After dinner, Juliette won’t let the shaving thing go. She follows me into the bathroom.
“Jesus,” I say. “Give me a second to get my stuff together.”
“I’ll fetch the razor,”
I take off my shirt and look at my face in the mirror; there’s a couple of days’ worth of growth there. I think back to shaving off my beard in Leitrim and look at Juliette in the reflection behind me.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, and run hot water into the sink. I splash my face and pour some shaving oil into the palms of my hands.
“What’s that?”
“Shaving oil.”
“What’s it for?”
“Shaving?” I massage it in to my beard.
“But what about the white stuff – the foamy stuff?”
“I use this instead.”
“Oh.”
“Is that alright?”
“Yes. I was just expecting foam, that’s all.”
“Should I continue?” I ask and smile.
“Yes, go ahead.”
She takes the razor out of its case and hands it to me.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” I say.
“Just get on with it.”
I do so, hesitantly at first, but then with greater confidence once I have a feel for the weight of the razor in my hand. It’s as beautiful a thing to use as it is to look at. I turn on the tap and rinse the blade in hot water.
“Why are you doing that?” asks Juliette.
“I’m washing the shit off the razor.”
“Oh.”
“And keeping the blade warm.”
“Does it work better that way?”
“I believe so.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Trying to have a shave while I talk to some interfering bitch in the bathroom.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“I won’t ask any more questions.”
“It’s not you asking – it’s me answering that’s the hard part.”
“Sorry.”
I press on. It’s tricky at the top of my moustache, close to my nostrils.
“How are you going to do the dimple in your chin?” Juliette asks.
I look at her in the mirror.
“Sorry. And your Adam’s apple?”
“You’re a fucking nightmare,” I say and smile.
“But at least I’m your nightmare.”
“I’m the one holding the cut-throat razor, remember. There – I’m done.”
“Let me feel,” Juliette says, and she runs her hand across my chin.
“Will it do?”
“It’ll do. Now, pass me the razor and I’ll do the back of your neck.”
“Oh no – no way.”
“Come on; trust me.”
“On what evidence?”
“No evidence; just trust me.”
“But I don’t trust you; I don’t trust anyone.”
She looks up at me in the mirror. I pass her the razor.
“Sorry – go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure; I was only kidding.”
“No you weren’t.”
“No, but please – I’d like you to do the back of my neck.”
She reaches around me to run the blade under the hot tap.
“Do I need to use shaving oil?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Lean your head forward.”
I do so and Juliette scratches away with the razor where the hair grows down the back of my neck.
“There,” she says. “Does it feel good?”
“It does. It really does.”
Juliette puts down the razor. She reaches out for a towel and wraps it around my neck. She rests her hands on my shoulders and we look at each other’s reflection.
“I’ve got such a crush on you,” she says.
“I know.”
“You know? So why not do something about it?”
“Because I don’t want to fuck up what we have going here.”
“It might make what we have going here even better.”
“Or it might destroy it.”
“We might lose it anyway if we don’t do something about it.”
“You’ve thought this through a little then?”
“I’ve thought this through a lot.”
“And – have you reached a conclusion?”
“Oh yes.”
“And?”
“And I want to be your lover as well as your housemate.”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean – yes? Yes you know that’s what I want, or yes that’s what you want too?”
“Just yes,” I say.
Juliette has a very strong body but is vulnerable all the same. I undress her in the bedroom, first taking off her top to feel her against my bare chest. I hold her shoulders in the way she did mine in the bathroom, only here we face each other. I move my hand to her face. She looks up at me, like she’s about to ask a question, but she doesn’t say anything. I put my thumb on her lips and bend down to kiss them. She’s not so tough all of a sudden. I rest my cheek against hers and it makes me smile.
“What?” she says. “This isn’t supposed to be funny.”
“Just showing off how close my shave is. And what’s wrong with funny? Funny’s good.”
She kisses me full on the lips – one of those kisses when you’re almost scared you might lose your balance and fall over.
“You’re right,” she says. “It’s a beautiful shave.”
“Kissing’s important; funny’s good and kissing’s important.”
I run my hands along the length of her spine, down to the small of her back, and feel the power in her body. We kiss again and it feels good. I move my right hand and touch her belly with my knuckles, thinking back to when I feared I might never be able to use my hands again. This is the best form of healing I could ask for. I undo the belt around her trousers and pull them down around her bottom. Her knickers look like she planned for this to happen tonight and I shake my head as I look up at her.
“What?” she says.
“You know very well what. Sit down on the bed.”
I pull off her trousers and then take off my own. She looks at me, not so shy any more.
“Lie back,” I say. It’s a shame to take her knickers off they’re so beautiful, but needs must. I put my finger inside her while I look her in the eye.
It’s not every woman whose cunt you want to taste, but I want to taste Juliette’s. I want it for her and I want it for me. I never know if I’m doing this right, but tonight it just feels so good, I don’t care. I want her; I want the essence of Juliette and this seems to be about the best way to get it.
