Time Out

by Emma Murray

  ‘Saoirse, the only difference between the Killian episode and the Ryan episode is that you slept with Killian after a stomach-full of Tequila but didn’t remember it the next morning,’ she says.

  We look at each other, wide-eyed, and the teasing smile falls from her face.

  ‘You weren’t drinking Tequila, were you?’

  Fuck, what if I’d had Tequila? Anything could have happened.

  15

  As soon as I get home from Jen’s place, I text Dee with trembling fingers.

  Was I drinking Tequila the night we got pissed?

  It’s 6 p.m., bath time, so I don’t expect to hear back from her until she has both kids asleep and a big glass of wine in her hand.

  I lean back on the comfiest of living-room couches and take a few deep breaths, terrified of the response.

  There is a voice in my head (mostly Jen’s, come to think of it) who is berating me for being so ridiculous. Just because I don’t remember anything sexual happening with Ryan doesn’t mean that anything did happen. I had woken up in my pyjamas so that must mean I had been competent enough to get undressed. Besides, wouldn’t I have felt it ‘down there’ the next day? Given that David and I hadn’t been in the sack together for a good year, wouldn’t I have felt the effects in a sensitive place that had lain dormant for so long?

  ‘Unless Ryan has a tiny cock,’ another voice in my head whispers, and I shut it down. Then I start to think about what could have happened. Maybe penetration hadn’t occurred. We might have just kissed or done ‘other stuff’, like you do when you’re a teenager and you don’t want to get pregnant. But still, even if I hadn’t had sex with Ryan, isn’t any form of intimacy a betrayal? Fuck’s sake, I’m married. Then I remember that David is banging someone else, which should make me feel better and more justified in messing around with Ryan, but it doesn’t. It just makes me feel sad.

  I jump as my phone vibrates beside me. It’s Dee. I grab the phone and read the message.

  Are you taking the piss? They had to call Mexico for an emergency supply of Tequila to be delivered!

  I cry out and throw the phone on the couch as hard as I can. After a minute or two of sobbing, a thought occurs to me that puts all of this in perspective. Why the hell would someone as gorgeous as Ryan want anything to do with a spotty, forty-year-old married mother of one with a flabby stomach and an arse that – thanks to acres of cellulite – bears all the markings of an aged rhinoceros?

  My phone buzzes again. It’s Dee.

  Only joking – no Tequila. You told me about that time you blacked out with some fella called Killian. You said you didn’t want to go near the hard stuff.

  OK, good. No Tequila. That’s something. Relieved as I am, I am still slightly mortified at the ‘confessional’ nature of this conversation with a near-stranger. What else had I bloody said?

  My phone rings in my hand. It’s David FaceTiming me. I know I have to pick up; I may have spoken to Anna but I haven’t spoken to him since I got here. It’s awful to think that less than five years ago a call from David would have sent me into an ecstatic demented jig, and now here I am, feeling obliged to pick up. I take a deep breath and press the answer button.

  ‘What’s wrong, Saoirse?’ he says, scrunching up his face in concern.

  I am puzzled for a moment. How would he know if anything was wrong? And then I remember that I have just been crying about the possibility of cheating on him, and probably look like a tear-streaked mess.

  For want of a better reason, I tell him I’m upset because I miss Anna, which I do, terribly, but I shouldn’t use her as an excuse to cover for my stupid dashes back to adolescence. David isn’t looking too hot himself. He has dark circles under his eyes and a nasty cold sore on the left side of his top lip. Must be exhausted from all that shagging, I think, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘Listen, the school places came out today,’ David says, running one hand through his hair.

  Jesus! The school places! How the hell had I forgotten? I’ve only been stressing about it for the last twelve months.

  ‘I take it that it’s not good news,’ I say.

  ‘Well, she did get a place at a local school…’ he says.

  ‘But it’s the shit school,’ we both chorus at exactly the same time.

  For a moment we are united in our mutual antipathy of Anna going to a crap school.

