by Viva Jones
She let her fingers slide down her stomach and between her legs. An orgasm would help her sleep, she decided, dipping her finger inside herself to get some lubricant. She pulled apart her pussy lips and began to slide her finger around her clit, searching out a favourite fantasy. There was James Pearson, watching her in the corner. ‘I’ll fuck you if I really have to,’ he was saying. ‘You want my cock? Here, take it in your mouth.’ Anna was then sucking at his cock, playing with his balls and sliding one hand up the back of his crack. He had such a wonderful bottom, it was one of the things that had first attracted her to him. And he was still fit, still only around thirty, and was lean and trim. ‘Beg me to fuck you,’ he told her, and she begged: ‘Fuck me, James, please fuck me. I want to feel your cock inside me.’
The fantasy wasn’t quite delivering.
‘I don’t want to fuck you,’ James was saying, ‘I want to fuck her.’ Nathalie was now in the room with them, and letting a flimsy dress fall to the ground. James pulled his cock out of Anna’s mouth and plunged it inside Nathalie, and Anna could see it close up now: in, out, in, out, and watched their feverish kisses, and his hands on Nathalie’s breasts. ‘You’re lucky we let you watch, you know that?’ James sneered. Nathalie had both legs up now, and Anna got a full view of her perfect cunt, and James was suddenly on his knees before her, licking her, worshipping her. ‘Fuck Anna,’ Nathalie said benevolently, and next he’d slid his cock inside her, against his own wishes, but he refused to move it, merely allowing her to manoeuvre herself against it with an increasing sense of gratitude. ‘Thank me for doing this,’ he sneered. ‘Thank you, James, thank you for fucking me, thank you for putting your cock inside me, I’m so grateful - ‘
‘Are you masturbating?’ She must have woken Richard.
‘Yes, I was.’ Anna pulled her hand away. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought it would help.’
‘God, Anna, you couldn’t come to me?’
No, I couldn’t, were the words Anna couldn’t quite bring herself to say.
Richard lifted her hand and placed it on his cock, and with a heavy heart Anna started teasing it into life. If he’d just let her get on with it she’d have had her orgasm by now, but now she had to go through the motions of love-making, knowing they’d only end in defeat. Richard clambered on top with all the delicacy of an arthritic brown bear and jabbed his cock inside her. Anna lay back, wondering if her fantasy might still help, as her husband tried kissing the side of her neck. There was James, in the corner of the room, instructing them. ‘Thrust harder, go on,’ but it didn’t work. Richard’s hard-on softened and he clambered off as clumsily as he’d clambered on.
‘Sorry. It must be the heat.’
Anna said nothing. Heat, cold, rain or shine, the outcome was usually the same. ‘Not to worry,’ she whispered, willing him back to sleep. But even once his breath had steadied, she’d lost the urge. It was funny how her husband could kill all sense of passion within her. If she was ever going to enjoy sex again, it was hardly going to be with him.
***
Ginnie woke up at four o’clock with a raging thirst and a terrible sense of shame. What had she been thinking of? And with Douglas, of all people! The humiliation! She went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a huge tumbler of water, drinking it greedily. Then she poured another. Outside she could hear two cats whining, having surprised each other on their nightly hunting trips. She didn’t have the energy even to check whether it was her girl or not, because even the cat reminded her of her own stupidity.
What had she been thinking, that, after all this time, Douglas was the man for her? And in God’s name, did she have to go down on him, out there in the bushes, in full view of all the neighbours? Had she really imagined she’d make him fall for her - if that was really what she’d wanted - by acting like one of the Ukranian hookers she suspected he frequented? Ginnie felt humbled, cheapened and ashamed. She hated herself. Her whole life had been a pointless waste of time. She was nothing. She meant nothing. She was a pitiful waste of the very air that she breathed. And to add to her sense of ridicule, Derek was playing up again, sore and swollen in mockery.
