by Emlyn Rees
‘You arrived just in time. Pizza!’ Denny explained. Verity nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. She’d been expecting Denny to cook, but now they were having pizza she felt more relaxed. Maybe this wasn’t a big test, after all.
She watched Denny pay the pizza delivery boy and kick the door shut, carrying the two large boxes to the low table between the sofa and huge widescreen television. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘Take your coat off. Come and eat.’ He knelt down on a sheepskin rug by the table and opened the pizza boxes. Verity laid her coat over the back of the sofa and knelt down next to Denny, looking at the expensive-looking stacked sound system, at which Denny now pointed a remote control. The room was filled with a low indie track Verity recognised.
Denny handed her a beer and flipped open the pizza box. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, as if he’d been with her all day. ‘Tuck in.’
Verity wasn’t very hungry, but she couldn’t refuse. And anyway, it felt good sitting next to Denny, as if they always did this on a Saturday night. It felt intimate and, after a while, Verity started to relax.
They chatted for some time about Denny’s day at the shop, but neither of them mentioned the filming, or what had happened with Jimmy. It wasn’t long before Verity had forgotten it and she found herself chatting as they used to, not about important things, but just easily about any old subject, as if they could go on talking all night and not run out of things to say.
By the time they’d eaten the pizzas and drunk a few beers, Verity knew that Denny had forgiven her. She laughed as he slid up on to the leather sofa. ‘This is so great,’ she said, sighing as she sat next to him.
‘So?’ he asked, licking his fingertips. ‘Are you busy next week?’
Verity stretched luxuriously like a cat. ‘I am,’ she said coyly, ‘but I’m always available for you. I’m just rehearsing and stuff. It’s the memorial concert coming up. Do you want to come? It’s next Saturday night. I can get you a ticket.’ She smiled up at him hopefully, but Denny didn’t look as enthusiastic as she expected. ‘I’m singing,’ she added, trying to tempt him.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be back in time,’ Denny said.
‘Back?’ Verity asked, alarmed.
‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m going away on business. I’m going on a buying trip. I’ll probably be about a week.’
‘You can’t leave now,’ she whispered, desolation washing over her at the thought of the world without Denny in it. Not seeing him for two days had nearly killed her. How was she going to manage a week?
‘Don’t look like that.’ Denny laughed. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
‘It is to me,’ she said, then looked down at her lap, furious that she’d said something so pathetic.
‘You’re serious about us, aren’t you?’ Denny asked.
‘I wish I could prove it to you,’ she whispered.
There was a small pause.
‘Well, there is one way …’ Denny said softly.
She looked up immediately. When she saw that he was staring straight into her eyes, she had no doubt that they were talking about the same thing. Despite all her intentions for this exact moment to happen, she was shocked by Denny’s bluntness. Somehow, she’d imagined that they’d get on to the subject of sex in a more roundabout sort of way. But then, maybe she was just being naïve.
Denny pushed her hair away from her face and held it behind her head. Some of it was caught on his watch strap and pulled, but it was such an intimate moment that Verity felt she couldn’t say anything.
‘Is it …?’ Denny began, but his question fizzled out. He shook his head.
‘What?’ Verity asked. ‘What is it? You can ask me anything.’
‘No, no, it’s none of my business.’
‘No, go on. I haven’t got anything to hide.’
‘Is it? Well, I guess I was wondering whether it’s your first time. Not that you have to tell me. It’s none of my business, but …’
Verity knew she was blushing. She didn’t know what to say. What if she said ‘yes’ and Denny was too much of a gentleman to relieve her of her virginity? What if she lied and said ‘no’ and he then expected her to know what she was doing? She felt trapped, unable to breathe. Tentatively, she moved her head and tried to unhook her hair, but it was no use, she was caught.
‘If it’s your first time, then maybe we should –’
‘I want you to,’ Verity said, almost throwing herself on to Denny’s lap. ‘It’s OK. I’m not a virgin,’ she lied. ‘I want to be with you, Denny. Please.’
