by Jo Verity
He turned the heating down a notch and tried, not for the first time, to fathom out why they had ended up together. He’d first seen Fay – in fact he’d firstheard her – in the college cafeteria, holding forth about inadequate grants, whipping up a gaggle of lethargic students, instructing them to hoist their banners and join the protest march. She was a different creature from the sallow, sulky girls that pursued him up and down the valley. Confident and urbane. Intelligent. Brave. Shockingly foul mouthed. It had amazed him that so much noise could issue from the diminutive redhead with the startling green eyes and cheeky breasts. Dafydd Morgan was with him at the time and he was used to his best friend, a good-looking, cocky bastard, getting any girl he wanted, and wanting them even more if he sensed another man was interested. Going in to the second year of their course, Dafydd already had seventeen notches on his double bed-head, so it had come as a flattering surprise when Fay gave Dafydd the cold shoulder – ‘Arrogant, mouthy little prick,’ were her exact words – and chose him as her suitor.
Sex; love; marriage; parenthood. Yes, for the first few years he and Fay had functioned well together, in an ‘opposites are complementary’ kind of way, and, if anything, he’d been the one needing support through several episodes of self-doubt. To be honest, it was easier having an independent wife than one who looked to him to take the lead, but he accepted that it may have made him lazy when it came to teamwork. Then again, if his life was so bloody satisfactory, why was he risking it all for a stolen glimpse of a young woman?
He hovered a hundred feet above the earth, watching one Jack Waterfield driving through the winding lanes that lead away from Llangwm; taking the main road that climbed over the mountain and down the other side, past the reservoirs, pewter-coloured and grim in the moonlight; joining the dual carriageway that led travellers home to ugly-sounding places and inconsequential lives.
Vi had commandeered the sitting room and was watching a television programme about a pensioner who had won several millions on the lottery. Neil was in the kitchen, clearing up after supper and being far too cheerful. Fay, feeling marginalised but without the energy to defend her territory, hid behind the shed and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession before retreating to the dining room to mark Year Ten essays on ‘The Role of the Fool in Shakespeare’s Tragedies’.
She had only three more to tackle when car tyres crunched on the gravelled drive. She hurried to the front door, pausing in the hall when she caught sight of a dumpy, middle-aged school-teacher in the mirror. Mrs Fay Waterfield, aged fifty-three, Head of English. She placed her fists on her hips and pushed as hard as she could, as if brute force could pulverise the adipose padding. Then, turning sideways-on, she took a deep breath and stood tall, thrusting out her chest whilst pressing the bulge below the waistband of her skirt with the palm of her hand. For a few seconds she managed to thrust back time.
The security light came on and, through the frosted glass panel in the front door, she watched Jack coming up the path, feeling an unaccustomed satisfaction that he was home.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ he asked when she clung to him, nestling her forehead into his soft beard. ‘Sure there’s nothing wrong?’
‘No. Nothing specific. Just a shitty day.’
Neil came out of the kitchen, pulling up sharp when he saw them, intimate and entwined. Suddenly and unexpectedly, Fay felt aroused. It was the sensation that she experienced whenever Cassidy looked at her, but it wasn’t Neil causing the hot flush, centred in the small of her back and the tingle in her intestines – or lower down. No, it was having someone observe her intimacy with Jack. A sort of Peeping Tom, in reverse.
She exaggerated her movements to ensure that Jack understood what was happening – and what she’d decided was about to happen. He pulled away but she locked her arms around his neck, clamping him tighter to her, pushing herself hard against him, squirming slightly. ‘I think we should get an early night,’ she said, as though unaware of Neil’s presence.
Jack struggled to untangle himself. ‘Fay… Neil’s…’
Fay turned her head to glance at Neil. ‘Oops,’ she giggled.
‘No worries...’ Neil darted past them, taking the stairs two at a time, clearly desperate to reach the safe haven of his room.
Fay, throwing herself into the role of seductress, pulled at the knot of Jack’s tie, loosening it while she groped for his belt buckle with her other hand.
