Sally

Sally Freya North She’s bored of nice – it’s time to be naughty.Sally Lomax is 25 and bored of being homely and predictable, so she’s decided to give the boot to being conventional and reinvent herself as a femme fatale. This is all well and good, but she’s going to need someone to practice on.Along comes Richard; suave, single and fiercely independent.She's determined to be the one great erotic heroine of his life. He's going to be her dream affair – no strings, no scone baking, just sex and sensuality. Until, that is, a New Year masked ball unmasks more than was intended… FREYA NORTH Sally Copyright This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann 1996 Copyright © Freya North 1996 Afterword © Freya North 2012 Freya North asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Source ISBN: 9780007462155 Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007462162 Version: 2017-11-28 FIRST EDITION All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. For Lynne Drew and Jonathan Lloyd Hold on tight, chaps – we’re in for quite a ride! Table of Contents Title Page (#u3c98dafc-0504-557f-be35-a23080524dcc) Copyright (#uc6426c90-c556-5c1e-9e38-74e027d02ab5) Dedication (#u31d6cb10-e013-5408-b8d0-64a8b2b1a3ab) Prologue (#ue0f14838-31d3-5399-a60e-cd5dd9322291) Chapter One (#ua8a9043b-edfc-5191-bcd5-ec07a01265ee) Chapter Two (#uea73a5d7-b371-5bb7-a086-7ad4ebd92e50) Chapter Three (#u53da861c-fe5f-530c-aea3-72d96de15e2f) Chapter Four (#uc4850658-6b91-5dd0-a186-a186e334b118) Chapter Five (#uf472785f-074c-50f6-aab5-f76605a2493f) Chapter Six (#u9b5f91bf-e15a-5afb-a697-9369ab0fc384) Chapter Seven (#u1469c503-b76e-5666-b4a9-f1f982a79cb9) Chapter Eight (#ub482336d-2e5d-5288-b875-57b281247527) Chapter Nine (#u90a5da6e-2683-5fc8-a37f-bbf555db061f) Chapter Ten (#u5caafc04-1797-504d-a040-c76a93f88db4) Chapter Eleven (#u73842a15-2fa9-5604-a921-a43c5bc19dcd) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-one (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Afterword (#litres_trial_promo) Read on for an extract of Rumours (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Acclaim for Freya (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Freya North (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PROLOGUE She lay there, in a small heaven of sorts. This is the definitive rampant fling. She grinned widely, partly because her clitoris was being rubbed, partly because she suddenly envisaged her actions set down in type, immortalized, in a racy bestseller. I could sell these details to Jackie Collins, she thought, as her right nipple was being nibbled and her left was being kneaded. This kind of thing is right up her street. Yes, nibbled nipples had a certain titillating ring to it (titillating, oh very droll), but would also look good on the printed page. In her mind’s eye, she inverted the ‘b’ and played with the ‘p’: bb pp nibbled nipples and thought that Jackie C would really rather like them. So, while he left her nipples to traverse her body, she penned a few thoughts. Dear Ms Collins, this is what happened. No, this is what’s happening: I’m lying on my back with my legs wrapped around the back of a most glorious superstud, his ‘throbbing manhood’, his ‘enormous dick’, his ‘stupendous cock’ is surging into me. My neck is thrown back and is being licked greedily. This man on top of me has the physique of a Rodin sculpture, Ms Collins, a Rodin sculpture with an insatiable sexual appetite. I am grabbing on to a pair of buttocks so firm, so exquisitely honed, that it is only their warmth and a slight fuzz of hair which persuade me they are real and not perfectly hewn marble. We’ve been going at it, this fast-motion super-bonking, for the best part of two hours, so you see real people really can keep it up (literally). Hello hello, I am now being flipped over and I am on top, in the driving seat. I am grinding down on him, now I am lifting myself off. Plunge, lunge, down I go again. I think I’ll sit upright and throw my head back alluringly – just in case he can see me through those eyes glazed with near-fulfilled desire. He is surging, making that ‘pumping’. He is abandoned to the sensation. And do you know what? I am doing this, I am making him feel this way. He is putty in my hands, but he is hard as a rock inside. A ‘rock-cock’ – now there’s a jaunty little phrase for you, Ms C. Oh, up he sits, a moment’s tenderness too. Kisses are slower, more lip, less tongue. He’s actually rather nice, sweet and gentle, but tonight I want wild and rampant. So, here I go, pushing him down, covering him again. Forget in-out, I’m rotating fluidly and what a pelvis I have! Ten years of ballet had its merits after all. Our legs are so entwined, so taut, that cramp threatens in my left thigh, but a potentially mammoth orgasm is very much on the horizon. Here it comes. Here I come. More more more. Yes. Jesus. Oh! Pure bestseller material, that’ll be me. I’ll give your previous heroines a run for their money. I’m coming to your rescue, Jackie. Oh! As the regular throbs racked her body, her brain (which was really quite a good one, having gained a First from Bristol University) was working energetically too. On second thoughts, Ms Collins will not have this, not for a while at least. No, this will be for me, this shall become my secret, my own touchstone. When I am either a) an aged spinster (she was 25 – the official age, she’d recently read, for spinsterhood to commence) or b) a good little housewife, cooking and breeding superlatively, then shall I derive much pleasure recounting to myself (be it in a rocking-chair or at a school play), the time I was an outrageous vamp, a shameless slapper, an utterly debauched nympho. She came to her conclusion as he came to his. He started to pant raspingly and called out ‘Oh my God, oh goddo goddo Goh’ with enormous conviction. She felt rather proud of herself. No, Mister Man, it’s ‘goddess’ actually, oh your goddess. For that is what I shall be. That is who I am for today, and for the times when I shall again allow you to experience such delicious sex with me. Inadvertently, she gave out a little sigh, one of satisfaction, intellectual rather than physical. It was answered by a sucking kiss from the man whom she straddled. She smiled. He smiled. She smiled again, with ulterior motives. He smiled back, oblivious but ensnared. Ho ho! So my secret is safe. Look at you, smugly grinning, proud as punch, purely because you think you’ve taken me to heaven and back. Which you have. But who was it who was in control? I shall strive hard to keep it that way, and I shall strive to keep it hard. I shall not fall in love with this man. I shall not day-dream wistfully of babies and scones baking in an Aga. Nor must you fall in love with me, only lust and long for me until you positively ache. Even if you marry and live in blissful domesticity, you will frequently think of me and surge inside on remembering the joy and liberation of sex with me. I must, she decided, become an enigma. Remain one. To everyone, henceforth. A wave of absolute exhilaration coursed through her. This is it; this is not a search for self but the creation of it. I shall play and I shall act and I shall have much fun. I shall be the conductor. The baton is in my hand and the balls are in my caught. She rushed to the bathroom with Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ careering around her head. Predictably, the orgasm had sent urgent messages to her bladder and, sitting in the silence of her bathroom, she contemplated the release of pee versus an orgasm on the pleasure scale. Today, peeing came second. She checked it was really her in the mirror. Gracious Good Lord! It is me! Sally Lomax, what on earth have you just done? I’ve just had rampant sex. She smiled hugely, winked, said ‘Go for it, girl’ out loud, and flushed the toilet with triumphant force. The phone had begun to ring. Sally gave herself another beaming smile and then sauntered, positively swaggered, to answer it. It was her mother, officious as ever, voice shrill, no time for a greeting. ‘Darling I’ve been ringing for hours, I thought you’d be busy marking essays?’ ‘No, I had to be elsewhere, something far more pressing,’ Sally said truthfully. ‘What?’ Oh, you know how it is, Mum. When there’s six foot of beefcake in your bed, more handsome and brawny than in your most incorrigible dreams, great hands, a wonderful mouth and a dick to die for; obviously marking a ten-yearold’s ‘What I did over half term’ rather pales into insignificance. Taking a sharp bite on her tongue, Sally, however, did not speak her mind. My, how she would have relished the ensuing stunned silence of matriarchal disbelief. How she would have loved to have breezed straight on with mundane enquiries about the health of the cat and the younger sisters (in that order). Today, though, decorum won. The ravaged Rodin was diplomatically replaced by an old friend who would have been quite compliant had she known the circumstances (she was, in fact, holidaying in Tunisia). ‘Daph is a little low, so I’ve been with her.’ ‘Darling, did you remember Aunt Martha’s seventieth?’ Sally had forgotten. ‘Is blasphemy really necessary? I suggest you phone her right this minute.’ So she did. Sally, sweet Sally; the prettiest of the nieces, the dutiful, good-natured Sally, chatted to Aunt Martha for a full and enjoyable ten minutes. She was careful not to mention her late uncle, and remembered to ask if the cold was causing the dreaded arthritis. ‘Arthur Ritus comes to us all in old age, it’s to be expected, I’m not one to complain …’ But she was and she did. Sally ummed, ahhed and tutted at the apposite moments and Aunt Martha, as she hung up the phone, took down the silver-framed photo of her husband and declared to it that Sally was a gem and would make a treasure of a wife. Sally gazed at the replaced handset. Do I feel guilty? Should I? For what? For forgetting Aunt Martha’s birthday? For lying to my mother? Or for having performed a carnal act of such outrageous proportions? Guilt, show me thy face! I’ll give you three seconds! Right then, off I go, back to my boudoir, quick-change into my doppelg?nger, the temptress, the vixen, the wicked lusting girl. Woman! Hardly a lady, hardly a girl. Today I am suddenly the sort of person I thought I was not and yet today I really feel like Me. Pure and simple, this is who I am. She entered her room and any purity simply vanished. She flew on top of the knackered male form and kissed it outrageously with a scheming and lively tongue. ONE Such a lovely girl, what an angel, isn’t she wonderful, such a good girl. Sally Lomax was adorable and adored. She was extremely polite, tirelessly friendly, always amiable and genteel. She was chatty and respectful to the elderly and a much-loved teacher of youngsters. She kept herself trim, never let the ends of her hair split and always folded clothes away at the end of a day. She cooked well, cleaned well, and although she could not knit, she made enviable things on her sewing machine. When in her car, a spotless if noisy six-year-old Mini Cooper, she was courteous and never lost her temper, never overtook on the inside and slowed down well in advance of pedestrian crossings – even on a deserted Sunday. Just in case. When Sally was a child, she was angelic in physique and character. Skin as smooth and opalescent as her prettiest Bakelite doll, features and figure doll-like too, her demeanour open and engaging. Sally at six was altogether flawless, faultless. It was as much a pleasure for her parents to invite ageing relatives for tea, as it was for them to venture out of retirement bungalows to be sung to and danced for. At tea-time, Sally never stretched over, never ate with her mouth open, and always asked if she could have some more with a ‘please’. At her birthday parties she never snatched her guests’ presents and was always keen for the entertainer not to show her any favouritism. But Sally was simply everyone’s favourite. At twenty-five, her skin is still flawless and, though we would be hard-pressed to call the Sally we’ve just met angelic, it took very little hard pressing for the Rodin to deem the ways and wiles of her body thoroughly heavenly. Well, where do we find Sally today? It is the day after the Big Bonk. She is spending Sunday afternoon by herself, in the one-bedroom flat she rents in Highgate. He had stayed for breakfast-cum-lunch and had thus deprived Sally of her sacred hour with the Observer, so she is reading it now. Her routine is out of sync, she really should be ironing. It will wait a week. Today Sally is not flustered by such a thing, today she is enjoying aloneness. Today she enjoys the self-condoned liberation from the previously self-imposed Sunday schedule. She is very proud of herself and finds she frequently bursts into an ecstatic smile. What does it mean, this smile, what does it mean? Her answer is defiant. I feel wonderful. It was good. It was a good thing to do. She laughs at the paradox. In the clear light of a November day, and looked at objectively, she had indeed committed a wanton act of slack morals and shameful lust which, justifiably, could be categorized by most as Bad. Yet Sally feels good and can see nothing to be ashamed of. She feels elated, happy and downright proud. My flesh might be ravaged, my mind sullied, but Gracious Good Lord do they feel the better for it! Sally knows what she wants, and what she must do. It’ll be a