TT 21 - Lemon Oil

“You’re always late.”
“You wanna know what it is?”
“What?”
“Tough shit.” Dezzy catches his own eye in the rear-view mirror, releases the handbrake and pulls out of the station forecourt. The windscreen wipers squeegee rythmically, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Sian rifles through the glove compartment and fishes out a packet of cigarettes.
“Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s really kind of you.” She replies from around a Marlborough. She pulls his gold lighter from the dashboard. “Where’re we going?”
“Beach.” Dezzy turns on the air conditioning with an irritated huff. “You bloody gonna make my cab stink.”
“The beach?!” The pitch of Sian’s voice, normally so under control, shoots up.
“The beach?!” Dezzy mimics, falsetto. “Yeah, I fancy a swim.” He laughs.
“Seriously, though.” Sian looks at him, eyebrows raised, head on one side.
“Seriously, though - I got us the key to Big Bob’s beach hut.” Since they normally do it in the back of his Rover he reveals this surprise romantic destination with some relish.

“It’s too cold.” Sian drags melodramatically on her cigarette.
“No it ain’t. There’s a little stove in it and everything. And blankets and cushions . It’s well cosy, Babe.”
“When did you go there before, then?” Sian asks, suddenly full of suspicion, and she checks his eye movements in the rear view mirror. They flick slightly to the left but since he’s about to pull out into the High Street it’s not conclusive.
“With Bob, in the summer.” The indicator ticks noisily.
“You went to the beach with Big Bob?”
“Yeah, why not?” He swings out into the main road and sends a plane of water up over the pavement. “So where your parents think you are today?”
“In the library.”
“What - looking like that?!”
“Like what?”
“Dressed up all sexy for me.”
“I’m not ‘dressed up all sexy.’”
“Yeah, you are. I like it.”
“I dress for myself.” Sian says and pulls a CD from the box between her feet. She looks at it as though she’s holding a dead mouse by the tail. “Why do you listen to such shit music?”

“Shit music?! What you talking about, shit music?!” Dezzy hams up the disbelief.
“No, not sheet music’. Sian says, calmly. “Shit music.”
“You the one who shit.” He says offhandedly, but Sian notices with satisfaction that his jaw muscles have started to twitch.
“Well I do shit occasionally, yes, that’s true.” Sian swivels her eyes towards him then bursts out laughing. There is a pause, then Dezzy laughs too. He can’t help himself, his shiftless soul instinctively tends towards the light-hearted. Sian looks at him, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, his black hair that smells of lemon oil, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. And for a moment she thinks maybe she could fall in love with him, if she just applied herself.
“What you looking at?” He says.
“You’re ugly face!”
“Put a bloody CD on then!”
“But they’re All - So - Crap!” She says as though to herself, and she puts on the one album of his that she really likes. The one she plays incessantly.

When they get to the beach the rain has eased off, but it is still damp and grey, and the car-park is empty. The sea is brown and flat and hardly distinguishable from the planes of wet sand that shimmer between the rotting, wooden windbreaks. They walk along the lower tier of the concrete sea wall towards the beach huts, avoiding the slippery swathes of bubble-pop sea-weed. Sian is skeptical about the whole project and she walks in silence, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her, as much to hold in the latent strop as to keep out the sea breeze.

Big Bob’s beech hut is called ‘Mary-Ann.’ Once inside, Dezzy bustles about, lighting the calor gas stove for some tea, and turning on the radio. He takes the sofa cushions that are piled against the wall, lays them down on the wooden floor, then makes a little bed with the blankets and scatter cushions. He sits down and pats the space next to him. Sian sits down and leans against his shoulder, still huddled inside her coat although she’s starting to feel more cosy, and its almost romantic with the slow hushing of the sea outside. Dezzy takes off her jacket and pushes her down onto the cushions. He lies on top of her, only his elbows keeping the full weight of his taut, springy body from hers. She can smell the lemon oil over the natural musk of his skin, slightly sweet like cinammon and plasticine - the smell of illicit sex. He is already hard. He opens his mouth wide when he kisses, filling her whole mouth with his tongue and biting her lips. They take off their jeans and continue under the blankets. Dezzy breaks off to pull a condom from his jeans’ pocket. When the kettle starts to whistle, Sian Carduggan is already doing it. It is, she calculates, her 17th time.