It was three o’clock before the treatment was completed. The vet had failed to tell her that several pairs of scratchproof hands were required – to hold the cat down and ward off attack, quite apart from the actual bathing. Mission achieved, the two of them retired to lick their wounds; she eventually going upstairs to begin her preparations for the evening. She had already decided what to wear: a slinky two-piece in goldy-coloured satin and a pair of smart black patent shoes.
She enjoyed a leisurely bath, shaved her legs, washed her hair, then began applying the Bilberry nail varnish to her toes. Halfway through, she broke off. What on earth did she think she was doing? Why should Simon see her toes? Or her breasts, or pubic hair, which she had been scrutinizing earlier? However frustrated she might feel, she had no intention of going to bed with him tonight – if at all. She called to mind those anguished letters to agony aunts written by teenage girls: ‘I went the whole way on my first date and now my boyfriend thinks I’m a slag. Please tell me what I should do.’
What you should do, she told herself, is play hard to get – be the elusive older woman; charming but reticent. Which meant, of course, she could have saved herself the expense of buying that ludicrous wisp of lace, masquerading as a pair of pants.
She watched with growing unease as Simon unbuttoned his shirt In his clothes he’d been safe, but he was becoming more of a stranger with each garment he took off. His chest was naked now and disconcertingly pale and smooth. And he was the wrong build altogether: not just slender – scraggy. She noticed an angry red spot on his back, which reminded her how young he was. Gerry hadn’t had a spot in twenty years.
He leaned towards her and fondled the back of her neck, his fingers feeling for the zip on her dress.
‘Look, Simon,’ she stammered, pulling away. ‘W … we’re going a bit too fast.’
‘Too fast?’
They had, admittedly, been sitting on the sofa for well over an hour. That was probably the trouble – the effects of the wine had worn off. She had been relaxed and even expansive in the restaurant, and when he’d invited her back for coffee, she had accepted with barely a qualm. Now, however, she felt ridiculously afraid, and also rather dizzy.
‘Let’s just … cuddle for a bit longer. That was nice.’
‘Okay.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘But it’s difficult to get close to you in that dress.’
She let him ease the zip down, wishing she could feel something – something other than fear. But she couldn’t seem to get it out of her head. Her body might as well not have been there, for all the good it was doing her – or him. And the chaperone crouching in her skull kept up a constant barrage: ‘How can you be so cheap? You hardly know the man. And you’re betraying Gerry, aren’t you?’
He pulled the dress over her head and for a moment she was blinded by folds of clingy satin. As she struggled free, he unhooked her bra and kissed her breasts, almost violently. She tried to enjoy it, but it was actually more painful than arousing and anyway, the voice in her head was commanding her to stop.
‘Simon, I know you’ll think I’m stupid, but I … I need a bit more time.’
‘But what’s the matter? You were perfectly okay before.’
It was true – she had led him on. While they were waiting for the coffee to brew, she had let him kiss her passionately, his tongue exploring her mouth. It wasn’t fair to change her mind, mess him about like this.
She put her arms around him, thinking back to her fantasy last night. She had gone all the way with him then, completely unabashed. Of course it was one thing dreaming of Romance on Paradise Island, but here in the flat there was no tropical sun or gentle lapping waves – only a one-bar fire and the noise of traffic thundering through Shepherd’s Bush. And she found the place coldly impersonal: no trinkets on the mantelpiece, no pictures on the walls. It made Simon seem still more a stranger – faceless and one-dimensional. She had assumed that a television agent would live in relative style, surrounded by photos of celebrities, and with designer furniture and the odd tigerskin rug. In fact, the rug was sisal and the furniture so characterless it could have come as a job lot from a second-rate hotel.
‘Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable next door,’ he suggested, as if he had read her mind. He coaxed her up from the sofa and steered her towards the bedroom. She knew she ought to refuse, to stop the whole thing here and now, but she had become the awkward teenager again, and the state of her undress (breasts exposed but tights still on) seemed to symbolize her conflict: part resisting, part compliant.
