An Enormous Yes (23 page)

Byron, Manet, Botticelli; all were present and cajoling her. Nonetheless, as Felix slipped the blouse from her shoulders and began easing down her zip, she continued trying to restrain him. ‘We
mustn’t
,’ she whispered, ‘not here.’

He kissed away her objection, then, moving his mouth to her breasts,
flicked his tongue-tip slowly back and forth against the nipples; the
sensation
so exquisite, her resistance melted like butter in the sun. His sense of urgency excited her, the frantic way he fumbled off his clothes and pressed his naked body so closely against hers, she could feel its bones, its warm and solid weight.

However, she forced him to lie still a moment, wanting to savour the sheer sensuousness of being in the open air: the tingle of the breeze against her skin; the hardness of the ground beneath, tamed by the springy prickle of heather; the plaintive cry of plovers; the faint, peaty smell of earth and still fainter whiff of sheep. The untroubled sky arched, vast, above, and, as she gazed up at the serenely languorous clouds, she felt part of something boundless.

Felix, though, was noticeably impatient, refusing to lie quiescent. He began to thrust against her and, within minutes, she was swept into his rhythm – a fierce, insistent rhythm that made her so much part of him, she soon lost all sense of which was him and which was her. All the restrictions of her mother’s house – not just last night but throughout her adult life, when even solo sex was, of necessity, silent and furtive – were miraculously dissolving, as was any hint of disapproval from her daughter. Even Pentecost was no longer a source of guilt, but seemed to laser through her body in some new sexual sacrament: the rushing wind; the tongues of fire; the sense of stupefaction. She had left the normal world behind and was inhabiting some wayward sphere, where any distinction between earth and heaven, right and wrong, was completely overturned. Her sole duty was to surrender to that other, savage self; now inseparable from his. He alone directed her, while everything else hurtled out of control: the planets plunging from their orderly trajectories; the tides rebelling against the stern curb of the moon, thwacking and buffeting the shore; the seasons
co-existing
– burning autumn, skittish spring, keen winter, sultry summer, jumbled in a flagrant mix of hypnotic heat and jolting cold.

She could hear someone shouting – not her, some other woman, brazen and unbiddable. ‘Go on! Go
on
! Yes, more, yes more!’ ‘
No
, don’t come, don’t come yet!’ Unbearable to stop – she must continue this for ever – yet if she didn’t climax soon, she would self-destruct, burn out. Then, suddenly, explosively – back arched, eyes closed, nails clawing down his back – all the tumult she’d suppressed for over thirty years broke like a summer storm across the hills.

He collapsed against her, panting, out of breath. ‘I love you,’ she said – the other woman said. Love and sex were one. If your lover took you beyond all normal boundaries, changed the physical structure of the
universe, then you loved him, plain and simple. Their sex was now imprinted on this landscape and every time she came here, the ground would spark and thrill again, the clouds reel and preen, in awe. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she opened her eyes, surprised, as always, to see Felix’s lined face. He had been a wild young colt just now – unbroken-in and wilful, galloping and bucking for the sheer, crazy hell of it.

‘That was quite incredible,’ he said. ‘I loved the way you were shouting yes and no at once.’

‘Was I?’ she murmured, languidly. ‘I can’t believe I was asking you to stop!’

‘No, you meant “don’t come too soon”. No wonder I call you greedy.’

She laid her hand on her breast; the nipples insolently hard, her heart still pounding frantically. ‘It’s you who makes me behave so badly. Just look at us – lying naked in a public place. We could be had up for gross indecency.’

‘That’s exactly why you need me – to help you behave atrociously. You were making so much noise, you must have scared the sheep for miles around!’

‘But that’s your fault, again. I don’t know how you do it but you make me feel I’d shock anyone and do anything, and not give a damn. Is that
really
me, though?’

‘Absolutely. You’re a profoundly sexual creature, Maria. It’s just that you don’t acknowledge it. And I hope,’ he added, smoothing back an unruly strand of her hair, ‘that it was
really
you when you said you loved me just now.’

Suddenly, she recalled the message on her St Valentine’s Day heart:
love is never impossible
. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it
was
me.’

