Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  Chapter Four

  Tessa lay back on the picnic rug, hitching up her skirt so that the sun would tan her legs. There was strength and passion in that sun, a sun more suited to mid-August than the second week in May. She was glad it wasn’t August yet. She didn’t want the term to end, or Michael to leave the Radcliffe and take up his next job, which might be miles and miles away. She glanced at him, as if afraid he might have gone already, crept away unnoticed while she’d been lying with her eyes shut. But he was still there, warm and heavy, his body nudging hers, a straw hat tipped across his face to protect it from the glare. One arm was bent across his chest, the sleeve rolled up, revealing dark and tangled hairs which clustered round the metal of his watch-strap, continued down his chunky squarish hands. She had slipped her own watch off, wanted time to stop – here, now, at this very moment, with the countryside so lush and fresh, everything was overflowing as spring and summer clashed. They had driven past tall hedgerows which appeared to be sprouting as she watched; brambles reaching out with clawing tendrils; ditches glossed with celandines; sap forcing leaves from buds. Two weeks ago, the chief colour had been yellow – daffodils and primroses, the yellow smoke of catkins puffing from dark boughs. Now blue had taken over – mists of bluebells, hairy stalks of borage – and all the endless greens between, beyond, beneath; still virginal transparent greens, not yet overripe.

  ‘So when’s it time for grub, then?’ Michael’s voice was muffled underneath the hat.

  ‘You can’t be hungry already.’

  ‘Try me!’

  ‘Okay, but shall we move into the shade? Everything’s melting, as it is. Thanks for laying on a heatwave, by the way.’

  ‘I told you, I like playing God. I’ll make sure it rains on Monday, when I’m back slaving on the wards and you’re cooped up in some library, reading about that rotter Abelard.’

  ‘You sound worse than Charlotte. Anyway, I’ve moved from him to Guibert.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Guibert?’

  ‘A neurotic mixed-up monk who became abbot of a monastery in Nogent, which is north of Paris, between Laon and Noyon. I’ve just been reading his memoirs. They’re incredibly frank, especially for the time, and psychiatrists have had a field day with him, because he was so preoccupied with sex and violence, and had this very dominant mother who was …’ She broke off. The word ‘sex’ had somehow stalled her, was still hanging in the air, reverberating between them, making her uneasy. ‘But let’s not talk about work,’ she shrugged. ‘Or Monday. I’ll play God myself and make it Saturday for ever – a day which lasts a million years.’

  ‘I’d love to live that long. Think of all the things you could do, and all the power you’d have.’

  ‘I suspect you might get bored,’ she said, noting his emphasis on power – another awkward word, and one he used quite frequently, along with ‘I’ and ‘hungry’.

  ‘Bored? Of course I wouldn’t! I’d have a thousand different careers, live in all the countries of the world – not to mention Mars and Jupiter and any other planets they may have opened up by then. I’d marry several hundred times, produce whole tribes of children, and several important works of art, and also eat at least a billion trillion meals.’

  Tessa knelt up on the rug. ‘Well, shall we have our second for today? If we move just over there, into that wooded shady bit, we might stop your runny cheeses from running right away.’

  ‘You got the German Brie?’

  ‘Yes, all the things you wanted.’

  ‘A really ripe gooey one?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll probably have to eat it with a spoon.’

  ‘And the mangoes?’

  ‘Whoppers!’

  ‘And how about the challah?’

  ‘I had to try four shops for that, but I found some in the end. You’re not Jewish, are you, Michael?’

  ‘No – I just like Jewish bread.’

  ‘I’ve never had it.’ She didn’t add that she’d never bought a mango till today, had no idea that German Brie existed, and was shocked by the prices of all the picnic foods he’d ordered. She could hardly expect him to reimburse her, when he’d already paid for brunch, promised her dinner at the Blue Coyote, and also brought along a bottle of what looked like expensive wine.

