Free The Story of You by Katy Regan Page A

she had thick ankles and I just couldn’t get over it.
    ‘See, I told you she wasn’t as good as me,’ I said, flashing my dainty ankles (my body improves as it peters to the ends) and resolving, really, to stop the flirting. I was getting carried away.
    We stayed sitting on the stile for a bit, passing the flask to and fro. Beyond the fields, were the cliffs, and beyond the cliffs, you could hear the sea.
    ‘You could be seventeen in this light,’ said Joe. He had his hand over mine, and all I could feel was that hand, as though that warm area of skin was all that existed.
    ‘Don’t say that,’ I said.
    ‘Kiss me,’ he said suddenly, and I laughed.
    ‘Joe, I can’t
kiss
you!’
    ‘Who cares? Why not?’
    ‘That’s why.’
Because you don’t care
, I thought,
because why would you? On a day like today?
Whereas for me
, I was thinking to myself as I looked at the lovely shape of his mouth,
it’s not that simple, Robyn, and you know it.
    He groaned. ‘Come on,’ he said, and we carried on walking over the fields. A pale disc moon was now intensifying in the sky. The poor old trees, after centuries of being blown mercilessly by North Sea gales, now leaned permanently over.
    I leaned over, too.
    ‘What are you doing?’ said Joe.
    ‘Checking they’re really like that, or if I’m actually that drunk.’
    ‘You’re actually that drunk. Now give me some of that,’ and he took the flask from me. It was much colder now and we held onto one another, for warmth as much as anything else, dodging the turf-covered rocks and the sheep shit. Now and again, one of us would trip spectacularly, the other hoisting them up, and then we’d carry on, oblivious, conversation rolling like the fields themselves.
    ‘You heard me talking to my mum,’ said Joe. ‘That’s a bit embarrassing.’
    ‘Joe, I used to go into my mum’s wardrobe, put on her clothes, then prance around the house, pretending to
be
her. How’s that for embarrassing?’
    ‘And did it help?’
    I loved that Joe didn’t bat an eyelid. Andy would have given me that look, the one that said, ‘Robyn, I really like you, but sometimes you scare me.’
    ‘At the time, yes, and if chucking things at the wall helps you, or getting paralytic, or dressing up in your mum’s clothes, then you should do that, too.’
    ‘Excellent. I’ll think of you when I’m wearing one of my mum’s skirts and maybe a nice blouse.’ He was holding out his hand for me to take it. ‘Shall we go through the farm, like old times?’
    The cold air and the walk had made the booze go more to my head now, and I didn’t really care where we went or what we did. I just knew I didn’t want to go home yet.
    We trudged up the lane. The farmhouse had most of its lights on and there were sheets hanging on the washing line, billowing against the sky, like a child’s idea of a ghost. Chickens were roaming around outside, doing their odd little jerking movements, like clockwork toys, and to our left, behind the milking shed, was the barn, the one that all the kids used to play in, much to the annoyance of Mr Fry, who’d come and shine his great big torch in your eyes and swear his head off.
    ‘Come on,’ said Joe, pulling me towards it. ‘It’s bloody freezing, let’s go inside.’
    ‘We’ll get done,’ I said.
    Joe grabbed hold of my face; he was laughing. He put his forehead so it was touching mine.
    ‘
Done?
You’re so sweet,’ he said. Then he kissed me once, hard on the lips, and I startled – Joe’s face, that mouth, suddenly right there, like the last sixteen years hadn’t happened at all. I lifted my face instinctively for more, but he was pulling me by the hand. ‘We’re not sixteen any more, you know,’ he said. ‘And, anyway, what happened to the naughty Robyn King I know and love?’
    ‘She grew up,’ I said, not knowing if he heard me. He took me inside anyway. The bales were piled right up to the ceiling, then graduated like steps to a cluster on