by Freya North
No! thought James. I mean, yes!
‘But he may not be there, of course,’ Fen mused, wondering when was the last time that Django had spent a night away from home. ‘In fact,’ she said, ‘I think he might have said that he thought he probably was definitely not going to be in, in all likelihood.’
James was silent.
I don’t want to hear this. I’m not listening. The paintings will be sent down by bloody Parcel Force, if needs be.
‘Perhaps I could stay with you?’ said Fen softly.
‘Yes,’ said James, ‘of course you can.’
James replaces the handset and stands in the kitchen shaking his head at himself. Barry and Beryl sit in silent companionship either side of him. They don’t like to hear him groan. They head-butt him with desperate affection.
‘Phone her back,’ he commands, ‘now!’
But he doesn’t.
Fen replaces the handset and feels very pleased that the call came just before her meeting with Rodney and Judith – she will be showing them the Fetherstone bronze before taking it to the Tate for secure keeping prior to next week’s acquisitions meeting. Fen leaves work. She is really looking forward to Sunday.
TWENTY-NINE
‘But I haven’t anything to wear!’
Pip and Fen observe Cat who is sitting in shabby tracksuit bottoms and a shapeless sweatshirt; toying with the idea of actually eating, or rather sucking, cold baked beans directly from the tin with a teaspoon.
‘And I won’t know a soul!’
Pip and Fen, arms folded across their breasts, regard their youngest sister benevolently but sternly.
‘I’m not ready – please – I’d rather stay in and watch Eurotrash. I don’t want to go out. I’ll be a wallflower. A burden. It’s pointless.’
She looks and sounds quite pathetic. If her elder sisters were not aware how hard her pain has been, they’d have thought her unnecessarily melodramatic.
‘Do it for me,’ says Fen, as if requesting a very large favour. ‘If Matt doesn’t warrant your seal of approval, then I’ll know not to sleep with him.’
‘I mean,’ Pip colludes, ‘say you don’t come, and Fen doesn’t take a blind bit of notice of my opinion – say she sleeps with him then you meet him and proclaim him the devil incarnate? Well!’ She does a handstand and walks upside-down over to Cat. ‘Please, Funny Face, please come?’
Cat regards her topsy-turvy sister. And thinks about her responsibility in the development of Fen’s love life.
‘OK OK,’ she sighs. ‘I’ll do it for you,’ she nods at Fen, ‘and for you,’ she nods at Pip, suddenly feeling the urge to tickle her upended sister’s midriff, ‘but I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t want to go. I’d like to leave early.’
Fen and Pip nod at everything she says.
‘I suppose I could wear my Whistles dress,’ Cat says quietly. Fen pretends she’s engrossed in a magazine about bicycles. Pip, who has righted herself, nods with necessary nonchalance. ‘I could just wear my jeans,’ Cat suggests. Again Pip nods while Fen continues to read about yellow jerseys.
Cat emerges fifteen minutes later. She looks gorgeous. She is in the Whistles dress, her hair meticulous in a mussed-up chignon, her pretty facial features enhanced with a flick of mascara and a swipe of lipstick.
‘Come on then,’ she says glumly, as if on her way to the gallows.
Throughout the evening, at various intervals, Fen stopped to ponder the fact that tonight was the night when she’d have sex with Matt. Once or twice, she wondered if tonight wasn’t really the right time. It was his birthday, he was having an impromptu party. There were loads of people. She felt, sometimes, as if she was something of a hanger-on – wearing her genial smile rather fixed because she knew so few people. Actually, she hadn’t been remotely clinging and had, in fact, spent more time chatting to her sisters and flatmates than she had spent with Matt. He’d catch her eye, though, and smile, or they’d just gaze for a suspended moment. Times like those she’d think yes, let’s sleep together tonight. However, observing him at other times, knocking back a drink or laughing in an overanimated way with his friends, she’d think no, let it wait. His friends were very warm and chatty, fuelled as they were by the champagne on tap, courtesy of Susan Holden. In the toilet, Fen looked from left hand to right.
It’s very odd. I’ve been taken aback when some of his friends have said, ‘Oh so you’re Fen McCabe,’ but I’ve been equally offended if they’ve said, ‘What’s your name? Do you work with Matt then?’ and obviously haven’t a clue who I am to him.