‘Good, because there’s something really important I need to ask you.’

‘Hadn’t we better get dressed first?’ Already, she was moving from tumult to timidity; her cautious, straitlaced, other self was slowly creeping back and fretting about propriety – indeed, appalled by her casual sacrilege in sexualizing Pentecost. Felix would never understand such guilts, so she voiced, instead, a fear he could accept. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous but I have this vision of Eddie and Carole coming up here, for some reason, and finding us stark naked. I’d die of embarrassment.’

‘I imagine they’re dozing in their chairs, digesting their Sunday lunch – but, OK, just to keep you happy.’ He passed her her clothes, helped her put them on, then, once they were both decent, he coaxed her back beside him again.

‘This is something I’ve been thinking about for ages, so I want you to take it seriously.’

She glanced at him, intrigued by his solemn tone, yet still torn between guilt and rapture, worry and abandon.

‘As you know, I’m pretty set on moving down to Cornwall. In fact, when I spoke to George on Friday night, he said he’d found a place he’s sure I’ll love. You’ll never guess what it is.’

‘An abandoned copper mine?’ she ventured, adopting a fake cheery tone, to hide the misery she felt about him relocating. ‘Or an amazingly artistic cowshed?’

‘Try again.’

‘A tower? A cave? A railway carriage?’

‘A chapel,’ he said, laughing. ‘Not Catholic, I’m afraid, but a charming little Methodist one, with solid granite walls and a slate roof.’

‘Felix, you can’t live in a chapel when you disapprove so strongly of
religion
.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s deconsecrated. And skilfully converted, so it’s already a home, not a church, but according to George a wonderfully original home, with a steep-roofed gallery that’ll be ideal for a studio, he thinks. And it’s perfectly positioned, only a few miles from his place, in a village called Tywardreath. Actually, I know it, because when I stay with George he always takes me to the pub there – a really friendly one, with a fantastic range of real ales. The village itself is a mile or two inland, and it’s a
self-contained
community, with its own working population, which means it doesn’t depend on the tourist trade. That’s a great advantage, because so many places in Cornwall get overrun and noisy and frenetic in the summer.’

His exuberant tone only aggravated her dejection as again he began enthusing.

‘And property’s much cheaper there than in Fowey or St Ives. And, although it’s such a peaceful spot, it’s only minutes from Par station. Obviously, I’d buy a car if I moved there, but it’d be jolly handy to have a good fast service from London. The train goes all the way to Penzance, too, and you can also get to St Ives, with just one change.’

She lay crestfallen, unspeaking; all her former contentment shrivelling. How could she exchange their present gratifying closeness for a sporadic, long-distance relationship? However fast the train, they would still be achingly far away from each other. She couldn’t even suggest he moved up here, instead of to Cornwall, when now, it seemed, he had found the perfect property in an ideal village, conveniently close to George’s artist-friends.

‘But I can’t bear the thought of losing you – or at least seeing you only now and then. So I wondered if—’ He stopped and shifted position; seeming to need the pause to find the exact right words ‘—if there’s the
slightest chance you’d come and live with me in Cornwall? And, before you object, it’s not just a selfish wish. I feel it’s really crucial for you to have a proper studio and be with someone like me, who’ll do everything he can to foster your career. Despite your talent, you’ve never had the time or space to develop it. But if we were both in Tywardreath and part of George’s community, you could exhibit your work along with the other artists and really blossom as a painter. And you needn’t worry about money. I have enough for both of us and, anyway, given time, I’m sure you’ll sell your stuff, once people see how special it is.’

She sat up on her elbow, thrilled, touched, aghast. And now it was
she
who paused; knowing she was duty-bound to refuse, yet not wanting to seem ungrateful when he had showed such generous interest in her career.

