Playing Away

by Adele Parks

"I thought we'd start with Sardinian wild-fennel soup and then spiedini of monkfish and scallops with wood-roasted Jerusalem artichokes and celeriac for main. What do you

  think?" I don't really hold an opinion as I have no idea what or where the spiedini is on a monkfish, so I venture a noncommittal, "Sounds yummy."

  "What are you doing for pudding?" he asks.

  This is part of the deal; he does starters and main but to give him an opportunity to get slaughtered I take over for pudding. I don't mind because as a rule the food that Luke has already dished up is so exquisite that the accolades are flowing, and I can serve up Wall's Viennetta and get told I'm a brilliant chef.

  "Ben & Jerry's," I reply. For a nanosecond Luke shows his disappointment.

  "Two flavors." I defend. "Chunky Monkey, your favorite."

  "What's the other flavor?" he asks trying to sound grumpy but I know he isn't angry with me.

  "Chocolate, for the girls," I smile.

  "How many are there tonight?"

  "Full complement."

  "What? All the girls have dates to bring?"

  "Well, Lucy isn't bringing a date; but, yes, everyone is bringing someone. You sound surprised."

  Luke often suffers as one or other of the girls call me in the middle of the night, furious or brokenhearted over the latest disastrous love affair. Luke is always brilliant in these situations. He makes tea and offers his handkerchief. He has a whole string of platitudes that he rolls out like, "The man's a fool, I pity him," "It is his loss" and "Do you want me to punch him?"

  He rotates them. He also tells my girls that they have great legs or look knockout just when they need to hear it. They all simper and lap it up. Luke approaches the news that my girlfriends have got new boyfriends with some trepidation. He seems to think it is only a matter of time before he'll be called upon to put the kettle on.

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  The preparation for our dinner parties is usually a laugh. Luke puts on his huge white chef's apron (or pinny, as I like to tease him). I pour a couple of massive glasses of wine and put on the stereo. While he chops and slices and boils and trims (which I find very attractive, it's the knives), I dance around the living room pretending to be Tina Turner (which he finds very attractive, it's the underwear). By the time we open the doors to our guests we are usually non compos mentis, either dizzy with the wine or sex. Not tonight. I'm relieved that Luke is too involved in the monkfish for any monkey business. I am carefully avoiding having sex with him.

  Daisy and Simon arrive first. They are glowing and giggly, which I find annoying. They keep looking into each other's eyes the way you do in the beginning, when you can't believe your luck and you try to understand that the other person really is believable, by continually checking that they are there. John's eyes are unsurpassable. He stares at me with that intensity. They've also developed a really annoying habit of answering each other's questions and finishing each other's sentences. I find it peculiar. I pour Simon and Daisy a large gin and tonic each while Luke rushes back to the kitchen to season fennel leaves. I'm patently unnecessary. I watch Simon and Daisy gaze at each other passionately over the slices of lime and amorously touch hands as they both dive into the nut bowl. Paris. If it is possible to throw lustful vibes at one another while discussing finding a parking space, they manage it. Simon is of average height, a little taller than John and above average humor. This would not have seduced the type of woman who likes a tall, dull man, but seems to suit Daisy perfectly. To compensate for his height deficiency or to exaggerate his humor proficiency, he is extremely affable and grins constantly. He is an interior designer, which is how Luke met him. Simon has quite a reputation and Luke tells me he is "going places." I finally drag Simon away from giving Daisy erotic

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  and eager caresses and force him into conversation. I am, after all, about to feed him; the least he can do is distract me from my distraction. I discover that before he started his career in advertising, he'd been an art director and held a powerful and profitable, exhilarating and enviable position in one of London's top advertising agencies. He explains that it made him nauseous. He couldn't bring himself to believe in the all-powerful client or the greater wisdom of the Account Management Department, which he regarded as spineless. He was at first irritated and then appalled at the careless abuse of his reputation; so he resigned, retrained and then set up his own business. In the absence of Daisy's mother I feel it is my duty to establish all of this.

