Sally

by Freya North

  Richard opened his eyes and there again, in the mirror, was the man, him, being sucked and licked by this gorgeous woman. And once again, the physical pleasure of the here and now subsided a little.

  Don’t look at the mirror!

  Why, Richard? Afraid of what you see there? What does the mirror reflect? Only the truth.

  Shut up.

  Richard pulls Carlotta to her feet and pushes his tongue into her mouth. He can taste himself on her. He finds her breasts and fondles them but there’s too much itchy lace. Get it off. He fiddles with the clasp but Carlotta rescues him and now she is naked. That’s better.

  They’re big, more of a handful. They’re different. They’re not as firm or smooth as – stop it! These nipples are much longer, sort of rubbery. Nice, though.

  Carlotta pushes Richard’s head down to them and he decides they taste pretty much the same. He also decides to concentrate more on the job in hand and to concentrate on not thinking or comparing size, look and texture to Sally.

  Sally’s in France. And Sally hates me.

  They fall to the bed and Richard feels Carlotta up and down. There is plenty of bare flesh up, but only a lot of interfering material down. Get it off, get it off. It seems to be desperately complicated. As Richard fumbles and follows ribbons and cords to cul de sacs, Carlotta lies still, bored; eyes looking at the plaster flourishes on the cornice. She smiles sweetly at Richard as she pushes him away and sits up to unsnap her suspenders and wriggle free from her panties.

  Perhaps he can manage to roll down a pair of stockings?

  He can, and expertly runs his soft, warm hands over the cool, firm flesh of her legs and follows his touch with kisses that she finds touching.

  Get to it, baby, get to it, cut the crap and lick me!

  Carlotta pulls Richard’s head from her thighs, spreads her legs and pushes his face to where she wants him.

  Am I doing something wrong? Richard wonders. Why won’t she writhe? It occurs to Carlotta that the concept of oral sex is far sexier than the reality itself so she is quite content when Richard leaves off to travel his tongue up and over her body.

  He’s got a great body, she assesses. Good, broad shoulders, a strong, muscular back tapering to a tight, firm butt. Let me look at your chest. You could be hairier for my liking but I like to see your stomach. I just love those little boxes of muscle on either side. Oh, so you like it when I run my fingers feather-light over them? You do, do you? Well, I fancy feeling your dick, which I know you’ll like too. About average, I’d say, neat little balls. Uncircumcized! Shit, cut the crap, I want you in me sooner rather than later.

  Richard flips her off and under him, which excites her. He pins her arms above her head and lowers his face to hers, eyes closed. His flop of hair tickles her nose but ceases to do so once the kiss has been planted.

  She doesn’t do much work in the kissing department.

  He lifts himself away and looks at what is beneath him. Glorious and picture perfect. Every curve and dip just where supermodels dictate they should be. Her skin is taut and smooth and evenly bronzed. Long legs, neat knees, pancake flat stomach. Almost too perfect to be real.

  Let’s do it.

  Richard spreads her legs and lowers himself slowly, slowly, over her; masterful control thanks to his extremely strong arms.

  ‘Hold on, Mister!’ Carlotta interjects. With one hand on Richard’s chest, he is held in mid press-up position while her other arm slides over to the bedside table, from the top drawer of which she brings back her hand, condom between her first and second fingers. Richard looks at her face as she unrolls it and fits it adeptly. She’s categorically beautiful.

  Very.

  But?

  Bland.

  Carlotta lies on her back and lets Richard take control. He pushes into her and she moans which turns him on. He holds himself up on his arms and she grasps his straining biceps.

  ‘Hard, hard,’ she cries, so he grinds into her and she arches her back and asks for it harder and faster. To accommodate her request, Richard lets himself down and lies on her, scooping her up slightly and folding his arms under her, around her waist, thus finding good leverage to hump her hard and fast. She moans and gasps and calls out, ‘Yes, baby!’ Richard smiles and then decides a little variety might be nice. He rolls Carlotta on top and tries to push her up so that she might sit and straddle him. No, no. She flops on to his chest and humps against him, hard and fast.

  ‘Harder! Faster! Jesus, what’s up with you?’

