by Isla Dewar
‘I don’t think I could stomach anything,’ Charlie said. ‘I can’t get over it. That woman is my mother. I don’t like her. I don’t like looking at her. I don’t like her voice or anything she says. She’s vile. What does that say about me, that I come from such a hideous person?’
‘It says nothing about you. You’re not a hideous person, Charlie. You’re lovely.’ Martha put her arms round him and kissed his cheek. ‘Please don’t think you’re an awful person. You’re the nicest person I know.’
‘Am I?’
They were on the sofa, side by side, with a couple of glasses of whisky on the table in front of them.
‘Yes, you’re lovely.’
And the hug followed by the cheek-kiss happened. This was Charlie’s moment. Another chance like this wasn’t going to come along soon. So he kissed her – a proper grown-up kiss – and couldn’t believe his luck when she responded. The kisses got hotter, the bodies closer. He felt her hand on the back of his head, gently stroking him. When it stopped, when they pulled apart, she stood, held out her hand to him and led him to bed. They undressed slowly, like they’d been doing this for years. But, as Martha was to remark later, it was like that because it was always meant to happen. And Charlie loved her and later loved her again even though he was keen to talk. He was hungry for her kind words.
‘Comfort sex,’ he said.
‘Best sex to start with. Relaxing, no demands. Wild sex will come, as will sleepy sex, I-love-you sex, thank-you sex and make-up sex.’
‘You’re planning to stick around, then?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll phone home and let Sophie know I’ll be back in the morning.’
‘I don’t think I can manage all these different kinds of sex before then.’
‘We better stick to comfort sex for the moment. After all the excitement it would be wise.’
Martha woke first. She looked across the pillow at Charlie sleeping. There you are, she thought. He was sound. Sleeping like a man who hadn’t slept properly for years. A man who had just discovered the joys of warmth and comfort and slipping, eyes shut, from the world to rest and recover from life’s messiness.
She would make him scrambled eggs, toast with butter and bitter marmalade. He could brew the coffee.
Meantime, there were matters to discuss. He would have to come and live with her. ‘I am not a woman who would put up with getting up and going home afterwards. I like my sex lying down in a bed followed by eight hours’ sleep and a bowl of cereal.’ Family life would be good for him. He’d be good for her family and Murphy would be good for Evie. And if it all got too much for him there was a secret place in the garden behind the lilac tree where he could hide.
Brenda could look after this place. She was already queen of the leftover people here.
She thought she could become a partner. Walters and Gavin, she thought. No. Gavin and Walters. Let him go on top. It was the kindly thing to do.