by Mavis Cheek
He had only to touch his wife and she froze beside him. And she wanted separate beds. Well - he resisted the urge to reach out and pat the little bottom in front of him - she could have them now and welcome.
He turned to press the button and the Little Blonde Secretary looked up at his shoulders in their dark suit. It was such a pity that he didn't do something about his dandruff, otherwise he would be quite attractive for someone middle-aged. She had a very strong urge to reach up and brush the tell-tale white speckles away for him, but there was another person in the lift, and she didn't think it would be polite in company. You'd have thought, she mused as the lift ascended, that his wife would have done something about it. Taken him in hand. Derek used to have the same problem - he had that sort of skin — and it was so bad that not only did it show all over his clothes but it made quite a mess on the bedroom Wilton. She had been forever hoovering before she discovered Head & Shoulders, which was a very good product. She hoped she could bring it into the conversation sort of casually later.
They parted at their doors.
The Boss Masculine rang his wife. He put on his hang-dog voice, said the conference had gone well, but there was still a lot to do. As he had thought, far too much to be able to come home tomorrow, so it was a very good thing they were booked for another night. To his wife's inquiry about how the Little Blonde Secretary Bird had coped, he said (lowering his voice, looking anxiously at the communicating wall) that she had not done awfully well, that he was feeling a bit put out with her. His wife suggested that he should take the girl out for a meal and try to talk to her about where she had gone wrong. It was a struggle not to laugh. 'If you think so, dear,' he said. 'Perhaps I will.'
The Little Blonde waited for Derek to ring her but she waited in vain. As she dabbed Loulou behind her ears and put a trace in her cleavage, she observed to herself that Derek certainly didn't deserve her. He was supposed to ring at seven each night and here it was, gone half past, and nothing. And he had promised after that horrible night never to go near the pub again. Well, whatever he was doing, it could not be as important as remembering to call her. She had bought him a lovely tie in the Birmingham Bull Ring, and this was all the thanks she got.. .
She gave her hair one last riffle so that it looked just as fluffy and cute as Melanie Griffith's, wet the tip of her finger and ran it over her daintily shaped eyebrows, and smoothed her black velour frock. No dandruff adhering there. And when the knock came, she was perfectly ready.
'You look lovely,' he said.
'Thank you,' she replied as they entered the lift. She knew that she did.
Derek was feeling slightly uncomfortable. All right for old Ken to say that if he had promised not to go to the pub, then the pub should come to him, but they had left a helluva mess. Still, as he cleared up the tins and bottles and crisp packets, and took the take-away containers out to the dustbin to hide them at the very bottom, he was feeling quite proud of himself, too. Ken and the others had been impressed by his home improvements, and were especially complimentary about the bathroom — with good reason. Ken understood immediately when he told him about the Vent-Axia and how it had slipped in so perfectly. 'Pity everything doesn't,' he had said, and nudged him with a wink or two. Derek found himself colouring at this. If she knew the half of the sort of things they said to each other, she would - well, it didn't bear thinking what she would do. He was still unclear about what he might or might not have said to Ken in the pub on that awful night, but so far no one had mentioned ankle-holding or anything else indiscreet, so he thought he was all right.
He had showed them the finished nursery. Perfect in every respect except that the blind with the pink, fluffy clouds on it stuck occasionally. But Ken had the answer. 'You just need to adjust the fitting a fraction,' he said, and did it for him. It really did run a treat now.
Then Derek took them into the bedroom to show them the vanity unit where the door had dropped slightly. Unless you thumped it, it swung open. She had been very critical, saying, quite rightly, that the one in the showroom had stayed shut with just a light push. 'What it needs,' said Ken, 'is taking out and realigning. The whole thing. You've set it in at a slight angle. Mind you, I wouldn't bother, personally.'
But Derek thought that he would. She liked things to be right, as he did himself. And he was working away on that, the following evening, making amends in his head for having bent the truth a little regarding the pub, when he realized that it was a quarter to eight and he had forgotten to ring.
