The Younger Man

by Foster, Zoe

  She had been repulsed hearing the drivel fall from her overactive mouth and, for a moment, when she’d finished her fascinating diatribe about property prices in Paddington and he’d said nothing, she thought that she’d not only made an error in inviting some kid over for a sober (it was all relative), school-night hook-up, but also an error in thinking he was worth any kind of contact, ever again. He was just there, watching her, smiling serenely. Clearly they had nothing in common. That’s why he was so quiet. But then he kissed her. And it all made sense again; he wasn’t here for conversation, he was here for penetration.

  As they kissed, Marcus gently bustled himself in between Abby’s legs and kissed her harder. She hooked her thighs around his legs, and kissed him hungrily, her hands behind his neck, pulling his face down onto her so he could kiss her deeper. Then he took her hands in his, and led her, looking back at her with twinkling eyes as often as he could without tripping over the furniture in her lounge room, to her bedroom, a room Abby had prepared with two soft lamps for maximum sexy-silhouettes. He turned and fell back onto the bed, pulling Abby down onto his chest as he went, the pursuit they had both been looking forward to all day – all weekend – finally before them to feast upon.

  Abby woke up and was surprised to find herself nestled in Marcus’s arms in a terribly romantic and loving fashion. She gently extracted herself, secretly enjoying the scent of his skin as she did, and crept to the bathroom. What did she do now? she asked herself as she grabbed a towel to cover up. He couldn’t stay, no way. Especially not on a school night. She needed her sleep and besides, Chelsea was coming by to pick her up for stupid hot yoga at 6.30 – what, was she just going to leave him here in her house alone? No. No, no, no. And he couldn’t walk out with her, Chelsea would have a heart attack, and Abby would’ve signed a contract for weeks, possibly months, of teasing. He had to leave now; there was no other option. Boys were not allowed to sleep over; only boyfriends were, and he was a couple of solar systems off that.

  As she washed her hands, her mind raced back to what they had done just hours earlier, and as usual, because she was just a dork despite her flashy shoes and grown-up makeup, she blushed. Even Marcus’s kisses were exceptional. As for everything else … He was so experienced! So intuitive, so … generous a lover. How did someone that young become so good? Practice, she supposed. He’d probably slept with hundreds of women. Good-looking men usually did. Abby couldn’t understand how they did it, until she became single in her thirties, and had her own apartment and a good income, and figured out you didn’t need to feel guilty after sex, you were allowed to just enjoy it, and that to feel bad about it was just a social construct placed on women to stop them from feeling confident and powerful and awesome and taking over the world.

  Maybe he had always gone for ‘older’ women, she thought. Maybe instead of girls his own age – girls who interpreted having good sex as being theatrical and doing filthy things they read about in magazines or saw celebrities do on home sex tapes – he preferred women who were confident in what they wanted, and what they could offer, and who’d taught him how to be a good lover. Abby decided this was a Definite Positive, and would benefit her greatly. It should be compulsory for all men.

  She walked into her room and saw him there, naked from the torso up, his bottom half concealed by her crumpled sheets, sleeping soundly. He looked like he could be advertising the sheets; a hunky linen angel. Everything about him, from his full lips to his perfect olive skin and hairless chest was beautiful. She sighed, sitting carefully on the end of the bed. How was she going to do this? Part of her was mature enough to admit that she would love to fall back into bed with him, into his arms, but that part was, as always, quashed by the bigger, stronger part, which demanded he leave, because it was The Rule, and if you break the rule, all kinds of events may unfold, none of them much good in the long run.

  She tapped him on the leg. ‘Marcus?’ As had happened last time, nothing. This time, she was too exhausted to play.

  ‘MARCUS.’

  ‘Wha?’ He woke with a start, his eyes adjusting to the situation. ‘Your fiancé on his way home again?’ He smiled sleepily, flattening his short hair with his hand, obviously a hangover from when he had longer hair to flatten down.

  ‘No, he’s not, but you gotta go, Cinderella. I have an earl—’

  ‘Hot balloon ride? Half-marathon? It’s okay; I get it: you don’t like sleepovers.’

