by Adele Parks
‘Lord, Mum, that’s a big bag, are you moving in?’
‘No, dear, I’ve brought my knitting,’ smiled Mrs Evergreen.
Martha thought her mother was being optimistic. Mathew had lined up an arsenal of games to play with his adored granny. Martha doubted her mother would get the time to make a cup of tea, let alone knit up a pair of bedsocks or whatever.
‘I won’t be late,’ she assured.
‘Don’t worry. You just enjoy yourself, you deserve it,’ smiled Mrs Evergreen. ‘I don’t suppose–’
‘No, nothing.’ Martha cut her off before she could ask whether Michael had sent a card or flowers. Her mother looked disappointed. Martha wondered if she should tell her that she was ‘the most fabulous girl’ Jack knew. After all, it had made Martha’s day.
They’d agreed to meet at the bar in the Sanderson Hotel. The hotel was funky and well, yes, pretentious too. Martha knew that Michael would have loved it. They’d visited a number of lan Schrager hotels before the children had been born. The modernity and beauty had blown them away, as had the cost. The fact that they (or their firms) had been able to afford for them to stay in such stylish places had been a thrill. They’d made love in the big, white beds under the large, imposing mirrors and amazing, challenging art. Martha remembered how excited and impressed they’d been on their first visit. She couldn’t remember when it became commonplace to stay in fabulous hotels where even the bellboys wore Armani. She couldn’t remember when Michael had first started to complain that the service was slow, ‘especially considering what we’re paying’. She couldn’t remember exactly when the complaining overwhelmed the pleasure, but she knew it was wrong.
The bar was full of beautiful people: women who were too thin, and men who were too wealthy. Martha wondered whether there would ever be a world where the roles were reversed. Where the women were wealthy enough to arrogantly carry beer bellies and the men had eating disorders and silicon implants. Martha rarely mixed with this type of person, although Eliza did, and often came home with funny anecdotes about women who could tell you the number of calories in the olive in their Martinis and men who could give you the numbers on the banknotes in their wallet. To Eliza’s credit, she was able to enjoy the glitz of visiting bars and hotels such as these, rubbing shoulders with the beautiful young things of the twenty-first century, without taking it too seriously. She wasn’t a wannabe, and therefore people assumed she already was. Martha decided to adopt the same policy so that she could relax and enjoy the hotel bar, the chic women and chiselled-jawed men.
There was Jack. He was standing at the end of the bar, drinking apple juice. Martha felt a surge of pride; she firmly believed he was the most beautiful man in the bar. He wasn’t the tallest and everyone was dressed well, but he definitely had the kindest eyes. She threaded her way through the crowds. He watched her being watched.
‘God, you look hot,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. He lingered there.
Martha wondered if it was hip to kiss in a bar like this. She wasn’t sure what the current fashionable thinking was on public displays of affection. Whatever – it made her feel as amazing as holding the winning Lottery ticket.
She had never looked ‘hot’. She had been pretty, lovely, and on her wedding day one or two people had described her as beautiful (old aunties and Michael).
But here she was being hot.
Her lips were glossed. Her lashes were long. Her hipbone jutted out at a sexy angle and, really, she couldn’t wait for him to find that out.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have a Red Bull.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, I don’t want to get drunk.’ Martha had been drinking far more than was good for her recently. Well, since Michael had asked for a divorce. She knew it was weak and self-destructive and she didn’t want to get maudlin or forget anything important tonight. Although it seemed such a shame to come to a bar like this and not try one of the many champagne cocktails on offer. She did enjoy a glass of crisp, cold champagne.
‘Don’t you fancy a glass of crisp, cold champagne?’ asked Jack. ‘It seems a shame to come to a cool gig like this and not have something special.’
