by Freya North
James doesn’t feel terribly comfortable. He has banished the dogs to the utility room so he can have a long think about the consequences of today. Something about Fen unnerves him. He’s had affairs with women younger than her, but there’s a freshness about Fen, a naivety, something a little old-fashioned, chaste even, which warns him to keep a respectful distance. Water is now coming through the roof. Adam and Eve, one propped on the dressing-table, the other on the window-sill, seem to be flirting and goading. You know you want it. You do. You want to do to her what Adam is going to do to me, Eve seems to be saying. She is offering you an apple, take it, take it, Adam abets. Take her. Have her. She wants you.
‘Shut up, Adam!’
James takes both paintings and places them, oil sides facing each other, under his bed. Then he hurries downstairs in search of buckets and pans. As he tries to sleep with an atonal chorus of tinkles, plips and splashes all around him, he pulls the pillow over his head and chants that he will not mix business and pleasure.
Abi and Gemma go to sleep with smiles on their faces and their bodies throbbing. It’s only sex. It’s leisure, it’s pure pleasure. Why wouldn’t they want more? Once their bodies aren’t quite so sore.
And Fen. She is asleep, upside down in her bed. She’s kissed James in the morning and Matt in the evening, and when she came, though Matt brought her to orgasm, she throbbed for both men. Sleepily, she had wondered whether she’s just doing a Jake. And what exactly is it that Jake is doing? Having a taste of this, a soupçon of that so that he can make a choice? Does one need to decide between two? She’s not sure. Does she have a moral obligation? She’s not sure. She’ll have to go further to find out. It concerns her that she could feel so moralistically disapproving of Jake when on paper, she knows she is behaving little differently to him.
And Julius.
As Julius prophesied, and to Rodin’s delight though to Madame Virenque’s dismay, friends of Jacques Antoine wanted to commission Fetherstone for portrait busts of themselves, their wives, even their dogs and children. Soon enough, the young sculptor was able to afford an apartment overlooking the Musée Cluny. He paid rent every Thursday without fail or discount, to a middle-aged landlord who wouldn’t have said no to sex but preferred the money and anyway, didn’t have the temerity to ask. Sex dominates Julius’s life though he has lived celibate for two years since Cosima. Every day, however, through the ooze of the plaster of Paris with which he constructs, or the clay with which he moulds, or the marble which he carves; through the exploration of anatomy, how ecstasy causes bodies to writhe, his life is dominated by sex. Sex doesn’t sell, though. He has learnt, when a potential patron visits his studio with the commission for a bust of his wife or children or himself, not to show him the ‘other works’. He tried that, two or three times. The visitors to his studio were at once sucked into the scenes of lust and yet spat out, too. The works were so uncompromising in design, so blatant in subject matter, so confrontational, they were quite terrifying. How could a mind so perverse, so obsessed, claim also to be a master of the conventional sculpted portrait? Non, Monsieur Fetherstone, non. Wives and children would not be safe in his company.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Fen woke in a fabulously good mood. After all, when she opened her eyes, there was a Fetherstone by her bedside. Gazing at Eden, she felt simultaneously calm yet ecstatic. Swiftly, she made it all make perfect sense to her.
I like to look this way and that, to consult right hand then left. It’s what I’m like – if anything, I’m rather cautious. I like to feel that there are two sides to every coin – and the coin that makes me the person I am has lovely Matthew on one side and gorgeous James on the other. The men are as distinct as heads and tails, as individual as my right hand is from my left. I suppose you could say that there are two sides to every story.
Ah, but you don’t credit Jake with this.
Jake is different.
Why? He’s involved with two beautiful women. He’s hurting no one. For him, Abi and Gemma are your Matt and James.
No. There is a slim but subtle difference. There’s the question of deception. Jake is only in it for sexual gratification, for a spot of bedpost-notching. In fact, Abi is too – she only ever talks about the physical side.
And Gemma?
Gemma’s just wanton.
God, Fen, you sound sanctimonious.
The difference between their triangle and mine is the issue of deception. Poor Abi. Furthermore, theirs isn’t so much a triangle as a knot, a mess. And it’s downright torrid that they all know each other. It’s horribly incestuous. At least Matt and James don’t. Just me. I’m the key. And I hold it with respect and care.
