Flappy Entertains

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Perhaps you’ll show me the cottage,’ he continued, holding her steady in his spellbinding gaze.

  Flappy felt very hot. She fanned herself with the magazine. After a short internal struggle, she found her voice, husky though it was. ‘Of course. Just come and find me when you’re done. I’ll be in the garden.’ She knew that if she accompanied him to the pool house he would kiss her again and then the kiss would lead to something else, and really, they were lucky not to have got caught the first time; she did not want to tempt the Fates. ‘Enjoy your swim,’ she said.

  Charles disappeared into the house and Flappy went round to the terrace where she plonked herself down on one of the reclining chairs and closed her eyes. She sighed heavily. This was total madness, she thought, feeling dangerously out of control. If there was one thing Flappy was very good at, it was being in control. But now that control was slipping through her fingers like sand. All her good intentions had evaporated, leaving the beast within free to wreak havoc. Indeed, the desires of the body were too strong for the mind to harness; she wanted Charles and she wanted him now. She didn’t think she had ever wanted anything so badly in all her life. She flicked open the magazine and ran her eyes over the words, although she failed to take in their meaning. She closed her eyes again and wondered how long he was going to take doing his lengths.

  Fifteen minutes later she heard him call out her name. She sat up with a start. ‘Here!’ she shouted back. ‘In the garden.’

  Charles appeared with his hair wet and tousled and Flappy’s breath caught in her throat. She got off the chair and put the magazine down. ‘Right, let me show you where my shrine is going to be,’ she said, making her voice light and carefree. If there was one thing Flappy was good at it was pretending to be one thing when she was really quite another.

  They set off through the garden. Flappy did not linger as she normally would, to give her guest time to appreciate the neatly weeded borders, topiary sculptures, ornamental fountains and arches of vines and walkways of roses, no, she strode on with one thing in mind and one thing only: to get to the cottage as quickly as possible to satisfy the urgent demands of her loins.

  They arrived at last and, with a trembling hand, Flappy put the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened, releasing the warm and musty smell of an idle house. ‘Welcome,’ she said and stepped inside.

  Charles closed the door behind him and swept his gaze over the room, settling it finally onto Flappy with its green and hypnotic power. Before Flappy could explain where the statue of Buddha was going to go, or where she might clear space for a small fountain because water was a very soothing sound for meditators, his lips were upon hers and his arms were around her body, and he was kissing her deeply and passionately and awakening the beast inside her with a jolt. Her legs gave way, she fell against him like a rag doll, powerless to resist the force of his magnetism. She was truly lost and loving every moment of it, and thinking that, if she never found herself again, she’d be completely content.

  Then Flappy remembered the high bed beneath the eves. She took his hand out from under her shirt and led him upstairs. Without a word they fell onto the soft mattress. Flappy would have liked to have had time to close the curtains. Now Charles was going to see her naked body in bright sunshine, for the sun was indeed shining in through the window. She shut her eyes. It couldn’t be helped and, as he buried his face in her neck and ran his hands over the skin beneath her shirt, she decided that she really didn’t care. He was used to making love to an Ayrshire cow, after all. A white tigress would be a dramatic improvement.

  After Charles had brought Flappy to unimagined heights of pleasure, they lay entwined beneath the sheets, pink-cheeked and sparkly eyed and out of breath, for, at their age, that kind of lovemaking was something of a marathon. ‘That was wonderful,’ Flappy breathed, believing that she had never experienced anything quite so wonderful in her entire life.

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Flappy,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been dreaming of this moment ever since you mentioned this secret little sanctuary, and it didn’t disappoint. You’re a goddess. Much too good for me.’

  ‘Oh, Charles. That’s just silly.’ But Flappy knew why he should think such a thing. She was, it was true, much too good for most men. ‘You’re a cut above all the others,’ she said. ‘We’re perfect for each other.’

  ‘How fortunate that we chose to come and live in Badley Compton,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it is a charming place and more cultured than one would expect—’

  ‘No, I mean because of you, Flappy. I’m fortunate to have found you.’

  Flappy smiled with pleasure. ‘That’s a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘Do you make love with Kenneth?’ he asked suddenly, an undercurrent of jealousy in his tone.

