by Adele Parks
He breaks away to stub out his cigarette; he immediately lights another one.
"I'm very different from your husband, Connie. He's no doubt a decent, honest bloke."
I've never heard those words sound so off-putting before. He pauses.
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"However, Connie, with you it's different."
Different.
I'm Different!
I fight through relief and delirium to tune back into what he is saying.
"I have no desire to tell anyone about last night. Anyway if I did I'd be a laughingstock. You wouldn't let me penetrate and I wept over your hand job. You're a married woman and I respect that."
He pulls me close to him and strokes my head. I bury my face in his delicious chest.
"You are very like me. I saw that last night. You want to play the way you feel it. So do I. It will be our secret, all right?"
He tilts up my head and kisses me. My breasts hum like bees, I am sex. I feel ticklish, as though a small insect is beating its wings in a bid to escape.
"All right," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Now, wait a few minutes, I'll get showered and then we'll go into Paris."
We get a train into the center of Paris. On the train, in true '90s style we do a postcoitus crash course in getting to know each other.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask.
"Blue. Yours?"
"Depends on my mood. Silver, red at the moment, often green."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?"
He has one elder sister.
"What is your favorite food?"
"Curries. Yours?"
"Fish and chips but I never eat them. I eat pasta. What's your favorite film?"
''''Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Yours?"
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"Dangerous Liaisons." He raises an eyebrow. "Do you read?"
"Yes." He seems mildly insulted.
"What do you read?"
"Well, my favorite poem is Kipling's 'If.'"
"I don't believe you."
"I can recite it to you if you like:
'If you can keep your head when all about you, Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too
And so he goes on but I am lost. I slip out of my undies if men recite the football results but if they know poetry, I'm done for.
"'. .. Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son!'
"My mother taught me it."
"I think it is 'And what is more,'" I offer.
He looks as though he feels sorry for me. "I think you'll find it is, 'And which is more.'"
Since, at that moment, I want to have his babies, so consumed with lust am I, I decide to concede the point, but make a mental note to look it up later when I get home. After all, I am the English graduate.
"Constance Baker—what's your maiden name?"
"Green."
"Ahh Greenie." He is one of those blokes who have to give people nicknames, however banal.
"Ahhh Hardy," I reply and we both laugh; I mean it is just hilarious.
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Suddenly serious, he asks, "Why are you married? Give me three good reasons."
"Because ..." I look out the train window and watch fields and lives rush by. I'm struggling to get it absolutely right. "For one, it means that you always have someone who is for you, wherever you are in the world; whatever crap you're dealing with you always have someone who is a hundred percent with you. Even if they are not standing right next to you they are for you. You're never alone. And then ..." I trail off. I guess I'm aware that he is within his rights to say What about last night? Was he with you then? What about now? Are you putting his best interests forward now?
"One reason's enough."
We both go quiet for a while. We read the graffiti on the seats.
He breaks the silence, "What's your favorite day of the week?"
We find one of those little French cafes that are in films. The ones with hot chocolate, wicker chairs and rude waiters. He orders breakfast and we decide that hair of the hound is in order; a bottle of beer for him and a glass of red wine for me. Then we resume our discovery. We tell each other about ourselves. Not just the funny bits; making people laugh is easy, but all the bits. He roars with laughter at the stories that I haven't practiced, packaged and prepared. He tells me about the terrifying pubs he frequents, where there is more metal in people's faces than the till. A dog on a string is as necessary a fashion statement to those punters as a mobile phone is in the wine bars I frequent. He is from Liverpool, he moved to London a couple of years ago. He lives in East London, I imagine him in trendy Clerkenwell, a huge, white, open space. I imagine us spending Sunday mornings in bed. We wouldn't read the papers the way Luke and I do, he'd strap me to the bed and take me from behind. Luke and I live
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in a very lovely, but fairly conventional, Victorian Terrace in Clapham. It's lovely. It's fine. We do not own a nest of tables, or a sideboard which groans under the weight of knick-knacks; we have Heals' furniture and the odd tasteful statement from Conran, our barometer of success is the lack of brass rubbings, potted plants and single-bud vases. It is tasteful, settled, sanitized, controlled. Suddenly it is lacking something.
