by Freya North
Sally fell into bed. Her heart was pounding and her mind was rattling with a jumble of hazed thoughts.
No, no. Sleep.
She shut off and slept, dreamless but safe again.
TWENTY-ONE
Sally could not quite manage breakfast even though she knew that the croissants and hot chocolate would be as delicious as they had been throughout their stay. She retired, still tired, to her room to pack. The suitcase ready and by the door, she lay on the crumpled bed hoping she could find comfort in closed eyes. But her eyes were held open and fixed on the furl of wallpaper which, today, looked yellowing and sorry. A very hot, oily tear eased its way from her tearduct, over her eyeball, to dribble lethargically from the corner of her eye down her cheek. Sally wondered what it was there for. She did not think she felt like crying. It evaporated, leaving a slight tightness to the cheek. She splashed her face with water from the tap and called ‘I’m coming!’ to Cleo’s knock.
‘Come in!’ called Richard, over the sea and far away.
‘It’s Mzzz Filey, from Marlborough Ward Ink,’ Sandra announced with a wide-eyed smile.
‘Of course. Do show her in,’ Richard motioned whilst sorting through the mock-Georgian folly plans.
A long pair of legs walked in, the longest that Richard had seen or thought could exist. He followed them upwards, travelling yards of sheer Lycra before arriving at a bright blue and very short skirt, teamed with matching and flatteringly cut jacket. Crowning the ensemble was a chiselled face with manicured eyebrows, perfect lips and a glossy, jet black head of hair organized into a sharp, clean, hundred-dollar crop. Sophistication personified. And in his office.
‘Carlotta Filey.’
‘Richard Stonehill.’
They grasped hands; hers were cool and strong, garnished with perfectly shaped and polished nails.
Stop gawping, Richard.
Rich-ard, get a hold of yourself, man! What on earth!
As she concentrated on the drawings before her, Richard absorbed the picture in front of him.
Quite frankly, I’ve never seen anything like her – like this!
Though hidden, he was aware and ashamed of his sudden erection.
Think Sally, think Sally.
But Sally is in Paris and she hates you and it’s over.
Richard heard himself making small talk, asking after her flight, the hotel.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘I leave late Saturday.’ Tomorrow.
Carlotta liked what she saw. She was delighted with the plans and was pleased with their creator.
A flying visit. A flying fuck? Perhaps. Gee, why the heck not?
‘Listen, Richard, could I take these with me? I don’t want to take up too much of your time right now.’
‘No, no! But you’re not. Please!’
She held his eyes and saw what an easy catch he was going to be.
‘Really, I’d like to spend the afternoon going over them. Say, why not continue this over dinner?’ His eyes lit up.
Richard, you’re so transparent.
‘Yes, let’s!’
‘You know some place nice?’
‘Oh, yes!’
‘You want to pick me up from the hotel? I’ve gotten so lost in London before. Eight, eight-thirty?’
‘Yes! Fine, fine. I’ll be at the Savoy at eightish.’ He watched the legs slink away and saw his tube of drawings encircled by exquisitely manicured hands. His penis, enthusiastic and with a mind of its own, imagined vividly where those hands could be much better clasped. Richard’s eyes admired the rear view as she breezed out of his room. His mouth was dry, his ears full of her slow, deep drawl, and her suggestion of dinner, eight, eight-thirty, replayed itself like a scratched record.
Well, Richard, we have seen what your eyes saw, we heard what she said, we know how your body has reacted but what, exactly, is going on in your mind?
Wow! he thought, while Sandra, dowdy and depressed, brought him a cheese sandwich.
Wow! he thought as he fingered the bread and tipped the food, untouched, into the bin.
What on earth! he thought as he swivelled in his chair and fixed his hands behind his head watching the cranes and the river being busy beneath him.
That was some woman, he mused as he dropped a hand to loll back over his subsiding erection.
Some woman! he concluded as he twirled back to his desk to answer the phone.
‘Richard? Bob! Squash?’
‘No!’
‘No? Why?’
‘Busy.’
‘Where?’
‘Business.’