  Flappy wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t want to say anything that might diminish her in his eyes and she did not want to be more disloyal to Kenneth than she was already being. ‘Let’s not talk about Kenneth and Hedda,’ she said. ‘Let it just be you and me, Charles. Here in this parallel world. In this little sanctuary of pleasure.’

  ‘You’re so right, Flappy,’ he agreed. ‘I should not have asked. Forgive me.’

  She snuggled into his chest. ‘Of course, my darling. I’ll forgive you anything.’

  * * *

  Flappy and Charles agreed that, in future, although both Hedda and Kenneth were aware that Charles was going to use the cottage for meditation, they would be discreet. They’d meet in the cottage around five, arriving separately with a ten-minute gap. Charles would park his car on the farm track behind the property and Flappy would trot through the gardens. It would be perfect, cautious and, Flappy was certain, foolproof. No one came to the cottage, ever. Kenneth hadn’t been there since Flappy had given the town a small exhibition of her paintings, raising money for much needed repairs to the town hall, in the process of which she had easily exceeded the required amount by selling out. Indeed, there were many of her watercolours hanging on the walls of the great and the good of Badley Compton.

  As they walked back up through the gardens towards the house, Flappy asked Charles about his acting career. ‘I gather you were an actor,’ she said, stopping to smell a late-flowering rose.

  ‘Yes, I was,’ he replied and Flappy felt a frisson of pleasure. She pictured him in on skis, jumping off a precipice and releasing a wonderfully patriotic Union Jack parachute.

  ‘Do you remember Fawlty Towers?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, John Cleese. Of course I remember that!’ said Flappy excitedly.

  ‘I did a screen test for one of the hotel guests.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t get it. I was so close,’ he said, showing her just how close he was with his forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Oh, bad luck, darling,’ she cooed. ‘What else?’

  ‘I also auditioned for Withnail and I.’

  ‘That was a brilliant film,’ said Flappy, impressed. She narrowed her eyes, trying to work out which part he could have played, for surely, besides Withnail, Marwood, Uncle Monty and Danny, there weren’t very many to choose from – he certainly wasn’t the grumpy old farmer.

  ‘I was going to play Isaac Parkin, but I was struck down with glandular fever and had to pull out.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Flappy in disappointment.

  ‘But I did the odd advert when I wasn’t committed.’

  Flappy’s heart sank. Surely not Daks!

  ‘Daz washing powder,’ he said and laughed. ‘Oh, the things I did when I was young and naive.’

  Flappy did not want to dwell anymore on his acting career, if one could even call it that, which one couldn’t, not really. ‘What did you do when you stopped being an actor?’ she asked, hoping for something a teeny bit more glamorous.

  ‘I retired,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Flappy.

  ‘I’ve been retired for a very long time.’ By that he must surely mean about
forty years. ‘But like you, Flappy, I fill my days with interesting things. My main hobby is collecting art.’

  ‘Of course,’ Flappy exclaimed with relief. That’s just what a gentleman like Charles Harvey-Smith would do, collect great works of art. ‘Much more dignified than acting,’ she added.

  ‘Much,’ Charles agreed. ‘Do you like Hockney?’

  ‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Who doesn’t like Hockney!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got my eye on one of those.’

  * * *

  The following morning it was pouring with rain. Flappy lay in bed listening to the rattling sound of raindrops against her windowpanes and felt very content. She stretched out luxuriously and smiled to herself as the memory of the afternoon before came back to her in delicious waves of erotic pleasure. Never had her body felt so loose. Never had she felt so supple. Never ever had she felt so alive. Flappy, queen of Badley Compton, was living a double life! Who’d have thought it?

  It being a Saturday, Persephone would not be coming in. Nor would the gardeners. Nor would Karen and nor would Tatiana who came every morning to clean. Kenneth would have to cancel his golf, which was a shame, because otherwise she would have had the house to herself. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was seven. Flappy always awoke at five. This was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. She sat up with a start.

