by Freya North
Zac?
But She’s been distant with Zac since he rubbished her revelation at the party that she just might like to make a baby. She’s hidden behind her slap and motley and let him have Merry Martha or Dr Pippity for company since then. The sad irony is that, traditionally, when issues have been just too heavy for her to shoulder herself, it has been Django to whom she has turned.
‘Ah, my precious caryatid,’ he would soothe, ‘whose burden is too much to bear. Let me help. Offload, pet, offload.’
I can’t, Django. You’re the burden.
You have to, Pip. See how Fen and Cat are depending on you?
So Pip dials. She’ll know what to say, she tells herself, when he answers. Please let him be out. Be out be out be out. Dominoes. Something. Fen and Cat crowd around the receiver. They hear the click as the phone is answered in Farleymoor.
‘Hullo?’
But it Isn’t Django. It Isn’t Django. The voice is female and American.
Pip hangs up in a fluster. ‘She’s still there,’ she tells them, incredulous. Now She’s bemused, very bemused. ‘I have to phone again,’ she says already dialling though she has no idea what she’ll say when the American woman claiming to be their mother answers Django’s phone. But the phone is ringing. And now it is being answered.
‘Hullo?’
It’s Django.
‘Hullo?’
Pip glances at Cat and Fen but their wide-eyed gazes seem to mirror back her own question. What do I say next? What was I going to say in the first place?
‘Is this a trickster?’ Django is asking. ‘Hullo? This is Farleymoor 64920. If you are going to sell me something, you can bog off.’ He hangs up.
‘He’s hung up on us,’ Pip tells Cat and Fen who’ve heard every word anyway.
‘Phone again,’ they urge.
Pip dials. No one answers. She dials again.
‘Great Gods!’ Django barks. ‘Who is this? I’ll have the police track you! This is trespass. Now bloody bog right off.’
‘It’s us. It’s me. It’s Pip.’
Now no one knows what to say.
‘Hullo?’
‘Hullo?’
Pip is clutching the receiver tightly, Fen has grabbed her wrist and Cat’s face is so close Pip can tell She’s had milky coffee before they arrived.
‘Pip?’
‘Yes. We’re all here.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s she doing there?’
‘She? Oh. Packing. She flies home tomorrow.’
The girls send each other thank-God-for-that but what-the-fuck-is-going-on glances. ‘What’s she doing there anyway?’ hisses Fen. Pip repeats the question down the receiver.
‘She needed a holiday,’ Django says.
For Christ’s bloody sake. ‘There are too many secrets,’ Pip says, the words oozing acidly from between clenched teeth, ‘and true families Don’t have so many secrets.’
‘Nothing is secret,’ Django replies steadily. ‘You have only to ask.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have to ask,’ Pip says, while Fen and Cat nod earnestly.
‘That’s because You’re not sure you want to hear,’ Django says.
Pip shrugs. Fen and Cat shrug back. Django can sense them, in a huddle in a muddle, clutching at each other.
‘When You’re ready,’ Django says, ‘I am here. You can ask all you like. And I will tell.’
COUPLING
Bizarrely, in times of extremis, there is always sex. Actually, It’s not all that bizarre at all. It floods the body with feel-good endorphins and releases reassuring opiates in the brain. It feeds the soul and occupies the mind. It infuses the spirit with a sense of well-being, it enhances communication, it builds an appetite, it facilitates sleep. Not tonight, dear, I have a headache, is one of the greatest misnomers. An orgasm can alleviate a headache far more efficiently than paracetamol. Sex is good for mind, body and soul. Sex is both a leveller and a lift; it soothes as it soars. Sex is necessary. It’s natural and base and when the fundamentals of life have been challenged, sex takes an instinctive, primal function. If life is under threat, then make more life. Regenerate. That was the point of sex in the first place: the survival of the species. The fact that it also felt so good was life’s great added bonus. The fact that it felt so good inspired people to connect on a spiritual dimension in addition to the primary physical level. Sex ceased to have the sole role of procreation. Sex, it transpired, was extremely good for the heart. And so sex evolved into making love, the most sublime form of communication. Words can be so clumsy. Action can be far more productive.
