by Adele Parks
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before. I feel so horribly guilty that I spend even more in Paul Smith buying a jacket for Luke. I have abandoned all normal routines that add up to life. I don't sleep and I don't eat. I don't think.
Luke comes home late on Sunday afternoon with a huge trout which, undoubtedly, he's bought from Sainsbury's.
"Hi, darling, did you miss me?" he asks putting his arms around me.
"Yes," I answer truthfully. As he kisses me I wait for the guilt. I wait for the overwhelming urge to confess. I wait for my stomach and knickers to somersault. I wait in vain. Nothing happens. Disappointed, I pull away and go to bed.
Finally it is Monday morning but it is without the usual Monday morning blues. I almost run out of the house at 7 A.M., desperate to get to work, away from home. Now officially in the same company, John and I will be sharing a building and although I'm not expecting to see him, as we are assigned to different projects, I might see him. I'm convinced that he'll send an e-mail, the way he did after Blackpool. What will I do if he does? What will I do if he doesn't! I weigh about seven stone, my eyes are shining, my skin glowing. I am a goddess. Except for my chin which has nearly fallen off with the amount of kissing we did last week. Rather ill-advisedly I've slopped on a ton of emergency Vaseline— big mistake, now I have dry patches intermittently broken up by a crop of really choice whiteheads. Besides that I feel like a goddess.
My unusually good mood stretches to Tube travel, where I merrily nod and smile to all the other passengers, letting people go in front of me and offering up my seat. Odd behavior at the best of times in London, but on the Northern Line on a Monday morning I'm in danger of being committed to an asylum. I breeze into the office, past the security guard, Bob.
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"Morning," I sing.
"Got your badge, Connie?"
"Err no, but you know I work here, Bob."
"Not the point, Connie. Can't be too careful. I can't let you in without someone else signing for you."
"Who else is here?"
"No one, too early. You'll have to go next door for a coffee. I'll come and get you when someone arrives and they can sign you in."
This deeply infuriating scene is played out about once a week. It usually culminates in my screaming at Bob that he is a jobsworth and that after I've finished with him he won't have a job to be worth. Bob and I secretly like these little fracases. We both realize that it is the most exciting part of our working day. He always looks positively disgruntled if I have my security card with me. Today I smile at him and tell him I'll come back at 9 A.M. I leave him confused and disappointed. I go next door for a coffee and a croissant, which I can't eat but rather pick at in a lovesick manner, until Sam comes to collect me up. She pushes my croissant into her mouth, asking all at once, "Finished with that? Good weekend? What happened to your chin?" She stops and stares, horrified. "Is that a post-snog fallout chin?"
I spend all morning in a state of painful agitation. Sam keeps casting me concerned looks that she upgrades to a positively anxious look when I fail to eat my mid-morning Kit Kat.
"So, Connie, what's the story with you and this John bloke?" she asks insightfully.
"There isn't one."
Just then my e-mail bleeps. I immediately flick to e-mail but it isn't from him, it is a reminder that my time sheets are late. Sam shakes her head but wisely leaves it at that. I repeat the same routine 135 times throughout the morning. As I sit at my desk I vacillate wildly as I try to understand and justify my out-
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rageously indulgent indiscretion. I'm not sad that it happened but it has to be a one-off, never to be repeated. Not that anything really happened, we didn't even have full sex. I'm not going to talk or think about him again. Who can I talk to? If only I could talk to someone. Perhaps I'll confide in Sam? Luke must not find out. Not because he'd leave me. He wouldn't leave me, but I don't want to hurt him. Being bad is bad enough, getting caught would be terrible. Nothing really happened, anyway. It was just a mistake. It could happen to anyone. All I have to do now is forget him. Ha, who?
As I think this, I doodle "John" all over my desk diary. Angrily I score out his name. With unadulterated horror I admit I have not forgotten him. I do not despair of him, nor do I despise him. Luckily, I am too happy in my real life to allow him, this glittery and attractive fake, to exercise any serious pain or disruption. He is without doubt like a strong alcoholic drink: pleasant to enjoy, forgotten when swallowed.
