Back to Vanilla

by Jennifer Maschek

  He had ignored it at the time, preoccupied, but now texted her back: “Talk?”

  And thus he found himself later that night in a taxi heading across the city to her house. While he, with rare restraint, had managed to stop after that one drink, Jane was clearly way ahead of him in the alcohol haze. Opening the door barefooted and wearing a silky dressing gown trimmed with velvet, with nothing obviously visible underneath, she put a large whisky directly into his right hand, grabbed the left and pulled him in, an act so girlish it made him smile.

  “You’re the only woman who ever makes me smile like that these days,” he said. “How the hell do you do it?”

  Ignoring this, she sat down at the end of the settee, still grasping his hand, and pulled him down beside her.

  “Drink.”

  And he did. “Have you ever thought of becoming a dominatrix?” he laughed, holding his glass out for a refill. “You’re made for it. So what’s the story?”

  “The text said it all. He proposed, can you believe it? Obviously that’s a no, flat out… but he wouldn’t stop there. He wants… not to make it official exactly… but to make it officially more regular. Kind of like living together but in two places.”

  “Living together. Which is different to the current situation how, exactly?”

  “Which is different to the current situation in the sense that, once said, once announced as a decision, it moves up a notch from…”

  “Casual friendship to relationship?”

  “From casual to relationship, and that… it scares the shit out of me. At our age. It really truly does, Alasdair.”

  “Yup.”

  “Yup.”

  She poured them both another.

  “And so we are drinking to?” he asked.

  “Well, now that it’s staring me in the face, I’m quite adamant that drinking to celibacy is not an option.”

  “You never really had me convinced that it was, my dear. We could drink to... hmmmm… how about, ‘Here’s to love and unity, dark corners and opportunity’?”

  “To dark corners and opportunity! Though, I guess technically, the end of opportunity for me. That’s it. A rubbish toast that’d make.”

  “Leaving dark corners still free to explore. Sometimes a compromise is good enough and this barely even qualifies as that.”

  “He’s a good man. I like him, Alasdair; yeah, he’s one of the good guys. Can’t drink like you, though, total wimp. Total, total, total Yankee wimp.”

  And with that, she laid her head on to his shoulder, lifted her right hand up and gently stroked his left cheek, before passing gracefully out.

  The next time Alasdair checked his watch, it showed 6.23am. Lifting Jane murmuring from his shoulder, he put her head on to the arm rest, pulled the tartan blanket already half covering her up further, and walked outside, where he closed the door and called a cab, which was there within minutes.

  Arriving home in the fresh morning air, he felt more alive than he’d done in a while, and hungry, so, so hungry. It crossed his mind that he might stroll through the park to a café he knew served a great breakfast, something he hadn’t done in years, but first he needed to check – just quickly – his email.

  Daddy,

  Did you send it?

  Yours M xxx

  Beyond that, there was nothing.

  22. Rich

  If he’d been asked, he would not have been able to explain quite how this had happened, but on a Saturday evening just three weeks later, Rich found himself sitting over an early dinner at a busy hotel in Brighton.

  His two companions were chatting away across the table like old friends; his wife seemed vivacious in a way he couldn’t recall ever having seen. Perhaps she was right when she said they knew each other too well. Maybe this would make him view her in a different light; in fact, there were no maybes about it: he already was.

  For him, though, everything was shrouded in a grubby mist of surreality.

  They’d met, the three of them, for the first time just 45 minutes earlier in the hotel bar. It was lucky that his wife was on such good form, as his primary impulse was to run away laughing, but Megan was so committed to the idea as a natural step forward that he’d found himself swept along, and here he was.

  He felt like a kid. There was no other way of putting it. It was as if he were living a memory of childhood where he was in an unfamiliar room he couldn’t quite place, for a reason he failed to understand, with people he didn’t recognise; Rich felt like his fate was entirely at the disposal of others.