As the bedroom door clicked shut, she felt a wave of panic. Despite his modest build he seemed to fill the room; his body looming over hers; his skin sweating slightly, as if he could barely contain his eagerness. Yet how could she avoid him when there was nowhere to sit except the bed? It was a narrow single bed which looked distinctly uninviting. She was used to sex in nice surroundings: a large centrally-heated room with a decent-sized bed and clean sheets. But wasn’t that dreadfully suburban? And unfair again, in any case. Agent or no, Simon couldn’t afford a mansion – not at thirty-one. He’d been extremely generous as it was, treating her to a lavish dinner. However apprehensive she might be, she owed him something in return.
She started to remove her tights, peeling them down slowly, only to realize that he found her reluctance exciting. He was gazing enthralled at her bare legs, evidently turned on by her performance.
‘Mm,’ he murmured, slipping his hand between her thighs. ‘What sexy pants!’
She forced a smile, trying not to tense up at his touch. She’d bought them for him, so she must let him take them off. Now that she was completely naked, he hurried to catch up, unzipping his trousers and tossing them on the floor. Underneath he was wearing baggy boxer shorts patterned with prissy little bows. Gerry wore tight Y-fronts, stark black or blatant red. And once he’d wriggled out of the shorts, the contrast with Gerry was still more glaring. His naked body was pale, thin, hairless, almost girlish. No, hardly girlish with that … that … She struggled for the word. Most of the names for the male organ sounded either downright crude or coldly clinical. Gerry’s had been christened on their wedding night – Malvolio, the part he was currently playing. And Malvolio was large, thick and usually self-important (though given to sulks and droops in the latter years of their marriage). Simon’s was a different species entirely: long and sort of tapering, and his pubic hair was mousy brown, not Gerry’s exuberant black.
God! She shouldn’t be thinking of Gerry – she shouldn’t be thinking at all. Yet that nagging voice in her head refused to let up. ‘You’ll regret this later, won’t you? Tell him you’ve got to leave and get out while you can.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ said Simon, thrusting his hand between her legs again. He seemed so rough compared with Gerry, and in too much of a hurry. Urgently he pushed her back on the bed and reached for something in the bedside drawer.
She watched in fascination and distaste. She had never seen a condom, except in packets at the chemist’s. Gerry had left the matter of contraception to her. And thank God, she thought, as Simon extracted the flabby yellow teat. Far from reassuring her, it prompted still more fears. What if it split and she got pregnant, or caught AIDS? Simon was bound to have a girlfriend, maybe more than one. After all, he hadn’t wasted much time in inviting her back to bed. Who else, she wondered, had lain between these crumpled sheets? Yet the rubber penis was moving purposefully towards her; only inches from her groin now. She pushed him away and sprang up.
‘I … I’m terribly sorry. I, er, need the bathroom.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, slumping back on the bed.
Shivering, she locked the bathroom door. What if he turned nasty? He had sounded really irritable, and no wonder. Normal women wouldn’t bolt at the sight of a condom. There must be something wrong with her. Perhaps she had always been unresponsive, but Gerry was too kind to say. That would explain his droops. Easy to blame him – or Simon – when actually
she was the one at fault.
She sat on the edge of the bath, shoulders hunched, arms huddled across her breasts. ‘Go for it,’ Nicky had said breezily. ‘Give it a whirl, and see what he’s like.’ Instead, she was skulking in an unheated bathroom, unable to drag her thoughts from Gerry. She would never make it as an independent woman if she clung to her husband’s corpse for the rest of her life. Besides, she had an ominous feeling that if she didn’t go through with it this time she would never dare to try again, with anyone. Rather like that thing about falling off a horse – you had to get straight back on again or you’d lose your nerve for good. Simon was doing her a favour, if she could only see it in that light: helping her make the transition from cosy marital sex to the freedom of affairs. She needed that freedom to survive in Nicky’s easy-going world.
