by Sue Margolis
Stephanie and Frank went to the pub across the road. When he asked her what she fancied to drink, she was in no doubt. “Ooh, a very large vodka and tonic, please.” While he got the drinks she sat down at a table and wondered if she should ask him what happened between him and Anoushka. She decided against it, on the grounds that it was none of her business. In the end he brought it up himself. “Our backgrounds were just too different. I think what she really wanted was one of those posh city types. It’s funny, I can do them onstage, but at home I’m still Frank Waterman from Watford, who likes brown sauce sandwiches. It was never going to work. I can’t believe it took me eighteen months to see it.” She told him that at least he realized things weren’t right before they got married.
“You know,” she went on, “I like them with those individually wrapped slices of processed cheese.”
“What?”
“Brown sauce sandwiches.” He made the point that then they became processed cheese sandwiches with brown sauce, rather than just brown sauce sandwiches. They argued for a minute or so, but finally she conceded the point. Somehow—maybe the vodka helped—the conversation went from processed cheese slices to Shakespeare. It turned out that Frank had just been offered a part in Twelfth Night, which was due to go into production in the late autumn. “I’m playing Orsino,” he said. She didn’t say anything. He gave her a quizzical look. “What are you thinking?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Yes, it is. I can see by your face.” He was looking at her, smiling—head tilted slightly to one side. “All right,” she said, “can I tell you something I’ve never told another living soul?”
“Absolutely.”
She stared into her empty glass. “No, I can’t. Forget it. You’ll be offended.” She was feeling really awkward now. She turned her face down. Frank reached across, put his hand under her chin and gently tilted it so that she was facing him again. For a few seconds their eyes were locked.
“I won’t be offended. Promise.” He took his hand away. Since she had been rather enjoying the feeling of his skin against hers, she found herself wishing he had left it there. “Go on,” he said.
Gawd. She wished she hadn’t started this. “OK, well, it’s just that I think Shakespeare’s comedies are a bit crap, really. Total absence of any good jokes, in my opinion.”
He threw back his head and roared. “I agree.”
“Really?” she said, utterly taken aback by his reaction. “You do?”
“Totally. I mean, all the cross-dressing and ridiculously unbelievable coincidences.”
“Yeah,” she said, “and those ludicrous lines like: ‘He has not so much brains as earwax.’ Like—hello, when exactly is the funny bit coming?”
By now she was warming to her theme, unaware that Frank was utterly transfixed. “I mean, I can understand that audiences found it funny four hundred years ago, but I just don’t think people are being honest when they say it still works today. It’s just the height of middle-class pretension, in my opinion. Oh, God, now I sound really arsey, don’t I?”
“Only a bit,” he said, still laughing. “But I do think you have a point. Ask me to choose between Shakespeare and Woody Allen and I know who I’d pick.”
“Oh, I adore Woody Allen,” she said. She said when she felt miserable she fried bacon and rented Annie Hall. She didn’t have the courage to confess that when she was really miserable she watched The Sound of Music. She felt she’d already made enough of a fool of herself. “I love the lobster scene,” she went on. He said his favorite was Love and Death.
Soon they got to chatting about their time in Cabaret at the Nottingham Playhouse. He reminded her of the time in the Trip to Jerusalem pub when she sang “My Melancholy Baby.” “I had a bit of a crush on you after that.” He started swirling the ice around in his glass. She could see his face was turning slightly pink.
“You did?” she said, desperately trying to conceal her shock. When she asked him why he never said anything, he said he had a girlfriend back in London. “It’s ironic. After the show ended, I moved back to London and we split up.”
She asked him where he lived now. When he said Muswell Hill, she couldn’t believe it. His flat and her house were just a few streets away from each other. Neither of them could understand how their paths had never crossed.