‘Fay…’ Jack, no longer resistant, was breathing more quickly.
She felt powerful and reckless. ‘Is that a drill in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?’ Hackneyed, maybe, but nevertheless effective.
‘What? What are you talking about? What about Mum? What’s she…? Aagghh.’ He moaned gently as she pushed her hand inside the back of his boxer shorts, encountering dampness around his buttocks. Things were hotting up.
‘Never mind her. Concentrate on me. Because I’m going to fuck you.’ The English teacher in her bemoaned the lack of elegant indecent vocabulary. ‘I’m going to fuck your brains out.’ Merely uttering the crude phrase increased her tingle to a throb.
Yanking his tie, she led him up the stairs and along the landing to their bedroom. He followed without complaint. Neither of them spoke but Jack’s occasional tremulous moan must have been audible to Neil, and he would certainly have heard the unambiguous clatter as she locked them in their bedroom.
Now they were alone, Fay could call a halt to her performance – because her seduction of Jack had started as out as play acting. But there was a moment, maybe when he’d cried out, when she stopped pretending. She had not felt like this for years and, sensing that it might well be achievable, hungered for an earth-moving climax, something she hadn’t experienced since before Kingsley was born. After twenty-three years of near-misses and disappointingly minor successes, she’d accepted that their physical relationship was limited. Their sexual shortcomings had been a taboo subject, even with her closest friends, because it implied failure and she was loath to admit that she’d failed at anything. Besides, this animal behaviour, messy and crude as it was, had always slightly disgusted her and left her with a guilty aftertaste. Until today…
It didn’t need a professional therapist to suggest that the reason she was, in classroom parlance, ‘gagging for it’, was probably because power, in all it’s manifestations, had always stimulated her. It was obvious. She was a born dominatrix, and her only regrets were, firstly, that it had taken her this long to realise it and, second, that she’d never seen any pornographic films to give her a few pointers. Jack had once suggested that they watched something called Spanking Party, but she’d banished him to the spare room for a week. It helped the current situation considerably, though, to imagine that Cassidy was spying on them, through a one-way mirror.
Jack appeared to be in shock and it was clear that, if she wished things to reach a satisfactory conclusion, she needed to encourage him. She pushed him backwards on to the bed and straddled him, her knees sinking in to the feather duvet, the button on the waistband of her skirt popping under the strain. She squirmed around on his groin area and was gratified to feel him burst into life. At last he was getting into the swing of it and he pushed his cold hands beneath her tee-shirt, unfastening her bra and pulling the whole lot over her head. The air cooled her skin and it was wonderful to be free from the tight elastic around her chest. She leaned forward, moving from side to side, dragging her nipples across his face, smothering him with her full breasts. ‘Lick me’, she instructed. It was her turn to moan now.
An understanding passed between them – she would tell him exactly what to do and he would comply with her instructions. For the twenty minutes that followed, they did just that. It was messy, noisy, athletic, inventive and totally successful.
Jack was unable to sleep, although there had been instants when he’d assumed that he was already dreaming. At that moment Fay’s left leg was looped around his waist, heavy and clammy with sweat. In the room along the corrido
r, Neil was playing something blues-y with a heavy bass beat. His mother was muttering to herself as she came slowly up the stairs. ‘I don’t know...can’t understand…never used to…’ Disgruntled and complaining, she made her way to bed. On her way past, she tapped on the door. ‘Fay? I’ve pulled the plugs out and locked the back door. But I’ve left the chain off so Jack can get in.’ Thank God she’d failed to notice his car in the drive.
What an extraordinary day it had been. At twelve-thirty he’d been draining an abscess and now, ten forty-seven by his clock-radio, he was recovering from violent, glorious sex with a woman whom he’d decided, less than an hour earlier, he no longer cared about. He’d reached this harsh conclusion on the dual carriageway, passing the B&Q Warehouse. The huge sign, crude and orange, loomed up, a warning of what lay ahead if he didn’t act soon. DIY. Little runs in the country. Bingo. Failing eyesight. Arthritis. Meals-on-Wheels. Incontinence. And, all the while, Fay would be at his side, nagging and sniping and mocking. Then, bang, it would be all over. Kingsley had been the smart one. He’d grasped what life held in store for those who got on that treadmill and kept walking. Like Kingsley, Jack had made up his mind to get off.
