It was one of those parties people used to have.
No agenda, not many people. Enough booze to get pretty wasted.
Peter was my boyfriend. James was his best friend. James’ parents were away.
We were in our last year of sixth-form, which, I think, is what Americans call ‘High School’. The last year before we all went off to University, if we were smart enough, or if we weren’t, we wouldn’t.
James lived in a suburb of a suburb. Way out of town. It was May. It was a train ride there, and the trains ran every hour. At the end of the train ride, there was a lazy half-hour walk to James’ house. We – Peter and I – did the walk holding hands. A couple of his friends were there too, walking with us. In my memory you could hear crickets, and see lens-flares.
We were sweating a little when we arrived. James lived in a beautiful, identikit Barratt home: faux red brick and double-glazed windows. Indoors it was cool. I was wearing a short blue and white striped dress, and I could feel the leather of the sofa on my thighs when I sat down.