Martha gave in to the ESP and asked for champers. The service was embarrassingly slow, but without the embarrassment. Whilst it was nearly impossible to catch the eye of the barman, Martha was surprised when she noticed that she caught the eye of two or three strangers. They were flirting, registering their interest in her. And they were good-looking, really good-looking. They were the type of men who would never have given Martha a second glance when she wore her neat shirts and M&S slacks, but were now more than ready and willing to whip off her Ted Baker T and leather skirt. As such they were less interesting to her than even Michael. For all his faults, at least he had once fancied her in clothes from Monsoon. OK, as it turned out, she didn’t like herself in clothes from Monsoon, but that was hardly the point. The good-looking men were obviously shallow. Martha looked at Jack and once again marvelled at how peculiar it was that he was this odd mix of über cool, and yet totally unfazed by her very-recent geekiness.
Martha hunted out a quiet table, Jack following her. She took a seat and as he sat down opposite, her whole body redirected itself towards him. Outwardly she didn’t move an inch; inwardly she felt her lungs fill with fresh oxygen, her heart lean towards him. The hairs on her body stood up in deference. Her smile was a fraction wider for him. Her teeth slightly whiter, her lips slightly wetter. Her sex that bit hotter.
‘Remarkable that there’s a free table,’ commented Jack.
‘Not really, it’s too out of the way for the see-and-be-seen. Most of the people here would rather hover uncomfortably at a crowded bar than miss spotting Stella McCartney’s eyebrow.’
Jack laughed. ‘I love it that you’re not impressed by that shit, Martha, that you know your own mind.’
‘Well, if it was Madonna’s eyebrow, that would be a different story.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think I’m molly?’
‘Molly? What’s “molly”?’
‘Girl geek-like,’ explained Martha.
‘No way, Martha, the opposite. I’ve told you, I think you’re fabulous.’
‘Why do you think I’m fabulous?’
‘Because you pay attention to everything that’s going on around you, you seem to be fascinated with life and that in turn makes you fascinating. Because you’re beautiful and strong and because you try hard to be kind and decent.’
Martha basked under the praise for a second or two.
‘And most of all because you’re a fantastic shag,’ added Jack.
So, the same reasons that Martha thought Jack was fabulous, then.
After they’d had a drink Jack asked Martha if she wanted dinner or a room. He assured her that he’d be equally happy with either choice. Martha pointed out that she couldn’t stay over because she had to get back for the children. Jack admitted having arranged with Mrs Evergreen for her to stop the night to look after Mathew and Maisie, which explained the outsize bag. Martha was horrified.
‘Do you think that was presumptuous?’ he asked, concerned. ‘I mean, it’s not like we haven’t had sex before.’
‘I know that,’ said Martha, aghast, ‘but my mother doesn’t. She thinks Mathew and Maisie were immaculate conceptions, or at least test tube. If she could have, she’d have blindfolded the midwife who delivered my babies.’
Jack was obviously amused by Martha’s panic. ‘On the contrary, she made it very clear that she wanted you to have a good time. She repeatedly insisted that you needed it and deserved it. I only cut her short on her lecture on responsible attitudes towards contraception.’
Martha was bemused but somewhat reassured. She went outside the bar to ring home. She wanted to check that her mum really was OK with babysitting overnight, and hadn’t been browbeaten into it by Jack. Her mother scattered the appropriate assurances, and insisted with such force that Martha did her ver
y best to enjoy herself that Martha truly believed it was her filial duty to have multiple orgasms.
When Martha returned to the table, Jack was nowhere to be seen. The waiter handed her an envelope. ‘Apparently it’s an anagram,’ he said without an iota of interest. The waiter was very beautiful, probably too beautiful to have a pulse, let alone a heart or a sense of humour, thought Martha.
The envelope was blue. She opened it up and was not too surprised to find it was a funny card with a cartoon picture and a fairly obvious joke about the importance of the size of a man’s equipment. Well, she hadn’t been expecting a Shakespearean sonnet. Inside the card Jack had written ‘Mum in on shafting glee.’ She studied it for some time – ‘Mum in on shafting glee’, what did he mean? Martha began to giggle. Of course, it was another anagram of ‘something meaningful’. There was also a room number.
Martha ran up to join Jack.
Literally ran.
She could skip dinner.
