by Sara Downing
‘She said about 8.30. I think she was running a bit late – the children needed collecting from some party or other.’
‘Well then, we have ages, don't we?’ I know what he’s planning, and this time I have no excuse to dodge him, nor do I want to have one.
‘But you're just out of the shower, you're all shiny and clean. Me, on the other hand, I could do with a freshen-up,’ I joke.
‘We can jump in together then, I don't mind another dousing. I'll scrub your back if you scrub mine,’ he grins.
And that is it. Before I can say another word he has turned the shower back on and is pulling me through the glass doors into the huge cubicle.
‘I always think what a waste of space this shower is without someone to share it with,’ he laughs. We’d had a huge shower installed in the en suite before we'd moved in. It’s one of those fabulous ones with a massive shower head which can emit anything between a light rain shower and complete deluge.
Mark unhooks the shower head and begins gently soaking me, wetting my hair, my back, my buttocks, then he adeptly hoists one of my legs over his arm and directs the full force of the water at the most sensitive part of my body. I can feel myself succumbing quickly, the powerful vibrations of the water lifting me and waves of lust coursing through my veins. He hangs the shower head back on the rack and kneels down, his tongue taking the place of the jet of water, and licking and caressing me as I press back against the glass for support, the water pouring down over both of us as we are caught up in our lust. I lift my head to feel the water cascade over my face as Mark's tongue and fingers bring me to a climax. We slither together to the floor and I climb onto Mark, who is more than ready for me, lowering myself down onto him and riding him like a powerful water horse until he groans with ecstasy and it’s all over.
It was the briefest of encounters, but I am totally spent. Mark had been more forceful and commanding than usual, fired up by the desire to make his longed-for baby, no doubt. I have never seen him so driven during our lovemaking. We have always had a very lively imagination in the bedroom (and all around the house, come to that), trying new things and generally having a bit of a laugh whilst we’re at it. Our love life is fun, giggly, romantic and sexy. But this is on a different plane; Mark had the look of a man on a mission, his eyes had been glowing with lust and a determination that I'd not seen before. I’m not complaining though, if he can make me feel like that in the space of a few minutes, then I am all up for more of this supercharged Mark.
‘Wow,’ is all I can manage as I stumble from the shower, dazed and a bit pink.
‘You are gorgeous and I love you,’ he says as he wraps me in a huge fluffy towel, straight from the warm towel rail, planting a kiss on my forehead.
‘We'd better get ready,’ I say, breaking the atmosphere of the moment, and needing to. I will be dragging him back into the shower for a repeat performance otherwise, and then we really will be late. I dry myself quickly and head for the bedroom before Mark can say any more. I sit on the side of the bed to get my breath back and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look so alive, eyes and cheeks flaming, the usual post coital red blotchy patch forming on my chest. With a deep breath I pull myself together and set about making myself presentable for the evening ahead. Hair and face to fix up, but I don’t think I will need quite as much makeup as usual – the glow of lovemaking has put the blush in my cheeks and the sparkle in my eyes.
Seven
As we walk up Alex's driveway, the house is ablaze with a warm welcoming light on this crisp spring evening. It’s a sort of back to front house, with the grand Georgian facade facing away from the road, towards the hill and, in our opinion, some of the most stunning countryside in Britain. We are no locals by anyone's standards, having only been here a few years, but I cannot imagine ever leaving this little corner of Worcestershire. It has swallowed me up and tied me in and now it is my home. I think it is as much to do with the people who live and work around here as with the countryside itself, but we all consider ourselves very privileged to inhabit our cosy little world.
There are a few cars on the drive; we aren't the first to arrive then, despite the fact that we probably live the nearest. Not surprising given our earlier antics in the bathroom. It had taken me a while to pull myself together, calm down a bit and get dressed and ready, and I still feel more than a little spaced out now. A dark green range rover – looks like Susie and Graham's, a couple from our wider circle of friends. I haven't seen them for a while, so it will be good to catch up with them. James' Aston Martin – I guessed he and Evie would be here too – great, no evening is complete without them. And a third car, a small, dark coupé which I don't immediately recognise until I see the number plate. It’s Tom's car; so he is the one making up numbers tonight by the look of it.
