‘Are you meeting anyone in Brighton?’ asks Mick.
‘I em alone.’ I hope this makes me sound enigmatic rather than a loser. Mick grins again and I think I can safely assume that it’s the right answer. So far I haven’t said much so that he doesn’t notice how phony my accent is. He, on the other hand, has chatted freely. Assuming I understand little, he and his friends have discussed me openly, the only precaution that they take is to speak quickly. I purposely misunderstand, interrupt in the wrong places and stare dumbly out of the window. I haven’t had as much fun in ages.
‘Check out the pert tits.’
Why thank you.
‘Sensational.’
‘Eesn’t the view so?’
They stare at me, scared for a moment that I’ve understood.
‘Sensational, the view.’ I elaborate by waving at the window and they sigh, relieved, nodding enthusiastically.
‘Well if you don’t want her, mate, just say the word and I’ll oblige.’
Excuse me!
‘Forget it. She’s gorgeous and I saw her first. Anyway you’re an ugly bastard and she wouldn’t look at you.’
No, I wouldn’t, but you Mick are certainly worth a second glance.
It’s very hot and Brighton is heaving. Mick’s mates walk all of two hundred yards from the station and suggest stopping for a drink. Mick and I make our excuses and tactically agree that we’ll go on alone. I am flying. Helga (my pseudo name for which I apologize, it shows a lack of imagination) has lent me a new-found confidence. I am open, misleading, worldly, guileless, arch and alluring by turn. It’s easy because Helga manages to elicit cheap laughs by mispronouncing words and appearing charmed by Kiss Me Quick hats and bubble-gum machines. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t trying to get married. Therefore, my conversations with men are usually a thinly veiled attempt to check out their suitability. I mentally tick the lists. Right age and income bracket, territory, education, and evidence of ability to commit. Helga doesn’t want to get married therefore the deepest conversation Mick and I have is what type of topping we prefer on our crêpes. I’m in charge. I’m not trying to snare him. I can behave just as I please.
We wander through The Lanes, the Pavilion and along the pier. Simultaneously we are both overcome with an enormous hunger. There are dozens of grotty cafés that serve strong tea in huge mugs with greasy chips and fried sausage. Normally I’m squeamish about cholesterol and I only eat nutritionally balanced, calorie-restricted meals. I don’t think this caution is very Swedish so I join Mick as he tucks into a gigantic fry-up.
Finally we make our way to the beach, which is pebbled rather than the white sands that I know Amelia will be treading. I don’t hesitate but whip off my sundress. Mick nearly falls over, when for a moment, he thinks I’ve nothing but my birthday suit underneath. Even so, he doesn’t look that disappointed with my bikini-clad bod. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m normally so body conscious I bathe with the lights out.
‘Stones are better than sand, eh?’ My accent is wavering monstrously. It would probably be better if I kept my mouth shut. Well, most of the time.
‘Sorry?’ asks Mick. I’m delighted to note that he isn’t quite able to concentrate on what I’m saying.
‘Sand, it gets all where,’ I elaborate. For the first time in a week I think I got a better deal than Amelia. If I know anything about Donald’s performance on holiday, sand is all Amelia will be getting in her knickers. Mick grins and I hope he is thinking what I’m thinking. He is.
‘You are driving me wild,’ he confirms, sitting down next to me on the pebbles.
‘Err, you want to go for er dive, er drive?’ I ask.
‘No. Well, come to think of it …’
Of course I am not oblivious to my double entendre. I smile encouragingly.
‘I said you are driving me wild,’ he shouts. I continue to look confused but only so he has to repeat himself again. Each time he does so he raises his voice and I like the attention we are attracting. This is excellent news. I don’t think I ever drove anyone wild when I held a British passport. With Donald it was definitely a case of familiarity breeding complacency. Towards the end we had settied into a routine of fortnightly sex. Donald’s desire communicated to me by switching off the bedroom light and twiddling my nipple as though it were a radio dial.
Not that I’m considering having sex with Mick. I mean, I’ve only just met him. It would be indecent. It would be too forward. It would be risky.
It would be fun.
As a Swede it’s necessary to play the role to the full i.e. be a complete nymphet. I know I am pandering to stereotypes but it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to behave like a hussy without endangering the reputation of British girls. It’s almost a patriotic act when I turn to him and push my tongue down his throat. He kisses me back. His kisses are expert; fiery, centred, explorative. The kisses last all afternoon. They last an age because we have nothing to say to each other. As this is a fling I don’t have to prove I’m intellectually stellar, I just have to be a tease. I run my hands up and down his body, checking out his taut muscles and lean waist.
‘You are hard like a rock.’ He blushes furiously and I know that I’m being childish but it’s the best fun I’ve had since, oh, I can’t even remember when. Since I was a child, probably. His hands are dead still on my ribs, just millimetres from my breasts. My breasts are literally screaming for him to make his move. My nipples have stiffened and I hope to God that it’s sweat that I can feel between my legs. I wonder if it breaks etiquette if I make a grab for his cock before he’s even reached first base. I’m demented.
