by Paul Thomas
‘Is she anything like Louise?’ asks Sally.
Louise, Submission’s narrator/protagonist, spends the majority of its 396 pages hysterically embroiled in sexual or para-sexual activity.
‘Let’s see,’ I tease. ‘They’re both lapsed Catholics, they both went to boarding school, they both did arts degrees and hitchhiked around Europe, they both …’
‘Sex-wise,’ blurts Sally, loudly enough to be heard at the next table.
‘Well, put it this way,’ I say. ‘Tania insisted that I read the book before we got into a relationship so I’d know what I was letting myself in for.’
‘That seems fairly conclusive,’ says Brigit. ‘So when she asked what you thought of it, what did you say?’
‘I lied — I said it was good.’
‘Why did you lie?’ asks Brigit.
Sally answers for me. ‘Why do you think?’
‘That must’ve been a bit tricky,’ says Brigit. ‘The lying, I mean.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘Like most writers, she never tires of discussing her work so I’ve had to do lots of it.’
I finish the beer and pour myself a glass of chardonnay. Sally waves the near-empty bottle at the waiter.
‘I suppose it’s your bedtime reading,’ says Brigit, turning imaginary pages. ‘“Now then, darling, which bit shall we do tonight?”’
I smile at her, remembering the maniac in the cafe. ‘A Kama Sutra for our troubled times.’
Brigit smiles back, raising her eyebrows laconically.
‘All right, spill the beans,’ demands Sally. ‘Which bits have you done?’
‘Well, we’ve tossed each other off at the movies and in the back of a cab. Useful tip: don’t leave home without a packet of tissues. We’ve done it in the bathroom while our dinner guests talked among themselves. We’ve tied each other up …’
‘You’re mad,’ says Sally. ‘You could get arrested for that. I mean, what did the taxi driver do?’
‘It was after midnight on a Saturday night,’ I say. ‘We didn’t throw up or piss on the floor or try to bash his head in — and we tipped. I dare say he wishes there were more people like us.’
‘Okay, what else?’
‘She wouldn’t let me wash for a week.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Sally with genuine queasiness.
Brigit, on the other hand, seems determined to see the funny side. ‘Did she return the favour?’
‘She was keen to,’ I say, ‘but I resisted.’
‘That wasn’t very daring of you,’ says Brigit.
‘Call me old-fashioned,’ I say, ‘but I’ve never felt that sex should require physical courage.’
‘And that disgusting thing Louise did to the Maori construction worker,’ says Sally. ‘Has she done that to you?’
I shrug.
‘She has, hasn’t she?’ shrieks Sally. ‘You’re sick!’
‘I couldn’t stop her,’ I say. ‘I was tied up at the time.’
‘How does it feel,’ asks Brigit, ‘to be in a relationship with a sex bomb young enough to be your daughter?’
‘Is that a trick question?’
‘Not at all,’ says Brigit. ‘If Louise and Tania are basically one and the same, then she’s not easily satisfied. Rampant as I’m sure you are, Max, the fact is you peaked sexually thirty-odd years ago.’
Brigit has a point. Tania is sex-crazed, although I’m not sure if it comes entirely naturally. She has an image to live up to and, I suspect, is enjoying the scandalised attention too much to let on that it’s mostly in her head. Oh, she’s got the gear — the garter belts and fishnet stockings and crotchless panties — and the moves, such as offering a taste of her fingers after she’s touched herself up under the table, but there’s a theatrical self-consciousness about it all. I doubt true wantons make such a drama of it. Why should they? Tomorrow’s another day and the show must go on. Tania has the vamp look down pat, but when the costumes come off she’s angular and a little awkward — touchingly so. When we fall into each other, I don’t make soft landings on succulent flesh; au contraire, I risk snagging myself on bony outcrops sheathed in coarse skin. Still, all things considered, I think most forty-nine-year-old men would trade places with me. Certainly the married ones.