His plan, still embryonic when he’d reached the front door, was to leave Fay, wind up the practice and move to Llangwm. He’d help out at The Welcome Stranger – maybe at the nursery, too, if Non and her partner needed an extra pair of hands – in exchange for room and board. He’d spend his days dressing up and messing about with Iolo. He’d go bird spotting or play cards with Non, and, occasionally touch her arm, happy simply to be in her presence – only a barbarian would demand sexual favours from a saint. His needs were modest and, even after his ‘loan’ to Iolo, he still had a fair sum salted away. Initially, Fay would make a fuss but she wouldn’t really mind. He knew he did little more than irritate her these days. She might be worse off in economic terms, but she could sell the house and find something smaller if she wanted to release some capital. The children would be shocked but they would come round to the idea and probably think all the more of him for it. His parents? They’d never approved of the marriage in the first place so they couldn’t object if it came to an end.
That had been his plan, but it lay in tatters now because he’d been unfaithful to Non, Iolo and his own salvation. He’d allowed his wife to ‘fuck his brains out’ and he’d enjoyed every minute of it.
26
From Neil’s expression, Fay could see that even a brick wall and the Rolling Stones hadn’t obliterated the noises coming from their bedroom. She didn’t care. In fact she would have been disappointed if their efforts had gone unnoticed. As the three of them went through their breakfast routine – Vi was having a lie in, complaining that she ‘didn’t get a wink of sleep’ – she touched the back of Jack’s neck, his shoulder, his thigh, to remind him of last night. She’d hoped for a little more evidence of the deliciously guilty secret that they shared but when she’d woken him at six-thirty, by biting his buttock, all he’d mumbled was ‘I can’t, Fay. Sorry.’
Before they left the house, they arranged to meet at the hospital after work, spend an hour or so with Harry then go out for dinner. ‘Somewhere romantic,’ Fay whispered, planting a kiss on his mouth and nibbling his lower lip.
‘You look like the proverbial cat,’ one of her fellow teachers commented as they gulped their mid-morning coffee. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect you were enjoying some extra-mural activity.’
Fay gave what she hoped was an enigmatic smile.
Throughout the morning a plan gnawed away until it became irresistible. Before bedtime she had to get hold of stockings and a suspender belt – maybe a bra to match – and not the sensible sort available from Marks and Spencer. There was a lingerie shop in one of the arcades and at lunchtime, although she was cutting it fine, she dashed into the city centre. Over the years, she must have hurried past La Passionata a hundred times and she’d dismissed it as a place where men shopped. Men who wanted to bully their wives or partners into dressing, or rather un-dressing, like tarts. Overnight – and what a night – she had revised her opinion and could now see that there was, indeed, a time and a place for crotch-less knickers and tassels.
The interior of the shop was airless and thick with patchouli. Low lighting reflected off scarlet, purple and black satin – visceral and oppressive. Fay’s relief at being the only customer turned to alarm when the assistant, a blowsy brunette not much younger than she was, with crepe-skinned cleavage and fake nails, advanced towards her. ‘Cn’I help you, madam?’ she asked, her expression scornful and knowing.
Fay’s courage ebbed. ‘I’m looking for a gift. For a friend. A woman.’
The woman raised her left eyebrow a few millimetres. ‘Yes, madam. Would that be for a special occasion?’
‘Yes. Yes it is actually. It’s her…her fortieth birthday.’
‘What did you have in mind? Satin pyjamas are always acceptable.’
There was no way Fay wanted anything acceptable. She gave a playful laugh. ‘Actually I was thinking of something a bit saucier…more of a fun present. Like…’ she pretended to ponder, ‘like suspenders and stockings. Bra and panties. Nothing too…sensible.’