John, John, John.
I should have had sex with him. It would have been better to have had sex with him and acknowledged that it didn't mean anything and then move on. Get back to normal. Stop obsessing. It is because I haven't slept with him that he's become such a big deal. Maybe I should take him as a lover. A full-blown lover, none of this adolescent fumbling with clothes on. Deeply frustrating. I could manage a fling without hurting Luke. What the head doesn't know the heart won't grieve for. I'll only have to do it the once. It won't mean anything. It is just sex. Curiosity. He'll definitely call, because we haven't shagged.
1:10 P.M.—no note.
1:50 P.M.—still no e-mail.
2:20 p.m. —he has not called.
2:50 P.M.—still no word.
I'm not bothered. It is understandable. He probably doesn't
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have access to his e-mail. I am a bit surprised, you'd think he'd send something. I'm not going to write to him—that would be so uncool.
3:15—well, maybe just a short impersonal note to ask if he got home safely.
3:30—a woman should never do the running, it will be better to wait. He will send something soon.
3:47—then again, he is in a difficult position. I'm the married one.
4:20—I don't want to make it too hard for him.
At 4:50 I locate the newly branded, internal telephone directory and call him.
"Can I speak to John Harding please?"
"He's not at his desk, can I take a message?"
I quickly and impressively hang up. I wait another ten minutes and then I ring again.
"Can I speak to John Harding, please?" I say this with my best Australian accent so that his secretary won't recognize my voice.
"Oh, you again, didn't you just call? He's still not at his desk. Can I take a message?"
"Err, I think we just got cut off." Even I'm wincing as I say it.
"Uh-huh." She doesn't sound convinced. An unwelcome image of his secretary pushes its way into my head. She is about 5 feet 10 with legs up to her eyebrows. She is extremely cool, she dresses from head to toe in Kooka'i. It actually fits her, she doesn't look like a Tiny Tears doll in Barbie clothes— my experience of Kookai—and oh, God, no. Yes. No. I can see it. . . she has sex with him on the desk, without even messing up her hair. Of course she does. Why wouldn't she have sex with him? Anyone in their right mind would have sex with him. He is gorgeous. Except for me because I am a fool, a fool!
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"Can I take a message?" she asks pleasantly enough. She would, wouldn't she? I mean, she is satiated. In fact she sounds a bit distracted; can it be that they are actually having sex now? While she is fobbing me off with "not at his desk." On the desk more likely. Just before I yell "Put him down you harlot," I manage to get a grip and remind myself that it is pretty unlikely that even he would be bashing it out on the desk at 5:20 P.M. in the afternoon.
"Can you tell him that Connie called."
"Does he have a number?" The innocent question sounds impertinent.
"Err, no," I say and hang up. So cool. Not.
I berate myself. Let's recap the golden rules of combat: Never make the first move. Never, ever call him. If you must call, speak, do not hang up. Do not leave a befuddled message—open to ridicule, do not forget your own telephone number! I slowly begin to pack away my laptop and tidy up my desk, I am mortified, deflated.
Just as I turn into the lift, and the door begins to close I
hear my secretary say, "You're after Connie? I'm sorry you've just missed her. She's just left for the evening." I hammer on the lift door, alarming everyone else, squeeze through a three-millimeter gap and then hurtle, Seb Coe-like, back through the floor, to arrive, panting, in time to see her put the phone down.
"Who was it? Who?" I demand.
Nonplussed she says, "Didn't leave a name."
"Well, did you recognize him? Did he sound familiar? Was it an internal call or an external call? Scouser by any chance?"
"She didn't leave a name." I have a feeling she knows more than I'd want her to. She puts her coat on and sashays off the floor. "It's ten to six, you stopped paying me twenty minutes ago. Good night."