38
He slammed her against the wall and urgently and repeatedly kissed her. She wrapped her legs around him and started exploring his body, probably for the hundredth time, although it always seemed like the first.
It was a perfect night. Jack had bought her a present, a pair of blue glittery trainers from Diesel. They were stylish, unconventional, the right size and coveted by Martha. She was thrilled. The perfect Valentine’s present. Jack opened the gifts Martha had bought him. She’d bought a selection. Two good books she’d read. A small yellow shaped animal toy that laughed when you picked it up. The hooting bag seemed appropriate because Jack was a big pack of laughs. She’d also bought him a purple cushion that in 1950s retro style had a black picture of a bus and the words ‘Hop on Baby’ emblazoned across it. The double entendre wasn’t lost on either of them. There wasn’t a heart or piece of red tissue in sight. Martha thought her pressies were cool yet thoughtful. Jack was clearly delighted. She was glad that she’d ignored Eliza’s advice, which was not to bother with gifts (‘They show you care.’ ‘But I do care.’ ‘Exactly, that’s why you definitely shouldn’t show it.’).
‘Christ, this place is a giggle,’ said Jack. He’d first flung himself full length on to the bed and was now bouncing up and down; he looked like a child. He was unashamedly impressed. He pored over the menus, checked out the minimalist packed toiletries, fed her the complimentary slices of pineapple. He showed her the contents of the mini bar, and they both expressed their amazement that it sold everything from Durex to jelly beans, disposable cameras to baseball hats. Martha wasn’t really surprised; the contents of the mini bar were the same in all the Schrager hotels, she’d seen it all before.
‘D’you think the camera and the Durex are meant to be used together?’ he joked. He opened the bathroom cabinet, switched on the hairdryer, rang room service and requested that CDs were brought to their room, as well as beans on toast. They chose beans on toast because it wasn’t on the menu; besides which, Martha had never drunk champagne with beans on toast. Martha found Jack’s enthusiasm infectious. She suddenly found that it was OK to be impressed. Overwhelmed.
She lay on the bed next to him. He started to kiss her with his pure, extreme, potent, probing kisses. However, despite the fun they were having and the champagne she was drinking, Martha was riddled with trepidation. How would she ever approach the subject of her ‘cute underwear’? It was peculiar, considering she’d sat stripped bare and spreadlegged in front, on top and behind him, that she felt ridiculous for having complied with his request. Maybe he’d only been joking when he suggested it and would think that she was a total tart once she undressed. And the undressing would have to be sooner rather than later, because at the moment she couldn’t take her boots off. Little as she knew about seductive apparel, she did know that the toe seams of nylons were not sexy – but the heels on her boots were high enough to be lethal. Surely he thought it was odd that she hadn’t taken off her boots, usually shoes and socks off was the first thing she did at home, the moment she walked through the door. It was the only way to relax. Was she supposed to wait and let him discover the saloon girl get-up during the course of the evening? Or was she supposed to go into the bathroom and strip down to the essentials and emerge with a flamboyant, ‘Tah-dah’? Why didn’t sexy lingerie come with a set of handy hints on how to conduct oneself, she wondered?
In the end, Martha opted for the fast strip in the bathroom. At least that way she could get the moment over with and start to relax, enjoy what the evening had in store for her. She checked her reflection one last time.
Who was that sexy woman smiling back at her? The woman with glossy, blowjob lips and an MTV figure, the woman in black bra, knickers, suspenders and knee-high boots? The sexy woman didn’t care a bit if the four-inch steel heels ripped the sheets (although she didn’t want to injure Jack).
Martha barely recognized her.
But she did like her.
She liked her much more than the woman who had stood on the Tube platform envying lusty teenage girls chewing gum and attracting the attention of hormonal teenage boys.
