Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  She had failed to prepare for this moment, or work out how to convince him, without speaking his language, that so large amount of money was his, and his to keep. She tried to mime the action of putting something in her pocket, in the hope he would follow suit, but he only stared at her incredulously, then back at the wad of cash, as if this whole thing were a dream. No one in reality would ever give him a thousand pounds – a sum so prodigious it belonged in the realm of make-believe. Somehow, though, she had to show him that this was, in fact, reality; that he could use the money to improve his life in some practical fashion and buy food and clothes and medicines.

  One or two passengers had witnessed the encounter and were still looking at her curiously, so she silently entreated the man simply to accept her gift and move on, if only to spare her further embarrassment. He seemed paralysed, however; gazing at the bank-notes once more, as if scared he was hallucinating. Realizing she would have to take the initiative, she rose to her feet and pushed the envelope firmly into his jacket pocket, stuffing it deep down, and reiterating, ‘For you, for you!’

  Still, he didn’t move or speak, despite the fact that more people were now staring, making her feel uncomfortably conspicuous. If only one of them could speak his language, or use some other means of persuasion, so that she would feel less impotent. Then, suddenly, as if in answer to her plea, his stupefied silence gave way to a torrent of impassioned, ardent thanks.

  ‘Thank you,’ he repeated, over and over and over, in so delighted and effusive a tone, she couldn’t help but be touched. ‘God bless you, kind lady. God bless you.’

  His face was totally transfigured, his radiant relief apparent in his very posture and, as he finally moved away, she did indeed feel blessed. Her tiredness, hunger and frustration – along with the shame and sadness that had oppressed her since she had filched the Kleenex – were magically lifting from her mind and body. It was as if she were being resurrected from what she realized, only at this moment, had been a sort of living death, where she had allowed herself to be constantly oppressed by the stresses of her job, resenting all the deadlines and demands, and angered by the extra burden placed on her by Elizabeth and Ruth. But now, in a sweet epiphany, she was struck by just how lucky she was to have a job at all, as well as the wherewithal to pay the rent on her luxurious central-London flat. And blessed, too, in that she had no children to support, since children only increased the pressures and forced their hapless mothers to engage in endless juggling-acts. Ruth’s toddler was ill again, so she was forever phoning the nanny, to check on his condition – even dashing back home during office hours – then desperately trying to catch up on her workload.

  She, in contrast, was mercifully free – no dependants, no sick kids or school-runs, not even any meals to cook. In fact, she decided, on an impulse, to take herself out this evening for a celebratory dinner and toast her own good fortune in having the means and independence to eat out when she wanted, with no family demanding her return. So, as the train pulled into Malden Manor, she alighted there and crossed to the other side of the station, to catch the next train back to Waterloo. There were several decent restaurants near the station, so she wouldn’t even bother going home first, but simply revel in her freedom.

  And there was something else she needed to celebrate – something more important than a sense of her own privilege. Just for once – rarely and surprisingly – she had proved herself a ‘kind lady’. Kindness had always seemed a wishy-washy virtue, almost akin to weakness, in that it could lead to exploitation. But only now did she see how wrong that was – how wrong she’d been about a lot of things. So could this be a turning point, a whole new change of direction in her life?

  ‘Unbelievably wonderful!’

  ‘Keep the change,’ she told the cab-driver, her buoyant mood unaffected by his crabbiness. He had kept up a peevish monologue most of the way, irritated, apparently, by the traffic, London in general and Boris Johnson in particular.

  As she approached the heavy plate-glass doors of the restaurant, she could see Duncan through the lighted window, seated at a table at the front, engrossed in a sheaf of papers – an overflow of work, no doubt, since his job in corporate finance was even more pressured than hers in advertising. He dressed the part, of course – impeccable clothes, well-cut silver hair, general air of stylishness – a strong contrast to some of the oddballs she had dated in the last few years.