  This sense of infantile powerless was suddenly heightened by the attempts of his fellow diners to include him in the proceedings. Starters over, he knew he had barely said a word, but the reality was, he truly didn’t want to. He was glad that they had left him to soak up the atmosphere and he was pleased that his opinions weren’t being sought about anything. Lack of involvement in this area was all he had ever wanted – do whatever it is that you want, Megan, but leave me out of it.

  “So, what do you think, Rich? Another bottle? Daddy… Alasdair isn’t drinking, but I could certainly go another glass or two.”

  “I… You know what? I genuinely don’t care. If it’s there, I’ll drink it, but I’m not guaranteeing that that’s a good move.”

  “Maybe,” said Alasdair, taking charge in a way that was already beginning to crawl under Rich’s skin, “it would be best to stick to sparkling water and I’ll join you both in a whisky at the end of the meal.”

  It wasn’t even a question, but a statement, and now, far from being an awkwardly ignorant child, Rich found the teenager in him rising at the prospect of being told what to do. The adult in him, however, was grateful for the decisiveness in cutting out the alcohol. He nodded his agreement, and as the main arrived, he sensed himself being dragged further into the affairs of the evening.

  “It was a great holiday,” Megan said, “but I guess honeymoons generally are. We’ve talked a lot about doing it again as a family, like a proper old-school road trip, all five of us. I guess we just need the time. Rich works so hard.

  “But,” she added, “you’re so lucky to have such glorious scenery on your doorstep. Scotland is stunning.”

  “Aye, it’s a well-kept secret, all right, but that’s how we like to keep it.” Alasdair smiled directly at Rich. “So, your job, it’s a worthwhile one, but the way the government keeps sticking its bloody great oar in, that must be so damned frustrating to all you footsoldiers?”

  “You’re not wrong there. In saving time and money, they forget about the people who really count. We spend half our time ticking boxes and covering arses, while who exactly is looking after the patients? But I guess you’ve done your fair share of stories on the topic over time?”

  “Back in the day, maybe, Rich, but I’m happily out of it now. Spending my time with my grandbairns, with my son, doing a spot of cooking, walking… the indulgences of old age. But I like to keep my eye on what’s going on in the world.”

  And, happily for Rich, the conversation stuck to matters neutral for the rest of the meal. They all knew that no desserts would be eaten tonight.

  With the whiskies came a slight change of mood. Megan was quiet, trance-like almost, her chin down and pursing her lips in the way she did when she was concentrating. Alasdair was holding forth. No one was really listening, he knew, but a silence at this point would truly be a tricky one that would serve only to fuel an already mildly uncomfortable situation, and so on he talked, slowly, with moderation; no one present would later be able to remember a word he had spoken.

  “And now,” he said, with a change of timbre that indicated it was time to focus, “it’s up to you, my dear. What would you care to do next?”

  “I would like,” Megan mumbled, still looking down, “to go upstairs, please.”

  And then she looked up, straight at Rich, who saw, not for the first time lately, something in those green eyes that left him bewildered. Although he knew that she saw his confusion, the
re were no other clues. Whatever the fuck was going on in that head of hers, he knew it was up to him to work it out; he was also aware that on this occasion he had better not get it wrong.

  He had, of course, eventually granted permission.

  After procrastinating for days, unable even to think about that preposterously pompous email he had received, he had simply asked Megan to reply for him. What did his own feelings matter? What the hell could he possibly say? Yes, he would let this old tortoise of a man fuck his wife while he sat in his bedroom a few doors away watching Netflix and getting stoned? This he could just about conceive. But the rest?

  The rest was, he thought, absurd. Beyond absurd, it was madness. As Megan had sat beside him on the couch two weeks ago, sipping a coffee and munching on ginger creams like they were discussing what to have for tea that evening, and explained what she and her master had in mind for him, the term “parallel universe” had sprung to mind.