They fell into silence. “Listen,” Frank said, clearing his throat, “I was wondering if maybe you fancied …”
But she didn’t hear him because Dennis and Ian from the band had suddenly appeared and were congratulating her on being taken on by Ossie Da Costa. “You were just great up there tonight, Steph,” Dennis said. “Absolutely great.”
After the kisses and hugs, she introduced Frank. “Och, no need for introductions,” Ian said, smiling broadly and extending a hand toward Frank. “This man’s famous. We know who he is, all right.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Frank said to the two men. “It’s my round. What are you drinking?”
While Frank went off to get the drinks, Ian said how much they were going to miss her.
“Miss me?”
“Ah, well, with Ossie Da Costa managing you, you’ll have your name up in lights in no time. You’ll no’ be hanging around the Blues Café much longer.”
She said she wasn’t so sure. “All depends what work Ossie finds me.”
It was the first time she’d given any real thought to leaving. It suddenly hit her how sad she would be to leave. The boys in the band were almost family. She was in the middle of telling them how much she would miss them if she left and that she would always pop in to hear them play, when her mobile rang.
“Principessa? It’s me. Listen, I’m really worried about Jake. He’s been up for a couple of hours crying with stomach pains. He looks real pale and says he wants to throw up. The pain seems to be just on his right side. I’m worried it could be appendicitis.”
She was already on her feet, reaching for her coat. “OK, just hang on. I’m on my way. If he gets any worse dial 999.”
“Christ, what is it?” Dennis said. She explained, realizing that she was starting to shake. “Look, I’m really sorry to break up the party.” They told her not to be so daft. Ian, the only one who’d driven in, offered to give her a lift. She said thanks but no thanks, since his car was parked in the garage miles away. It occurred to her that Frank might be able to take her home.
The area round the bar was heaving. She stood on tiptoe, trying to spot Frank, but couldn’t. Then she realized he’d probably gone to the gents. By now she was starting to panic. Deciding that she had no time to hang around, she charged back to where the band was sitting. She told them she was going to get a cab and asked them to tell Frank what had happened.
Jake’s suspected appendicitis turned out to be a severe case of broccoli-induced wind.
“You know how he loves it,” Albert said. “He thinks he’s eating baby trees. I guess I gave him too much tonight. Anyway, he let out this mega fart about ten minutes ago. He’s fine now. Sound asleep.”
Of course, Stephanie had to see for herself. She ran upstairs. Jake was lying on his back as usual, peacefully zizzing his label in his sleep. Gently, she pushed back his fringe and kissed his forehead. “Night-night, sweetheart. And no more frights, please, at least not for a bit.”
It was only as she walked back downstairs that the panicky feeling fully subsided and she felt her heart rate come back to normal. In the kitchen Albert was gathering up curry cartons. “You know, you really do look amazing in that dress,” he said. “That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to take it off, right now.”
She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Did Jake ruin your poker game?”
“Not really. I was already fifty quid down by the time he woke up. I let the guys carry on without me. So, come on, I’m dying to know, how did it go?”
“Great. Sidney wants me. I’m seeing Ossie on Monday and he’s going to explain the secret project thing.”
“S
ee, what did I tell you?” Albert said, dropping a cigar butt into an untouched carton of raita. “I knew he would.” Then he came over and hugged her and told her how proud of her he was.
Still high on adrenaline, she gabbled away about how nervous she’d been, how the audience had made her do an encore at the end. “And Sidney Doucette behaves like he’s just stepped out of Gone With the Wind. Every time he spoke I felt I should be batting my eyes at him from under a parasol and telling him I was mighty obliged.”
“Great. That’s really great. Say, do we have any of those black plastic trash bags?”
“Cupboard under the sink,” she said. Then she shot him a puzzled look. “I don’t understand. What’s great? Albert, have you heard a word I’ve been saying?”
