Playing Away

by Adele Parks

  I change the subject and mood by carefully recounting to him some delicate, long-forgotten memory. He likes it. He tells me about his dreams. He fidgets on his chair, finding it surprisingly easy to tell me the most fabulous and morbid things about himself. He's amazed that I'm equally interested in both. I expect his breathtaking successes and understand his shameful compromises. He talks about his background and I understand his description of the stale smell of fags on heavy curtains and lingering smell of Pledge polish. I strain my eyes and brain trying to show him that I feel it too. I try to show him

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  that my mind is open, by sitting leaning toward him, legs wide, hands gesticulating to make my point. I frequently repeat the words "The point is" as I struggle on the one hand to make sense of my life, while on the other hand, or more accurately with the other leg, cunt or breast, I am shoving my life into a state of pointless disarray. Our conversation progresses. Partway through my profundity I forget what I'm trying to say as I've drunk a fair amount.

  I'm attracted to his irresponsibility, his manliness, his sexiness, his disposable income, his disposable respectability. He is a walking stag weekend. He is a funny, disrespectful, fast, confident, irreverent go-cart race and pub crawl. I never have to discuss lagging the loft, replacing a tile on the roof, fixing the washing machine, or washing the kitchen floor (especially those sticky stubborn corner bits). I never even have to ask him to put petrol in the car. We happily spend a fortune getting pissed. It never matters whose money is spent achieving this oblivion. We both want to demonstrate that we are irresponsibly generous (flash). It is so shiny. So dreamlike. It is like going under an anesthetic or doing class A drugs (not that I ever have but I have a vivid imagination). A floaty, special, shiny, irresponsible, exciting, amazingness.

  Fun.

  I am so excited, so sexy, that my cheekbones rush to meet my eyebrows, my muscles grow a couple of inches longer; well, actually, they stretch. I am taller, really. Honestly, I am. Not a foot taller but a couple of inches I'm sure. My nails grow longer and they don't split as often—at all, in fact. My hair becomes shiny, manageable and curly. Glossy not frizzy. Not straight, which I lust after, but shiny. And although it isn't the first time I've heard, "You fascinate me. You're brilliant. You're amazing. You're beautiful," it has never sounded better.

  The atmosphere thickens with cigarette smoke and desire, we begin to squirm in our chairs. We become tense and edgy

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  as we concentrate on the most expedient way to find somewhere private to bang out our needs. Expediency, not discretion, is now the driving force. This is to be expected from him but frighteningly dangerous for me. I've adopted his screamingly irresponsible behavior. Am I willing to get caught? We drink more and more. We become less and less cautious, then he starts to look for an opportunity to move me somewhere private. Halfway through the evening I am already thinking about how it will end. Sometimes we will get into a taxi and begin to hungrily pull at each other's clothes, both making clumsy grabs at each other's crotches. Other times we lunge at each other in the bar or pub. He puts his hand under the table and finds the hot space where my legs meet. I edge closer to him, urgently pushing myself into his hand, and then I reach under the table, too, grasping for his stiffness. Never disappointed, there it is, hard, long, thick and ready. Sometimes we rush out of the pub impatiently, not waiting to finish our drinks, dash down a backstreet, where he drops his trousers, I fall to my knees gratefully, as if praying, and take his cock into my mouth. We writhe and scream and moan and come. We have angry, insistent, overwhelming sex. It's deep and fast and done in illicit places. It's the craziest, dirtiest thing I've ever done in my life. I feel soused and renewed with each truthful fuck.

  Throughout September I'd been weighed down by morals and a sense of responsibility to Luke. I'd vacillated between wanting to throw caution to the devil and wanting to cling to my beliefs. This served to increase John's ardor. He inched off my clothes, slowly, slowly and at the same time my conscience seemed to dissolve. He stripped it away, as though he was peeling onion skins, but it didn't make me cry. My vadge imploded with desire. I willed him to break me.

  He too must lack a confidant because he speculates with me about what exactly he finds so compelling and fascinating

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  about our affair. His training as a management consultant wins through and he puts theories on the table.

  "Maybe it is because we are ultimately inaccessible to each other. Really unobtainable."

  "Maybe."

  I often tell him that I won't leave Luke for him. I mean it. I won't even stop loving my husband for him. John spends a lot of time telling me how he hates the idea of settling down or being responsible. I won't strangle him with a wedding band or trap him into making false promises of commitment, which would nag his conscience and destroy his security. I can't. With John I am my entire and naughty self, with the undiluted confidence that he will never expect too much of me. He can be his entire and naughty self, with the undiluted confidence that I will never expect anything of him. We are both extremely aware of the advantages of my being married. He tries another theory. "You are beautiful but not the most beautiful woman I've ever had." He stares at me through cigarette smoke and sexual vibes.