Matt had spoken at length both to Cat and Pip, separately and together. The McCabe sisters reported back to Fen that Matt was gorgeous, a honey, a gent, obviously enamoured with her and that she should go for it, lucky lucky girl, what a catch. By midnight, Cat was fairly plastered. She hadn’t been drowning her sorrows – far from it – her inebriation was merely a physical reaction to a simple glass or two of champagne on a stomach that had churned with distress over the past month or so and been deprived of regular meals.
‘I think Cat should go home,’ Pip said surreptitiously to Fen. ‘It is her first outing after all – it should end on a high note. It could well devolve into drunken overemotional rambling and tears if she’s – or we’re – not careful.’ Fen agreed. She looked over to Matt, the life and soul amidst a posse of pals.
Perhaps I should go now too. We could go to bed tomorrow. Or whenever. Anyway, Abi and Gemma are in full swing – literally. So I might feel a little uncomfortable without my sisters.
‘I’ll go and say goodbye,’ said Fen. Pip regarded her as if she was totally insane. ‘I’d rather leave with you two,’ Fen explained.
‘It’s the boy’s birthday,’ Pip said, with incredulity, ‘why on earth would you leave?’ Fen shrugged and looked uneasy. ‘He glances over at you with charming regularity,’ Pip said. ‘Half the time, you don’t even notice. You are making his night. You must stay. You’re his biggest birthday pressie, you daft cow.’
‘I’m not saying I’ll leave on account of being a dutiful sister,’ Fen told her with honesty, ‘I just might feel more comfortable leaving now, that’s all.’
‘Oh shush,’ Pip said, asserting bossiness that was the prerogative of the eldest sibling. She walked over to Matt to wish him a happy birthday, to thank him for inviting them, to say how lovely it had been to meet him. ‘Hope we’ll meet again soon,’ Pip said, shaking his hand. ‘You take care of my sister – and she’ll take care of you.’
Matt grinned. ‘Pip, it’s been a pleasure. Is Cat OK? It must have been a tall order for her tonight – I hope she’s enjoyed at least part of it.’
‘Oh, she has,’ Pip assured him, ‘but it’s time we left.’ She kissed him on each cheek. ‘If I wasn’t so sozzled, I’d juggle with those empty champagne bottles. But I am, so I shan’t. Good-night.’
Gemma seemed to be monopolizing Jake and it was winding Fen up. Abi was very merry, flitting among Matt’s friends all chatty and effervescent. Fen watched as every now and then Abi would return to Jake and Gemma briefly before skipping off to socialize elsewhere. Because Fen did not know what to say to Gemma and Jake, she steered well clear of them. But she avoided Abi too, because she did not want her to spend too much time away from her boyfriend. Matt was attentive towards Fen, introducing her to people he’d already introduced her to, bringing her into conversations by changing the slant or the subject matter, or just giving her hand a squeeze or her shoulders a rub or bestowing upon her a very lovely smile.
At gone one in the morning, a couple of Matt’s friends made a suggestion that Fen didn’t feel so sure about.
‘Come on Matt, let’s go back to yours.’
No! Go back to your own homes. For the past half-hour, I’ve been wanting him to come up to me, to whisper, ‘Come on Fen, let’s go back to mine.’
‘Sure!’ beamed the birthday boy, taking Fen’s hand. ‘Who’s coming?’
Five others, it seemed, excludin
g Matt and Fen. Not Jake or Abi or Gemma – they were happy to stay put, Jake holding court while the two girls gazed at him starry-eyed and laughed heartily at anything remotely humorous, hanging on his every word and quite often, his arms or trouser legs too.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Matt whispered to Fen.
‘Of course not,’ Fen said. She was happy to leave. It unnerved her that Gemma’s interest in Abi’s boyfriend should be so brazen.
And now it is almost three in the morning and the last of Matt’s pals are waiting for their cab. Fen is tired, so tired that she keeps popping to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. This means that, with her mascara now gone, she looks exhausted. Her right hand says, ‘Just chill out – you want more from Matt than One Night anyway.’ Her left hand says, ‘Slap your face, splash more cold water, brush your teeth and as soon as those bloody people have gone, give Matt the birthday present you’ve prepared for him.’ Fen makes a compromise; patting her face with more cold water, sucking a fingerful of toothpaste, pinching her cheeks to give her wan expression a bit of colour.