Denny seemed taken aback by her forcefulness. He looked into her face. ‘Oh, well,’ he said with a smile. ‘If you really insist …’
Verity gasped, realising he was teasing her.
‘I’ll be gentle,’ he reassured her with a cheeky wink. ‘Why don’t you get into bed?’
Verity nodded mutely as she stood up. Was this normal? she wondered. Was her consent to have sex supposed to be this matter-of-fact? Weren’t they supposed to get into the bedroom by stumbling against the walls, kissing in a desperate frenzy?
Denny’s bedroom was small. There was only room for the double bed, and a small lamp glowed low down on the bedside unit. On the wall by the door was a fitted wardrobe with a tinted full-length mirror. Ignoring her reflection, Verity took off her clothes and folded them carefully. Then she stood in the pretty pink embroidered bra and knickers she’d chosen especially for this occasion and leant across to switch off the light. As she slipped into Denny’s bed and pulled the grey duvet up to her chin, she was trembling all over.
She lay rigid, looking up at the ceiling in the darkness. What if Denny didn’t find her attractive? What if it hurt? What if he didn’t want to use birth control? What if she wasn’t good enough?
She could hear Denny moving about in the living room and, a second later, low ambient music through the wall. She jumped as Denny came through the door, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Bit dark, isn’t it?’ he said, flicking on the light switch by the door. Verity winced as the overhead light above the bed shone down harshly. She should have kept the bedside light on. ‘We want to see what we’re doing’ he said, taking a swig of beer from his bottle.
Denny was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. Verity held her breath as he came towards her, instinctively clutching on to the top of the duvet. It smelt musky.
‘You OK?’ he asked, putting a bottle of beer down on the bedside unit.
Verity nodded her affirmation, fascinated by Denny’s body. She’d seen hundreds of guys before in just shorts down on the beach, but she’d never looked at them, knowing, like now, that the shorts were about to go.
Then Denny pulled back the duvet in one flamboyant gesture and Verity yelped, pulling her knees up and huddling on her side. Denny laughed at her.
‘Don’t be shy. I just want to look at you,’ he said, placing his hand on her hip. Then he let out a slow wolf-whistle of appreciation and Verity started to relax. She lay back on the bed, wondering what to do with her arms.
Denny’s hands felt hot on her skin and his breath smelt of beer. He pulled one of her bra cups aside, exposing her breast and she trembled. She hadn’t expected his examination to be so … clinical. But she’d never been naked with a man before. Maybe this was what it was always like.
‘Perfect,’ he said, before he leant across her. Her nose crinkled at the heavy scent of his body spray. He opened the drawer in the bedside unit and pulled out a box of condoms, lifting the cardboard flap to check if there were any inside.
‘Good,’ said Denny, emptying two out on to the pillow next to Verity. She looked at them and then back at Denny as he threw the empty box on the floor. She was just wondering where the others in the box had gone when Denny lay down on top of her. There was no point in thinking about other girls, she reprimanded herself. There were no other girls. Not here. Not now.
Verity closed her eyes, expecting him to kiss her, but instead,
he flipped her, so that she was lying on top of him.
Startled, she opened her eyes and looked down at him beneath her.
‘Wow,’ he said. He traced the outline of her lips with his finger and Verity started to feel better. He might have been much more experienced than her and she might not have been up to speed on Denny’s sexual acrobatics, but at least he was being sensitive. ‘Verity Driver, you’ve got perfect lips,’ he whispered softly.
Verity smiled. It was going to be fine after all –
‘Now then, let’s see what you can do with them …’
Verity felt his hands on her shoulders, pushing her down.
Afterwards, Verity lay totally still next to Denny, her head pressed against the downy hair on his chest. She listened to the sound of Denny’s heart racing below her ear. Gradually the beat slowed, until it was accompanied by the sound of Denny softly snoring.