  Peter and Rose arrive next. Rose goes into the kitchen to help Luke, and Peter settles down to a manly chat with Simon. He also wants to check out Simon's eligibility. Men define themselves through their work and therefore they define each other through each other's work. To a man like Peter (who works in the city doing some clever thing, like Lucy) a chap cannot be a decent chap unless he has a respectable job. Therefore the endless trail of poets, drummers and bartenders that Daisy has brought home have not cut ice with Peter. After all, whoever Daisy selects as her ultimate mate in life will be related to Peter. Peter, however, is too well brought up to just ask, "So what are your prospects, young man?" It does sound a bit keen. But then it is essential that Peter can define Simon, so he can relax. Luckily, Simon is good-humored enough to know that Peter's endless questions about golf, fishing, tire tread, rowing machines, household insurance and indemnity mortgages are not just small talk but a way of gathering clues as to what Simon actually does for a living. Simon puts Peter out of his misery by telling him he is a designer and also telling him the odd story about tax and car insurance to show that he takes life seriously. Peter visibly softens and Daisy orgasms on

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  my sofa. I'm bored. My friends are boring. They care about MOTs but not Kipling's "If."

  The bell rings. I'm grateful. Lucy bursts into the center of the gathering, announcing grandly, "I am so sorry I'm late," although there isn't a single intonation in her voice to collaborate her statement. It is one of Lucy's traits to be late and to apologize profusely and insincerely. Lucy has kindly brought me flowers, which serve to further enhance her appearance. She sashays over to me and presents the lilies with a flourish, her limbs tapering in all directions like ribbons on a maypole. I suddenly feel dull and clumsy. By contrast, all the men light up like the Regent Street Christmas lights. Her "date" for the evening is Tarn. Tarn is slight, physically perfect and homosexual, Lucy's living accessory. Her tall, slender blondeness is a stunning contrast to his short, neat, darkness. Tarn and Lucy cheerfully use each other as dates and make up numbers whenever necessary. "Necessary" is when Tarn needs a straight partner. He is a lawyer in a fairly conservative chamber and often needs a beauty of the female variety to accompany him. Lucy usually asks Tarn along when she is involved with a married man and needs an exposable date. It's odd that she's invited him tonight, when neither circumstances apply. But I'm happy to have Tarn along. It adds to everyone's kudos to have a gay friend. And his presence embarrasses Peter, which makes me titter. Besides which, Tarn is interesting in his own right, sexuality aside, which is more than can be said for most.

  Luke is getting a bit concerned that the flavor of the Sardinian wild-fennel soup will be impaired if Sam and her man don't arrive soon. It is extremely convenient that "Sam" rhymes with "man," if for no other reason than it saves us the bother of learning her boyfriend's names. The generic term is easier considering the rapidity with which she swaps them. She arrives late and tearful. While Luke pours her man a drink

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  and she helps me serve up the soup, I discover that her man, Mark or James or Paul or something instantly forgettable, didn't want to come at all. They've argued all the way from her house to mine. They've stopped the cab three times. Firstly, when she shouted, "Well, don't come then, you won't be missed." Again when he shouted, "All your friends will be expecting something of me, it's such a pressure," and finally at the off-license when they stopped to g
et some wine. Apparently the problem arose when Sam asked Mark/James/ Paul what his surname is. This led to all sorts of questions about commitment and accusations about her tying him down. It does seem imbalanced that she knows which side of the bed he prefers to sleep on, John prefers the right, but not how to introduce him in public. I sympathize as much as it is possible to sympathize when your mind is concentrating on carrying ten bowls of soup up to the dining room without spilling any on the floor or your guests.

  Despite this rather inauspicious start to the evening the dinner goes well. I can't eat but the food by all accounts is delicious, and although I've had nothing to do with it I happily accept the compliments on my husband's behalf. The wine is plentiful and a good year, I can vouch for this personally, despite my inability to digest solids. The drunker I get the harder I fight the urge to tell everyone that I'm in lust. I can't for obvious reasons, I'm married to the host. So instead I'm forced to listen to Lucy relate the details of a recent date with a wealthy magazine editor.