John and I laugh as much as our hangovers will allow. We fall over each other's words, both trying to articulate a really peculiar smell or memory.
"Remember school gyms, all dusty and sweaty?"
"The stench of cheap disinfectant?"
"Slimy, yellow soap and rough paper towels?"
"Worse, school dinners. Gristly meat and Mash-get-Smash by the barrel."
It strikes me that this is just like it used to be before I got married, only better. Which is peculiar, perplexing. Marrying has given me freedom. I'm in control. I'm not for sale. There is no sense that I'm trying to trap him. I can behave just as I please. I don't care if he thinks I'm a pig for having hot chocolate with double cream and the chocolate flaky bits for breakfast. Or if he thinks I am an alky for having wine. Or if he thinks I am simply odd for intermittently sipping both. It is quite unlike any relationship I have ever had with a man before. I hold opinions because I believe them, not to be cool, controversial or compliant. I hadn't realized that I had so many views, thoughts, ideas, but suddenly being with John my deeply private self comes tumbling out, rushing to the surface. Luke knows the balanced, decent woman that forgets to pay bills, but always remembers birthdays. He does not know the woman who has just made an entrance. The one who wants to give blow jobs in the back of cabs.
"What music do you listen to?"
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"Dusty Springfield." Usually cringemakingly embarrassing, unless you're gay or on HRT, I feel it is OK to tell John this. He grins.
"I love Tom Jones, he's my hero." He studies me closely. "When you were a little girl, what did you dream about?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, don't tell me that when you played with your Sindy dolls you said to yourself, 'One day I'm going to be a management consultant.'"
I laugh. "You're right. I wanted to be a film producer or a photographer of the stars." I fling my arms wide, wiggle my hips and laugh loudly.
"So what stopped you?"
"Good question." I immediately stop laughing. "I don't know. It takes a lot of determination and time to do something like that. I got caught up in life. Mortgages, responsibility, realism. I buried my passion and got myself a proper job."
"Swapped your camera for a calculator?" I nod. "Were you any good?"
"I still take photos. Some of them are OK."
I never talk about my ambition to be a photographer. I haven't even told Luke. It seems too improbable.
"Well, Greenie, what are you up to?" he asks after I spend some time describing Luke, our home, our friends, my job.
"Be
specific."
"Well, from where I'm sitting you are the composite '90s woman. You seem to have it all. A husband who does his share of the housework, more than putting the rubbish outside. He seems to respect you, love you, he has dress sense. You have great mates, plenty of money, a nice home. You could be lying, but I don't think you are. So tell me, what are you up to?"
"I need a lover, latest designer accessory, didn't you know?" I joke.
"What are you up to?" he repeats slowly, vain enough to
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know that he must be more than that. Fair question, I consider it. I can't find an answer. "You are irresistible," seems a bit like showing my hand. My second glass of red wine before 11:30 A.M. helps out.
"OK, if not an accessory, you are more of an experiment." He raises an eyebrow. "I want to see if I can want so much it destroys me. I want to see if I can let go, wave a cheerful goodbye to self-control." I do not bother checking if this is true. It sounds cool. It sounds big.
"Oh."
Four hours, two hot chocolates, one bacon and eggs, four beers, a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes later, we set off on a directionless ramble. We walk along the river, holding hands; he touches me all the time. We stop and buy oranges from a wrinkled man with a roadside store. He has white hair and sun-blistered skin which lies in folds, framing a toothless, smiling mouth. My senses are on red alert, I can smell stale sweat on the vendor's cotton shirt and soil on his hands. Unlike in England he does not put the fruit in an incongruous blue plastic bag, but instead he sniffs the oranges, wipes them on his dirty trousers and hands them to us. We wander on and pass a fun-fair. Smells of burgers and fried onions bang up against sickly, sweet cotton candy; the clear damp air is cold and black. I can smell the oil and paraffin that lubricate the heavy machinery. We mess around on a couple of rides, trying to squeeze into the undersized swings. My bum is freezing on the steps and seats, my hands numb as I hold on to the steel safety bars, yet my face is flushed and my upper lip sweaty. He looks at his watch.