  I think for a moment. What choice do we have?

  ‘Maybe it’s not so bad, David,’ I say. ‘I was reading about it on Vale Mums and apparently it’s up and coming.’

  ‘I’m too old for “up and coming”, Saoirse,’ David says, looking more defeated than I’ve seen him in a long time. ‘Besides, on an aesthetic basis, it looks like prison.’

  I take exception to this.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Anna’s nursery looked like a concentration camp, and we still sent her there,’ I say. ‘And we had to pay huge fees for nursery,’ I add. ‘At least this school is free.’

  He sighs.

  ‘It’s not like we can afford private school,’ I say.

  ‘And who’s fault is that?’ he shoots back.

  I feel like I have been punched in the stomach. Is David really blaming me for not being able to pay to send Anna to private school?

  ‘That’s a really low blow, David,’ I say, tears springing to my eyes.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he says, with a sigh. ‘I’m just really stressed with work. People are cracking up trying to make this deadline. And then there’s Anna to take care of…’

  This annoys me no end. He’s barely seen Anna since I left. Didn’t he ditch her at Bea’s at the weekend so he could go off and have sex with his fancy woman? I don’t want to confront him about the affair over FaceTime, but as I am still annoyed over being blamed for not being able to give our child a good education, I spend the next couple of minutes berating him for not spending the whole weekend with his only daughter.

  I am gratified to see his face reddening and his mouth tighten. Good, I think. Now you know how I feel. When I have stopped ranting, he glares at me before saying, ‘Fucking hell, Saoirse. The one Sunday I had a meeting and you’re beating me over the head with it.’

  ‘Yeah, right, David – as if that meeting was anything to do with work,’ I hiss.

  Then we both freeze.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he says, and his face seems to drain of all colour.

  And this is it. This is where I’m supposed to tell him exactly what it means. That while I’ve been wiping arses and plastering scraped knees, he’s been out doing the bloody sexual fandango with that slut from work.

  But before I have the chance to say anything, Anna’s face suddenly replaces David’s and I quickly rearrange my face into a big smile.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart!’ I say. ‘I miss you!’

  And it’s true. Looking at her huge brown eyes, I realise I miss her very, very badly. I’m not sure if she picks up on the emotion in my voice, but she says, ‘I miss you too, Mummy!’ and promptly bursts into tears.

  I look away from the screen for a moment to compose myself.

  ‘I’ll be home soon, my angel,’ I say, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice.

  ‘I want you home now!’ she screams, and starts doing that heavy choking-sobbing thing that rips the very heart out of my body.

  Tears are falling down my face. I am totally and utterly helpless to comfort her. David’s face replaces Anna’s and then the screen goes black.

  I get it.

  When Anna is in full meltdown mode, she needs to be removed from whatever has upset her as quickly as possible. I just can’t bear that, in this instance, the thing that has upset her most is me.

  I go to the kitchen and pour as much red wine into a glass as I can without it spilling over, and then return to the couch to drink it with the desperation of someone sorely in need of liquid refreshment. Through a blur of tears, I text David to tell him I’m getting the next flight home. This is bullshit. No
thing is worth this – I have to see Anna. NOW. Minutes later, he texts me back and tells me that Anna is fine and busy watching a new episode of Ben and Holly. I make him take a photo as proof, and sure enough there she is, glued to her iPad, her little cheeks still bearing the glow of a tantrum, but otherwise looking peaceful enough.

  In the midst of all this, Bea sends a brief text:

  FUUUUCCKK – the shit school!

  I take this to mean that Harry has also been denied a place at the lovely Woodvale Primary in favour of the needle-strewn, condom-infested cesspit that is the local shit school. I quickly send her back a skeleton emoji before sending David another text to say I’m coming home anyway. But a moment later I get one back telling me that there’s no need. I have another glass of wine, and welcome the numbness.

  Throughout our whole texting exchange, I notice David has neglected to put his five customary kisses at the end of each text. This means he is cross with me. For what? What have I done now? I haven’t even accused him of having the affair, for Christ’s sake.