But in which hand do you hold it, Fen?
Abi stares hard at the front door long after Fen has shut it behind her. Gemma giggles irreverently once she deduces Fen to have walked a sufficient distance from the house.
‘Honestly,’ Gemma says, shaking her head in disbelief and pity, ‘Maria Von Trapp watch out.’
‘We kissed! We kissed!’ Abi mimicks Fen.
‘Actually, it’s quite sweet,’ Gemma concedes, ‘and it wasn’t just a kiss – what was her terminology?’
‘She said that Matt “had a good rummage” – those were her words,’ Abi muses.
‘Actually,’ Gemma says seriously, ‘it is quite sweet, in this day and age. A little bit of old-fashioned decorum.’
‘Don’t sound so wistful!’ Abi reprimands. ‘Just because we’re such trollops – it doesn’t make Fen’s morality higher than ours. Just different.’
‘Are you seeing Jake tonight?’ Gemma asks.
‘Not if I’m still walking like John Wayne!’ Abi declares and, to make her point, she swaggers to the front door, wincing theatrically, and leaves for work. Gemma follows a few minutes later, once she’s sent a ludicrously lewd text message to Jake’s mobile phone.
Matt was shaving and emitting a tuneless, absent-minded hum. Rivulets of foamy water trickled down his forearm, clung to the edge of his elbow and then oozed off to drip on to the floor of the bathroom or his bare feet. Today was the first day of his adult life that he had actually enjoyed shaving. When he had been a child, he loved his father to daub his face with shaving cream from the badger brush, which he then had much pleasure removing with an old kitchen spoon, tracing tracks through the cream like a toboggan careering down a hill. Since adolescence, however, Matt had found shaving the most terrible bind, had even surreptitiously read articles in his ex-girlfriend’s glossy magazines about laser hair removal. Once or twice, he’d toyed with the idea of not shaving, of going for the beard, but gave up after four or five days; hating the feeling of grubbiness from the stubble and the way his whiskers caught on his pillow or pullover. Usually, he shaved in a rush, because he was hopeless at getting out of bed when the alarm went. Usually, he nicked himself here and there, and missed little patches which then irritated him supremely during the day. He’d tried aftershave once, which stung so much that his eyes watered and he’d been late for lectures on account of obsessive splashing of cold water against his cheeks. Although a goatee suited Jake, Matt felt it was the worst of all worlds – all the pitfalls of facial hair design coupled with all the inconvenience of shaving.
Today, though, Matt hummed and shaved, wielding the razor in swift strokes decapitating bristles but leaving his skin unscorched. Today, he was ‘full of the joys’. It was a phrase his nanny had used in his childhood, one she had never qualified – thus it was perfect to express the joys of season, time, or general mood. Full of the joys of spring. Full of the joys of tea-time. Full of the joys of being a six-year-old with a new red bicycle for his birthday. Full of the joys of success at school, at university; of being in love. Today, Matthew Holden, two days away from his thirtieth birthday, is full of the joys of simply being out there. Of being young and living in a vibrant city; of having a stimulating job in addition to the stability of family inheritance; of being blessed with a lively social life; of bein
g blessed with good looks and a fine figure; of being on the verge of falling in love with a sweet yet sexy girl.
With his face now smooth and pink, Matt patted it dry – a pointless procedure preceding, as it always did, a long hot shower. With the mirror steamed up, Matt wiped a dry corner of his towel over it. Unlike Jake, Matt had looks but little vanity. He was using the mirror not to marvel but to prove a case in point. Ah, yes. There was his reflection, clear and bright; external proof of his internal sense of vitality. Great shave, smooth as a baby’s bottom. Time to get dressed, to greet the day, hooray! to see Fen. If Matt had been remotely religious he’d have praised the Lord for his good fortune; if he had lived in biblical times, he’d have offered a sacrifice in thanksgiving. Some pieces of gold perhaps, not sheep. No. He liked sheep. He’d grown up in Gloucestershire surrounded by fields peppered with them.
He dressed quickly, yesterday’s trousers and a badly ironed polo shirt, but still looked fresh and becoming on account of his excellent demeanour. Jake, in comparison, looked wan and tired.