‘And our fantastic sex would all be part of it. Remember what Picasso said about art and sex being so closely linked? Well, you’re inspiring new ideas in me and new sources of creativity, and
your
work’s changing, too; gaining in force and confidence, and becoming much more sensual. Right from the first life class, I noticed how you exaggerated the model’s curves and size, and I saw in you this sort of voracious energy. Yet I also noticed how that very quality seemed to disconcert you, so you almost had to disown it. I do honestly think you need me, Maria, to help you, as both woman and artist, to accept your basic nature and glory in excess. So, you see, if we lived together—’

‘Felix, darling …’ She had to stop him before he said another word. His plan was so enticing, it might fatally undermine her familial obligations. ‘It’s a wonderful idea but I’m afraid it’s out of the question. I’ve committed myself to Amy and her baby. She’s already thirty-one weeks pregnant and I can’t just change the plan at this late stage.’

‘But you devoted your whole life to her when she was a child. Surely that’s enough. She’s an adult now, with a husband and plenty of cash for a nanny.’

‘It’s not only a question of cash. I—’

‘Isn’t there a danger she’s just using you,’ Felix interrupted, ‘ignoring your own needs?’

She pondered the question, aware that she had used Hanna, in her turn. It wasn’t always easy for daughters to have insight into mothers’ needs. ‘Look, I
want
to be the nanny. And, anyway, I don’t trust anyone else to look after the baby with the love and commitment that I’ll bring to the task.’

‘But you love
me
, Maria, too. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

‘Of course it does – it means a huge amount – but it still seems a selfish sort of love, compared with my duty to Amy.’

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re using your mother’s terms, again, and the Church’s. As I’ve told you so often, you’ve let those values rule your entire existence; always saying no to any sort of gratification because your stern God disapproves. But here’s your chance to do a U-turn and say yes, for once, instead. In fact, I want you to say “an
enormous
yes”! That’s
actually
a phrase from a Philip Larkin poem and, although I’m not a fan of Larkin, those words seem tailor-made for you at this particular juncture. Don’t you see, Maria, you could change things radically; be the self you were born to be, not some life-denying self your religion forced you to adopt? All you have to do is take this opportunity to embark on a new life – one that includes sex and art and happiness, instead of guilt and gloom and restraint.’

She began twisting her hair into its former tidy chignon. ‘An enormous yes’ seemed an enormity itself, requiring a conviction and cupidity she simply didn’t possess.

‘And, before you object, I want to stress that it’s
not
an indulgence to develop your inborn talents. Even Christ said that.’

‘But He didn’t mean at the expense of other people.’ The hair fell back, dishevelled, round her shoulders. ‘I’ve already done harm to Amy by depriving her of a father and if I cry off as nanny it would be – well,
unforgivable
.’

‘Isn’t it time you thought of yourself, though? You could leave behind a substantial body of work, your legacy to the world. Art isn’t just a frippery, Maria. Gerhard Richter regards it as one of life’s essentials, like bread, or love, or shelter; something that gives us hope and comfort and actually helps us to survive. I happen to consider Richter the greatest living painter in the world, so surely his views should carry some weight.’

‘Yes, art’s important – that goes without saying – but I just can’t agree that it’s more important than bringing up a baby. All the experts believe that what happens in a child’s first five years is crucial in determining whether it’ll be happy or not.’

‘So can’t Amy give up
her
job and ensure her own child’s happiness?’

‘No. They need two incomes to pay their hefty mortgage.’

‘But surely she can’t expect you just to sacrifice yourself?’

How could she explain that she saw it not as a sacrifice but more of a necessity; how express her deep desire to be intimately involved with her daughter and her grandchild, in order to break the chain of suffering the family had endured? Felix might dismiss that as some irrational whim.

‘Listen, darling, I had this dream last week. I wasn’t going to mention it but it may help you understand. I dreamt that Amy went through a
dreadfully
long and painful labour but, at the end of it, there was no baby – nothing at all. She was lying on the bed, her arms cradling empty air.’

He leaned forward and gently traced the curve of her cheek. ‘That was just your daytime worries, my sweet, magnified into a nightmarish scenario, which is totally unlikely in reality.’

‘I’m not so sure. Any labour can go wrong, and Amy’s already had a few problems. And, of course, she’s increasingly stressed about the whole Dubai thing, which can’t be good for her health – or the baby’s, come to that. And Hugo’s in such a state, he’s not being his usual supportive self so, honestly, Felix, she really does need me around.’