by Linus Peters
Every day was the same: blissful, exciting, yet punctuated with the occasional moment of unease. We went to the Tate Modern, the National Theatre, the Albert Hall, all her old ‘favourite places’, and she carried each and every one off so well, I found myself wondering how many of them she actually had visited.
One afternoon, after walking in Hyde Park, when she said she felt too tired to eat out that night, I took my cue and invited her back to my place for a meal. There are absolutely no prizes for guessing what I cooked. Really, it’s my one and only dish. She arrived a little after seven, looking flushed and nervous, as if she feared this might be her most difficult test so far. But I immediately made the excuse that I was in the middle of cooking, that I didn’t like people watching me, and did she mind sitting on her own for a while?
I knew exactly what she’d do. The moment I was back in the kitchen, I heard her tip-toeing from room to room; the bathroom cabinet being opened, even the squeak of the wardrobe door in the bedroom. I didn’t mind. It was a crash-course in me. A further familiarisation with us. Whatever made her feel more comfortable.
Over dinner we talked in a manner that completely denied the awkwardness of our first meeting. With every day what we were was becoming much less traceable back to the pretence. I mean, she was still ‘Frances’, that was never questioned, but did she but know it, she was also undergoing a slow transformation. Becoming a hybrid, partly composed of the memory of Frances, and partly of what two people naturally, and uniquely, create between themselves.
The amazing thing was, perhaps because of how important she’d become, how much I feared this situation ending, I played the game almost better than she did. There were times when I completely and utterly convinced myself she was Frances, that some recollection of a past incident, some distant fond memory, did include her. It wasn’t so difficult. All you needed was a bit of computer trickery. Take out this image and replace it with another. Okay, sometimes it was harder than others. This other face would appear, this other smile, a laugh, different coloured skin, and I’d get this feeling like a tiny ice-cold pebble had been dropped into my stomach. But the ripples didn’t last for long. The new Frances would do something different, unique to her, and I’d be okay again.
“You’re a very good cook.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you teach yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You should open a restaurant.”
I nodded my head. Yes, why not? It certainly wouldn’t take me long to write out the menu.
I know men are supposed to be second only to slugs and snails when it comes to sensitivity, but even though we’d consumed almost two bottles of wine, even though she’d grasped my hand a dozen times and kissed me on the cheek almost as often, I knew that if anything was going to happen, it had to come from her. That if I was to attempt to initiate any kind of sexual moment it would be tantamount to suicide. And had we sat there until doomsday, until that mighty meteor finally arced its fiery way across the sky, I tell you, I still wouldn’t have made my move. But it was the most exciting and excruciating of agonies. I so wanted to grab hold of her and lead her into the bedroom. To give into that monolithic impulse that charges you to go ever-forward, consuming flesh, burning desire, till finally nature gives up its ultimate reward. God, I wanted to.
When the moment finally did arrive, it was a bit like the time she’d grabbed my hand in the cab and kissed it. Kind of sudden and clumsy, as if she didn’t know how else to go about it. She went to the bathroom, came back, suddenly made this kind of fond groaning sound, as if she’d just spotted a kitten crawling out from beneath the sofa or something, and grabbed me from behind. So firmly, in fact, that initially I couldn’t move. I was just locked there whilst she kissed me on the neck and cheek.
I didn’t lead her. She led me. Into the bedroom that she’d familiarised herself with earlier. We fell onto the bed, bouncing up and down on the mattress, fumbling at each other’s clothing, soon pulling away layer after layer. There was a moment when I thought she was going to stop me, that I felt her stiffen when I got to her underwear, but eventually she relaxed and allowed me to take everything off.
I have to tell you that the second thought that went through my head when I saw her naked was one of utter humiliation. For my shapeless pale lump of lard to even be in the general proximity of her body whilst unclothed would, I’m sure, in some cultures, be punishable by death. She was as perfect naked as she was clothed. Unblemished, lightly tanned, masses of varying curves, some tight and almost circular, others that seemed to gracefully sweep all the way down her body.
The only disappointment, and even more so because it was so unexpected, was how awkward she was. I couldn’t believe it. So self-conscious, so aware of her nakedness, a couple of times I almost stopped. She couldn’t even lie back and let me make love to her. She was constantly trying to sit up, to pull away, whispering ‘no’ over and over. There were areas I couldn’t go, things I wasn’t allowed to do. It even went through my head that she might be a virgin, that she’d been holding out for something like this, that it was all part of it. But somehow I knew that wasn’t true, that there had to be another explanation.
In the end, I realised she wanted me to keep it utterly simple: missionary position, no variations, no touching below the waist. By the time we finished – and believe me, it didn’t take very long - I felt so confused, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, it wasn’t terrible or anything, just not what I’d been expecting.
For a while we lay there, not even cuddling, just stickily flopped over each other. What could I say? She was apparently as thrown by it as I was. Was it because of Frances? Had she suddenly realised it was the one thing we’d never discussed? Surely it was too sensitive an issue anyway?
Neither of us spoke, just stared at the ceiling, pretending to doze, as if silence was the only form of refuge left to us. Then I turned to her, as if I heard it forming, as if I knew a tear was about to go sliding down her cheek.
