Anyway I was sitting at the bar cradling a Bacardi
Breezer and feeling bleak when he came over. Greyish –
well, grey, but not balding; normal shape; about my height.
He was wearing a check shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
and jeans, which gave no clues. I clocked hairy forearms,
no wedding ring, clean fingernails as he proffered his
money to the bar man.
‘Can I get you a drink while I’m here?’
That gave me licence to have a better look at his face.
He just seemed ordinary, pleasant, not weird or anything.
‘Thanks. I’ve not seen you in here.’ It was true; it’s
always the same faces in the Working Men’s.
‘No. I used to live up Bolton way, I’m revisiting old
haunts. What about you? Is this your regular?’
‘Not really.’ God, what a thought. ‘I just drop in from
time to time. When it all gets too much.’ I laughed loudly
but really I felt like banging my forehead against the bar.
Stupid thing to say.
He only smiled, which made his face crinkle up. I
wondered how old he was, not that it mattered. I get like
that sometimes; desperate.
See, I know you shouldn’t look for a man to solve your
life for you, but it’s easier said than done when you’re out
in the throng on your own. Sometimes it would be so nice
for somebody else to take the flak for once, never mind
have some decent sex. A hundred million sex acts a day
worldwide, there are supposed to be; you’d think one of
them might waft its way over in my direction. Nobody in
our house understands that I have Needs as well, it’s like
Montel Williams says. He was on Channel 4 yesterday
afternoon, a show called ‘I Hate My Mom’s New Boyfriend’.
‘Doesn’t Mom have a right to some happiness
too?’ he kept asking these sulky teenagers. The audience
were all clapping. I nearly called Charlotte down but she
was revising for her modules.
Six Breezers later and for all his grey hair I was out in
the car park kissing him long and full, putting off the
moment when I had to go home and change Nan and face Charlotte’s scowls. Even light rain and sweeping headlights
weren’t putting me off my stroke. It was so nice to be
held, even for a few minutes. Then a car nearly reversed
into us, which broke the mood slightly. I disentangled.
‘I’d invite you back but my daughter’s around . . . It’s a
bit difficult . . .’
‘Can I see you again?’
Jackpot.
He fished in his back pocket and gave me His Card,
very swish, and said there was no pressure but to give him
a call. ‘Soon.’ I liked that, it seemed gentlemanly; also it
meant I didn’t have to sit around waiting for him to ring
me. I should have known it was all looking too good.
The next day at school I was telling Sylv, the secretary.
‘He wasn’t sex on a stick but he was all right. I’d see
him again.’
‘
What
was his name?’ she asked with a funny look on
her face.
I gave her the card.
She studied it and pursed her lips. ‘You do know this is
Vicky’s ex, don’t you?’ She handed it back smugly. I don’t
like Sylv any more, I never really liked her. She draws her
eyebrows on and wears skirts that are too tight.
‘Vicky? Deputy Head Vicky? Vicky Roberts?’
‘Yep.’
‘The one she divorced just before I started here?’
‘The one who couldn’t
get it up
unless he wore
special
rubber knickers
.’ Sylv dropped her voice and mouthed exaggeratedly.
‘Jesus.’
‘Wanted her to wear
some kind of mask
, too. That’s when she asked him to leave.’ Sylv smacked her lips with satisfaction.
She’d be dining out on this for months, I could
tell. I am never going to tell her anything personal again.
I wanted to sink to my knees and beg her not to pass it on
but I knew it would be a waste of time; Rubber Man would
be all round the staff room by lunchtime. For once I was
glad I was on playground duty. So instead I said:
‘Well, he was too old, anyway.’
‘So you won’t be seeing him again, then?’ she called
after me as I swept out of the office.
It’s just as well Sylv didn’t catch me photocopying my
practice run at ‘Love ’n’ Stuff’ in school. I reckon perhaps
I’m ready to do the questionnaire properly now.
N
EVER LET IT
be said that when things are looking their
grimmest, they can’t get worse.
I was sound asleep when I heard the crash. I struggled
with the bedsheets, tangled from some overheated dream,
threw on a dressing gown in case it was an intruder,
although I knew it wasn’t, and hurried downstairs.
It was completely dark in the lounge but there were
muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. I opened the
door and blinked in the light.
‘What are you doing, Nan?’