  He hunted for the corkscrew as they settled down in their more secluded spot; a tent of trees above them, mossy grass below. The sun was fidgeting on the silvered bark of beeches, striping them with shadow; filtering between the leaves, spangling their transparent green. Birds rustled overhead, fighting over sites and twigs, or flapping up from branches. She smoothed the rug, then unpacked bread and cheeses, butter, pâté, olives, and a crab mousse thing he’d told her was his favourite, and must be bought at one particular shop it had taken hours to find.

  ‘The bread’s so fresh, it’s warm,’ she said. ‘It’s a good thing Abelard’s not here. He wrote these Letters of Direction to Heloïse’s convent, telling them on no account must the nuns eat hot new bread, but wait at least a day until it had staled a bit.’

  Michael tore a chunk off, crammed it in his mouth. ‘He sounds a perfect hypocrite to me – tucking in to Heloïse when she was fresh and hot, then shutting her away for the rest of her long life, so no one else could have her.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Michael. You don’t understand the …’

  ‘I do understand – only too well. I loathe that whole ascetic thing – mortify the flesh, instead of glorying in it; call everything a sin which gives life a bit of zest. The Christian Church has always been so life-denying – anti-food, anti-sex; the here-and-now worth nothing, compared with some non-existent afterlife.’

  Tessa scooped runny Brie on to a sponge of soft white bread. The word ‘sex’ again, throbbing and vibrating, as if it contained a tiny firework which exploded into the air every time they mentioned it; sent out a shower of sparks. She busied herself with eating, deliberately ignoring Michael’s challenge. They’d had much the same argument earlier on, when she’d been telling him about Abelard’s castration, and how, after the first hideous shock, he had eventually come to see it as a blessing in disguise, a just punishment for sin and a means of spiritual growth. Michael had been horrified, denounced Abelard’s reaction as ‘totally and utterly sick’; refused to listen when she’d tried to explain how very different things had been in a monastic age which regarded celibacy as admirable, and sexual love – whatever its attractions – as an impediment to God’s love.

  She was determined not to climb back on her hobbyhorse – didn’t want to be drawn into a quarrel. Anyway, castration was hardly an appropriate subject for a relaxed and happy picnic in the sun. She was already feeling edgy because he hadn’t kissed her yet today, and she was coiled up like a spring inside, nervous and expectant both at once. She had transferred his first May-morning kiss to the museum of her head; constructed a glass case for it, labelled it astounding, dangerous, unexpected, and embarrassingly public. She should have resisted, with all those people watching in the restaurant. She had resisted, even tried to pull away, but Michael had overruled her, and in the end her mouth had been so staggered by the skills and depths of his, that she’d blanked out everything save the vehemence of the kiss itself.

  She’d been worrying since then. Such an advanced professional kisser made her feel inadequate. How could she measure up, not prove a disappointment if they took things any further? She wasn’t exactly inexperienced, but she’d never had an orgasm – at least she didn’t think she had. It was difficult to tell, despite the fact that she’d slept with three boys altogether, two at Emberfield. The first one hardly counted – it had been too short and rushed. But the second boyfriend had lasted for eight months, and in all that time, she still wasn’t sure if she’d achieved that longed-for climax. Even with Rob, who was slower, more considerate, often asked her anxiously, ‘Did you come as well?’, she could never really answer with any sense of certainty. Were those rippling restless feelings a real ‘official’ come, or just one stage o
n the way to it? And however could you ask, when she and most of her girlfriends were trying to pretend they knew more than they did, or had gone further than they had. Even the sex-books didn’t help – in fact made things more confusing, or left you feeling totally inferior because they were written for sexual PhDs, when you were still struggling with GCSE.

  She could somehow never discuss it with her mother, despite April’s liberality – or perhaps because of it. April had always regarded sex as something healthy, natural and ‘good for you’, like wholemeal bread or aerobics. She had never shrouded it in secrecy or guilt, but had given her daughter the go-ahead to enjoy an angst-free sex life, so long as she was responsible about things like contraception or avoiding the risks of AIDS. But health-food sex left a lot to be desired. What it gained in openness it lost in mystery and taboo. She found herself yearning for the sort of passion and romance you found in literature – Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde – not the tragic endings, but the intensity and poetry. The spotty boys at Emberfield fell far short of that ideal, and even the males at Balliol had been a distinct disappointment, many of them plain or gauche, and a few ignoring her because she had no natural entrance-ticket to their charmed and well-bred circle.

