by Sue Nicholls
Twitch bangs up the stairs, and the door of Millie’s bedroom thuds open. There is a brief silence then they hear Twitch’s voice. ‘Lucas.’
‘I’ll be back shortly.’ Millie squeezes Kitty and extricates herself. Along the short landing Twitch’s hands grip the door frame, and Millie peers fearfully over her shoulder. On the bed stands her son, stark naked and looking like the victim of an explosion in a dairy. Dotted over his body are thick blobs of face-cream and attached to each blob is an unfurled tampon. The bedcover is littered with empty cellophane tubes. The window is similarly embellished. Multiple Lillets with dangling strings, resemble a plague of tiny white mice scuttling up the glass.
‘Oh my God!’ Millie is so relieved that Lucas is alright, she is unable to suppress the guffaw that bursts from her belly.
Kitty thrusts a blotchy face under Twitch’s arm with a shriek of delight, and they cling to one another, tears of mirth running down their faces.
Lucas grins.
Millie ruffles Kitty’s hair. ‘At least you’ve cheered up.’
***
At last the house is silent; the children are at school or nursery and Millie has gone to look at the property in Chelterton. Twitch stares glumly at the cluttered kitchen. Other people’s children. Is that the title of a book?
Twitch wonders whether Fee and Millie feel as guilty as she does. Possibly not as much because they are caught up in exciting projects. She is glad for them, but at present she is feeling sorry for herself. Nothing has changed. She’s moved from one dogs body job to another, and this one is even more demanding.
She has only herself to blame. Being Fee’s housekeeper was her idea, but with Millie on the scene, getting excited about opening a restaurant, Twitch’s resentment is growing.
She labours up the stairs to her rumpled bedroom and strips off her clothes, folding them carefully, trying to enjoy the time alone.
Naked, she stands in the middle of the room, her toes wiggling in the soft carpet. There is a full-length mirror on the wardrobe, and she regards her body. Not bad considering she has had two pregnancies. Tumbling chestnut hair, gently curved hips offset by a slender waist, and perky breasts, so far unaffected by gravity. She cups them in her hands, and her long fingers rub the nipples making them hard. A flash of desire shoots through the centre of her body. It has been a long time since a man has seen her undressed. Will one ever do so? Is this her life then, no career, no love and no sex?
She suddenly has the uncanny feeling that someone is looking at her. Her eyes fly to the window. The curtains are open, but nobody could see in without the light on. Still, she wraps her body in a robe and jerks the drapes shut.
In the shower she washes her hair, letting the water run along her spine and between her buttocks, warm and delicious. She drips shower gel on her palms and begins to caress her body. Her neck, nipples, even her arms are charged with hidden electricity. With eyes closed she rotates her body beneath the jets. The water strokes her skin, running over her shoulders, between her throbbing breasts and into her slippery crotch. Finally, she steps from the shower and wraps herself in the bath robe, enjoying its roughness against the tips of her nipples.
In the bedroom she lays her open robe on the bed and lies on top of it. Her hands caress her body, and she moans with pleasure. When she climaxes, crying out to the empty house, she finds that there are tears in her eyes. She curls into a foetal ball and sobs.
Chapter 21
The leaves of the laurel rustle in front of his nose. At his feet, a dog turd lies on the rigid morning earth. Paul has been here for a couple of hours, smoking cigarettes and watching the various members of the household opposite, depart for their respective labours. His feet and back ache, and he needs a leak. He unzips his fly and pees surreptitiously into the roots. Huh!
Standing here, behind this hedge, he has seen his ex-wife leave for work in her Audi, so beautiful he can hardly look at her. He’s seen his baby and her new ‘brothers and sisters’, heading on foot to school, holding on to Twitch, whose cheesecloth skirt flapped in the chilly morning air. Next, Millie emerged, pert in her short black skirt, dark woollen tights and flat boots. Carrying a rolled newspaper under her arm she climbed into her pink VW Beetle. Twitch returned an hour ago, and Paul is still here, picturing her in their orderly hall, hooking her jacket by the grandfather clock and going into the kitchen to clear the breakfast things. He is suddenly overwhelmed with self-pity and, to his horror, tears fill his eyes.