How difficult for Alex, being on her own, planning supper parties always with an odd number of people. Makes things tricky when it comes to seating, as the usual boy/girl/boy/girl seating plan doesn’t work quite so well. Not that any of us mind, and most importantly Alex doesn't mind either. It’s very admirable of her to put on such fabulous evenings as she does, as the sole host, taking on the role of chef, wine waitress and hostess. Quite a challenge for anyone, but then she knows us all well enough for it not to be too daunting, I suppose, and she does usually enlist the help of a local teenager or two, to assist with passing round the plates, clearing dishes, and washing up. A nice round number for her tonight, though, a cosy eight which is a lovely size for a dinner party, I always think. A small enough group to all engage in the same conversation around the table if that’s the way things are going, but also enough people to be able to turn to one side and have a more intimate conversation with your neighbour for a while, without feeling like you are ignoring the rest of the party.
Amongst our friends we have this great unwritten rota for entertaining, so it’s always somebody's ‘turn’, but then no one takes offence if someone misses their turn, and we just do it when it suits. We have a huge circle of acquaintances, largely people I have met via the school, from the village, and a few who live round here that Mark also knows from work, plus a large circle of those we consider our true friends. It’s nice to mix them all up now again and see what happens as the evening wears on. But then on other occasions it’s great just to have a really relaxed evening, with close friends only, some Marks and Sparks canapés, a quick lasagne, and a pud from one of the deli's in Purbrook.
Alex opens the door to us looking radiant in a silk Karen Millen dress. There are all the usual ‘mwa mwa’ kisses on both cheeks. I hand over my floral offering, and Mark his alcoholic one, and she leads us through to the drawing room. Alex has done herself proud; even for a simple evening as this the house looks immaculate, stunning arrangements of flowers, presumably from the garden, dotted around in huge antique urns, and elegant antique candelabras, all lit and brilliant, an inheritance from Grandma, evoking a warm and comforting sense of stepping back in time to a more genteel age.
Evie turns to greet us, away from her conversation with Susie, the latter full of apologies for not having seen us in ‘such an age’. More ‘mwa mwa's’. James and Tom are deep in conversation in front of the fireplace, where a roaring fire is burning in the huge inglenook. This house is such a surprise on the inside, the beams and cosy fireplaces doing battle with the elegant facade and more gentrified Georgian exterior. It has been added to so many times over the years, it’s is now a mixture of all centuries and all styles in one, but they sit together perfectly.
James and Tom know each other from way back. James' younger brother had been at high school with Tom, in Malvern, where they had all grown up. The three boys, and Tom's younger brother too, had all been firm friends, despite the age differences which at the time seemed huge, but as adults were inconsequential. James and Tom had been the ones to settle back in the area after going off to do the necessary training for their various careers over the years, and their friendship had reignited. When T
om had secured the headship at Cropley School, James had been thrilled to have his old chum back working nearby, and they had started to see a lot more of each other again. James remembered feeling disappointed that he had moved his daughters into private education a year or so earlier – if he had known his friend would be at the helm of the local school he would probably have entrusted them to the state system for a lot longer.
They are clearly discussing something deep and meaningful. Graham seems to be hovering on the outskirts of the conversation, not wanting to butt in, nor wanting to inveigle himself into the conversation that the women are having on the other side of the room, and so is looking a bit left out. It’s funny how the sexes naturally gravitate towards one another for this initial part of an evening. No wonder many hosts stick to the alternate placing of the genders around the dinner table, otherwise it would be possible to spend the entire evening without speaking to a single member of the opposite sex. And the dynamics of an evening always seem to work better when everyone is mixed up – no one too near or next to their own partner, but with some ‘fresh blood’ on either side to talk to, secure in the knowledge that your partner is not too far away, should you need back-up or his or her version of a story.