swift and easy transition, and it must start, quite simply, with a change to my wardrobe. I shall do Ms Collins proud and move with one fell swoop from Laura Ashley to Whistles, from Marks and Sparks undies to none whatsoever. Hampstead here I come, cheque book at the ready. Should I be ironing? No. I should be buying clothes that are Dry Clean Only. TWO Sunday in Hampstead, silver winter sun making everybody look beautiful. The Barbour Brigade are out walking retrievers who have never retrieved in the countryside because the Heath suffices. The Young Trendies are here in force, hanging out, hanging about, sipping cappuccino at the pavement caf?, queuing for cr?pes, looking around all the while to catch sight of their reflection whilst spying out anyone good-looking to look good for. There is a young woman who weaves in and around these two species. She is smiling; it is a smile of energy and ease and it is infectious. She seems simultaneously absorbed in her own world yet aware of, and enjoying, her surroundings. And the shopping, by the looks of the two bags she swings. She is of average height, of slight build and her hair is a nothing-special brown, mid-length with a kink that is natural and nice. Her skin glows and there is a sheen to her very good cheekbones, a becoming blush to her cheeks, an endearing rosiness to the edge of her chin and the end of her nose. Her hazel eyes glint and dance. Her lips, naturally full, are soft red – Sally always uses lip balm during the winter months. And, though her legs would not see her to a Levi jeans commercial, her walk is a sexy, assertive stride. As a package, she looks very pleasingly put together. She is not stunning but she is radiant and heads turn. Sally jigs past a boutique, one selling excessively expensive accessories. Two strides later (and unknowingly witnessed by at least three envious Hampstead Darlings), our erstwhile ballerina performs a fluid halt, heel-spin, about-turn, and floats effortlessly into the shop. Inside, the opulent aroma of fine leather envelops her, the hand of a skilled interior decorator is much in evidence and her senses are solicited at once. The rag-rolled walls in Homes-and-Gardens hues of ecru and taupe, and the polished wood floor covered here and there by a jaded kelim, provide a splendid setting for pieces of old furniture over which cashmere throws and finely woven woollen shawls are nonchalantly draped. Belts hang from a fabulously gnarled piece of driftwood; from leather trunks, suitcases and holdalls, a carefully spewed selection of socks and silk camisoles accost the eye. But Sally, who thinks the current fashion and hefty prices for bashed, blemished, artistically distressed leather goods somewhat daft, has made a beeline for the old Welsh dresser where the hats are displayed. She has never worn a hat but she is trying them on with the jaunty confidence of one who would not entertain going out without one. The black felt cloche suits her well but makes her look too cutesy, the trilby is too butch and the beret too ordinaire. She looks stunning in the claret bowler but feels best in the black velvet. It is soft, floppy but beautifully cut. It hugs her skull and the brim, up the front, falls gently around her face and drapes elegantly at the back. She looks at herself in the mirror and the shop assistant, usually pushy, looks on too. She makes no attempt to goad her customer; she watches, slightly jealous, from a discreet distance. Sally is intrigued to find that the shape of the hat accentuates her bone structure and appears to lengthen her neck; under the black velvet, her eyes turn from hazelnuts into freshly shelled conkers. I look really rather good, sort of alluring, feminine and vampish all at the same time. It takes Sally but an instant to decide the hat must be hers; costing, though it does, a day’s pay. At the Tea Pot Shoppe, Carlos was clearing the mountain of froth-stained cups from one of the outside tables, pocketing a mound of gratuitously small change left as a gratuity. It was nearing the end of his first month in England, he was tired and slightly homesick. It was a thankless job for a nuclear physics graduate, and the tips were lower than he’d been led to believe. Then he saw her, caught in profile as she started to cross the road, a pretty face framed perfectly by a sumptuous black hat. Suddenly, life in this strange country of offish Barbours and oafish Trendies had a plus to it. This, Carlos realized with a great deal of excitement, was his first glimpse of an English Rose. He gawped transfixed; watching the cars slither and toot while she danced and laughed her way between them. There is a zebra crossing a hundred yards ahead but today Sally prefers to jay-walk. Bella, bella! The hat, the face, the rosiness – and here she is, ordering a cappuccino and a Danish pastry. Sally graciously accepted the compliments of the waiter. Soon she was deftly scooping up the chocolate-dusted froth and thinking of nothing in particular as it fluffed into nothingness on her tongue. The pastry was absolutely heavenly and she even closed her eyes as the first mouthful revealed to her tastebuds apple, cr?me patissi?re and the lightest of pastry. By the second sip and third mouthful, Sally was happily recalling the details of her decadent afternoon. A coffee-brown lambswool blazer; two silk shirts, one olive, one cream; a pair of exorbitantly expensive designer jeans; and a short (was it too short?) black devor? velvet skirt. When on earth am I going to wear that? You will. She had indulged in garments of the finest fabrics, and at the most exorbitant prices. The whole experience had been so pleasurable, the looking, the touching, the trying on; the decision-making so effortless. Finally, it had been a joy and well worth the money to watch her acquisitions being coddled in tissue paper and then handed to her so reverently. As she pressed a determined fork against the last flakes of Danish, she pondered for a moment; common sense versus decadence. Sally, you must understand, had spent her rainy-day money. Frequently she put a little aside ‘for a rainy day’, not really knowing when that would be. But it was definitely today and common sense had a place neither in her scheme of things nor her purse. Today, she told herself as the brisk November breeze reddened her nose and chin a little more, today it is pouring. Despite the pavements being dry and no umbrella in sight, Sally decided that it was the rainiest day in ages and the spending of pounds amassed from hard-saved pennies was utterly justified. These purchases, after all, were an investment. She turned to look for her waiter, and in doing so felt a whisper of velvet against her cheek. Its caress felt wonderful and, as the waiter was nowhere to be seen, she kept her head still a moment longer. Over her second cappuccino, Sally indulged in recalling, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, and if one can feel light-headed between the legs, then that was how Sally was feeling. Never have I been worshipped like that, never have I been so aware of my body, what it can do, how it can feel, how it can make another feel. Perhaps it was because she had consciously watched, analyzed even, a man totally absorbed in her, so hungry for her, that her own physical awareness had been heightened. The sex seemed so much more fulfilling, the orgasm so exquisite. New. Sitting there, in Hampstead, with the light growing thin, a November navy replacing the afternoon silver, Sally decided to recast herself as a fly on the wall of her replay and ran the whole sequence again, this time as a series of film stills. Vivid in her mind’s eye was the interlocking of two bodies, the various formations and patterns, firm flesh, the spaces in between; Rodin’s marble; Henry Moore’s bronze. Carlos found himself unable to resist. The English Rose, smiling carefree out loud, was compelling, magnetic. He was helpless in the face of her. As his luck would have it, she turned to him with that very smile as he presented the bill to her. With his very best English, he let go: ‘Se?orita, your smile, it makes my day. Is so very beautiful. In you I see the English Rosa. If I was Shake His Speare, I write a play for you. You are foods for my ’eart and a vision for my eyes. Is so very lovely. I am breaking open for your smile of pretty innocence.’ Hand pressed with conviction against his heart, he kissed up at the sky as if imploring the gods to grant his wish. Sally was flattered to the hilt. Cocking her head, she gave him the smile to make his day, a wink too, and a tip which far exceeded her previously uniform ten per cent. Not quite, thought Sally as she strolled away home, but thank you anyway. She threw back her head and grinned hugely at the near-dark sky. Actually, the smile that has made your day is not that of an innocent English Rose, but is rather the glow of a well-laid woman. THREE ‘Foxy Lady!’ Jimi Hendrix’s chocolate voice, the aggressive twang and slice of his guitar, rings out and reverberates off the walls. The music is loud and frantic. It adds action and life to the room. There is little furniture but what there is has, undoubtedly, the British Design Council seal of approval. The run of the floorboards, interrupted only occasionally by a piece of carefully chosen, intelligently placed furniture, leads the eye to the fireplace above which an Alexander Calder gouache explodes colour and shape on to the intensely white wall. The low coffee table is a sleek construction in burnished steel and tinted glass. It supports a matt black vase stuffed with emphatically upright tulips; white, waxy but not real. On a diagonal to the table’s edge is a copy of Warhol’s Diaries. Along one wall stands an ash and glass cabinet. Understated and stunning, the carpentry is exquisite. It is filled with books meticulously organized into a personal library system. Pride of place is given to the leather-bound volumes: Shakespeare, Donne, Fielding, the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the Dictionary of Quotations. On the shelf above are art books, epic tomes and sumptuous catalogues: Mantegna, Vermeer, C?zanne and Poussin. The shelves below carry novels, all hardback, all standing proud in alphabetical order: Bellow, Heller, Kafka, Marquez, Nabokov, Pasternak, Seth. On one side of the fireplace, a fabulous Conran standard lamp stands to attention while on the other side is the CD system, a veritable piece of sculpture in itself; wafer-thin, subtle Scandinavian lines, matt black, obviously. On custom-built shelves (oak and chrome) are enough CDs to open a shop. They are categorized, of course; the concise rock section alphabetically, the comprehensive classical section chronologically: Monteverdi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, Schoenberg, Bartok, Tippett. And yet it is Mr Hendrix who somewhat anomalously fills this unnervingly chic room in Notting Hill with sound. Can you guess where we are? It is still the day of the Big B. and, a few miles away, Sally has just arrived home, where she is presently dancing Giselle in the devor? skirt and nothing else. Physically, she may be some distance from Jimi and the Calder and the tulips; however, the memory of her is very much here, clear and current in the mind of this flat’s occupant, evoked by Mr Hendrix’s beast of chase. It is time for the Rodin to assume his true identity. Would Richard Stonehill please stand up? Look there! Against the long sash window, framed movie-like by imperceptibly breezing muslin drapes. That’s him, resting his brow against his outstretched arm against the window. Turn around – oh, just look! Six foot two and-a-bit, perfectly carved and gorgeously chiselled. Now this is the stuff of Levi jeans commercials. Hair the colour of the sand at Rosilli Bay where his childhood was spent, Richard’s skin boasts the health, vitality and natural tan of someone who lived long in the care and goodness of Welsh sea air. His eyes are the most extraordinary dark violet, his teeth are very good, his hands could be those of a concert pianist, he is fiendishly good-looking and he smells delicious – a fine mixture of freshly laundered clothes, scrubbed skin and Calvin Klein scent. Eyes closed, long and lithe legs stretched out, arms relaxed, Richard Stonehill slithers into his black leather recliner, and converses with Jimi. ‘I’m too exhausted to get up and scream, Mr Hendrix,’ he apologises, but finds ample energy to sing that he too has wasted precious time; that he has therefore made up his mind to make this foxy lady his, all his. 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. FOUR ‘Did 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! FIVE ‘He’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.’ ‘Oh, shut it. Let me have my hopes and fantasies. It’s all right for you, with your mortgage and your steady Steve and your … oh my God, he’s coming! Oh my Gordon Flipping Bennett. Keep cool and sophis, San. Hello, Mr Stonehill!’ ‘Good morning, Sandra. Morning Mary.’ Morning, morning. Mourning. Sandra’s gaze followed him down the corridor. Mary watched her closely. Smitten. Sandra absorbed every detail, storing it for later, for the arduous journey that she would make, always made, seatless and depressed, back to High Barnet. I love that navy suit, I love the way he walks. His hair lifts slightly with each stride, the trousers outline his calf muscles with every step. Why was he late? How can I find out? Please, please, please not a woman in his life. Pretty please a gas leak or something. One day, me, please. One day, me. Or, for one day, me. All I ask. 0181 348 6523. No answer. Of course not, Sally’s at school. But does she have an answering machine? Richard wonders, hanging on. Obviously not. But does she go home for lunch? he wonders two hours later as he re-dials. Obviously not. Does school end at 3.30 nowadays? No, apparently it does not. Richard has done little work. As the working day nears a close, his drawing board remains irritatingly bare. He just could not seem to settle down to concentrate on the plan for the quasi-Georgian building commissioned by the Americans. Instead, he doodles and a Play School house stares back, with a chimney, a door, and windows; one, two, three, four. You never know the Americans, they might like it. He twirls around in his swivel chair; his jacket is off, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing beautifully tanned forearms brushed with a down of flaxen hairs. He clasps his hands behind his head and places his left foot on his right knee. Fine ankles can be discerned beneath Ralph Lauren socks. Out of the window he sees the river, a pleasure boat, captivated tourists on board, the guide changing her microphone from hand to hand as she points to the left, to the right. On the opposite bank, a crane performs its slow-motion task. Up river, Waterloo Bridge straddles south and north banks. Matisse is showing at the Hayward Gallery, he read the review in yesterday’s paper. Maybe Sally would like to go? Maybe Titian at the Royal Academy is more her thing? Something to find out. 0181 348 6523. Was that dialled correctly? 0181 348 6523. She’s his first 0181 girl. 638 5454. ‘Bob Woods, please … Bob? Hey! Fancy a sesh at the gym? Great. In an hour? Fine.’ Keeping at a constant 80 r.p.m., Bob and Richard tackle the simulated hill programme on the Lifecycle. They’ve broken the twenty-minute, red-face barrier and are working through into the serious sweat zone. Speech comes in staccato gasps, whole sentences interspersed with long pauses. However, having worked out together for many years, Bob and Richard have brought such conversation to a fine art, barely comprehensible to those uninitiated but utterly intelligible between these two. ‘So, you and Sally Lomax left together and then what?’ ‘What do you know about her?’ ‘Not a lot. Friend of a friend of Catherine. Met her once before, about six months ago. So, you left and then what?’ ‘Does Catherine know her?’ ‘And then WHAT?’ ‘What?’ They pedalled on, then pedalled down, then stopped. Both leant forward and dropped their heads on to folded arms and huffed in unison for a few moments. ‘Stairmaster?’ ‘After you, I’ll work on my abs.’ Delts, quads, glutes, abs. Half an hour later, they met up over the bicep curls, heaving their limbs, exhaling and grimacing in such perfect time as to make any synchronized swimming corps envious. They were, unknowingly, the centre of attention, the brawniest there, the handsomest. Admiring women, in fluorescent, up-the-bum all-in-ones, strutted their well-toned stuff in the hope that they might be seen and even achieve a date. Less brawny blokes were suddenly inspired to work harder, to up the level on the Lifecycle, to increase their weights by 10 Ks. Today, like any other day past or to come, Bob and Richard were unaware of their audience. To them, the gym was less a place to see and be seen as it was their sanctuary where they could dissolve the pressures of work or relationships and simply enjoy their easy friendship which spanned well over a decade. And keep their bodies in peak condition too, of course. Over the gush of the shower, the waft of shampoo-conditioner and the clatter of lockers, Bob picked up where Richard had left off. ‘Have you phoned her?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Who-my-arse!’ ‘Sort of.’ ‘Sort of! What’s “sort of”? How can you sort of ring a person? Either you have or you have not. She was either there or she was not. She either said: “Yes, I’d love to”, or she said “No” and thanked you for calling. Enough “sort of”. Did you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And? And?’ ‘No reply.’ ‘Try again?’ ‘No reply.’ ‘Will you try again?’ ‘What do you know about her?’ ‘Ri-chard! She’s a friend of a friend of Catherine’s. I met her once before. I am sure – in fact, there can be no question about it – she’ll be sitting in all evening willing the phone to ring with your dulcet tones offering dinner chez Ricardo. So, stop skirting the issue. You left together and then what?’ ‘I took her home. Fancy a drink? My shout.’ Bob watched his friend as he dressed and preened. Good Lord, he’s gone! A goner! Not that he knows it yet. Goodbye, Old Mister Pump-and-Dump, Sir Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Or Rather Lord Leave ’Em Before You Fallinlovewith ’Em. I don’t believe it! Bob felt a wave of fondness and happiness for his pal so he slapped his back and squeezed his delts. ‘Your shout. Just a swift half, mind. Promised Catherine that we’d go to the flicks.’ Their swift half turned into a leisurely two-pinter. Bob decided not to pry further. This one needed nurturing. Instead, they indulged in a trip down Memory Lane, recalling wild times shared at college, remembering, try for try, every rugby game that they’d played together, remarking on how far they had both come since moving to London to make their respective marks on the world of Law and Architecture. Bob talked about Catherine, their next holiday to Northern Portugal, the extension to the house, the current discord over the baby issue – her desire, his reluctance. (‘But me, a dad? I mean, I’m not old enough! I’ve got a dad of my own still! Catherine’s broody though, very. I’ve even checked her Pill packets recently to make sure she’s not forgetting accidentally-on-purpose.’) Richard was simultaneously envious of Bob’s security, his constant and loving relationship, and yet also thankful that he had no one but himself to think of. Poor old Bob, soon to be dragged off to a schmaltzy American weepy that he’d never go to see out of choice. But there again, didn’t he seem to beam with affection when, on the way to the pub, he’d made a detour to buy tissues and wine gums? ‘Hey, look at the time! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square! Great to see you, Richie.’ (Don’t call me that.) ‘Still on for squash on Sunday morning? Great. You going to call her? You are going to call her! Must dash. Later!’ ‘Later! Love to Catherine. Don’t sob too hard!’ Bob left the pub backwards, making a telephone gesture as he did so. Richard raised his pint and smiled. A minute or two later he left it, half-full, and caught a cab home to Notting Hill. 0181 348 6523. ‘Hullo?’ ‘Sally! Richard here.’ ‘Hu-low!’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Well! Yes! You?’ ‘Mmm!’ A pause verging on embarrassing silence. ‘Sally, would you like to have dinner with me? Friday night? At mine?’ ‘That would be nice. Why, yes. Thank you. Address? Time? Lovely!’ ‘Friday, then.’ And wear those lovely little knickers. ‘Friday.’ And make sure the sheets are fresh. SIX With the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off. Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra plunged herself into a chasm of pessimism rescued only by a chocolate ?clair tactfully provided by Mary. No, Mary, he’s far too fit ever to need a doctor. It can only mean a woman. What a delight, thought Richard, to shop at Sainsbury’s on a weekday afternoon. What a revelation it was that a supermarket could look like that. No obstacle course of trollies and baskets, plenty of everything left, no people-snake at the check-out. No men, realized Richard. As he trollied his way to the cereals, he thought what a mercy it was that he was unmarried. He pondered how it was that shopping for groceries became such a trial for the married man. On your soap box, Richard, away you go. Take any ordinary Saturday – tomorrow for instance – they’ll be here in force, frantic and bewildered, chained to The List. It says baked beans so Married Man stops by the baked beans, and regards them. Look at the list, look at the produce, look at the list. Move on a couple of paces, walk backwards knocking over a child before finally plucking two tins of said beans. Place them carefully in the trolley but manage somehow to bruise the avocados in the process. Wipe brow, unscrunch List and go in search of Free-range Eggs. Buy Farm Fresh instead – they’re cheaper after all. Little does M.M. realize that they will ultimately work out twice as dear when Wife sees them, bins them and hollers: ‘FREE-RANGE!’ Don’t they know that there’s a reason for lard, crinkle cut chips, white sliced bread and bumper-pack beer not to be on The List? Richard Stonehill, I think you will find that a packet of SuperNoodles lurks behind that box of lo-fat, lo-salt, sugar free lite-bran (organic) which you have strategically positioned in your trolley. It is at the check-out, Richard rued whilst searching for an eco-friendly bleach, where M.M. comes most unstuck. You can see them gaze in wonder at the well-spaced items processing along on the conveyor belt of the female shopper (or that of Mr Stonehill). The contents of M.M.’s trolley are in a veritable profiterole pile as they head towards the black looks of the check-out assistant. M.M. wonders how women know instinctively how to pack – is it passed down from Mother to Daughter? More to the point, why on earth does M.M. insist on packing eggs and pastry cases, watercress and tomatoes first; soap powder, bottles and tins last? What happens to men when they marry? Richard pondered as he sashayed past the beverages and preserves (choosing Broken Orange Pekoe and Damson Extra respectively). Do these married men – erstwhile bachelors after all – lose all notion, every shred of common sense as to what constitutes a well-stocked larder? Why and how does this innate and irrational fear of supermarkets suddenly develop? Is there a cure? Divorce? Richard was relieved, on that decadent afternoon, that this sub-species was busy elsewhere (probably making important decisions at business, running the city, organizing the country, designing buildings, ministering law, order, justice and peace) so that he could cruise the aisles without incident or irritation. Deftly he swooped and plucked and picked as he breezed along. Under his expertise, his trolley behaved impeccably. Gone were those forever-spinning wheels; it became some kind of miniature hovercraft. Such was his skill and grace at handling corners, the elegant stops and effortless starts, the two of them became the Torvill and Dean of Sainsbury’s. Packed to perfection – frozen goods in one bag, bottles, tins and tubes in a box, fresh produce in another bag – Richard headed home. It never occurred to him that Married Man is the beast he is because he thinks not only for himself. He has responsibilities to others. Commitment. After all, Richard has had fifteen years to bring his shopping – content and technique – to a fine art for he has bought and thought only for himself. He has been his own man. And nobody else’s. The few special ingredients, those which would make his meal for Sally a veritable and memorable feast, were brought from Gambini’s, the specialist Italian delicatessen that was, by a useful turn of Fate, Richard’s corner shop. Now here was a place he would browse and deliberate at leisure. Pappardelle or Orecchiette or Gigli del Gargano? Ciabatta or Focaccia? Stuffed olives or those marinating happily in thyme-flavoured cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? The shop was cramped, the smell almost overpowering as cheese mingled with salami and olives jostled for olfactory recognition against garlic-drenched sauces. From floor to ceiling, the Gambinis had packed the shelves tight with the necessities for maintaining Italian culinary standards in England. All the regions of Italy were represented under this one roof in Notting Hill. From Umbria, Tuscany, Sicily and Pugilia was extra virgin olive oil spanning the spectrum from pale gold to deep khaki. Small pots of Pesto Genovese rubbed shoulders with little jars of capers from Lipari. Jams of wild chestnut and wild fig jostled for space next to jars of chocolate hazelnut cream, and packets of Cantucci biscuits were balanced precariously against a tower of boxed Panforte. Richard was caught, quite compliantly, in the Gambinis’ web of luxury and tantalizing variety. When it came to vinegar there was Chianti, Balsamic, peach or plum to choose from. Impossibly fat olives vied for attention, gleaming up at him from their bowls of marinades. Although the porcini secchi seemed somewhat ordinaire next to dry morels from Tibet and Fairy Ring Champignons, Richard bought some anyway and Sardinian Saffron proved to be a must-have, despite its imaginative price tag (in fact, because of its price tag). Signora Gambini, known to the select few (Richard amongst them) as Rosa, watched as he smelt, felt and tasted his way through her wares. His shopping list was at once forgotten as his eyes, nose and mouth traversed the shop. His eyes lingered over the chargrilled baby onions in olive oil, the wild mountain goat p?t? and the grilled polenta but his nose pulled him away and positioned him in front of the cheeses where the Taleggio, with its peach rind striated with powder grey, solicited him uncompromisingly. The Torta al Limone proved even harder to resist, glinting up at him wickedly with its creamy golden heart dusted delightfully with icing sugar, the whole encased by crisp, caramel-coloured pastry. ‘Someone special for dinner, Signor?’ cooed Rosa. ‘I give to you my special menu, guaranteed to win her heart. With it, I captured Germano and for forty-three years he is with me.’ Rosa was a clever lady. Her suggestions, made shyly, were each concluded with a question mark. Consequently, Richard bought exactly what she planned he should, but believed himself to have conceived the entire selection. With his wallet pleasurably empty and his bags satisfyingly full, he bade Rosa farewell and promised to tell her how the meal went. With plump arms folded triumphantly across a magnificent bosom encased by straining floral polyester, she sent him on his way with a ‘Ciao’ and a conspiratorial wink. Back at his flat, Richard took the shopping into the kitchen, simultaneously undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He draped his tie (Herm?s) around the bedroom door handle, his shirt (Thomas Pink) he bundled into the washing machine from whose drum stared the crumpled faces of four other white, worn-once shirts (Turbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key, Hawes & Curtis, Lewin). His suit (Hugo Boss) was given a good shake, placed over a thick wooden hanger and hung in the far left section of the wardrobe where it joined a regiment of other finely tailored suits (David Rose, Yves Saint Laurent, Armani – Giorgio, not Emporio). Socks (Ralph Lauren – we already know that) and boxer shorts (Calvin Klein – we would have guessed) were put in the laundry basket (Richard never mixes his washes). Shoes (Church’s?) (Yes) were shoe-treed and placed at the foot of the cupboard. They will of course be polished before they are next worn. Naked, Richard was heading for the shower when he stopped and philosophized. No, cook first, then clean, then shower. He jumped into jogging pants and a faded polo shirt (both Timberland) and selected the music for the afternoon’s industry. He’d cook to Mendelssohn’s Italian, he’d clean to the Scottish, then relax and await Sally with Brahms. Pi? animato, Richard joined the strings of the first movement and skittered around his kitchen, gathering utensils and food stuffs and placing them in rational order according to the menu. Richard, you could have been a Michelin-starred chef. Just look at you with your Sabatiers, how fast you chop, so evenly and accurately. Why don’t the onions make your eyes water, why do you not subconsciously lick a finger and find it coated with garlic? How can you cook so exquisitely without using every utensil in your kitchen? Why is there no mess on the floor? You remember to preheat the oven, you wash up as you go, you do not splash tomato juice on your shirt, no bits of parsley wedge themselves under your nails. There really is no need for you to wear an apron but you look dinky in one anyway. All is cooked to perfection, you needn’t taste it but you do, with a special spoon for the very purpose because you wouldn’t dream of using the spoon with which you stirred the sauce (? la Marco Pierre White) and with which you were compelled to conduct the fourth movement saltarello. Talking of salt, you even know intuitively what constitutes a definitive pinch. Finito. The perfect four hours left for the flavours to mellow and the pungent fumes in the kitchen to subside into provocative wafts. On with the second task. Cleaning. No Shake ’n’ Vac short cuts for Richard. He glides around the sitting-room, eyes constantly searching out invisible dust, ears tuned to the oboe, serene above the crowded strings of the opening of the Scottish Symphony. Dust first, plump the cushions, straighten the tulips. Hoover. Spick and span. Bedroom. Change the sheets, open the window. Hoover. Next. Bathroom. Clean the bath, the sink; disinfect the toilet, change the pot pourri; wash the tiles and the mirror, rinse well. Buff up. Hoover. Done. Next? Body. ‘Go running’ is next on the Stonehill Schedule. Put on Nikes, put the wine in the fridge, look once round the flat, feel pleased, proud and at ease. Off you go. Richard’s daily run took him four miles and twenty-six minutes. Usually he thought of nothing, and thinking of nothing ensured he was relaxed and psychologically out of the office by the time he returned. Today, however, his mind was running faster than his feet. Say she doesn’t turn up? Say she’s a vegetarian? Say my mother rings? Say Bob and Catherine pop round? Shit, did I turn the gas off? Have I got any condoms at home? Shall I buy Beaumes de Venise too? Yes, definitely. But I’d better buy that now so it can chill thoroughly. Wait, work this through. Get home, check condoms … no, check gas first. Then condoms. Shower? No, buy the pudding wine, then shower, then phone Mother. Other way round. Let’s just get home. Sprint, Richard, sprint! Home, James. You didn’t spare the horses today: 23 minutes 34 seconds. Not bad, not bad. The gas was, of course, off. Half an hour later, with condoms and wine bought and placed in bedside table and fridge respectively, Mother was phoned, the table laid, the sauce checked and fresh purple basil scattered through it. At last, Richard can start the final, crucial lap. Preening. Hands on hips, upper lip sucked in by lower, wardrobe doors thrown open, he peruses his clothes. He touches nothing, just looks and assesses. Navy cotton chinos, brown suede belt, shirt striped thickly in blue and thinly in peppermint, white boxers, navy socks and navy nubuck loafers. Navy, navy, navy, do you think that’s too conservative? No, Richard, you look wonderful in navy. Anyway, if you want to be pedantic, there’s a subtle but effective difference between the French Navy of your shoes and the true navy of your trousers. If you’re not happy, why not wear the shirt striped with olive and pink? I’ll go for the olive and pink. In the tiler’s delight bathroom, Richard showers. It is his routine to take it moderately hot and to finish off with a prolonged blast of freezing cold which, he assures himself, is invigorating and good for the circulation. Old habits die hard and this one stemmed from eight not always easy years at boarding school. With a towel wrapped effortlessly around his trunk and another draped nonchalantly over his shoulder, Richard gives himself a close shave. To a fly on the wall, or on a majolica tile, the scene has all the features of a classic after-shave advert, bar the transatlantic voice-over drawl proclaiming: ‘L’Homme, one hundred per cent.’ But this is Notting Hill and our Richard, towel now slipping irretrievably, is standing with eyes watering from the healthy smart of his one-hundred-per-cent manly after-shave. A few strange and not desperately appealing physiognomic contortions aid recovery but his towel still lies, somewhat comically, about his feet. No need and no time to rescue it and save his style. There is pressing work to be done involving a comb, an agile wrist and a damp mop of light-magnetic, sand-coloured hair. Comb it this way, then that. Run through a little mousse, comb again then lightly shake through with your fingertips. Result: the perfect, tousled look. Get dressed, Richard, Sally will arrive in the hour. No, there’s another job; out with the nail clippers and emery board, ensure that fingers and toes are neat and tidy. They are, they always are. Step into your boxers, slip on your trousers, pull on your shirt and slide into your loafers. You’re ready, you’re gorgeous. Now just lounge about, reinstate Mr Mendelssohn where your run so rudely cut him off, relax and await the arrival of Ms Lomax. Miss Lomax was late back from school. An emergency meeting had been held to determine whether to expel or merely suspend an eleven-year-old boy for smoking in the girls’ toilets. Sally suggested doing neither but making him smoke the entire packet. In front of his friends. However, the boy was suspended and sent home directly, with his packet of cigarettes. After school the teachers gathered to formulate the Monday morning assembly on the evils of smoking. It’s bad for your health, very expensive and not clever at all. But she’s home now and is perturbed to find that she does not have time for her customary Friday evening bath, her luxuriate. Instead, a quick shower must suffice. The Lomax legs are shaved and two stray hairs are tweezed from the bridge of her nose. Sally gives her hair an energetic brush and thanks the stars that she’d washed it the previous evening. She swirls a soft brush around a pot of bronze balls of rouge and carelessly but effectively whispers it over her cheeks and eyes. And cleavage, why not! After a quick spritz of Ysatis, she deftly flosses her teeth. Into the bathroom she goes, humming absent-mindedly ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’, that morning’s hymn. It’s black velvet skirt time. She teams it with the olive silk shirt and black suede pumps with just the right height of heel to give her unremarkable legs an elegant send-off. Under it all, her little white cotton broderie anglaise knickers, for good luck. Sally, you won’t need it. Before leaving the flat, she stops for a prolonged glance in the mirror and gives herself a slightly bashful smile. Off you go, you old slapper! Shall I seduce him in between hors d’oeuvres and main course? Or before? That’s something for you to ponder on the Highgate-Notting Hill drive. Off you go, Sally. Adjusting the choke, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, Sally mirrored, signalled and manoeuvred – and then reversed straight back into the space she had just vacated. She unclipped her seatbelt and walked briskly back to her flat. She stopped in the sitting-room and gazed at the telephone which was ringing pleadingly. Beaming an ecstatic smile at it, she marched assertively into the bathroom. Giving her reflection a conniving wink, Sally plucked her toothbrush from the beaker and slipped it into her bag. SEVEN As soon as Sally entered Richard’s flat, it was she who was seduced. And not by Richard. It was the smell of cooking: a mellow base of tomato and something she couldn’t put her finger on, laced with top notes of garlic and basil. She realized how ravenous she was. For food. For sex too, but for food first and foremost. She’d passed on the shepherd’s pie offered for lunch that day at school and had had to make do with a floury Cox’s and a rubbery chunk of cheddar. Sally was surprised that she wasn’t in the least nervous. Richard, however, was. Unseen, and feeling queasy with excitement, he had watched Sally drive up and down the street looking for a parking place. He had gone straight to the kitchen and kept his hands motionless under the cold tap – sweaty palms would not be a turn on and were most unStonehill. And here they are now, together again less than a week since their first meeting. How do they look to each other? How do they feel? Knowing full well how memory can often play havoc with reality and turn reptiles into royalty, Sally is relieved that Richard is just as good-looking and suave as she remembered. Richard is thrilled, his flat seems instantly infused with energy and light and his palms remain cool and dry. He thinks she looks scrumptious and has to fight back an impulse to scoop her up and twirl her around. Nonchalant ‘Hi’s were followed with the briefest of pecks on the cheek. Richard led Sally through and lowered the volume of the Brahms. While he fixed her the obligatory drink (‘Spritzer will be lovely, thanks’), she perused his books – just as Richard had at Sally’s. She was amused that many of her dog-eared paperbacks were duplicated in here in pristine hardback. She wondered if he really enjoyed Nietzsche and what his favourite Shakespeare was. ‘Seize her,’ Richard murmured. ‘I like the History Plays too,’ Sally agreed. Mentally, she catalogued all she saw and it all seemed to add up to the man she thought and hoped Richard was. Tulips in November, how decadent. A gleaming kitchen, ten out of ten. Leather recliner, lose five points. Cream sofa piled high with cushions, five points restored. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ ‘Sure, through there.’ Full marks for hygiene, bonus marks for the thickness of the towels, an overall gold star for taste. She flushed the loo just to make it seem that her trip to the bathroom had been for a purpose other than a snoop. Coming back into the lounge she had a furtive glance into the bedroom – it seemed quiet, airy and muted. Good. ‘Sally, let’s eat.’ For Sally, this meal was to be a sounding board for her scheme. All week, in the privacy of her flat and with a mirror propped close as the harshest of critics, she had practised a new technique on a variety of foods. Food, she had decided, was not so much to be eaten to be digested, as eaten to seduce. Hitherto she had merely cut asparagus into spearable, bite-sized chunks, now she could devour them whole with slow, sensual appeal. Although she had never really got to grips with the taste or method of oysters, she could now sip and gulp them with the alluring grace of a film star. To her relief, neither was on the menu tonight – anyway, asparagus had a strange effect on her bladder and she simply did not like those slithering detritus feeders, full stop. Richard had prepared a meal that was as chic and delicious as it was simple. He had laid the table with a fine white damask cloth, dark red linen napkins, and cutlery and glass that shone proud. He’d toyed with the idea of a candle and a rose but was instantly repelled by the corniness of it (they would have had minus marks from Sally anyway). Instead, he dimmed the lights just slightly and, at Sally’s request, replaced Brahms with Van the Man. ‘My Brown-eyed Girl’ indeed, thought Richard. He brought out the Prosciutto S. Daniele which he had rolled around grissini. Shall I lick at it and suck at it suggestively? Hold off a while, Sally. You don’t want to be too obvious. Ultimately, it was far too delicious to do anything to but eat and enjoy. Richard stared at her, held her gaze for a groin-stirring moment and then dropped his eyes to her mouth. Just look at that crumb nestling in the corner of her lips. A peony mouth, just like Hardy’s Tess. Don’t realize it’s there, Sally, let me linger on it a while longer. I have to have that crumb, your mouth. He leant forward, driven by the desire to lick the crumb, but Sally’s tongue beat him by a split second. He’d lost the crumb but was awarded a tantalizing taste of her tongue tip. Her eyes spoke of the wry smile her lips wore but which he could not see, so close was he to her face. Unfortunately, it was not a pose he could hold comfortably indefinitely, propped as he was on his elbows and precariously close to the jug of vinaigrette. He sat back and saw how Sally’s wry smile was not confined to her lips but covered her whole face. It raised her cheekbones, it caused delicate lines around her eyes, it dimpled her chin just very slightly. I want to suck your chin. ‘Delicious.’ Giving himself a dignified minute in which to let his erection melt away, he rose to fetch the next dish. A warm salad of rocket and baby spinach with roasted red peppers and individual goat cheeses. Richard offered to dress it for Sally. She watched him whisk the vinaigrette and liked the way that such a simple task was possible only with great effort from the ligaments and tendons of his wrist – she wanted to place a finger over them lightly as they twitched and sprang. She thought how lovely Richard’s wrist was, slender and tanned and sporting a most beautiful watch (Cartier). She had never paid attention to a wrist before. Sally ate delicately, folding the leaves securely over her fork and cutting each slither of pepper into careful pieces. She could not risk splash-back tonight – for the sake of both Richard’s libido and her new silk shirt. Richard finished before Sally. He watched. She stared back, eating all the while. The skill of it! Every forkful placed perfectly in the centre of your perfect mouth without looking! Can I kiss you yet? When? The plate was now bare but there was still a film of vinaigrette left. It was such a beautiful dressing, why shouldn’t Sally run her finger round her plate? After all, waste not, want not. And, after all, it stirred Richard’s groin again, not that Sally was aware of it. The main course consisted of a bed of pappardelle woven throughout with porcini and chicken, and suffused with garlic, basil, sage and the ubiquitous olive oil. That it was extra virgin and cold pressed goes without saying, we know Richard now. Sally had never had porcini before and was at first baffled as to whether they were meat or vegetable, so savoury was the taste, so firm the texture. I must buy some of these. Sally, they cost Richard twelve pounds. The whole was a perfect partnership and created a lovely warm aromatic cloud in the mouth. Thank God we’re both having garlic, thought Sally, anticipating post-dinner sport. The pasta, broader than tagliatelle, was much more fork-friendly, preventing dribbles of sauce to the chin, or stray pieces hanging regrettably from the corner of the mouth (much to the chagrin of Richard’s tongue). The olive oil gave Sally’s lips a gloss, too tantalizing for Richard to sit and merely observe. The vinaigrette jug was now off the table, the bread basket was on the floor. The scene had set itself for Richard; there was space for him to lean across, there were the sides of the table to hold for stability. Assertively he swiped Sally’s mouth with his tongue. Her lips tasted of dressing, her mouth of Sally. Richard’s tongue tasted of passion. Sally was buzzing between her legs, her bosom was heaving cinematically. She was ready to leave the meal for a banquet of sex. No. Wait. Not yet. Keep it going, keep him just there. Let him stay a while hovering on the brink of being crazed and senseless with desire. Pull away. Smile as sweetly as you can and take a coy sip of that lovely Bardolino. ‘Cheese?’ Richard croaked. ‘Please,’ Sally purred. Just two cheeses, complementing each other and the food that had gone before and that was to follow; the oozing, subtle Taleggio and spicier Pecorino accompanied by further slithers of Rosa Gambini’s ciabatta, flatter yet with so much more spring and taste than the dull supermarket counterfeits. Richard had cleverly judged the servings and though they were both thoroughly satisfied, an all-important space still existed in their stomachs. Undoubtedly, the pi?ce de r?sistance was the pudding. Tiramis?, of course. Another first for Sally. Richard had bought a complete dish from Rosa, just under a foot square, and Sally was soon fantasizing about diving into the centre of it and eating her way to the surface. Remembering his first taste of tiramis?, that it was not merely a delicious flavour but a sensation, an unforgettable experience too, Richard decided to halt his spoon midway to his portion so he could observe Sally’s reaction. As she spooned into it, she thought how beautiful it looked. The dark matt brown of the cocoa powder, the soft ivory of the marscapone, the glistening sponge, speckled through with espresso coffee. I think I’m probably going to enjoy this very much. It could be dangerous! As the spoon neared her mouth, a wisp of scent seduced her nose. Coffee-booze-chocolate. She looked across at Richard, waiting in anticipation. She smiled, giving a fleeting twitch of eyebrow. Still holding his gaze, she slowly pushed the loaded spoon into her mouth. It was like a trigger, a chemical reaction: her eyes snapped shut and simultaneously Richard grinned broadly. The first thing to accost her was the bitterness of the cocoa, thick and dry against the roof of her mouth. In an instant, the cool fluff of marscapone filtered through, wetting the powder which metamorphosed into a subtle and heavenly chocolaty sludge. The texture and taste were heady and incomparable. Then the marsala and rum, sodden in the sponge, broke through and created a warmth that trickled down into her chest. Finally, a kick from the espresso forced her eyes open and her head to shake slowly in astonishment. It was the signal for Richard to have his spoonful. For Sally, tiramis? was more than a ‘pick me up’, she was literally stoned on the stuff. An orgasm versus a first taste of tiramis?. A tough choice if ever there was one! Both, please! Later, Sally, later. There’s still one more thing for you to try. After Sally’s second helping (Richard was delighted – he could not abide the Abstemious Woman), he poured her a full and very chilled glass of Beaumes de Venise. Again he watched. First Sally cleaned her teeth with her tongue, searching for any hidden cocoa. Somewhat dismayed, she found nothing. She raised the glass, now aesthetically bloomed with condensation, and took note of the golden blush colour and the sweet, floral smell. Bouquet, Sally, bouquet. She took a sip. It was liquid silk. It was cold, clean and exquisite. If ambrosia is tiramis?, and she suspected it very probably was, then Beaumes de Venise was nectar. The food, the drink of the gods. Sally’s eyes wore a glazed expression. She looked across to Richard who looked soft and mellow under the wine and the dimmed lights. She was having a thoroughly good time. Never had she been so overwhelmed by such different taste sensations. Never had she simply enjoyed food so much. Now she knew for sure that aphrodisiacs existed. Clever boy, Richard, you’ve seduced her with food, she’s now ready, waiting and willing for part two of the evening’s schedule. Physical pleasure. Up you get, walk across and stand behind her chair. Scoop her hair up into a pony tail, tilt her head back slightly. Release her hair and let your hands fall on to her neck. It’s delicate, you notice how vulnerable it feels, encircled entirely by your overlapping hands. Venture down and let your finger tips rest on her collar bone. Stroke that soft dip at her throat. Take one hand away and palm back the hair from her forehead. Gaze into those eyes, keep the gaze and move your other hand from her neck down across the silk of her shirt. You are between her breasts now. Find her left breast, cup it, press it, squeeze it. Let your hand lie soft, feeling her pip-like nipple in your palm. The touch of silk, the warmth and firmness of the flesh beneath. Pull her to her feet and grasp her close to you. Keep the one hand holding her neck, put the other into the small of her back and pull her tightly against you. Press yourself against her; feel yourself hard, straining. Move your leg across and push her legs slightly apart. Now she too had something to push against. Lower your hand and feel her buttocks tense, you remember perfectly what they look like. A gorgeous peach of an arse. To feel its curve under velvet is as alluring as a breast under silk. But flesh itself is better. Her flesh is what you want. Kiss her. Don’t open your mouth, just press your lips against hers. Her tongue fleets at your lips. You respond. As the kisses become longer and deeper, you both push and grind your groins against each other. You feel like eating her. Nibbling at her lips does not suffice. Push her mouth open wide, as wide as it will go and probe as deep as you can. Feel her search back. Feel her run her tongue over the inside of your teeth. Bite her. Feel her simultaneously flinch yet move even closer and more insistently against you. Bite her again and feel her bite back. You are aware that her hand is starting to travel down. Away from your earlobe, down, down. Lower, Sally, lower. Find me hard, rub your hand against me. Trace the shape of me. No don’t take your hand away. Don’t pull away from my lips. I want you. Where have you gone? The CD had long stopped but the silence was loaded. Richard and Sally stood there, panting, mouths reddened, feet apart, a foot apart. Sally reached out and pulled Richard towards her by grasping the front of his trousers. Again they ate-kissed. Again they separated. Again at her instigation. He stepped towards her and she stepped back. He stepped towards her and again she retreated. The two were tangoing. Then he was ready. He took two steps forward to her one back and had her again, close to him, squeezing her waist with one arm, the other enmeshed in her hair. She gasped as her hair snagged around his fingers. She tried to tug away but he simply tightened his grip. To hear her breath, rasping, sent him into a fast frenzy of desire. He held her at arms’ length as she tried to approach. Now he pushed her away. Once more they stared, like matador and bull. Slowly he came to her and slid his hand up her skirt. It was tight but she helped by standing on her tiptoes. He wriggled upwards, effortlessly, to bullseye position. Sally lowered her heels back down. He could feel how moist she was under her panties and, with his thumb and third finger, tweaked and pressed superlatively. Spot on, Richard. Still they stared relentlessly into each other’s eyes while Richard’s skilful fingers set to work. Look at her face, glazed eyes as if she does not see me though she looks right at me. Let me rub you right there. Let me go a little further. Look at your eyelids flicker. Look at your head tilt slightly back exposing your neck which I must graze with my teeth. Let me undo your blouse. Deftly, Richard unbuttoned just enough of Sally’s blouse to expose an exquisite breast. He ceased movement with his other hand though Sally pushed herself against it eagerly. Look at me, Richard. Never have you desired a woman so much as you yearn for me this very moment. Feel me, move your hand from my arm but don’t leave my gaze. Feel the breast that you’ve released from its shield of olive silk. Feel it. Yes, just like that. Increase the pressure. Again. Oh. Richard introduced his finger tips and twisted Sally’s nipple gently. He felt her move against his other hand and he made his fingers there come suddenly alive. Probing, twisting, rubbing. He looked at Sally’s face. Her head was now involuntarily thrown backwards and to one side; it enticed him to suck at her neck, to fondle her breast firmly, to increase the speed of his fingers below. He felt her rocking her pelvis faster and faster. A surge of moistness. She let out a noise midway between a yelp and a gasp and brought her head back straight, once again meeting his eye directly. They stared into each other as they both felt the pulsations ebb away and stop. After a moment’s stillness, Richard probed again, stroking with dexterous mastery. The throbs returned, less defined but certainly there. Sally’s face had begun to soften. Her eyelids closed more frequently and for longer. Her head dropped slightly. To both of them, her body seemed to be melting. Richard drew Sally towards him and cradled her carefully, holding her