That last session with Max has left him feeling unsettled. He has vacillated between wishing to change and fearing it. He is beginning to recognise the destructive effect of hanging on to his anger but has yet to start recording his feelings as Max suggested. As he stands, chilled and miserable behind the accursed bush, he makes a decision. Tears blur the road as he crosses and stumbles up the steps of the house. The bell rings faintly and soon Twitch’s distorted outline hovers in the bottle glass. The door opens.
‘Paul.’
He cannot speak.
‘Come in, quickly, you poor thing.’ Twitch pulls him into the warm hall and undoes his coat, dragging it from his shoulders, while he stands like a kid. He lets her push him across the poky living room to a leather sofa. Sitting beside his hunched body, her hip pressing against his own, she waits. The smell of shampoo rises from her, and the only sound apart from his snuffling is the slow tick of the grandfather clock. When at last he straightens, she slides a box of tissues along the low coffee table.
The settee lifts, and she leaves, returning with two steaming mugs. They sip, shoulder to shoulder, then he meets her sympathetic gaze.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I need to talk to Fee. I saw her going out. She looked so happy.’
‘She is happy,’ says Twitch. ‘They both are.’ Her voice is wistful, and Paul looks sharply at her, then leans forward for another sip of tea. When he speaks again his tone is firmer.
‘Fee doesn’t realise the damage she’s done.’ He remembers Kitty clinging onto Twitch’s hand and rounds on her. ‘And you.’ He glares. ‘Don’t think you’re going to steal my daughter!’
Twitch’s eyebrows shoot up and her mouth opens, then her lips skew and her chin retracts and to Paul’s dismay, tears spring into her azure eyes. She shakes her coils of hair. ‘I haven’t stolen her.’ She wails, ‘She’s yours and Fee’s. I only provide a routine, so she's not too upset by the changes in her life. You think I am happy? You’re wrong.’ Her voice rises to a shriek. ‘I want a normal life with a good man and my own family. Not to be everyone’s servant. They sail off to their exciting lives,’ she punches her fist in the direction of the hall, ‘leaving me here with their dirty laundry, their squabbling children and their mess. I do care about Kitty, but I’M NOT TRYING TO TAKE HER AWAY.’
They look at each other, each face twisted in pain, then, without thinking, Paul reaches out for her and pulls her into his arms. They hold each other for a long time, Twitch’s grief gradually subsiding in the warm, ticking room.
He rubs her shoulder feeling the bra strap beneath her sweater and strokes her arm and kisses the top of her head. To his disbelief she lifts her head he feels her lips on his.
His response is immediate, his need matching hers. Their lips part and her tongue slides tentatively from between her teeth, then they are kissing with urgency, their bodies pressed together. He grabs at her full skirt and struggles to find a way under the hem. She holds his face between her hands, weeping, and panting.
Her hands move to his fly and release his pounding erection. He groans.
Then, she is gone.
He opens his eyes to see her standing, red faced and breathless a yard or so away with her skirt caught round her hips. His penis pokes ridiculously from his open fly as she shakes her head, staring wildly. ‘We can’t do this! You’re Kitty’s father, my best friend’s ex-husband!’
Paul feels confused, then bereft and then the anger and frustration of the last months explodes from him
. He leaps forwards and grabs her, throwing her onto the sofa ‘Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you grab my cock and walk away.’ He is blinded by fury. ‘You’re gonna do this you bitch!’ He presses her chest into the settee while the other hand yanks up her skirt and tears at the button at his waist band. Releasing her briefly to grab both her knees, he drags her body forwards to the edge of the cushions and rams inside her.
‘You can’t do this on your own can you, prick teaser? You can’t do this, this, this, this, this.’ He pumps again and again, ignoring her pleas.
‘Stop, please stop, Paul.’
It does not take long for him to finish. Anger spurs him on. He withdraws and stands, glancing at her with disdain while he wipes himself on a tissue, then without a word he stalks from the room, grabbing his coat and slamming the door on the silent house with the ticking clock.
