Una stares at the egg she’s just boiled for herself. She smacks the teaspoon down gently on the top and it cracks, wobbling a little in the egg cup. She carefully removes the shell and cuts the top of the egg into a lid, which she severs and eats.
There is a slight metallic tang from the teaspoon, and she dips her finger into the little pile of salt on the side of her plate which she forgot to dip the egg into.
When she looks up, it’s evident that Timmy has been watching all of this, taking small bites of his toast and marmalade.
It’s lunchtime, and Una is having a late breakfast with Timmy and her brother. The table is silent apart from chewing, the occasional gulp of juice, the clatter of a spoon in a bowl. These noises are amplified in the silence.
“So, are you coming this evening, Una?” Frank asks. He sounds like he’s hoping she’ll say no, but Una knows better than to sway to his wants. She nods.
“If that’s okay.”
Frank nods back, takes a mouthful of cereal. “Timmy?”
“Yes!” he beams. “I’d like to be at an English party. Maybe it will be very different.”
“Maybe,” Frank smiles, then looks back down. “What are you wearing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I will come up with something,” Timothée replies hesitantly.
Una scrapes the remains of the egg white from the shell. She wants to wipe the smear of marmalade by his mouth, wants to lick the sweetness from her thumb. Wants to kiss him. She turns the egg shell upside down in the cup, and it looks like a whole new egg.
—
Una studies her wardrobe, unsure as to what will be the best option. She halfheartedly steps forwards, swishes a few things along the rack. There’s a sequined dress she’s been saving for a special occasion, but she doesn’t know if this warrants it.
The thing is, she doesn’t really know anyone who is going. Well, firstly, she doesn’t know who is actually attending. It may be that she knows lots of the people there. But she doesn’t really know anyone who she’s comfortable enough with to get drunk around. Not any more, anyway. Apart from Timmy. And Frank.
An hour passes. Then another. Her wardrobe is spread out across every surface in her room. What counts as proper party attire? It’s almost Christamas. Is wearing red and green tacky? What about red and white? She puts on a burgundy dress with white trainers, and her reflection in the mirror shows a used tampon.
Una grins at the comparison, then frowns at herself. Turns to one side, looking at the curve of her stomach in the dress. She thinks about the way Timmy had kissed it, so gently, his face nuzzled into her as he made his way down her body. She sucks it in, then breathes out. Adjusts her posture, then lets her shoulders slump. She wants him behind her, his arms circling her waist.
What will the music be like? Surely it won’t all be Christmas music. Will Timmy dance?
Will he dance with her?
Una’s not sure she wants to dance. She’s not sure she wants to go at all, actually.
“Leaving in twenty!” Frank yells up the stairs. He sounds happy, and he’s been this way for a while now. Since the day after she went out with Timmy. Una can’t work out what it is that has made him change.
She glances at her reflection and rolls her eyes. It’s not Halloween, she can’t go as a used tampon. (Although it’s an option for next year, maybe. Not that she’ll be invited to anyone’s Halloween party.)
She wriggles out of the dress and stands there like an idiot in her underwear and trainers. Glances again at the sequined dress. She has nothing to lose, so she puts it on, kicks off the trainers and puts on her strappy black heels.
It’s good. Dressy, but good. And it’s a party anyway, what the hell. She might as well wear heels. The dress is cherry red, lined all over with red sequins, fringe lining the hem and the shoulders.
It’ll certainly make her stand out, although there’s only one person she wants to stand out to.
She puts on some light makeup, fucks up her eyeliner, redraws it, fucks it up again, winces at the makeup wipe rubbing the outer corner of her eyes, sighs at the red mark left behind, and goes overboard on the lashes to make up for it.
When she totters down the stairs, holding onto the bannister for support, Frank is at the bottom, dressed all in orange. Garfield orange, carrot orange, the kind of orange that looks good on no-one apart from Beaker from The Muppets.
“What are you?” Frank asks when she reaches the bottom step.
Una makes a face.
“It’s fancy dress,” Frank says.
“What?”
“Did no one tell you?”
Una blinks at him. “No,” she says, only it sounds like a question. Sounds like, No, What The Fuck, No One Thought To Tell Me That, I Could Have Gone As That Fucking Tampon After All.
“What are you?” she squints.
“Traffic cone,” He says, like it’s obvious. Clutched in his hand is a soft, felt, alarmingly orange hat. He pulls it on and he is, indeed, a traffic cone.
“Fuck,” Una says, just as Timmy comes in, mumbling something about alcohol and fastening a watch around his wrist.
"What’s Timmy?” she says in a burst of desperation.
“Fuck knows,” Frank laughs. “Ask him.”
Timmy looks up. “C’est quoi, un cow-boy, en Anglais?” he asks Frank.
“Cowboy,” Frank replies. Looks at Una. “He’s a cowboy, apparently.”
Timmy is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and has a red bandana tied around his neck. If that’s what she’s competing with, she shouldn’t have too much of an issue finding something in a hurry.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she groans, turning to go upstairs.
“Where are you going?” Timmy asks.
“To change.”
“Really? We’re already like an hour later than we said we were going to be,” Frank says.
“It’s a party, if you’re an hour late you’re early,” Una replies, tottering up the stairs.
“You are dressed like a- ugh, how do you say that, the women in the twenties.”
“Oh like- yeah, I know what you mean. Oh, what’s it called, it’s on the tip of my tongue,” Frank mumbles.
“A flapper girl?” Una asks hopefully.
“Probably,” Timmy nods, and Frank agrees.
“But wear trainers,” he says, and Una goes upstairs.
She hates the fact that Timmy looks so beautiful in his t-shirt. She wants to take it off him, wants to unbuckle his belt and pull down his baggy jeans, wants to find him in the middle of this stupid party and take him somewhere where they’re alone. She wants to please him. All of this, the stupid dress and the stupid heels and the eyeliner and the eyelashes, they’re all for Timmy. It’s all she wants, to make him proud, to make him want her. It’s pathetic, Una thinks as he takes off the heels and retrieves her trainer socks from the floor.
But it’s true. All she wants is Timmy, all the time.
YOU ARE READING
IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC
Fanfiction"Are you lost?" "No, I'm Timothée." --- When her brother's exchange student first comes to stay, Una feels like a stranger in her own house. Timothée speaks English slowly and softly; pauses in the wrong places, constantly tries to take back what h...
