Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [57]
Dianne’s face took on a cartoon sour look as she told Renton what a horrible person Lisa was, cataloguing her misdemeanours, which to him seemed petty enough, with a venom he found slightly disturbing. He was appropriately crawling, agreeing that Lisa was all the selfish pricks under the sun. He changed the subject, as it was bringing her down, and that was no good to him. He told her jocular stories about Spud and Begbie, sanitising them tastefully. Renton never mentioned Sick Boy, because women liked Sick Boy and he had an urge to keep the women he met as far away from Sick Boy as possible, even conversationally.
When she was lighter-hearted he asked her if she minded if he kissed her. She shrugged, leaving him to determine whether this indicated indifference or an inability to make up her mind. Still, he reasoned, indifference is preferable to outright rejection.
They necked for a bit. He found the smell of her perfume arousing. She thought that he was too skinny and bony, but he kissed well.
When they came up for air, Renton confessed that he didn’t live near Forrester Park, he only said that so that he could spend more time with her. In spite of herself, Dianne felt flattered.
— Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee? she asked.
— That would be great. Renton tried to sound casually pleased rather than rapturous.
— Only a coffee mind, Dianne added, in such a way that Renton struggled to determine what sense she was defining terms in. She spoke slyly enough to put sex on the agenda for negotiation, but at the same time assertively enough to mean exactly what she said. He just nodded like a confused village idiot.
— We’ll have to be really quiet. There’s people asleep, Dianne said. This seemed less promising, Renton thought, envisaging a baby in the flat, with a sitter. He realised that he’d never done it with anybody that had had a baby before. The thought made him feel a bit strange.
While he could sense people in the flat, he couldn’t pick up that distinctive smell of pish, puke and powder that babies have.
He went to speak. — Dia . . .
— Ssh! They’re asleep, Dianne cut him off. — Don’t wake them, or there’ll be trouble.
— Whae’s asleep? he whispered nervously.
— Ssh!
This was disconcerting for Renton. His mind raced through past horrors experienced first hand and from the accounts of others. He mentally flipped through a grim database which contained everything from vegan flatmates to psychotic pimps.
Dianne took him through to a bedroom and sat him down on a single bed. Then she vanished, returning a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee. He noted that his was sugared, which he usually hated, but he wasn’t tasting much.
— Are we going to bed? she whispered with a strangely casual intensity, raising her eyebrows.
— Eh . . . that would be nice . . . he said, almost spluttering out some coffee. His pulse raced and he felt nervous, awkward and virginal, worrying about the potential effects of the drug and alcohol cocktail on his erection.
— We’ll really have to be quiet, she said. He nodded.
He quickly pulled off his jumper and t-shirt, then his trainers, socks and jeans. Self-conscious of his ginger pubes, he got into the bed before sliding his underpants off.
Renton was relieved to get hard as he watched Dianne undress. Unlike him, she took her time, and seemed completely unselfconscious. He thought that her body looked great. He couldn’t help a football mantra of ‘here we go’ playing repeatedly in his head.
— Ah want to go on top of you, Dianne said, throwing back the covers, exposing Renton’s ginger pubes. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice. Renton was pleased with his cock. It seemed so much bigger than usual. This was probably because, he realised, he’d become accustomed to not seeing it erect. Dianne was less impressed. She’d seen worse, that was about it.
They began