  Suddenly nervous about her own appearance, she peered at her reflection in the doors. Was the new swept-up hairstyle ageing; the figure-sculpting scarlet dress too blatant, compared with his understated suit?

  Too late now to worry. The maître d’ was already gliding forward to greet her and, as he led her to their table, Duncan sprang to his feet and held her in a close embrace; his touch sensuous, suggestive. As always, she gave silent thanks that, at six-foot-four, he was in perfect proportion to her own sometimes embarrassing height. Short men made her awkward, as if being a female of five-foot-eleven was a personal affliction, even a social catastrophe, whereas Duncan had told her from the start that, with her gracious bearing and statuesque proportions, she resembled a top fashion model. Having been labelled by her parents as ‘clumsy’ and ‘unfeminine’, she had stowed his compliment in her mind like treasure in a bank-vault. Even after all these years, it was hard to dislodge the image that had haunted her since childhood of a gawky, clumping giraffe.

  Once settled at the table, Duncan ordered their drinks, then touched his glass to hers. ‘To us,’ he murmured, gazing directly into her eyes.

  ‘To us,’ she echoed, the phrase as much daunting as thrilling, since it was too early in their relationship for them to be an item. Yet, from the moment they’d first met at Fiona’s ‘February Blues’ party, she’d had a strong gut-instinct that this might well be more than just a run-of-the-mill entanglement.

  ‘How was work?’ he asked, his eyes gazing directly into hers. Such scrutiny made her self-conscious: was her mascara smudged, her make-up less than flawless?

  ‘Oh, the usual problems with the Taylor-Hodgson client. Between you and me, he’s a bit of a shit, but the account’s worth mega-bucks, so we’re all forced to humour him. How about you?’

  ‘Not the easiest of days, to be honest. But let’s not spoil our evening. I suggest we leave work behind, order our food and relax.’

  ‘Suits me!’

  As they opened their leather-bound menus, another waiter sauntered over and began reeling off the ‘specials’: basil-and-gruyere tortellini, hand-dived scallops, swathed in a coriander crust; salmon and crayfish paté, with lime and saffron dressing… .

  As a working-class child, she still felt slightly diffident in face of gastronomic pretensions, despite her years of high living. Words like ‘aged balsamic’, ‘jus’, ‘rouille’, ‘en croute’ would have been double-Dutch to her parents, who had been more at home with bangers, mash and tins of mushy peas.

  Duncan looked up from the menu. ‘I like the sound of the scallops.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘And how about your main course?’

  ‘I think I’ll go for the quail galantine.’

  ‘Exactly what I was going to suggest.’

  It seemed an additional bonus that their tastes in food were similar – a strong contrast with her previous boyfriend, Geoffrey, whose predilection for pizzas had bordered on the tedious. If a man couldn’t raise his sights from cheese-and-tomato-covered dough, meal after meal after meal, didn’t it signal a certain rigidity, a mind closed to experiment? However, some lingering residual loyalty to her parents was forever clashing with her hard-won status as a successful account executive. She was well aware that her highly moral, Methodist father could have cited more heinous sins than guzzling pizzas.

  She felt equally torn once their starters arrived. Her dad would have scorned their lavishly decorative presentation as a matter of style over substance. The chef had undoubtedly gone overboard, with a whole gardenful of tomato ‘roses’, lemo
n-peel ‘flowers’, and even butterfly wings made from slivers of cucumber; such a profusion of colourful garnish turning the over-large white plates into picture-frames for exhibits in an art gallery. Nonetheless, she murmured her appreciation. Fernando’s had just received its second Michelin star, so who was she to demur? ‘I’m glad you introduced me to this place. They do everything so beautifully.’

  Nodding in agreement, Duncan reached across to clasp her hand. ‘Frances, I happen to know it’s your birthday next weekend.’

  How did he know? Just because he was canny and had a flair for digging out facts, or had Fiona told him, maybe? ‘Yes, a rather unwelcome birthday, I have to admit.’