The sun starts to set but the beach is still pretty busy. We watch people round up their cross kids; tired and burnt they cry and argue with their siblings. Older couples are walking their dogs. They’ve already been back to their hotels, showered and changed into their pastel shirts and summer dresses. Whilst we watch them, they steadfastly try to avoid letting their gaze fall on us. I think they are afraid that our obvious lust and desire is infectious. I feel like shouting out and assuring them that it’s not. I should know, I’ve been trying to catch a bit of this long enough.
I shiver.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Before you say I am hot?’ I feign confusion. He smiles and rubs his hands up and down my arms. It feels soooooo good. His fingers pierce me and yet his strokes are a balm. He caresses my ribs. They haven’t made an appearance for about fifteen years but are now sticking out everywhere. His fingers weave around my breasts (despite my best efforts to get them to stop off there), and up to my shoulders and neck, which he massages firmly. I close my eyes and therefore feel, rather than see, him kiss my ears, which causes the hairs on my body to stand to attention. His fingers trace a route back down the side of my breasts, across my waist and over my stomach. Past the edge of my tiny bikini and he wavers. Hesitating, hovering over all the areas that haven’t got a suitable name. If he doesn’t touch me soon I’m going to combust.
I want this man to take me, to pull me, to push into me. I want this man. How do I broach the subject? Not easy in a first language, being Helga helps.
‘Now we take ‘otel?’
‘Are you sure you want this?’
Want this? I want him more than I’ve ever wanted a wedding list at John Lewis.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Yes it is me. Why do I sound different? … Yes. I am flung!! Well at least Helga is … You heard. Who told you? … Michelle. Saves me putting an announcement in the paper … Yes, Helga is a stupid name; I was under time pressure. The most amazing smile, sort of Robbie Williams. Eyes to die for, kind of put me in mind of George Clooney. The tightest butt, very Brad Pitt … His … Yes, huge! I seduced him with dinky little embroidered slip dresses and strappy sandals … Yes, I know it takes two to tango … sensational in bed and sur la plage… Well you can’t just mope at home … I really concede the point on flings. The thirties are great years … I’m freed from the insec
urities that plagued my twenties … Sod the cellulite cream … After all, I am young, free and invited. No?
Helen Lederer
Helen Lederer began her career as a stand-up comic in the early eighties, surviving the Comedy Store and culminating in a sell-out show at the Edinburgh Festival. Probably best known for her performance as Catriona in BBC TV’s Absolutely Fabulous she has also appeared in many other shows including Harry Enfield’s Television Programme, One Foot in the Grave, Happy Families, Girls on Top and Casualty. On BBC radio, she has been a regular panellist on shows including Just a Minute, Quote . . . Unquote, Open Book, A Good Read and Woman's Hour, as well as writing and performing in two of her own comedy series, All Change and Life with Lederer. Her columns include Woman & Home, the Independent, the Mail on Sunday and the Daily Telegraph, and she is currently the 'agony aunt' for Woman's Weekly. Helen's comedy books include Coping with Helen Lederer and Single Minding. She has just published her first comedy novel Losing it with Pan Macmillan, which was nominated for the PG Wodehouse Comedy Literary Prize 2015.
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage
Helen Lederer
Karen glared resentfully at a couple of girls wiggling their way up the Edgware Road towards her, their minuscule knickers outrageously visible through the chiffon of their summer dresses.
She pulled herself together. Just because it was Bank Holiday and most other people were having barbecues in strappy vests and shorts or sex with their partners somewhere conveniently close to the M25, didn’t mean she had to curl up and die. Well not yet. Something would happen to her. It would. But then she remembered the last time Positive Thinking had brought a result.
She had noticed her friend’s brother looking at her out of the corner of her eye in the car on the way back from Ikea. The more he looked at her, the more she had re-arranged her mouth to resemble what she thought was a Michele Pfeiffer pout with wide startled-looking eyes.
Then suddenly he said, ‘Karen?’
‘Mmmm?’ She looked at him apparently casual.
‘Do you know what you remind me of?’
‘No,’ replied Karen expectantly, opening her eyes wider and puckering her mouth like the clappers.
‘A goldfish.’
‘Thanks.’
Yes. She had good reason to be depressed. And last night with her flatmate hadn’t helped.
‘When was the last time you had sex?’ Cora had wanted to know. She was only bothering to talk to her because her boyfriend was out experimenting with male company and beer, ‘in case their own relationship got co-dependent’, and also because Coventry was playing Munich.
Karen made the mistake of telling her.
Cora screamed incredulously. ‘Five YEARS? – There’s something wrong, Karen.’ And then she offered, ‘Have you thought about the Wrens?’ after a few pitiful looks.
Instead Karen thought half-heartedly of the vibrator that had been left behind in the flat. But she knew that she couldn’t bring herself to actually use it. In any case, Cora had told Karen not to, since they didn’t know where it had been. Actually, Karen could well imagine where it had been, which was an even better reason to leave well alone.
No, she’d hang on for the real thing. Bank Holiday had to be got through with or without sex – and since it was without, she might as well catch a train.
