She gave a sudden laugh. ‘Do you realize, Felix, it’s Lent, which means I should be fasting, not gorging, let alone indulging what the Church would call my baser passions.’
‘Bugger the Church!’
She gasped at the blasphemous words; almost scared that Hanna had heard them from her presumably high place in Heaven.
‘I’ve no time for all that stress on fasting – and Ramadan’s even worse than Lent. All these religions do is try to control us; damp down our vital life-force so we won’t have the energy we need to lead a full, instinctual life.’
Strange, she thought, that both Silas and Felix should be so hostile to religion, when, in all other respects, they were totally unalike: the one tall, dark, Byronic and flamboyant; the other shortish, greyish, ordinaryish – although not ordinary in the slightest when it came to making love.
He was feeding her again and a few flakes of greasy croissant fell between her breasts. Immediately, he tongued them up, his tongue so lingeringly sensuous, she closed her eyes to block out all else. The scenario she had envisaged for tonight was a far cry from this indulgent lovers’ feast. She had seen herself concocting a meal in the kitchen, which she and Felix would eat, fully clothed, at a table, and engaging in high-minded conversation.
It was time for her to feed him in her turn, although she was sadly aware that she didn’t have his erotic expertise and so couldn’t add those beguiling little refinements. But he seemed happy just to eat, licking a drool of butter from her fingers and scooping up the fragments of crumbly cheese that had fallen on the bed. They continued feeding each other until the croissants were finished and he reached out for the fruit.
‘These are very singular strawberries. Look at their weird protuberances!’
She flushed. She had bought them half price in the market and hadn’t even noticed their asymmetry.
‘I really like these lumps and bumps – much more original than regular-shaped strawberries.’ He held out a three-pronged fruit, for her to see. ‘This is my favourite. It’s curvaceous, like you, but with three breasts, instead of two!’
‘Well, if that one’s female, this one’s definitely male,’ she said, showing him another, with a distinct but diminutive phallus at each end.
‘And here’s a Henry Moore in miniature – the same satisfying curves. Although miniature’s not the word – it’s the biggest strawberry I’ve ever seen in my life. Here, have a bite.’ He held it to her mouth and, having nibbled off its swollen tip, she offered it to him, and they alternated, bite by bite, until there was nothing left but the little frilled green stalk. Instead of discarding it, he used it to trace the outline of her lips, the sensation tickly cool. Then he slipped his little finger into her mouth and gently grazed it across the tips of her teeth; the tiniest, subtlest pressure that seemed to kindle her whole body. Maybe she could learn from him all these inventive techniques, as she was learning the refinements of drawing, at the class.
He was still gazing at her intently, as if following his own advice: any artist worth his salt must observe in the closest detail. ‘You have very interesting eyebrows, Maria.’
‘I hate them! Eyebrows should be meek and unassuming, and mine are almost fierce.’
‘Which is exactly why I like them.’ He knelt astride her, leaned down and kissed each brow, then, moving his mouth to her lips, he kissed them in the same galvanizing fashion, and continued inching his mouth down the entire length of her body, as if it were a table, laid with sweetmeats, every one of which he must lick and sip and taste.
‘Look,’ he said, raising his head from the arch of her foot, ‘you’re turning me on again.’
She stared, intrigued, at his penis. The only one she had ever seen was Silas’s – apart from a few in the life classes at art school, which had embarrassed her so much, she had deliberately averted her eyes and drawn only the male models’ chests and torsos. But now she gazed in wonder at the glistening, stiffening insolence of this, in Felix-parlance, ‘cock’. She had to admit she found those slang words arousing, although she would never use them herself. Indeed, neither she nor her mother had ever referred to the male member under any appellation, slang or anatomical, during the whole course of their lives. Hanna had even been uneasy about words like ‘breasts’ and ‘bottom’.
Felix’s penis seemed much younger than the rest of him: vigorous and sturdy and clearly in its prime. Kate would probably attribute that to Viagra, but she refused to allow so pedestrian a thought. Surely it was more to do with the organ’s essential character – an assertive, bumptious individual, not willing to be thwarted, as she had found an hour ago.
