The Invitation

Graeme chose a tie in coral pink. It hung from the sale rack like a fish skin, pale stitching catching the light like scales. This will show them, he thought happily, throwing the length of silk into the grey plastic basket. That I take the frivolity in my life seriously. That I take the frivolity in their life seriously. That I, he took a long breath and then sighed, take my frippery and freedom seriously.

At the counter a sales assistant smiled at him with peach-tinted lips. She had big, gooey-rimmed, blue eyes; slits of black in the corners to make herself a cat.

"How you feline?' said Graeme, amusing himself.

"I'm feeling fine thanks,' she said. "Nice tie. She handled it like a fold of skin.

"Thanks¦ he looked at the oval badge pinned to her left breast. "¦Rachel. Thank you Rachel.' He smiled and raised his left eyebrow, a manoeuvre his eleven year old self had found infallible in his interactions with schoolgirls. And now it was shopwomen, and it still worked. Rachel let out a small laugh and smiled, her plump cheeks squeezed high.

"Seven ninety nine, she said, wrapping the tie in pale blue paper, levelling out the wrinkles and sticking creases with tight silver tape with the name of the shop MATERIAL MAN written in italic script. "Special occasion?

Graeme had a flick of inspiration. Usually he would lie in a situation such as this. Usually he would create some elaborate story which involved himself with a different name, a different life, a different purpose. Today, instead, and for reasons he could not, even later when he had the time to think about it, fathom he said, "As it happens, Rachel, I am going to my brother's wedding.

"Great! she said. "You Best Man? She pushed his debit card into the slot with one able shove. She had lemon-yellow watch hanging loose around her wrist. The strap was grotty, black-grey along the stitched seams. Graeme like this. He liked this blasé grime, particularly as she worked in fashion retail.

"Actually Rachel, no I am not. He typed in his pin, purposefully adding the wrong digit at the finale. "My sister is Best Man. The whole wedding is a celebration of the ante-cliché. No stereotypes for the Reasons.

"Your surname is Raisin? Like a shrivelled grape? Rachel laughed. "I like the sound of a female Best Man¦ It seems your pin wasn't right. Could you type it in again? Thanks¦ Does this mean you are chief bridesmaid?

"Rea-son, said Graeme. "And if only.' He incorrectly typed in his pin once more and stared at the row of three spots on Rachel's jaw line. She had covered them with make-up in a lighter shade than her actual skin. He held his thumb, which wanted to smear it away and let her blemishes free, still. "My father is chief bridesmaid. He watched the digital screen flash at his fake display of incompetence. "And before you ask, nobody is giving anybody away. Human beings are not objects to be passed on from one man to the next. Women are not objects.

"Too right, said Rachel. "It sounds like a most interesting wedding. She frowned at her computerised cash register. "I think you're going to have to sign for this, you know. One more false pin and it will cancel your card.

"They can't do that can they?

"They can when the shop assistant believes you to be a time waster purposefully typing in the wrong numbers.

"She does? He raised his faithful eyebrow. "And why would she think I was doing that?

"Because she thinks you are plucking up the courage to ask her to be your date to your brother's wedding.

Graeme stared at her. He had been about to ask her to his brother's wedding. "Would you like to come to my brother's wedding?

"Oh yes, said Rachel. "Leave me your number and I'll call to arrange everything.

When Graeme left the shop he left his tie, packed neatly like cod from the fishmongers, on the counter.

*

"I took the liberty of bringing you this. Rachel set a green silk tie corded with white and blue stripes on Graeme's lap as he drove.

"What?

"I could tell you didn't like that advertising sales standard noose. You bought it as a joke.

Graeme moved the gear stick into fifth. The M40 was thick with lorries and caravans and tailgaters with small cocks unable to enjoy the journey. "How do you know that? I may have been very fond of it. It may have fitted into Robert's colour scheme.

"I don't think there will be a colour scheme, said Rachel. She was unravelling Medusa plaits from her black hair. "Not if they really are anti cliché.

"Are you taking over my life? said Graeme.

"Of course not, said Rachel, flicking out fine black waves with her fingers. "I'm enhancing it.

*

Graeme helped Robert clean his boots. They were Starship regulation from series two of Deep Space Nine, and Robert's wedding attire was, in fact, an all-in-one Star Trek Admiral suit.

'If I had it in my power I'd have bought you and Lucy Holodecks for your wedding, said Graeme, spitting on the cloth and finishing the toes with a good polish. "I tried inventing them but only got as far as a empty cornflakes box and some Playmobil scenery.

"Ha. What gets me, said Robert for at least the twentieth time in his life, "is that all people do when they think of Holodecks is they imagine having sex in them. Human imagination is stunted, stilted. Polluted with porn. Horrible. The best we can think of is sex with imaginary page 3 models. For variation we may add a whole group of them, two, three, fifty. but they're always in that racy red or black lingerie, opening and closing their sticky mouths like guppies. Gray ' don't bother pretending you think this is a good idea.