  During my third glass of wine, I am tickled that David is upset – with me. The irony! The man who’s blatantly having an affair and abandoning his daughter. In actual fact, it’s his fault she’s not going to a decent school.

  ‘Fuck you, David!’ I say to an empty room, holding out my glass in a drunken ‘cheers’ gesture. Then I spend a few happy drunken moments fantasising about Ryan’s tongue in my mouth.

  Tap, tap, tap. I curse heavily. It’s still dark in the bedroom, so I know it’s not time to get up yet. I throw my hands over my ears, but it’s no good. I follow the noise and see that it’s coming from the bedroom window. Who could be knocking on my window so late at night? Then I have a sudden realisation. It’s Kitty. Or Frank. Bugging me to go for a night swim. Either way, I need to find out so I can give them a serious piece of my mind. I reach over for the remote control and press the button with unnecessary force to raise the blinds. I watch as the rising blind reveals a pair of large white trainers, feet too big to be Kitty’s, then what looks to be a pair of jeans, followed by a man’s white fitted shirt, too slim to be Frank. I take my finger off the ‘up’ button for a moment, my heart beating in my throat. Because I don’t know if I want to go any further.

  I watch my finger activate the blind again and now there is no mistaking who is tapping on my bedroom window in the middle of the night. He smiles at me just like he did at the beach, and I walk over to him and open the window.

  We stand for a moment just looking at each other, and I suddenly feel very calm, because this feels absolutely right. I take a step towards him and gradually start to unbutton his white cotton shirt slowly and deftly. I leave it open, and slide my hands on either side of his toned waist. Then I pull him into me, and he comes to life. He takes the straps of my satin sheath and slips them off my shoulders. The fabric feels cool against my skin as it slides down the full length of my body onto the floor. I am totally, and gloriously naked.

  Shrugging off his shirt, he bends down and slides his tongue over one of my nipples, and then the other. I feel the ache get stronger and my breathing faster. When he rises, I unbutton his jeans and take him in my hand. He feels hard and velvety. My hand starts to move and I grow wetter as I hear him groan with want. His face screws up and I know he is desperate to come and I speed up my movements, watching him all the time, enjoying the control I have over him. Suddenly his face relaxes, and he reaches down and gently presses his hand over mine.

  ‘Stop,’ he says, smiling. ‘It’s your turn.’

  Then he gets down on his knees, gently strokes my legs and pushes them apart.

  I hold my breath and wait for his glorious mouth to come closer, feeling the heat build and the wetness flow.

  And then I wake up.

  16

  ‘Seriously, since when have you ever worn a satin sheath?’ Jen says, giggling hysterically.

  I am glad she is so amused at my graphic wet dream about some guy who I’ve only met twice in my life – and I can only actually remember one of those times.

  Then Dee joins in.

  ‘And who exactly has oral sex any more?’ she says, laughing.

  It’s Tuesday evening and Dee, Jen and I are in McGowan’s, getting pissed. After everything that’s happened lately, I have badgered my old friend into joining me with my new friend on a girls’ night out. I haven’t said anything to Dee about Jen’s split with Liam; that’s up to Jen to share if she wants to. Although this is the first time Dee and Jen have met, they are getting on like a house on fire, bonding over their cruel analysis of the most real dream I’ve ever experienced.

  ‘I thought you said people who talk about dreams are boring,’ I say to Jen, crossly.

  ‘Not this one!’ she says delightedly. ‘My favourite part is when he tells you to stop pulling him off. Like that would happen in real life!’

  ‘That’s when you should have known it was a dream, Saoirse,’ Dee adds with a grin. ‘No man alive would pull himself back from the brink in order to satisfy his woman!’

  I smile, in spite of myself. It was such a ridiculous dream, but it still bothered me that, in that moment, I wanted to have sex with Ryan. How it felt so right and natural to be with him.

  ‘I just don’t know why I’m even thinking about Ryan,’ I say.