Odd, thought Bob as he hung up.
Sally brought up the rear of the crocodile as it trooped to the Orangerie. Today Paris was noisy and threatening to her. Suddenly it seemed to be a place she neither liked nor knew. Highgate seemed rosy and very far away. The children were impatient to run amok in the Tuileries gardens so they raced around the gallery, bought postcards under Madame Pelisou’s approving supervision and then followed her outside until she reached her chosen bench near the fountains and released them. They scampered away on their final burst of holiday energy. Sally remained inside. She wandered down the stairs and found Monet’s Water Lilies, silent and serene, just as she had left them three years previously. She had them all to herself. She was alone with them and they enveloped and soothed her like a grandfather. She sat herself down, shoulders drooping, her neck and head poking lazily upwards. She looked like a shabby zoo vulture but she felt like a mouse. She gave little attention to the paintings which surrounded her, she knew them well and they required little effort for their spell to be woven. The vast, encircling canvasses of muted hazed colours granted Sally the hush and peace she desperately needed, that her own company for once could not provide. She became lost in the privacy and calm of Giverny. Her head drooped and dropped lower than her shoulders. Noiselessly, she wept.
Unseen, Marcus, who had returned to search for his clipboard, watched Miss Lomax’s hunched back heave with wracking silent sobs.
Miss Lomax is crying. Why is Miss Lomax crying?
Marcus realized in an instant that this was not the stuff of playground gossip. He saw her take her hands to her face and heard her sniff and gasp, strangled and private. He wanted to sit on her lap and cuddle her as he had his mother when his grandfather had died. But he knew he couldn’t and shouldn’t and mustn’t. He felt compelled to watch over her; he felt he should, just until she stopped. The water lilies seemed to smile benevolently over her but it was not enough. Marcus felt he should remain there, out of sight, just until she stopped crying. Eventually she did. Marcus saw her body slump exhausted and crumple a little bit more now that the sobbing had subsided. Silently he backed away and out of sight to the stairwell. A Rodin bust met him eye to eye. The bronze and battered face, alternately shiny and dull, black and silver under the spotlight, carried the sorrow and pain that Marcus recognized as Miss Lomax’s. He left her there, being looked after by her water lilies, watched over and understood by Rodin.
When she emerged twenty minutes later, Marcus nonchalantly took time out from a game of tag and ventured over to the bench where she and Madame Pelisou sat. He offered her a piece of apricot-flavoured chewing gum, Madame Pelisou too. Miss Lomax took it gratefully and smiled weakly at him. The tears were gone and no redness around the eyes suggested they had ever been there. But behind the smile and behind the eyes, Marcus could see that her sorrow had not abated. He took it upon himself to sit by her on the train and to stand near her on the deck of the ferry, offering her a crisp, a sip of Ribena, another piece of chewing gum; peach melba-flavoured this time.
The party arrived back at the school at 7 that evening. The children stampeded to their parents with garbled tales of the time of their lives they had just had. Most hurried away to the family Volvos without a backward glance. Marcus, who had already re-enacted David’s Death of Marat and had told his father about the donkey with the hat and the sun-glasses, was jus
t beginning a discourse on Delacroix when he stopped and caught Madame Pelisou’s eyes. Beaming at her, he then looked for Miss Lomax and waved expansively. She raised her hand and held it there. Suddenly a wave was not enough. He charged back into the playground, shouting: ‘Merci! Merci!’ to Madame Pelisou as he ran to Miss Lomax and told her that she was the best teacher in the whole wide world and that he’d see her in class on Monday morning.
‘Home! Hello, little flat. Hello, chairs. Hello, dead flowers. I’m home.’
Leaving her suitcase by the door, Sally went through to the kitchen, thumbing through the mail as she filled the kettle and found her favourite mug. Disappointed that there were no handwritten letters, she set aside the bills and bank statement for the next day and dumped the circulars in the bin. It was nearly 8 o’clock and she dialled for Diana though she wondered if she really felt like talking. The line rang and rang, and rang redundant; Diana obviously was not in. What did Sally want to say anyway? Would she confide? Did part of her want to run to Diana, let go and reveal how ghastly it had been and how wretched she felt? Would she just say she was feeling low and hide the reason? But who is the reason, Sally? Richard or Jean-Claude?