  ‘But fifty’s the new forty, everybody says, so I really shouldn’t worry. Wait till you hit sixty, like me!’

  She wondered sometimes if he resorted to a little secret Botox. Certainly, he looked years younger than his age, and kept himself in shape with daily 6 a.m. gym sessions.

  ‘Anyway, remember a month or so ago, we talked about going away for a couple of days? Oh, I know we’ve both been too busy to arrange it yet, but I’d like to put that right. What I propose is a special birthday-surprise weekend. Would you allow me to set that up – somewhere nice in the country, perhaps? I’ll make sure it’s to your taste.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful!’ Surprises were rare – and welcome, when so much else in her life had to be rigidly structured and pre-prepared. ‘Left to myself, I was planning on going into purdah!’ Fifty was different for women, signalled the menopause and thinning bones – not that she had missed a single period, so far. But the prospect was always looming, with its attendant threat of old age and decline, and the continual sting of sadness about never having given birth.

  ‘All you’ll need to do is bring your lovely self, a frock or two for the evenings, and some gear for country walks.’

  And a sexy nightie for you to remove, she added, silently, feeling a slight frisson of unease. The fact they hadn’t yet been to bed was entirely her decision. With Geoffrey, it had all been too precipitate, if not undignified; the drunken shag on just their second date, and waking in his grungy bed, with a stinkhorn of a mouth: the foul and fetid fumes of hangover-fuelled regret. She knew instinctively that Duncan was too special for such casual sex, and was determined to save herself, like a virtuous Catholic or bashful ingénue, in order to make their first time an ‘occasion’. Hence, the idea of a romantic weekend in some idyllic spot, to provide a fitting ambience. Fiona, of course, had snorted in derision at the very notion of chastity for someone with her extensive sexual history, but Duncan himself was sensitive enough to understand. However, now faced with the reality of finally making love, she couldn’t help but worry that, if the chemistry proved wrong, not only would the idyll fall apart, the whole relationship might crumble. Yet why should it go wrong, when his passion was obvious in just his kisses and caresses? Their titillating sessions on the sofa in her flat had given her a foretaste of how satisfying things could be, once she stopped playing vestal virgin.

  Duncan had not yet touched his food, clearly more concerned with arranging the weekend. ‘I’m afraid the rest of my week’s going to be pretty hectic. I’ll be working late most nights, so there’s not much chance of seeing you until the Friday evening. But I’ll be sure to get off promptly then, so if there’s any hope you could also leave early, then I could pick you up at home and we could set off before the rush-hour.’

  ‘I’ll do my utmost, darling, but would you mind if we waited till nearer the day to fix a specific time?’

  ‘No, that’s eminently sensible, especially with your current pressures.’

  His easy-going, adaptable nature was more important in a relationship, she was only now beginning to realize, than many other qualities – particularly for someone of her anxious temperament. And, as she felt his hand make contact with her thigh, feathering and stroking with erotic expertise, she dared to build her hopes for next weekend.

  It was past 8.30 when they finally hit the road. The Taylor/Hodgson client had surpassed himself, rubbishing the campaign he’d approved only the previous day, and insisting that she and the whole creative team stay on late and brainstorm for new ideas. And yet, when she’d tried to—

  All at once, a fox darted across the road, jolting her thoughts from the office. The reckless creature was clearly bent on self-destruction, although, by some miracle, it escaped scot-free. ‘Fancy a fox on the motorway!’ she said, admiring Duncan’s sangfroid. If an elephant had come charging out in front of them, he would have probably kept his cool.

  ‘Oh, they’re everywhere. A chap I know who lives in Dolphin Square found a mangy little vixen last week, careering around the basement, as if she owned the place!’

