Harry looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was coming, and then he pressed his fingers between my legs, as though he was checking I was really real.
“Fucking hell, Helen Palmer,” he grinned. “I didn’t see this coming.”
He dropped his pants.
***
Mark
The whole place was thrumming, the air rippling with shock and amusement and bitchiness.
Helen Palmer’s fucking Harry Sawbridge! Right now, in the gardens! For fucking real!
Who’d have ever thought it of Helen Palmer?
Sweet little Helen Palmer.
I thought she was a goody-two-shoes little virgin.
I laid a hand on Jenny’s shoulder, indicating she should hang back, and I was off like a bullet, pushing my way through the throng to the gardens.
“Mark? Mark? Where are you go…?”
I held up a hand and carried on, her eyes burning my back until I stepped out of view.
My heart was pounding as I headed for the shadowy rear of the beer garden. The action wasn’t all that hard to locate. A straggle of giggling sixth formers marked the spot, peering into the darkness of a shady alcove.
“Back inside,” I said. “Now.”
Harry Sawbridge was too engrossed to notice me, his mouth slurping on Helen’s neck as his hands grabbed at her, pawed at her without finesse, groping and sloppy and eager. His belt hung loose, trousers around his thighs, greeting me with the pale sight of his naked backside as I crossed the lawn. I took hold of his arm, and the contact was much more violent than I intended, spinning him around but propelling him further, off-balance, where he swayed and dithered and shimmied about the place with his cock out and his trousers falling around his ankles.
“Mr Roberts!” His eyes flew wide as his predicament dawned, and he dropped to the floor, wrestling with his underpants to gain back a sliver of modesty. “Sir, I’m sorry, I…”
“Go!” I said. “Back inside!”
“But Helen… but…”
“Inside!” I said, and shoved him towards his destination.
He shot Helen a pitiful glance and hurried away, fastening his belt as he went. I waited until he was well out of sight before I turned around.
She remained perched on the edge of the picnic bench, smoothing down her crumpled dress and pulling her straps back up. Her mouth was puffy and her hair was dishevelled, eyes big and scared as she stared up at me from the shadows. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and focused on her creamy skin, the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she caught her breath.
“What the hell were you doing? Helen, what the hell were you thinking?”
“What the hell do you care?” She folded her arms across her breasts.
“Of course I care. You think this is acceptable? Fucking some drunken idiot on a picnic bench while the rest of the year cheers you on from the sidelines? Is that what you want?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Oh come on, Helen. You’re better than this. You’re so much better than this!”
“Am I?!” she snapped. “Am I better than this?! I don’t feel better than this!” Her eyes were glistening. “Maybe I don’t want to be better than this! Maybe I want to be normal!”
I leaned in to her, and her breath was nothing but alcohol fumes. “How much have you had to drink?”
“I’m legal, legal for booze, legal for everything.”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re legal or not. How much have you had to drink?”
She shrugged again. “A bit.”
I took her elbow, and she was cold, her skin goose-pimpled. “Where’s your coat? Do you have a coat?”
“Dunno. Somewhere. A shrug thing.”
“Where?”
She tipped forward on the bench, lurching about the place. “Can’t remember. Inside somewhere.”
I couldn’t hide my frustration, hissing out a sigh as I shrugged off my jacket and draped it around her shoulders. I guided her arms through the sleeves, and she was a flutter of dithery limbs, weightless. “You’re going home. I’ll find your shrug later.”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, Helen,” I said. “You’re going home right now. Shall I call your parents?”
Oh the horror, her eyes flew wide. “No! Please! Not my dad!”
“What, then? You can’t just walk home alone.”
“Lizzie’s,” she said. “I’ll go to Lizzie’s. She lives at Lawnside…”
Lawnside wasn’t far. You could practically see the flats from the Three Friars’ car park. “Alright.”
“Don’t be mad…” she said, reaching out to pull at my cuff. “I don’t want you to be angry… please…”
“I’m worried. There’s a big difference.”
“I’m ok…” she whispered. “He didn’t… we didn’t…” She took a breath. “I’m still a…” And then she crumpled and the tears came, drunk emotional tears that rolled down her flushed cheeks. “I don’t want to be, but I still am. I’m still a stupid virgin.”
I took her by the shoulders. “And you’ll be glad you still are when you sober up.”