‘Stop him from what?’ Penny called after her as Sarah took off at a dead run back towards the philosophy department. ‘OK so I’ll save us a table!’
Why, why, why can’t I connect the dots? Sarah stabbed the button repeatedly even though she knew it wouldn’t summon the elevator any quicker. ‘Why do we do that?’ she wondered as she gave up and headed for the stairs.
She’d seen the look on Christopher’s face when Jon had entered the auditorium. But she’d been so flummoxed by the presence of her true love she’d failed to recognise what had happened. Her only hope now was to get to Jon’s office before Christopher and …
As soon as she opened the door to the fifth floor she heard the sound of men arguing. Her heart sank, although if they were arguing it meant they hadn’t come to blows – yet.
‘Don’t play cute with me, you pervert.’
‘Get out or I’ll call security.’
‘Big baby teacher is afraid of the black kid from the Islands?’
‘You’re making no sense, Christopher.’
‘You think it makes sense to mark my friend, your student’s, ass the way you did?’
Fuck.
Sarah slipped in the open door and closed it behind her. ‘Christopher, it wasn’t him.’
She was just in time. Both men were standing. Christopher was rolling up his sleeves, something he never did because he was always cold. He obviously meant business. Jon’s fists were clenched at his sides. He glared at her.
‘I’m sorry Jon – Professor Trelawney.’ Sarah glared at Christopher. ‘It wasn’t him. Got that through your thick skull?’
‘But –’
‘But nothing. Not him.’
‘But –’ The expression on Christopher’s face would’ve been comical if the situation hadn’t been so dire. ‘He didn’t … Those welts aren’t from … I just assumed …’
Jon spoke. ‘You assumed because I’m English that I’m responsible for the marks I’ve come to understand that my student, Ms Meadows, bears on her bottom?’
Christopher nodded miserably. ‘That sums it up, sir. Very nicely, may I add.’
‘From one island man to another, Christopher, I’d call that stereotyping.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I never fuck with my students. Never.’ Jon’s tone was even, his volume low, but the look on his face was terrible to see. Still, Sarah noticed that he’d unclenched his fists.
‘I understand, sir. I just wanted –’
‘– to protect your girl?’
‘I’m not his girl,’ interjected Sarah.
‘Then who –’ Christopher gestured to her bum.
‘Jesus Christ, Christopher,’ she hissed. ‘None of your business.’
‘Right. OK then. I’m glad we cleared that up.’ Christopher tried a friendly smile. ‘Do you like chicken wings, sir? I’d be honoured if you’d join us, my treat, of course.’
‘Go!’ Sarah threw the door open.
‘Again, my apologies, Professor Trelawney,’ said Christopher. ‘Should I wait for you?’ He smiled sheepishly at Sarah.
‘I’ll be along in a minute. Get out.’
Christopher shuffled off down the hall, his head hung low.
Sarah shut the door. ‘I’m sorry. He jumped to conclusions. I’ve never breathed a word about us. Not to anyone.’
‘Nor have I, Sarah. But I applaud his desire to protect his friend.’
‘OK, fine, we’re friends with benefits.’
‘Are they as bad as he says?’ He tilted his head towards her rear, his face expressing nothing but a somewhat fatherly concern.
‘You tell me.’ Sarah turned her back to him and leant forwards, pressing her face to the wall and jutting out her bum. Somewhat to her surprise, Jon lifted her skirt.
He cleared his throat. ‘I can see how the uninitiated might think this constitutes abuse. It is a rather severe set of marks. Quite professional. The crop?’
Sarah nodded. She glanced over her shoulder. His cheeks were tinged with pink. She already knew hers were blazing scarlet, she could feel the heat radiating from her face. But Jon, blushing? Surely he wasn’t embarrassed. Envious? Excited?
He met her eyes with an even look. ‘They’ll fade,’ he said. He let her skirt drop.
‘They always do,’ she said. Sarah turned to face him once more. ‘Why the concern?’
‘I’m concerned about the well-being of all my students.’
That stung. One more reminder of how little she meant to him. ‘Right. Well, it’s nothing. Business as usual.’