"Shit."
"What?"
"It's late." He looks genuinely disappointed.
"Who is it that said, 'all good things must come to an end'?"
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"Well, whoever it was—what a miserably accurate fucker." I try to laugh off the swelling pain in my chest. An indefinable tightness.
We slowly make our way back to Le Metro and then back to the hotel. He helps me pack and I help him. Then he walks me back to the train station. We say very little. Small talk is obscene. John comments, "Frustrating not to have the vocabulary to describe the smell of wet pavements after a summer storm, the dank sweetness that is so individual and peculiar."
We have pre-arranged trains and seats and we aren't on the same one. Surprisingly, he kisses me good-bye.
"I hope this isn't going to get all complicated by our caring for each other," I say with a grin. He shrugs. I hope not. Oh, I hope so.
The journey home is quite different from the one to Paris. For a start my tiredness is unprecedented. I'm utterly, but not quite literally, fucked. And although almost immediately I cannot remember precisely what he'd said that made me laugh so much, I feel doused in a general sense of well-being. I feel wonderful, exhilarated, amazing, a winner.
For about ten minutes.
Then my head begins to hurt and I feel tearful. I'm sobering up.
Sue tuts, "Pull yourself together."
I scowl at her. "I'm tired."
She scowls back. "You're behaving like a five-year-old after a party. You've demonstrated your ability for rough and tumble, noisy, dangerous, destructive games and now you are sulking because you don't want to go home."
"Wow, Sue, you must know some cool five-year-olds," I snap. I would have argued further but she is spot on; such arguing I leave up to men, who argue even when they agree with your point.
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Sam pats my hand. "Try to eat your sausages."
I get home at about ten, to an empty house and a note from Luke reminding me that he is going fishing for the weekend, with Peter. Damn, if I'd remembered I would have stayed in Paris with John.
Maybe it is better that I didn't remember.
I am appallingly, achingly excited. Who can I tell? I ring Daisy; I have, after all, known her forever. If anyone is going to make sense of this, she is. I pour myself a large glass of Meursault, empty a bag of popcorn into a bowl and take up residence by the phone. Over the years we have done this regularly, every time either of us has news; for news read sex life. Over the last eight weeks or so I've spent countless evenings in my soggy chair listening to Daisy going on and on about Simon. How clever he is, how sexy he is, how revoltingly handsome, etc. Now it is my turn. Like old times, pre-Luke times, I get to take the hot seat. I call Daisy, hoping Simon isn't there. If he is, I'll be treated to a cursory "Yes, no, fine" monosyllabic conversation. If he isn't there it will be the Full Friendship Monty. I'm looking forward to the day when they get used to each other. Then I won't have to listen to the banal dribble of the newly besotted.
"Did I ever tell you that he has the most beautiful toes?"
"Yes, I think you did mention that." Six times!
"Did I? Gosh, I must be getting really boring." Girlish giggle.
Yes, you are. "No, not at all."
I tell her the bare bones. But not about the bare bodies. Perhaps I would have told her more but Daisy doesn't react as I expected.
"God, Connie, isn't that funny? He sounds just like all the guys you used to go out with."
"Does he?" I'm genuinely surprised.
"Hell, yes. Do you remember that medic? What was his name?"
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"No, I don't remember a medic."
"Yes, you do. He was Irish, with eyes like marbles, jet-black hair, very fit, a complete louse. What is his name?"
"Fergus," I fill in helpfully.
"Yes, that's it." I had, until that point, forgotten all about Fergus.
"And that lecturer, now what was his name? Something traditional? Thomas or David?"
"Paul," I supply.
"Yes! Another utter bastard, complete womanizer. And the sailor."
"Andrew. He was a Marine."
"Yes, same thing, more women than tattoos. Still you always did go for 'mean about town' types; being such a flirt yourself, you lived for the challenge." I wish Daisy would shut up.