‘You look fabulous. Absolutely amazing,’ he said. His voice licked her mind, causing her to quiver like an animal shaking water from its fur. She was amazing. She was a goddess. And not just because he said so. Martha didn’t reply. She said nothing at all as she climbed on to the bed and started to lick his magnificent cock. She was excited to the very centre of her being, she smelt his skin, his sex, his sweat. The sweat of his bollocks, the sweat of his pits. Did she dare? Did people ever? It seemed so whorish. But then she was wearing suspenders. She nuzzled him and stealthily edged her knickers to one side so he could enter her without her removing them. He fingered the silky material of the suspender belt, gently twanging it against her thigh. Then he slipped his fingers inside her, finding her soused in her own excitement. Wintry fingers on scalding flesh. She came instantly, pouring out on to his hands. The acute release caused her to quake and convulse. But she bit her tongue and remained silent as she rolled the condom over his hardness, straddled him and then rode him hard until they were both spent.
She put her hand on his sleeping chest that gently rose and fell. It was hot, and the smooth, soft skin scorched her. It was nearly five in the morning. Was this it? Was this what everyone was always thinking of, writing songs about, hoping for? Was this love? This amazing combination of fun, happiness, contentment and stunning sex?
39
‘Mostly, being a child is a tedious waiting game. Don’t you think?’ asked Eliza, who was born a teenager.
Tom didn’t know what to reply. He’d enjoyed his childhood. It had been idyllic, in a ’70s middle-class way, more Angel Delight and Mr Whippy than homemade apple pie. More cheese fondue than Sunday roast, but he’d always considered it adequate. Didn’t everyone look back at their childhoods fondly? Well, unless it had been truly ghastly, like those of children brought up on innercity housing estates without shoes or Scalextric. Was this woman going to confess to some horrible abuse in her childhood? How mortifying. He should have known by the fact that her ears were pierced twice.
This was his second date with Martha’s sister. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked her to meet him for a second time; he supposed it was because he hadn’t really expected her to agree. She was a beautiful girl, very beautiful. His girlfriends were usually pretty, or the type who ‘made the best of themselves’, so being out with this beauty was an adventure. But she was a bit… different to the girls he usually spent his time with, and he didn’t necessarily mean different in a positive sense.
‘Err, so was your childhood tough?’ he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He felt he had to ask although he really didn’t want to know.
‘Oh no, perfect really. Doting parents and grandparents. Weekends in the caravan visiting castles and stately homes, lots of pocket money to buy Sherbet Dib Dabs and Flumps with. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. That was why it was so tedious.’
See. Different, th
ought Tom. Odd, actually.
‘And do you know what the strangest thing is?’
What? Stranger than resenting an idyllic childhood?
‘Now I find myself longing to reproduce that tedious childhood. I want a house where, every morning, there is a row about lost gym kits or mislaid homework. I want children who clean the car to earn pocket money. I want to go to Legoland.’
Quite mad. Tom decided to skip pudding and coffee, just get safely home as soon as possible.
Eliza wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to the second date with Tom, either. She supposed it was because she couldn’t bear the idea of spending Valentine’s evening in alone, or, worse yet, babysitting for Martha, knowing absolutely that Martha was having her brains shagged out.
The Embassy was a very cool club. Eliza, naturally, had membership but she didn’t eat there often, just came for a drink on a Wednesday (the new Friday, Thursday was so over). Dining there was far too expensive for someone who was an amoeba on the food chain of the music-video industry, so it would have been mad to turn him down.
Their first date had been at the V&A. Tom had wanted to see an exhibition about glass-blowing, Eliza had agreed because she thought it was new street talk for an exhibition on the history of drugs; it had to be, didn’t it? When the exhibition had turned out really to be about glass-blowing, Eliza had laughed so much that Tom had demanded to know why. When she explained, he’d laughed at the confusion too, which Eliza had liked about him. So here they were at the Embassy, eating oysters and drinking champagne, and it was pleasant enough.
And pleasant enough shouldn’t be shunned, thought Eliza, as she stifled a yawn.
Eliza did not fancy Tom. Eliza could not imagine a universe or time zone in which she would fancy Tom. His hair parted in a funny way, and when he laughed he wrinkled up his nose, which made her think of a hamster. But she hadn’t fancied anyone for so long that she was beginning to think that Martha was putting bromide in her cornflakes. Still, the oysters were nice.