‘Great room. Welcoming.’
I look round, glad I tidied up today. It’s small, but the walls are clean white and the carpet is that hemp stuff, with a nice Indian rug on top. I have things from my travels dotted around, a Buddha here, a silk wall hanging there, a bodhrán hanging over the fireplace and a blue Tanglewood guitar on a stand. I don’t play the guitar very well, but I like to have it around. I also have a banjo in my bedroom that I can play a bit better.
I pour us both a large vodka, then add the cold juice. Pat takes my drink from me and puts it down on the reading table with his own. This time when he kisses me, it’s more dangerous, as there are no witnesses to behave in front of. This, however, does not render him all thumbs. He pulls me towards him on my futon settee with the cheap woollen throw and kisses my mouth then buries his face in my hair, so I can feel his breath on my neck. Those dextrous hands with the clean nails cradle my rib cage as he whispers in my ear.
‘I’ve not really liked anyone for ages. Now I’m feeling very, very naughty.’
‘You are very, very naughty.’
I can’t believe how much I want to bypass ceremony and rip off his clothes. Seven months of being a nun has rendered me an animal. I try to keep myself in check, but as I kiss him again his hands move upwards. I have to hold my breath as he manoeuvres to my breasts. Suddenly he turns me and drags me towards him quite forcefully so I’m straddling him and peels down the straps of my dress until it has been pushed to my waist. Now he’s virtually face to face with my strapless bra. With a wicked smile and another kiss, he reaches his hand inside and begins to stroke my nipple with his palm.
That is as much as I can take. I grab the bottom of his linen shirt and rip it over his head. His chest is dappled with fine, sandy hairs and he has strong arms and the kind of flat, muscled belly you see on young men before the beer begins to fill it out. I rub my hands over him, like I’m considering the purchase of a shiny new stallion. My lack of shyness is astounding to me. His lack of shyness, less so.
He reaches round like an expert and releases the catch on my bra and takes my nipple in his mouth as his hand massages the other. Oh my Goooddd…! I take this for as long as I can then pull him onto the floor and undo his jeans. I don’t care if missionary is supposed to be a boring position, I just want this man naked and on top of me. I manage to wriggle out of my leggings and the rest of my dress, and after loosening his jeans I push them and his pants down and off with my feet.
Now the only thing between us is a pair of functional, black M&S knickers. I reach down and grip him and am gratified by how happy he obviously is to be here. Ecstatic, judging by how hard he is. His gasp is followed by a hand reaching down and stroking me through my underwear. Slowly, while kissing me, his fingers slip inside. As I arch into his hand I am hit by two sensations, one of falling backwards into a pitch black abyss and another of the skin being rubbed off my back by the rough carpet. Next thing, Pat sits up, hand still in my knickers, and reaches into his coat on the sofa. This is awkward to say the least so he removes his hand and sorts through the wallet until he finds what he’s looking for. A condom. Good lad.
‘Hope you don’t mind, I always carry a few in here.’
‘No, I’m glad, I don’t even know if I have any, any more.’
He quickly puts it on. Expertly puts it on, in fact.
‘Come up here, gorgeous, I loved what you were doing before.’
He sits back up on the sofa, and I climb up his body until I’m straddling him again and can lower myself onto him. His groan is as unselfconscious as mine. As we move together he sucks on my nipples before our mouths meld together and then we both begin to move faster and soon I can’t tell what’s happening any more. All I know is I can’t stop grinding and I’m mewling like a kitten and he’s gasping into my shoulder and then… and then…
With one last yelp, the world suddenly goes quiet and still in my head and I’m riding a surge of white light. A thunderous firework explodes. Or actually, maybe, I just orgasm. Pat is seconds behind me.
We stay in that position for a while, until I reluctantly climb off to retrieve our drinks. As we sip, we kiss and touch and drink some more.
‘You wanted an early night, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did, but it doesn’t seem quite so important now.’