‘I do what I can,’ I say. ‘After that, she’s on her own.’ These two consider me worldly so I don’t add that I was a little taken aback the first time Tania slid out from under me and finished herself off. I’d watched women masturbate before, of course, but always with the sense that it was more for my benefit than theirs.
‘Louise admits she’s incapable of being faithful,’ says Brigit. ‘Even when she’s in love.’
‘The issue hasn’t come up,’ I say.
‘You must’ve thought about it,’ says Sally.
Of course I have. Tania works all day and we’re together four or five nights a week, which doesn’t leave much time for gallivanting. She claims she catches up on her sleep on our nights off and I have no particular reason to disbelieve her. Apart from the mania permeating her book.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to get ahead of myself.’
Our entrées arrive. Sally and Brigit eat without visible enjoyment, like carbo-loading marathoners. I get the feeling that Tania’s commitment to sex has triggered a vague sense of deprivation. However, there’s an unspoken agreement that while my sex life is always on the table, as it were, theirs are off limits. They know me better than to think I’d snitch if they let slip some tasty revelations or expressed dissatisfaction with their lot, and well enough to know that I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
I ask what they thought of Submission. Sally thinks it’s over the top: women don’t behave like that. Brigit observes that Tania does.
‘Women in the real world.’
‘You mean women like you and me?’ says Brigit. ‘I don’t think you can make blanket statements about what people do and don’t get up to. When all’s said and done, you and I lead pretty narrow lives.’
Sally asks her, ‘Did it turn you on?’
Brigit shrugs. ‘Once or twice.’
‘Which bits?’
Brigit transfers her gaze to a point exactly halfway between me and Sally. ‘I think my husband should be the first to know that, don’t you?’
two
Lunch is winding down. Not before time: we’re out of wine and the one-track conversation is starting to drag. Sally, though, is wired. Her eyes glow and her party-girl laughter jars like a car alarm. And she knows I can’t resist one for the road.
She squeezes my arm for perhaps the tenth time. ‘Attaboy, Maxie.’
As Sally scans the wine-list, Brigit’s eyes lock onto mine. These two have different appetites. Brigit’s from the school of always leaving something on the plate and in the bottom of the glass. She also runs by the clock so now she’s thinking about her children finishing school and her husband getting home from work and what’s expected of her. Sally’s always one of the last to leave and sees days like these as mental health days. The Hamptons will be having dial-a-pizza tonight and if Rick wants some attention after a shitty day, he’ll have to make do with the dog. Sally will be blobbed out in front of TV, radiating do-not-disturb vibes.
So Brigit’s look doesn’t come as a surprise. I’d expect it to convey the mild, indulgent contempt we can’t quite suppress when someone we’re fond of but deep down feel superior to behaves in a manner that validates our sense of superiority. And I’d expect it to take in me and my notorious inability to know when I’ve had enough. But it’s not that sort of look. Nor is it a look of irritation or resignation at Sally getting her own way again. It’s a look of concern.
The waiter brings a half-bottle of Rose de Provence, a good choice. Sally raises her glass. ‘Well, here’s to the happy couple.’
‘Who said anything about happiness?’ I say.
‘Okay, here’s to the horny couple.’ Sally lets rip with her giddy laugh; Brigit seems to be counting the bubbles in
her mineral water. ‘So when are we going to meet Tania?’
‘You want to meet her, do you?’
‘You better believe it,’ says Sally. ‘I want to see this wild woman in the flesh.’
‘Once the novelty wears off,’ says Brigit, ‘she’ll probably turn out to be quite normal.’
‘What’s normal?’ asks Sally.
‘Fitting right in at our dinner parties,’ says Brigit. ‘Which involves arguing at cross-purposes and getting drunk and maudlin listening to Pink Floyd.’
‘You should get out more, Bridgie,’ says Sally.
Brigit smiles. ‘I’m not complaining; I like normality.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ I say. ‘For a start, Tania hates rock music, especially the old stuff, and she doesn’t drink.’
