universes, but he still feared the disdain that clouded people’s faces when they recognised him not for a cool nerd, but the other kind. The kind who was in deep without any hope of escaping. The virgin kind. Other nerds were doing great work to break the sad stereotypes, but Freddie was not one of them. He didn’t know how to be.
‘Comic books?’ he muttered, still not able to avoid the insecure upward inflection.
‘Comic books?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind?’
‘Starboy. Lots of Starboys. Single issues. In their bags. Signed by Brian Teller. ‘
Carmen unzipped the bag and peered inside. Then she closed the zip and pushed the bag over to him.
‘It’s yours,’ she announced, as if there had ever been any doubt about it. Then she went back to cleaning the pint glasses.
‘OK,’ Freddie started, taking the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Then, a thought: ‘Can I ask you something?’
Carmen looked up, bored.
‘Those notices?’ he asked, gesturing to the cork board. ‘Are they real?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, it isn’t like, a joke noticeboard? Are all the notices on them real? It’s not something for retweets or Instagram?’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Carmen said. ‘Students come in. They put things up. We take them down after a while. Come back later and speak to the manager if you want to put up an ad.’
Freddie pressed his lips together and nodded. He had outstayed his welcome, but the important thing was that he had succeeded in his mission: the comics were safe. Calamity over. So why was his stomach still fluttering? Maybe it was the hangover, but he couldn’t be sure.
David and Stella lived in a new-build detached house in the suburbs. It had a front lawn, which was mysteriously verdant for this time of year, when everything else was cold and grey. Had it always looked like that? As he approached, the wrapped cuddly dinosaur and birthday card safe by his side in a Sainsbury’s bag-for-life, Freddie couldn’t help but crouch down to inspect the mysterious grass. It was fake and plastic-feeling between his fingers. Cookie-cutter perfection without the hassle of a lawnmower. Freddie didn’t know whether to admire it or find it sad.
Inside the house, past the pink balloons on the front door, the party was busy. Beyond the sideboard overloaded with presents, he could see his parents in the kitchen, deep in conversation with his brother. Freddie took in a deep breath; why did he always feel like he was steeling himself for an attack whenever he was within twenty feet of him? There were three years between them, David being the older one, and they looked alike too, except that Freddie had always been much thinner, so his features tended to be more pronounced; his nose a little larger and more pointed, the angles of his face sharper and more defined.
Freddie dodged the kitchen and went straight for the living room, where Stella was sipping Prosecco and laughing with her friends.
Baby Lacey, crawling on a play-mat on the floor, looked like a cake – whipped up, frilled and frosted with pink sugar. She had tiny pink shoes on her feet, and a bright pink bow wrapped around her tiny head, her white-blonde hair fine and wispy. Freddie supposed that the bow was to make sure that everybody knew absolutely, with no doubt whatsoever, that Lacey was a little girl. Just in case they had missed all the other pink neon signs.
There was a table laid out against the window, laden with a spread of gluten-free delicacies (some dairy-free too, as the tiny cocktail-stick labels indicated), and behind them a pretty, white-iced cake in the shape of a number one. There were drinks already poured and lined up on one side of the table: flutes of Prosecco, or a light pink punch, which Freddie presumed was the non-alcoholic choice, and went for. He was thirsty. The aches and pains of the hangover had mostly subsided, leaving him feeling generally parched, and his lips dry.
‘Freddie!’ cooed Stella, coming over and giving Freddie a weak hug.
‘Hiya Stell,’ Freddie replied.
‘So pleased you could make it, darling.’
‘The place looks beautiful.’ The house was still new, the tang of wet paint still faintly detectable on the tip of his tongue.
‘Ah well, it’s a work in progress. Have you said hello to your niece yet? Lacey-doll! It’s your Uncle Freddie!’
Stella steered Freddie down to the floor, where baby Lacey gazed up with wide, hazel eyes. She was a very pretty baby – there was no way that she couldn’t be, considering who her parents were – but now Freddie was down here, on the play-mat with her, he really had no idea what he was meant to do or say.
‘Hi Lacey,’ Freddie started. ‘Happy birthday?’
‘She likes you,’ Stella remarked, letting the baby grip one of her fingers as she guided her daughter into a clumsy stand. ‘She doesn’t look at everyone in that way. She knows that you’re related. She knows that you’re her special Uncle Freddie, don’t you doll?’
Freddie offered his own finger to the baby, and was faintly pleased when she gripped back and toddled in his direction, smiling her big gummy smile.