She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
‘Sarah?’ Jon hesitated in the doorway.
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful out there.’
‘You bet,’ she said, heading off to kill Christopher.
23
SARAH TAPPED THE nipple on the baby’s bottle against her wrist. The milk was warm but not hot. Perfect. Little Bengie had had his lunch and playtime. He should be ready for stories and a nap by now. She carried the bottle and the storybook she’d selected and returned to the pale blue and yellow painted nursery.
He seemed intent on his building blocks but when she entered he looked up with a beatific smile. One swipe of his fist and the tower he’d built was gone. He giggled with delight.
‘Funny Bengie,’ said Sarah. She settled in the oversized beanbag chair and tapped her knees. ‘Come sit with Mommy and we’ll have a story and a baba.’
‘Baba!’ Bengie lumbered on all fours across the room, gazing at her with the stunned delight of babies everywhere.
Veronica hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Sarah this would be her strangest date yet. No sex, no discipline, no dirty talk. Just mommy and baby at home. Kisses and cuddles and pampering and playtime. Nonetheless, Sarah would’ve turned it down had Veronica not assured her that, pre-verbal though this baby might be, the precocious tot was fully potty trained.
So far, so good. She’d improvised madly for the first hour or so, thankful for the weeks her improvisation class had spent discovering the inner clown. That at least helped her be playful. The rest she’d tapped from TV and movie moms she’d liked as a kid: a little of the mom in E.T., a smidgeon of Mrs Potts and a whole lot of Bambi’s mother. As time passed and she became more comfortable in her role, she’d been able to relax into the scene and play an exaggerated version of herself.
It hadn’t been easy, getting used to this big baby. He was about thirty, chubby enough to keep his baby face and little belly, but not fat. Still young, in the grand scheme of things, young enough to get past this and have a real relationship.
Sarah returned his affection with an adoring gaze of her own, doing her best to convey maternal love to this jumbo bundle of joy. ‘Come up.’ She tapped her knees. Bengie scrambled onto the beanbag chair and lay with his head in the crook of her elbow. It was a good thing her arm was supported by beans. The rest of him stretched from the end of the chair onto a futon on the floor. All in all, this nap area was surprisingly comfortable for both of them. Cosy even. She drew his blankie up over the sailor suit she’d changed him into after his messy lunch, and propped the storybook on his chest.
‘Once upon a time …’ she began.
‘Baba!’ Bengie frowned mightily.
‘Poor baby!’ Sarah covered his chubby cheeks with kisses. He beamed. She teased the nipple into his mouth. He gripped his baba with both big hands and sucked contentedly.
‘Once upon a time …’ she began again. She couldn’t actually recall her mother ever reading her a story. It must’ve happened, although her parents had been busy, her dad with work and her mom with the National Organization of Women and their various causes. Her childhood had been similar to the one portrayed in the movie Mary Poppins – without, of course, the magical Ms Poppins herself.
It was easy enough to read aloud and allow her thoughts to wander, she discovered. She’d grown up in institutions of learning. A highly structured nursery school
, then day care, then elementary school and so on to the present day. Until she’d moved out she’d been home for supper, homework and bed. Much of that time had been spent with her father as her mom was always on the phone or on the road.
What must it have been like when her mom had discovered that while she fought for the rights of the women her daughters would become she’d missed their childhoods? No wonder she wanted grandchildren now. Another chance to cuddle a baby. Who wouldn’t want that?
She glanced at Bengie. His eyes were half-closed, but he was watching her. She jiggled her elbow a little, letting his head settle more deeply into the crook of her arm. It was mesmerising, this job of cuddling Junior.
Her instructions had been very clear. Once he fell asleep she was to hold him for at least fifteen minutes, then turn on the CD player so he’d have music to sleep by and let herself out. This funny day was almost over.
‘… and they lived happily ever after.’ Sarah closed the book and gently set it aside.
She stroked Bengie’s cheek. ‘Good little baby boy. Mommy loves her baby,’ she said. Bengie cooed his delight.
‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word …’ Sarah began to sing the only lullaby she knew all the words to. It was a good one though. She rocked from side to side, lulling him to sleep.
What motivated him? Why did he want this so badly he’d turned one bedroom of his home into a nursery and hired someone to come playmommy to his baby? Was he healing some awful wound from his youth or just getting in touch with his inner child? Would he get better? Did he even need to get better?
She muddled the words to the song and focused all her attention on it. It was nice, anyway, to still her thoughts and lose herself in the moment. If Bengie wasn’t genuinely sleeping he was very good at pretending to be. The nipple hung loose in his open mouth, the bottle almost empty. She tilted it up so he could finish it if he was so inclined. His lips sucked instinctively, then stopped. She tugged the bottle free and set it aside.
‘Dear little Bengie,’ she whispered. She brushed a soft lock of his hair free of his closed eyes. She rocked sideways, humming, being with baby for as long as possible. When her arm grew numb she slid out from under him as carefully as she could. She tucked the blanket up to his chin and turned on the music. A classical lullaby played.
When he awoke he’d tidy up everything and change into his adult clothes, ready to face the adult world. But for now, Baby Bengie was sleeping like a cherub. Sarah felt tears prickling the backs of her eyes. He really was a dear little thing. She wasn’t sure she was ready for the adult world, but ready or not it was clearly time to go.
24
THE LETTERS ON the screen blurred. Sarah rubbed her eyes. These footnotes were killing her. But her final paper for her ethics class was due tomorrow and there was no way she’d be late with it. Sarah was deeply satisfied with the actual essay. She’d had to do a lot of medical research in order to link the indications of Asperger’s syndrome with the prophets and philosophers of old. Much more research would be required to bolster her hypothesis in any true academic manner but she’d managed to present it with confidence and a certain amount of elegance.
She hoped it would blast right to the marrow of Trelawney’s teacherly bones. Nothing but top marks would suffice. However, since a one-on-one interview with the professor regarding the final paper was one of the requirements of the course and she had no intention of fulfilling it, she needed a perfect paper to manage a top grade.
As she wasn’t going on to do a master’s, the mark didn’t matter as much as it might have, but she was damned if she’d bring her brilliant grade point average down now. In a few weeks she’d be graduating and she fully intended to do so at the top of her class. She would have a Bachelor Degree in Philosophy, with Honours.
After she’d blown Jon’s mind with her perfect paper and her perfectly presented bibliography and pages and pages of flawless finicky footnotes, she promised herself, she’d be free to blow her brains out. Which was what she felt like doing every time she relived the last time she’d seen him, his blushing student and one time bedmate, the one with the striped ass and the avenging suitor. Oh God. Oh Jesus. Don’t go there.
Laboriously crediting Plato’s works made Sarah think of Nancy and the New Year’s party. Another fiasco, though they’d managed to salvage their clients: Nancy with the mister and Sarah with the missus. More than salvage them in fact; they’d requested a repeat visit from both girls. Her first double date was with the one escort Sarah loathed.
Still, it was time do a double and she’d decided to see girl on girl as just another kink. She’d give it her best college try. Not with Nancy, of course, she’d made that clear to Veronica, but if Caroline Pettifer wanted to play she wouldn’t object. A frisson ran through her at the thought of their New Year’s Eve make-out session. She wouldn’t object in the least.
Her intercom buzzed. She hoped it was Christopher; she hadn’t seen much of him in the last few weeks, her preference, not his, but she couldn’t stay mad at him for ever. Not when it was possible that soon she might never see him again. She felt another frisson at the thought of her FWB. The voice on the other end disappointingly belonged to David ‘no frisson ’cause he’s fusty’ Caruthers.
‘It’s me. Open the door.’
Sarah did as she was bid, albeit reluctantly. She had no time to waste. Sarah stayed at her desk, only swivelling away from her work when the door opened. She asked, as if she cared, ‘How are the allergies?’
David looked terrible, like he’d just witnessed a fatal accident or a vicious crime. He dropped his jacket on the floor and stalked towards her. ‘Is it true?’