  ‘I can’t go any faster and I’m as hard as I’ll ever be!’ Carlotta does not see the joke and stops still to look at him, exasperated. Richard smiles at her, she scowls back.

  Oh, so you want to play it mean, do you?

  He rolls back on top and gives a most almighty plunge as hard and deep as is anatomically possible. She groans and says yes, yes. He plunges again. Yes, yes. And again. Oh, baby. And again. He looks at the clock – half-past midnight. Faster, faster! Okay, okay. The small of his back begins to ache as Richard plunges and surges as fast as he can. He looks at her face, flushed and strewn with wisps of jet black hair. Her eyes are closed, her lips mouth faster, harder, baby, yes. He tries to grant her request, consequently neglecting his own physical preferences. Suddenly her eyes are open and they both cry out; Carlotta as the orgasm assaults her at last, Richard as her pointed nails dig deep into his flesh, one set lynched on to his left buttock, the other ripping into his right shoulder. She’s finished, she’s still, her hold has dropped away. Richard finds his pace and moves into her. She remains motionless.

  ‘Carlotta?’

  ‘I’m pooped, hon. You take it how you wish. That’s fine by me.’

  Richard looks at the slumbering American beauty in disbelief and anger. He moves into her and still she just lies there. He stops looking at her face and drops his gaze to her breasts, jutting sky-high and still unbelievably pert.

  Must be silicone.

  They are.

  He looks up at her, checking if she’s asleep; alive even. He finds her analyzing the plaster work on the ceiling rose. Richard withdraws.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘No, no, nothing.’

  ‘I don’t mind, carry on!’

  ‘No, no, it’s okay, I’m tired anyway.’

  ‘Maybe in the morning, babe.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Richard went across to the bathroom with the ulterior motive of masturbation. But once he had pulled off the condom and put a towel on the too-cold toilet seat, he lost the inclination, the desire and the erection itself. He crept back to the bed from where the audible sound of Carlotta sleeping rose. Sliding silently in between the sheets, he sidled over to the very edge of the bed, turning away from the foreign body next to him.

  What on earth was all that? he wondered as he fixed tired eyes on the gap in the curtains.

  Go to sleep, Richard.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Well, Sally and Richard have both pursued what they thought they wanted. And both have been left dry and dismayed by their discoveries. What do they want now? They wonder. I think we know. I think we know that somewhere they must know too. How will they get there, though? Will they fight? Resist? Will pride prevent a happy ever after?

  ‘Di!’

  ‘Sal-lee! Whenjoogeback? How was it? How are you? When are you coming round?’ Diana gabbled away and Sally surprised herself by doing something she thought impossible: she laughed out loud. Diana had the gift, given by God or genetics, of cheering up the saddest of souls quite inadvertently. She had no idea that Sally was caught in a chasm of gloom, that she had woken helpless and alone. Diana’s happy self, coupled with her devotion to her friend, dribbled forth uncontrollably, travelling supersonic through the telephone wire, out of the receiver and slap into the very heart of Sally’s being.

  ‘Oh, Diana, it’s good to be home. Please, come over to mine? I’ll cook.’

  ‘Yum. When?’

  ‘How about a late lunch?�
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  ‘Sounds heavenly. Tell me, Sally, tell me everything! At once! No, no, no! Not now! Can’t wait to see you, Sugar Pop. I’ll come at one-ish?’

  ‘Two-ish please?’

  ‘Oh. Shame. Okay. ’Bye-bye, ’bye-bye!’ Sally was exhausted but her head felt lighter and a smile surreptitiously crept across her lips.

  I’d better pop out and buy some food then. What shall I do? What does Diana like? I know, something nice with pasta. I’ll zip over to Hampstead and go to that fresh pasta shop. Damn! What am I going to wear? I’ve been slacking, just look at that mound of washing, and that pile of ironing. Sally Lomax, you should be ashamed of yourself!

  Scramble into anything, Sally, it’s only ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. And anyway, who is going to see you? There must be something at the back of your cupboard. Come on, get your skates on.