  "Very pleasant. I was wined and dined but not sixty-nined."

  "Why not?" asks Rose. The question is not unreasonable.

  "He talked about money too much, he's such a cliche," replies Lucy, not even bothering to take offense at the assumption that she sleeps with all her dates.

  "You can't say that," I argue.

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  "Why? Because he's Jewish? If he was Roman Catholic I'd complain he is irresponsible about contraception or that he has a hang-up on the mother/whore dichotomy." John is Catholic, in a nominal sense.

  "You are so harsh," I say fondly.

  "And Muslims, what's your objection there?" asks Daisy, curious.

  "Sexist and restrictive."

  "Protestant?" asks Sam's man, his tone is hopeful.

  "Bullies," Lucy replies without even treating him to a glance.

  "I'll be specific, C of E?" he persists.

  "Mummy's boys, terribly oedipal." I love her when she is like this. It is such fun.

  "Church of Scotland?" laughs Luke, as he shakes his head in despair.

  "Heathens, they like the cold, they are tight-fisted and don't know any good restaurants. However I am quite interested in that kinky no-underwear thing."

  "Russian Orthodox?"

  "I never kiss facial hair."

  "Agnostic?"

  "Weak."

  "Atheist?"

  "Hedonistic."

  "Lucy, you can't operate by categorizing everyone by prejudiced stereotypes."

  "Yes, I can. In fact, it is an absolute must, it makes life so much easier. Anyway, after that concise tour of the world's religions and male embodiment thereof, I guess being told how much dinner costs isn't too awful. Maybe I will call him."

  Rose leaves the room to call the baby-sitter and Lucy takes the opportunity to tell the rest of us the news that she has been

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  dying to tell us all evening. She's slipped into another liaison with another married man. I think I'm going to implode as I force myself to remain silent. Me too. Me too. Me too. But the other way round. Rose is very intolerant of Lucy's liaisons with married men. My own view had always been that such relationships are pointless and heartbreaking. God, was it only days ago that I had such black and white sanctimonious, infantile, ill-considered viewpoints?

  "Why do you do it?" Sam asks, exasperated. She dates to marry. Married men can't marry you, so in Sam's eyes, they are a waste of time.

  "Well, all the nice men are married or gay," Lucy defends petulantly, blowing kisses at Tarn and Luke.

  "Come on, guys, let's go outside for a smoke. I get the feeling that the ladies want to gossip." Luke's ironic intonation is only just suppressed. Sam's man, who is of course fascinated by Lucy, seems reluctant to leave.

  "Believe me," says Luke, "if you miss the installment this week, you will pick up the tale next, it's always the same story."

  "Bloody cheek." Lucy playfully throws a discarded cork at Luke.

  "Let's go, they are becoming violent."

  The guys leave us and we are grateful. We are able to scoop big dollops of ice cream out of the tub with our fingers. This makes up for the pathetic portions we limit ourselves to in mixed company. Except for me, I can eat in front of Luke. I mean, I fart in front of him. We have no secrets. Rather we had no secrets.

  "Is that really why you date married men?" asks Daisy, who is genuinely interested in Lucy's psychology, "because all the nice men are married or gay? I mean I've just met Simon and he's neither."

  "You haven't known him long enough to be sure," snipes

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  Lucy cruelly. She sighs, "No, not really. I don't believe all the nice men are married or gay, although it is something I say often enough. I've done fag hag in my teens but the advantages are limited. Gay men wash and they are, as a general rule, useful when it comes to advice about getting stains out of fabrics."

  "You have IKEA to thank for that," I point out.

  "I date married men because they are easy. They are grateful and quiet. Not demanding at all. I don't want domestic bliss, which is lucky because it doesn't exist." Lucy doesn't care about not being with someone over Christmas, she usually works through the holidays, or, less pathetically, spends it with us.

  "Married men are usually reasonably good lovers, as they've usually been broken in by their wives. They never complicate things by wanting to get to know, really know, you."

  "Don't you ever think of their wives?" Sam asks, although she knows the answer already. Of course she doesn't.

