by Jennie Ensor
He kicked the bollard again, harder. The jolt of the impact travelled up his leg. Suzanne would be out of her tree, he thought, if she knew one quarter of what he’d done, and Jane would probably piss herself. But fuck it, he wasn’t the only guy alive to have these feelings, so did thousands of other men, all of them hanging out for what society wouldn’t allow. How many guys gawped at internet porn behind their wife’s back? It was young flesh they wanted to see, not aunties with facelifts. Half the men in the country were turned on by a pretty, young thing in a school tie and a short skirt. The red-blooded ones, at least. Only most of them didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.
‘Hiya.’
Paul turned around. Emma was standing there in her denim jacket and jeans, shiny-lipped, hair in two cute bunches, sucking on another sweet. She loped ahead to the Porsche, which was glinting like new after yesterday’s visit to the car wash. She was impressed by it, he guessed, but didn’t think it cool to say so. Jane drove around in a zit of a car that no one would give a second glance. A pity it was still chilly February, or he could have taken the roof down and impressed her even more.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He’d left a layer of stubble on his face this morning, especially for her. It gave him a touch of the rogue and would appeal to her. He’d also dug out his best sheepskin jacket and black Ralph Lauren sweater. Well, he could afford to take pride in his appearance. Emma was into fashion. She wouldn’t want some cheap scruff taking her out.
He revved the engine until its powerful rumble turned heads in the car park, and drove fast towards Putney, squeezing into gaps between cars and accelerating through the lights before they turned red. Emma liked going fast too. A half smile came to her lips as he stepped on the gas.
As he slowed for a red light, he glanced at her. She seemed perfectly relaxed. Her legs stretched out in front of her, so sexy in that tight denim. If only he could put his hand on one for one second. Just a fleeting touch, she’d hardly notice.
‘Nice jeans, Em,’ he said.
Emma was staring out of her window, lost in her own world. His hand on the gearstick loosened. He held his breath and imagined what would happen next. His hand would land on her thigh, like a stupid moth that had lost its way. He would feel the warmth of her flesh below her jeans. He would move his hand to her zipper, then touch the soft fabric of her panties …
No, not yet. He pressed his hand into the gearstick.
The traffic became heavy. They crawled past litter-strewn pavements, mums with pushchairs and shopping bags, sour-faced youths in wool balaclavas. He looked at Emma again. The ache was stronger than ever. He wanted to stop the car, hold her in his arms, and kiss every inch of her.
‘Can we go to that shop, Paul?’ Emma’s voice was bright, expectant.
‘What shop?’
‘On the right. We’re passing it now.’
He looked to where she was pointing: Claire’s. It had a gaudy, uninviting exterior.
‘Okay, but we mustn’t be too long.’
Emma trotted ahead, clutching her tiny handbag, then turned. ‘Do you have any money? Mum gave me five pounds but it might not be enough.’
Oh, those angelic, imploring eyes. This girl really knew how to turn it on.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ he said. ‘Wait till we get inside, I’ll see what I’ve got.’
The shop was too hot and too bright and heaving with teenage girls. Pop music blasted through the speakers. He couldn’t put up with this for long.
Emma positioned herself in front of a stand of garish earrings and began trying one pair after the other.
‘I want these ones – they’re six ninety nine.’
He handed over some coins.
‘Okay,’ he said as they left the shop. ‘Let’s head back. Jane will be wondering where we are.’
She looked so glum, he put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. ‘How about an ice cream?’
‘Can we go to McDonald’s?’
‘Alright, if we’re quick.’
It was hard to say no to her. And why should he?
The place was packed. He left her to find a table while he waited in the queue, trying to ignore the medley of odours reaching his nostrils.
‘Here you go.’
Emma seized the huge paper cup and slurped the chocolate milkshake through two straws.
‘I went for a trial last week,’ she announced cheerfully, pushing away her empty cup. ‘For the school netball team. The under-thirteens.’
‘How did it go?’
