The Never-Ending Summer by Emma Kennedy

Author:Emma Kennedy [Kennedy, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473568556
Publisher: Random House

56

There was a young woman up on stage. She was sitting, cradling a guitar that seemed vastly bigger than she was, her voice low and sensual, her delivery earnest. There was something vulnerable and lonely about her and the crowd, rather than dancing, sat quietly to listen. The mood was reflective.

Agnes was lying on her back watching the clouds. Bea was next to her, on her side, her face cupped into her hand. It felt like a rare moment of calm; there was an ease between them again.

Agnes looked at her watch. ‘We’ll have to leap up and start shouting “Daevid. With an e!” soon.’ She gave a short sigh. They were rather dreading it.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ Bea said. ‘We did all this to try and have sex. And I haven’t felt remotely sexy. Not once. I’m not sure I even want to do it any more.’

Agnes glanced sideways. ‘Nobody has to do anything,’ she said, locking her fingers together across her chest. ‘Neither of us. Not if we don’t want to. From now on, we only do what we want.’

‘Do you want to start screaming at Daevid with an e?’

Agnes paused. She was perfectly happy staring at him and wondering what it might be like to lie with him naked, but screaming at him?

‘No. Not remotely.’

They both laughed.

Off to their right, two naked men and a naked woman were rolling in some mud. Bea sat up and leaned back on her elbows to watch them.

‘How do they do that? Where do they find the … what’s the word I’m looking for? The … desire to do it, the inclination. I’m sitting here thinking about where I might find a cheese sandwich. Or how I’m ever going to be clean again. Or why I seem to have developed the musk of a dead cat. The absolute last thing I am thinking about is sexual contact of any sort. I’m not even sure I want to shake hands with anyone. That’s how bad it is. But look at them – sorry …’ She stopped and peered towards them a little harder. ‘Is that man making a mud pie on the other man’s you-know-what?’

Agnes looked over. ‘Yes. He is.’

Bea shook her head. ‘I mean, I’m not a religious person – far from it. But you start to wonder whether hell is an actual thing.’ She threw herself onto her back and stared upwards. ‘Ugh,’ she exclaimed, ‘I was almost feeling relaxed. Not any more. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more tense in my life.’

‘Perhaps we should smoke that thing?’ said Agnes idly. ‘The joint Penny gave you. Have you still got it?’

‘Yes, I think I have.’ Bea reached into her pocket. It was squashed flat and half of it had fallen out. ‘It’s not inspiring me, Ag,’ said Bea, turning it over with the end of her finger. ‘Is it you?’

‘No. Not really.’ Agnes rolled onto her elbow. ‘Still, everyone seems to be doing it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bea, ‘they smoke it and then they take their clothes off and make mud pies on their genitals.

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