I look at her again and this time it’s Juliette who laughs.
“I told you funny is good,” I say.
“Funny is good, and so are close shaves.”
She pulls me to her.
“Do you want to make love?” I ask.
“I thought that’s what we were doing. It certainly felt like it to me.”
“Okay. Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Er, yes.”
“Because you might have been expecting this, but I wasn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t have a condom.”
“And do we need one?”
“I don’t know. I guess not if you think not.”
“Do you trust me?”
I look at her. I don’t want to make another baby, only to lose one again.
“Yes,” I say. “Do you trust me?” I’ve been given so many blood tests in the past month; I know I won’t be doing Juliette any harm.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then it’s okay if I come inside you?”
“Yes, I think I would like that very much.”
Juliette lies with her legs wrapped around one of my thighs and her head on
my chest. I explore her back again, down to the top of her arse. I want her all over again but there doesn’t seem to be a rush, like we have a long time together to enjoy this.
“What?” she asks.
“Just planning the many things I want to do to you. I can’t believe we made love and I didn’t fuck you from behind.”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t sucked your cock yet either.”
“I guess we both have a lot to explore about each other?”
“Yes we do.”
“If I go to the toilet, will you still be here when I get back?”
“Can I come with you?”
“Are you scared I might run away?”
“No – I’d just like to watch you take a pee.”
“That’s weird.”
“That’s me; that’s who you’re with.”
“Then let’s go on a field trip to the bathroom together.”
Juliette stands by my side as I wait to pee. I start laughing.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Little boys find it hard to go when someone’s watching.”
“Not so little.”
“Thank you.”
“What if I hold it for you?”
“Then I definitely won’t be able to go.”
“Please.”
“You crazy French woman.”
“S’il te plâit,” she says. “Pour moi.”
She stands behind and beside me, and reaches down to hold my cock.
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Something else will be happening pretty soon.”
“You mean you’ll be getting hard again?”
“Yes, but that’s not going to help me have a pee, now is it?”
“So concentrate.”
“It’s kind of difficult with you holding me.”
“Mm, it is kind of hard, isn’t it?”
“Jesus Christ,” I say and laugh.
I hear Max padding along the floor and he takes a look at us in the bathroom.
“Great,” I say, “why don’t we all join in?”
Max looks at us like we’re crazy and walks away with an air of profound disinterest.
“I don’t think Max was too impressed,” I say.
“Max is a dog. Now come on – you can do this. Think of waterfalls and mountain streams. Should I turn on the cold tap?”
“No. Just – just give me a second, okay?”
I stand there and close my eyes. It’s a bit of fun, but I know why Juliette’s doing this.
Trust me, she’s saying. Trust me enough to take a pee while I’m holding your cock. Can you do that – for me? Pour moi?
I pee and Juliette directs it into the bowl.
“Good boy,” she says and bends down to catch the last few drips in her mouth.
“Crazy French woman,” I say again and we laugh.
“Would you rather I did it like this?” she asks and puts my cock in her mouth. I love being fucked by this woman. I love that she loves to fuck me. I love that she wants me. I love that she wants to be with me. I love that she knows what she knows about me and still she wants me. I love that she’s prepared to give herself to me, that she seems to have made up her mind, no questions asked. I love that somebody somewhere loves and wants me for just being me, and that I’ve found that person and that I’m with that person right now. I love living in this town. I love being so close to the sea. I love walking Max. I love being there when Juliette comes home from work. I love how she listens to me and I love how she talks to me. I love who she is; I love that she’s a political animal, that she fights the fight and is prepared to fight for what she believes to be right. I love that that’s who she is. I love that I can give her the freedom to be out on the streets, telling anyone who’ll listen what’s being done in their names. And then she comes home to me and I think I’ve become the centre of her world, her safe harbour. I know I don’t deserve this but it doesn’t seem to matter. And now she wants my cock in her mouth and of course it feels fantastic and I want her and she wants me and we move to the bedroom and we fuck and we do the things to each other that we’ve wanted to do for a while now and we even think of a few more and then we sleep and then we wake up, and for Juliette it’s a working day, so she takes Max out for a walk and I make the espresso and I can’t believe that we’ve found each other . . .
But it’s not enough.
There are still some things about the book Brighton Rock that I just don’t understand. What is it that Pinky carries around in his coat pocket and uses to threaten his girlfriend Rose – some kind of acid that would burn her face? I look up ‘vitriol’ on the internet, using an internet café in town. Vitriol, apparently, is the name that alchemists gave to sulphuric acid. Oil of vitriol is concentrated sulphuric acid. The alchemy thing comes about because gold is one of the few things that the acid doesn’t react with. Sulphuric acid is big business – fertilizer, oil refining, and detergents – but it’s not immediately obvious how I’m likely to get my hands on some. There’s a lot of scientific shit to plough through before I find the actual suppliers, but even their websites are in such formula-ridden language that I find it hard to follow. I type in ‘school supply chemicals’ and see what comes up. Then I add Brighton to my search. There’s a contact address that looks promising. I create a new Outlook Express account for myself and send a vague enquiry.