"I can't remember that."
"Oh, Connie, come on! That's why it was so great when you fell for Luke. Such a relief. I mean you were envied for your ability to bag such delicious men, but to be honest it was a bit discouraging that even you couldn't keep them. What chance did we mere mortals have? Do you remember how pleased your mother was when you met Luke? She rang my mum to gloat. She practically sang, 'He's not a drummer, no. No drugs. No, there's no wife. Yes, a regular salary.'"
I smile to myself. Daisy chatters on, oblivious to my silence.
"John sounds just like the prats Sam wastes her time with."
"Does he?" I'm stunned. Has Sam ever dated anyone quite so sexy and interesting?
"Yes, 'a disturb.' Connie, you should recognize it, you coined the phrase." It stands for disrespectful, irresponsible, short termist, utterly rotten, bastard. I'd coined the phrase to
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describe the majority of men we'd collectively dated over the years. I tune back into what Daisy is saying. I can hear her munching down the phone line, thoughtfully chewing Twig-lets. She recounts a number of Sam's disastrous romantic liaisons.
"But John is not a bit like Jed, William, Tim, Karl or any of those others," I interrupt. Now it is Daisy's turn to sound surprised.
"Isn't he? He sounds like them from your description. Very into sex, utterly delicious looks, talks about being a free spirit. What half-decent bloke would make such a play for a married woman?"
"Lots," I defend.
"Decent bloke," she insists. "It's obvious that he just thinks
of you as a challenge. You must be so pleased that you weren't tempted." Er. "It must have made you feel so smug to be married to someone like Luke, so you can just tell this guy to take a hike."
"Yes," I mutter.
"I mean, we've all had more dishonest and dull fucks than any of us care to remember. It is your relationship with Luke that made me realize what I want."
"Is it?" Curious and vain, I like being inspirational.
"Definitely. You've restored my faith in the Happily Ever After. It is because of you and Luke that I decided that I wasn't going to compromise. I want to be loved and respected and cherished. I want to be able to laugh with my bloke as much as I laugh with you and the girls. I want a best friend. I want the kind of partnership you and Luke have. I want..."
Daisy can be enthusiastically verbose at the best of times, and this is not the best of times, not considering the topic she is waxing lyrically about. Like an atom bomb, once set off, she mushrooms. Admittedly the consequences are not on the same scale, but I'm not in the mood.
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"Daisy, there's someone at the door, I'll have to go."
"Oh. OK then. Take care. See you at All Bar One."
"Yes, take care. Bye."
I put down the phone and sit still, listening to birds and watching the last bit of daylight eke its way down onto the patio outside. I love this time of day. Even in London early autumn evenings seem so peaceful. I look around the sitting room which is awash with warmth and familiarity. Our beautiful home. I stand up and walk toward the mantelpiece, where the predictable wedding photo takes pride of place. Only a year ago, we were maniacally smiling at the cameraman, thoroughly content, blissful. In fact, we have been that way up until very recently; three days ago to be exact. I'm gripped with panic. Hell. What am I thinking of? How can I be so unrestrained and unreal. I have to put John out of my mind. Out. Carry on as though it never happened. Forget him as soon as possible.
Yet I'm thrilled and I cannot, hard as I try, summon up any regret.
The weekend lasts about six months. I clean cupboards, I sort knicker drawers and jewelry boxes. I hoover under the bed and on top of shelves and wardrobes. I tidy the desk drawer, introduce a filing system for our post. I scrub, wash, dust, brush, disinfect, de-scale, de-mold and de-fuzz every single square inch of our, already immaculate, house. Once I have played the 1950s happy housewife role and the house is glowing, I spring-clean myself. I file, cleanse, detoxify, brush, cut, shave, pluck every follicle, pore and hair on my body. I visit the hairdressers, attend two gym classes and have a massage. There are still about four months of the weekend to fill. I then throw out sackfuls of clothes that I no longer would be seen dead in and immediately spend over £1000 on a suit and shirt from Joseph. I have never spent this kind of money on myself