  "You do have a good figure. You like it, which is bloody sexy. Invisible cellulite and angst about breast size is a complete bore." He grins, then having a second thought: "Well, not a complete bore, every hole's a goal." He shakes his head. "But, Connie, I've had some stunning bitches and they have never, ever touched me like you do." He theorizes, "You're possibly the brightest woman I've never met. You challenge me, it's refreshing, exhilarating." He leans across the tiny table and puts his elbow in spilt beer, "Somehow it's infectious. You are the catalyst for my most stylish behavior. When I'm with you"—he looks up to check he has my entire attention, of course he does—"I know, with a life-defining certainty, that I'm better, better than I normally am." He blushes slightly and says, "You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?" I nod. He is still somewhat cautious about talking about feel-

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  ings. As a woman, I have a thirty-year head start. "I feel hungry," does not count.

  "Yes, I know what you are talking about. When you are with me you suspect that you are totally irresistible."

  "I can pull any woman I want," he agrees enthusiastically. I nod.

  "And strangely, I'll probably encourage you to do so."

  I shrug and he kisses me. Suddenly he pulls back. "Why do you always wear trousers, Greenie? I'd love to see your arse in a skirt. Your legs, too," he mumbles. I love him fancying me so much.

  "Please wear a skirt like you did when we shagged in Hyde Park."

  "Hampstead Heath."

  Sam is angry with me. Furious actually.

  "You shouldn't be doing this." She attacks her pizza with a vengeance and I think she's imagining that it's John. Sam tries to catch my eye and I try to stop grinning. I obviously fail because she tuts and returns to her pizza. "You are living a lie. You could at least have the decency to be unhappy. In fact you should be tortured. Instead of looking so bloody gorgeous. It would have been fairer, more respectable." I'm not sure what's bothering her most—my declining morals or improving midriff. "You shouldn't be doing this," she says again, shaking her head, then asks as though it is the first time she's thought about it, "Why are you doing it, Con?"

  "I can't not." I pick up my knife and fork.

  "What about Luke?"

  "He hasn't the faintest idea," I snap bitterly and put down my cutlery without managing to get anything into my mouth. "Look. I know I am betraying my husband but I've never felt more alive. I really haven't got a choice. If you knew John better you'd understand. Do you fancy a glass of

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  wine?" Before Sam answers, I flag the waiter and order a carafe of house red.

  "Red at lunchtime?"

  I ignore her.


  "Go on, then, convince me."

  "Oh, he's just so totally amazing." I grin.

  "Yes, so you've said. Every man I've ever met that's hung like a donkey is amazing. Try to be more specific." I look round the pizza parlor. How can I explain it to her?

  He is the reason I was born a woman.

  I look up at Sam and she is waiting patiently. The look on her face tells me that this won't cut ice.

  "Well, he's different from the blokes we know."

  "Really?" she says flatly.

  "Really!" She can't rein me in. "He has dreams and passion. He has a heart."

  "More heart than Luke?"

  "Just different. He didn't have the advantages of fancy family connections, he's really had to work for everything he's achieved."

  "I've never met anyone who works as hard as Luke. You're always complaining that he works too hard."

  "We're not talking about Luke!" I'm exasperated. "John came to London and played all these poncey bastards at their own game." I wave my hand around the restaurant, taking in twenty identical suits, eating identical fresh pasta delicacies and drinking the latest in statement beer. Sam shushes me. She is being touchy because, to my certain knowledge, she's dated at least three of the other diners. I nearly shout, "He's played them at their own game and won."

  "Yes. John seems the type to be good at games."

  "They all have money and motors and—"

  "Muff. Lots of muff, various muff."

  "It doesn't bother me, Sam."

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  "Well, it should."

  We sulk. But I'm better at sulking than Sam so I'm not surprised when she reluctantly mutters, "So what's his family like?"

  "Irresponsible father, who John regards as a bohemian."

  "Left his mother for a younger model?" I nod.

  "As is natural, under the circumstances, he's developed a very strong bond with his mother."

  "Which will mean she'll make a very interfering mother-in-law."

  "I have no desire to find out."

  "John will be like that guy, Toby, I dated. He will never think his wife's gravy is as good as his mum's."

  "Look. He's not like that." I think I can win Sam round. She's too romantic to resist for long. "You'd like the stories about his family," I encourage. Sam meets my eyes, I think she's thawing. "John's extended family is large, boisterous, close, working class. They like each other so they do things together."

  "Like getting drunk?" asks Glacier Queen.

  "Maybe, so what's your point? We get drunk together." To prove it, I swallow back the rest of the red and order another carafe. "I like families that do things together." I don't care whether she wants to listen. I want to talk. "He's told me about these family get-togethers. They sound—"

  "Amazing."

  "Exactly! At the beginning of the night the mood is celebratory. Everyone is up for it and the evening seems to be full of stretching possibilities. Invariably, by the end of the night, after several renditions of Tom Jones's best, when they've moved from the stout to the Jack Daniel's, the room is awash with depression."

  "That will be the Tom Jones."

  "You can almost feel it, touch it, that nagging mist of regret and sadness. His mum will remember his dad, the uncles will

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  list the faults of their wives, past and present, and his sis will shout that all men are bastards."

  "Fair enough."

  "He told me that Hardings aren't good at marriage and the relationship thing."