  ‘No, hang on, it’s not that I don’t like them, I just …’

  But he’d got the message. He sat up and swung his legs over the side, grabbed his undies and pulled them up.

  ‘Garfield, it’s fine. When you send me on my way with a $100 bill, then I’ll feel like a cheap hooker. For now, I just feel used. They’re two totally different things.’

  Abby couldn’t see his face and so couldn’t tell if he was joking. She had the feeling Mr Sensitive was not, despite his tone.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No, but I think I do want to know why you won’t let me stay,’ he said, pulling on his jeans, cool, skinny black ones that stopped just above the ankle, black t-shirt and brown leather loafers. No socks, of course. ‘Did you come out of a long relationship recently?’

  ‘No! I genuinely have a 6.30 a.m. pick up.’

  She couldn’t believe he’d said that about a long relationship; it was in fact, one of her most cherished lines, her Get Out of Jail Free card when guys started getting too close, or asking too much of her. Dammit. He was a tricky cat. No such thing as string-free sex. It was a fallacy.

  ‘Alright, well, maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to break the 2 a.m. barrier. Till then, I’ll be on my way. Hope I’ve got some Richard Marx in the car to accompany my tear-stained face.’

  He stood up, a smile on his face, and walked past Abby to the kitchen to get his phone and keys. She followed, feeling much worse than she thought was appropriate. Why did she feel bad about sending him home? Probably because he was doing such a terrific job of making her feel bad, she guessed, which immediately made her want to stay firm in her decision.

  She followed him, trying to think of a smartass quip to lighten things, but falling just short each time something bubbled up.

  Ready to go, Marcus turned and pulled Abby in close to him, kissing her lightly on the lips. His taking control of the situation and establishing something a little bit romantic was a shock, and Abby was surprised to find herself allowing him to hold her.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, pulling back to look her in the eyes. ‘And you will answer.’

  Abby smiled. ‘So confident … and bossy … and cocky.’

  ‘Jealous I’ve stolen all your best attributes?’

  He kissed her on the nose and walked to the door. ‘I hope you don’t have nightmares; cheese always gives me nightmares. Pity you don’t have someone to cuddle you if you do, huh?’

  The signature wink, and he was gone.

  Abby sat on one of her black stools, clutching her towel around her, and tried to figure out exactly what breed of beast she was dealing with here. She was positive she held all the cards just a few nights ago, that she was the catch, now he had her rattled and thinking that he was the catch, and she needed to behave. This was not right. He was just another kid who’d been raised with far too much self-assurance and the mantra that he could have whatever he wanted, just so long as he put his mind to it. It was impressive, admirable and entirely revolting. He was fantastic in bed and clever and funny and was better at wine and cheese than her, but so what?

  Well he was about to get a shock, she thought as she cleaned up the cheese and wine. She was about to remind him exactly what this was, which was nothing more than the occasional drunken hook-up. Even having him over on a school night was a bad idea. Far too ‘date’. She shouldn’t have allowed it.

  Abby wouldn’t see him for a whole week, and when she did, it would be on her terms, and late at night, and not all pre-determined and ridiculous like tonight.


  Yes. Good. He could put that in his pants and stroke it.

  18

  ‘And THEN guess what he did? He left little notes all over my bed, little post-it notes with little things he likes about me, like my smile, and my eyes—’

  ‘Or the fact you know pi to ten decimals and can shear a sheep.’ Abby couldn’t resist having a dig.

  ‘Shut it, it was very romantic. See that’s the kind of thing a man does, doubt the kid would do something like that.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? First of all, the kid is the one who should be doing dopey romantic stuff like that, not a man in his forties, and second of all, the kid would never do stuff like that, because I would set those pieces of paper on fire before he even finished writing on them.’

  Chelsea laughed in spite of herself. ‘What would be so bad about falling in love with the kid?’

  ‘Don’t even finish that sentence. Marcus is a bit of fun, just like all the others. And anyway, why are you suddenly championing him?’

  ‘Because I think you like him, is why.’

  ‘What on earth makes you think that?’

  ‘Because he’s annoying you. If he didn’t come over last Friday and you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t have been pissed. Same with the sleepover thing. You have never, ever even entertained the idea of a guy staying over, and you just spent ten minutes asking me who he thinks he is, wanting to stay over, and that you almost considered it, and rahrahrah.’