  She slipped on her yoga clothes and made her way down to the pool. She stood a moment, gazing into the shimmering water. She imagined Charles gliding through it in his swimming trunks and a ripple of desire careered over her skin, making her feel suddenly reckless. If there was one thing Flappy never felt, it was reckless. Without a moment’s hesitation she took off her clothes, all of them. Then she dived into the pool, a perfect dive, because, it must be acknowledged, Flappy was a beautiful swimmer. She promptly swam a length of front crawl, followed by an elegant breaststroke, followed by backstroke. The sensation of the cool water against her naked body, reaching into every nook and cranny, made her feel wickedly sensual. She did not feel like a woman in her sixties, but a young woman in the first throes of love. A beautiful, flawless young woman with boundless energy and desire. Yes, desire! Who’d have thought it?

  Flappy was a new woman. Instead of yoga, she put on some pop music – she secretly loved Kylie Minogue – and danced naked in front of the mirror. The joy that bubbled inside her was uncontainable. Out it spilled in hip-wiggles and sways, jumps and bounces. By the end of the song she was out of breath and laughing wildly. Her hair had dried into a mop of frizz and her eyes were ablaze with passion. Passion for life, passion for Charles and passion for the bold new Flappy who was grinning, a little madly it must be said, out at her from the mirror.

  When Kenneth awoke in the big bed in his dressing room, he heard singing. He lay there a moment wondering whether Flappy had turned on the radio in her bedroom. It was very unlike Flappy to play anything other than classical music. If there was one thing he knew Flappy abhorred, it was pop music. But no, as he sat up in bed, his belly making it quite impossible to stay up without falling back against the pillows, he realized with surprise that it was indeed pop music and, as he cocked an ear, that the voice belonged to Flappy.

  ‘I can’t get you out of my head,’ sang Flappy happily as she applied make-up at her vanity table in her bedroom next door. ‘La la la la la…’ Kenneth blinked hard. Perhaps he was dreaming. Flappy never sang, except in church – as one would expect, she had an angelic voice. But no, he wasn’t dreaming. He climbed out of bed with a groan and took a moment to steady himself as he was suddenly assaulted by a head-spin. He wandered into the bathroom and peed. Then he brushed his teeth. All the while his wife sang loudly and confidently in the room next door. Finally, her voice was drowned out by the hairdryer. Kenneth hated loud noises, so he went back into his dressing room and opened the curtains. When he saw the rain he was disappointed. There would be no golf today. He sighed and looked up at the sky, hoping that a patch of blue would appear in the cloud. It did not. He stared some more, just in case. But no, still low hanging clouds the colour of porridge. He went to his cupboard and pulled out a pair of red chinos, a white polo shirt and a yellow cashmere V-neck. The sort of clothes he wore when he wasn’t going to play golf. Disappointed clothes.

  When the hairdryer stopped he went in to see his wife. ‘Good morning, darling,’ she said when she saw him.

  Kenneth blinked twice then narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t put his finger on what, but there was something decidedly different about her today. The hair was the same, her face was the same and she was wearing a typically chic ensemble that she would claim she had just ‘thrown on’ without any thought, but still, there was something different and a little alarming. But, because he couldn’t identify it, he couldn’t mention it either. ‘You’re in a good mood today, darling,’ was all he said.

  ‘I am. It’s Saturday. I love Saturdays. No one in the house but us.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s true. But I thought you loved it when the place was teeming with people, making it all nice for you.’

  ‘Oh, I do, of course. I never ever take that for granted. I’m so so lucky to have countless people tending to Darnley. But today, I’m actually loving the fact that we’re alone.’

  ‘Right, well, shall we have some breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, breakfast. I’m ravenous.’ Flappy led the way downstairs and into the kitchen. Kenneth was feeling uneasy. Flappy singing? Flappy wanting to be alone? Then, horror of horrors, Flappy buttering a thick slice of toast and dipping ‘soldiers’ into her boiled egg. ‘I haven’t done this since I was a child,’ she laughed. ‘Isn’t this fun!’

  Kenneth frowned over his coffee cup. ‘I don’t think you’ve eaten bread in all the years we’ve been married,’ he said, smiling to mask his anxiety.

