Sally (3 page)

Bay-beh!

Jimi, it appears is singing about Sally. Or someone just like her. But Richard has never met anyone who comes remotely near her. He sincerely hopes that this vixen will have her sport with him a while longer.

A wry smile creeps from one side of his mouth to the other. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. What does he shake in it? Disbelief? But it did happen, his pleasantly tired body is proof, and so are the images which constantly assault his memory. Does he shake it in amusement? But the night with Sally was more than just fun. His gaze rests upon
Julius Caesar
, third volume into the run of Shakespeare. Richard sees its title and suddenly Sally, in her naked glory, appears before him too. Caesar.
Seize her
.

Seize who? Who on earth is this woman? This Sally Lomax? The classic friend of a friend of a friend whom he met less than twenty-four hours ago at the party of a friend of a friend. How come he had not met, even heard of her before? Fate. It must have been. At 11 o'clock the previous evening, Fate had pushed them both on to the balcony at that dull party in Barnes. Fate had allowed conversation to flow, flattery and flirtations to be accepted, and Sally to be without a ride back into London. Fate took them past an all-night bagel bakery and Fate uncovered a shared passion for the smoked salmon-cream cheese variety. Fate filled Richard's car with laughter and sexual chemistry. If Fate took him to Highgate, where he'd never even thought of going before, where was it to take him from here?

As quickly as the vision came, Sally now disappeared from the cabinet and the complete works of Shakespeare stared back at Richard in their leather-bound splendour. Hendrix was now proclaiming that an angel had come down from heaven yesterday, staying just long enough to rescue him.

Richard, who did not feel rescued so much as released, rose and sauntered to the bathroom, a tiler's delight in damson, citron and
bleu di bleu
majolica ceramic. His bladder was full and he stood expectant for the blissful moment of release. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he glanced down. It looked like it always did and felt like it should. Eyes slightly closed, he tried again. Nothing. Slight pain but nothing.

Come on, mate, syphon the python, have a slash, take a leak.

Nothing. He fiddled a bit, gave a little squeeze, a little pull, a slight twist, a gentle shake. Nothing. He turned the tap on to a drizzle.

But I'm bursting.

Bursting. Immediately his mind flashed up an image of the night before, a clear picture and a vivid sensation at the same time. There is Sally's nipple brushing the corner of his mouth; he sees himself thrusting into her, pump, spurt, release.

Stop it, I've got to piss.

Richard looked down and his penis, as erect and straining as his perfect tulips, leered up at him lasciviously. No peeing for the time being. He ached in his lower back and his groin and decided to sit awhile instead. Chin resting on a fist, elbow balanced on a knee; he is Rodin's Thinker to a ‘t'. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took a long, hard stare.

I am thirty-five and have had a mind-blowing sexual encounter. I do not know the girl, though carnally I know her inside out. And today I cannot pee. Look at me, blond, handsome – very – virile, manly, hunky, horny. Suave, debonair, sophisticated. In control – of my life, of my mind, of my work.

But not of my dick.

Who is this woman? This Sally Lomax? She is a teacher, she is twenty-five, she lives by herself in urban cottagey style amongst pine dressers, floral table cloths, Lloyd-Loom chairs and a patchwork eiderdown. Shabby chic, everything fresh, clean and bright. Objectively, she is not even that beautiful, not really my type. So what has she done to me? My tackle has never ached before, nor my gut felt so hollow, my mind so distracted. What have I done? What has been done to me? Why can't I pee? When will I see her again? Jeez, will I see her again?

The horror and accompanying adrenalin at the thought of never seeing Sally again opened the sluice gates of the Stonehill bladder. Richard had just enough time to release the Thinker's pose so that the torrent hit the bowl and not the double weave, thick-pile carpet.

‘D
id you see Miss Lomax in assembly? Did you see what she was wearing? You can see her
knees
! And she has make-up on. Definitely mascara and lipstick.'

‘My mum says that a woman should never go out without lipstick on.'

‘But Miss Lomax is a teacher!'

‘My mum says it's tarty to put make-up on unless it's a special occasion.'

‘Yes, but Miss Lomax is a
teacher
.'