Having flung the strawberry cartons off the bed, he lay back, reached out his arms. ‘You on top this time.’
‘Felix, I can’t! I have to leave.’ However strong his inducements, she had to set a limit and also keep a strict eye on the time. Her second self – the responsible and dutiful self – was still hovering somewhere, warning and restraining.
‘Not yet.’ He drew her down towards him, locked his arms across her back, keeping her his prisoner. ‘That’s tutor’s orders, and tutor’s orders have to be obeyed!’
Chapter 13
AS THEY DAWDLED to a halt outside the tube, Felix gave her a last, lingering kiss. ‘Why don’t I come with you – see you right to your door?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. It’s not that late.’ His bodily presence wasn’t necessary, since he’d be with her anyway throughout the journey home; his hands still on her breasts, his tongue still in her mouth, their lungs inhaling with one breath …
She descended in the lift, its five other occupants all wired up to iPods and seemingly unaware of any world beyond their earphones. Nonetheless, she ached to impart to each of them how totally transformed she felt, from greenhorn to adventuress. And, when the train rumbled into the station and she grabbed an empty seat, it was all she could do not to broadcast to the carriage that tonight had been a watershed, a vital rite of passage.
The man beside her was reading the Standard, but the grisly headlines – famine in Ethiopia, a fatal stabbing in Peckham – made no sense at all. The planet she inhabited contained only euphoric news. The tube itself seemed airborne, winging from station to station, with no bumps or rattles or delays, and when she changed to the Victoria Line her feet barely touched the ground, as if she were swifter, lighter, livelier than the other plodding passengers. She stood waiting for the next train, entranced by everything she saw: the witty posters and willing benches, the stretch of shining rails.
She skittered out at Pimlico and floated up the escalator. The homeless chap she often saw was hunched in his usual pitch, with his begging bowl and mangy dog, despite the fact it was almost eleven.
‘Spare some change.’
She showered a cascade of coins into his bowl, glad they were mainly pound coins and not measly fives and tens, and feeling so expansive tonight she was tempted to give him the entire contents of her purse.
The air was refreshingly cool as she sauntered along Lupus Street, smiling at the passers-by, who seemed unaccountably surly on such an enchanted night. Once she had turned the corner into Amy’s road, she stopped a moment to gaze up at the sky, which was dark and overcast. Recalling the brilliant stars back home, she longed to strip them from the vast Northumbrian sky and send them in glittering shoals to cluster over her lover’s house.
Only when she had let herself in did she prang to earth with a hideous crash. Amy had already gone to bed, leaving no note or message – nothing in response to her own long and loving letter and, suddenly, her former wild elation seemed totally inappropriate. Indeed, if her daughter were to discover how she had spent the evening, she would assume it was a repeat of Silas – an act of irresponsible abandon – and become even more resentful. And it was a repeat, in some ways: the same bewitchment, the same besotted state, but at least with Silas she’d had the excuse of youth. Now, such excessive transports were surely a sign of arrested development.
Miserably, she
crept up the attic stairs and stood a moment, surveying her granny-flat, which seemed bare and stark compared with Felix’s treasure-house. But her lover had no place here – although, even as she undressed, wayward memories of him unfastening her bra and easing down her jeans kept lasering through her body.
Having switched off the bedside light, she slipped between the cold, unfriendly sheets and lay staring at the luminous dial of the alarm clock. Never had it ticked so slowly; every minute from 11.30 to midnight seeming more like an hour. And even by half past one, she was still fidgety and restless.
Well, if sleep eluded her all night, that was a fitting punishment for the harm she had done in depriving her beloved daughter of a live-in, loving father.
Six penises, each erect and each pointing in her direction. With penises so rare in her life, it seemed extraordinary to see so many, at one and the same time. But, peering closer, she realized they were door-handles, one for each of a row of six black doors – doors that could only be opened if she grasped those stiff and slippery appendages. She glanced around for help or explanation, but she was utterly alone and, since she had no mobile phone or means of transport, there was no chance of either escape or communication.