She splashed her face with cold water and returned to the bedroom. Simon was lying almost as she’d left him, spread-eagled on his back and looking utterly dejected. The difference was, he had lost his erection, though he hadn’t removed the condom, which hung limp and shrunken like a punctured balloon. His miserable expression made her feel so guilty that she eased herself on top of him and began kissing his throat and chest. She let her lips slide slowly down to his stomach, flicking her tongue across his navel, determined to make some recompense. Instantly the condom re-inflated and bobbed towards her mouth. It was obvious what he wanted, and whatever her misgivings, she must gratify him this time.
She took a deep breath in and closed her eyes. The rubber tasted foul. She had always vaguely thought that condoms came in fruit flavours, like yoghurts: strawberry, banana, cherry. Alas, no. But what mattered at the moment was his pleasure, not hers, and at least he was responding – with excited little moans. She tried to open her throat and stop herself from gagging. The problem was she hadn’t done it for so long. In the years before Gerry’s death, sex had become a rather perfunctory experience.
She moved her mouth upwards, trying to squeeze with her lips and swirl with her tongue. The whole complicated process felt like an exam – an arduous A-level in Sex After Widowhood, which she was failing ignominiously. Her knowledge was rusty and she had neglected her homework. In desperation, she used her hands as well, in the hope of doing something right, and was rewarded by a wild cry from Simon. Then suddenly the phone rang.
‘Leave it,’ he muttered urgently.
Leave what? she thought, confused. He would hardly expect her to answer his phone, so he must mean stop what she was doing. She sat up uncertainly.
‘No, go on,’ he begged, guiding her head back down again.
Silently she complied, still hating the taste of the rubber, its unpleasant slimy texture.
‘Go on,’ he repeated in a choked, imploring voice. ‘Don’t stop now, for Christ’s sake!’
How could she go on with that horrendous phone shrilling in the background? At this time of night it must be something urgent: bad news, an accident. Or perhaps it was for her! William was worse – dying.
She was aware of Simon dwindling in her mouth, but she had become hopelessly distracted now that her thoughts had turned to the cat. She should never have left him with Nicky and Darren. They wouldn’t have the patience to give him his pills, or go through that whole rigmarole with the towel. ‘Answer it!’ she prayed.
As if in response, Simon pulled away and rolled off the bed. ‘Shit!’ he muttered through clenched teeth, blundering out to the hallway. ‘If that’s Anthony, I’ll kill him.’
She strained her ears to listen, ready to bundle her clothes back on if necessary. Simon’s voice sounded terse and impatient, but she couldn’t make out any words. Then the receiver was slammed down and he reappeared at the door.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, okay?’
‘Y … yes. Of course.’
What had happened, and where was he going? Simply to the bathroom, or to help out in an emergency? Perhaps it was another woman, a jealous girlfriend who had seen them in the restaurant together and rung to make a scene. And who was Anthony? His boss? A flatmate? Some actor with a problem?
She pulled the covers up, shivering in the feeble heat of the fire. With Simon gone, her worries had more space to swarm – not just William, but AIDS again, and pregnancy, and Andrew and Antonia. They’d be disgusted if they could see her now. She stared up at the plain white wall, envying them their closeness; the fact they were in bed together. Sex was so secure in marriage – being at ease with a familiar cherished partner, when making love did mean love. But it was hardly fair to keep wishing Simon was Gerry. She must have unnerved him, dashing out to the bathroom like that; injured his male pride. Perhaps her normal sexual feelings had died with Gerry, and she was frigid now, a dried-up spinster, condemned to spend the next forty years loveless and alone – unless she steeled herself to go through with tonight as a sort of baptism of fire.
She peered at the alarm clock: 10.45 already. What was Simon doing? She could hardly go through any regenerative experience with him if he had grabbed his clothes and run. There wasn’t a sound in the flat, apart from the low purring of the fire; no movement from the other room.