Actually I could see what she was doing. She was
pulling out drawers and emptying Tupperware boxes onto
the floor. Six tins of salmon were stacked at her feet.
‘Are you looking for something to eat?’
‘I’ve lost my key.’
‘Which key?’
‘To t’ back door. Bloody hell fire.’ She wrestled with a plastic lid and flung it across the tiles. Then she sat down
wearily.
‘You don’t need a back door key. What would you want
to go outside for? It’s the middle of the night. And it’s
freezing.’
‘I need to check the bins.’
‘No, no you don’t. You did them this morning. Don’t
you remember? Charlotte helped you.’
What it is, she worries if we put envelopes with our
name and address into the wheeliebin, in case someone
roots through and takes them. ‘Then what, Nan? What
would they do with the envelopes?’ ‘Ooh, all sorts,’ says
Nan mysteriously. ‘There’s some wicked people about.’
It clearly worries her, so we let her rip them up into tiny
pieces. It’s one of our routines which has become normal.
This nocturnal activity was something new, though.
‘Come on, Nan, come to bed, you’ll catch your death.
I’ll clear up in the morning.’
‘The bins!’
‘We did them. Tiny pieces. And the bin men come
tomorrow.’ And I’m bloody cold and Christ it’s twenty past
three
in the morning and I’ve got to go to work in five hours
and nobody cares that my life is a complete fuck-up.
‘I’ll just put this salmon back.’
‘LEAVE IT! Just COME to BED and LEAVE this mess.
Please.’ I used to cry before the divorce but I don’t seem
able to any more. I get angry instead. She didn’t move, so
I lunged over and pulled her up roughly. She’s only small
and pretty light. We staggered together and I fell into the
edge of the unit and banged my arm.
‘Hell.’
Nan looked up with watery eyes.
‘You’ll want some knit-bone for that.’
‘Shut up.’ I was trying not to swear at her.
‘Or Dr Cassell’s Miracle Cure-All Tablets. They cured
Uncle Jack and he had malaria. Caught it in Mesopotamia
during the Great War. He always had to have the doors
shut and a big fire. When he emigrated he sent us a lamb.
My mother took it to t’ butchers to be jointed up but she
never got back what she should have done.’
‘WILL YOU COME TO BED!’
She turned and stared at me, trying to focus. Then she
put her face close to mine.
‘I don’t have to do what you tell me,’ she said quietly.
‘You’re not my daughter. Your mother was called Jessie.
Didn’t you know? You’re not mine.’
*
‘
Did you have
an orgasm? I want to give you an orgasm,
Charlotte.’ Behind him David Beckham grinned confidently; no sexual hang-ups for him. We were lying under
a Manchester United duvet and it was four weeks since
we’d first done it. Outside children were screaming and
an Alsatian barked from behind wire netting in next
door’s garden. His house is no quieter than ours. I glanced
up at the window (Man U curtains).
‘Is it snowing yet? It’s cold enough. Snow’s about the
only thing that makes our estate look any better.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Sorry. Yeah. Well, no. It doesn’t matter. It was nice.’
‘Nice? Is that it?’ Paul rolled away onto his back and
gazed at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He had little tufts of hair under his arms that I loved to stroke. ‘I want
it to be fantastic for you, fireworks going off, that kind of
stuff. I don’t feel you’re always . . .’
‘What?’ I leant up on an elbow and watched his face
struggle.
‘Sort of, I dunno,
with
me. Oh, I can’t explain. It’s not
like it is on the telly, is it?’
‘Nothing is. This is Life.’ I lay back down and put my
face close to his. ‘It’s loads better than it was, though.’
This was true. It wasn’t painful any more, for a start,
especially now I’d sorted out the cystitis. And when we
did it at his house it felt more relaxed; no leaping up and
legging it afterwards, no fear of interruptions. Paul’s mum
left two years ago, and his dad was so laid back about his
son’s sex life I got the impression we could be having it off
on the living-room carpet and he’d only complain if we
got in the way of the TV screen.
‘Yeah, well. Practice makes perfect, eh?’ He reached
over and ran his hand over my breasts. ‘These are great.’
He circled a nipple with his finger and watched it firm to
a peak. ‘Brilliant.’ Then he moved sideways and put both
palms flat over my chest. He sighed happily. ‘You’ll get me
goin’ again.’