The smell of his skin is like a drug to me after such a drought. He lightly brushes my bare breast with his fingertip and pushes me back on the sofa. Putting his drink on the floor, he dips the finger into the cool liquid and slips it between my legs.
‘That’s good. Because I’m not finished with you yet.’
My eyes close as his tongue follows the path of his finger.
Ghost Pervert
Half an hour into my flight, the plane has risen above the grey clouds and the sky is all blue with wisps of white candy floss. I have a gin and slim in front of me and I am running on two hours’ sleep. If that. My eyes keep closing of their own accord then popping open again like broken shutters.
Every time they close I have flashbacks to last night and have to stifle another embarrassed yet smug smile. It just didn’t stop. That Mills and Boon bullshit about melting into each other and making love all night has suddenly taken on a whole new perspective. Apart from it was more like eating each other alive, like starving kids with a vat of Ben and Jerry’s, all night.
After the first time, we played with each other like naughty children for hours. Every time it seemed we were sated and needed to sleep, something would set us off again and another hour would be gone. Eventually at about five a.m. we realised we were too wired to sleep so I pulled out the futon settee into a bed and put the kettle on. Soon we were snuggling up with the duvet on our knees, eating a box of wafer thin chocolate mints from the 99p shop with big mugs of camomile tea, and watching Manhattan Murder Mystery. I did not expect Pat to like Woody Allen, but he was captivated. When the film finished we managed to snatch our meagre sleep ration, and then it was nine o’clock and I had packing to do.
Were it not for the absence of any more condoms I think Pat would have tried for another cheeky one before he left, but I begged for mercy as I would be late and I needed a bath. With no real other option, we embraced and he trooped off home with a spring in his step like he’d just had an early night and ten hours’ kip. Never had sex been so welcome for me, or so bloody great.
At this moment I am torn between being a bit loved up and a bit excited that there are so many others out there who could be as good, or perish the thought, even better at it than Pat.
That sounds greedy, doesn’t it? Before I was with Blake, last night would not have been possible. I would have written myself off as a grade one slut for capitulating too easily and would have needed to hear he was in love with me soon after our first time, to justify it. Looking back, fuck that. What an idiot I was. An ocean of need. Now I’m well aware that Pat’s an Irish dynamo, but he’s going away and that’s probably why I’m happy to have fun… and contemplate fun with others. Slut schmut.
I’m very thankful that the seat next to me is empty. I pull up the armrest to give myself more room and snuggle into my cushion. I begin to doze. As I fall into a deeper sleep, the steady roar of the aeroplane’s engines and the air-con mingle and become the sound of the sea.
I open my eyes.
I’m in a verdant garden outside one of those villas with white walls and tropical flowers growing up a trellis that you see on holiday. Ahead, over a low stone wall, is a beach and the sea. Miles of it. It is just perfect. I’m sitting on a canvas chair by a metal and glass table. The sky is bluer than blue and I feel utterly peaceful. Suddenly I can hear music. Ridiculous music: ‘Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West)’ by Benny Hill. What the…? That’s when I notice there’s another canvas chair a few feet away and it’s not empty.
Frank! Of course it’s bloody Frank.
‘Frank, what’s with the soundtrack? Is this your theme tune?’
He’s sniggeri
ng his head off. What a clown.
Frank always liked the sunshine; that’s why I usually dream about him in the sun. His brown eyes with the green flecks are bright with mirth. His hair is sticking up all over the place as it always was. He’s wearing cut-off jeans just above his tanned knees and a bright Hawaiian shirt that is only half buttoned up. He looks well. Unlike other times, I know this is a dream.
‘How are you?’
‘How are you, you mad cow?’
‘Same as usual.’
He picks up his seat, brings it closer to mine. He takes my hand. ‘I need to tell you something, witchy woman…’
I glory in the fact I can feel his warm hand in mine. I can really feel it.
‘What’s happening now, what you’re doing with your life, it’s the right thing.’
Did he just say something serious?
‘What, talking to dead people or having sex with young men?’