‘Well, no wonder you spend so much time in bed,’ says Brigit.
When Sally’s laugh peters out she puts a hand on my knee. ‘Don’t take any notice of us, Max — we’re just jealous.’
And Brigit gives me the look again.
As we leave the restaurant, Brigit invites me back to her place for a swim. To my mind, a swim is the most effective anti-hangover measure there is, both curative and preventive. I keep a pair of swimming trunks at the Coles and have pitched up there hangdog on many a foul morning after. Sally would like to tag along but decides it’s not practical, a conclusion Brigit is quick to endorse. She’s had enough of Sally for one day.
We share a cab. Sally sits up front and gives directions to the driver, a stoic Samoan, like a viceroy’s wife telling a houseboy how the master likes his tea. When we get to her place she gives us a slack, heavy-lidded grin over her shoulder. ‘Okay, you two: keep your cossies on and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
As we drive away, Brigit throws her head back. Her sigh goes on and on.
‘That’s our Sally,’ I say.
‘She’s getting worse.’
‘You think so?’
‘Don’t you get sick of the groping? God, it was embarrassing — she couldn’t keep her hands off you.’
I shrug. ‘Par for the course; we both know it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Do we?’
‘Well, don’t we?’
Brigit looks straight ahead. ‘I used to. Now I’m not so sure.’
I shift position, not wanting to miss anything that happens on her face. ‘Why not?’
She shifts too so we’re facing each other. ‘I’ve just got this feeling she’s gearing up for an affair. You’re not the only man she can’t keep her hands off. I’m talking about guys she doesn’t know, guys she’s just met. I mean, what are they meant to think?’
‘Which guys?’
‘We went to a gallery opening the other day … I don’t know who they were and I don’t think she did either. That’s the point though — it didn’t matter.’
I say slowly, ‘If I was you, I’d be careful who I shared this theory with.’
‘What do you take me for? I’m only telling you because forewarned is forearmed.’
I make out I don’t know what she’s on about.
‘Come on, Max, you know how it works: people don’t have affairs with strangers; nine times out of ten it’s someone they know or work with. Well, Sally doesn’t work so that narrows the field down even further. You’re not married, which removes one complication, and I think we’ve just established — not that I thought we needed to — that you have an active interest in sex. From her point of view, you’re an obvious choice. For most of that lunch I felt like I was sitting in on a job interview.’
‘You put in your sixpence worth.’
‘It was either that or sit there like a stuffed dummy.’
That’s not quite how I saw it but never mind. ‘Well, thanks for the warning. If the minx makes a grab for me, I’ll be ready.’
Brigit smiles patiently. ‘I’m not being a prude here, by the way. If there weren’t other people involved, I wouldn’t give a damn what the pair of you got up to.’
We arrive. I stare into the middle distance as Brigit pays. As we walk up the path I say, ‘I know what you’re saying but shouldn’t you take it up with her?’
She puts the key in the lock. ‘As I said, I’m thinking about the repercussions — for all of us. If Sally wants to have a fling with someone outside our little circle, that’s her business.’
Brigit hands me a towel and tells me to go ahead. It doesn’t look as if she’ll be joining me which is disappointing; Brigit in swimwear is always a sight worth seeing.
‘You’re not coming in?’
She doesn’t reply right away, which makes me wonder if she’s got a pretty good idea what’s going through my mind. ‘We’ll see,’ she says eventually. ‘Right now I’ve got to collect Sophie.’
Sophie is their ten-year-old. The school is only five minutes’ walk away and this is a neighbourhood of immaculate avenues and strict if unofficial homogeneity. But around here mothers collect their kids from school for the same reason people do all sorts of things — because they can.