'I'm sorry,' said the receptionist, 'but there is no reply from that room right now.'
Derek left a message. He was going to say that he had rung and would be in all evening if she wanted to ring back. But he had second thoughts, for it implied that he might have been thinking about going out on other occasions. So he settled for simply saying he had rung. And he went back, whistling, to his task of love.
The Little Blonde Secretary Bird was going to be especially charming to the Boss Masculine tonight; at least be appreciated her even if Derek didn't. And he didn't have sticky-out teeth.
'You don't mind if we dine in the hotel?' he said, touching her lower back ever so slightly to usher her in. He felt a thrill of something long forgotten, and kept his hand there all the way to the little table in the corner. She looked around her at the powder-blue velvet curtains and the flowered wallpaper with its decorative scroll lights. She approved.
'Oh no,' she said, sitting down daintily, 'and the music is lovely.'
'Yes,' he said. 'What is it?'
'James Galway, I think,' she said, flicking out her serviette before the hovering waiter could do it for her. 'Classical. It's the theme from Doctor Zhivago.'
He was about to ask her if she had enjoyed the film, but remembered, in the nick of time, that she had probably been in her pram when it came out.
Ordering from the menu en Francois was a bit tricky, but he guided her through with little squeezes and pats of her hand. For the starter she chose prawn cocktail, while he setded for soup, deciding to avoid the garlic pate just in case ...
They played a little game about the main course, she choosing chicken without the garnish, and he, at her suggestion, having the more manly fillet steak.
'You men need building up,' she said smiling, tapping his hand, trying not to look at his shoulders which had begun to go peppery again. Also, she noticed, there was quite a lot of grey dotted about, but not in the distinguished areas of the temples (like in Towers of Steel), just all over the place. If she ignored this, then the meal and the surroundings, with the candlelight and the wall-brackets, were not unlike that magazine picture. She gave a little shudder remembering the article about orgasms. She was almost certain that what was going wrong was that she didn't have one, and very probably you couldn't get pregnant unless you did. She drank some of the Riesling and watched him sip his dark red wine, which, she thought, showed great sophistication. He would know all about things like orgasms - being a man of the world, but, of course, she couldn't ask him, a man, now could she? But no wonder Derek was getting a bit, well, strung out — they had done it so often recently (apart from that one night which was, of course, the important one) he must be feeling quite bored of it all by now.
She certainly was. An orgasm was probably what was needed. But how? She sipped away at her glass, head on one side, looking prettily bright and not listening to a word he was saying. She wondered if his wife had them. Probably. Everybody in the world - she suddenly felt quite irritable - seemed capable. Why not her?
It was the first time in her life that she had not achieved what she set out to achieve and it made her very cross. Not least when she thought of that ballooning female on the switchboard who had the cheek to confide that her pregnancy had happened by mistake.
She ate daintily and both their bottles went down, hers surprisingly quickly. He knew exactly how to behave and was ever so attentive.
He looked at her and thought she was the prettiest, most perfect
ly formed thing on two legs - and the impression grew as the level of his Burgundy lowered.
She thought he was charming and very kind and so interested in everything. And by the time they got to the pudding, she allowed herself the indulgence of Black Forest gateau and cream. She was astonished to hear herself say yes to a helping, and to follow it up with one of her favourite phrases, 'A moment on the lips, a lifedme on the hips,' which he found gratifyingly funny.
She pronounced the gateau 'very nice' with an accompanying giggle she had not expected to give, and even fed him bits from her own plate. Thinking of babies made her stop before she had drunk all the Riesling. Drink could be very harmful, and she said this out loud.
'Drink is very bad for babies.'
He looked at her, startled, quickly removed the startlement and nodded sagely, as if she had expounded Plato. He did not know what to say. Eventually he plumped for 'Absolutely', which he delivered with vibrant sincerity.