"I like Lucy, said Graeme, standing back to admire his handiwork. His upturned face in his brother's boots.

"I mean this Star Trek shit.

"It doesn't matter to me how you get married. He felt his heart squeeze tightly behind his ribcage. "I think it's nice. He patted his brother on the back, three sturdy thumps.

"We'll never get past this will we? Robert held his brother's hand.

"Oh, of course we will. It's no big deal. Graham knelt down to spit at the toes of his own shoes. "You are about to marry the love of your life. As an afterthought he said, "I think it is nice. Which even as he said it, he knew sounded like a triangle being struck in the middle of Wagner's Ring Cycle.

"Rachel seems nice, said Robert.

"Oh yeah, said Graeme. "I think she may be The One.

"Don't make fun of me on my wedding day, eh?

"Sorry. Graeme could not be bothered to explain that he, somehow, meant it.

"Accepted. Robert stood tall. "Could you pin my Communicator on straight?

"Of course. And as Graeme re-attached the gold and silver plastic logo onto what could only be described as his brother's wedding body stocking, he accidentally pressed the upside-down V, which let out the familiar bleeping noise.

"Robert to Bridge, said Robert.

"Nice, said Graeme, then in answer to his brother's frown. "I mean, Bridge to Robert. Happy Wedding Day. He patted Robert on the back once more. 'Bridge out.

*

The wedding was coloured and collaged with foil, felt covered head-pieces and prosthetic foreheads. Lots of the Star Trek crowd had come in full costume. Others had dressed smart, scruffy, Victorian, Edwardian, Sex and the City, California Dreaming. Graeme wore a blue shirt, grey shorts, black sports sandals and Rachel's green tie. He was only a little sorry to not have the salmon skin around his neck. Pink was not really his colour. Rachel stood beside him in a pale yellow dress, dotted with little blue flowers. Her black hair was down, wavy and long over her shoulders, and on her feet she wore flare-healed, bright red boots, laced high around her ankles. They were exactly what Graeme had imagined as a boy when he heard the story of The Old Woman Who Live in A Shoe. It struck him, as she smiled at passing guests and stroked the base of his spine with her bitten fingernails, that he would not mind living inside her shoe, small and hidden behind her little toe.
The ceremony was not in a church. It was in a marquee in the back garden of Tina and Archie Brewster. Tina had made her money in horsehair extensions for the rich and famous, a conscious-driven answer to all those urchin/poorhouse hair-stripped of Thailand and Eastern Europe. A mention in Heat magazine had led to sudden cash, which Tina and Archie spread freely amongst the remnants of their hippy friends they'd been collecting since youth.
Graeme's mum and dad, Ruthie and Zak, were two of Tina and Archie's said hippy friends. While Tina and Archie dressed straight, Ruthie and Zak were still in the wide-rimmed, long-lengthed, bearded, arm-pitted togs of their teens. They made a striking pair; Tina's long red hair, purple skirts, bare feet and piercings. Zak's Jewish curls, Karl Marx beard and forked tongue. It was his favourite thing about meeting new people, especially children, poking out that man-sliced tongue and waggling the two fronds snakishly. Keep it in, keep it in, keep it in, had been Graeme's inner-mantra when as a boy a new friend would come round to play. Zak didn't hear, or chose to ignore his son's pleas for banality, and the tongue would always make its grand entrance, far bettering anything Graeme, or Little Gray, could ever muster.

"This is brilliant, said Rachel, putting her arm through Graeme's offered handle. "Thanks for asking me.

"No problem, said Graeme. He looked at Rachel sideways. She had painted green glitter around her eyes, and had lengthened the cat lines longer, so she looked a bit like Neffertiti.

"Your family are so interesting.

"Don't spoil it, said Graeme.

"Okay, she said. "Kiss me. All the way through the ceremony, the bells, flowers, and light show, Graeme and Rachel sat at the very back, leg crossed over each other, snogging and touching each other's hair with the backs of their hands.

*
In bed Rachel hogged the duvet.

"Darling, said Graeme, enjoying the chance to call somebody the D word. "Darling, you've got the covers.

Rachel woke up, stretched outwards, her legs, naked, flicked open and she pulled his hand towards her.

"I love weddings, she said.

"Don't all women? said Graeme, fingers stroking, tapping, doing all those things his mother had told him at an early age worked much better than the regulation sticking-them-in.

"You are quite sexist, aren't you? Rachel pulled his fingers into her. "Do both. Out and in. She put her hand on his testicles. She squeezed and stroked in equal measures, just how Graeme liked it. He moaned, and felt embarrassed. She got it just right because she'd asked, straight out. 'What things do you like? I aim for 50/50. Fifty percent of what I fancy doing, the surprise angle, and fifty percent of what you know you like. Not too prescribed but to too surprising and off the mark. I suggest it as a bench mark.