Chapter 22
Rhododendron bushes outside the window, fade into the moist morning. It is 10.30 but the day will not get any lighter. Max’s face is a steel mask and Paul drops his head. ‘She led me on,’ he says to his feet. ‘She started things and changed her mind. I didn’t mean it to happen but I’m only human.’
‘I’m not here to lecture you.’ Max’s voice is brittle, and Paul’s thoughts flick to something he heard on the radio: It is easier to detect a liar from the voice than the face.
‘I’d like to know what you plan to do next, though.’
When he slammed the door on Twitch, adrenaline propelled Paul round the corner to his bike.
Leaping on the kick-start he roared away with no destination in mind. As the bike carried him along the quiet daytime roads, the bleak countryside began to penetrate his consciousness, and the anger that drove him began to subside. Realisation of what he had done brought horror and self-loathing and he pulled into a lay-by. Propping the bike on its stand he dropped onto the curb. How long he sat there with vehicles roaring past whisking up grit and paper from the ground, he did not know. When he rang later, Max’s secretary must have sensed the urgency and booked him in for this session.
In the warm room, Paul’s thoughts rush and spin, seeking options. He should go back and see Twitch. What can he say? He will not be able to look at her. It will not achieve anything, anyway.
But Kitty lives there.
He wishes he had not lost control.
God he is a mess.
He struggles on, battling between conscience and fear. Max sits in his chair and watches.
Although Paul vacillates, in the depths of his mind the decision is made, and eventually he admits that there is only one road he can decently take. ‘I’ll go back.’
Max nods but shows neither approval nor disapproval.
***
Hoping she is out, he mounts the steps and waits at the door, puffing his cheeks and emitting small sighs. As before, footsteps approach the door and Twitch’s head morphs across the glass. Then the sound of a chain being slotted into its mate on the door frame demonstrates that things here have changed.
The door opens a crack and Twitch’s face, hair tied back emphasising dark rings beneath her eyes, guards the narrow opening. She takes a sharp breath but says nothing.
‘Hi.’ He croaks.
She remains silent.
‘May I come in? I promise I won’t hurt you; I want to try to put things right.’
‘Do you think I care what you want?’ Tears begin to stream over her cheeks.
This is not the way he had imagined their conversation, and he wonders if any Crispin Road curtains are quivering behind him. ‘I’d like to explain,’ he tries. ‘I wish it hadn’t happened; I know that’s not much comfort but if I could undo what I did then I would.’ He holds his hands towards her, palms upwards, as his words echo in the porch. It is hopeless of course.
‘You needn’t worry Paul. I’m not going to the police if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Her voice is bitter.
He tries to deny this motive, but she cuts him off. ‘I won’t tell because it would cause too much hurt.’
He searches his brain for the words to convince her she is misreading him, but Twitch’s head shakes in dismissal. She straightens her body, lifts her chin, and takes a long breath, ‘You will never enter this house again.’
Paul steps back before her anguish.
‘If you want to collect Kitty, you’ll have to do it when I’m not here.’ Shards of hatred fly from her eyes, then her energy seems to desert her and her face and body droop. ‘Just keep away from me.’ She turns to the hall muttering, ‘Go away before you do any more damage,’ and closes the door quietly.
Paul stands on the chilly tiles, staring at the blank door. From the ceiling of the porch, cobwebs wave in the cold air, their silent spiders crouched in judgement.
When he is sure she is not coming back, he trudges away. The gate swings open with a slight squeak and clatters shut behind him. He still needs someone to talk to but this time it will not be Max.
Chapter 23
Three eggs froth in the stainless-steel bowl and Mick’s whisk gyrates and clacks in their golden slime. The hotel kitchen is silent, staff finished for the night. The only clue they have been there is the faintest, lingering aroma of garlic and steak. Mick pours his seasoned mixture into the pan and it sputters quietly around the edges, turning glossy and mucus-like as he lifts the buttery base to let liquid egg glide underneath.
When the omelette is cooked to his liking, he flips it onto a plate, grabs a left-over lunch roll from the storeroom and eats, standing up.
Laughter and chatter from guests of a long-finished wedding, filter in from the lounge bar, where staff are in for a late night.