  ‘I’m going to have milk in my tea,’ she said, lifting the bottle out of the fridge and bringing it to the table. She did not, as she usually did, pour milk into a jug, no, she poured it straight from the bottle into her teacup. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Kenneth. I awoke this morning feeling different.’

  Kenneth’s shoulders relaxed. At least Flappy had noticed too, he thought. What a relief! ‘I was going to comment on it, but I wasn’t sure what it was,’ he said.

  ‘I awoke feeling happy, darling. Very, very happy. For a start, I awoke at seven.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘I know, isn’t that extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. And then I went downstairs to do yoga, but decided to go for a swim instead.’

  ‘A swim?’ gasped Kenneth, putting down his coffee cup in case he dropped it. Flappy would not want him to break her pretty pastel-coloured set from Fortnum’s in London.

  ‘Yes, a swim! I haven’t swum in about forty years. And then—’

  ‘There’s more?’ he interrupted.

  ‘I danced.’

  ‘You danced?’

  ‘Yes, I danced instead of yoga.’ She did not go as far as telling him that she had danced naked. That would be too much information for her poor husband to take in. As it was his face had gone pale and he was looking fearful. She put a hand on his. ‘Darling, don’t look so worried. I’m not sick. I’m just happy!’

  ‘But why are you so happy?’ he asked.

  Now Flappy had to choose her words carefully. Very carefully. She did not want to give her husband any reason to suspect foul play. ‘I’m so so lucky, darling,’ she said, looking at him with tenderness. ‘I have everything I want. Everything. In fact, there is nothing I want that I don’t have. And it’s all because of you.’ Kenneth frowned again, still looking fearful. ‘I think I awoke with an enormous sense of gratitude, darling. It just came over me all of a sudden and filled me with joy. One mustn’t be so spoilt as to take all one’s blessings for granted. Especially when one has so many blessings. Don’t you agree?’

  Kenneth was moved. He didn’t know what to say. He squeezed his wife’s hands and gave her a grateful smile.

  *
* *

  The following day Flappy and Kenneth went to church at the normal time. Flappy did not insist they go early. In fact, they arrived a minute or two late. Everyone was already seated and, as Flappy walked down the aisle, she smiled serenely at the faces turned towards her. However, she had eyes for one person and one person only: Charles. Flappy noticed at once that the Harvey-Smiths had put themselves in the front row of the other side of the church and were looking perfectly content about it. Hedda gave her a little wave and Flappy waved back. Charles caught her eye but Flappy looked away; it was imperative that she control herself in public, when the eyes of the entire congregation were upon her.

  She sat down in her place and took a moment to thank God for her blessings in a quiet prayer. Right now she really did have a lot to thank Him for, and a little to apologize for, too, she had to admit. But God was notoriously forgiving, she reasoned, as she cut off her conversation and opened her prayer book. She was one of His sheep who was currently straying from His ways. If she remembered rightly, God loved those kind of sheep the most.

  Chapter 9

  After a pleasant but not very inspiring Sunday lunch at Mabel and John Hitchens’ house, Flappy and Kenneth headed home in Kenneth’s sleek Jaguar. ‘I’m not going to wait for Gerald to decorate the cottage,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to start meditating right away. There’s no time like the present, is there, when one has come up with a good project?’

  ‘Quite,’ Kenneth replied, slowing down behind a lorry. He pulled out a little to see if he could overtake, then swerved back into his lane again when he discovered that he couldn’t.

  ‘I mean, one is very enthusiastic to get started, in the beginning.’

  ‘Then you lose interest,’ said Kenneth.

  ‘If you’re referring to my painting, Kenneth, I didn’t lose interest. I was just too busy to keep it going. For painting, one requires time. Hours, in fact, of peace and solitude. With meditation, one requires an hour and then it’s done. Of course, if one has gone very deep into oneself, then perhaps one requires a teeny bit more than an hour,’ she added, thinking of Charles and the likelihood of that hour slipping into two. ‘After all, the idea is to lose oneself completely. I’m going to start this afternoon and I don’t want to be disturbed. If you need me, you must telephone. Is that all right, darling? Only, if you were to appear at the door when I was in mid-flow, you might startle me, and perhaps even kill me. I mean, it might be like waking someone up while they’re dreaming.’