"I'm not sexist. He licked his fingers. He never got all those jokes about women's genitalia. Those coarse, cruel jokes about taste, smell, looks. It was all beautiful and wonderful to him. It all made him hot, hard, out of breath. He loved women. He was not sexist.

"Not in the normal way, no, She moved above him and put a condom on him. "God why we got a selection box I have no idea. These tangerine flavoured ones smell like Christmas soap. She slid onto him. They rocked back and forth quite slowly, something he and she both put in their top five of 'sex things I like'. "Just, you think women all want marriage, or you say that you do in a way that, even if I did like the idea of marriage it would make feel guilty, or ridiculous for doing so.

"Whaaaa?' He closed his eyes and clung onto her breasts.

"Well, yes I do like the idea of marriage, but that doesn't make me anything bad.

"I know. It was a joke. God, Rachel, you feel amazing. I mean, I want to spend my whole life with my cock in you.

"Is that a proposal?

"Yes. Go on then. He would show her who was sexist. "Marry me. Make me and my cock very happy.

"Okay. They laughed and had sex, in all its variants and manifestations, until it was morning and Zak called them down for cooked breakfast.

*

"It's as easy as that, said Graeme, smiling at his dad. "When you know, you know.

"Hmmm. You sure you're not jumping onto your brother's bandwagon?'

"Yeah, Zak. I can't make decisions for myself. I wait for him, and then follow. How would I live without the mighty Robert.

"I thought you would have grown out of this by now.

"For a hippy you don't half sound like everyone else's dad sometimes.

"Can I help it, son, if you behave like everyone else's son.

"Rachel is wonderful. She is funny, clever and has tits I want to suck on.

"That's true enough.

*

The morning of his quickie, happy wedding Graeme walked into his parent's bedroom to see the salmon tie laced up around the iron bedstead.

"Jesus, he said. "Nothing is ever mine, is it? He should have felt more horrified, but it didn't matter. It was expected. He realised he had brought Rachel back for this very reason.

His father's forked tongue lifted up from between his bride-to-be's thighs. 'None of us own anyone, you know that son. Rachel is part of the family now.

'This is SICK! You are SICK!' Graeme leant on the bed and let out thin streams of watery vomit all over Rachel's face and his father' fingers. The ceiling swirled above him and turned into green liquid. It fell from above in a clear sheet, cutting Rachel and his father in two.

"FUCK! Graeme woke up. Rachel was stroking his hair. "You okay? I'm here it's okay.

"You don't fancy my dad do you?

"Ha! The old satyr? Of course not.

"It's just he was giving you the best oral sex of your life.

"You give me the best oral sex of my life.

"He's got a forked tongue.

"Don't be silly Gray. You woo-ed me with your pink tie and your erroneous Pin.

"You are wonderful. He kissed her hair. "You are wonderful. But he didn't really believe her.

*

Graeme chose a tie in coral pink. It hung from the sale rack like a fish skin, pale stitching catching the light like scales. This will show them, he thought happily, throwing the length of silk into the grey plastic basket. That I take the frivolity in my life seriously. That I take the frivolity in their life seriously. That I, he took a long breath and then sighed, take my frippery and freedom seriously.

At the counter a sales assistant smiled at him with peach-tinted lips. She had big, gooey-rimmed, blue eyes; slits of black in the corners to make herself a cat.

"How you feline?' said Graeme, amusing himself.

"I'm feeling fine thanks,' she said. "Nice tie. She handled it like a fold of skin.

"Thanks¦ he looked at the oval badge pinned to her left breast. "¦Rachel. Thank you Rachel.' He smiled and raised his left eyebrow, a manoeuvre his eleven year old self had found infallible in his interactions with schoolgirls. And now it was shopwomen, and it still worked. Rachel let out a small laugh and smiled, her plump cheeks squeezed high.

"Seven ninety nine, she said, wrapping the tie in pale blue paper, levelling out the wrinkles and sticking creases with tight silver tape with the name of the shop MATERIAL MAN written in italic script. "Special occasion?

"Yeah, said Graham. "I work for a Newspaper. I write about dating techniques. I am writing a series of articles testing out the effects of different coloured ties on the opposite sex. He grinned.

"How interesting, she said. "You looking for volunteers? She looked at him bravely. "I mean, for dates.

Graeme typed in his pin, number perfect. "That's very kind of you, Rachel, but I've already got all the spaces taken. But it was nice of you to offer.

Rachel flushed red as she wrapped his pink tie. "Well, good luck with it.

"Thank you. There was no point, he thought as he swung his bag from the shop. He wouldn't be able to keep her, even if he had her. Better to nip it in the bud before he let himself down. Maybe I'll come back, he thought. When hell freezes over and I have a forked tongue of my own.