“Sorry, principessa,” he said, pulling a plastic sack from off the roll, “I was miles away. Jake really wore me out tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault,” he said, shaking out the bag. He held it open while she filled it with curry cartons. “Oh, by the way, one of the guys who was here tonight wants to sell his Harley. He’s only asking four grand. For a two-year-old Harley, that’s a bargain. What do you think? The thing is I’m starting to feel real guilty about borrowing Tom’s bike the whole time.”
She said it sounded reasonable to her and that he should go for it. “You can keep it garaged here.”
“That’s what I figured.”
He put the rubbish bag down by the back door and came and stood in front of her. “You know, we really should celebrate your success. It’s been a bit of a night for both of us. I think we need something to unwind.”
“Umm, a glass of wine would be nice,” she said.
“I wasn’t thinking of alcohol,” he said, bringing her toward him and grinning.
“Ah.”
He pulled down one of her dress straps and began kissing her shoulder. “So, who did you go to the pub with?”
“Oh, just Dennis and Ian from the band.” She was aware that she hadn’t mentioned Frank. Why? Nothing had happened between them. He was just an old mate who’d come to hear her sing and taken her for a drink afterward, that’s all. Then why hadn’t she said anything and why was she feeling guilty? She knew exactly why. The excitement she’d felt when she thought Frank was about to kiss her was still with her. “Come on,” she whispered, as he pulled down the zip on the back of her dress, “we both agreed sex would complicate things.”
“No, you said sex would complicate things.”
“Yes, but I thought you agreed.”
“I just reneged,” he grinned.
“You can’t renege. Anyway, you just said you were tired.”
“You know me,” he said. “I’m never that tired.” He lifted off the other shoulder strap and began easing the dress down. She stepped out of it. He looked at her in her bra, stockings and high heels and gave a soft whistle.
“But I’m tired,” she said, realizing that much as she tried to stop it, the moment she and Frank almost kissed kept gate-crashing her thoughts. “It’s been a bit of a night and all I really want to do is sleep.”
“Really?” he said, stroking her breast. “Are you sure that’s all you want to do?” She let out a tiny whimper. Albert was like catnip: addictive and utterly irresistible. Finally he kissed her on the mouth. As she felt his tongue deep inside her, moisture began seeping from between her legs and thoughts of Frank started to fade.
“I love this bit of you,” he said, stroking the back of his hand against her inner thigh, just above her stocking top. “It’s so soft.” She felt a delectable quivering in her stomach. He whispered to her to spread her legs. He pulled the crotch of her pants to one side. By now the blood was rushing through her ears. With a teasingly light touch he ran his fingers over her labia. She let out a soft moan. She was desperate for him to separate her, to find her swollen, aching clitoris.
“Please,” she murmured.
He smiled and told her not to be in such a hurry. The gentle stroking carried on, him ignoring her tiny whimpers of frustration. When he finally parted her, she cried out in delight. As his fingers glided back and forth, they kissed again. Again he stopped. She let out another cry of frustration.
He told her to turn around. Gently he pushed her down over the table and pulled her pants down. There was a bottle of hand cream on the window ledge over the sink. He went over and got it. She heard him flip open the lid. A moment later she felt the thick, cold liquid drizzle onto her bottom. Slowly he began massaging it into her skin. Then he brushed his fingers between her wet bottom cheeks toward her clitoris. She begged him to rub harder, faster, but he wouldn’t. He simply carried on teasing her. Finally he stopped completely. She cried out as he pushed two fingers up hard inside her. As he explored her, he kissed the back of her neck, ran his tongue between her shoulder blades. By now her breathing had become slow and deep. She could feel herself floating, drifting away into a kind of trance. She was vaguely aware of him undoing his belt and pulling down the zip on his jeans. Instead of his fingers probing her now, she felt the warm tip of his penis. It was jabbing at her, stretching her, threatening to come inside her, but holding back. She pleaded with him to come inside her.
“Shh, just relax.”
