Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  ‘Fair point,’ I muttered.

  ‘It’s just old stuff, Eddie, that I cannot bring myself to discard,’ Cerys said, as I scooped the first armful of clothes from the rail inside.

  We worked quietly, at a steady pace, until different garments that were in stark contrast to the dresses, skirts and tops came into my view.

  ‘What are these?’ I asked instinctively, as I held the hanger up for her inspection.

  Cerys turned around and caught sight of the outfit. ‘My whites,’ she stated flatly.

  ‘Your whites?’

  ‘From catering college, long time ago now,’ she said.

  ‘You were a chef?’ I asked, impressed.

  ‘Trained to be one, but never got there though – long way from it, in fact.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘I met Cole when I had just started working as a commis chef, but he thought the whole thing was stupid, so I stopped,’ she added, filling the void.

  ‘What, just like that?’ I wondered.

  ‘Pretty much, I was young and not in a good place, remember, my dad had recently died. Cole was very good at making my dreams and ideas seem whimsical to me – his strength and drive were what I needed, he said.’

  ‘That’s not right.’

  Cerys shrugged. ‘He provided everything. Couple of years after we married, to fill some of my time, I started to bake and decorate cakes. Had a real flair for it, all my passion came flooding back and I decided to start up a business from home, doing wedding and birthday orders – there definitely was a gap in the market, but again my plans were dashed by Cole.’

  ‘But why?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you before, he can be very persuasive.’

  ‘I’ve never fully known what you mean by that,’ I stated.

  ‘Once your confidence is gone, it’s hard to accept you can do things,’ said Cerys.

  I still did not understand fully. To me she was one of the most quick-witted, gregarious, fun and confident people I had met in my lifetime. I couldn’t imagine her not standing up for herself, unable to control every aspect of her life. I supposed it was this lack of self-belief that kept her trapped in the marriage, when it was obvious from my position, looking in, that she should have left a long time ago. At this point, my self-righteousness was justifiably cut short, as my mind recalled my inability to bring to a clean end my own particular circumstances. Who was I to judge another’s personal story?

  ‘I’ve got some photos here somewhere,’ she said.

  Cerys moved to a new cupboard, lifted a pile of blankets and revealed a large cardboard box. She placed the box on the bed and took off the lid; the action dislodged a significant number of photographs from inside and they slide out onto a white duvet trimmed with blue flowers. Each image captured similar subjects.

  Cakes, lots and lots of cakes, it wasn’t until I picked up one of the photographs and examined it that I appreciated the work that had produced this creation. Delicate pink iced roses climbed the side of the cake, topped with a pure white iced bow that had the texture and shape of a silk ribbon and gave the illusion that the ends could be pulled and the bow would unravel into a single strand. Another was a four-tiered cylindrical creation of colourful stripy and star-covered icing; a red clown’s hat made of marzipan, complete with yellow flower, crowned the cake. Yet another was in the shape of a Ducati motorbike, another a mermaid, her tail held thirty degrees in the air.

  ‘These are amazing,’ I said, sitting down. ‘How do you begin to make something like this?’

  Cerys smiled.

  ‘You should start again.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied. She sat next to me and rummaged in the box. ‘Looking for my favourite one,’ she explained.

  Her efforts spilt the majority of the remaining photographs from the box onto the bed.

  ‘Here,’ she said triumphantly, retrieving a shot of a pink-and-green turreted fairy castle, ‘this took an age to build.’

  But my eyes had been distracted.

  ‘Who is this?’ I asked, holding up a picture that had been revealed of a young woman, her elfin features emphasised by heavy rouge applied around her cheekbones and pouting red lips. Her eyes were heavy with black mascara and her face was framed by short, spiked, shocking purple hair.

  ‘Give me that,’ she said, laughing, while trying to grab the picture from my hand.

  I moved my hand up and away from hers and looked at the picture more closely.

  ‘Is that you?’ I asked.

  ‘Give it to me,’ she commanded, as I rose from the bed.

  I held the photograph ever higher. ‘Take it,’ I teased.

  Accepting the challenge, Cerys jumped up onto the bed and stood up in one fluid motion and reached down, trying to pluck the image from my grasp. Taken by surprise, I moved my hand away too slowly and she took hold of the side of the photo. I held the other side tightly.

  Our tussle and laughter brought instability and I lost my balance, falling forward onto the bed, the picture still caught between my fingers.

  I landed on Cerys, my face resting on her stomach, my arm draped over her thigh. And all the time our laughter continued and the picture remained shared between our hands.

  The laughter slowed as we regained our breath and was eventually replaced by slight giggles. I think we both realised at the same time where and how I lay, my face so close to the zipper of her jeans, my hand on her thigh.

  I sat up quickly, letting go of the picture, deciding it to be the appropriate action, only to be followed by Cerys.

  ‘Why stop?’ She smiled.