Ginnie tried not to sob. She was just depressed again, it happened all the time. The heat was getting to her, it was driving her mad, draining her of all that positive energy and sending her judgement haywire. She had to keep telling herself that she was fundamentally a good person who tried to do good things, but who was prone to serious errors of alcohol-fuelled judgement. She would stop drinking, that’s what she’d do. She’d become a new person, one who was efficient and sober and who left parties early and didn’t wake up with a sore head and a mouth that felt like a dog had died in it.
That was all well and good for the future, Ginnie thought, but how would she ever be able to walk out her house again without having to face him? Was she to spend the rest of her days cowering behind bushes and only appearing outside when she knew he’d gone out?
She would have to apologise, Ginnie told herself firmly, downing another glass of water. There were some things in life you just had to face up to, and this was one of them. She’d explain that it was a form of heat stroke or something. They’d get over it in time.
How cold he’d been, she thought as she refilled her glass to take upstairs. That cold way he’d thanked her. What had he said, for such a generous gesture? He’d made it sound like she’d contributed a cake for the village fete. Oh God, what had she done?
Ginnie spotted the empty bottle of wine on the counter. Perhaps it was time to admit it. She had a problem. And while life without a little social drinking seemed unfathomable, maybe it was time for a break?
She clambered back up the stairs, her head beginning to throb, and downed a couple of Aspirins from the bathroom cabinet. ‘I, Ginnie Clark, am a good person,’ she whispered. ‘I never overindulge, and I did not go down on my neighbour last night.’
Cringing, she climbed into bed, finding what little space she could between the only beings in life she could depend upon; the ones who didn’t judge her or laugh at her and who, thankfully, couldn’t give a stuff about all the empty bottles that were mounting up in the kitchen under the sink.
Chapter Eight
‘Some rentals have arrived,’ Richard observed as he was getting dressed. It was Saturday, and he would only work a half day that day at the bank. ‘They must have got the early flight’.
Holiday rentals were met mostly with disapproval by the long-term residents of Fig Tree Villas, who resented the sudden appearance of strangers on their territory, but as number two had been bought-to-let, there was nothing anyone could do to prevent them.
‘Parents, with teenage kids, by the looks of things,’ Richard added, watching Tanya leading the family towards number two. The daughters, two svelte blondes, stopped to admire the pool before carrying their luggage into the house. ‘Swedish, I’d say, or Dutch.’
Anna, who was still lying in bed, ignored him.
‘Shall we go out for dinner tonight?’ Richard suggested. ‘One of the beach places? Seafood mezze? You know how much you love the octopus salad. How about it? It’ll give you a break from cooking.’
Richard didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. His wife’s cooking skills consisted of throwing some pasta or rice into water and opening a jar of something to put on top. Occasionally she’d grill some chops and microwave a few potatoes, but none of it was done with any relish.
‘If you’d like to,’ Anna agreed with a sigh that implied mind-numbing boredom.
‘Good, that’s settled then. I’ll be home after lunch. Think I’ll have a swim this afternoon.’
Anna rolled her eyes. ‘As opposed to what, exactly?’ she asked. ‘Going to an exhibition? A gallery? Some shopping in Knightsbridge and then a drink in Harvey Nicks? A stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries? Ice-cream on the Spanish steps?’
Richard finishe
d knotting his tie and stared at the wilting lilies he’d bought a few days ago. He knew how they felt.
***
Ginnie took a deep breath and knocked on Douglas’s door. Under the circumstances, it was the sensible thing to do. He appeared wearing just a pair of shorts, and as she confronted the greying hairs on his chest, she felt that ripple of shame yet again. Douglas? How could she?
‘I just came to apologise,’ she said. It was better to be forthright and get it over with. ‘For last night.’ She swallowed hard, remembering her shame. ‘The wine I’d drunk must have just gone straight to my head. I don’t think the weather helps, either,’ she added, hoping to absolve herself. ‘But I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us; we live too close to each other for that. So I hope we can just pretend that nothing happened and carry on as usual.’