Yet doors, she thought, might mean rooms beyond – maybe other people; even hopeful possibilities – so, gingerly, she crept towards the largest door and reached out for its swollen penis-handle. But, just as her hand made contact, the entire row of doors collapsed and she opened her eyes to a finger of dawn-light, wavering through the curtains.
She sat up with a start, surprised to see familiar surroundings: the square-shaped attic window, the small abstract painting opposite the bed. Her first thought was of Felix and she gave a sudden hooting laugh, imagining his reaction to the dream: ‘That’s greed, Maria, pure and simple! Most women are content with one cock; you want half a dozen!’
But, as she reflected further, she was aware of the darker aspect of the dream: that sense of being cut off and out of contact was obviously related to the situation with Amy. In her daughter’s eyes, she was a mature and sober grandmother-in-waiting; not an artist’s mistress. And, because she couldn’t admit to the sex, she would be forced to live a lie; the secrecy a barrier between them. She was cut off from Amy anyway, in that her daughter had rejected her overtures. She had expected a few scribbled words, or a brief text on her mobile – at least something in response to the gift of the shawl. Maybe Amy had rung Hugo in Dubai and, because of his stress about the court case, he had overreacted and urged Amy to harden her heart.
She checked her watch: 6.20 – over an hour before her daughter left for work, which meant she could have a word with her and try to sort things out. Normally, she left the pair to themselves. They didn’t want her under their feet and she had learned long ago not to offer to make breakfast. Hugo grabbed a bacon sandwich on site, while Amy’s PA fetched her coffee and a croissant later in the morning. Coffee and a croissant seemed a far-from-nourishing breakfast for a woman twenty weeks pregnant but, again, she mustn’t interfere.
Croissants reminded her of Felix and a frisson of excitement displaced the worry and remorse, if only momentarily. As he’d said, she seemed to be two different people and the sudden shifts between the two were as disconcerting for her as much as for him. But her first duty at the moment was to get dressed and go downstairs, in a bid to end the hostilities.
She felt distinctly apprehensive as she stepped into the shower; running the water as hot as she could bear, to wash off the last traces of her second, sexual self. And she deliberately chose frumpy clothes, suited to a grandmother, and coiled her hair into a severe, unflattering bun.
Even so, it wasn’t easy to venture down the attic stairs and, halfway down, she dithered to a halt. Amy was always busy at this time: washing her hair, applying blusher and lip-gloss so as to look the part in the office, checking texts and emails before she had to leave.
She turned on her heel and began walking back the way she’d come. Best to wait until this evening and hope by then –
‘Mum!’
She wheeled round to see her daughter, fully dressed and made up, darting up the stairs in her worryingly high heels.
Amy sprang towards her and enfolded her in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum! I just don’t understand how I ever said those awful, hurtful things. I’m worried you won’t forgive me, or—’
‘But didn’t you get my note?’ Maria’s voice was muffled in the embrace.
Amy disengaged herself. ‘What note?’
‘I left it at reception, in your office, yesterday.’
‘Oh Lord! I had to go to Clerkenwell the minute I got back in. And from there I went on to—’ She broke off with a frown. ‘Actually, Rebecca did phone me – I remember now – and said something about a delivery, but I’d no idea it was from you.’
‘Yes, I left a present, too – something for the baby.’
‘Oh, Mum … And I thought you were still furious.’
‘And I thought you were!’
They hugged again, Maria’s reaction veering between tears and laughter.
‘Mum, have you got a second? There’s something I want to say.’
‘I’ve all the time in the world. It’s you who’s in the rush.’
‘No, I’m not – for once. I deliberately got up earlier than usual because I didn’t want to go to work without seeing you.’
Knowing how much Amy valued sleep, Maria felt genuinely touched. ‘Well, come on in and I’ll make you some tea. Or how about a boiled egg?’