Well, Diana was not in so Sally was saved the decision. She sipped her tea in the bath and considered the noise she made; a whistling intake of breath, the slurp of liquid travelling past her lips into her mouth, the hollow echo of the gulp as she swallowed. She acknowledged how the flavour and warmth of this humble beverage brought comfort to her tastebuds, her stomach and her mind. She acknowledged too that she was absorbed in such menial thoughts because she did not want to think about that which she knew she should.
At 8.30, Sally was in bed, her teeth brushed, a clean pair of pyjamas on, and a cassette of Woman’s Hour short stories filling the room and providing a welcome diversion from the knot of thoughts and emotions pressing on her mind.
When Sally fell asleep half an hour later with the tape still running, Richard wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stared at Carlotta’s lips, awaiting the main course.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Are you married?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Richard exclaimed. He scanned her left hand, saw no band of gold and decided against asking her the same. The remains of the main course, delicious and rich, had been cleared away. They were eating at the Savoy: ‘So we can spread your plans out on the floor afterwards,’ Carlotta had told him. And I can spread my legs after that, she had mused. Richard was dumbstruck by her beauty and elegance, but not so mesmerized that he could not assess, with slight dismay, that she was fashionably abstemious with her food. He remembered Sally gorging herself and swooning with pleasure at the meals they had enjoyed together.
Forget Sally.
The pudding trolley was wheeled before them for their delectation. Don’t, prayed Richard, please don’t choose tiramisù. Carlotta chose fresh strawberries and Richard was relieved, and silently bewildered that he was indeed relieved. But the chocolate-Cointreau parfait distracted him from the naggings of his subconscious.
This woman is a thoroughbred racehorse to Sally’s halfbreed filly.
‘Let’s have coffee over the plans in my room,’ suggested Carlotta.
In the lift, Richard and Carlotta held each other’s gazes unrelenting. Her eyes were an astonishing deep emerald accentuated by careful, precise make-up. Her lips were full and constantly pouting and Richard marvelled how they could keep their glossy red coating throughout an entire meal, many glasses of wine, and frequently dainty dabs on a napkin. She was wearing a startling dress; red, sleeveless, tight and short. In her high black patent heels, she was almost as tall as Richard who had changed into casual shirt and blazer. He followed two steps behind as she sashayed to her door and he watched, excited, as she calmly slid the key into the lock and flicked her wrist to open it. She used the side of her body to press the door open and Richard observed her calf muscle flex temptingly as she did so.
The suite was palatial if anonymous and they went through to the lounge area where, true to her word, the plans lay unravelled on the floor. Richard had no plans, he was happy to be led. Stepping out of her shoes, Carlotta laid a hand on Richard’s shoulder to steady herself and left it there a suggestive moment longer once she was shoeless and a few inches shorter than him.
‘Screw the coffee, let’s have port!’ Carlotta broke the silence uncompromisingly. Richard was dying for coffee, but if Carlotta said port, then so be it. He and his penis watched in awe and anticipation as she grasped the neck of the bottle and slid her thumb up to the mushroom cork and eased it off. She snaked over to him, two glasses in her hands, and came up close, very close, before handing him the fuller glass and coiling herself to the ground. Richard closed his mouth and sat down opposite her, the plans in between them.
‘I like this,’ Carlotta said as she leant across, affording Richard a front seat view of her fabulous cleavage. ‘And this is cool,’ she cooed, gesturing to the elegant portico. ‘But couldn’t we have bay windows with that neat leaded glass effect?’ she asked, sitting back on her knees and placing her impossibly long hands on her beautifully dipped waist.
‘No,’ Richard murmured, and then cleared his throat, delivering the first few words of his reason in an unnaturally loud voice. ‘No, I really don’t think so. This is mock-Georgian, not mock-Tudor. It would be a travesty and the overall elegance would be compromised – decimated, actually. Awfully sorry. No can do.’ God, can I kiss you?