  Wearing an old floral frock whose hem hung low at the back, a shabby Aran-knit cardigan for warmth, trainers with ankle socks for comfort and her hat for good measure, Sally set out for Hampstead, greeting her car like a long-lost friend. She was temporarily set back by the gaze of her mask lying on the passenger seat but, after a moment’s rueful contemplation, tossed it into the back where it nestled next to the de-icer on a tartan rug. The Mini groaned and wheezed. Sally cooed and coaxed, took the key out and blew on it; she urged, she goaded, she bit her tongue. Her car was lifeless, she was bemused. Sitting still and wondering what to do, she focused on a piece of paper held by the windscreen wiper. Winding down the window she retrieved it, a handwritten note. She read it out loud: ‘“Dear owner, it is New Year’s Day and I notice that your headlights are on. I do hope you make it to your car before the battery runs flat! Best wishes for a happy year, Bill.”’ Who’s Bill? Sally moaned. She moaned for her poor car and blamed herself for its current death. She moaned for herself as she remembered New Year’s Eve. She moaned as she gathered her bag, her list and her wits about her and decided what to do.

  Walk; that was the solution and not a bad one either. It was a precious sunny January day, cold but invigorating. Sally’s route took her via Kenwood and over the Heath to Whitestone pond and the reaches of Hampstead. Once she had traded pavement for path, her mien was restored. The ground felt good underfoot, it was soft but not muddy so she could put a spring in her step without collecting clods on her shoes. The sun, trying hard to break through the thick haze created by the chill air, hung as a luminous and distant pinky puff. Sally thought it most poetic and proclaimed, ‘“Glory be to God for Dappled Things”’ to a robin who cocked his head in agreement as she passed by.

  I feel really okay, she thought as she patted the bark of a particularly gnarled oak.

  I think it won’t be too bad a year, she decided as she stooped to pocket a perfect pine cone.

  I have my health, I have my Self, I don’t need another; I am full, she thought as she sat on a bench near the magnolia tree at Kenwood and regarded the great swathe of lawn to the mirror-flat lake.

  Quite happy to stop awhile with her contemplations, Sally turned her gaze about her and felt cheered by the day. Energy and sound surrounded her; the shrieks of children, the hearty laughter of adults and the merry yapping of dogs. The residue of Christmas, its mood and paraphernalia, clothed the park. Small children rode shiny tricycles, not-so-small children tottered on sparkling bicycles with stabilizers and thoroughly big children terrorized all asunder on already muddy mountain bikes. Christmas was in the beautiful micro-fibre macs worn with pride and aplomb, in the small puppies trotting skittishly on leads, the stunt-kites and dolls’ prams, the Timberland accessories and the excited voices which passed by Sally. The happy atmosphere was infectious and Sally smiled broadly to all who caught her eye. More often than not, a nod and a ‘morning’ were returned. Feeling buoyant, she continued her trek to Hampstead, chatting to the flora and fauna on the way.

  In his reverie, Richard wondered, quite calmly, where on earth he was. His eyes were half-closed, his left eye focused only on a bloom of whiteness which he discerned to be a pillow. His right eye made out a gap in heavily tasselled curtains. He was comfortable in the bed, warm and safe. But where was he?

  ‘Morning, Dick.’

  Who?

  Richard raised his head in a relaxed movement and scanned for the owner of the voice. He found her, sitting statuesque at the other side of the room.

  Of course, Carlotta, Damn!

  Richard let his head drop back to the pillow and tried to lull himself back into that just-woken state of blankness. But could not. He heard her padding towards him and she sat herself down on the edge of the bed next to him. A long, strong nail traced patterns on his bare shoulder. It felt nice.

  ‘Say, get yourself up. My plane goes this evening and I fancy taking breakfast some place nice.’ Her voice, so deep and sensual the previous day, now grated on his ears as he detected a slight whine behind the transatlantic drawl. He looked at her and only half-recognized her. Something was different. What?

  ‘Morning, Carlotta.’

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Richard looked perplexed and furrowed his brow in contemplation.

  ‘Something’s different. What?’ She laughed and batted her eyelids at him. ‘This London water made my eyes change colour!’

  He looked at them. They were the most incredible violet, more violet than Elizabeth Taylor’s. It came back to him. The woman he had slept with had lured him with strong emerald eyes. Beautiful eyes. Now they were violet. More violent than violet. Suddenly they didn’t seem quite so beautiful. In fact, Richard thought the concept decidedly suspect.