He cracks up. ‘BOTH! Look. You always had great instincts about other people, but you were always ridiculously shit when it came to yourself. I’m going to help you.’
‘How?’
‘None of your beeswax. All you need to know is, there are certain people that only a girl like you is qualified to help. I’ll help you to help them! You’re going to have a ball.’
I can feel myself getting tearful. I know it’s a dream, but this meeting feels more ‘real’ than all of the others put together. And I feel I’m going to wake up soon. Boo. ‘You’ve never told me… how you are… what it was like to die?’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘I didn’t die. It only looks like it from where you’re standing. I’m good. I’m fine. I only ever feel sad when I see my mam or my mates upset.’
‘We miss you. A bit.’
He laughs. ‘Well stop it. I’m here. I’m always here. Just give me a shout.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘I’ve been trying to get through to you, Tanz. I’m always talking to you. You just have to open your ears, the ones inside! Anyway, congratulations on your latest piece of high art. Dancing like a fool in front of a TV crew and a sex maniac.’
‘A what?’
He sniggers again and puts his finger to his lips.
‘Look, you can take the piss out of my rubbish acting jobs all you like, but I’m going to need to make money somehow while I’m hobnobbing with your dead mates.’
‘Still so touchy! I’ve been talking to you for ages, you know, you just didn’t know it was me.’
I’m rather indignant at this. ‘Was that you telling me to grab Pat?’
‘What of it? Didn’t it do you good?’
‘That’s not the point, you massive pervert.’
Right now I’m not in a dream with a dead bloke, I’m in a nice holiday garden with my mate Frank. Who’s irritating me, like he always did. And before you know it, he hugs me. The first hug since he died. We hug like we used to and he smells the same. That’s when I burst into tears.
‘This crying for me has to stop, Tanz. I don’t know what you’re bleating for anyway, you were a total bitch to me when I was alive.’
I slap him and I sob and I hug.
‘Listen, you’ve got some interesting days ahead, I’ll be about, OK? Oh, and shag Pat again before he leaves, that lad has stamina.’
I wipe my snotty nose on my sleeve. ‘You were watching?’
His laughter is infectious. ‘I have better things to do, thank you very much.’
I hug him again, just because I can.
Then a siren goes off. My head whips round to find where it’s coming from and suddenly it’s dark and I’m opening my eyes and I’m on an aeroplane with the seat-belt light flashing and an alarm telling me to buckle up.
For the first time in a long time I haven’t woken up crying from a Frank dream. I’ve woken up thinking of him just as my friend, not my dead friend. I feel stronger. But my arms feel empty.
Apparently I Need a Broomstick
The hotel is lovely, not that I do much exploring. I have a costume fitting at four p.m., so I lie down on the big bed with the whiter than white sheets and catch another (dreamless) hour of sleep. As I drift I can hear people swimming in the outside pool, laughing and splashing and enjoying the heat. It’s a night shoot so I get to stay until noon tomorrow. I will definitely have a swim and a little sunbathe if it’s like this in the morning.
It feels like I’ve only blinked when the alarm goes off on my phone and I have to meet the driver downstairs. This is one of those modern hotels, all glass and chrome and marble, that let in a lot of light. Some people say they’re impersonal, but I love the space and the cleanliness. Everything is just so, which is quite different to how I usually live. How can anyone not love another human being cleaning for them? Despite my own grungy flat, I do worship a spotless bathroom.
The driver is a very tanned older man with distinguished grey hair, white at the temples, who flashes glistening Mr Ed teeth at me as he opens the back door of his air-conditioned, silver car. The air conditioning purrs as we drive and I marvel at how refreshed and calm I feel. Boy, I must have needed that nookie. Usually I need my sleep or I’m a monster. Not today – though, of course, my two super-naps and a hug from Frank must have helped. This place is stunning. I like its greenery; it’s lush but exotic. There’s a smell in the air; I wonder if it’s some kind of herb that grows here? It smells like a sweet shop, as opposed to London, which often smells like a sweatshop.