‘Are you OK?’
Hold me, Ben, hold me. My head is killing me. Envelop me and keep me safe. Now I am OK. Yes, kiss and kiss and kiss the top of my head. Oh, the smell of you. Heaven scent. I can close my eyes and melt into you. If I raise my face I find your mouth, your lips meet mine with so much more than a kiss: a whisper of tenderness, the taste of love. I hear all that you say, you needn’t utter a word. The touch of your tongue causes my hands to move, to search and feel and squeeze and stroke. Now your hands too. Traverse my torso in a caress so fluent, the flow of your touch, the walk of your fingers, the feel of your skin – the softest, warmest substance I know. The smell of you. The taste of you. The strength of your limbs, your manliness alongside my femininity. My breasts the most perfect shape for the precise cup of your hands, my sex soft so that yours can be hard. The yin and the yang. The ebb and the flow. The up and the down. The ins and the outs. The peaks and the troughs. The thrill of the thrust. We fit and flow, we fit and flow. You and me into you into me.
I’m going to come. Oh God I’m going to come. And as I come I go, my soul floats into yours. The synergy of it all, the rhythm of Us.
‘How did it go?’
Oh Zac – you waited up, you noodle. You needn’t have. You have that conference call first thing. But thank you. It’s so good to see you, to be home. I Don’t really want to talk about it. You talk to me. I’m happy to just listen to the mundanities of your day. Just keep talking facts and figures while I listen to the timbre of your voice. I Don’t know why I’m shivering slightly. It’s May. But I sense your warmth and you sense my chill and you are doing something about it – now I’m not cold at all.
I love it when you tiptoe your fingers along my arms. I love it when you absent-mindedly finger my nipple. So instinctive for you, so exciting for me. This is a position I like so much – you on your back, me on my side, the lolling of limbs. I rest my outer leg on top of you, I stretch my arm along your torso, have my hand cup your neck, my fingers playing with your ear lobe. And when you talk I touch your lips and I know that before long you’ll be unable to resist kissing my fingertips. Then you’ll flick your tongue tip over them and then my face will look up and your face will look down and our mouths will be magnetized. Your hands will search out the parts of me that excite you and thrill me. Secret pathways to electrifying pleasure. You found them – I never knew they were there. I find myself rubbing against you. And my hands will seek your beautiful hard cock. Pull me on top of you, then you can sweep your hands up and over my buttocks. You love them, Don’t you. Makes me love them too, makes me believe They’re the most shapely pair on the planet.
I like being on top. There’s no psychology to it, It’s not a control thing or a domination thing, it doesn’t make me feel empowered or emancipated. I just like the angle of you inside me. Instinctively I move, I undulate and rock against you. I hold myself up on my arms because it increases the intensity and it enables you to fondle my breasts, to reach for them with your mouth by raising your head – which serves to increase the intensity of the angle even more. Christ I could come right now. Or I can push you down and still my body so I can build for a more exquisitely potent orgasm alongside yours in a while. Let’s do that.
Let’s do doggy.
God, You’re close. I can sense it in the fluidity of your thrusting, I can hear it in the rasp of your breathing. Wait. Missi
onary – and quickly! I love it that you sense I’m on the verge of orgasm. I love it that you know my body inside out, that you know to push in and up, your balls nustling against my buttocks, your cock suctioned into perfect position. And your gaze penetrates me one way as your cock penetrates me another and you stare and It’s so intense and you let me rock and writhe as you see deep into my soul while I come.
And then you trace a tenderness of kisses all over my face as the throbs of my body subside. And I love you and I fold my arms around your back and I move against you, letting you pick your rhythm. I love feeling you come. I love hearing the abandon and the desire. Come on, Mr.
Oh. You’re spurting on my stomach.
God, are you that risk averse, Zac?
I’m stuck for words and I feel like crying.
‘Do you want to talk?’