The woman made it as difficult as she could by producing the most utilitarian items in the shop, until Fay was forced to ask for ‘Something more…titillating?’ She had to invent intimate details about the ‘friend’ – size, colouring, personality – parting with the best part of a hundred pounds before emerging with a chocolate-brown carrier bag containing crimson satin bra, thong, suspender belt and black fishnet stockings. They were from the ‘Moll Flanders’ range, and not one of the items was large enough to cover the palm of her hand.
She made it back to school with minutes to spare then, unwilling to leave the carrier bag unattended in the staffroom, she took it to her lesson with her new GCSE group, placing it on the floor under the table.
This early in the term, teacher and pupils were still sizing each other up. Whilst they were testing her discipline and making their minds up whether to be for or against her, she was assessing their capabilities, identifying trouble-makers and potential allies. It was essential to gain their respect and, after thirty years of playing this game, she knew that this was most easily done by making her lessons unconventional. Hold their interest – keep them guessing. Not a bad motto for other areas in her life, too.
Her knee brushed the carrier bag and she remembered last night. ‘Right, Form Four, I’m going to set you a little challenge.’ She lifted the bag from beneath the desk and held it up, dangling from its silky cord handles. ‘What’s this?’
A giggle and murmur ran around the room. ‘A bag, miss.’ Titters and groans.
‘Well done, Emma. A bag. But is it an empty bag?’
Step by step, she drew them out until they agreed that the bag contained something but, as there was nothing written on the stiff brown paper, they had no idea what was in it. They began shouting out suggestions and she knew they were hooked. She, too, was hooked – by the risk she was taking. What if the handles slipped from her grasp and the contents of the bag slithered on to the desk? Waving explicit objects in front of fourteen year olds was definitely a sacking offence. The very danger of the situation excited her. ‘Okay. We’ve had a teddy bear; books; a skull; trainers; bananas. Lots of good ideas. So, for tonight’s homework, I’d like you to write a story about finding this bag,’ she pondered for a second, ‘in, let’s say, a garden shed. Why is it there? To whom does it belong? What does it contain? Weave your story around the bag and its contents and,’ she forestalled the several raised hands as teacher suppressed temptress, ‘I know, I know. Obviously, in real life, you’d call the police and report a suspect package, but try and get away from real life.’
Fay couldn’t wait for school to finish. Most days she stayed on for at least an hour after the final bell, catching up with paperwork, but today she made her getaway whilst pupils were still trickling out of the
rusty school gates. This would give her a couple of hours before she was due at the hospital and she needed to shower and change. There were other things to do, too.
The house was quiet when she let herself in but, to make sure she was alone, she called,’ Hello? Anyone here?’ Vi was sure to be with Harry but Neil could well be in his room. There was no reply. She made a cup of instant coffee and took it upstairs, tapping on Neil’s door, making absolutely certain she was alone. She showered and washed her hair, taking longer than usual, swirling the scented foam over her skin and savouring the moment that she’d been anticipating all afternoon.
Each item was wrapped in black tissue paper, sealed with a red heart-shaped sticker. When she tipped them out on to the bed, they looked like blobs of ink, defiling the broiderie anglaise cover. The receipt fluttered to the floor and she picked it up. These four featherweight packages had cost ninety-eight pounds.Ninety-eight pounds. How many goats would that buy for Africa; how many wells would it dig in Bangladesh? She sat on the bed, wrapped in a bath sheet and, breaking her own house-rules, smoked a cigarette. Did she need to choose between making poverty history and a sex-life? Could she bear to return to what she now thought of as the ‘pre-Cassidy era’, when her erogenous zones were a no-go area and sex was something to put up with? There had to be an ethical solution.
It didn’t take her long. If she gave up smoking, she could donate half the money she saved to charity and buy provocative underwear – or whatever it took – with the rest. She sipped cold coffee and savoured her last cigarette.