Soon we pull in to a villa. This, my driver informs me, is where the first advert is already shooting. The ad is in two parts: the first in glorious holiday sunshine, the second in the night in the snow. That’s because there are two new chocolate bars – Sun-bars and Snow-bars. Clever, eh? Both coconut based. I think the only difference between the two sweets is the sun one is covered in milk chocolate and has bits of candied fruit in the coconut, and the snow one has darker chocolate and is creamier and tastes of cinnamon or something more Christmassy. The creator’s imaginative powers were obviously boundless.
Because they secured this place to shoot the sunshine scenes today, they decided, almost definitely on financial grounds, to hire next door’s garden which doesn’t have a pool, to fill with fake snow for the night shoot. This suits me down to the ground as I don’t have to shiver my tits off in a dress and shoes in the Pyrenees, but I don’t envy the prop department who have to deck the garden out and make it look like flamin’ Lapland.
The living room is open-plan with Swedish furniture and a large, carved wooden statue of an Indian brave with full headdress in the corner. I like him very much. The costume lady is called Zannah, is about fifty and has dyed her curls an orangey red that I find very funky and tell her so. She’s smiley, with a gap in her front teeth, and her English is perfect. She shows me the wraparound dress and the shoes I have to wear. So far so bland, as it always is with adverts. I try the dress in the bathroom and it fits. Thank God.
There’s nothing more annoying to wardrobe mistresses than actresses who underestimate their dress size. It happens all the time, especially with women who aren’t twenty any more and refuse to acknowledge their expanding waistline and widening hips. I found out myself the hard way; it’s easier to stay skinny at twenty than at thirty and I can imagine it’s even worse at forty.
As I’m chatting to Zannah about today’s shoot and cheekily gleaning titbits of gossip about the gorgeous, but hopelessly hysterical, blonde actress playing one half of the sunshine couple, I spot someone approaching us in my peripheral vision. And out of nowhere I feel a stab of fear. I turn my head a little, while still chatting, to get a better idea of who it is. I can make out a mass of long, dark, bushy hair with grey streaks and loose black clothing, but not much else as the sun streaming through the window behind her is strong. As she reaches us, Zannah touches her arm and nods towards me.
‘Tanz, this is Bayana. She’s your make-up artist. She speaks very little English, but I can translate anything important that she has
to say to you.’
Bayana has very prominent eyes with black irises. Her skin is dark and she has a large, well-formed mouth. She isn’t slim, but she suits her size and she is staring at me. Really gazing intently. I think she was looking at me like this all the way across the room which is why she freaked me out. Never have I seen anyone who looks more like a witch. A real, in-your-face witch who knows what you’re thinking. She doesn’t look very friendly. I don’t like it.
She reaches out her hand and I go to shake it with my right hand, but she shakes her head.
‘Other one, please.’
Her voice is deep and heavily accented. I glance at Zannah, who smiles encouragingly, and I hold out my left hand. Bayana takes it and looks at my palm. When she smiles she looks like she might eat me. Or maybe I’m only thinking this because she scares me. She points at a line on the right-hand side of my palm, beneath the gap between my pinkie and my wedding (ha!) finger. It runs pretty much to my wrist. She says something to Zannah in Spanish, who gabbles something back. Damn, my French A-level is useless in this situation. I make a mental note to learn Spanish, pronto. Zannah raises an eyebrow.
‘Bayana says you are Romany.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your bloodline. Romany gypsy, that’s where you get your gift from. You’re a medium, no?’
Those hairs on the back of my neck are up again. Bayana speaks more, while Zannah listens and nods a lot. Bayana traces the line with her index finger, pointing out little crosses on the main track. I have never looked at my hand in this way before, never noticed these crosses, faint but not invisible.
‘She says you are frightened of your gift and these crosses are the times you have avoided it and maybe will again. But eventually you will accept it and it will be a great time of learning for you. This is your medium line. Not everyone has one. She knew as soon as she saw you, you had it. She is also Romany.’
Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1) Page 9