  Her face placid, her voice soothing, she had laid out a plan whereby after a fine meal, the three would go upstairs to the old Scot’s lair and, rather than kiss her goodbye and leave, he would stake his claim on her first.

  “My claim? What on Earth could that even mean?” His tone covered a range of feelings from outright indignation to genuine curiosity.

  “Alasdair says, and I agree, that my remaining guilt issues – ridiculous, considering we both know monogamy was never what you wanted – are holding me back as a submissive and…”

  “And…?” They would, he made a mental note, deal with her relentless twisting of his words and his actions at some point in the future. First things first.

  “And that the way you free me is…” Here Megan paused, almost flinching. “The way you free me is to leave me in the hotel room with him, yes, shackled to the bed… but having tied me up, you fuck me first. There. Before you go.”

  And a pause.

  “You know that’s insane, right? I mean, you do realise somewhere in that addled brain of yours that you’re crossing a line, right? This is not something you go back from.” His voice had softened, despite the harshness of the words.

  Megan just stared across at him. This was the first time he had seen that particular look, the same look he saw now across the dining table of this mid-range restaurant, and it had perplexed him then as it did now.

  She stood up, and Alasdair followed her, tucking his chair neatly under the restaurant table.

  With no clue what the fuck he was going to do – or indeed not do – Rich got up too, ignored the hand his wife proffered, and headed for the lift, not looking back or giving a shit whether they were following him or not.

  They were. Aware that this little adventure was precariously close to going tits up right in front of him, Alasdair held back slightly while staying very close. Rich walked into the large box of a lift first and pressed the fourth-floor button. Megan and Alasdair slipped in immediately behind and she pushed the large illuminated 3.

  When the doors opened at the third floor, Alasdair stepped out, no words. Megan followed. Rich stayed in the elevator, staring at the floor.

  “Come,” she said to him. “Please come with me. Join us. For me.”

  And although he hadn’t meant to leave that lift, he did, he came with his wife, at least as far as the door to room 316.

  Kindly_Meister’s hand lay on the door handle as he wafted the electronic card key in front of the sensor and opened it. He stepped into his room and stood by the door, looking out at the two.

  “You have to do what’s right for you, and in this case, that probably means what’s right for you both,” he said. “Make no mistake, though, lassie, my mind hasn’t changed. I’m here when you’re ready, for whatever you need.”

  For the previous two minutes, there had been no eye contact whatsoever between the two men, but now Alasdair looked directly at Rich.

  “You are a very brave man,” he said, and although it was meant as a bona fide statement of admiration for the younger guy, it was this that pushed Rich into action.

  “Brave my arse,” he said. “Snake oil and horse shit, the whole bloody lot of it. Pedlar of bollocks, with your chest of magic tricks and bullshit about needs. If I were brave, I’d punch you in the face. But no. Nope. Enough. No more.

  “And you?” He turned to his wife. The look he had now identified as that of an addict in the midst of a mortal dilemma had vanished, replaced by a panic-stricken stare. “You do what the fuck you want. Do whatever makes you fucking happy.

  “Me, I’m gone. Right this minute. Fuck it all. I’m off to the bar for another drink or three.”

  He started walking back to the lift, which was still sitting there on the third floor with its illuminated green arrow pointing down. With barely a pause, Megan trotted after him. It was as if a bomb had gone off in her head, blasting away the daze that had clouded her; she understood with absolute clarity that whatever happened, if she stayed with Alasdair, there was, indeed, no going back.

  “Don’t go,” she said, and they stood in silence in the lift going down; she looked at Rich for some acknowledgment; he stared at his tense reflection in the overlit mirror that was the lift’s back wall. They walked into the almost empty hotel bar, and Rich immediately ordered himself a large whisky. “Don’t go,” she said again. “I mean, let’s go, but, please, not without me. I’ll get the bags. Wait. Please.”