  "Do you remember when we were at university and we considered it a cardinal sin to as much as kiss a bloke that was seeing some other girl?" says Daisy.

  "Yes, such a slippery slope," laughs Lucy bitterly. She fiddles with her cigarette packet. As I won't let her smoke in the house she has two choices. She can join the guys for a smoke in the garden, one of her favorite pastimes, or stay with the girls and talk about herself, another one of her favorite pastimes.

  We are quiet and we can hear the chaps in the garden.

  "Why do women have orgasms during sex?" asks Peter. "To give them something to moan about."

  They laugh drunkenly and we laugh too.

  As I wash the car on Sunday, I wonder what car he drives. When Lucy arrives and drags Luke and me out for a Sunday

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  afternoon walk around Clapham Common, I can't help but think of my last visit to a park. I try not to think of him, only I can't concentrate on anything else. The plan had been: work hard, go to university, make nice friends, get a good job, have random sex, meet someone special, have exclusive sex, marry, live Happily Ever After. I have careered off life-plan A to Z, headlong into the surrounding barricades. It seems unlikely that I'm going to make it to the checkered flag. I vacillate between desperately wanting him to call and hoping that he won't. I've told him not to. I'll die if he calls. I told him that was that. Problem is, I really fear that this is it. I'll die if he doesn't call.

  "It's me." I feel the taut elastic band of tension snap as I move toward a blonder, cleaner, filthier self. It's Tuesday, I've waited for this call for a lifetime.

  "I'll call you back." I put the phone down and grab my handbag. "I'm going to get a sandwich. Do you want anything?" Sam shakes her head.

  "Not unless you stumble across any eligible bachelors in Pret."

  "It's unlikely."

  "I know."

  Once outside the office I call him back from my mobile. Bob watches me suspiciously. The phone rings once before he picks it up.

  "Hey, Sex." I'm delighted, he must have programmed my number into his phone. "How are you?"

  "Tired," I reply. Thrilled. Exhilarated. Amazed.

  "And sore, too, I shouldn't wonder."

  "I didn't get much sleep this weekend."

  He goes silent, I've hurt him. "I don't mean because of sex with Luke," I rush to explain and therefore I shout. Some bloke, from my office enjoying a fa
g break, raises his eyebrows. I huffily try to look unperturbed at his eavesdropping.

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  "Hmmm?" John sounds pained, confused.

  "Because I'm excited," I say coyly.

  "Why?" He adds something else but I miss it because a taxi driver starts to bawl at a courier on a bike.

  "What did you say?" I yell.

  "Say something sexy," he instructs.

  I feel stupid; it is only 10:45 in the morning and I'm standing outside my office, where it is generally accepted that I am a responsible, respectable, married woman.

  "You start."

  "I want to rub you up and down until you say stop. I want to play with your body and make you real hot. Let me do all the things that you dream of." It isn't poetry, it is a bit of a cliche but it is already working. I'm squirming. "Would you like that?"

  "Very much." I feel flustered and awkward, so I turn the conversation. "What have you been up to?"

  "Had my hair cut. Had a laugh chatting up the bird that does the shampooing." He tells me that the poor lovesick trainee rescued his hair out of the mucky dustpan, stuffed it into an envelope and put it in her jeans pocket, near her bum. He goes on and on about her being really flirty whenever he visits the hairdressers.

  "Excited at the reception desk."

  "Sounds like a sad Time Out lonely hearts ad."

  He tells me about her giving him extra attention when she massages the shampoo in, never charging for conditioner, always there with a cup of coffee and the latest copy of GQ. It is quite a funny conversation. I'm not threatened by hearing about the other women he flirts with. I mean, it's not as though he's sleeping with them. They aren't real competition and anyway I can hardly insist that he remain faithful to me, since I'm with Luke. I'm not jealous or anything. I'd like to poke her eyes out.

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  "How old did you say she is?"

  "Errr . . . 'bout seventeen, I imagine. Hard to know with Continentals."

  "You're nearly twice her age."