Mick washes his dishes and leaves the kitchen to visit a smaller one on the level below. This second kitchen operates until midnight to provide room-service. It is likely tonight that sandwiches and chips will be in demand.
‘Everything OK, Steve?’ The young sous-chef sprawls in a dining chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, and his checked chef’s trousers, rucked up to expose pale shins and the tops of fluorescent-green socks. His eyes are glued to a copy of Playboy magazine.
‘All quiet, Chef,’ Steve replies, without looking up.
‘You’ll go blind, mate.’
Steve’s eyes remain riveted on the images of naked bodies and he chuckles.
‘See yer,’ calls Mick.
‘Yeah.’
The lamp-lit car park is quiet and the roads deserted on his drive home.
He moved into his flat a few days ago and unpacked a rudimentary selection of equipment to keep him afloat: toothbrush, razor, towel, kettle and bedding, and a few bits of clothing and underwear for work. The rest is still in boxes.
Work is demanding. His boss seems to be testing him. Mick is keen to make a good impression but with the kids expecting to visit, and his mother clucking at him about curtains and furniture, he is spread thinner than margarine on a poor man’s doorstep.
In the flat, boxes are stacked in every corner. Newspaper sheets, moulded in the shapes of their unpacked contents, litter the floor. He hobbles into the living room on aching feet and lifts a crate onto the coffee table. By half past one, four more boxes lie flattened in the hall and Mick falls into bed.
***
‘This is an enormous house.’ Olivia is full of wonder as she stares up at the Gothic Victorian mansion.
‘I don’t live in the whole building, Babes. Only that bit.’ Mick points to an upstairs corner. Reflected in his sash windows, the tops of conifers wave before a pale sky. Down below, lawns edged by flower beds of budding daffodils, sweep round the corner to the rear of the property.
‘Come on. Let’s go in.’ Mick hoists Lucas onto his thick shoulders. Inside, they mount the echoing staircase in silence. The children scan the curving banister and wide foyer with doubtful eyes.
Inside the flat, Mick follows as they explore. Olivia crosses the tiny sitting room and pokes her head into the kitchen. ‘This is the smallest kitchen I’ve ev
er seen, Daddy. How are you going to cook your curries and bread in this?’
‘I don’t suppose I will, babes. I’ll have had enough of cooking when I get home from work.’
Olivia looks at him, her face a picture of sorrow. ‘Will you be sad, Daddy? You always used to make rolls and cakes for us.’
‘I want cake,’ announces Lucas and his face begins to crumple. Olivia rushes to his side and drops to her knees.
‘It’s OK Lukey, we can have cake when we get back to Crispin Road. Aunty Twitch made fairy cakes yesterday.’
Mick wants to grip his chest in pain. ‘Why don’t we go out somewhere and have juice and cakes. How about the swings?’
‘We’ve got swings in our park. Can we do something else?’ Olivia looks at Mick expectantly.
Mick decides they will go for a walk in the woods. ‘We’ll climb trees and hunt for bears.’
‘I don’t like bears.’ Lucas looks ready to cry again.
‘Pretend bears Sunshine, not real ones. Come on, it’ll be fun, and there’s a tearoom.’
***
Dog walkers and families mill along the roadside as the car creeps through the forest towards the bumpy parking area.
‘I wish we had a dog.’ Olivia presses her nose to the window.
‘Don’t do that Livvie, you’ll get it mucky.’
She wipes the glass with her sleeve.
‘Here we are.’ Mick pulls into a space in front of a sign reminding him to pay and display, and he remembers that he has only notes in the wallet that digs into his hip. They climb from the car and Mick scans the area for someone who might have change.
Three people have shaken their heads without concern, and the children are making anxious noises beside him when a twittering woman smiles at them. She is glad to relieve the pressure in her purse she tells them and fumbles clumsy fingers into stiff leather. ‘Sorry, it’s a new purse. I can’t quite get to the coins.’ She laughs, a silly self-deprecating sound. ‘I bought shoes for my son and they’d run out of ten-pound notes.’ She drops nine pound coins and then one coin at a time, a pound’s worth of small-change, into Micks cupped palms.