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The phone rings and android-like I pick it up.
"Good evening, Constance Baker, extension 3469."
"Greenie."
I come in my pants.
Serious organ jumping.
"Hardy!" Ecstatic.
"Greenie." Erotic.
"Hardy." Suggestive.
"Greenie?" Hesitant.
"Hardy." Dull now.
"It is you, isn't it?"
"Have you missed me?" Tactful, teasing, sensitive . . . not really, straight for the jugular.
"I am dying for you. I want you. I have to have you. I need to fuck you, Greenie."
I am so flattered I would have conceded there and then if he'd been in the room. Tension and excitement are erupting from every pore.
"I've been thinking about that poem," I mumble into the phone—bloody open plan!
"Which?"
"Kipling's Tf.'"
"Oh yeah, what about it?"
"About taking gambles and risks and stuff." I try to mix code-speak with cool. I think I fail.
"Hmmm?"
"Well, if you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose, and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss—"
"Yes ..."
"That bit about never breathe a word."
"Yes."
"Well, I can if you can. I mean I will if you will. Or rather I
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won't if you won't." Shit, I'm blowing this. "What I mean is, I want to fuck you."
"Excellent. Well, I look forward to 'forcing my heart and nerve and sinew to serve their turn long after they are gone.'"
Goal. Goal. Goal. Goal. Gooooaaaaaalllllllll.
We haven't discussed exactly where we are going to go or what we are going to do. So I don't know how to dress for my date. It hasn't been easy to arrange, what with alibis at work and home. Work think I'm on holiday, Luke thinks I'm on a training course. John's boss thinks he's attending an out-of-town meeting. Normally I hate deception but I've happily embraced all the cliches that oil the wheels for an illicit affair. The important thing is to see him, soon. I haven't seen him for twelve days. He hasn't left my mind for a minute. I bathe in Body Shop sensuous bath oil, shower, scrub, shower again and then rub on Clarins anti-cellulite cream. Will it work in two hours? I apply five moisturizers. One for the neck, one for the area around my eyes, one for the side of my lips, one for my cheeks and one for good measure. I put on full makeup— too obvious—I take it off. But I have to look as though I've made an effort, I wail in despair. I reapply, striving to look "nude." Underwear. Agghhh. I usually wear pop socks and gray/white M&S briefs. Luke doesn't notice if he comes home to me and I'm naked, draped across the chaise longue, or dressed in a full-length, Walton Family, Winceyette nightdress. I remember what torture most underwear is. Designed for male titillation and female discomfort. Still, male titillation is
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quite important to me, right now. I try on suspenders and corset (I reject it—too tarty), then stay-ups and lacy, matching (special occasion only) La Perla bra and briefs. I try the lacy bra and briefs combination in four colors: white (too bridelike), red (too saloon girl), black (too Rocky Horror Show), cream (too starter set). The frantic putting on and taking off of underwear leaves me hot and sticky, so I shower again. I finally decide on white, cotton, Calvin Klein thong, no bra. I pull on three black tops, four white tops, two pairs of black trousers and a navy pair, brown pair, khaki pair and a beige pair. I settle on the third white top and a black skirt. I pull the garments off and then on again in agitation. Another top is dragged over my head; I pause, look in the mirror, tut with impatience and wrench it off. I entertain myself by getting horny imagining him deep inside of me. It will be such a relief to get it over with; I know that as soon as I have sex with him I'll forget him. I can almost see myself wrapping my legs around his body and him pushing down on me, the heels of my feet digging into his spine. I remember Paris, his eyes wide open, staring at me. And his smile, a bloody cheeky grin, as he rolled off me.
We meet at Euston. I spot him when he is still some distance away. He refuses to walk in a steady adult way, instead he hops, jumps, bounces toward me, grinning broadly. He is smaller than I'd remembered. He kisses me. My pelvis jumps into my mouth. It doesn't matter, Chanel No. 5 isn't sold in liter bottles. He is soooooooooooo sexy.