She was impressed. 'And what do you know about orgasms?' she continued. 'Because I don't think I've ever had one and I really would like some help.'
His own wine having gone, he reached unthinkingly for the remnants of hers and finished it. Whatever happened, he wondered, to the need for an opening gambit like 'My wife doesn't understand me'? For a moment he felt chilled by her directness, for he had quite liked her to be a little shy. Still, you couldn't have everything, and this was as close as he was ever likely to get to a cup running over.
'Derek didn't ring tonight,' she said, and her eyes went swimmy.
'If you were my wife and away with another man I should ring you every hour.'
'Oh,' she said, 'he knows I'm not away with another man. He knows it's only with you.'
If ever he had thought to be honourable, if ever he had thought to leave it all in the realms of fantasy, the thought died at that precise point.
'Let's take a brandy up to my room,' he said. 'Shall we? I've got something there — a gift, a token, by way of a thank-you.'
She smiled. 'And I've got something for you, she said provocatively.
He ignored further thoughts of his being an 'only you' - which was just the sort of thing his wife might have said - and looked at that pert little bottom again wiggling in front of him.
It occurred to him, as they made their way back towards the lift, that he had not had more than three cigarettes all evening. Which was amazing. It also meant that she was going to be good for him, too. Really the whole thing was perfectly, perfectly justifiable, and - he looked at the bottom again - a long time overdue.
'Oh, look,' he said, giving her lower back a much stronger pressure as he ushered her into the room, 'a bottle of champagne and two glasses. It must be a gift from the management.'
'Oh,' she said. 'How nice. Hie!'
He took her arm and led her towards the bed. 'I think we had better open it, don't you?'
'Well,' she said, 'just one glass. Thinking about orgasms! Oh dear,' she giggled. She had meant to say babies, but never mind, the two were rapidly becoming synonymous in her mind, anyway.
'Of course,' he said, smiling wonderingly down at her. 'Now you sit there and tuck your legs up comfortably while I pop the shampoo.' The lies continued. Cautiously he put a very little in both their glasses. It was a fine line to draw between releasing inhibitions and ending up snoring or worse. This he vaguely remembered from his teenage years. Besides, she seemed more or less released from her inhibitions already.
She watched him, marvelling at the deftness of the act, the film-star sound of the eager cork, the fancy bubbles cascading into the long glasses. He handed her one and she sipped. 'Lovely,' she said, and then she looked at the tulip shape in her hand. 'But you'd have thought they'd have given us proper-shaped glasses. Those flat ones are best.'
'Are they?' he said, and sat next to her. 'To you.' He raised his glass.
'Cheers,' she said, and giggled again. 'Honestly, if Derek could see me now .. .' And she burst into tears.
Which, from the point of view of advantage, the Boss Masculine thought pretty damn near perfect. He put down his glass and picked up a package from the bedside table. 'There, there,' he said. 'Look, I think this is the right time to give you this .. .'
She opened the pretty parcel and held up the scrap of lawn and lace. It delighted her - it was romantic, it was feminine and it was tasteful. 'Oh thank you,' she said, giving him a resounding kiss on the cheek. 'Thank you, it is the sort of thing I really like. Derek doesn't -' She stopped, drained her glass, and burst into tears again. 'Derek doesn't—'
'Derek doesn't what?' he asked, sliding a little closer on the bed, then kissing her shoulder.
She looked down. From where she sat she could get a really good close-up of the dandruff problem. 'Well,' she said, a little mesmerized by the extent of it, 'Derek is very practical.' She put the hanky to the corner of her eye and dabbed delicately. 'I shall always treasure this,' she said.
He put his arm round her waist.
She dabbed at the other eye and then looked at the lace admiringly. 'Mine isn't nearly so exciting,' she said. 'It's an aid, really.'