But Verity had never felt more awake in her life. She was overwhelmed by the unfamiliar scent surrounding her and the reality of being in Denny’s bedroom. Without knowing why, the image of Jimmy reading her the poem in the arbour at Appleforth House came to her. She’d thought at the time that she would learn the words that he’d spoken so beautifully and repeat them to Denny at just such a moment as this, but she now knew how ridiculous her romantic notions had been.
Now, as Jimmy’s face filled her mind, a tear slid from her eye across the bridge of her nose.
She should have told Denny the truth. She should have told him that it was her first time and that she wasn’t ready to do all the things he’d expected. But now it was too late. All the way through, as Denny’s thrusts had rocked her body, she’d stared over his shoulder at the paper lampshade, wondering how she was meant to enjoy it. It had been over so fast and now Denny probably thought she was rubbish.
Verity wished now that she hadn’t pushed Treza away. She wished they’d talked properly and that she’d shared her feelings with her friend. She’d thought that involving Treza would somehow dilute the intimacy she had with Denny, but now she realised she was just being vain. Treza would have happily given her advice and Treza would be there for her to go to now, but Verity had subtly changed the rules. Without even realising what she’d done, Verity had made Treza’s love life and her own love life out of bounds to each other.
Now, more than ever before, Verity felt totally inadequate and totally alone. She’d expected to feel more in love than ever when she lost her virginity to Denny. She’d expected to feel completely emotionally connected to him, but now she just felt cold and sore.
Rousing herself, she tried to slip away from him, but he woke up.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to have to go,’ she said, backing out of bed.
‘Can’t you stay the night?’
Verity shook her head.
‘Shit. I hadn’t thought. I’ve drunk too much to drive. I’ll have to call you a cab.’
‘OK.’
Verity covered herself with the corner of the duvet. It hadn’t occurred to her to make up a lie to stay the night. She watched Denny take a slug of beer before he got out of bed and walked to the cupboard. He pulled out a stripy robe and, without looking at her, walked out of the bedroom.
How could he walk in, have sex and then walk out again, as if nothing had happened? How was it possible that he’d done something to change her life and didn’t even seem to notice? Shouldn’t they be cuddled up naked? That was what was supposed to happen, wasn’t it? Verity shook her head in disbelief at the door through which Denny had just walked, before roughly pulling on her clothes.
In the living room she felt strangely awkward being fully dressed. It was as if she’d somehow acknowledged that her naked self hadn’t been good enough. As she listened to Denny making the phone call to the cab company, she felt cheap. This was what prostitutes did, she thought.
Denny sat on the sofa and flicked on the television, patting the seat next to him for her to sit down. Nervously, she slipped down on to the black leather cushion, listening to Denny laugh at the comedy programme. He reached out and took her hand, holding it almost subconsciously, as if they’d been going out for ever. Or, worse, as if they were just old friends.
Verity concentrated on the sensation of her hand in Denny’s and, even though she knew he wasn’t concentrating on the same thing, took solace in the connection. She longed for him to talk to her and tell her how he was feeling, but she knew she couldn’t say anything. Why should he be feeling anything? Maybe all the clichés she’d read about men not wanting to hug and talk after sex were true after all.
Verity watched the television, hardly seeing what Denny was laughing at, wishing that everything had been different. It felt like only moments later that the door buzzer sounded.
‘I’ll call you,’ Denny said, kissing her nose at the front door.
Verity felt her chin wobbling and willed it to stop.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Denny said. ‘What’s all this?’
‘I don’t want you to go,’ Verity blurted out. ‘I’ll miss you so much.’
‘I’ll be back.’
‘You promise?’ Verity begged, holding on to him.
‘Of course.’
The cab beeped from outside. Questions crowded into Verity’s head, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice any of them, and the reassurance she so desperately needed and the promises of commitment were left unsaid.
‘I’ll see you,’ Denny said. ‘Now go. He won’t wait much longer.’
