Before and After

by Lockington, Laura

  “Ah, but Archie can always disappear to the office, can’t he? And the children, well, teenagers can find their own amusement. But you, you’re responsible for it all, aren’t you? I do hope Sylvia,” Ellie lowered her voice, whilst continuing to hold her hand, “I do hope that you’ll think of The Dolphin and myself as your retreat if things start to get on top of you?”

  Ellie’s fingers were lightly tracing the back of Sylvia’s hand as she spoke, caressing and stroking. Sylvia watched her hand being taken possession of with a detached gaze. There was a small and indistinct bat squeak of sexuality going on. I certainly heard it, but I wasn’t too sure about Sylvia. How wrong I was.

  “What charming hands you have, so pretty,” Ellie murmured softly.

  Sylvia blushed and started to pull away from Ellie, but was recaptured and she lay her hand once again into Ellie’s with the trust that small children have before they are disillusioned with adult behaviour. This time the hand that she had willingly given was enfolded between both of Ellie’s and was being fondled and squeezed. I glanced at Sylvia and was pleased to see that this time there was no mistaking the message behind the action. Sylvia was transfixed. Her cheeks were pink and her breathing shallow. I wondered yet again (for this was not the first time I had witnessed such mongoose and snake behaviour from Ellie) how the swaggering sexuality of a woman like Ellie could ensnare so quickly the sleeping sensuousness of a woman like Sylvia. But I should know by now that the woman is a true professional. She and Candy had been together for many years and this small conquest would be added to the many that were kindly discussed and dissected over coffee in the morning. I slid quietly from my bar stool and made my way upstairs. I allowed myself to glance over to them as I left the room and saw that Ellie was standing behind Sylvia with her mouth pressed to Sylvia’s neck. The last thing I saw was Sylvia’s head roll back with pleasure to allow Ellie further liberties.

  I hummed as I walked down the corridor to my room. Most satisfactory indeed. And with no work from me. Well, that was a first I suppose. Relinquishing control has always been a problem for me, but I decided to try and let it go. After all, it didn’t really matter that I hadn’t planned it, the result was the same.

  I checked my e-mail account on the thoughtfully provided laptop in my room, and was overwhelmed as usual by the volume of messages. Although, to be fair that’s my means of communication – there are very few people that know my mobile number. I checked my accounts on line and hugged the knowledge that overnight I had earned a small fortune by selling the diminutive memento that a late member of royalty had given me. On line auctions are simply marvellous things, aren’t they? All the excitement of buying and selling without the tedium of travel. I saw that the final bidder lived in Texas. I fancied that the idea of a letter and photograph, as well as the underwear itself hanging on the walls of an oil millionaire would have made the princess smile. Although you never really knew, humour perhaps not having been her strongest point. I surfed for a while and finally buckled down to the onerous task of my weekly sex problem page. Archie had searched for me on the net, and found me, then dismissed it as not possible. It was, of course. I always use my own name for any enterprise – it makes for far fewer complications – look at Charles Carlton and I rest my case. Besides, the sex problem page as I jokily call it to myself is a miasma of misery that always makes me feel better. One would have assumed (quite wrongly) that the human race had progressed from the Victorian smuttiness that permeated our whole sexual behaviour. But no. The same tired questions were still asked, the same amount of bewildered people still whined endlessly on, as if the quest of their personal sexual fulfilment somehow justified boring the arse off the rest of us. Someone has to tell them the truth. And that someone was myself. I realise that I can’t solve the world’s problems, but for the people who write in to floratatesex@hotmail.com I can and I do.

  I poured myself a glass of water and sipped at it whilst scrolling through the new messages.

  Dear Flora,

  I love my husband very much and we have a lovely home and family. I always thought that we had a wonderful sex life, but recently I came home and found my husband in my underwear wearing a wig and make up. I was so shocked and distressed that he immediately promised that this was a one off and it would never happen again. But only last week I found him wearing my best dress and trying on a pair of high heels that he’s obviously ordered in as his feet are a size 10. I am devastated. Does this mean that he is gay? Or a transvestite? What shall I do? Please help me. I always read your advice and find it to be very wise. I shall follow what you say, so please answer me as quickly as you can.