‘What?’ Sarah paled. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
‘Are you a hooker?’ He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Are you a whore? Tell me the truth.’
‘Let me go.’
‘Why? I’m told you like it rough.’
‘And stop yelling at me.’
‘Why? Should I be afraid you won’t love me any more? You never loved me.’ He released her with a shove, sending her chair crashing into her desk.
‘I did!’
‘Not since your goddam birthday. Look!’ He pulled a ring box from his coat pocket and threw it onto her desk. ‘I had it all planned. A surprise party for your birthday, your parents here to see me propose, a congratulatory glass of champagne, your first drink a toast to our engagement. How perfect is that? Your parents go to their hotel and I make love to you.’
‘David, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re supposed to make the person you’re trying to surprise think you forgot. That’s supposed to work in the party giver’s favour. Goddam it.’ David banged his fist on the cupboard above her desk. It opened, revealing several bottles of hard liquor. ‘Hah! Just what I need. Whiskey!’
‘Be careful –’
‘You shut up.’ David unscrewed the bottle and tipped it to his lips. He gulped without gagging. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I’m an escort. You saw the kind of work I do. Car conventions and –’
He shook his head. ‘No. See, now you’re just lying to me.’ He leant over the back of her chair and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Sarah tried to shake him off but he was strong, surprisingly so. Slowly he turned her head up until he could see her eyes. ‘Say it. “Yes, David, I’m a whore.”’
‘I can’t,’ she whimpered.
He put his free hand to her neck, holding her without constricting her breathing. ‘How much are you worth?’
‘It’s not like that! I –’
‘It’s exactly like that.’ The hand at her throat dropped to the buttons of her pyjama top. He flicked them open, exposing her breasts.
‘Don’t –’ Sarah started pleading but his response was to shake her by the fistful of hair he still held.
‘Sit still.’ He dropped his head to her breasts and nuzzled each in turn, none too gently, before clamping his teeth onto first one nipple and then the o
ther.
‘Oh God,’ moaned Sarah. Was her boyfriend raping her? She was incredibly turned on by his behaviour, but he wasn’t acting, he was really pissed off. So why was she suddenly so hot for him? It was sick, sick but true. ‘Kiss me, David,’ she murmured.
‘Shut up,’ he said again. It thrilled her.
David lifted his hand. Sarah rose with it. He marched her to the bed. If she was going to put a stop to this she’d have to do so right now. No way. Sarah wanted to give him her best, not some dewy-eyed virginal fuck but a real roll in the hay. She wanted David’s best in return. His anger was making him wild. She wanted that wildness inside her.
When they got to the bed he released her hair. Drop your pants, whore,’ he said.
Sarah did so.
‘Now get down on your hands and knees on the bed, head down and ass up.’
She did.
‘Now beg for it.’
Sarah turned her head to see him. He was unbuckling his belt. Dear God. ‘Please fuck me, David, please, I need you so badly.’
‘… because I am a dirty slut who likes it up the bum.’
‘Because … I am a dirty slut who likes it up the bum.’
‘A cunt who comes for money.’
‘I’m a cunt who comes for money.’
He unzipped his fly. ‘A horny bitch who fucks for nickels.’
She’d never been so excited. Christ, how deep did her depravity go? This was not a safe game, not at all, but she could no more rein it in than woo him back. This was no make-up sex, this was goodbye, and if she let him go without taking this scene to its climax she feared she’d never forgive herself.
David climbed onto the bed behind her and spread her knees with his. He put his hands to the cheeks of her thankfully no longer bruised ass and split them as casually as one might split a peach. He spit on his thumb and used it to open her bum hole.
‘David, I –’
‘Dammit, slut, if you’re not going to stick to the lines I give you then just shut up!’ He smacked her ass with his free hand, a resounding slap, and then another.
There was a tearing sound, then fumbling. David was putting on a condom, likely for his own protection, not hers. She felt his jeans-clad legs up against her bare ones, his cock replaced his thumb at the entrance to her back tunnel, and then he was thrusting, hard, steadily deeper.
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