Gossip was always an integral part of Monday morning school but rarely were the teachers its main topic. On a Thursday or a Friday maybe, but Monday was usually dedicated to the football scores, shopping trips and birthday parties of the weekend just past. That Monday morning, in the all-too-short ten minutes between assembly and first lesson, Miss Lomax was the exclusive subject for discussion.

Class Five were stupefied, traumatized and desperately excited. Scandal, they believed, was about to shake the school. Of what it was they were as yet unsure. To an extent it was irrelevant, the truth may not be nearly so exciting as wild conjecture. Was she going somewhere after school? If so, where? To dinner? To the opera, the theatre? To court? Was she about to get engaged? Was she leading a double life as a model as well as a teacher? (To a ten-year-old, anyone taller or older, anyone in high heels or even just a trace of lipstick, was very glamorous indeed.) Maybe she was going to elope – please, no, that would mean a new teacher and Miss Lomax was irreplaceable. Miss Lomax warranted compliments usually paid to footballers, pop stars and ponies; she was the business, the bestest, brill, fab.

‘Who do you think she's going to elope with?'

‘Maybe they'll be catching a train to Gretna Green straight after school!'

‘Quick, who passes King's Cross Station on their way home?'

Suddenly the classroom reverberated with the age-old sound of desks creaking, chairs being scraped into forward-facing position and a few nervous, last-minute giggles and whispers. Teacher had arrived. There she was, resplendent in a tight skirt and loose, silky blouse. Miss Lomax stood before them, feet slightly apart, hands on hips.

‘Hi.'

Thirty champion chatterboxes were stunned into a unified hush.

Hi?

Hi?

What's ‘Hi'?

Hey, maybe she's on drugs!

Miss Lomax perched herself in a perfect serpentine on the edge of her table, black Lycra-clad legs plaited around each other.

Maybe she's drunk!

‘Today I thought we'd do something different. I read your “What I did over half term” stories and I'm not particularly interested in what you did this weekend. It seems that you all tend to do the same old things anyway, and your writing is rather boring. You lot don't seem to have much imagination. With the exception of Rajiv, who seems to have a little too much because every weekend he apparently saves family or friends from fire, flood or sinking ship.'

Twenty-nine children laughed. Miss Lomax smiled gently at Rajiv and cocked her head as if to say, Don't take it to heart.

‘Shush. Thank you. No, today I thought we could talk about our best daydreams, our favourite fantasies. Now who will start? Rajiv? Okay. And easy on the fires, floods or drowning baby cousins. Fire away, fire away.'

Rajiv began his story. His fantasy was to be all by himself, away from his family and friends, in a spacecraft made for one, operated by one. He would leave Earth, head for the stars, alight on one and discover living aliens. He would stay and befriend this new people, introduce them to such concepts as clothing empires and hotel chains and fast-food outlets. He would become their undisputed, much-loved leader, an intergalactic Richard Branson.

Marsha, who had a soft spot for Rajiv, explained that she aimed to become a fireman-woman, so that she could help Rajiv in his brave adventures. They could be a team – firefighting heroes but also husband and wife with six children. Rajiv buried his head in his hands, wishing his spacecraft could be ready that afternoon. Miss Lomax succeeded – but only just – in suppressing potentially uncontrollable giggles. Rajiv, however, quickly succumbed to a tell-tale redness which travelled all over his face and burnt right through to his ears. A roar of ‘Ugghh' and a spatter of laughter erupted. Marsha stared straight at him and at Miss Lomax alternately, imploring, ‘But it's true, it's true.'

Law and order was easily re-established, the class was keen to listen and tell. Ambitions were mooted: to win the Grand National on a small Welsh pony; to become a very famous actress and appear on
This Is Your Life
; to take England to victory as the top goal scorer in the next World Cup (‘Come on now, Andrew, be slightly realistic', ‘Well, maybe the World Cup after next'); to be the Queen's favourite chef. The children were loose, stimulated and creative. They produced some of their best work that day without realizing it was work at all. Miss Lomax felt proud. She was having fun.

‘Yes, Alice? Tell you my fantasy or daydream?' The bell for break clanged.
Saved by the bell, ho ho
, thought Sally. Yet for once none of the children moved. Pen lids were left off pens, books lay threateningly open. Thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes said that break did not matter, they wanted Miss Lomax's dreams.