  Thank you, best wishes, sarahsmith@yahoo.com

  See what I mean? Hardly earth shattering, is it? Although, I concede it may well be for her. I sipped my water and nibbled on a cherry brandy chocolate whilst I tapped in a reply.

  Dear Sarah,

  Well, I think it all depends doesn’t it? Do you want a freak who looks like a drag queen sharing your house? Because that’s what will happen if you allow it. Some women in your position have very happy marriages and go shopping together with Darren/Doris for mascara and tights. (Not a happy retail trip to my mind, but then chacun a son goute and all that French nonsense…) It doesn’t mean he’s gay – although, to be frank, it also doesn’t mean he’s got a huge amount of testosterone either – it just means he’s toying with the idea of allowing his feminine side out for a while. I’ve always noted that those men who are either transvestites, or transsexuals or whatever the hell we want to call them only seem to want to dress like women circa Hollywood 1950’s. Try putting them in an apron and getting them to wash the kitchen floor and then let’s see how much they want to be a woman shall we? If I were you I’d leave. You’d be better off single, because you can blackmail him with this knowledge, and we all know how guilty men behave – they dig into their wallets. Get a photo of him in your clothes, a new job, a new home, and a new man who won’t stretch your best camisole out of shape and enjoy life.

  All the best Flora Tate.

  There were a lot of these sorts of letters. I won’t bore you with them – what? Oh, very well. One more then.

  Dear Flora,

  I took your advice about selling our dog. And I’m writing to you to tell you that you were wrong. Not only did it not solve anything but my wife has left me and gone to join a commune in Oregon where pets are not only encouraged, but compulsory. What qualifications do you have exactly for this sort of counselling? I am reporting your wildly inaccurate and possibly slanderous advice to the relevant officials.

  Yours, davidjones2@hotmail.com

  Ah well, win some, lose some, that’s always been my philosophy.

  My phone rang and I stretched out to answer it, scanning the incoming number as I did so. There’s nothing worse than a call on your mobile late at night from an unidentified source, is there? It was from The Jolly Spree. I spoke briefly for a moment and hung up. Well, it seems that Archie was on his way home sans rather a lot of cash, his yacht, and the affections of his son who was committed to crewing for Charles Carlton for six weeks for a pittance and as much Australian totty as he could handle. Although Archie was very kindly, but unbeknownst to him, carrying an envelope for me. The day’s work done, I prepared for slumber, secure in the knowledge that Archie, whom I had given the front door key of The Dolphin to, was about to stumble upon his wife in a very (to quote davidjones2@hotmail.com) compromising position indeed. I stretched and yawned with a sinuous pleasure. I closed my eyes without a thought in my head other than the tantalising image of the lovely croissants I would be eating for breakfast the following day.

  I woke abruptly. For a moment or two I couldn’t fathom where I was. I spend so many nights away from my own bed that I usually can snap to at a moments notice, but I had been rudely awakened by I knew not what. It was just starting to get light, judging by the pearly opalescence of the curtains screening the windows. I cocked my ears, straining to hear
anything out of the ordinary, and then it came again. The noise that had woken me. A baying, keening sort of noise. If I didn’t know better it sounded like a donkey giving birth. It was of course, Archie mourning the loss of his wife. Of course he hadn’t lost her, it’s just that he felt he had. Those emotions can be two very different things, as anyone with a degree of age and experience will be able to tell you.