‘Sow your oats last night?’ he mumbled in response to Matt’s verve, handing him a cup of coffee. Matt, momentarily, looked confused. Sex had not been on his mind this morning; the thought of it, the imminence of it happening with Fen, was simply one element contributing to his fantastic mood.
‘No,’ Matt grinned, ‘not yet. You look terrible.’
‘I’m shagged,’ Jake groaned, ‘literally. I really don’t think I can keep it up.’
‘Ha!’ Matt joshed. ‘And I thought you were famous for your powers of sexual endurance.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ Jake answered, but with humility and not rancour. ‘By the way your mum called. You were humming and la-la-ing so loud that you didn’t hear the phone ring. She says call her, that she hasn’t spoken to you in ages, bla bla.’ Jake rubbed his eyes and then kept them closed, his muscular frame slumped on the sofa. ‘Bla bla.’
Matt checked his watch and phoned his mother. Their relationship was a good one, good enough for no guilt to be foisted or felt if phone calls weren’t returned promptly or visits home were not more frequent.
‘Mummy,’ Matt said, because he had never abbreviated it to Mum.
‘Darling!’ Susan Holden, in Gloucestershire, exclaimed, a little alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ Matt assured her, ‘why?’
‘Well, I only phoned half an hour ago,’ she said with friendly sarcasm.
‘I was having my shower and I’m actually on time for work so if we have a quick chat I’ll still arrive my normal quarter of hour late!’
‘Now, darling,’ Susan said, ‘your birthday. Of course there’ll be the dosh from Daddy’s will, but is there anything specific I can give you?’
‘Honestly, Mummy, I’m fine – whatever,’ said Matt, who had forgotten about his birthday and didn’t want for anything anyway.
It had always delighted Susan that an only child, brought up by a rich and aged father and a rich, younger mother, could be so unmaterialistic. ‘Well, how about a suit from Armani? Or a scooter?’
Matt declined, having no need for the one or the other.
‘A VD machine?’
‘DVD player?’ Matt laughed. ‘Jake has one.’
‘Darling, I do so want to give you something special,’ Susan paused, ‘my baby boy is turning thirty!’
‘I’d quite like that book about the Beatles,’ Matt said honestly.
‘Bugger the Beatles on your birthday!’ Susan remonstrated. ‘Well, for the time being, shall I just put a tab behind the bar at the Groucho or the Cobden again?’
‘I’m not a member of either,’ Matt reminded her.
‘But I am,’ she declared, ‘you can leave it to me, Matthew.’
Matt was touched. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Just before the call ended, he spoke up. ‘Mummy?’
Susan hoped he wasn’t going to request the Met Bar or somewhere else she had no strings to pull.
‘I met someone.’
Because historically, Matthew had never really imparted much detailed information about his private life, his mother came to the wrong conclusion, presuming the someone to be someone she knew. ‘Who, darling? The Smythes are in town this week – did you bump into them?’
‘I mean,’ said Matt, ‘a girl. I’ve met someone. Wanted you to know.’
Susan was touched and rendered silent momentarily. ‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘that’s super.’
‘Yes. Hmm,’ said Matt, now clamming up which was far more normal a response to his mother’s ears. ‘She’s lovely,’ he mumbled.
‘Super,’ his mother repeated, eager to know everything but too tactful to probe. ‘Well, I’d better go. Nanny and I are going to do ruthless things to the vegetable patch. You should see it. Your poor father would turn in his grave. It’s a veritable riot. A disgrace. Bye bye, darling.’
In Gloucestershire, she replaced the handset and observed it a while. Her only child, her beloved boy, turning thirty. Met someone lovely.
‘Nanny?’ she called.
‘How was my boy?’ Nanny, suddenly appearing, asked.
‘Top form,’ Susan said, ‘and he’s Met Someone.’
Nanny placed the Mr Muscle on the occasional table with care, and sat down beside Susan on the Chesterfield. They stared at the fire-guard. ‘Ooh,’ said Nanny, ‘someone nice?’
‘Lovely – apparently,’ Susan said, ‘he wouldn’t bother recounting dalliances.’