  ‘Chels, did it occur to you that maybe the reason I talk about him differently is because he is amazing in bed? And that maybe that’s worth enjoying a little longer?’

  ‘What’s worth enjoying a little longer?’ Mads dumped her enormous handbag on the spare seat and sat down at the Spartan café table outside the pilates studio.

  ‘Getting it off with the kid. Abby just admitted she’s into him.’

  ‘Mads, ignore her. How are you? How did it go at the clinic? I tried calling you yesterday, but no joy.’

  Mads exhaled and ran her hands through her hair, gently finger-combing it back as she did so, then tied an elastic around it carefully. Mads’s curls needed special treatment, or she swiftly morphed into Elaine Bennis. Early episodes.

  ‘Yeah, as good as could be expected, I s’pose.’ She smiled sincerely.

  ‘Hey, on your blog yesterday; what was that thing you put in that walnut and baby spinach salad? It was something weird …’ Chelsea was either incredibly good at conversation gear-changing, or bored of talking about something that appeared to have sorted itself out, and wanted to get back to her.

  ‘Oh, the meringue?’ Mads’s eyes lit up; it always delighted her when she had proof people actually read her blog. Real proof, anecdotal proof, conversational proof, not just numbers on a Google traffic chart and email subscriber lists.

  ‘Meringue with baby spinach and walnuts, Mads! How controversial.’ Abby took a sip from her water, smiling. Mads was a cook with a talent and creativity that bordered on savant. She’d never work in a professional environment with it, though; her love of it was too fierce. Instead she generously shared her finest recipes and insights with greedy, anonymous internet prowlers, most of whom found her by googling insipid things like ‘how to cook prawns’ and were treated with not only a simple way to cook them, but also how to construct dazzlingly mouth-watering garlic chilli prawns with linguine with parmesan and rocket, of the calibre that makes people return to the same restaurant for decades in order to enjoy such gastronomic delights.

  As Mads explained the relevance and flavour that smashed up meringue offered in surprising scenarios, Abby quickly checked her phone. It was now Friday, and she hadn’t heard from Marcus. Not one stinkin text, not even a work email, although Arthur had very much taken over the Allure dealings for now.

  She wasn’t foolish enough to lie to herself and pretend it wasn’t killing her a little bit, but it also killed her a little bit that it killed her a little bit. He’d definitely said he’d call, she knew he had, he’d made a grand point of it, so she needed to stop thinking about it. Anyway, if she recalled correctly, her plan was to initiate the next contact, and on her terms; drunk, late, weekend. A small smile snuck onto her lips as she realised it was Friday, which meant that technically, she could beckon him this evening. Terrific. She wanted to see him, she realised. A lot. If he was playing hard to get, it was working.

  ‘Now now now! Miss Vaughn, how IS it going with the toyboy?’ Mads’s eyes lit up excitedly.

  ‘They’re banging, and she likes him.’ Chelsea answered bluntly and stood up to walk into the studio, following the instructor, who’d just arrived and was doing her best to make even the slimmest girls in the class look enormous.

  ‘REALLY? You like-like him?’ Mads’s eyes bulged with excitement, standing up to go through the doors.

  ‘No, Mads!’ Abby said, swinging her bag over her shoulder and walking behind her friends.

  ‘Remember the rule we have about ignoring everything Chelsea says? I don’t like-like him; we’re just hooking up is all.’

  As the three girls placed their bags against a wall and walked to get their mats from the cupboard, Mads turned to Abby. ‘I think I’m with Chels on this one, actually. When you don’t care about a guy, you don’t bother to get defensive. You just agree with us and we all laugh gaily about his bad shoes.’

  Abby dropped her head back to her shoulder blades and sighed loudly with exasperation.

  ‘Although I’m too much of a gentleman to place a monetary bet,’ Mads said elegantly, ‘I might be forced to place a verbal one, in which I insist that you and the kid will eventually fall into some kind of groovy love rhythm.’

  ‘That didn’t even make sense.’