It was thrilling, this power I never knew I had. I
pushed the duvet back and watched his cock grow and
twitch against his pale thigh; it wasn’t scary any more.
I felt like the goddess of sex. I wriggled against him and
he groaned.
‘Touch it.’
I still didn’t know the proper technique but it didn’t
seem to matter. Whatever I did he rolled his eyes back as if he was having a fit, and panted. There was all this loose
skin below the tight, shiny stalk. I fiddled experimentally
and he began to swear quietly.
‘Like that, yeah. Fuck. Fucking hell.’
When my hair fell forward and brushed his stomach
he drew his breath in sharply.
‘Wait a minute.’
He groped around on the bedside table and snatched
up a condom, which he dropped with shock when I
dipped my head and kissed his navel.
‘I’ll get it.’ I leant over and retrieved the little foil
packet from off the floor.
‘Put it on for me. Go on. It’d be so sexy.’
I must have looked doubtful.
‘I’ll show you how.’
I thought, you have to learn these things if you’re a
woman, it’ll be another string to my bow.
He tore off the packet end and squeezed out the slimy
ring. I watched closely, the way I used to in science lessons
when Bunsen burners were being demonstrated. Then he
handed it to me. I tried not to flinch.
‘Keep it this way up. Pull that pointy thing in the
middle, just a bit, gently. Gently! It’s my last one. Now,
put it on the top like this – ’ he guided my hands to his
groin – ‘and, that’s it, roll it down – Jesus—’
And then he was on me, in me again, jerking his hips
and burying his face against my shoulder.
‘I’m going to make you come,’ he whispered savagely.
It sounded like a threat.
I moved my hips under his and he slowed his pace,
adding a sort of grind to the thrust.
‘What does that feel like?’
‘Ni— fantastic,’ I breathed. But I was panicking. I
didn’t know how to rise to the occasion. Perhaps I had
come and didn’t realize it. No, because the girls at school
said you definitely knew when you’d had an orgasm. It
was like a sneeze, Julia had said. A
sneeze
?
Meanwhile Paul ground on. ‘Ooh, that’s so good.’
‘Mmm.’
Should I fake it? I tried panting heavily and moaning
a bit, but I didn’t have the confidence to pull it off. He
would guess, and then it would be awful. But what to
say?
He humped away and I stroked his back absently,
gazing round the room at his collection of football programmes
pinned to the walls, his red and white scarf
draped over the lintel, the rosette stuck to his computer.
The rhythm of his pelvis became a playground skipping
song:
Keep
the kettle
boil
ing,
keep
the kettle
boil
ing—
Suddenly he stopped. ‘Have you come yet?’
There was a brief pause then I smiled dazzlingly.
‘No, but it was great. Have you?’
He looked hurt. ‘Yeah. Ages ago. At the beginning.
I was only keeping going for you. Do you think you might
be close?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully.
‘Do you want to try a bit longer?’
I shook my head and tried not to shudder.
‘Look, Paul, it really doesn’t matter. It’ll, it’ll sort itself
out. I probably just need to relax more. Don’t worry about
it. I’m not.’ I smiled again, reassuring. ‘It’s great. You’re
great.’
‘OK, then.’ He grinned. ‘God, I’m knackered.’ He
pulled away, then, ‘Shit.’
‘What’s the matter?’ He was looking down in a
horrified sort of way. ‘Have you hurt yourself? Have
I
hurt you?’
‘The condom. It’s . . .’ he gestured at his limp and
naked cock. ‘It’s still . . . Can you . . . ? Look, I think it’s
still inside you. Bloody hell. Do you want to, er, have a
feel?’
I was seeing stars of panic but I did what he said. I
leant flat on the bed, drew my knees up and put my fingers
gingerly inside myself. ‘Don’t watch!’ It felt raw and
strange in there. I kept trying to take deep breaths and not
clench up. ‘I can’t . . . Oh, God! Paul!’
‘Let me have a try. I’m at a better angle.’ He giggled
nervously.
As he turned back to me I closed my eyes. It was like
being at the doctors. Once there’d been a girl at school,
in the first year, who’d got a tampon stuck up her and a
teacher had had to fish it out: I remember the horror of
simply being told. I wanted, now, at this very moment, to
die with fear and shame. I opened my eyes a fraction as he
probed and concentrated, and saw his tongue poking out
slightly between his lips.