  ‘Because he’s a ride, Saoirse!’ Dee says.

  ‘If you’re worried about cheating on David, you’re not,’ Jen says.

  I take a deep swig of my wine then. The cheating thing is a little too close for comfort.

  ‘You didn’t even kiss Ryan or fuck him in the dream,’ Dee adds thoughtfully.

  That’s true.

  ‘Jesus, Saoirse, if you’re that much of a prude in your dreams, you must be shite in bed in real life!’

  We laugh for a bit and then Dee says something wistful.

  ‘I’d love a good ride,’ she sighs, cupping her chin in her right hand.

  Jen looks at her with wide eyes and says, ‘Are you and Sean not—’

  I interrupt her. ‘Fuck off, Jen. They’re married with two kids. Of course they’re not!’

  Dee shoots me a grateful look, and says, ‘Well, it’s not like sex doesn’t happen the very odd time – it’s just a bit shit when it does. Since Sean has hit his late forties, it takes longer for him to you know… stand to attention.’ She whispers the last bit.

  Jen and I look at each other with raised eyebrows.

  ‘So how long does it take, then?’ I ask, fascinated.

  ‘Too long!’ she says, with a bitter laugh. ‘I mean before the kids came along we had it down to a fine art – fifteen minutes and job done. Now I have less time, and I’m more exhausted, yet it’s taking up to an hour before he finishes.’

  She takes a deep swig of her wine. ‘I mean, where’s the fucking justice in that?’

  We shake our heads for a bit, before Jen says, ‘I caught my ex, Liam, having a wank on the couch late one night when I went downstairs for a glass of water.’

  I burst out laughing and Dee puts her hand over her mouth, her eyes merry.

  ‘Jesus, what was he wanking off to?’ Dee asks.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Jen says, thoughtfully. ‘He wasn’t wanking to anything. The telly was off, the laptop was still in its case, and not a magazine in sight.’

  ‘So why was he doing it then?’ I say, full of admiration for Jen for talking so matter-of-factly about the man who had just ‘jilted’ her.

  ‘He said he felt like sex but didn’t want to wake me up, so he had a wank instead. At first I was pretty pissed off but then he swore blind that he only thought about me when he was doing it.’

  Good answer, I think. Liam was no eejit. But when I turn to exchange a cynical glance with Dee, her mouth is half open and her eyes soft.

  ‘That is so romantic,’ she says. ‘I wish Sean would have a wank in my honour!’

  We all laugh and I know if I’m to follow the girl code, it’s my turn to come clean abou
t some unwanted aspect of my sex life, but I can’t do it. How could I confess to the fact that David and I haven’t had sex in almost a year? I could blame it on his travel, or me being too busy juggling work and Anna, but that really isn’t the case. Unlike Dee, I can’t do the whole ‘lie back and think of England thing’, and unlike Jen, I probably wouldn’t give a shite if I found David having a wank, but of course he’s not doing any of that because he’s shagging that slut instead. To me, sex is more than a mechanical act. I need to feel connected on an emotional level before I can even think about engaging in a physical act, and I haven’t felt that connection with David in a long time.

  ‘Are you all right, Saoirse?’ Jen says, her forehead wrinkled in concern.

  And just as I open my mouth to reply, a male voice says, ‘Howerya, ladies? Can I join the party?’

  Dee looks up at the figure and squeals in the manner of someone who has just had a drink spilled over her.

  ‘Sean! What are you doing here?’ she says. ‘Who’s looking after the kids?’

  ‘Sure, they’re grand. I left the pair of them by themselves splashing around in the bath,’ he grins.

  Dee shakes her head and raises her eyes skyward.

  ‘The kids are with my mother, Dee, don’t worry,’ he says, ruffling her hair fondly. ‘Can I join your crew for a drink?’

  With the exuberance of three women who have drunk a bottle of wine each, Jen and I beckon him ferociously to sit down with us, while Dee mouths a quick sorry.