She gave him a toothy grin. ‘I got in. Mr Kingly said I’m one of the best players in my year.’
‘That’s fantastic, Em. I hope I’ll be invited to see you play sometime.’
Her cheeks flushed. She was so eager to please, so craving approval. It wasn’t surprising, after her cretin of a father had walked out.
‘So, you’re enjoying school more now?’
‘Yeah, it’s alright.’ She giggled. ‘I quite like art, now – I’m getting really good marks.’
‘Maybe you’ll go to art school when you’re older. You could be another Picasso, or someone like that Damien Hirst guy who made the diamond skull.’
‘I’d like to be a fashion designer when I grow up,’ she said coyly. ‘Or a model.’
‘You could do some modelling first, then go to college and study fashion.’
‘I’ve already tried out for an agency.’ A shy smile. ‘My mum doesn’t know. I sent in some pictures a friend took. They said I showed promise but I was too young for them.’
‘There’s nothing to stop you trying other places. You’d make a great model, I bet.’
Emma began preening her hair, a dreamy expression on her face. ‘I love watching America’s Next Top Model. I’d do anything to be on a show like that.’
As they got up to leave, an idea came to him. ‘I could help you, maybe,’ he said. ‘I know a woman who works at a model agency. She’s pretty high up. I could mention you to her.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
She’d nibbled at the bait. One day, he might pull her in.
The journey back to Jane’s was hassle-free. As they were pulling up outside the house, a red-brick terrace in one of the less desirable streets of Putney, Jane’s face appeared in the gap between the curtains. Moments later, the front door sprang open and Jane was greeting Emma with hugs, as if she’d been kidnapped by armed guerrillas. Guilt at leaving her offspring, most likely. No sign of any suspicion, not a whiff.
‘Hi, Paul.’ Jane smiled at him quickly then turned her attention to Emma. ‘Did you have a good swim, darling?’
Emma mumbled something.
‘Emma swam really well,’ he said. ‘Even better than last time.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. She’s quite capable at lots of things when she puts her mind to it.’ A sideways glance at her daughter, who frowned in reply and scuttled upstairs. ‘Paul, you’ll stay for a coffee, will you?’
He followed Jane into the kitchen. She’d put on a little make-up but her hair was still all over the place, grey peeking through the brown dye. She had great bones in her face and a decent figure, but she’d stopped bothering to look after herself, which was handy. If Jane had been a well-maintained blonde, Suzanne might have viewed his visits differently.
‘She was OK today?’
‘Yes, she was fine – much chattier this time. And she was swimming up and down like a fish, I almost had to drag her out of the pool. So, did you find what you wanted at Brent Cross?’
‘I’ve ordered a lounge suite. I just hope the kids don’t wreck it inside a month.’ Jane put two mugs on the table and rifled in her handbag. ‘Sorry, Paul, I’m dying for a fag. You don’t mind, do you? I need to wind down. Toby was a little terror today.’
He did mind, but he could hardly stop Jane smoking in her own house.
‘When did you start smoking again?’
/>
‘A couple of weeks ago – it was stress at work that did it. Sometimes I think I might jack it all in and go on the dole instead. The kids don’t have a father anymore, and they scarcely have a mother.’ She began to laugh, a deep belly laugh, and took another puff of her cigarette. ‘I feel guilty about asking Emma to mind Toby when I’m away. She’s good with him, she helps him with his homework and all sorts. I know she resents it sometimes though. She’s been starting fights with him, which is a worry. And she gets lonely too, and she misses her dad.’ She turned away to exhale smoke. ‘I should have let him visit at Christmas, I suppose. But we’d made plans already, and Yasmin was with him.’
‘That would have been awkward.’
‘You’re not joking. I would’ve given the little slut a piece of my mind if she’d come anywhere near the kids.’