still and steady and close for minutes. Her head was buried against his chest, her shoulders were slumped, her exposed breast was now blushed, the nipple soft and puffy. She stayed against him feeling safe with the smell of him; sweat and pheromones filling her nose, his taste still in her mouth. He kissed the top of her head. She looked up and kissed him on the lips while he kept them motionless. With a hand on her shoulder and another around her waist, he led her to his bedroom and, on the bed with the fresh, crisp linen, he made slow and languid love to her. EIGHT Was it a chip in the paintwork or was it a spider? Sally had been staring at the small, dark mark on the ceiling, trying to make up her mind. In that state of reverie, when eyes are young and focusing is lazy, she had been sure, alternately, that it was the one and then the other. Now that her eyes were awake and functioning she decided that it must be a mark or a dent. And then it moved. It was a spider. The intimate peace of the situation had been disrupted. Sally was now aware of other movements and noises. The blind breezed forward every now and then. The duvet curved up and fell down peacefully with her breathing. She could hear the clock, digital but audible; phit, phit, phit. For every three phits came one long, hushed, oblivious breath from Richard. A distant thrush sang to the morning while an occasional car hummed by. Under it all she could decipher the fridge adjusting its thermostat. She lay on her back with Richard’s arm lolling on top of the quilt over her stomach. She checked for the spider and found him a little further along the ceiling, playing dents again. If I woke now, and saw him, I’d probably presume again that he was a dent. I wonder if he times his sorties according to phits? Sally grinned at her early-morning dedication to pointless ponderings, her commitment to theorizing over nothing particular. Shyly, she looked across at Richard. Asleep and safe and soundless. She wondered what time it was and reckoned round about 7.30. But then knowing the exact time suddenly assumed great importance so she tuned into the phitting and travelled her eyes up over Richard to locate the clock. 7.45. She smiled. And then smiled again, not knowing why. He’s awfully good-looking. I have chosen well. But over and above the surge she felt on gazing at him, was a softness and warmth inside for him. Stop it, stop it. Sally, stop. And yet she found herself not recalling, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, but simply looking at him in the here and now. Asleep. Lovely. She felt compelled to reach out and delicately stroke away the flop of hair meandering over his eye and the bridge of his nose. Then she lingered and, with her fingertips, traced his eyebrows and the soft dips in the corners of his eyes. A careful fingertip brushed away an endearing pip of sleepydust. Again she found herself smiling and felt that same softness and warmth within. No, Sally, no. Stop it. No. Impossible. Not after a week. Not ever. The spider was on the move again and scuttled across and over to where the cupboards met the ceiling. The crack was plenty big enough and it disappeared from view. Well, if the spider can snoop then so can I. She left the bedroom noiselessly and went through to the lounge and over to the kitchen. You can tell a lot about a person by what he keeps in the fridge. You can tell a lot about a person by what they eat for breakfast, and with the fridge door still open, Sally ate tiramis? straight from the dish. Crouching on her heels, she noted that the milk was semi-skimmed and the eggs were free-range. There were peppers of every conceivable colour, flat-leaf parsley in a small tumbler of water, live yoghurts, slices of meat in Harrod’s cellophane and a punnet of raspberries. In November! Having had enough tiramis? (for now), Sally opened a limed oak cupboard and catalogued the fine oils and vinegar, the packet of porcini which looked withered, rather sorry and somewhat inedible in their dried state. Much to her amusement and relief, right at the back she spied a large bottle of HP Sauce. She smiled and opened the next cupboard and examined the china. Villeroy and Boch. That’ll do. Over in the lounge, she went to the bookcase to handle those sumptuous leather volumes. She ran her hand along the ash, very smooth and surprisingly warm. With a tentative fingertip, she felt the embossed spines and read the titles to herself. She took down Julius Caesar and ran it over her cheek. She fanned the pages and inhaled deeply. Then she touched the spine with her tongue tip and was miles away in another small heaven of her own when peace was shattered by the post. He gets The National Geographic, what luxury! Leaving the rest of the post with the Guardian on the doormat, Sally curled up on the leather recliner and lost herself in the social behaviour of the humpback whale, and went on a fascinating trip through Alaska by husky. And that was how Richard found her when he surfaced half an hour later. ‘Morning, Sal.’ ‘Morning, Richie.’ ‘Breakfast?’ ‘Mmm.’ ‘In bed?’ ‘And why not?’ How civilized: warm croissants, freshly juiced oranges, a good pot of Earl Grey and the morning paper. ‘This is my favourite part of Saturday’s Guardian, the Questionnaire,’ revealed Sally, and they laughed out loud at Alan Bennett’s disclosures. Richard grabbed a spoon and turned it into a microphone. ‘Sally Lomax, twenty-five, teacher, National Geographic reader, tiramis? demolisher and sex-goddess, what is your idea of perfect happiness?’ He thrust the spoon at her. Delighted, Sally sparked back: ‘A beautiful stone farmhouse in Tuscany and a dark swarthy male to go with it.’ Actually, Saturday morning, breakfast in bed, the paper and you would do nicely. But you shan’t know that. ‘With which historical figure do you most identify?’ ‘Lady Godiva.’ ‘Which living person do you most admire?’ ‘Aunt Celia. She’s seventy and has the strength of an ox and the courage of Samson.’ ‘What vehicles do you own?’ ‘Strong pair of legs.’ ‘And a Mini Cooper. What is your greatest extravagance?’ ‘Danish pastries.’ ‘And tiramis? for breakfast?’ Sally blushed. ‘Sal, you’re blushing! What objects do you always carry with you?’ ‘Donor card, paracetamol, rape alarm, pocket hankies, emery board, safety pins, stamps, address book.’ ‘Am I in it?’ ‘No.’ ‘What makes you most depressed?’ ‘Child abuse. Oh, and synthetic cream.’ ‘What do you most dislike about your appearance?’ ‘I rather like it!’ ‘Sally!’ Richard chastized. ‘Okay, my bikini line hair,’ Sally confided. ‘What is your most unappealing habit?’ ‘I don’t have any.’ ‘Sally!’ Richard warned again. ‘Oh, God. Okay, I fart in the bath.’ They fell about laughing and Richard admitted quite happily that he did too. ‘What would you like for your next birthday?’ ‘An answerphone. No, a weekend in Boston.’ ‘When is your birthday?’ ‘Next year. May the nineteenth.’ ‘What is your favourite word?’ ‘Funicular.’ ‘You what?’ ‘It’s a lovely word to say. Try it.’ ‘Fu-nic-u-lar. Hmm. What is your favourite journey?’ ‘The road to Oban, the boat to Mull; to Aunt Celia’s.’ ‘Who are your favourite musicians?’ ‘Genesis, Van the Man, Dylan.’ ‘Anyone told you it’s now the 1990s? Who are your favourite writers?’ ‘Alice Thomas Ellis and Jane Austen.’ Oh, and Ms Collins. ‘What or who is the greatest love of your life?’ She panicked momentarily and looked at him blankly. ‘Myself?’ she ventured. He seemed pleased with that. ‘Which living person do you most despise?’ ‘Despise? I don’t care much for Myra Hindley or Peter Sutcliffe.’ ‘What do you consider the most overrated virtue?’ ‘Chasteness. Decorum.’ Richard raised his eyebrows at the intensity of her proclamation. ‘What is your greatest regret?’ ‘Not being good enough to go to ballet school.’ ‘Ballet?’ ‘Ten years of it.’ ‘That explains your hyper-mobility then! When and where were you happiest?’ ‘Childhood holidays at Aunt Celia’s in Mull.’ ‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?’ ‘A farmhouse in Tuscany.’ ‘And the dark, swarthy man?’ ‘Him too.’ ‘What would your motto be?’ ‘Don’t look before you leap.’ ‘How would you like to die?’ ‘When I’m ready.’ ‘How would you like to be remembered?’ ‘With desire and longing and a twinkle in the eye.’ ‘Thank you, Ms Lomax,’ said Richard, pouring her another cup of Earl Grey and stirring it with the microphone, ‘that was intriguing!’ And necessary, my love. ‘But there’s one more question,’ he asked lasciviously, ‘how do you like it best?’ Sally smirked. ‘Milk, no sugar?’ she ventured. Richard raised his eyebrows in a that-won’t-do fashion. ‘I’ll show you later. First, there’s the small but pressing issue of your answers, Richard Stonehill.’ ‘And then you’ll show me?’ ‘Then I’ll show you.’ NINE ‘Richard Stonehill, thirty-five, architect, new-age man and all round good-looker, what is your idea of perfect happiness?’ ‘Yachting in Australia.’ You, Sal. ‘Ever done it?’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘What is your greatest fear?’ ‘Multiple sclerosis.’ ‘With which historical figure do you most identify?’ ‘Byron.’ ‘How pretentious! Which living person do you most admire?’ ‘Bob.’ ‘Bob-and-Catherine Bob?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What vehicles do you own?’ ‘An Alfa Romeo Spyder and a Cannondale mountain bike.’ ‘What is your greatest extravagance?’ ‘Silk ties and olive oil that’s as expensive as the former.’ ‘What objects do you always carry with you?’ ‘Why, my little black book of course.’ ‘Am I in your little black book?’ ‘You are in my little black book.’ ‘What makes you most depressed?’ ‘Housing estates. Oh, and nylon.’ ‘Hear hear. What do you most dislike about your appearance?’ ‘My legs.’ ‘Your legs?’ ‘Too skinny.’ Richard, they’re gorgeous, unquestionably masculine, you vain old thing. ‘What is your most unappealing habit?’ ‘Moi? Rien!’ ‘Ri-chard!’ ‘Okay, I pick my nose, fart and belch.’ ‘Big deal.’ ‘Simultaneously. In the bath.’ ‘Gracious Good Lord. What would you most like for your next birthday present?’ ‘You. Wrapped up in brown paper and red ribbons.’ ‘When is your birthday?’ ‘June the second.’ ‘I’ll see what I can do. What is your favourite word?’ ‘Telecommunication,’ proclaimed Richard. ‘Well, it sounds nice, doesn’t it?’ Sally raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, all right then – copulation.’ ‘Later. What or who is the greatest love of your life?’ ‘My mummy!’ Laughter erupted and Sally tickled Richard into saying ‘Architecture’ and finally admitting ‘Food’. ‘Ooops, watch that cup! What do you consider the most overrated virtue?’ ‘Etiquette.’ ‘What is your greatest regret?’ ‘That my father and I did not get along.’ ‘It’s never too late for a reconciliation.’ ‘He’s dead.’ ‘Oh. Poor Richie. Mine died when I was fifteen. When and where were you happiest?’ ‘Finishing the London marathon three years ago.’ ‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?’ ‘A housekeeper-cum-therapist-cum-masseuse-cum-sex-goddess. Want the job? Seven-fifty an hour?’ ‘Ten? Done! Which talent would you most like to have?’ ‘Telepathy.’ ‘What would your motto be?’ ‘Bien faire ce que j’ai ? faire.’ Sally nodded, earnestly hoping to veil the fact that she had not the faintest idea what that meant. ‘How would you like to be remembered?’ ‘As Sally Lomax’s favourite lay!’ As Sally Lomax’s favourite. ‘Thank you, Richard Stonehill, for your co-operation and honesty. Would you like your reward now or after lunch?’ ‘What do you think?’ Richard and Sally explored each other’s bodies with a new inquisitiveness and a new depth. A new tenderness, too. Richard found how Sally’s personality shone through; her breasts spoke of it, her fuzzy bikini line proclaimed it. She spent a long time caressing his legs, with hands, lips and eyes, showing him that they drove her wild. She whispered ‘telecommunication’ as she chewed and licked his ear lobes. He hummed Genesis and sang ‘Turn It On Again’ after she came. She came again. She felt more fulfilled than she had with any other man, not that there had been that many. Now they both wanted to give, not merely to take. To give and to receive, to linger and to lap it up. What is it that I am feeling? thought Sally as she showered, alone, in Richard’s bathroom. What is it? she wondered, as she swathed herself in Richard’s thick, burgundy towelling robe. What is it that feels so, well, nice? she asked herself as she padded across the bedroom to gaze out of the window at nothing in particular. They lunched and munched together, snuggled deep in Richard’s voluminous sofa; du pain, du vin, du Boursin. Later, they browsed and tinkered at Portobello Market. He bought her two pounds of Cox’s Orange Pippins, she bought him half a pound of pear drops which tasted of white paper bag, just like they had in childhood, just as they should. The weather was as crisp as the apples, their noses were reddened and noisy, their fingers chilled. They thawed out at the Gate Cinema and were warmed by coffee, carrot cake and a Louis Malle matin?e. On her way home she stopped at a chemist. And bought a new toothbrush. She had not forgotten to take hers home, nor had she planned to leave it. She did not leave it accidentally-on-purpose, nor had she connived with herself in the bathroom mirror. She had done no grinning at the toothbrush. It was in the same beaker as Richard’s but they were not touching. His was an angle-poised, hard bristle; hers was small-headed and soft. She had left it merely because it had looked just fine in the beaker with Richard’s. Richard was not madly excited to find it there later, but certainly he was happy that it was there. That night, alone but not lonely in their respective beds, they did not think of each other but of themselves. Friday nights and Saturday mornings were to become an institution, not that they knew it then. If waves of contentment can travel, then the vibes from Highgate and those from Notting Hill would have met, crashed and fallen to earth somewhere around Regents Park. Which is precisely where, three days later, Sally and Richard next met. TEN With the future of the Zoo uncertain, schools all over London chose it over Hatfield House or Madame Tussaud’s for their annual school outings. With the future of the Zoo uncertain, a team of architects was consulted over proposals for a building dedicated to research and conservation of endangered species. The idea was to promote the Zoo as a foundation, a trust dedicated to understanding and preserving and improving the future for threatened wildlife. It was to lose its image of merely housing bored tigers and sloping-shouldered eagles in cracked concrete. The hope was, that if seen as environmentally aware and ecologically sympathetic, funding from all sectors would be more readily available. In theory alone, the proposal had been met with great enthusiasm from the public and the government had given it a quiet nod or two already. The Zoological Society, placed as it is in the outer circle of the Park, affords a sweeping vista. Especially from the wide window from which Richard gazed, plastic beaker of instant coffee in hand, waiting for the first, crucial meeting with his potential clients. He watched nostalgically as a human crocodile of ten-year-olds made its haphazard approach to the main gates, sections of its vertebrae frequently slipping out of alignment. He remembered well the joy of walking hand in hand with a best friend, the despair of having to hold hands tightly with an enemy, the humiliation of holding hands with the most unpopular boy in the class. The crocodile’s nose was black and red, because those were the only colours Diana Lewis wore. Its body was a multicoloured jumble of school children in mufti. Its navy tail caught and captured Richard’s attention. The tail of the crocodile was Sally Lomax. ‘Good morning, Mr Stonehill, we are sorry to have kept you waiting. Shall we start?’ But I want to see the crocodile! ‘Mr Stonehill?’ I don’t want to be in this stuffy building, I want to find the crocodile and watch its tail swish. ‘Gentlemen, lady, this is Richard Stonehill from Mendle-Brooke Associates.’ ‘Good morning,’ said Richard somewhat reluctantly, as he took the head of the table and began unravelling the roll of drawings, crocodiles still foremost in his mind. However, as soon as his design unfurled itself, Richard was totally focused. His personality, his gifted presentation and the skill of the design itself kept his audience rapt. An hour and a half shot by. Had they had the money there and then, they would have pressed cash into his hand and given him carte blanche to start immediately. Reality, however, would impose a minimum two-year wait. ‘I think I’ll just have a wander,’ Richard informed his hosts as everybody shook hands. ‘It’s the crocodiles that fascinate me.’ The children were having a lovely time, especially Marsha and Rajiv who were still holding hands long after the crocodile had disintegrated. Sharp, sweet wafts of dung and straw were filtered by the chill air and were pleasing to the nose. The bellow of the camel was impersonated very well by Marcus who was offered a ride by the keeper. Squeals of delight filled the air as the dromedary lunged and lurched itself up. The children’s zoo proved very popular too; little hands gently petted even littler furries and packed lunches were shared illicitly with the bleating, pleading, pocket-nuzzling deer and goats. Around Miss Lewis, a band of keen young artists had gathered to sketch the elephants. It was cold, cold, but clear. Everyone was in a thoroughly good mood. ‘Oh, children, the light’s just perfect! Simply perfect. I’ve brought charcoal and 4B pencils and some waxy crayons. Who wants what?’ The waxy crayons were the first to be snapped up followed sharply by the charcoal. The pencils were the last to go because Miss Lewis forbade erasers – ‘Work through your mistakes, make your errors a part of your design’ was her oft-chanted dictum. Experience had taught Class Five that any child caught smuggling a rubber would have it ceremoniously confiscated and, worse, would have to contend with Miss Lewis’s inconsolable hurt. With not much more than an ear or tusk completed, the children began to complain of cold toes and numb fingers. Miss Lewis had overcome that problem by investing in a pair of red mittens, the tips of which could be folded back to reveal black, fingerless gloves. She sat on the bench surrounded by the hastily dumped materials of her prot?g?s (off to see the yeuch! spiders and urgh! beetles) and breathed in the coarse, sweet smell of elephant. Wielding a 4B as a conductor might his baton, she began to draw fervently, making any mistake a committed part of the overall design. Sally, who had just finished a quick chat with the polar bear (he had winked at her, slowly and wisely), contemplated the scamper and flurry of her class, released from the greyness of school and its buildings. She felt a little sad, imagining how the animals too would kick up their heels and squeal with delight if they were turned out into pastures new, let alone to their native habitats. She thought it cruel how the children teased the rhino for being so ugly, the way they grimaced and growled at the motionless lion, chattered and jumped around in front of the chimps and tapped the glass of the aquarium to see if the fish would budge or the clam slam shut. She walked past birds of prey and couldn’t associate the moth-eaten raptors with those she remembered from her childhood holidays, soaring in majestic abandon over the hills near Aunt Celia’s. Miss Lewis had a hushed audience about her. All over her scarf (black) and her jumper (red) were chunks and furls of wood and lead: ‘Never use a sharpener, gives a ghastly line. Scalpel. That’s the answer. Super edge. Absolutely not, Marcus, only I can use it. Horribly sharp. Trust me.’ The children were wowed into silence by the skill with which Miss Lewis brandished her 4B, the verisimilitude of her drawing. The keeper recognized the sage old face immediately as Bertha. Richard Stonehill had glanced at the picture, greatly impressed. But he looked more intently at what had been the nose of the crocodile; he wondered what her name was and how well she knew Sally. Bertha, with unarguable dignity and grace, nevertheless answered the call of nature with an extremely ripe-smelling and resounding thud. The keeper didn’t smell it at all any more but the children shrieked with delight and bolted away, proclaiming ‘Poo! Poo!’ for the uninformed. Distracted, Miss Lewis looked up momentarily, caught Richard’s eyes, smiled fleetingly and returned her undivided attention to Bertha who was, she decided, the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Richard wandered off in search of a sandwich. Sally wandered over to Diana. ‘Lunch?’ ‘Mmm? Nyet. Iniminit.’ Sally wandered off in search of a sandwich. Every corner Richard turned, every enclosure he went to see, he felt sure he would finally come across Sally. His adrenal glands were in overdrive and he had demolished the sandwich in seconds without tasting it. Now it sat in his throat in a stodgy lump and felt as if it further protruded his Adam’s apple. Swallow as he might, he could not shift it an inch lower nor soften it at all. A drink was a possible solution. The kiosk was a round structure with only one serving hatch. As Sally bought her cheese and pickle sandwich and carton of Ribena and walked away anticlockwise, Richard came from the other direction and exited clockwise. But there was no Chaplinesque crash and they each remained oblivious to the tantalizing proximity of the other. Sally had already disappeared behind the pandas and was wondering what bamboo tasted like. Richard went to the reptile house to look at the crocodiles. Are those Sally’s kids? ‘What time did Miss Lomax say we were to meet at the penguins?’ Yes, they are. ‘Two o’clock. Ten minutes’ time.’ The penguins, two o’clock, nine minutes’ time. As he stared at the crocodile, it flickered its eye shut, opened it again and stared back at Richard. He found it rather disconcerting and decided to arrive early at the penguins to ensure the best possible view. As he approached he could see Sally from the back, a posse of children surrounding her. They held her hands and all hopped from foot to foot – whether this was a bid to keep warm or an imitation of the penguins was not altogether clear. They seem to like her, she’s probably their favourite teacher. Lenient, no doubt, but commanding respect and obedience. Richard was puzzled at just how nervous he was, hands clammy and the sandwich had reappeared to pester his Adam’s apple. The contents of the butterfly house had taken residence deep in his stomach and the sawdust of the possums’ cage appeared to be in his mouth. As he approached he could hear her voice. ‘Ooh, wouldn’t you love to take one home with you?’ she cooed to her entourage. Richard was within a couple of yards of her. He could now see just how enthralled she was by her flippered friends. Up she was on tiptoes, bouncing, as she marvelled at their clumsy acrobatics. She’s quite wonderful. Enchanting. He walked past and around the penguin pool and took position on the opposite side. He stared at Sally but Sally was rapt. And anyway, Richard was the last person she was expecting to see at London Zoo on a Thursday lunchtime. The penguins seemed to like their enclosure. Richard did too. A hilly maze of steps and slopes in blue and white, just like the Arctic, surrounding a generous pool of cold water. He would make few changes to it. Perhaps a bridge. Deepen the pool. A few hidey-holes in the side. New surfacing. The penguins never seemed to tire of running up and down and around in a complicated and irrational route to the water into which they joyfully tumbled. Natural entertainers, the bigger their audience, the more comic their antics. An audience and feeding time was the best possible combination; clapping and laughter encouraged them to catch their fish in the most elaborate fashion. And there was a fair-sized audience at two o’clock. But Richard saw only Sally. And he soaked up what he saw. She watched one penguin in particular, slightly smaller than the others, his tuxedo glossy, his shirt snowy, his walk pompous and assertive. A fish had been thrown into the centre of the pool and two penguins, positioned on a ridge above it, looked at the water and shifted from leg to leg. Sally’s pal hurried along the ridge and barged into one who crashed into the other. Both fell in while he stood, shifting from side to side, proudly smacking himself with his flippers. He then belly-flopped into the water and surfaced almost immediately with the fish while his two comrades splashed about, thoroughly disoriented. Sally was thrilled and clapped energetically while jumping up and down on the spot, cheering. She had her hands splayed and ridged, bashing them together enthusiastically, her smile wide, her jaws well apart, her lips forced back to reveal every tooth in her mouth. And then she saw Richard. And she brought her hands together in one final clap. Her mouth was still open but the corners had dropped. She stood paralysed with her hands still rigid, as if in prayer. Richard beamed a broad grin in her direction. The penguins were satiated and dozed on their stomachs, heads and legs suspended. Richard waved his roll of drawings at Sally, Diana saw him and then turned to Sally who was still praying. Ah ha! she thought. Here is the reason for the swagger, the new wardrobe, the infuriating evasiveness, The Glow. Introduce me, Sal – oops, Sally. Do! Richard had begun to stroll around the pool. Sally remained transfixed by the space he left. Though rosy and alive, her face spoke a glimmer of slow panic too. Diana saw this and acted upon it immediately. ‘Okay, kids, one last look at the creepy crawlies and then back to the coach,’ she more or less ordered, and though she was desperately intrigued by Sally’s stunned immobility, she tore herself away and went off in search of tarantulas and stag beetles. Sally remained motionless, her pose and poise reminiscent of church sculpture. She did not, however, feel her exterior stillness within. She was lurching and churning, not knowing what to make of the situation. I hadn’t planned this. I don’t quite know what to do. What shall I do? Think. He should not have seen me like this. Soft. Penguins. Clapping. That won’t do. Think. Richard was very near. ‘Wait!’ Sally suddenly cried after Diana. But Richard was there and Diana was not. He was unaware of Sally’s sudden crisis. ‘Hello, Sal!’ ‘Hello, Richard. I must dash.’ ‘Call me.’ The coach was a zoo in itself. Rubbery spiders careered through the air, jelly snakes and sugary polar bears littered the floor. The children were now chimps, charged with manic chattering, climbing all over the seats. Diana, still mittened, wasn’t that bothered about enforcing order and silence. She was more concerned and extremely inquisitive about Sally’s defiant silence. She nudged her with her elbow. Sally turned slowly towards her. ‘Well?’ ‘Well what?’ ‘Who was that gorgeous man thing?’ ‘Someone I sort of know.’ The women looked at each other. Sally wanted to look away but found the pull of Diana’s enquiring eyes too strong, too comforting. Still Diana searched Sally’s face. Sally felt safe and she also felt strong. She broke into a broad, conspiratorial smile. The camaraderie between the two women was intense, almost tangible. Knowing full well that she could trust Diana implicitly, Sally felt euphoric and, in hushed tones, she told Diana why. ‘I’ve been terribly naughty, Di.’ ‘Oh, do tell!’ implored Diana, grasping Sally’s knee with mittened zeal but trying not to sound too keen. So Sally gave Diana an uncensored account in glorious Technicolor replete with close-ups. Though no detail of the action was neglected, she did, however, omit the underlying motive. There was no insinuation that this unbridled lust was driven by a carefully conceived plan. What Sally wanted was an approval of sorts, a ‘God, I wish I’d done that’. Diana did not disappoint her there. ‘This is the stuff of an airport groin-grinder! A veritable Jackie Collins bonk-buster. Wow!’ Sally was delighted. She did not expose the psychological bent of the situation, for not only did she fear the inevitable ‘It’ll only end in tears, someone’s bound to get hurt’, but fundamentally she wanted the fact that it was a calculated project kept all to herself. Diana was quite exhausted when they arrived back at school. When Sally arrived home she felt strangely depleted and a little anxious. But I didn’t want him to see me like that. What can he think? Surely a true femme fatale wouldn’t go potty for penguins? She wouldn’t clap and squeal like a child. I don’t want to break the spell. I wonder if I have. He probably thought me quite sweet. I don’t want to be sweet, I want to be scandalous. He’s probably contemplating my merits as child-bearer and biscuit-baker this very moment. I must remedy the situation, reassert myself as a veritable vamp, a tough cookie, a steel butterfly. But how? ‘Hello, Richard?’ ‘Sal! Enjoy the Zoo?’ ‘Very much.’ ‘Pop over?’ ‘Now? Ten-thirty?’ Sally was in her red nightshirt (a present from Diana), fluffy green bed socks, an old tatty cotton scarf in her hair. ‘Sure,’ she purred, already scrambling out of her night clothes. She slipped on a black skirt and polo neck and declared to the African Violet that all was not lost. She hovered at her front door and then returned to her bedroom where she derobed and then dived back into her nightshirt. She drew the line at the socks and scarf, dabbed on a little perfume and slipped on her pumps. She covered up with her long trench coat, partly as protection against the drizzle, partly because what was underneath was for Richard alone. It felt exciting to be going out when normally she would have been going to bed. But she also felt old and bemused, remembering how University nights would not yet have started. The roads were fairly empty and the traffic lights were on her side. She enjoyed hearing the fizzy whish made by wheels on the wet tarmac, seeing the sparkling orange flecks on the road cast by the street lights. It took less than twenty minutes, without breaking the speed limit or jumping amber lights, for Sally to arrive and park in Notting Hill where the bars were still throbbing and the bright young things would be enjoying tapas for a good while yet. The lift in Richard’s building was old and cumbersome. The door had to be opened, the grille coaxed back then cranked closed, the floor selected with an assertive press and then an infuriating delay tolerated until the instructions registered. In the chug between ground and first floors, Sally had an idea. As first floor came and went, she unbuckled and unbuttoned her coat. By the time the lift was approaching the second floor, she had her nightshirt over her head. The lift stopped and so did Sally’s heart. But nothing happened and no one was there. Was the machinery trying to tell her something? It juddered on up and, for a delicious few seconds between the second and third floors, Sally stood completely naked. The young lady who got out of the lift on the fourth floor smiled sweetly at the pizza delivery boy who got in. He watched her saunter down the hall and thought how well her long mac suited her. Sally’s knickers were still in the lift but he presumed them to be a handkerchief and, having recently recovered from a cold, he kept a clear distance. (They were discovered by the porter the next morning who sincerely hoped that nothing untoward had happened. In twenty-seven years he had never once had a pair of knickers lurking in this lift. Handkerchiefs and scarves maybe. Knickers, no. Mr Stonehill from Flat C tutted with him and said it was a disgrace.) Richard answered the door, enveloped in his towelling robe. He kissed Sally on the cheek and before he had a chance to ask her more about the school trip, about her job, her colleague the elephant lover – all of which he was keen to know – Sally had pulled him towards her and nearly suffocated him with the deepest kiss imaginable. Her carrier bag fell to the floor and Richard’s penis soared skyward, pressing somewhat uncomfortably against the buckle on Sally’s coat. Let’s undo that for starters. Go on, Richard, unbelt me, unbuckle me, unbutton me, see what you can find. Richard had the belt off immediately and, still enmeshed in her kiss, he began to fumble with the buttons which were big but sat tight in their button holes. I’m enjoying this! thought Sally. I’m enjoying this! thought Richard. When Richard had all the buttons undone, he slipped his hands under the lapels to push the coat away. Sally’s soft shoulders greeted him. What has she got on? he wondered, images of black lacy basques and cream, silky camisoles assaulting his mind while he glued his mouth to Sally’s and shut his eyes with the pressure of pleasure. What has she got on? Nothing? Nothing! Goddo! Sally felt the muscles of Richard’s lips break into a smile. She pulled her head back to look at him and he looked at her, naked, glorious and right there in his apartment. She raised her eyebrows in a cheeky quiver and he tutted before grabbing her towards him and planting a scorching kiss on her right breast. They made love, there and then, by the door which was still ajar. Sally later had to take her mac to the dry cleaners. When she left at 7 a.m. Richard pressed a little paper bag into her hand before sending her to school with a kiss on the forehead, a nip on the lips and a smack on her bottom. In her rush to race home, shower, dress appropriately for a teacher and make it to assembly, Sally forgot about the packet until morning break. Sitting on the toilet, she unscrunched the bag and saw it had London Zoo and a tiger design emblazoned on the front. Out of it she tipped a small keyring. In the shape of a penguin. ELEVEN When can love begin? And can you fight it? When does love begin and when should it? But can you fight it? Richard fell in love with Sally that morning at the Zoo. In a moment. He was as sure as his walk that he was in love with Sally Lomax. He felt peaceful and content about it. And happy. Secure. He didn’t bother to pontificate on what love is or should be, whether it was possible or realistic to feel love and know it after just a few meetings, meetings in which physical desire had, after all, played a dominant part. Sally had never stopped to think whether she might fall in love with Richard, too busy was she making sure that he didn’t fall in love with her but was instead subsumed by lust for her. Richard certainly lusted after her, but now he lusted out of love. Sally was blind to that love, she judged her happiness and success solely on the rigidity, endurance and explosion of his penis. Consequently, she completely neglected any exploration of her own subconscious, devoting all energy to new and invariably more outrageous seduction situations. But, Sally, you are so lovable, togged up in your old Swan Lake tutu and turning up at Richard’s a mere two hours after you had left one Sunday night. Who could not love a girl who pulls her man into the ladies’ toilets to give him a blow job after an overlong Belgian film? Or guides his hand under her skirt beneath the table of a dinner party so he can discover she has on no panties. And Sally, your eyes are artless and provide a short cut into your soul; Richard has gazed at them, beyond them, often. Your smile is so full and real and alluring. He sees your face, Sally, in ecstatic rapture as you climax under him, on top of him, on his hand, on his mouth. He watches you and he feels he could burst with desire. But he watches you when you do not know it. He observes you as you watch the News and he sees your face crease in anguish for war victims, for beached whales, for families of the murdered, for the women who were raped. And he gazes at you for hours while you sleep, he watches you while you stare out of windows at nothing in particular. What he sees, he loves. Laughing at penguins. ‘Gracious Good Lord’. He sees the tears film over your eyes at the close of a play, the end of a film, as you finish a novel. Richard watches you all the while, but you don’t know it. Richard is in love with you but you don’t see it. You will, you will. And then how will you feel? Richard wanted to sing his joy from the roof-tops, to swing from the steeple and proclaim it, to climb trees and laud it. Instead, he informed Bob quite casually over their customary post-workout swift half. ‘Where are you spending Christmas? Want to come for lunch? We’re also having a New Year’s Eve bash, can’t decide whether to have a theme or not. You know, come as a painting, come as a film. I could just see you as a Degas ballerina!’ ‘I am in love with Sally Lomax.’ ‘And he just said it, no prompting?’ ‘He just came right out with it, I hadn’t even mentioned her.’ Bob had ensured that it had indeed been a true and very swift half indeed and not the usual excuse for a two-pinter. He could not wait to tell Catherine. It really was ground-breaking news. It really was the most extraordinary occurrence. Richard is in love. Gracious, old Richie boy in love and declaring it. No more ‘she’s all right’s, now it’s ‘she’s the one’. He’s found her! At long bloody last, he’s found her. And he seems so sure. And he seems, well, just so bloody happy! And I knew it, I knew it, didn’t I? I could see it a mile and a half off and now he can see it too and he’s as happy as fucking Larry. Outwardly, Catherine was delighted. Secretly she was just a little dismayed. It had been nice to have Richard generally unattached, to know that she was perhaps the most important woman in his life. She loved it that he spent much of his time with them, being charming, good-looking – and hers, in a way. For as long as she had known him, he had never been short of female attention. He had always brought them over to Catherine and Bob’s for Catherine to dissect later over a lengthy phone call. And when such liaisons had inevitably come to grief, he had always enjoyed a healthy post mortem with her. They exchanged Vogue for GQ. They often lunched together and shopped together – Richard provided the perfect mannequin for Catherine to outfit her shop-shy husband. For Catherine, Richard was the older brother she never had, and for whom she would gladly swap her younger one (whose passions were fired almost solely by motorbikes). Now Richard was in love and intuition told her it very well might be The One. Sally Lomax she liked though she was but a friend of a friend’s. Catherine was inquisitive to see if Richard-in-Love differed in any fundamental way from the Richard she knew and adored. ‘Let’s have them to dinner. No, how about Sunday lunch? This Sunday. Go on, Bob, phone. Phone now!’ And so the four of them lunched together on Sunday, and on other Sundays. They all dined at Richard’s too, and went to the theatre, and walked on Kenwood, and went to exhibitions at the Serpentine. They decided together that the New Year’s Eve party would be a masked ball. Sally conspired with Catherine to make their outfits on her sewing machine and, with inordinate pleasure, they refused to help the men in any way with theirs. The women became more than the partners of their partners, they became friends. Catherine was delighted that Richard was just the same only more so, more animated, more charming, happier than ever she had known him. Bob liked Sally but rarely spoke to her one to one. Sally didn’t really notice Bob, Richard was her project, he was not. The more time the four of them spent together, the more Richard spoke to Bob in private about Sally. But he never told Sally. He never said the ‘L’ word to her though he used it frequently with Bob. The word was never empty but always saturated with conviction. Sally called him Richie, and to him Sally was Sal. Bob and Catherine never tired of shooting each other knowing smiles and conspiratorially raised eyebrows when these diminutives, forbidden to all others, were used. Catherine tried using it once with Richard but his wince was sharp. Richard would remain Richie to Sally alone. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/freya-north/sally/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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