I thought you were asleep, Matt. Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet. I tiptoed in to see Cosima and tripped over her plastic turtle but she didn’t stir. I’m exhausted. I have a headache. But I can’t possibly sleep. There’s so much in my mind, running rings around me, too much to fathom. From the dishwasher to Django, from Cat to Cosima; from stupid meanderings to portentous thoughts. If I bury my face in your chest, can I pretend that everything is OK? Because the sound of your heartbeat can block out all the other stuff. I think sometimes – recently – I Don’t listen carefully enough to your heart. Are you tired, Matt? Because quite to my surprise, I feel rampant and horny. So actually, Matt, no I Don’t want to talk, I just want to fuck. If I imagine myself a porn star, can I forget that Fen is just a frazzled mum with a pile of washing She’s forgotten to hang out and a heap of shit on her shoulders?
ON THE PHONE
Fen was standing in the middle of her sitting-room, looking from a pile of laundry yet to be ironed, to a heap of toys, to a mound of papers and magazines that She’d half sorted into recycling or keeping sub-piles the day before yesterday. She looked at her watch. 10.30 a.m. Was it really worth tidying the toys at this end of the day? No. Was there any real chance She’d do any ironing during daylight hours? No. Was there any point saving papers to be recycled when the bin-men were due to come tomorrow and She’d already missed the recycling service for this week? No.
‘Don’t eat the pebble, Cosima – Mummy give you a rice cake instead.’
Fen looked from rice cake to pebble and thought there probably wasn’t much in it, taste-wise. The phone was ringing.
‘Hi Fen. It’s me – Kate. How are things? How’s little Cosima?’
Fen imagined Kate in her tidy house, her perfect shades of unstained neutral, her toothsome ten-month-old baby happily doing algebra. ‘Oh, great,’ Fen breezed, ‘and you? And Max?’
‘we’re wonderful. Listen, I was wondering – do you fancy coming to the Chelsea Flower Show tomorrow?’
She may as well have said Australia. Or the moon. A lovely idea but somewhat implausible. ‘I’d love to,’ said Fen, ‘but how baby-friendly is it?’
Kate laughed. ‘It Isn’t. That’s the point. Can you get babysitting? We can make a girls’ afternoon of it.’
Fen thought for a moment. She and Matt didn’t have much of a garden, let alone the time or inclination to work the little they did have. But there again, she didn’t have much of a social life either so, though her interest in horticulture and her friendship with Kate were both limited, the notion of an away-day from toys, recycling issues and laundry taunts was certainly attractive. Fen was surprised to find that the thought of being apart from Cosima for more than an hour didn’t seem so unthinkable. She’d phone Pip; wasn’t her sister always offering to babysit after all?
‘Fen?’ Kate prompted.
‘I’d love to,’ Fen said. ‘I’ll phone my sister and let you know this afternoon. We’re meeting at Anna’s at three, aren’t we?’
‘Yes. But actually, can you text me as soon as you know? Because if you can’t make it, I’d like to offer the ticket to Ruth.’
‘Oh. OK. Of course.’ It did then occur to Fen that she herself may not have been Kate’s first choice. But she didn’t dwell on it. She fancied the invitation at any cost, even if She’d been Kate’s last resort. Anyway, she couldn’t be – because apparently Ruth was lower down the rungs than she. It made Fen feel rather smug.
‘Hullo Pip?’
‘Hullo Fen. How’s you? I spoke to Cat on her way to work. She sounded a little brighter.’
‘Good, That’s good.’ Fen paused. ‘Pip – any chance you could have Cosima tomorrow afternoon? It’s just that one of the mums in my group has tickets for the Chelsea Flower Show. And She’s invited me.’
‘Chelsea? Are you now doing a Charlie Dimmock outside, in addition to Sarah Beeny-fying inside?’
Fen laughed. ‘It just sounded different and fun. And aren’t you always telling me I Don’t get out much?’
Pip looked at her Filofax. ‘No problem,’ she told Fen. ‘We have Tom tomorrow but Cosi can do the school run with me. Can you drop her off?’
‘Of course,’ said Fen, loving Pip’s intimacy with her niece but hating the way she abridged her daughter’s name. ‘Thanks, Pip. There’s a bunch of daffs in it for you.’
‘Daffs,’ Pip said, ‘are out of season. You’d better gen up before you go or They’ll make compost out of you.’
‘Dovidels, can I help you!’