There was something endearing about Jane, although she dressed like a bloke and was a real slob around the house. The fruit in the bowl was often mouldy, and the same magazines and scraps of paper were left lying around for weeks. But she always spoke from the heart, even if it got her into trouble. She’d never sit there thinking of what to say so as not to hurt your feelings – as Suzanne did – or how best to get someone where you wanted them – as he did. With Jane, it was all out there: take it or leave it.
‘Emma told me she’s been picked for the school netball team,’ he said.
‘Yes, she’s over the moon. She’ll have to practise every week and play matches on the weekend – I just hope she can keep it up. There’s been quite a change in her lately, she seems to be coming out of herself, thank goodness. The other day she told me she wants to go to sessions at the local drama school.’
That could be inconvenient. With netball and drama school, he’d never get to see her.
Jane tapped the ash off her cigarette and looked directly at him.
‘Paul, I do appreciate you making the time to help Emma like this … keep out of there, Toby! We’ll be eating dinner in an hour.’ He turned to see Toby rummaging in the fridge.
‘It’s no trouble, Jane, I told you. I enjoy taking her out.’ He took a last gulp of coffee and got to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better be going. We’re off to the theatre this evening.’
‘Oh, anything interesting?’
‘It’s a satire about married couples. Suzanne wanted to see it. Not my thing, really.’
‘Well, have fun. I wish someone was taking me to the theatre.’
‘Jane, darling, I’d love to take you to the theatre. Only Suzanne wouldn’t be too pleased.’
‘Cheeky devil!’ Jane gave him a playful thump on the arm then went to the hall and called out at the top of her voice. ‘Emma, where are you? Paul’s going! Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’
Feet thumped on the landing. A head peeped over the banister.
‘Bye Emma!’
‘Bye-eee!’ She waved back and he melted, like chocolate in warm fingers.
Jane opened the front door. ‘See you next Saturday, then.’
Paul flicked the key in the ignition and revved the engine hard. He was a devious bastard, lusting after the daughter of one of his wife’s best friends, and the poor girl barely past teddy bears.
Well, so what? Soon she’d be whisked away from him into a whirl of activities. He wouldn’t actually do anything, he’d just look. Emma enjoyed being with him, so why shouldn’t he appreciate her in return, while he still had the chance?
Laura, that’s why, piped up the spoilsport inside him. You did more than just look at Laura, didn’t you?
He pressed his foot firmly on the accelerator and closed the gap to the car in front.
He’d been lucky to get away with it. But Laura had tucked their secret safely away and hadn’t told anyone, as far as he knew. With any luck, she never would – not anyone who mattered, at any rate. He’d made sure she would never spill the beans to Suzanne. Anyway, why would she want to dredge up the past now, after all these years? Unless she guessed the temptation that Emma posed.
He shouldn’t press his luck, he knew. He should let Emma go. If he had any sense, that was what he’d do.
Paul switched on the stereo. He turned up the volume of his Best of Eric Clapton CD, loud enough to rattle the speakers, and cruised the final stretch home. Sure, he could make up some excuse as to why he couldn’t see Emma anymore. Yet how could he not see her? He couldn’t just walk away. His life would be too thin without her smiles, scowls and flounces, without the thrill of her body next to his in nothing but a thin, nearly see-through costume. Without her, he’d shrivel into a sexless old man.
6
Suzanne
9 February 2011
Suzanne took out a tissue and mopped her face and neck, both uncomfortably hot and damp after her dash along noisy, fume-filled Wimbledon High Street. She opened the door and went inside. The room was refreshingly quiet and cool. People – mainly women – clustered around a trestle table bearing an urn and a collection of plastic cups, drinking tea and talking. The session hadn’t started yet.
A thin, unsmiling man peered at her through thick glasses.
‘Hello, PK.’
His name was either PK or KP, she couldn’t remember which. Then Zac waved at her cheerily from his solitary cross-legged position on the large, bare wooden floor. He looked as eccentric as ever with his long black ponytail and almost-as-long beard. He would often come up and hug her unexpectedly, and tell her all manner of things she would otherwise never give a moment’s thought. Last time, he’d asked her the reason why water only went one way down the plughole, the answer to which she’d forgotten. Another time, he’d told her with glee what chaos would ensue if the earth’s magnetic poles were to flip.