  She went upstairs and changed quickly out of the knee-length corset-style red dress and matching high heels she had bought for this occasion. She put on her jeans and a black blouse, her next-morning outfit, and grabbed Rich’s small backpack and her cabin bag. Leaving the red dress and the heels behind – for the maid or the bin, she couldn’t have cared less – Megan left their card key in the room and walked out.

  Part of her – a big part of her – didn’t expect her husband to still be there when she got back to the bar. She was almost surprised, although relieved, to see him standing at the counter, staring at the small collection of glasses in front of him.

  “I’ve called a cab,” he said. “We’re going home in style. Here, drink this,” and he shoved what she quickly realised was a Long Island Iced Tea, complete with a glacé cherry and an umbrella, into her hand for her to gulp down.

  Soon afterwards, they stepped out of the hotel foyer and into their waiting taxi.

  23. Tamsin

  For the third time in 22 months, Tamsin stood at Euston station waiting to board an early morning train; this was, however, the only one of those journeys on which she had company.

  Her mother, a slightly shorter, older and only marginally plumper version of herself, was standing next to her. Her brother and father, and Jack, her boyfriend of more than six months, were already en route in the van hired to transport her belongings, many not seen out of a box since her return from Canterbury three years ago, to her new home in Manchester.

  Apart from her visit to the hotel, all that time ago, the night she had got so drunk and met her Kindly_Meister, Tamsin had headed North once again more recently after being shortlisted for the management trainee scheme of a large publicity company based in the city. With just four places on offer and more than 200 applicants, she had been delighted, and surprised, when she got one of the jobs.

  That her mother had booked first-class seats was another distinct contrast with her previous visit, and the two took advantage of every free snack and drink on offer, chatting about the past but mostly about the future: new job, new flat, new city, new life.

  The flat was a short stroll from Piccadilly station. Eventually she’d be sharing with another of the trainees, but as he wasn’t due for another week, the plan for that day was a takeaway with her family before they headed home, along with Jack (although he had already booked a train to visit her in two weeks’ time, they were both relaxed about what a future largely apart might do for them).

  That night, having bid her loved ones farewell, Tamsin settled down to enjoy a bit of time to herself, a luxury to which she had
always been partial. She unpacked most of the basics from her pile of boxes, unscrewed a bottle of red that her mother had left her and sat on the couch, dressing gown on, laptop on her knee, glass in hand. Her new habitat was already feeling like home.

  Browsing Netflix, Tamsin realised she was too twitchy – about Monday, about change, everything – to commit to watching anything, and the wine was beginning to kick in, adding to her restlessness. One click led inevitably to another and another, and, after a six-month break, Tamsin found herself logging in to her deactivated PhetX profile. She’d never quite built up the poke to delete it entirely; doing so tonight, she thought, would be an excellent way to move on from her old life into the new.

  Her profile on the site was blank; she’d made sure of that before deactivating her account. No friends, no pictures, nothing left on her wall, no groups – LittleGirlLost had left no footprints in the ether and this made Tamsin happy. As she took a final graze through the world that had consumed her for those 18 months she’d spent back at home, Tamsin saved what she really wanted to do – tying off the one strand of unfinished business that held any interest for her – until the last glass of wine. Yes, inebriated was the most appropriate state in which to contact Kindly_Meister.

  For her ultimate act as LittleGirlLost, she automatically pushed her hair – now a sober and more professional auburn – behind those little ears in a way he had told her gave her the look of a bewildered pixie, and went to his profile.

  And there he stood, staring out across a Scottish landscape, ten years younger and correspondingly healthy, dressed in a kilt, although she’d never seen him wear one in the flesh. Seeing the picture made her smile.

  As she clicked on to the messages button, part of her hoped he wouldn’t be online, although the green light indicating that he was came as neither a surprise nor a disappointment.

  LGL: Meister, hello, I don’t know if you’re around, or out spanking some naughty slut in a dungeon somewhere, but I wanted to check in… see how you are… I know I kind of vanished…