  She laughed, determined to distance herself from the problems at work. She owed that to Duncan, who had accepted the delay with graciousness and patience and was now doing his best to make up time. It helped that his car was built for speed – a new red Jaguar F-Type, bought, she suspected, to foster his ‘youthful’ image. And at least they had missed the usual Friday-evening congestion and the M4 was now relatively clear. In any case, there was no real rush and it was actually something of a luxury to have nothing else to do but sit back like a duchess and let herself be chauffeured to some as yet undivulged destination. She knew they were heading west, of course, and that seemed agreeably apt: striking out for uncharted lands, discovering new horizons – including, she hoped, sexual ones. Relaxing back, she surrendered to the pleasurable sensation of speeding through the night, with an almost-full moon dappling the rushing-past trees and the shadowy darkness beyond, while the whine of the wind and the whoosh of the engine provided a steady soundtrack.

  Even the forecast was benign, with a promise of balmy spring weather, once daylight broke tomorrow. The countryside would be burgeoning and budding; new young leaves unfurling in the warmth; daffodils prancing and boasting; birds heralding the longer days with crazy carillons of song. And perhaps she, too, would experience some sort of rejuvenation. It had been achingly long since she had permitted herself to feel even the slightest sense of girlish abandon.

  ‘Tired?’ he asked, allowing his hand to linger on her knee a moment.

  ‘No, energized! Which reminds me,’ she added, aware she’d been lost in reverie, when she ought to be conversing, ‘did you see that programme on sleep last night? Apparently, even the smallest light-source, from, say, a laptop or a mobile, can suppress your melatonin levels and play havoc with the quality of your sleep.’

  ‘Lord,’ he groaned, ‘not another thing to worry about! On top of the depleted soil, the polluted London air, our rubbish diet and imminent climate change. They’re all Jeremiahs, those doom-mongers, ignoring the fact we’re richer, healthier and live far longer than any society before.’

  Not my parents, she couldn’t help but think. Her mother had died at fifty-four and, although her father was still alive, his health problems took up most letters of the alphabet, from ‘a’ for angina to ‘v’ for vertigo. As for being richer, the only largesse in his life came courtesy of her. Left to himself, it would be little more than subsistence. But she must banish her parents as fiercely as work, or she would plunge into her usual guilt about the clothes or shoes she bought that cost almost as much apiece as her dad had once earned in a week. This was a time for celebration, not for guilt, remorse, resentment.

  And, as if on cue, Duncan broached the subject of her birthday. ‘Do you want to keep it on the “official” day – the Sunday – or would you prefer to celebrate tomorrow? I have a few surprises planned, so you’d better let me know!’

  ‘It all sounds very exciting – although I think I’ll stick to the Sunday, if that’s OK with you? I’m in no great rush to be fifty, even a day in advance.’

  ‘Well, since most of us alive now have a sporting chance of making it to a hundred, you can console yourself with the thought that you may only be halfway through your allotted span.’

  Specula
ting privately about the next fifty years, consolation seemed a little thin on the ground. Apart from the threat of job-loss, there would be no escaping the purposeless vacuity of retirement, not to mention the fearsome prospect of cancer or dementia.

  Duncan urged her to shut her eyes and doze, presumably interpreting her silence as fatigue. ‘You say you’re not tired, darling, but you’ve had a pretty gruelling day and, once we reach the hotel, I want us both to be supercharged. And, anyway, I’d rather you didn’t see exactly where we’re going, otherwise it won’t be a surprise.’

  Although she did her best to obey, it proved impossible to doze, especially once they swung off the motorway and then turned on to a narrower road, where the oncoming headlights assaulted her eyes. Besides, a new surge of apprehension had begun snaking through her stomach at his mention of being ‘supercharged’. Wasn’t that setting the bar too high, with an attendant risk of disappointment? Yet she cursed her habitual pessimism – probably unjustified, as usual. After all, when he’d arrived at the flat this evening, she had responded without the slightest hesitation to his lingering, explosive kiss, despite her highly stressful session at the office. Indeed, she had been strongly tempted to peel off her clothes there and then, rather than wait tepidly till tonight. And, in any case, her gut-instinct had kicked in again, assuring her that the weekend would go well; might even prove the start of a whole new supercharged existence.