‘Okay,’ Carlotta conceded. Richard looked at her, waiting for her next query. Architecture, architecture. A stunning woman across from him; think architecture. Richard dropped his gaze to his plans, beautifully orchestrated even if he did think so himself. He was pleased with his work and Carlotta Filey, on behalf of Marlborough Ward Inc., gave it their seal of approval.
‘It’s great. I just love it. We’ll have it,’ Carlotta concluded. ‘Let’s fuck,’ she said.
Richard’s head jerked up.
What did she just say? I beg your pardon?
Come on, Richard, why so startled? You knew from the moment she suggested dinner earlier this morning that you would have some kind of sex.
Indeed, he had known, from the way they caught each other’s eyes and held them, smouldering, over dinner, that they would end up in bed. He knew, by the way they had stood so close and brushed against each other intentionally and unnecessarily in the lift, that desire was mutual and strong. He could tell by her body language, obvious and seductive, here in the room, that she wanted him. And he knew, by the messages relayed from his brain to his groin and back again, that he wanted her. And yet he was taken aback. It seemed so sudden, so aloof, so unsexual. Hands still on her waist, she looked at him, stonily, lips parted.
‘You do wanna, doncha?’ she asked him, a patronizing edge lacing her question.
Do I want to go to bed with this woman? Just look at her, man. Just look at what you can have. Sod Sally. Screw her. Screw Carlotta.
‘Yup,’ Richard declared, rising to his feet to follow her into the bedroom.
Carlotta breezed over to him and spun around so that he might unzip her dress. It caught halfway down and snatched at the material. She pushed his hands away and eased the dress off. She was trussed up in black lace lingerie, the whole works; half-cup boned bra, suspenders, minuscule knickers, lacy-topped stockings. Like a billboard ad for Triumph or Playtex or whatever, Richard thought later. He wanted to touch her but was not sure where. His palms were clammy too.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘I’m just popping to the bathroom.’ Locking himself in as quietly as he could (Don’t want her to think I’m a prude or something), he ran the tap on full until it gushed soothingly cold water. He held his wrists still, shifting his body so that the water no longer splashed back at him. He lessened the flow and cupped water to his face, keeping his eyes open all the time. He shook his head and looked at himself straight, in the mirror. He felt rather bewildered.
Richard, what are you going to
do? Are you sure you want to? Is it to spite Sally? Is it to persuade yourself that you’re over her, that she never meant that much anyway? Is it to reinstate your macho pride which she inadvertently damaged? What do you see as you look at your wet face? As you watch the drops fall from your nose and from your chin?
Richard Stonehill, do you want it? Is she worth it? Was Sally worth it? I thought so, didn’t I? Sal, who were you? Were you trying to be Carlotta, all vampish and sophisticated and alluring? Carlotta is a vamp but I can see her for what she is. That is all she is. I do want her. I want to screw and be screwed. Illicit. No deep, meaningful looks. Just sex, raw and uninhibited. Yes, I want it and I’ll go and get it. Sorry, Sally, but you lost your chance, so play your games with someone else. Come on, Richie, dry your face and let’s get laid.
Richard lunged for the door to take him to the pleasures of the body and, noisily, found it locked. He fumbled with the bolt and, with a final clatter, burst into the room where Carlotta stood pretty much where he had left her. She began to unbutton his shirt and he slid his hands to her waist.
Is it slimmer than Sally’s?
Carlotta eased the shirt away from his chest and traced a long, pointed and polished nail down his neck and around and over his nipples. Down she went in a straight line, dipping into and out of his navel until she arrived at his trousers. She undid the button with an assertive pop and then tugged the zip down. Richard pushed his trousers away as Carlotta pulled at his boxer shorts. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him yet, somehow, the image of a stunning woman giving head was more of a turn-on than the sensation itself. As blow jobs went, it was good. But it was familiar. Richard shut his eyes from the mirror and saw Sally and felt again the astonishing newness of their couplings.
Don’t think Sally.