When it finally happened, the thrust was deep, almost violent. She cried out at the tiny, exquisite pain. He eased off. The thrusts became slower, more gentle. He found her clitoris again, his fingers sliding over it in firm circular motions. The quivering started to build up inside her like small bursts of laughter. She was frightened he would stop again, but he didn’t. “There you go,” he whispered. “There you go.” She thought the sublime shuddering inside her would never end.
Albert gave one final, hard thrust. She could feel him holding his breath, digging his fingers into her buttocks. Finally he relaxed. He brought his lips to the small of her back and kissed her.
As they stood facing each other, Stephanie doing up her bra, Albert kissed her on the cheek. “You know, principessa,” he said, “we really are great together.”
She had to agree they were indeed great. She could tell by his expression that he was waiting for her to say he could move in and that she wanted the two of them and Jake to be a family, but she couldn’t. Not yet. “I’m just not ready,” she said. It felt so mean saying it, particularly as they’d just had such great sex. Why hadn’t she shown some backbone and kept her promise about not sleeping with Albert until she’d gotten her feelings sorted out? Oh, and why had Frank suddenly popped back into her mind? “I know I’m stringing you out with all this. Do you think you can be patient for just a bit longer?”
“It’s fine,” he said, stroking her face. “There’s no hurry.”
Chapter 11
Estelle was on the phone first thing, to find out how the audition had gone.
“He wants you? Oh, darling, that’s wonderful. Hang on, let me tell your father … Harry!” Stephanie jerked the phone from her ear a moment too late. “He can’t hear me. He’s on the other line talking to the people at London Online. He came home last night to nineteen junk e-mails, ten of them asking if he wanted his septic tank overhauled. Harry! Harry! You off the phone yet?” Stephanie winced and changed ears for a second time. “Harry! … He still can’t hear me. Harry! It’s great news. He wants her … What do you mean, ‘Who wants her?’ Sidney Doucette wants Stephanie … Your dad says brilliant and well done. You know, sweetie, we’re so proud of you. So, come on, what is it he has in mind for you, this Ossie?”
Stephanie explained how he’d left the Blues Café before she’d had a chance to ask. “But how could you have let him go without telling you?” Estelle said in that familiar reproachful tone of hers. “You should have pinned him down, made him tell you what he has in mind.”
Stephanie said everything had happened so fast. “One minute he was there, the next he was walking away.”
“This would never have happened if your father and I had been there. I kn
ew we should have come.”
Stephanie took a deep breath and did her best to visualize her floaty ball. “So,” she said, forcing a smile because she’d read in some magazine that “forcing the smile helps you feel the smile,” “how was the Masonic do?”
Estelle said it had been a complete bore. The tedium had only been relieved by the grand master’s tiddly wife—“You remember Sylvia Epstein, chin so pointed, she could use it to get pickles out of a jar”—crumbling Valium onto her crème caramel to give it some crunch.
“So,” her mother went on, “did you manage to get anything out of your grandma yet, about this man she’s been seeing?”
Tactfully avoiding the fuck-buddy issue, she explained that Lilly had dumped him. “But there’s somebody else. Her teacher from tai chi.”
Estelle was aghast. “What, some lad?” Stephanie explained that he was in his seventies. Estelle said that was all right, then. “When you think about it—teacher and pupil—it’s all rather sweet, really.”
Having to wait until Monday to find out precisely what the Da Costa/Doucette secret project involved was frustrating to say the least. Stephanie tried to reach Ossie all Friday morning but kept getting his voice mail. So what did he have in mind for her? Lizzie and Cass were still convinced she’d landed the lead in a West End musical.
She felt a rush of excitement. “God, suppose I have?” she heard herself say to Cass. “Can you imagine? It would be better than winning the lottery.” Petrified of blowing her chances because she’d said too much, she decided to change the subject. “By the way, Frank turned up to hear me sing and we went for a drink afterward. But before that, there was one of those moments when I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t.”
“And you’re still telling me he doesn’t fancy you?”
“OK, maybe I was wrong.”
“And did you want him to kiss you?”