Mark in his usual ebullient manner strides across the room towards the male members of the party, greeting and kissing the women as he passes. Graham takes advantage of the moment to reintroduce himself into the male conversation. Poor chap, he probably doesn’t know the other men as well as these three know each other, and is in danger of being left out of the conversation completely if he fails to make his move now. His wife on the other hand is one of those women who have the innate ability to monopolise the conversation, no matter what the subject matter is. She is in full flow with Evie, but is happy to include me in her conversational eye contact, whilst extolling the virtues of her children's never-ending weekend activities and how good they all are at them. I can’t pass comment there, but I do at least nod and make the right noises, and look interested, until the conversation moves onto something a little more stimulating.
Alex is on the periphery of the conversation, being the busy hostess. She has Lucy, an eighteen year old girl from the village, passing round the canapés and topping up glasses, but being the true hostess that she is, she is on constant watch to ensure that this is running smoothly and no one is going without.
Greetings dispensed with, the two parties settle back into their respective corners of the room, like boxers awaiting the start of round one. Alex and Lucy flit in and out with various intricate looking canapés (presumably a skill acquired in Alex's days as a chalet girl). The evening looks promising, I think, surveying the attendant guests. It has been a while since we have seen Susie and Graham, so it will be good to catch up with them properly (once the topic of conversation turns away from Susie’s kids), and ages since Tom has been at the same social event as us.
I am always conscious of how different people are away from their working environment; none of the constraints of work talk, a little bit (or more) of alcohol, and free and easy conversation, no holds barred. I find myself hoping, in a strangely guilty kind of way, that I might be seated near to him at the table. He looks very handsome tonight. Next to Mark's Mediterranean looks, he is the complete antithesis; in as much as Mark is dark and brooding in his appearance, Tom is preppy and fair, with blond, curly hair which is usually verging on the long, and bright blue eyes. He’s tall, like Mark, but with a much more muscular physique. Both are extremely good looking men, I think, and I have the good fortune to be engaged to the one and to work with the other.
So few men are truly good looking, although men have the advantage of getting better looking with age, I reckon. They kind of grow into their looks and physique as they progress through their thirties and into their forties, a few grey hairs and the beginnings of some crow’s feet merely adding to the character of their appearance. You only have to look at George Clooney. And, even older than him, what about Harrison Ford and Sean Connery? Really old men now, in the great scheme of things, but still utterly gorgeous.
If only the same could be said for women. We have the misfortune of fading with age, unless blessed with extremely good genes or rich enough to have some ‘work’ done. Mark and I have a number of middle aged friends (and I consider middle age to be forties rather than thirties, although that will probably shift to fifties when it’s my turn to be forty) who are roughly the same age as each other, but the man is starting to look a few years younger than the wife, unless she is lucky enough either to have been an absolute babe in her youth and have bone structure to die for, or has had the benefit of the surgeon's knife to give her a bit of a lift in her middle years. And let’s face it, not many of our friends fall into that category.
Funnily, I find myself thinking about age a lot these days; something to do with where we are in our lives, I suppose. The possibility of impending motherhood has suddenly made me realise that in fact I am no longer the younger generation; there are millions of people out there of my age or younger with families, doing the responsible parent thing and having to behave like adults. I can't actually imagine feeling like a grown up, but maybe you just never do, whatever your age. Perhaps I will have to hit fifty or sixty to realise that this is it, I am the parent (or even grandparent) generation now.
Alex calls us through to the dining room for dinner, and we drift through slowly, the men holding back and allowing the women to get to the table first, all of us hovering in the doorway and waiting for Alex to tell us where she wants us, according to her seating plan.