I return home to Max and we go out for our walk. It’s very cold down on the beach, with a strong wind in my face. This is Juliette’s last week at work before the Christmas break; I’m going to have to get a move on if I’m to do what I hope to do. It takes the whole of the walk for me to calm myself down.
I don’t like leaving Max in on his own, but I set off again down James Street, this time to the Flea Market. I explain what it is I’m looking for and they direct me to the antique shops of The Lanes. I’m tempted to give it up but it’s too good an idea to let go. The antique dealers are interested but dubious that I shall find what I’m looking for. They make phone calls to each other and look through catalogues, showing me pictures and prices, but what I want I want now – for Christmas, I explain – and they shake their heads, until one old guy holds up his finger and asks me to wait. He disappears for a good ten minutes and I think I could have cleared his shop of antiques in the time he takes to return, but when he does it’s worth it because he has the exact piece that I want. It’s a glass perfume bottle with a gold spraying mechanism – eighteenth century, the guy tells me, which probably explains the price he’s charging. I ask him to hold it for a couple of days and he says that’s no problem – no one else has looked for such a thing in all the years he’s been in the trade.
I hurry home and sit at my desk, but I’m too excited to work. Juliette comes home early and we make love. I feel so close to her, it almost breaks my heart. She walks Max while I cook the dinner. She says she’s tempted not to go out to whatever meeting it is she has planned, but I insist. There’s no way I want her to lose her passion for political activism just because of me. I try to let her know that what we have together is all the sweeter for my knowing she does what she does.
“I’ll meet you at the Hand in Hand at about ten,” I say. This is our local pub, a long way from Preston Park and Laura. Sitting together in the pub, holding hands, I can’t believe I’ve been given a second chance. Juliette empowers me; I feel like I could do anything I choose to do. She doesn’t talk to me about Siobhan any more. If I’m here with her now, this makes everything else okay. She wants me to write again and I almost believe I could make a go of it. It’s what I am, after all – a writer.
In bed later, I wake up to see her watching me sleep. This woman is in love with me, but again – it’s not enough.
By the end of the week I have everything in place. I know the first step is the hardest and I sit with Max on the floor for a long, long time – almost so long that I run out of time before Juliette returns home from work. I take the razor out of the gift case and open it wi
de. Max raises his head to check out what it is I’m doing, but I stroke him back down. I hug him around his neck and he growls like we might be about to fight, but again I soothe him. I put my fingers through the thick coat around his neck and I feel for a pulse. I stick the razor in hard and Max’s eyes open wide with terror. He tries to get up but already the flow of blood is so great that I can push him down with my weight. He looks at me to ask why but I shush him to sleep. There’s an ocean of blood on the floor and I step away. I wipe the blade on his coat and fold it closed.
I wash my hands. There’s some of Max’s blood on my trousers, but that can’t be helped. I put on a jacket and drop the razor into my pocket. I pick up the Christmas present from the table and walk out the door. There’s a danger of bumping into Juliette if I walk down James Street, so I cut down to the front and walk along the prom. I circle around town and then back to London Road and on to Preston Park. I follow the path that cuts through and up towards my final call of the evening – the Roberts family home. It’d be nice to see Laura one last time, but I understand that it’s not possible. I leave the Christmas present on the doorstep – addressed to Paula – with an instruction that it’s not to be opened until Christmas Day morning. The mechanism on the eighteenth-century bottle is such that, as Paula sprays the vitriol on to her neck, it’ll catch and disfigure at least a part of her beautiful face. My only regret is that I won’t be there to see it.
I have to get moving. I cross back over London Road and head for Preston Park station. There’s a train due in less than five minutes. I have no belongings other than what I’m wearing and the few clothes in my rucksack. The last of my money has gone on the perfume bottle. I’m coming, London; I’m ready for you now. Fuck you England, and fuck you too Blair – now you’ll see just what it is we believe in.
This is all about Ciara. Everything comes back to Ciara. So long, baby. I doubt if I shall ever get to see you again. I miss you; I miss you so bad.
TWO
I
Alice Baker was the first really sexy woman that I ever met. I was ten years old and she was the mother of my best friend Jeb. I didn’t think of her in a sexy way; I just knew she was different, that she was unlike any other mother or grown woman I’d ever known, and that she did things to my tummy. She passed the Tummy Test. I was too young to think beyond my tummy, to even imagine what else this feeling might lead on to. Alice Baker was sexy and did things to my tummy, but I never thought of doing things to her. I wanted to be within her rather than inside her. I wanted to fall into her and be a part of her. I wanted her to be my mother.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 17