  And in a moment we kissed, gently at first, barely registering contact, but soon the wild abandonment we had succumbed to in Cerys’ white Range Rover, parked behind the dunes, returned. We lay down side by side, kissing frantically, our movement crinkling and dislodging the photographs onto the floor. I reached up and cupped a breast in my hand, an action I had longed to perform on so many occasions, but due to the loose-fitting fleece she wore, initially it wasn’t entirely clear what was flesh and what was material, but judging by her quickening breath, the fleece was evidently thinner than it felt. Encouraged, I unzipped the fleece and raced my hand under her T-shirt; reaching upward, I touched the underside of her bra, my action causing Cerys to break away from kissing.

  ‘Let’s go into the other bedroom,’ she suggested.

  We leaped off the bed and rushed into the adjacent room; for whatever reason, I was not aware. Once inside, I manoeuvred Cerys so she was standing with her back against the glass wall, and we continued to kiss, lost in passion. I moved my lips to her neck, the caresses gentle, but her response intense. She pulled me closer to her, our thighs pressed together, her hips rocking slightly back and forth, forcing me to draw deeper breaths. I slipped off her fleece and quickly pulled her T-shirt up and over her head and threw it behind me, while her fingers moved nimbly on the buttons of my shirt. Her bra was delicate, ivory lace, and her breast within roundly shaped. I reached around her back with one hand and unclipped the clasp instantly; surprised I hadn’t fumbled clumsily at the task before needing my second hand in a supporting role, or worse still, letting Cerys take responsibility.

  Exposed, her breasts were beautiful, full and heavy. I took each breast in hand and moved my mouth over a nipple and lapped and nibbled, drawing it toward the back of my mouth, before repeating on the other. Cerys had my last button undone and moved her hands up to my shoulders to push my shirt away. I now regretted eating the quantity of bread I had with my mussels earlier, concerned my stomach may appear bloated for that all-important first impression. If it was, Cerys didn’t seem interested at all. She lifted my head and walked me backward to the bed, guiding me into a sitting position on the edge.

  She quickly removed her socks and jeans, leaving her in a black t
hong ,and straddled me. We started to kiss again; the feel of Cerys’ breasts against my chest made my groin throb with a lustful pain. Cerys seemed to sense this and moved her hand downward to stroke the front of my jeans, reaching for the button flies. I in turn hooked my fingers around her thong at the hips and pulled, encouraging her to rise up to allow the garment to be removed. Cerys duly obliged and lifted herself from my lap, and as I drew the black material down her legs, she revealed a small, neat area of dark hair and emitted a musk that caused my groin to tighten even further.

  We scrambled up onto the bed; Cerys positioned herself on her back, as I lay on my side next to her. We smiled at each other. I moved my hand slowly down her arm, her stomach and rested at the top of her legs, which she parted slightly at my touch. We resumed kissing as my hand ventured downwards, searching for and finding the wet warmth that gave way effortlessly to my fingers. Cerys moaned through our kiss as my fingers moved still deeper.

  Suddenly she pulled away. ‘Get these off,’ she said, tugging at my button flies again. I jumped off the bed and carefully removed my jeans and pants, and before I could get onto the bed again, Cerys turned and rolled over onto her stomach, facing me, and took me into her mouth, her hands gently guiding the entry. I felt her tongue circle and flick the tip, before she settled on a steady rhythm. She finally withdrew, placing a kiss on the tip as she did.

  ‘Reach into that drawer, we don’t want any accidents, do we?’ she said, nodding at the bedside cabinet to my right.

  I opened the drawer and was confronted by a layer of foil-wrapped squares, and felt dismayed as all held a bold and proud XL in the centre of each packet.

  ‘Never used these before,’ I confessed, removing a condom from the drawer.

  ‘Never?’ replied Cerys, sitting up.

  I shook my head shamefully, knowing my hardness was rapidly deflating, bewildered by the daunting size and issue of application of the contents of the foil.

  ‘Here, I’ll do it,’ she said, reaching out her hand.

  Cerys ripped open the foil and removed the coiled condom from inside. She quickly squeezed it, turned it around and positioned it on my tip, before firmly pushing towards me. She began to stroke me back into hardness, her hands cupping my testicles as she did so.

  ‘Wow, you are filling that well, Eddie,’ she giggled, looking into my eyes and moving her hand quicker as I regained full hardness. ‘Now, come over here with that big cock and fuck me,’ she whispered urgently, moving onto her back, spreading her legs wide apart.

  Her words made my entire body tingle and my groin throb uncontrollably, as I positioned myself on top of her. With one push, I felt the slippery warmth envelop me as I sank down to my hilt. We stayed in the position for a few moments, smiling to each other, enjoying the sensations, before instinct took hold and gentle movement soon grew more hurried until I eventually cried out, followed by our joint laboured breathing, then silence. We remained still, as we had previously, smiling and enjoying the sensation, wishing for it to linger as my hardness retreated.

  ‘Best we take that out,’ she eventually advised.

  I pulled out from inside her and as I did, found the condom now only half on. I peeled it off entirely and held it up, looking at the trapped liquid inside.

  ‘You are such a bloke, Eddie, admiring your load!’ Cerys teased.