‘We all know about you and trains,’ said Cora derisively.
Karen bitterly regretted a previous occasion where after a few cranberry vodkas she had rashly confided that she always got turned on in a train. She couldn’t exactly account for it, but it might have something to do with the regular vibrations which seemed to speak to her vagina and get it purring. Once, on a particularly long journey, she’d even had to find a loo to go in and give herself a seeing to before she exploded.
Instead of being impressed at this account of rather original sexual display, Cora had been disappointingly horrified.
‘What, in the loo?’ she’d asked, amazed. ‘On public transport?’
‘It wasn’t public,’ defended Karen. ‘That’s the point.’
‘You’re weird,’ confirmed Cora.
‘I’m not,’ said Karen. ‘Look at those male commuters – have a look at what they’re doing to themselves under those tables. They’re not tapping the Formica underneath I can assure you!’
But Karen could see this was not a subject to dwell on with Cora, so she justified the train journey as merely a necessary mode of transport to get her to her ‘friendzzz’ in the country for Bank Holiday – rather than any surrogate sexual playground of orgasmic possibilities. Perish the thought.
‘Is that the friend whose brother thought you resembled a goldfish?’ Cora needed to know.
‘I can’t remember,’ said Karen. Cora really was a pain. She’d be buying a Time Out at the station to start auditioning for other flatmates as well.
‘Great’ said her friend Frances when Karen had invited herself over the night before, making out she wasn’t desperate but could she come down the next day, please?
‘As long as you don’t mind sharing the bed,’ Frances stipulated.
‘No,’ said Karen truthfully. ‘Who’ve you got in mind?’ she joked.
Frances didn’t laugh because she’d been married to Brian for a few years and had therefore lost the art of repartee.
‘You’ve met her before?’ said Frances.
‘Not that woman from Cornwall with the caring personality?’ Karen asked.
‘She’s a homeopath – well, she’s training to be anyway and–’
Karen cut her off, bored already. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Her kids.’
Great, thought Karen, a homeopath from Cornwall and kids as well.
Impulsively for a second she toyed with an alternative plan. Perhaps she could get herself booked on a last-minute ‘water-sports’ weekend. She’d seen it advertised on afternoon television: a group teamed up at a man-made lake and learned about being wet and cold with some sailing thrown in. But what if all the men were accountants? Or worse, what if there weren’t any men at all? She could always do what that weekend Life Skills workshop had recommended – hang out in Hyde Park talking to trees. But to be honest she didn’t want to attract any more unkind attention. Cora was enough.
No. She’d chosen the only course of action available. Even if Frances was married to Brian, at least it was a known quantity and she knew she’d hate it marginally less than staying in London.
The train was hot and crowded as she bumped herself along the carriage with her carrier bags of women’s magazines and a rather phallic-looking brie baguette. Her overnight bag was lolling off her shoulder, which meant she had to raise her armpit to straighten it, which meant in turn that the faceless grey men at the tables might spot her armpit stubble or, worse, get a sniff. God, summer was a worry.
Oh, for the camouflage of winter, when velvet-tailored jackets hugged themselves tightly over unsightly body parts. But no. Her Ghost dress with matching cover-up cardi was falling off with the strain of her ill-thought-out baggage and smelly cheese.
This was getting increasingly annoying, as three carriages down she still couldn’t find a seat. The only ‘possible’ was an aisle seat next to a man whose lap-top, phone and spread sheets had been staked so obviously across the table. She wasn’t in the mood to squeeze in and balance her carriers on the two centimetres left. Nor was anyone else, which she could see was an effective use of the territorial imperative but, really, who gave a fuck. Obviously she would if she could, but not with him.
Finally Karen spotted a seat opposite a woman and baby. The seat next to them was piled high with baby bags, toys and general nappy paraphernalia, which explained why the whole area had been given a wide berth.
As Karen set about committing herself reluctantly to the seat, the woman smiled in a rather fixed way at her, clearly enjoying the sucking of the baby at her nipple. Karen really didn’t know if she could stomach such a sight for long. But it was betwe
en ‘lap-top’ or ‘breast’. Bank Holidays brought them all out, it seemed.
The woman’s eyes seemed to glaze over as if in a sexual reverie, which looked ominous. Karen decided if the woman got near a climax she’d turn tail and go, carriers or no carriers. She’d sort of suck it and see, as it were, before moving on.
Karen distracted herself with the weekend ahead. Perhaps they’d do that drive again to the nearest Ikea where you bought small candles and tiny noticeboards and paper-clips, having looked at the garden furniture and decided against. Sensible in her case, given she had no garden. Or perhaps they’d stay in and have a takeaway. A far cry from when they were at school. She remembered nostalgically how Frances and she had been allowed to go away together at eighteen and catch the ferry to Calais. If only their parents had known what had been in their minds they’d never have been allowed out of their rooms.
But then, in those days, if you wanted a snog you just went out looking for it. Why wasn’t it possible now? She was just as keen to get one but somehow looking hopeful seemed to put men off once you turned thirty-five.
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