  ‘What colour are they naturally?’

  ‘Heck, any colour I want them to be!’

  Baffled, Richard made his naked way to the bathroom. On the side of the basin was a container, inside which two green contact lenses were held in suspension. Richard held them to the light.

  How very bizarre.

  He furtively peeped into the glitzy world of her vast wash-bag. Potions, lotions, brushes, slabs of colour, tubes of lipstick, cream for Thrush.

  God! Please, no.

  He rummaged as silently as he could and came across another container with ‘Sultry Mahogany’ written on the side. Two deep brown contact lenses glared back at him. He had a quick look at his own eyes and found he was quite content with the colour they naturally were. He glanced at his hands and thought his well-cared-for nails vastly preferably to the plastic talons in umpteen shades of red which Carlotta kept in little boxes.

  Richard gave his reflection a chastising shake of the head. He drew his fingers across his eyes, dragging the skin down and around in a bid to shed their bleariness and reactivate. His hands may be elegant but his fingers smelt of sex. He was keen to have a thorough shower and did so, freezing cold of course. He felt depleted and sullen, his stomach felt hollow but not with hunger. The shower helped physically, but emotionally he felt drained and desperate for solitary peace and quiet.

  But the lady must be breakfasted. And not at my place, no siree!

  He emerged, wrapped up in a luxurious towelling robe, his hair still damp and delectably tousled. Naturally.

  Carlotta came over to him and slid her hands through his hair. He let himself be kissed and was surprised that his only reaction was wondering if any of her lipstick had transferred itself to his mouth or cheeks. He glanced at the mirror and was relieved to see that it had not. Still she held him. He didn’t really want to be held, not just now, not this morning. Not by her. He took her wrists and smiled genially.

  ‘I’ll take you to Hampstead. We’ll have breakfast there and you’ll find it rather, um, quaint.’

  Can you guess?

  Ill-fated lovers who cross paths in the most ghastly and cruel of circumstances cannot be restricted to the novels of Hardy and Dickens. I apologize but there is little I can do. Sally is already in Hampstead and Richard’s Alfa Romeo is now nearing Swiss Cottage. Must they bump into each other? Can it not be that we alone know that
they’re both there? Alas, such a meeting, unfair as it may seem, is now sadly inevitable.

  Unbeknown to Richard, he chose Sally’s Tea Pot Shoppe, which she had left twenty minutes before, having been revived by an incomparable cappuccino and Carlos’s reverent compliments. ‘My Engel Eesh Rosa, I know zat ’at anywhere. Please, please. Sit!’ he had crooned, trying hard to disregard the rest of her appearance.

  En route to the pasta shop, Sally was diverted by the antiques corridor and was caressing an old engraved pewter tankard that would make a fabulous vase but was expensive at thirty pounds while, a few yards away, Richard tucked into a decadent cooked breakfast and Carlotta sipped orange juice.

  ‘I like those green waxy coats,’ she enthused.

  ‘Barbour. Very popular. Very practical. Quintessentially English. Rather expensive,’ ventured Richard.

  ‘Well, I’d like a take-home present before I go, so I think I’ll treat myself to one.’

  ‘We could stop off at Austin Reed on the way back to your hotel,’ suggested Richard, sorting through his wallet to pay the bills. Carlos scurried off for change; lots of small change to encourage a generous tip. But Richard did not know who Carlos was.

  ‘I tell you what else I love, not my style though, and that’s those pretty little flowery dresses that your English girls like to wear. They’re so sweet, so countrified and old fashioned. So Tess of the D’Urbervilles. So oldy worldy. Look, like that one there,’ she motioned.

  Richard looked.

  My God, it’s Sally.

  There she was, over the road and up a bit, window shopping. Richard watched as she scratched the back of one leg with the foot of her other, her arms out to either side steadying herself. His heart soared and raced and plummeted.

  She can’t see me here. Not with this woman! My God, but look at her! That dress? Those shoes! That cardie? Carlotta’s right; so sweet, so pretty, so domestic and cosy. Well, this is a revelation. But a welcome one. She’s lovely. So lovely. But she can’t see me here. Not now. Shit, Sal, what have I done? And what have you done to me? It’s no good, I’ve got to get out of here. Now. Quickly.