Verity ran down the stairs and out into the night.
When she looked up at Denny’s window, she saw that he was laughing as he talked on the phone. He looked down at the cab and raised his beer can to her, and then he flipped the curtain closed and was out of sight.
Chapter XVII
HER BLONDE HAIR had fallen like a curtain across his eyes. He was panting, his lips pressed up against the smooth nape of her neck. Lying on their sides now, spooned together, she wriggled further back against him, forcing him deeper inside her. Each breath she took came out as a moan. Their feet were wrapped in a tangle of sheets. The camomile scent of her hair conditioner filled his nostrils as she clamped her hand down on his, squeezing it tighter against her breast.
Then she was rolling away, repositioning herself flat on her back. She reached out to him, pulling him on top of her, guiding him back inside. Her hands gripped his shoulders now, moving them gently back and forth until he achieved the rhythm she desired. She began moaning again. Her eyes closed and she ran her fingers down the length of his back. He could feel her thighs tightening, clamping against his hips. Her nails dug into his back. Her groaning grew louder, irregular. Then she cried out, shuddering, grinding her pelvis against him. Whatever it was she was feeling came out now in one long groan. He carried on moving against her as her shuddering began to subside and a wide, luxurious smile spread across her face. And finally, as her eyes opened and stared directly into his, he gasped and he came.
The moment it was over, it felt to him like it had happened to two other people, a different man and a different woman – anybody, in fact, but them.
Unable to hold her stare, he looked away, withdrawing from her and flopping over on to his back beside her. They both stared up at the ceiling. Her skin burnt against his: her thigh against his thigh, her hip against his hip, and her shoulder against his.
But a limitless energy still coursed through him. He wanted to jump up, dance across the room, stand on his head, streak through the house … Every cell in his body was tingling, craving motion. It was almost unbearable, this stillness, after the explosion of physicality he’d just been through. But he did stay still. Because he knew he couldn’t face doing what strangers did every day. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, or even to speak.
Ned Spencer was in shock. How could this have happened? What was he doing here in bed, naked and covered in sweat? And what was Ellen Morris doing lying naked at his side?
/> It had all been so intense, the release of endorphins so cataclysmic, that he now seemed to be suffering some kind of localised amnesia. Already, he felt that the whole sequence of events might have been fantasised and not real at all. Already, he was wondering whether, if he were to reach out his hand to where he thought Ellen was, all he’d actually find there was his scrunched-up duvet.
But slowly, surely, as his panting became shallower, everything began to slot into place.
Images flickered through his mind of how it had all started in the kitchen downstairs: the two of them leaning over the sideboard where he’d laid out the leather-bound folder containing the various designs used in Appleforth House for her to see; then both of them reaching forward to turn the page and both freezing as their hands had brushed together; turning to face one another, their lips almost touching, as they had done that time on the High Street and again later on in her cottage; him then looking into her eyes, seeing suggestion and agreement simultaneously reached without so much as a blink; then suddenly taut limbs wrapping hungrily around each other; her mouth pressing hard against his; the strength of her tongue twisting inside his mouth; the inexplicable combination of pleasure and pain as she’d bitten down on his bottom lip, and pinned him back against the cooker; the insistent tic-tic-tic of the stove’s flint firing behind him, as its ignition button had dug deeper and deeper into his back; him fumbling with her shirt buttons, then giving up and sliding his hand up under the rough cotton of her shirt, tracing the contours of her breasts; her wrestling with his belt as he unfastened her bra strap; her nipples hardening against his fingertips; then her fingers, cold, squeezing down on his cock; he and Ellen shuffling then as if to some awkward staccato beat, away from the cooker, three stumbled steps over to the kitchen table; he’d laid her down there on her back, her legs hanging over the side; pulling her boots and trousers off, dropping them on to the floor, before kneeling on top of them and pulling her knickers aside; then leaning forward, on to her, breathing her in, intoxicated by her scent and her taste …