  ‘Sling that knife over, Tessa. I think I’ll try a mango with my cheese.’

  ‘But they’re for pudding. I brought some cream and sugar.’

  ‘Okay, half with cheese and half with cream. They’re so huge they need dividing.’ He reached out for the knife, began to peel the heavy fruit, revealing a moist and glistening flesh inside. She was surprised by its bright colour – peach and orange mixed – which contrasted with its mottled greenish skin. Juice was dripping down his fingers, splashing on his trousers. The fruit was slippery and wilful, seemed to be resisting him, rebelling against the knife. ‘Here comes the tricky bit,’ he said. ‘The stones are perfect brutes. They don’t pop out like avocado stones, but fight you all the way.’

  She watched the surgeon make his deft incision, slice around the stone; his hands controlled and steady, despite the squishiness of the fruit. She almost wished he’d cut himself, so she could see his blood mingling with the juice. She imagined he‘d have hotter blood than most average boring people – a steaming spiced elixir, distilled from chillies and hot peppers, paprika, dynamite. He’d told her he’d snatched four hours’ sleep last night, yet he’d bulldozed the whole morning – brightened up the weather, cleared traffic from the roads, ordered all the birds to sing, even hung new leaves on an ancient elm tree stricken with disease, which should have been a barren blackened corpse.

  With a final twist, he prised the stubborn stone free, then chopped a wedge of fruit off, coating it with cheese. ‘Try that,’ he urged, moving it towards her lips. ‘The textures are fantastic – one pulpy-wet, one smooth and velvety.’

  She took a bite and swallowed; the scented taste of mango clashing with the goat-sour tang of Brie. ‘I think I’d prefer it with cream,’ she grimaced, mopping juice from her frilled blouse.

  ‘You’re not very adventurous.’ Michael demolished the remainder, hacked off a second chunk.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’ll eat it with the crab, if you like, just to prove I’m game for anything.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Where’s the cream?’

  ‘Here.’ She groped behind her. ‘I brought an aerosol, thought it might keep cooler.’

  ‘Great!’ He pressed the nozzle, smothering the mango with a whoosh of frothy cream, which rose higher, higher, higher, like a miniature Mont Blanc.

  ‘Hey, Michael, stop! That’s far too much.’

  ‘It won’t stop! It’s got a mind of its own.’ The cream was still cascading out, spurting over his hands now, spewing on the rug. ‘Quick! Help me mop it up.’ He tongued a gobbet from his hands, then thrust his fingers into her mouth. She licked them. The cream was sweet and soft, his fingers hard and salty. She kept swallowing and swallowing, as if to prove herself again; gulping cream to show she was adventurous, not a puritan or prude.

  Michael laughed. ‘You’ve got a white moustache now. Here, let me lick it off.’

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly, pushing him away. His fingers in her mouth were disturbing and unsettling; had affected her whole body, put her on her guard. She was aware that she was sweating, despite the trees’ green cool; her skin damp and flushed, sticking to her clothes. She hardly knew this man yet, mustn’t let him think he could grab her when he fancied, then discard her as an easy lay, a slut.

  He had turned for consolation to the cream, retrieving it from the rug, piling it on bread, on cheese, on mango. ‘It’s delicious, isn’t it? Much lighter than the normal stuff.’

  ‘I expect it’s three-quarters air.’ Her voice felt strange, strained and slightly breathless, as if she, too, had swallowed air.

  ‘Just as well, since I can’t stop eating it.’ He sprayed the nozzle directly into his mouth, the cream filling it, and foaming out, gushing down his chin. He used his tongue to scoop it back, and she watched in fascination – the tongue so pink and quick, flicking, lapping, alive in its own right. He squirted in another dose, which overflowed like cumulus, so that he needed hands as well as tongue to cram it in and down. Surely the aerosol was empty now? How could such a tiny can contain that tidal wave of cream, and how could Michael consume it all and not feel sick or sated?