  I listened again, and the sound came again. What was he doing? Howling at the moon perhaps? I shifted in my bed and wished that I had bought some ear plugs. Really, the noise would disturb us all. Had the man no scruples? I was half tempted to go and investigate, but really, it was useless. Let me give you the wisdom of experience here. If a woman is upset, she can be comforted whilst she is crying. If it’s a man. Wait. There, simple isn’t it? And very efficacious. I think it comes down to man’s inability to see the wider picture, they are so relentlessly single minded aren’t they? Whereas a woman, even a vacuous simple minded creature, can step outside herself as it were. Even if she just steps to the point where she can view herself as a heroine in a black and white foreign film, she’ll at least cry in a more becoming manner and eventually calm down. Men are bound with the old stiff upper-lip upbringing and the belief that big boys still don’t really cry. Of course when they finally do, we wish with all our hearts they wouldn’t.

  Tomorrow would be the time for the fine tuning of plans, the wise word, the shoulder to sniff on, the arm of comfort, the understanding look. Tomorrow I could begin the delicate mending of hearts. But not tonight.

  I turned over in my bed and placed a pillow over my ears that muffled the awful sounds a little and eventually I dropped off. Though my dreams were interspersed with images of foaling donkeys. Not something I would easily forgive Archie for.

  Rule Number Eleven

  “A woman scorned is indeed a sight to behold. However, this is nothing compared with the misery of a man spurned, or seemingly.”

  The manners of the British, or perhaps I should say English because I really can’t include the wild machinations of the Irish, are sublime. Truly, consider for a while. If you were so unfortunate as to be in a hostage situation, or a hijack, or a ship going down, which nationality would you rather be with? Of course the Americans are frightfully jolly and vociferous but perhaps not quite the ticket – and they do tend to panic a lot, don’t they? Of the Mediterranean lot, well, we may applaud their diet, we may aspire to their so called levels of spontaneous affection but I shudder at their ability to behave well under duress. The ability of the English to know how to behave under truly appalling conditions is well known, indeed, envied throughout the world. It may well have something to do with the upper class always having been raised by a succession of nannies (cold baths, not crying, not making a fuss and the firm belief that a nice cup of tea is a common cure for everything) which although not universally applauded as the most loving of childhoods, certainly breeds restraint.

  Archie Amble at breakfast certainly showed restraint. He and Sylvia were sitting with Bella at a small table in the bow window, anchored to reality with a coffee pot and toast. Candy, resplendent in a pink jumpsuit was dodging around a few other guests who were nursing severe hangovers judging by the amount of tea and orange juice, aspirin and bloody mary’s being ordered when I ventured downstairs.

  Bella jumped up to greet me and insisted I try a croissant. Flaky and warm, direct from the oven they were as good as I’d imagined them to be. As I was eating I watched Sylvia and Archie. Sylvia had slightly red eyes, but a distinctly defiant air to her, whilst Archie, other than a tic in his cheek was quite normal. Or what passed for it, deep within the soul of a British man.

  “So, I understand from Mr Carlton that he’s taken Hal on? How wonderful! What are the plans?” I asked innocently, dipping a triangle of croissant into my tea.

  “Oh, umm, he’s sending for his things, then he sets out on Tuesday,” Sylvia answered for her husband, who was staring gloomily out of the window at a flurry of scavenging seagulls attacking a dropped crust of bread on the pavement.

  “Hmm, I suppose it’s a good thing for him. Well, won’t do him any harm anyway. Six weeks of working his way round the Aegean’s as good as a holiday in my book,” Archie added in a heartily forced tone of voice, his eyes blankly looking ahead. He was bravely going along with the idea that conversation, even under such trying times, must be kept up I noted with approval.

  I glanced at Bella to see how she was taking the idea of her adored brother disappearing for a while. But, thanks to the young’s ability to be sensationally selfish I could see that all she was thinking about was seeing her painter Fiachra in the morning.

  “Oh, Carlton asked me to give you this.” Archie reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I thanked him and he said, “What was the investment business then Flora? I didn’t really get round to discussing it with Carlton last night. In fact,” he continued with the air of a man who’s just awakening from a frightening dream and finds himself back in the safety of his bedroom but believes there’s still something nasty lurking behind the curtains, “I didn’t really talk about much at all.” He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Lost a lot though. Might as well face up to it, no point in ignoring it. Don’t know what came over me!” He squared his shoulders and raised his coffee cup to his lips. “Sorry.” He added to nobody in particular.