‘Good for Matthew,’ said Nanny, tapping Susan’s knee. ‘Come on now, there’s the spinach to be done before elevenses.’
Fen was walking down John Islip Street ahead of Matt. He wanted to call out to her, wolf-whistle even, run up to her; instead, he indulged himself watching her unseen.
She wiggles. Unintentionally. But an unmistakable and utterly alluring sway to her bottom. Oops! Easy girl – watch your step.
‘Fen!’
Fen turned around and blushed. They walked the last few yards together, slowing their pace, not quite knowing what to say. They knew their awkwardness was natural, acceptable, after last night’s impromptu intimacy. Chit-chat seemed a good idea, despite being surprisingly hard work. It was therefore a relief to arrive at Trust Art. They said good morning to Bobbie and rifled through their respective pigeon-holes. A delighted and intuitive Bobbie filed her nails with gusto, happy to presume that Fen and Matt had arrived at work together because they had left home together after an evening of passion and a night cuddling cosily together.
Matt hovered at his door and Fen faltered alongside him.
‘I’m a gentleman,’ he shrugged, escorting her the extra few yards to the door of the Archive.
I’m a soft sod, more like!
‘See you later, then,’ Fen said, with a shy smile.
Matt walked back to Publications. No sooner had Fen sat down to check e-mails, than he had returned. He perched on the edge of her desk, fiddling with a paper-clip which he kept dropping.
‘Fen,’ he started, ‘last night – well, I had planned to woo you with the whole seduction thing, you know, dinner, wine, candles, Barry White background music. So, I mean, last night – I mean, this morning. I mean, are you OK about it all?’
Fen was touched. ‘Very OK,’ she said.
Matt tipped her chin up and bent low to kiss her. ‘It’s not good for my balls,’ he whispered, ‘to fill them with such expectation. They’re aching for you.’
‘I’m on Cat duty tonight,’ she said apologetically, laying her hand gently in Matt’s groin.
‘That just makes me want to make a pun on pussy,’ Matt said, dejected.
Fen smiled. She tapped his knee. ‘We can do dinner whenever,’ she said, ‘foreplay or post-coitally!’
‘Fen McCabe!’ Matt marvelled and laughed. ‘Actually, it’s my birthday on Friday.’
‘I’ll tie myself in a big red ribbon then,’ Fen said coyly.
‘I can unwrap you at the end of the evening,’ Matt mused. ‘My mot
her is footing the bar bill – bring Abi and Gemma, your sisters too, if you like.’
Fen was happy for the focus to shift from an evening entirely centred on consummation. She would invite Pip and Cat to Matt’s birthday drinks. She quite wanted to show Matt off to her sisters. She valued their opinions more highly than her flatmates’s.
TWENTY-EIGHT
James was well aware that Adam and Eve were under his bed, but he resolutely refused to bring them out; ignoring them rather as if they had misbehaved. He had been chastising himself since last seeing Fen. What could he have been thinking? Utterly ridiculous. Impossible too. He was standing over his dogs whilst they wolfed down an early tea or a very late breakfast.
‘I have to nip it in the bud,’ he said out loud, pleased with the horticultural allusion.
Her gorgeous rosy nipples were like little buds in the centre of my palm.
‘For God’s sake!’ he scolded himself, though Beryl thought she had done something wrong and hung her head over her bowl until her master apologized and reassured her and urged her to eat. He checked the time. Four o’clock. He rather thought the London workforce stopped at around this time on Fridays to steam into pubs.
Better phone her. Better cancel Monday. Better explain that it suits me better to have the two oil sketches sent to Trust Art via courier.
‘Archive?’ Fen answered her phone.
‘The oil sketches – they’re back from the framers.’ James James James James James! Fen rejoiced to herself.
‘Unframed, I hope,’ she said, surprising herself at the steadiness of her voice and her readiness to jest.
‘Of course,’ said James.
‘Ought I come to collect them then?’ Fen asked.
‘Yes,’ said James, physically rapping his temple with the telephone.
‘In fact,’ said Fen, ‘it might be practical to come up on Sunday – save myself a tiring day return.’
‘Yes,’ James agreed.
‘I could stay the night with my uncle,’ Fen said.