  It wasn’t that at all. I was wondering how all the effort, all the chasing, the euphoric highs, the crashing lows, the emotion-sapping guilt could culminate in this seemingly insignificant pale fluid that was cooling, separating and dying before our eyes.

  Cerys took the condom from me, tied a knot in the end and placed it on the floor. I lay on my back (my ego, at least, remained inflated) and was joined by Cerys, who snuggled into the crook of my arm and laid her head on my chest, as I stroked her hair. We basked in this afterglow and drifted between dozing and being awake, neither speaking, neither making a sound as our bodies and emotions returned to normal.

  Suddenly, Cerys propped herself up on an elbow, her cheek resting on her hand.

  ‘We should run away!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You are, you are going to your mother’s place,’ I said.

  ‘No, really run away.’

  I laughed at the suggestion.

  ‘I am serious,’ said Cerys.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Anywhere!’

  ‘Anywhere?’

  ‘Yes, anywhere!’

  I laughed again.

  ‘Where would you like to go to?’ she asked.

  I thought for a moment. ‘South of France,’ I offered.

  ‘Not very exotic, Eddie!’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like the thought of the afternoon in a sleepy medieval village, where all there is to do is listen to the abbey bells chiming on the hour, watch doves soaring overhead and see the warm sun dancing on the surface of a contented stretch of river.’

  ‘If you put it like that, I suppose,’ said Cerys respectfully, ‘but I was thinking further afield – Patagonia, Myanmar, Kerala.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, my suggestion now feeling somewhat foolish.

  ‘Yes, I was thinking more of experiences that will change your life – landscapes, atmospheres, environments, food, music and cultures so different, so removed from what we are used to. The whole of Europe is lovely, but it’s just that, lovely; I don’t think it would change the way you view the world; it will not make you see things from a different perspective.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go to Kerala,’ I said spontaneously.

  ‘Is that your choice?’

  I nodded, a smile on my face.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be there specifically.’

  ‘How long shall we go for?’ I said, ignoring her statement.

  ‘However long we want to – a month, three months, a year; we can just make it up, it’s that simple!’

  ‘It’s not that simple though, is it?’ I stated.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What about the practical things? There is the business, for one thing, and my commitments to the schools; Henry, what will happen to him? The divorce, the settlement; so many things.’

  Cerys laughed and held my face in her hands.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked through her laughter.

  ‘You called it a business, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. That’s good, really good.’

  She was correct: I had never used the term before; subconsciously I hadn’t thought my activities could in any way compete with her husband’s, until now.

  ‘You are missing the point, I cannot just suddenly leave it,’ I argued.

  ‘Again, why not?’ she repeated.

  ‘Because…’ I trailed off, unable to articulate my reasoning.

  ‘Do you have a mortgage, Eddie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have a mortgage; do you need to work to meet payment obligations?

  ‘No, there isn’t a mortgage any more,’ I admitted.

  ‘So that isn’t a reason not to go then, is it?’

  ‘I have to remain visible to keep the bookings coming in.’

  ‘Eddie, when we come back, people will still have birthdays, will still want magic shows – we can pick up then.’

  ‘You say, “we”?’

  ‘Of course, I will support you. Build a website, adverts in local papers, handing out flyers – we can do whatever it takes.’

  I was taken aback by her suggestion, astounded by her offer – but why wouldn’t I be, with only years of isolation to compare it to?

  ‘What about the loss of earnings? I don’t have a lot saved,’ I said.

  ‘Eating, sleeping and travel, all can be costed reasonably. Think o
f what you would spend in a week here being easily spread over a month there, or if we are really clever, we could budget to make seven days’ money last six or even eight weeks.’

  I digested what Cerys had said.

  ‘Anything is possible, Eddie, anything,’ she said.

  ‘What about Henry? I can’t just leave him,’ I stated, knowing my argument was becoming weaker and weaker.

  ‘We can make arrangements. Maybe Mary would take him for you until you return. Or your wife’s friend, I can’t remember her name.’

  ‘Jennifer,’ I offered.

  ‘Yes, Jennifer – I am sure they would love to have him, maybe take it in turns if we go for a long time. If not, we will work it out some other way; as I said, anything is possible.’

  ‘You are forgetting the divorce – how can I leave with that progressing?’

  This was my final argument, the final roll of the dice, the last chance to keep me within familiar bounds and secure in conformity.

  ‘Do you plan to contest?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Eddie?’

  I shook my head lightly.

  ‘Good answer,’ she replied. ‘Especially after this,’ she added, retrieving the used condom and waving it in front of me.

  Cerys let the condom go, her swing perfectly timed for it to land in my lap. We both looked down as it hit its target and began to laugh.

  ‘Anyway, will take at least six weeks for our visas to be processed; I am sure the divorce could be nearing completion by then, and if it isn’t, well, we can wait until it is.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reasoned.

  Cerys noticed my changing mood. ‘You are both unhappy, Eddie, have been for a long time; at least there are no children to consider in all of this, or any creditors from Costa Rica.’

  She was correct, but I still felt the nagging pang of failure I had developed as reaction to Sally’s solicitor’s letter.