‘Of course, Ginnie,’ Douglas replied with a smirk he tried to portray as a benign smile. ‘Think nothing of it.’
‘Thank you,’ she squeaked in relief. She cleared her throat. ‘And, I’d much appreciate it if what happened could stay between the two of us. I’d be very embarrassed if it got out.’
Douglas made a zipping motion across his mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’
Ginnie returned to number three, hoping she could trust him. She would stop drinking, she told herself, and become a clean new person. But having recently done a big supermarket trip, she’d got several bottles of wine stored in the wine rack. And if ever she needed a pick-me-up, this was the time. She’d finish these - gradually - and then give up. Or she’d simply train herself to drink less, just half a bottle a day, and then she wouldn’t have to give up at all. She put a bottle of white in the fridge. Half a bottle, that’s all she’d allow herself that evening. Already, she looked forward to that moment, the removal of the foil, the withdrawing of the cork, the sound of the wine pouring into one of her favourite glasses. But from now on she’d be one of those composed, careful types who never over-indulged. Far better than giving up completely and having to admit you had a problem.
She changed into her swimming costume and went to the pool, where she enjoyed practising her latest affirmations in rhythm with her breast stroke. ‘I, Ginnie Clark, am a good, decent person. I enjoy one or two glasses of wine in the evening, but I know when to stop. I never get drunk, and I never do foolish things. I, Ginnie Clark, am attracting love into my life. I am a sensual, sensitive person worthy of a wonderful man. I am slim, sober and attractive, and a gorgeous man is coming into my life.’
Ginnie believed in the power of her mind. And one day, she was sure, all this would come true.
***
Later that afternoon, Richard belly-flopped into the pool and swam a few lengths before getting out of breath. He wasn’t yet forty, but his body felt like that of a man years older. He had to get fit. First, he’d cut back on beer, he was sure that was expanding his stomach. And ease up on the lunches. But then what pleasure in life was there?
He was distracted by the sight of the two Swedish teenagers he’d seen earlier, setting up sun-beds at the exact angle to face the sun, an act which never occurred to Richard, ensuring that he was perpetually covered in red stripes. He nodded at them with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. The girls, so cool and self-possessed, barely noticed his existence.
They dived in, one after the other, and swam much of the length under water, before resurfacing somewhere beyond Richard and laughing with each other. Their language was impenetrable, not that Richard was much of a linguist anyway, but it was lyrical and soft, and he bathed in the sounds they made. Two beautiful, innocent girls at the thresh-hold of womanhood, unaware of the sexual power they held. Together they glided past him, flipped over onto their backs and tried experimental hand stands in front of him.
‘Jolly good,’ he heard himself say lamely as they laughed and applauded each other. They ignored him.
Even more dejected, Richard went to lift himself out of the pool, failed to get his knee up high enough, lost his balance and fell back in with a splash. At least that provoked a reaction, even if it was hardly one he wanted. Smiling sheepishly, the girls’ laughter ringing in his ears, he swam to the steps and climbed out that way, then thumped down onto a sun-bed.
He felt a fool, but at least the view was good.
***
Her yoga done, Nathalie changed into her bikini and wrapped a sarong around her waist. She fetched a book, towel, hat and some suntan lotion and began to arrange the sun bed of her choice, one away from Richard’s.
‘Is Anna joining you?’ she asked.
‘Doubt it, she doesn’t much enjoy the sun. Says it ages her.’
‘She’s got a point there.’ Nathalie smiled. ‘But it seems a waste not to enjoy it from time to time.’
She smothered her skin in lotion, pushed her sunglasses higher up her nose and settled back to enjoy the afternoon sun.
Richard couldn’t help noticing how her already tanned legs glistened in the sunlight, but as he looked, so his cock began to harden, and he quickly had to imagine going in to bat against a West Indian fast bowler, the cries of “barmy army” ringing in his ears. By comparison, this was a more pleasant thought than that other erection-losing image he’d had to drive out of his mind so often over the last four years: Amsterdam, a shaft of morning light peeking through the drawn curtains; waking up with a head full of nails piercing his brain and glue filling the gaps; no memory of getting back to the hotel, of leaving the club, or of what had happened to any of his friends. He was sprawled diagonally across his bed, face down and naked.