Cat had been manning the phone all morning. It was her shift on the information desk at the back of the shop. She was loving her job: the books, the customers, her colleagues. It was more than a distraction, it was a revelation. And she found that to immerse herself in this new world, this lovely space, afforded her hours and hours where she didn’t have the time to think about anything else. No one asked her about herself, they just asked her about books. The information desk put her in good view of the entrance and each time a customer came in She’d fling over a smile, hoping to lure them over, promoting herself as a preferable alternative to shelf-browsing. She unpacked the special orders with enthusiasm, lovingly handling the books and taking much pleasure in announcing their arrival to the customers, as if the books were one-offs, written to order. Mrs Cohen, I’m pleased to tell you that your Laurie Graham is here. Mr O’Connor, good news – your Tom Holt has arrived. And when they came in to collect their copies, She’d hand them over in a most midwifely way. Enjoy, She’d tell them, as she embraced the cover, enjoy.
Jeremy, the manager, was charmed by Cat. He’d never had a writer who wanted to be a bookseller; it was far more usual to be the other way around. He loitered as the phone rang again.
‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’ Cat answered.
The great thing about Cat, thought Jeremy, was that there was never any question mark. Just enthusiasm and energy. She might as well be saying Dovidels! I can help you! and he was in no doubt that, subliminally, this was the way most of their customers heard it. He’d never caught her picking her nails or gazing into the middle distance or clock-watching. During quiet periods, she busied about tidying shelves, checking orders and asking him the secrets of successful bookselling. She was in early, back promptly from her breaks and often stayed late.
‘One moment please,’ she was saying to a caller, ‘the computer says we have two copies – but let me do a shelf check.’ She scurried away, soon racing back, triumphant. ‘Sorry to keep you on hold but yes! We do! I have a copy right here. I’ll put it on one side for you. Pardon? It’s my pleasure! No, thank you.’
‘Cat,’ Jeremy said, ‘head office are coming in this afternoon – I’m going to recommend you for assistant manager.’
Cat blushed and gawped but the phone was ringing and it was her duty to answer it.
‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’
‘You might as well be trilling hi-de-hi,’ Ben’s voice told her. ‘I’m just between patients – thought I’d give you a bell. Your mobile is off, as per usual.’
‘I can’t talk now, Ben,’ Cat scolded him. ‘we’re very busy. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing an
d head office are coming in this afternoon.’
‘I just wanted to ask—’
‘I’ll call you later, Ben,’ Cat said sternly, hanging up with an irritated sigh she ensured Jeremy could hear, lest he felt she condoned or, worse, encouraged personal calls.
‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’
When Ben’s mobile phone rang a minute or two later, he assumed it was Cat returning his call from the sanctuary of a storeroom or somewhere.
‘Babe, I’m just about to see a patient,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you at lunch-time.’
‘Actually It’s not Babe,’ said the voice, ‘It’s Django. McCabe.’
For a suspended moment, Ben found himself wondering why Django had emphasized ‘McCabe’. He really did know just the one Django. And it would only make sense to stress McCabe if the man was now going to refer to himself as Derek. Which, obviously, he wasn’t. Ben’s receptionist was buzzing through the arrival of a patient.
‘Django – good to hear from you,’ Ben said, ‘but I’m just about to see a patient – can I call you afterwards?’
When it came to returning the call, Ben wondered whether to phone Cat first. But no doubt She’d give him short shrift for not being a bona fide Dovidels caller. He dialled Derbyshire. The phone rang unanswered. Ben dialled again, intrigued but slightly uncomfortable. Regardless of his affection for the old man, his allegiance was to Cat and she might well disapprove of this exchange. He’d just see what Django wanted. No harm in that. Keep the call short. He could always press the buzzer himself and invent a patient if the call was lengthy or the subject contentious.
‘Django? Hullo – It’s Ben. Sorry about before.’
‘Hullo Ben, thank you for calling back. I’m no good with these telephone things. I always seem to use them at an inconvenient time. That’s why I Don’t trust the blighters.’
Ben smiled at Django’s characteristically convoluted theory. ‘Don’t worry. It was just a slightly neurotic dancer anyway. Now, What’s up?’