  ‘Shoosh, you two.’ Chelsea was already on her back, taking deep breaths, eyes closed, hands resting on her diaphragm.

  ‘It’s on, Vaughn.’ Mads did a pathetic excuse for a seedy wink, and lay down.

  Abby tried to relax and focus on the class, but she was frustrated. Frustrated that the girls had it in their heads she liked Marcus, and frustrated that Marcus wasn’t chasing her like a hopeless, besotted fool. It was a paradoxical frustration, but Abby was too wound up to see the irony. All the others chased her! She couldn’t ignore their texts and calls, or turn them down enough! And they STILL came back for more. Why was it always the ones she didn’t want to chase, did, and those she would’ve quite liked to be chasey, weren’t? Or did chase, but in a pathetic, lacklustre fashion that felt more like they were doing it out of boredom, booze and horniness than genuine attraction. Jesus. And this had been her life for the past two and a half years. What a tedious and predictable chain of events. There had to be more than this. Abby was positive the man she wanted was not from this country – he was sexy, confident, take-chargey, well-read and well-travelled, and completely obsessed with her, in a healthy, loving way: the stuff of love poetry, not restraining orders.

  Waiting for a twelve year old to send her a text message to ease her mind and make her feel happy? That was what it had come down to? No. This was not on. Marcus would have to go. She was prepared to suffer a headfuck from a genuine and potential suitor, but not from a smarmy little rockabilly with far too much confidence for his age and experience. She was over him. Out. Gone.

  19

  Despite her tough guy talk at pilates, Abby’s big Friday night in was fraught with temptation, oscillation and indignation. She wanted, willed Marcus to call or text, but her phone remained silent, its screen mocking her with its black face. She was not contacting him. As far as he knew she was in high demand, probably on a date with a dashing, yacht-owning media tycoon right now, sipping on Bollinger and laughing at his terrifically witty jokes about the size of the lobster in Monte Carlo. It disturbed her that he might be out, being cute and funny and adorable at cool bars with gorgeous young women fawning over him and his silly neckties. She had to not think about that, and more importantly not care about it. Who cared? Not her. Caring was for mo
rons.

  She drank half a bottle of Otago pinot, one that she was disgusted to realise she’d bought with impressing Marcus in mind, and ran a bath, the dialogue of an unintentionally hilarious chat show in the background:

  ‘My first question is for Jasmyne, a not-for-profit yoghurt farmer.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where did you get those sandals?’

  After soaking until she was withered, Abby sent her mother a long email, even though she checked her email account as often as Santa Claus dropped down chimneys. She really should call her this weekend, she thought, the familiar taste of guilt and obligation seeping into her mouth.

  To say she had a bad relationship with her mother was neither fair nor accurate, because actually, she had no relationship with her at all. There was no way they could be accused of getting along well, or having a loving mother-daughter bond. It was perfunctory, undertaken with a strong sense of duty. They went through the motions; occasional phone calls, bi-monthly visits (always Abby to her mother, never the other way around), but Abby struggled to feel anything other than resentment and irritation when she was in her mother’s company. At least it had softened from her teenage years, when she flat out despised her mother, and made it known in as many channels as possible as often as possible. She remembered the day she left home to move to the city, her mother didn’t even come with her and help her settle in, even though Abby was eighteen and comically green. She didn’t even walk outside to say goodbye, just stayed inside washing up, like some kind of deranged martyr.

  Thankfully Sean was there to blur Abby’s rage, and make her feel like someone in the world of the same bloodline loved her. Ever since her dad had gone, Abby had wrestled a deep and simmering bitterness for her mother. If she was brutally, sinfully honest, she was angry that her mother had lived, and her father hadn’t. He was a generous, loving man who saw beauty in burnt toast and salvaged humour from horrible situations. Abby figured her mother must’ve been a different person before she and her brother came along, judging by the way her father’s love lingered for his wife, despite the fact she was such a miserable woman. Her father saturated Abby and Sean in love, pride and affection, but he was no pushover. He was a role model and a renegade and a rascal. Her mother had resented her children for consuming her husband’s love and attention, to the point where she kept his swiftly deteriorating condition in his final weeks a secret from them, so she could inhale all his last moments herself.