“Hey! Hey!” I said, taking her in my arms. “What’s the matter”
She shook her head, unable to speak, tears now beginning to flow freely.
“Frances?” I said. “Hey, come on ... I love you!”
In truth, it was only an automatic response, and one that almost anyone would’ve made, but it was obviously what she wanted to hear. She grabbed hold of me as tightly as she could, kissing me over and over, her tears now dripping from her face onto mine.
And soon it began. This extraordinary performance that initially left me repeatedly catching my breath, and finally, almost helpless with pleasure. She started to work her way down my body. My chest, my stomach; her hands gliding everywhere, acting like forerunners, alerting my senses, waking them, preparing them for the arrival of the mouth and tongue. Yet where she’d been clumsy before, where her self-consciousness had seemingly stifled all, now she apparently gave into everything. She moved as if every part of her, every one of her senses, had been reversed from input to output, flowing out, locked onto giving. Her hands glided around my dick, caressing it, squeezing it, manipulating me in such a way it was hard to believe someone who wasn’t made the same as me would know how to do it. And yet, I wasn’t really conscious of her hands touching me, no more than I was of her tongue licking, or her firm nipples being traced across my naked skin. Just an overall pleasure, of my whole self being raised up to a point where it felt as if I was opening up to her, exposing the rarest and rawest parts of me.
For a moment I lost the warmth of her mouth around me, yet soon it was replaced by the warmth of her body. She sat astride me, first gently rocking back and forth, and then, slowly beginning to raise herself higher. Every movement, every motion, back and forth, circular, whatever, gave me pleasure, squeezed a further ripple out of my senses. She changed position again and again, pulling me with her. On her side, from behind, on her front, till finally, as if she’d danced for me, as if she’d flown but now was ready to be pinned to the
ground, she lay beneath me and I pushed my way inside her.
I couldn’t believe it. Sorry, but ... she was just so damned good. So instinctive, so physical, yet also somehow seamless, almost polished. And even in that moment, I knew it only went to enhance her mystery, to make me wonder even more who she was? I mean, why the sudden change? How had we gone from what happened before to this? It was probably the most beautiful sex of my life. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Well ..... almost.
I was ascending that peak, driving us both up there, starting to fly, to feel those nerves ends twist and turn and rub against each other. Our arms spread-eagled, our fingers locked together, and just as I was giving out the cry, just as I was letting that last little drop of myself go, I saw her scars.
We didn’t have the light on in the room, it was spilling in from the hall, yet the angle was such, I could just make out those large shiny welts across her wrist and halfway up to the elbow.
It was such an odd moment, to have done what we’d just done, to have achieved such pleasure, and then to be unexpectedly confronted by such an ugly legacy of pain. For a long time I just lay there, my breathing slowly subsiding, my cheek pressed to the sheet, studying those ugly scars only a few inches from me.
“What are they?” I eventually asked.
Immediately she realised what I was talking about and wrenched her arm out from beneath me, firmly clasping it to herself.
“Frances?”
She didn’t answer, and while I was lying there, I suddenly remembered the time I’d written to her and mentioned her scar. No wonder she’d stopped writing for a while. She must’ve wondered what the hell was going on.
“I missed you a lot,” she eventually announced, her sudden voice in the dark almost startling me.
I turned and stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
What could I say? Without blowing this whole game, without bringing this beautiful charade to an end, there was nothing. “You tried to kill yourself because of me?”
“It was stupid,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “I’d never do it again. Not for any reason.”
I took hold of her arm, pulling it towards me, ignoring her struggling; studying those ugly scars, realising in that moment that up until now she’d always hid her bare arms from me. Her other arm was also scarred, but nowhere near as badly. What on earth could’ve made her that unhappy?
“No,” I said. “Nothing’s worth that.”
And almost as if was preordained, as if this was the reason why she’d written to me all that time, why she’d come to England, I leant forward and kissed each and every scar.
“I’ve spoken to a cosmetic surgeon. He reckons he can get rid of them,” she said, as if that made it all right.
I nodded my head. For the first time having a real moment of disquiet about her, that I was getting into something I really didn’t understand.
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied, rather hastier than I’d intended.
“You’re having second thoughts?”
“No.”
“Simon, please! Give me a chance.”
I looked at her, those beautiful lasers somehow locking on even in that light, holding me like I was pinned somewhere inside, then sighed helplessly.
“To be absolutely honest,” I told her, “I don’t think I have a choice.”
Neither of us actually said anything, but I think we both knew she wouldn’t go back to the hotel that night. We got up for a while, watched a movie, and then, before returning to bed, she went to take a shower.
I’m not proud of the fact, but as soon as I heard the water running, my eyes went to her bag. Normally I wouldn’t even consider such a thing - it’s a truly shitty thing to do - but this was different. I couldn’t stop myself. I went to the bathroom door, heard the soap being dropped, realised she was already in the shower, then returned to that red leather, and undoubtedly very expensive, shoulder bag lying next to the sofa.