Richard forced the memory away. It was too shameful, too humiliating, too painful even to think about, let alone admit to anyone else. Anna might not think much of him these days, but this was one piece of ammunition he’d be damned if he’d give her.
***
From the upstairs window Anna spotted Nathalie lying close to Richard. She hadn’t been given to bouts of jealousy for a while now, but suddenly one rushed upon her, and she felt her cheeks flush. She tore off her clothes and changed into her one-piece, grabbed some lotion and a hat and marched down the stairs to join them.
He might not have been much of a husband, Anna thought, but he was the only one she had, and she wasn’t giving him up without a fight.
Chapter Nine
Monday morning, sitting at her desk, Tanya made a resolution. This week, she told herself, she was going to sell a house. She was sorting through the incoming post, faxes and e-mails when her mobile rang. It was the Dietmars, and they wanted to come to the office that afternoon. They’d seen a few places in the last couple of days but none matched Odyssey Villas, and having driven again to the site, they’d decided that Neptune, a four-bedroomed house with its own jacuzzi, was indeed the one for them.
Tanya couldn’t believe her luck - it was as if she’d just made it happen! That would be something to tell Douglas. She agreed to meet them later that morning and go through the paperwork. What a start to the week! She rushed to tell Yannakis, expecting him to be delighted.
‘That’s very good, Tanya, well done,’ he congratulated her. It would reflect well on him to get a couple of sales in now, what with his wedding and honeymoon coming up. ‘Now what about Zeus, and Mr Makhtabi? Reel him in and that’ll really be worth celebrating.’
What was it about her boss that no matter how hard she tried or how much she achieved, he always made her feel inadequate? Tanya took a deep breath. But he was right, she decided. She really should be more persuasive with her Arab client. She dialled his number, and once he picked up, introduced herself and asked whether he’d reached a decision.
‘I still have some questions that need answering,’ he told her. ‘But come to my yacht at the end of the afternoon and I’m sure we can get everything straightened out.’
Tanya agreed a time, her breath quickening. There was some
thing in the air today, she could feel it. If she read her horoscope, which she didn’t very often, she was sure there’d be some terrific planetary line-up bringing her such good fortune. Two houses!
Later that day, she left the office for the harbour where Mr Makhtabi’s yacht, Leila, was moored. Her car wouldn’t start. She tried again and again, and two passers-by even tried to jump start it, but to no avail. Cursing her sudden misfortune, Tanya called a taxi, but by now she was running twenty minutes late. At the harbour she jumped out of the cab, paying him with the last cash she had in her purse, and, wondering how she was even going to get home again, swore at herself for not having asked Yannakis for an advance on her commission.
The Leila was huge, gleaming and prestigious, far bigger than Tanya had expected, and suddenly she felt nervous. She’d assumed that Makhtabi was wealthy, but she’d had no idea to what extent. As she climbed onto the gangway, a man in uniform appeared.
‘I’m so sorry to be late,’ Tanya apologised, still out of breath.
‘Mr Makhtabi is waiting for you in the state room.’
He ushered her inside and Tanya could barely believe her eyes - she hadn’t really known what to expect but certainly nothing on as grand a scale as this. The room was predominantly beige, with pale wooden flooring onto which an assortment of Persian rugs were strewn; elegant cabinets and consoles framed the walls, which were otherwise covered with an assortment of paintings. At one end there was a dining table hosting an enormous glass vase full of flowers, surrounded by six upright chairs in beige suede, whilst at the other end sat two large sofas in matching beige, scattered with purple, green and blue cushions.
‘Tanya, my dear, welcome.’ Mr Makhtabi stood up from one of the sofas to greet her, shaking her hand.