Teach Me Not to Care

‘You bastard!’

It isn't easy to look up in terrified guilty shock while a naked woman is sitting on your face, but Pete tried it. His physical reaction to the sound of Helena's voice threw the woman off him. She landed in an untidy heap on the far side of the bed - luckily for her the far side, away from Helena.

Pete had discovered by then that Helena had a habit of throwing things. She was usually and dangerously accurate too.

‘I… I… I….’ Pete instinctively shielded his genitals with his hands and crossed his thighs.

‘Who the fuck is the little tart?’ Helena yelled. ‘She looks like that bitch who did the make-up for the album cover!’

The woman down by the bed peeped over the side, like a nervous sentry in a trench.

‘Sharon? No, it isn't her. This is Cindy, her sister.’ Pete didn't know why he said it, but the pedantry felt like a small victory. He pulled back the sheets from the bottom of the bed, revealing another woman curled up in as tight a ball as she could manage. ‘This is Sharon. And she is not a tart.’ Pete almost gave in to the urge to stand up and gather the sisters to his side like some Victorian gentleman protecting the virtue of his daughters. He could feel a self-justificatory anger growing inside him at the way Helena had destroyed their innocent afternoon idyll. ‘Or a bitch.’

Helena stood there, her mouth opening and closing slowly, but making no sound. Not attempting to throw anything, or shout or scream, just seemingly stunned, shell-shocked and defeated, she turned and strode out of the bedroom.

A moment later, the front door slammed. The sisters began to gather their clothes, avoiding eye contact with Pete. He lit a cigarette.

‘You don't have to go.’ It was a half-hearted gesture.

‘I think we do,’ Sharon said. ‘Things like this don't work when they get too real.’

Pete sat, watching the sisters dressing. It was suddenly as impersonal as a changing room. He felt ridiculous, sitting there - still with half a hard-on - while the sisters brushed their hair and straightened sleeves and hems.

They were ready to go finally. They looked at each other, then at Pete.

‘Well,’ Cindy said.

‘I'm… we…. ‘ Sharon glanced at Cindy before turning back to Pete. ‘We… we're… sorry. We only meant to have a bit of fun - that's all.’ She shrugged helplessly. Sharon took a step towards him, paused, and then changed her mind. She turned and left the room.

Pete looked up at Cindy. She smiled and shrugged. ‘I….’ Then she turned and left.

Pete must have sat there for a while. It was dark when he finally came back from wherever his mind had wandered. He could see her silhouette in the doorway. He didn't know how long she had been standing there.

‘You are a bastard.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I ought to walk out. Fuck off. Leave you and never come back.’ She walked towards him. ‘I'm going to regret doing this. Not now, later.’ She walked right up to Pete, bent down and kissed him, deeply.

She pushed Pete back onto the bed. Her clothes felt rough on his naked skin.

‘I'm sor….’

‘Don't try to apologise,’ she said. ‘We both know you don't mean it.’

‘But I do love you.’

Her sigh seemed loud in the darkness. ‘You really believe that, don't you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘No, you don't love me. You don't love anyone or anything. That is half, more than half, the attraction.’

‘What is?’

Helena was silent for a moment or two as she slipped her clothes off. ‘You don't let anything get close, do you? Even now, at a time like this, I get the feeling that you are not here on this bed with me. I see you over there, in the corner watching. This is probably going to be another one of your bloody songs.’

‘But… so why did you come back then?’

‘I don't know. Maybe part of it is seeing if I can break through to that place where you live.’ She sat up. ‘Maybe it is envy. Maybe I want to see the world as you do. Maybe that is why I chose the camera. It puts distance between me and the world - separates me from it. When I look at things through the viewfinder, they are not so close. I can't touch them, they can't touch, get at me. I feel safe. Maybe I want you to teach me how not to care.’

[An extract from Dance on Fire by David Hadley]