She swallowed. Her throat felt dry and she was longing for a drink, but if she went out to the kitchen, he might think she was checking up on him. On the other hand, if he had left, what was she meant to do – simply lie here till dawn and wait for him? She put a tentative leg out of bed, hastily withdrawing it as the door-handle turned.
Simon shambled into the room, a sweater draped across his shoulders and a towel tied round his waist. She felt a certain relief that he hadn’t actually abandoned her (tempered with weary resignation at the prospect of having to arouse him all over again).
‘That was, er, my mother,’ he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. ‘Stupid cow, to ring this late.’
She suspected he was lying. Even if he wasn’t, it didn’t make it any better. She felt an instant affinity with mothers, especially those called stupid cows by rude, unloving sons.
Neither of them spoke. Three floors below, the ceaseless flow of the honking, speeding traffic seemed to mock their own inertia.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ Simon asked at last, perching on the edge of the bed.
‘Er, do?’
‘Well, I mean, Ma’s killed it, hasn’t she?’
‘No,’ she lied, ‘of course not. Here, come in and get warm.’ She lifted the covers and made room for him beside her, praying the phone wouldn’t ring again. This time it must work, for the sake of Simon’s pride (and her own future).
She sat astride him, taking the initiative. In fact, she would put the condom on – he’d probably expected all along that she would play the role of experienced older woman, not bashful virgin.
She tore the end off the foil wrapper, struggling with the fiddly rubber teat, and wishing condoms weren’t so unappealing. Then she guided him straight in, afraid to delay any longer. He felt much smaller than Gerry, and somehow feebler altogether, and although his body was moving with hers, he kept his eyes shut and made no noise at all. She was so used to Gerry’s sound effects, his silence seemed an affront. And despite the fact that he was actually inside her, she felt dead down there, and yes, frigid. He might as well have remained in the other room for all the effect he was having. She could only think of Gerry – his smell, the feel of his skin. It would never work with Simon, or any other man, unless she kicked her husband out, and violently if need be.
She slammed against him, working herself into a storm of anger as her body flailed and pummelled. Why did he have to die so young, annihilate her future, kill her as a woman? Yet he was just as angry; fighting back defiantly, his breathing hoarse and laboured, his voice returning, startling her. Then suddenly he was coming – coming noisily and extravagantly, the way she loved. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she broke into wild sobs, calling for him desperately as he slumped, a pale corpse, beneath her.
‘Oh Gerry, Gerry, Gerry, Gerry, Gerry!�
�
Chapter Ten
‘Look, it wasn’t your fault,’ Nicky said, kicking off her shoes and flopping back on the bed. ‘In fact, I feel guilty about it myself. I should never have encouraged you.’
‘No, honestly, it was me, Nicky.’
‘Stop blaming yourself – okay? Life’s too short. Christ, I’ve had enough fiascos of my own. And since things broke up with Sean I’ve been practically on the shelf.’
Catherine took a sip of wine. Yes, but that was only a year ago. It takes time to get over …’
‘I haven’t got time, unfortunately. Judging by Jonathan’s total lack of interest, it’s obvious I’ve lost whatever pulling power I had. It’s like work. Thirty-five’s really old in advertising. If I haven’t made it by now, I probably never will.’
Catherine looked at her in surprise. Nicky had made it, surely. Her room was far less of a hotchpotch than the rest of the house, and conspicuously less shabby. The furniture was modern in style and looked new, and her many possessions seemed further proof of success: a laptop computer sitting on the desk next to a state-of-the-art CD system; a wardrobeful of smart clothes, a portable TV and, parked outside, her VW Golf, a mere two years old and filled with all her windsurfing equipment. Even the wine they were drinking was classy.
Nicky topped up both glasses and tucked her feet underneath her. She was wearing a miniskirt in a wild shade of blood-orange and matching patent shoes. There was always an air of brilliance about her – not just her clothes, her dazzling blond hair and brightly coloured lipstick. Outside it might be dark and cold, but Nicky set the room alight. Yet her voice was wistful, subdued.
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