‘My dream?'

Yes, Miss, your dream.

‘Maybe next time, it's break-time.'

We don't want our break, we want your fantasy!

There was no escape, she could not punish them for showing such enthusiasm for her lesson. She could not disappoint them by merely taking theirs and not giving them hers.

‘Okay, okay. In a nutshell, I would like to live in Tuscany – that's in Italy, here on the map. In a beautiful stone villa set amidst flowers and cypress trees, with its own pool and near a perfect little village. I'd like a devilishly good-looking Italian husband who is a pasta wizard, a batch of beautiful babies and a satisfying job teaching perfectly behaved, diligent (look it up in the dictionary) pupils.'

Sally only sort-of lied. It had certainly been her fantasy right up until last week, but that was before Richard Stonehill and her current fantasies, which would most certainly earn her a dismissal and severely disturb the fresh, absorbent minds of her young charges. The Tuscan Idyll would have to suffice.

‘Now scram!' Thirty pairs of androgynous legs scrammed. Out, out into the playground to munch chocolate, elaborate further on their stories and to discuss whether or not they believed Miss Lomax. The majority (all except Paula-Teacher's-Pet-Thomson) did not.

As she headed towards the staff-room, Miss Lomax talked silently to the satchels and gym shoes which lined the walls.

My fantasy? Best daydream? If it's come true, or is coming true, is it still valid? I want the memory of me, the feel of me, my taste, my smell, my touch, to stay with Richard Stonehill for the rest of his life. The knowledge that it has done so will give me the pleasure and strength never to let myself feel small and worthless. Actually, maybe that's all a little too metaphysical. Let's start again. On a physical level. My fantasy is to have the most delicious, wicked, life-enhancing affair with this Adonis, this Richard ‘call me Conan' Stonehill.

‘Hullo, Sal!' (
Don't call me that.
) Mr Bernard – John – (Head of Maths), greeted Miss Lomax – Sally (great at giving head).

‘You certainly look radiant today. Don't tell me Class Five had done their homework? All of them? I've a double period with them after break, so help me God. Might you be free for a drink this evening? No? A shame, a great pity. Some other time, perhaps, maybe?'

Miss Lomax, who had never talked much more than shop with Bernard, was a little taken aback.

It's not the short skirt, is it?
She hastily persuaded herself it must be her aura instead.

Miss Lomax made coffee in a mug bearing the school's emblem and maxim,
In Loco Parentis
, and sauntered over to where Miss Lewis – Diana – (teacher of Art and Craft) sat. They were close friends and allies in the field of staff-room politics. Diana, the dictionary definition of a wacky art teacher, was always bowled over by the small happenings and vagaries of life. Indeed, great interest and pure enthusiasm were expressed for practically everything and everyone around her. Her exaggerated inflection assisted the expression of such fascinations. To her great amusement, this rendered her a willing sitting duck for many a playground impersonation. She had an absolute field day with Sally that break-time.

‘Look at you! You look
fab
-u-lous. Who is he?'

‘Huh?'

‘Sal-
lly
!'

But all Diana had for a reply was Sally taking a noncommittal gulp at her coffee.

‘Okay then, Miss Sexy Sal.' (
Don't call me that
!) ‘What did you do over the weekend? Apart from
plun
-der your bank account?'

‘Actually, that was about it. Just a quiet weekend, a bit of sewing, finishing a novel, generally pottering about. You know, one of
those
weekends.'

I do know ‘those weekends',
thought Diana,
and you most certainly did not have one! You're fibbing to me, but you have your reasons. Only tell me soon, Sally, Sexy Sal, do!

‘H
e's late today, isn't he? Most unusual. Did he have a meeting? Check for me, will you? I don't think I could stand these butterflies all day!'

‘No, Sandra, no meeting for him. Maybe he's sick? Or maybe he's eloped.'

‘Stop it, Mary, that's not fair.'

‘But you've been working here over two years and you get the same courteous “Good Morning, Good Evening, Merry Christmas” as the rest of us. You know he'll only ever be married to his work. He's probably a lousy lover anyway. No one female ever rings for him. You never know, maybe women aren't his
thing
anyway.'