Matt’s friends tell her how much they’ve enjoyed meeting her, how they hope to see more of her, that they’re sure they’ll be seeing her again soon. All the while, they smile their seal of approval on Matthew. It cheers Fen up.
Matt closes the front door.
‘Phew!’ he says, though his back is towards her. ‘I thought they’d never go!’ He turns and smiles. ‘Brilliant birthday,’ he says. They sit on the sofa and appreciate the silence. Fen tells herself to go home, to stay, to kiss him, to stay put.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Matt says.
‘I’ve washed off all my make-up,’ Fen replies a little gloomily.
‘I don’t like make-up,’ Matt says. Fen worries in case he thinks she uses too much.
‘I just use a little mascara, a little eye shadow,’ she rushes, ‘actually, I pinch it off Gemma.’
‘Gemma wears too much, you see,’ Matt says, to qualify, ‘for my liking, anyway.’
‘Not for Jake’s,’ Fen mumbles.
‘Sorry?’ says Matt.
‘Nothing,’ says Fen, knowing it to be dangerous territory.
‘It was great meeting your sisters,’ Matt says and then stifles a yawn.
‘Yes,’ says Fen, ‘I’m really pleased that Cat came.’ She yawns expansively.
‘Miss McCabe,’ says Matt, ‘can I entice you into my bed?’
‘Of course you can, birthday boy,’ says Fen.
Fen and Matt tried to have really good sex. They really tried hard to enjoy it, and tried hard to pleasure each other, and Matt tried hard to be hard, full stop. Fen tried not to be put off by the alcohol on his breath and she tried not to take his feeble attempt at an erection personally. Matt told himself that Fen must just be tired, that’s why she didn’t want him to go down on her. Actually, Fen was concerned that after the long night in a cramped, hot bar, coupled with a microfibre G-string and far too much excitement early in the evening, her nether regions might be a little unappetizing. But she was too shy to say so. They did manage to have sex, but the only conclusion they came to was that seduction was daft at four in the morning. No amount of bump-and-grinding was going to change that. Sleep was a much better idea. Matt brought his body against Fen’s back, so that he was curled around her and she was sitting in his lap almost; lying like a pair of spoons. Just before a dreamless sleep swept down on her, she remembered the feeling of Matt nuzzling the nape of her neck. Then she remembered nothing else. When she awoke, she remembered bad sex but the stronger memory was how comforting she had found sleeping with Matt. It didn’t matter that he was making odd gruffles, or had morning breath. What mattered was that she felt safe and at ease with him.
Funny, that! From work flirtation to prospective boyfriend! I actually rather like the idea of that.
THIRTY
The more imminent it became, the more Fen and James absolutely dreaded seeing each other. Both prophesied a horrible, animal inevitability to it all. It would only take a phone call, a quick one at that, from either of them, to cancel the arrangement. They both knew that. Easy.
If I see her, I’ll sleep with her. It’s not a good idea.
If I see him, I’ll sleep with him. Bad idea.
But they will see each other. In a matter of hours. It’s inevitable.
Throughout her life, Fen had steadfastly refused to lie. Whereas Pip could concoct fabulously inventive stories, while Cat could just fall irritatingly silent, Fen preferred to be simply evasive. She would omit certain details – always primarily to prevent hurt – but she would never out-and-out lie. Therefore, she told Matt that she was going to Derbyshire to collect the Fetherstone oils, but that’s all she told him. She omitted to call her housemates or her sisters – she didn’t phone them because they hadn’t phoned her. If she told Gemma and Abi, and if Pip or Cat then called the house and were told Fen was in Derbyshire, they’d presume their sister to be with Django. If she called Pip or Cat, they’d want to know why she wasn’t staying with Django. Matt simply knew that Fen had family in Derbyshire, so had no need to ask where she was staying, assuming that she was going up on the Sunday so that she could indeed stay with this Django chap. It was so logical that he didn’t ask, and therefore Fen didn’t need to tell any untruths.
So, Matt took her to St Pancras and settled her on the train with the Sunday papers and some chocolates.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he came close to her ear to whisper.
