Chapter 35: The Real Encounter: Getting it on
By the time Tracey arrived, the air in the house had a soft stillness to it—the kind of quiet that hinted someone somewhere was asleep, or in a book, or gone. Robbie’s mum was out. Ricky had been picked up by friends and taken to watch a game of rugby. Kizzy was at the stables, mucking out Boris. And Robbie, half-dressed in a shirt he’d only ironed at the collar, was trying to decide if spraying himself with his brother’s Brut 33 counted as a bold move or an invitation to mockery.
He’d barely pulled the spray top off when the doorbell rang.
Tracey didn’t wait to be invited in. She never did. She arrived with a bag full of bravado, jeans low-slung on her hips and her T-shirt tucked just so to show a hint of waist. She brought her own weather. Always had.
“So,” she said, stepping into the hallway as if auditioning for the role of ‘girl you’re not ready for.’
“You going to show me your famous room or what?”
Robbie nodded, tried to look casual, and led her upstairs, heart thudding in a rhythm he’d never learned in the orchestra.
His bedroom had changed that Easter: the single bed had been swapped for the guest room’s double. There were Bowie posters up now, along with some of his magazine collages. His sketchbooks lay strewn like old newspapers. Tracey took it in with a glance and nodded approvingly.
“Not bad,” she said, flopping onto his bed. “Less prep school, more prep-for-something.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he sat beside her, his good hand fussing with the edge of the duvet.
There was a moment—an actual moment—where they were just two teenagers in a too-quiet house, the sound of their breathing louder than the ticking clock.
Tracey rolled onto her side and propped her head up.
“So,” she grinned. “Have you read this?”
She held up The Hite Report, which had been peeking from beneath his pillow like a guilty conscience.
Robbie turned scarlet even though he’d wanted her to find it and let Shere Hite do the talking.
“So this is how you’ve been doing your research?”
“Scientific interest. Human Biology O’Level. We had sex last term. This is the advanced class.”
“Sure,” she said, propping herself on her elbows. “An anatomical revision session, then?”
Robbie sat beside her, pretending not to tremble. Keen to get it right. Or at least, not fumble about quite the way he had with India.
They laughed—nervous, ridiculous laughter—when she touched his chest like a nurse examining a bruise. When he asked a question (from the book, from instinct), she answered without mockery. In her voice: humour, permission, curiosity. She guided his hand in return, correcting him mid-motion, not cruelly but with purpose.
“Oh, for sure. A manual for boys who like to revise before the oral.”
He laughed. She laughed. They lay back, shoulders touching, a sudden static in the air.
“We could play ‘doctors and nurses,’” Tracey said, mock-serious.
“Or… anatomical revision. For your O-Levels.”
He glanced at her. She was smiling, but there was something under the smile. A dare? A truth?
Tracey took his hand and turned it palm up. Placed hers over it.
“Let’s not pretend,” she said. “We’re both curious. So why not?”
“What if it goes wrong?” he whispered.
“Then we laugh. And blame it on puberty.”
They started with hands over clothes. Tracey directed the session with kindness. This wasn’t a game either of them had played. Much. Apparently. When Robbie hesitated, she guided him. When he asked questions, she answered. They didn’t undress. Not properly. But they explored enough to know where things were and how they responded.
At some point, my breath caught.
Fingers stilled.
“That’s not a button; it’s a switch. Try again.”
But they reached new territory—awkward, mutual, fully clothed territory.
“That’s not a button; it’s a switch. Try again.”
They kissed from time to time. Giggled. Each kiss felt like an OK.
And when it happened—not it, but both separately, both surprised, both flushed and still—Tracey tried unsuccessfully to muffle a scream.
And both, separately but almost simultaneously, reached a quiet summit. Silent. No performance. No expectation.
Afterwards, they stared at the ceiling. Robbie’s heart still raced, and Tracey’s hair fanned across the duvet.
“We didn’t die,” she said, breaking the silence with a laugh.
“It wasn’t sex,” he said. “But it was… something.”
“Something better,” she agreed. “Because it was just us. Not some fantasy. No pretending.”
They laughed then because it felt brave. Like they’d survived a trial and come out wiser. Like they’d pinched something from adulthood and got away with it.
Later, as dusk edged into the room and Tracey slipped her socks back on, she looked over her shoulder.
“So… squash, if anyone asks?”
“Definitely squash,” Robbie nodded. “Five sets. Deuce in every game.”
Tracey grinned.
“Good. I like a match with a long rally.”
As she opened the bedroom door, she glanced back.
“Don’t fall in love, by the way. That wasn’t what this was.”
“I won’t,” he lied.
She paused. Her tone softened.
“Good. It was lovely, but I don’t have a boyfriend. Not really. Just… moments.”
And then she was gone. Down the stairs, out the front door, into the evening.
Robbie didn’t write the whole truth in his diary that night.
“We both finished. At the same time. Like a miracle, but real.”
He didn’t name her.
But he didn’t need to.
Because he would never forget that afternoon: the lampshade, the laughter, the warmth, and how, for a brief moment, he’d touched something sacred without having to possess it.
And Tracey?
Tracey knew exactly what it was.
She called it “a practice round.”
And she had no regrets.
I didn’t want Robbie, not really.
Not the boy with the sketchbook and the drama haircut and his mouth full of questions.
I wanted a moment. A place. A boy. A warm bedroom. A soft bed. A kiss that meant I could.
Not the freezing rugby club stands where my brother took Beverly year after year like some pilgrimage to the back seat of his Cortina. Not the garage. Not the hedge. Something gentler. Civilised.
Private.
And maybe, for a while, I wanted Robbie to want me.
Not as a crush. Or a muse. Just… me. With all my edges and jokes and the way I don’t do shy.
He was a slow burn. Drawing me at the Tennis Club. That was nice. For half an hour, I wasn’t Tracey-McAdam-the-gobby-one or Mike’s little sister or the girl who might give it away if you asked twice. I was a face. A form. A sketch he wanted to keep.
I should’ve pounced then.
But I played it long. Let the darts fly, watching his eyes track every girl except me.
So, I planted the idea. I let it be known. Just a nudge.
I knew he’d come round in the end.
And he did.
It was sex. Part of the story. Not the whole thing.
It was both of us reaching something without trying to own it.
We didn’t even undress.
But we understood things. New things.
And for once, I wasn’t on stage. I wasn’t being watched.
I got to feel something, not perform it.
He was sweet. Nervous. Careful.
And when we both got there, we laughed.
Like survivors. Like thieves.
Like we’d pulled off a heist no one knew was even happening.
I won’t keep him.
Not interested.
He’ll go back to Cece or India or some other girl with long legs and rules.
That’s fine.
But I’ll share it. Carefully. Quietly.
Not names.
Just what’s possible.
With the right boy. In the right place.
How it doesn’t have to hurt.
How it doesn’t have to mean forever.
Just now. Just enough.
Some of them—Julie-Anne, Helen, even Jane—look at me like I’m a danger.
But it’s not dangerous.
It’s information. It’s practice.
They’re scared to try.
I’m not.
That’s the difference.
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