'Aid' had an interesting ring about it. He moved his arm up a fraction, towards the warmth of her armpit and other areas. 'Oh, I'm sure it is,' he said, and then, because he was unclear what they were discussing (and he was having a great deal of difficulty concentrating) he added, 'What are you . . . er . . . talking about?'
'Your present.' She sniffed anew. 'It's not half so nice as yours, and you've been so-o-oo' - she mopped another tear — 'kind.'
'I'm sure it's as enchanting as you are,' he said. 'Never mind that now . ..'
As he bent to kiss her again, she looked at his shoulder and had another terrible urge to brush him down. She moved away and stood up, swaying slightly.
'I want you to have it,' she said positively. And picking up her key she tacked across the room, out of the door, and into her own.
While she was gone, he made a hasty visit to the bathroom, squirted some Gold Spot into the further reaches of his mouth and dived back on the bed again in time to look as if he had never moved. He switched off one of the side lights to make the room more ... intimate. He heard her turn the door handle and looked up expectantly. In she came, a little smile of hesitation on her delectable, freshly pinked lips. She crossed to the bed, sat down near him, removed her hand from behind her adorably feminine back and held out to him her presentation. Her token of esteem, her favour, her emblem of regard.
He stared.
He swallowed.
His mouth became a desert.
His stomach filled with ice.
She continued to smile her pretty little smile, pressing the gift into his hand.
'Take it,' she said, 'I sent off for it from one of my magazines.' The pretty little smile stretched like pink elastic. 'I think it is just what you need.'
The book she held out had a title, Men: The Middle Years - A Maintenance Guide.
He took it, zombie-like, and stared anew. 'Oh, thank you,' he said.
'Don't mention it,' she replied. 'And look .. .' She tapped a small bottle, which was attached to the cover. 'Free gift. . .' He stared.
He was staring at a miniature bottle of Head & Shoulders shampoo.
'I think you will find’ she said happily, 'that will do the trick.' She lowered her voice discreetly. 'And there are things on the market for grey hairs, too ...'
Bloody little tartlet, he thought, as redness rose angrily within him, but before he could tell her to leave she had reached the door and was peeping round it coyly on her way out. She gave a little wave of her hand and a rallying eye-screw of compassion. 'Enjoy!' she said. And, forgetting all about orgasms, she went.
*
Janice, travelling in the lift with no further psychological difficulties, entered-her apartment. The machine sat there waiting. She ran a finger over it, remembering her characters for Phoenix Rising. She must release them soon. She had a compulsive urge to feed Rohanne Bulb
ecker into the software, too. But she did not. She felt that, perhaps, she did not need to.
Rohanne looked out at the night view of London for one last time. She was tired and glad, more than she had realized, to be going home. Mission accomplished, she told herself, always mission accomplished. She kicked off her shoes. On the small table near by was a tray, two glasses, a bottle of champagne in a cooler and a card. She opened the envelope and read, 'All my love as usual, Horace.'
Horace? Horace? Despite the many men in her life, she couldn't remember one of those. She looked at the envelope. Wrong room number. In her current state it would be far less wearying to take the thing next door herself rather than summon the fuss of room service. She picked up the tray, stepped into the corridor, and knocked at the suite next door. An elderly man in a silk dressing-gown, closely accompanied by an elderly woman in pink quilting with daisies, peered out from the door.
'Horace?' said Rohanne, extending the tray which he took. 'It came to the wrong room.'
'We were just wondering’ he said. 'Thank you so much . . .'
'Don't mention it’ said Rohanne, 'And have a nice . ..' She
was about to say 'day', but smiled and said, 'Have a nice night,' instead.
All of seventy, she said to herself, seventy if they were a day. And she shook her head. But she lay motionless on her bed and thinking for a long, long while.
Chapter Twenty-two
E
RICA agreed with Gretchen that the picture was a bit basic. 'Why,' she said, 'you can only just tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. I'd chuck it if I was you.'