"You look fuckable. I've brought a picnic." I'm sure that winning the lottery would be dull in comparison to this. Delighted, I look for a hamper, imagining crusty loaves, ripe cheeses, black olives, hummus and autumn berries. Now I'm with him I feel hungry again, for the first time since Paris . . . starving. I can already see us sitting on a rug, feeding champagne to one another from our mouths. He
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holds up a couple of carrier bags, he has eight bottles of beer. For a split second I'm disappointed. Oh well. It doesn't matter. I'm here for sex, not romance, aren't I? I don't need Brie and grapes.
"Fancy a walk? Hampstead Heath? A bit of heterosexual fornication is small play to what usually goes on there."
I nod. It is far enough away from my stomping ground for me to relax, and anyway if he'd suggested it I would have followed him to the moon for a shag.
It's a bright, early autumn day. There is a solid, deep-blue sky that looks more like sea than sky. Bright sunlight dances with the leaves on the trees, the smell of burning wood drifts over the park. We walk aimlessly, holding hands and carrying a bottle of beer each, although I've studiously avoided it for thirty years. I hope it doesn't bloat my stomach or make me fart.
The Heath is almost deserted except for the odd housewife, pensioner and drug addict. A young mum pushes an empty stroller and her son runs by her side. He makes short steps and is finding it difficult to keep up with her long ones. His red Wellingtons, slightly too big, splash in murky puddles of rainwater. Small, cherub-faced, plump and careless, he bends down to pick up a shiny, brown conker from the wet pavement. His gloves, attached to his coat by strings, trail on the ground and leave a silver snail-like path as they drag behind him. Seeing this kid makes John behave like one: showing off, he expertly bounces another conker like a football. I join in, kicking with a haphazard, unpracticed, approach, sloshing leaves and mud everywhere. We both think this is hilarious.
"Come on." He leads the way, running to a pocket of trees in the near distance.
This is it then.
My throat is dry and tight, my hands clammy. We fling our-
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selves to the ground under the trees and at once start pulling at each other's clothes, swiftly, expertly undressing one another. I'm naked from the waist up and my skirt is bunched up to my hips. He takes off his shirt and jumper and is wearing his trousers on one leg. I indulge myself and allow my eyes to drop slowly from his face, down to his shoulders, down to his neatly tucked stomach, down to his evident passion, past and down to his legs which are splashed with mud. I lie, facing him. After leisurely surveying, I return my eyes to his face: he is examining me. Without embarrassment, but with fearless pride I wait as his eyes fall from my lips, to my breasts, to my bush. In a second he swoops and kisses me there. Slowly, so slowly he kisses and licks and bites, un
til I whelp with pleasure. Gently I roll back, my bare flesh touching the damp earth and cold grass, occasionally a sharp stone sticks into my back or buttocks. I have to keep edging back onto our now very damp and crumpled clothes. I can smell the sweet grass and feel heady and sick on it. Slowly, slowly his tongue roams over my body. He kisses me and discovers zones of pleasure that make me weep and gush simultaneously: the center of my palm, the inside of my elbow, the back of my knees, my ankle. He nibbles my stomach and sucks my tummy button. When I think that I can't take any more and that I'll burst with desire if he continues his butterfly discovery, he thrusts suddenly. He falls, he pushes, he burns, grabs and pulls until I moan with a scarlet mix of pain and desire.
I am exhausted with ecstasy, but know that I have to reciprocate the attention. We are not married and so there isn't the option of gratefully smiling, flicking out the light and turning over to sleep. I have to perform. I push him onto his back and mount him. He makes me feel so sexy, an undisputed expert. He moans, wriggles, slithers beneath me, writhing for me, then he shakes and becomes breathless . . . finally he screams. A peace-shattering scream which sends an overhead bird flapping
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from one tree to the next; in the distance a dog barks. With the scream, I fall sweating and exhausted off his hot body.