Within a minute of taking the plunge, the pressure behind my eyes eases. I thrash up and down the pool a few times, towel off and flop onto a recliner. Brigit has left me a bottle of Becks which is, of course, ice cold. The torrid blast of the noonday sun has toned down to balmy warmth. Leaves flutter, bumblebees hover spoilt for choice by the teeming rose gardens and every now and again an expensive car passes by with a well-bred murmur. There’s no machine noise, no insidious rhythms, no DJ rant, no howling domestics. I could easily doze off but there’s much to think about. Is Brigit on to something? Is Sally on the brink of going extra-marital? The circumstantial evidence accumulates: wandering hands, pointed eye contact and monomania — there’s no conversation she can’t hijack and re-route to the Republic of Sex. I haven’t dwelt on it for the same reason as Brigit: the potential for upheaval. I like the status quo. I like being treated to extravagant lunches and lounging poolside in this agreeable neck of the woods. I know which side my bread’s buttered on.
And yet … Brigit’s style is thoughtful understatement so I can take it that she believes Sally’s past the point of no return — an affair is inevitable, it’s just a matter of with whom. Until now I’ve never entertained the notion that Sally might cast me as the male lead in the private screenings in her head. Something stirs in the damp, matted south. Imagine that: mother and daughter return to find a tent pitched beside their pool. But these after-school collections aren’t the brisk logistical operations they’d be if the dads were on the job. For the mums it’s a chance to compare notes, daughters, clothes, cars, jawlines, backsides … If they use the time well, they’ll come away knowing exactly where they stand.
Question: why am I lying here with a swell in my trunks toying with the idea of having sex with a good friend’s wife when I’ve just finished telling her and Brigit, in near-pornographic detail, about my new lover? Because romping with Tania isn’t as sensational as I made it sound, and I’m sillier and more reprehensible than I like to think. Which raises another question, one I bobbed and weaved to avoid answering at lunch: how serious is it with Tania? It has one big thing going for it, which is that we don’t live in each other’s pockets. Tania works all day every day, and when she knocks off she either goes to bed with a book or we make a night of it. She’s dedicated, all right; she’s also a relentless self-promoter and, I suspect, totally calculating in her choice of material. I suppose most successful writers are. A careers adviser would tell me I’m in the wrong job but what else is there? I was fifteen when I decided I wanted to be a writer; by the time I was twenty-five I was, and have been ever since. Writers don’t change jobs. They don’t reinvent themselves or resign to ‘pursue other interests’. They soldier on, even if no one cares.
Mother and daughter get home. I’m seemly, having got off the subject of a dangerous liaison and onto the deflationary double-header of my relationship with Tania and our respective career trajectories. I rarely go gooey o
ver children but Sophie’s irresistible. She sweet-talks me back into the pool and puts me through the hoops like Percy the performing porpoise until Brigit, leggy and lissom in her one-piece, comes to the rescue.
We stretch out on the recliners. Brigit has brought me another beer. Such a thoughtful woman. And attractive. She has one leg extended, the other bent at the knee, one arm on the arm-rest, the other draped over her inner thigh. I’m casually propped on one elbow, hoping she can’t sense my swarming awareness. When Sophie demands an audience for her solo aquatics, Brigit obliges, which allows my gaze the run of her body. It pans hurriedly — for this offer can’t last — from top to toe. Would she expect this furtive inspection? Do women wearily take it for granted that men just can’t help themselves?
Even though I find Brigit significantly more attractive than Sally, nothing stirs in the damp and matted south. That erotic charge was generated by tangibility: if Sally has pencilled me in for her forthcoming trip off the rails, we’re no longer in the realm of fantasy. She could make her move at any moment and then it will be up to me … I suppose the illicitness factor contributes to the excitement, although dancing on the edge of the cliff isn’t as much of a thrill as it used to be. And if it was the other way around — if Sally had suggested that Brigit had her eye on me — I wouldn’t be taking it seriously. Brigit’s too sensible, too controlled, too content with what she’s got, which is why she has a less overt sexual presence than Sally. I’m sure Brigit and Alan have a robust sex life — I’ve certainly never heard him join the chorus of the deprived — but her sexuality, like the daring lingerie he no doubt gives her every birthday, only comes out at night, behind their bedroom door.