  ‘Ah! That was good,’ he said at last, leaning back against a tree-trunk and reaching for his glass. ‘I think I need a rest now. Top my wine up, will you?’

  Some rest, she thought ironically, as he began to pour out words instead of cream, launching into the subject of his future – and that of cardiac surgery – as he swigged from his replenished glass. She couldn’t follow all of it; was stymied by the technical terms, but still marvelled at his enthusiasm for all the new techniques. He was talking like a man in love; his whole face animated, his arms flung out and gesturing; one foot jabbing, as if a current of surplus energy was streaming from his leg into the ground. Her eyes were drawn towards that leg: the battered shoes, the once-smart trousers fraying at the hems, the scruffy-looking socks. He’d probably grabbed the first clothes he could find, whereas she had spent a good two hours sorting through her wardrobe to find the perfect outfit. She tried to imagine him with his patients in an immaculate white coat and shirt, shoes polished, hands well-scrubbed; giving them his full attention as they confided all their symptoms. Surely doctors should be sympathetic listeners, yet Michael obviously insisted on being centre-stage himself, and was still continuing to hold forth, lambasting the authorities now for their chronic lack of vision.

  She nibbled on a piece of mango, took a sip of wine. She needed to cool down. He was like another sun, one which couldn’t be shut out or blocked by hats and trees, but which scorched her and inflamed her, made her liquefy. She cursed the heavy skirt she’d chosen, longed to take it off. Yet she’d decided to play safe, take things very slowly – allow a kiss, but nothing more. She’d no intention of becoming his puppet, obeying when he pulled her strings, opening mouth or legs at his command. He’d already bossed her about on the matter of the food, expecting her to buy exactly what he specified, without the slightest regard for her own preferences or tastes.

  ‘Ouch!’ he yelled, breaking off his tirade about National Health muddle and red tape. ‘Some monster’s bitten me.’

  ‘Monster?’

  ‘Well, a midge. Or maybe a mosquito. It’s come up like a tennis ball! I’m very susceptible to bites.’

  She laughed at the idea that a giant of six-foot-three, weighing thirteen stone at least, could be vanquished by a midge.

  He slapped his arm furiously. ‘Thanks for all the sympathy. Any decent girl would see if she could help, not sit there roaring her head off.’

  She was astonished by his anger, which immediately fuelled her own. ‘Come off it, Michael,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not a stretcher-case. It doesn’t even look that bad.’

  ‘Oh doesn’t it? If you’re an authority on
bites, perhaps you’ve got some anti-histamine, or something I can rub on it.’

  ‘No – sorry, I’m not a nurse, though maybe you’re so used to them, you expect every available female to be rushing round with cold compresses and aspirin the minute you get tickled by a gnat.’ He’d mentioned nurses twice already, once at brunch, and once en route to Foxlow Woods – not nurses in the abstract, but individual girls with names and foibles. Prue loved cats; Jennifer had problems with her parents. She could see them in her head – Prue petite and dainty, with tiny hands and feet; Jennifer a flirt, flattering and fluttering in her affected Sloaney voice. Okay, so she was jealous, but she’d have suppressed her petty feelings if he wasn’t being so insufferable himself.

  ‘Actually, a cold compress might well help. Pass the Perrier, will you?’

  ‘Get it yourself.’

  ‘What in God’s name’s got into you? I’ve never known such a bad-tempered little bitch.’

  ‘I’m not a bitch. I just don’t like you giving me orders.’

  ‘Look here, Tessa. We’ve done exactly what you’ve wanted all damned day.’

  ‘Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed. I distinctly remember saying I wanted to go to Blenheim.’

  ‘I’m sick to bloody death of Blenheim. I took my foreign cousin there three months ago.’

  ‘Another nurse, I suppose? I hope she liked it.’

  ‘He’s a computer programmer, and no, he didn’t like it, and nor the fuck do I.’