  I willed Sylvia to respond, but she was sitting as usual with her hands in her lap, twisting her wedding band round her finger. Although I did notice despite the red eyes, a very slight tilt to the corners of her mouth.

  “Lost what pa?” Bella asked, her head jerking towards her father in surprise.

  I stepped into the breach.

  “I think what your father is trying to explain is that he lost at backgammon to Mr Carlton. It’s amazing isn’t it how we take on the personality of the town we’re staying in? I mean,” I went on quickly thinking that I might as well get it over with and save myself the boredom of the conversation later on, “I mean as we’re all in Brighton it’s as if the spirit of the Regency has overtaken us. Gambling and losing, gambling and winning it’s all the same I think you’ll find in the end. A sport. Nothing more. A certain licentiousness is allowed.”

  I glanced at Sylvia who was looking down at her plate.

  “A gamble or a fling out of the ordinary doesn’t count on location. And just think how revived we’ll all feel tomorrow! Archie has lost some money and a boat he never really cared for, Hal has a fantastic travelling opportunity, and I hope that Sylvia has made a new friend. How wonderful!” I picked my teacup up and sipped. Of course what I wanted to say was far more than that, but it would suffice for the moment. Breakfast time is never the right moment to sing the praises of Aphrodite’s belt where all the charms of passion and seduction are stored robbing the most upright citizen of their reason and judgement. Nor was it the time to mention St Bernadine of Siena, the patron saint of gamblers, the saint that recognised the flush of the heart that thumps at the idea of a spectacular win. Or loss, of course.

  “Oh. I see. Well, you’ve got lots more money haven’t you pa?” Bella asked complacently, greedily mopping up the crumbs from her plate with her thumb.

  Archie was struggling manfully with himself. He’d been fleeced last night, and then he came back to – well, he came back to find his world turned upside down. His wife practically naked and in the arms of that, that woman! He doubted that the image would ever leave him. It felt as though it were burnt into his retina. His wife. His wife looking like a – well, try as he might the word eluded him. But my god she had looked like he had never seen her look before in his life. That’s what rankled more than the other thing – he’d never been privileged with the sight of his wife positively abandoned, wanton, thrilled even. Oh, yes, perhaps in the early days of marriage, but that was tempered with a shyness and rectitude on both of their parts. And as for the money… he sighed. It could have been worse (though how it could have been
was a mystery, but it was the sort of thing one said to oneself). Perhaps that damned woman Flora was right. Could he look at it like that? A blimp? A glitch in the day-to-day habits of his life? He doubted it. Last night he had been wounded. This morning he was injured. He sighed again, and involuntarily gave a strangled whimper from the back of his throat.

  I glanced sharply at him. Breaking down now wasn’t on the cards at all.

  I lay my hand on Archie’s arm and made soothing noises, willing him to meet my eyes.

  “Everything will be alright, you know, Archie,” I said

  He repeated my words dully, looking at me with dawning hope in his face.

  Sylvia caught my eye and gave a grateful little smile. Her shoulders weren’t slumped and her head was held high. The air of defiance which she had casually thrown around her shoulders was still there though it was tempered with a light dusting of acceptance. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was humour – she was like the late princess in that respect – not her strongpoint. But she looked as though she had come through a night of unspeakable experiences unscathed. Even, dare I say it? Happy. Well, happier. It’s amazing what a difference a few moments of lust can wreak, isn’t it?

  “Now then, I suggest we do what the Regency bon ton did on a breezy Sunday morning,” I said, gathering the reins of power to my shoulders, even though it was going to be a hard pull with Archie.

  “What’s that then Flora?” Bella asked, no doubt hoping for news of a highly indigestible thirty-three course regency luncheon.

  “We will take the air. We will promenade. Come on, best foot forward,” I called with a great deal of forced jollity to the table. I marvelled sometimes at my own stamina, but I have always been blessed with a huge amount of energy that isn’t affected by other weaker constitutions.