‘I need to be near the door, so Grace, you go over there,’ she says, directing me to the opposite side of the table, by the fireplace. ‘James, can you go at the head of the table next to me, I might need to call on you later to carve the joint, if that's OK. Mark you're next to me here, Graham down the other end, and Evie next to you. Who does that leave?’ As everyone takes their places, just Tom and Susie remain unseated.
‘Looks like you are there then, Tom, next to Grace,’ Alex says, pointing to the place next to mine. ‘And Susie on your other side, here. That's sorted. Sit down everyone, please.’ Everyone takes their places and Lucy appears to top up the glasses and start serving the food.
‘Cheers guys, and thank you Alex for inviting us all, and here's to what looks like being a wonderful evening.’ My other half, doing his gracious guest bit, raising his glass and toasting Alex and the assembled friends, before the conversation kicks off again in earnest.
‘Thank you all for coming, and here's to friends,’ Alex raises her glass again in response and there is more clinking before everyone settles down and tucks into the soup, which Lucy has been busy putting out.
I feel a warm glow of excitement as I look forward to the evening ahead, most of that due strangely to Tom's placement at my side. He turns to me with a huge smile.
‘Are you sure you don't mind being stuck with me for the evening, Grace?’ he teases. ‘Isn't it enough for you having to put up with me all week, then you come out for a relaxing evening, only to get stuck with me at the table? I won't be offended if you don't speak to me all night, honest,’ he says, although his body language contradicts his words.
He sidles fractionally closer to me as he speaks, turning his back slightly on Susie, his arms folded on the table and his elbow brushing lightly against my sleeve. I get a whiff of his aftershave. Something musky and very sexy. Good job he doesn't wear that to work; with an all female staff, there is the possibility of several of us being incapacitated at once, too weak at the knees to stand, let alone teach, with all those strong pheromones wafting around.
‘Don't be silly,’ I giggle, slightly cross with myself for being so girly. ‘It's great to see you away from work.’ I feel light-headed all of a sudden and know I am blushing. Must be the champagne. I always seem to be blaming it for something these days. But how nice to be blaming champagne, rather than the cheap cider of my teenage drinking years and then th
e equally cheap wine of my student days. At least champers doesn’t leave you with such an almighty hangover in the morning, even if it does still cloud your judgement and hinder sensible behaviour in much the same way at the time of consumption. Or turn me into a giggling wreck in the face of a handsome man who happens not to be my fiancé, just like now.
I have always been fond of a little flirting, and Mark is the same. Fortunately both of us are of the opinion that it’s just a bit of fun and doesn't do any harm, and if we do ever feel that one or the other is going too far then we have a special little code of conduct for bringing the other back into line. Seated as we are across the table, opposite but one, we can hear what each other is saying, or not, depending how deep in conversation we are, and Mark is currently engrossed with Evie, recounting a story about one of his clients, by the sound of it, and not making eye contact with me at all. Which is a relief, given the puce colour of my face at the moment.
‘You look rather lovely tonight, Grace,’ Tom continues, not quite sotto voce although I get the impression he isn't entirely sure he wants Mark to hear his comment, especially when he adds, ‘Really hot’, leaning in even further. If only he knew that the glow on my skin and the sparkle in my eyes was due to the post-coital rush of blood to my head, and that only an hour or so earlier I had been writhing in passion in the shower with my fiancé. No, I don't want him to know that. Unless he has guessed, of course, recognising that unmistakeable look of sheer satisfaction in my eyes, that just-had-sex rosy glow that is completely impossible to hide. I remember trying to conceal it from my parents, many years ago, after nights out, coming home, attempting to look like I had had a squeaky clean evening. Not that I could ever be classed as an old slapper in those days or anything, I was far from it. But I'm sure my parents would like to think that I at least left home still a virgin, and not that I had ever had seedy (but actually pretty inventive) sex on the back seat of whichever boyfriend of the time's car. They wouldn't have cared to know just how bendy I could be when it came to finding a comfortable position to fit into on the back seat of a Mini Cooper.