‘Tomorrow,’ Fen smiled. She was already looking forward to it. ‘About lunch-time.’ She kissed Matt’s neck and he left the train, waving briefly before leaving the station. With a contented smile on her face and a warm feeling in her body, Fen settled back into her seat (she had decided to upgrade herself on the Sunday special rate to first class) and organized the papers into her own idiosyncratic order of preference. TV guide first (not that she ever watched much), then the main newspaper, followed by the travel supplement (not that she’d taken a holiday abroad in two years), magazine, newspaper review section, children’s comic supplement, finally the appointments. She always read the appointments with great interest, not that she needed a job, or was remotely interested in any on offer, or that she even qualified to apply for any advertised.
I just like to see what’s out there – all those interesting-sounding careers with a host of applicants waiting in the wings. In comparison, my world is so small. It isn’t really even a notch on the cog of national industry.
Today, though, Fen couldn’t really settle with the papers. It wasn’t the landscape that distracted her, nor her fellow passengers. It was the free rein she had to think about Matt. Before they had cemented their relationship, she would fantasize about what might be. This was exciting to do, not least because he was the first man of flesh and blood rather than bronze or marble to captivate her in some years. But now there was something much more satisfactory about gazing out of the train window and replaying events that had really happened. Now she wasn’t having to write a script and envisage; she was remembering fact. It was as if her recent days had been secretly filmed. Whilst living them, she was far too caught up in the here and now to really appreciate them. But here on the train, she could rewind and then press play, settle back into her comfortable first class seat with the cotton anti-macassar and the complimentary coffee, and indulge herself reliving the immediate true past in glorious technicolor detail.
This she did with ease, and much replaying of certain details, until Leicester. She rewatched herself having sex twice – first on Saturday morning, though it was nearer noon when they awoke. In truth, that had been just as bad an idea as trying to consummate their relationship a few hours before when they were exhausted and somewhat drunk. Although revived and not too badly hungover, morning breath precluded any kissing – which Fen had always rated as one of the most erotic elements of lovemaking, one of the fundamentals of foreplay, probably due in no small part to her love of Rodin’s Th
e Kiss. It was straightforward, safe sex during which Fen did not come and Matt did not seem to notice though he enquired after her pleasure after the event.
Sitting on the train, Fen thought back to strolling along Upper Street desperate for a post-coital, post-hangover carbohydrate overload. In the event, they forsook a traditional greasy spoon for Pizza Express because the garlic wafting out into the street was just irresistible. Fen shifted in her seat and remembered how they had been overcome by a fit of giggles over God knows what. Dough balls really have little comedy value but that afternoon, Fen and Matt had tears streaming down their faces while their bodies were racked with laughter.
Accepting a refill of not-too-bad coffee, Fen indulged in replaying images of the early-evening lovemaking she and Matt had taken their time over a few hours later. Their bodies smelt fresh and though their breath would have kept the vampires away, they were immune to it because they shared it. They thought each other tasted rather delicious, actually, Fen decided, looking out of the window thinking that a large herd of sheep looked like a flurry of litter.
It was a turn-on watching him as he climaxed. Me on top. He locked on to my eyes as he was building up to it, then they glazed over and ultimately closed altogether with the intensity of his orgasm. His gasps and moans really excited me. As did the feeling of his cock jumping for joy. I was rather chuffed that he was so spent and speechless for some minutes after.
Did you come too?
Almost. Nearly. No. Not that it mattered. He was sweet and asked if it had been all right. He didn’t ask outright if I’d climaxed. I told him that it had been lovely, that he had been more than all right. I didn’t lie. I don’t lie, you see.
The train pulled out of Leicester and gathered momentum. To Fen’s horror it was as if Matt had been left standing on the platform she was hurtling away from. And though she tried to crane her neck, she lost him. She lost him. And though she tried to read ‘A Life In The Day Of’ profiling some athlete she’d never heard of in the back of the Sunday Times magazine, James Caulfield appeared in her mind’s eye and refused to go away. It was bewildering for her. Matt had quite categorically disappeared. James held her thoughts until Chesterfield. She disembarked the train with butterflies rampaging around her stomach. It no longer seemed a bad idea, morally doomed, to spend a night with this man. It seemed a fantastic opportunity.