I hesitated for a moment, telling myself it was wrong, yet still slid back the zip. Inside I found a guidebook for London, a couple of fliers for upcoming classical music events, a cosmetics bag, some sunglasses, a box of tampons, a set of keys, a new and untouched notebook, and, I guess what I’d been hoping for, her purse. Again I went to the bathroom door, checking I could still hear her splashing in the shower, then returned to open it. I felt so nervous, so sure I was finally about to find out who she really was, driven on by some undeniable compulsion, yet still wondering if I really wanted to know.
Inside there was money - quite a lot of it, in fact, certainly several hundred pounds - a one day travel card for the Underground, and a receipt from Waterstones for the purchase of the guidebook. No official documents, no credit or identity cards, no driving licence, nothing.
The odd thing was, as I put everything back, I had this overwhelming surge of relief. She’d thought the whole thing through. All the ways she might be found out, all the possible means of discovery. There was no point in me wasting my time any more. I wasn’t going to find anything out so I might as well just accept things as they were and relax.
As for her scars, well, what can I say? At first they worried the hell out of me. Of course they did. There’s this real sense of responsibility. This fear that one day you might do something that could provoke a similar reaction. But in the end, maybe because I just wanted it out of my head, to rationalise it any way I could, it occurred to me that actually most of us are scarred in some way.
Hadn’t Frances left me scarred? The fact that I hadn’t taken a knife or a razor to myself to show everyone the actual marks, hadn’t made them any less ugly to me. Just to others. Maybe it would be a better world if we all had to bear our scars? If everyone’s body bore testimony to the damage we’ve had inflicted?
The following day she went back to her hotel to pick up her things and check out. I was supposed to finish the write-up on the Puegeot, then go to the office for a meeting, but I couldn’t concentrate and mid-morning called Charlie to tell him I was having a few problems getting some information and would he mind if I gave it a miss. Believe me, no boss could ever be more accommodating.
“Yes! Christ, course you can. I only arrange these bloody things so I don’t forget who everyone is.”
“Nothing I should know?” I asked.
“Not really. Going international. Ex-pat rags. Spain, France, even Thailand. Should’ve thought of it before. Good market ... Damn I-ti’s gone missing for a couple of days. Probably shagging Leicester or something.”
“Not his style, is it?”
“Women there as far as I know,” he told me. “Leicester or Northampton. Somewhere where they haven’t had their inner thighs olive-oiled. What about you? You filly-lusting at the moment?”
I don’t know why, but it took me an awful long time to answer. “Er ... no.”
“Oh, I see. Married,” he replied.
“No. Really. No one.”
“Suit yourself,” he commented, plainly not believing me.
“Honestly.”
“Your business,” he said. “Unless it’s my wife? Not, is it?”
“It’s no one’s wife.”
“See you right if it is,” he told me. “Call it a loyalty bonus.”
“Charlie! No one!”
“Mm. Pity.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“No, course not,” he sighed. “Why on earth would I want to rid myself of that hatchet-faced old harridan?”
“Charlie!” I protested, but he merely grunted at my apparently naively misplaced sensitivity. “You’ll have it tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” I told him, returning to the subject of my article.
“Oh, right. On for a bite and a bevvie after?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Er .. I’m not sure. Might have something on. Talk about it tomorrow.”
Rather hastily bringing the conversation to a close, I replace
d the receiver, yet didn’t move from the phone’s location in the hall. Up until then I hadn’t really thought any further than what problems ‘Frances’ and I were creating for each other, suddenly I realised there were going to be a whole set of secondary complications as well.
What was I going to do about my friends? All the people who had known the real Frances? Take them aside, tell them the whole story, and ask them to play along? It hadn’t exactly worked with Luca. I guess the best thing was to just make sure they never met her. Keep it a secret. Yet who wants to keep quiet about it when they’re in love? Secrecy’s the short-term thrill of the sensation seeker. The uncommitted. I wanted to tell everyone.
In that moment, I was suddenly startled by the sound of a key in the lock, the front door being pushed open. Then I remembered I’d given her my spare - ‘Frances’s key’.
Don’t ask me why, but when I saw her standing there, her large bag over her shoulder – about to stay with me - I had a brief moment of panic. As if this pretence, this game, that had always been slightly removed, depersonalised and regimented by the deliveries of the Royal Mail, had somehow managed to trick its way into my home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It may seem odd to you - and to be honest, in occasional moments, also to me – but as the days went by, it became progressively more difficult to think of our relationship as anything other than normal. We acted like most couples do when they first fall heavily in love: hiding ourselves away, not wanting to share, to waste a second of our time on anyone else. And my concerns about my friends, what they might think if they ever met her, were, at least for the moment, irrelevant.
It was love, love, love all the way. In her perfume that lingered in the duvet all day, and sometimes, on those rare occasions when she went out and left me alone, caused me to go and lie down and wrap myself in it, once even masturbating. In the unfamiliar clothes, the strange labels, the different colours and fabrics, that mingled with mine in the washing basket. In the women’s things in the bathroom, the extra toothbrush, the tiny flecks of toothpaste on the mirror. The evidence of love was everywhere.