Suzanne hung up her coat and hurried over to the refreshment table. She returned Adele’s smile. Adele, who was taking the session that evening, had a torrent of corkscrew curls, and large, liquid eyes that always seemed to radiate kindness and generosity towards everyone. Then she noticed her friends, Carol and Jilly, chatting to each other in the corner, and went over to join them.
‘Hello, guys!’ She hugged each in turn.
‘You look puffed out, dear,’ Carol said.
‘It was fraught getting here,’ she replied. ‘The District Line was up the spout again.’
‘Will everyone please form a circle.’
It was Adele’s voice. The chatter stopped. Suzanne went into the middle of the room with the others.
‘Join hands and close your eyes. Let go of any distracting thoughts. Feel the irritations and disappointments of the day drift away. Take a deep breath … and slowly let it out.’
The background bells and chants started up. Adele’s voice continued, coolly hypnotic.
‘Feel your weight pulling your body into the ground. Feel the person on either side of you connecting you into the circle. Feel yourself unite with each person in the circle. Now, open your eyes and turn to the person on each side of you. Look into their eyes. Show that you accept them in their totality. Send them your deepest love.’
Suzanne opened her eyes with a sigh. She always disliked this part of the evening. She didn’t like the look of PK, who was now looking into her eyes with indifference verging on hostility. He had only just started coming to the meetings. Who knew what he might get up to outside of here, what bad things he might have done? Maybe everyone was worthy of love – even murderers and rapists, people she’d never be able to understand in a million years. How could she accept such a person, though, let alone love them? Trying not to look at the slack skin under his jaw, or the greasy lens of his glasses, she attempted a smile. It came out as more of a grimace, no doubt. He stared back, unsmiling.
The evening went on as usual. After the breathing exercises, the yoga, chanting and meditation, her body began to relax, lighten. Her mind lightened too, untroubled by the usual nagging worries. If only she could feel like this all the time.
Adele made some announcements about the group’s next meeting, and
events coming up, then everyone was putting on coats and saying their goodbyes. 10pm already.
‘Are you going to the retreat?’ Jilly asked, as they made their way downstairs. ‘It’s going to be a cracker this year, from what I’ve heard. Adele’s found a Tibetan monk to take the meditation sessions, and there’s a healing workshop …’
Several in the group were healers or therapists of one sort or another, or hoped to be, including Jilly. She wasn’t anywhere near that stage herself, and doubted she ever would be, but she felt a tug of interest.
‘I don’t know. When is it?’
‘The second weekend of March. I’m going, so’s Carol. You ought to go, Suzy.’
It was the weekend after her silver wedding anniversary. Nothing was planned.
‘I’d love to,’ she heard herself say. ‘Paul won’t be keen on me going though.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t approve of all this. He thinks we’re a bunch of overgrown hippies who just want an excuse to grope each other.’
‘If only!’ Jilly looked aghast. ‘No one’s groped me lately, unfortunately. You should bring him along and let him see for himself. He might be surprised.’
‘He wouldn’t come in a million years. Whenever I mention anything in the least alternative he laughs and says I’m losing my marbles.’
Jilly was sympathetic. Her husband didn’t share her interest in meditation either.
Suzanne walked slowly to her car. It would be wonderful, she thought, to be able to share this part of her life with Paul.
By the time she’d driven home it was nearly 10.30pm.
The street was quiet. Driveways were filled, curtains closed. Infrequent street lamps did little to relieve the darkness. Pushing open the gate, she glanced up at the house. It was imposing, rather than welcoming: its tall, elegant windows and deep eaves suggesting a house in deepest France rather than Wimbledon. Paul had fallen for its charming period features; she’d pointed out it would be dark and chilly in winter. Still, it was their home now.