Fried breakfasts.
It's the morning after the night before. But, who was I to him? How would I know?
The day after Jay assaulted me and I thought it was okay, we all hung out. We’d stayed, as was quite usual at Liam’s *. I always hung out at Liam’s house - 10 minutes walk from home, we’d walk back from school together, talk about his off and on again girlfriend, moan about friends, eat strawberry laces and crisps. Sometimes I’d go in with him, sit on his bed, chat. My mum would just assume I was at Liam’s when I was late.
I knew the shadows and shape of his tall house; the mysterious middle floor of his parent’s and sister’s bedrooms, the battered sofas in the front room that could somehow fit five teenage boys a piece; the dark kitchen at the back, where his mum would sit on the kitchen stool tucked into the corner by the cooker, rolling cigarettes in her little machine, talking all that while about how christianity at its best is communism before leaving for work as a school nurse in her battered orange Lada.
-
I stayed at Liam’s all day. So did his new friends. These army cadets I didn’t know.
Liam was different around them - less soft, cockier. Less kind. The school friends we’d had were silly. House parties were our forte, and they mostly involved blackcurrant Hooch and Sainsbury’s stubbies in our sitting rooms and kitchens, dancing to YMCA, to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack and Black Betty, and, of course, snogging, before falling asleep where we maybe fell down. We’d sooth our moderate hangovers with salt & vinegar chipsticks, coke and piles of toast as we filled bin bags and hoovered.
But things had changed in sixth form. We all had different courses. Liam struggled with A Levels moved in & out of school and college. He found comfort in army cadets and these new friends. I missed him. I took every chance to hang again and see if he was being Old Liam or New Liam.
That day, decidedly, he was New Liam.
-
Down in the kitchen, Jay cooked a fry up. He loved fry-ups: bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, mushrooms. Toast & tea. Always these.
I have a sense memory of just watching Jay over the cooker as he commentated his progress like a formula one race, his voice rising and crinkling. Tall and long, I see his arms pumping, scrunching up his fleece to his thin elbows, the hem a little too short on his 6 foot 5 frame, clapping his hands togethers the hollow making a loud crack and pop before rubbing his hands together “THIS is how you do it, none of that fucking grilling bollocks. You’ve got to do it like this! No, not these piece of shit sausages, I’m not eating that shit, you shit for brains can have those”. The yawn the gulp of his laugh, a laugh on the inhale, his entire body stretching and moving in the small back kitchen.
The only way to cook a breakfast, he told us, his audience, is to fry it. Fry everything. You fry sausages slowly, over about half an hour, shaking the pan. Then, in another saucepan, you melt the butter - not too fast, you don’t want to burn it. Slice the bottom off the tomatoes, unless you’re some fucking savage who eats the bin ends you fucking moron. They have to be chunky circles, cut horizontally idiot, otherwise they’re all wrong, no, put that shit in the bin.
The butter fizzed as the slices hit the fat, but, he said, you cook the tomatoes slowly - very slowly. You don’t break them, you want them to retain their shape. In another pan, the mushrooms, again in butter. In another, the bacon, and no don’t add more fat you fucking idiot, what is this? What is this? - His voice high and direct but a little babying tone to it as he points at the line of fat down the back of the rasher - “it’s fat you fucking idiot, don’t they teach you anything in this piece of shit country? Man, you’d learn better if you were born in South Africa hey.”
Did he smoke as he cooked? Probably not - he was puritanical about cleanliness and food, only ever drinking tea, water or coke with his food.
“You can’t have beans with a breakfast - beans are fucking shit for brains food - you need proper food”.
Did I pull up the kitchen stool, did I make the tea? I don’t think I could make a decent cup of tea back then (I was more of a hot Ribena girl). I would have helped, but here was this man, this adult, who’d had enough money to buy food for everyone - who’d gone out in his car that the owned - that he’d part built himself - and bought good food, and cooked it, provided this meal.
Over the cooker Jay would sort of dance, his long legs restless under the polyester of the adidas popper sided jogging bottoms. Everyone else was quite quiet - Denny & Sarah, the wannabee soldiers, John and the only other older guy, Sam*. Liam, Denny, Sarah and I were still at school and college, Jay long since out of education and working - as what, I didn’t quite know. Conversation would flow, but Jay was the king of the day - he drove us and provided our food and cooked it and commanded our attention.
As he cooked and as we ate off our knees and hung out and thought about watching a film or breaking the New Year fug, all day I waited and watched for an opening or a sign in that expanse of his arms or twinkle in his green eyes that would show everyone that I was someone special to him.
Because, who I was now to Jay? Was I his girlfriend? Did he still like me? Would I see him again? Could I just go and kiss him? How to ask? He’d fucked me, he’d bought me drinks and kissed me. But now he was laughing in a corner with Denny and Sarah, smoking in the garden with John and Sam in hushed voices, going quieter as I came to the back door.
There were whispers, jokes. In Liam’s bedroom, the kitchen, the front room. I tried to join in, Liam laughing along. But, I wasn’t sure, couldn’t get a handle on quite what the joke was.
And - was I pregnant? What should I do? Surely I couldn’t be, it would probably be okay. Things like that don’t happen to me. I was sure.
-
Jay drove me home that evening, that ten minute walk. Did we kiss? Did he say anything sweet or kind? I can’t remember.
What I remember is the sitting room was uncharacteristically empty. My parents must have been out for New Year’s Day drinks.
I stood in front of the tv, remote in hand and turned it on. On screen, I think, was Sean Connery talking to a beautiful dark haired woman. I could see sun and sand and sea. And this thought popped into my brain “I’m not a virgin any more!”. I was sure I’d dreamt it, that I was having deja vu.
And there was my sign. It was preordained. Relief and joy washed over me - this was meant to happen! We were meant to meet, to dance and fuck! Everything was going to be okay!!
* Every name in this is a pseudonym, obvs.
Photo by Richard Bell on Unsplash
RESOURCES
Is your partner coercive?
Wheel of abuse: https://www.womensaid.org.uk/information-support/what-is-domestic-abuse/coercive-control/
Queen of advice Annalisa Barbieri provides a wealth of supporting information about escaping abuse: https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/sep/09/i-think-im-in-an-abusive-marriage-but-dont-know-what-to-do