  "That's a warning." Sam starts to tell me about a number of emotional fuclcwits that she's been out with. She's very gullible. I glaze over and while doing an admirable impersonation of listening, I remember our conversation from only the night before.

  He'd explained, "Ahhh, but it's all right, you see. Because just when everyone is getting a bit pissed off and miserable, one of my uncles, or perhaps me Nan—never me mum directly, she doesn't have to, she knows she can depend on one of the others to do her bragging—will turn to me and nod and say that it can't be all bad. They ask me to explain exactly what I do at work every day."

  "You must struggle with that," I'd quipped.

  He'd raised his eyebrows, a wry admission of the accuracy of my joke.

  While Sam is still going on about some absolute no-hoper that she's currently trying to drag down the aisle, I continue John's story in my head. I imagine them smiling round at one another, never tiring of his stories and wrapping themselves in his self-deprecating humor. They'd nod to each other knowing he is being too modest, and look from one to another as though trying to decide exactly who it is he takes after. Just for a short time they don't mind the worn carpet that needs replacing or the outrageously bad luck they've had on the horses that day because in front of them is the font of all their pride. I imagine that sometimes, depending on exactly how much has been drunk, one or two of the Hardings will cry a tear of pure joy. John's success changes the atmosphere, and again the room is full of possibility and Tom Jones.

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  "Can you imagine how disapproving Rose and Daisy will be if they find out?" Sam is trying another tack.

  "If Daisy ever comes up for air again. She's having too much fun to give two hoots what anyone else is up to."

  "But your wedding vows?"

  "I don't care about my wedding vows." She looks aghast. I know she thinks I'm ungrateful. I know I have what she wants. "Sorry." I try to turn the subject to the things that really do concern me. "Do my thighs look fat in these trousers?"

  "No, you look great." She sounds weary. "This infatuation is just another fashion statement." I look at her, she's lost me.

  "All of Europe is worshiping Cool Britannia, exalting anyone who epitomized a bit of rough. Blokes like John are very in. I've noticed you playing up your Sheffield heritage, even though you managed to lose your accent on the coach down here, ten years ago." I scowl at her but she doesn't care. She carries on. "Even Vogue has started to run editorial on cut-price fashion 'Snip on the Street' and cover restaurants farther afield than SW3. Personally I think it is a disgrace. I'm thinking about canceling my subscription. John isn't real. He's entirely about tight clothes, skinny limbs, pop music, smoking, drinking, being cool."

  And her point is? I call the waiter over and ask for the bill.

  It's November and I think I'll explode if I don't talk to Lucy soon. The idea of bits of guts and gore all over our newly decorated home is absolutely unacceptable. We meet at a terrifically trendy restaurant because Lucy prefers this to a casual supper at Cafe Rouge or All Bar One. She likes to go to these smart places to be seen. She is terminally indifferent to seeing others.

  As we sashay into Le Pont, half-a-dozen people try to catch Lucy's eye. Some are colleagues, others are people she barely knows. It doesn't matter if it's her godmother, her reaction is

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  always the same. She has none. At best she acknowledges their desperate nods and waves with a vacuous, wide smile. She's perfected this smile to give the impression that she doesn't recognize them, even if she does. She's explained to me how much more cool this is. Anyway, tonight I don't want us to be disturbed either, so I'm pleased with her ice-maiden routine.

  The waiter leads us to a center table. I guess he wants to show us off. Lucy looks gorgeous, as ever. She's wearing a slate-gray, box-pleat Nicole Farhi skirt, a white agnes b. T-shirt and a Lamberto Lasanis cashmere cardigan, finished off with Mandrian leather, kitten heels from L. K. Bennett. I'd look like a cross between Ms. Jean Brodie and Miss Marple but Lucy looks chic, not school-marm. Throughout my years of knowing Lucy I've been educated in the language of labels, so I too have made an effort. Not quite Bond Street, but I look cool in my Jigsaw trousers and Pied a Terre suede boots. I carefully place my ridiculously expensive Tanner Krolle handbag on the table. A new purchase that I'm sure Lucy will appreciate. She acknowledges it—"Smart bag" but then nods to the floor indicating, by the way she
raises her eyebrow, that I've made some terrible social faux pas by putting it on the table in the first place. She doesn't throw me.

  My confidence is soaring.

  I know that I've never looked as good as I've looked for the last two months. I feel younger and more stunning by the minute. I know that it isn't just Lucy that the waiter is showing off. We settle into our seats, declining bread, accepting water, ordering food and opening the bottle of champagne that a couple of guys have sent over. This kind of thing always happens to Lucy. She's great when it does. She knows just how to accept it without appearing either overly grateful or condescendingly blase.

  "Don't let them come over," I whine. "I want to talk to you."

  Lucy pats my hand. "Under control." She efficiently ushers

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  away the waiter. As peace begins to descend around the table she says, "OK, fire."

  "I'm having an affair." I find saying the words out loud is an extraordinary relief. Tension flows from my body. It's also shocking. Tension crashes back into every organ. I may detonate. The words make it real, which is exciting. And terrifying.

  "With whom?" Lucy pours some champagne and clinks my glass. Unperturbed. Un-fucking-perturbed!