‘Mum, let’s not go mad! You know I never eat this early. And no tea either, thanks. What I’m going to tell you is important, so I don’t want you fussing around with kettles and cups.’
Mystified, Maria ushered her into her mini-sitting-room and offered her the sole armchair, while she perched on the window ledge.
Crossing her long, elegant legs, Amy leaned back with a sigh. ‘I should have said this years ago – which only goes to show what a selfish git I am.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
There was a sudden awkward pause, then Amy spoke in a rush. ‘I want to tell you – a bit late in life, I admit – how much I appreciate everything you did for me. All my life, you’ve put me first – praised me and supported me, made me feel good about myself. Whatever I said yesterday, you’re actually the best mother in the world. No, don’t contradict me. In fact, you’re not to say a word until I’ve finished. You may think I never twigged how hard things were for you; how you had to go out to work, to pay for my clothes and shoes and hockey boots and all that sort of stuff. In fact, you were like my dad, as well as my mum – earning the money, but also making my school lunches and sewing party frocks.’
‘Yes, but your Grandma did as much as—’
‘Mum, don’t interrupt! I’m not talking about Grandma – I’m talking about you. Take holidays, for instance. You never went abroad, but you scraped the cash together to send me on foreign trips: school excursions to Paris and Brussels and even a fortnight’s skiing. And remember that big Youth Pilgrimage to Lourdes? You paid for me to go on that as well, yet you couldn’t afford to go yourself, like most of the other mums did.’
‘Who’d want to go to Lourdes?’ Maria interjected, with a grin.
‘I did! I was mad keen to see a place where amazing cures might happen, and where I could buy miraculous medals and bottles of Lourdes water and all that pious tat. Oh, I know it sounds unlikely, but when you’re only thirteen … But, look, we’re going off the point, Mum, so let me have my say, OK? When I was older, several of my school friends had parents who divorced and then shacked up with other partners, so there were all these messy relationships with step-parents they hated, or with stepkids they saw as intruders. You never put me through that. I had your total attention and devotion.’
‘But Grandma was the one who—’
‘Not another word about Grandma! I haven’t finished yet. D’you remember that time when Carole’s daughter, B
ecky, had a baby – the summer of 1991, I think it was – and Carole asked you to look after him, while she and Becky spent a week down south? I’d finished at Cambridge, so I was staying with you till I started my new job, and I’ve never forgotten how loving you were with that baby. “Tender” was the word that kept coming into my mind – the way you handled him and fed him, and how patient you were when he kept sicking up his milk – and I realized then that was how you must have been with me.’
Maria’s first instinct was to shout a vehement ‘No!’; to come clean about the fact that she had been anything but tender – at least for the first two years. But something stopped her – and it wasn’t only shame; more an overwhelming need for Amy to feel secure.
‘I was twenty-one at the time and not thinking of having kids myself for at least another five years, but I knew that when I did have them I wanted you to be there, and be thoroughly involved, so you could treat them with the same … yes, tenderness.’
Maria sat in silence. Why spoil a precious moment with superfluous words?
‘So I hope you’ll forgive my outburst yesterday. Put it down to stress. I didn’t tell you at the time, but the client I was seeing had really dropped me in it and—’
Maria got up from the window ledge and crouched by Amy’s chair. ‘Darling, the things you said were completely understandable. In your situation, anyone would feel the same. And you’re absolutely right in needing to know more about your father. I was at fault, for not having acknowledged that an age ago. But, as I told you in my note, I intend to do my best to track him down. In fact, I’ll make a start this morning and try all the things you suggested, so with any luck you should be able to meet him long before the baby’s born.’
‘Oh, that’s fantastic, Mum! But why don’t you let me help? I’m more computer-savvy than you, so it would probably take me a fraction of the time.’
Maria moved to the window and stood looking out at the morning light: uncertain still, and murky grey. ‘Amy, you need to understand that this is a very emotional business, for me as much as for you, so, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer …’
An Enormous Yes Page 13