Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  The flat itself had shocked her – the clutter and the mess, dirty dishes piling up, clothes flung on the floor, beer spilt on the carpet, cigarette-burns on the once attractive furniture. Even now, Jo was using a pot-plant as an ashtray, and Tristram struggling to peel an orange with neither knife nor plate, juice spurting everywhere. He was the one who planned to do obstetrics, though she shuddered to think of him delivering vulnerable babies with that dirty scruff of beard, which barely hid the acne on his chin. Nobody had mentioned patients, and when they’d talked about the hospital, it had been mainly to complain, Michael more than any of them. He’d been ranting on about social workers (‘cretinous and meddling’), GPs (‘second-rate dropouts opting for an easy life’), psychiatrists (‘all bonkers’) and geriatricians (‘more half-dead than their patients – need pensioning off en masse’). The only doctor he admired was his own consultant, the famous Thomas Thornton, who, apparently, could do no wrong. Tessa was beginning to feel as jealous of Sir Thomas as she was of the blonde goddess, especially now that Michael had steered the conversation from sea and surf back to blood and guts.

  ‘I was in theatre with him yesterday, and he stitched in a valve in less time than it takes old Braithwaite to scrub up. He’s a real virtuoso, with this incredible technique. And you’d never believe …’

  Tessa switched off, took refuge in her orange juice. She had refused the beer and wine, having already drunk more than enough with Colin – nearly killed herself cycling up Headington Hill an hour or so ago. She should have stayed with Colin, not told him all those lies; might be letting her hair down at that party on the barge, instead of sitting like a lemon with a group of virtual strangers. Even Michael seemed a stranger, using terminology she couldn’t understand, and still extolling the skills of his boss.

  ‘I don’t know whether you realize, Tristram, but he’s pioneering a method of repairing aortic aneurysms with material from a donor-bank of human tissue, rather than using gortex. The implications are mind-blowing, especially for congenital heart disorders. And you should have seen him yesterday! He had this impossible septal defect, which no one else would touch, and he simply …’

  ‘Cut the crap, Michael,’ Tristram interrupted, swallowing one last orange-segment, before wiping his hands on his creased and baggy trousers. ‘You talk as if you spend all day in theatre. I’ve only been three times in five weeks. Most of the time I’m slaving on the wards, taking endless boring bloods and endless boring histories, and so are you, if only you’d admit it, instead of trying to convince Tessa here that you’re Thornton’s second-in-command.’

  Tessa looked up in surprise, noticed Michael flush; his dark brows shuttering down over piqued defensive eyes. Certainly he had given the impression that he spent at least half his time with a scalpel in his hand, or conferring with Sir Thomas over their latest joint emergency.

  ‘And we’re paid a pittance,’ Peter interjected. ‘A friend of mine went straight from school into a job in advertising, and he’s living like a king now. I’ve trained for bloody years, and still can’t face my bank manager.’

  Tristram spat out an orange pip, flicked it on the floor. ‘And no doubt your advertising friend pigs himself silly every day on expense-account lunches at some gourmet restaurant, while we poor glorified ward-clerks are lucky if we find the time to grab a roll and butter in the hospital canteen.’

  Tessa felt still more confused. Was Michael just a ward-clerk instead of an up-and-coming surgeon, and how could he earn a pittance when he drove that flashy car, indulged in four-course breakfasts at luxurious hotels, and had just returned from what sounded like a pretty pricey holiday in Greece? Perhaps his doting mother gave him an allowance – a bonus for an archangel – or he had private means, or …? There was so much she longed to know, so many conversations they hadn’t had – might never have, if he was always so elusive. He had scarcely said a word to her this evening – well, nothing really personal or meaningful, just asked her a few vague questions about what she’d been doing with herself since they last met. She could hardly confess that her every waking thought had been focused on his absence, so she’d prattled on about Eights Week and all the college bops and parties; let him think she’d been living it up, as he had. She should never have phoned him in the first place, let alone dropped everything and come racing round the minute she’d heard his vintage-claret voice. She felt completely out of her depth – a naive and awkward student among a bunch of cool professionals, who had salaries (however low), experience, commitments, patients in their care. She was also overdressed, dolled up in her glad rags, while they wore casual gear – or uniform in Jo’s case.

  She glanced across at Michael, who was wearing red tonight, a brilliant scarlet sweater, which clashed with his red wine, emphasized his suntan, set off his dark hair. He made Colin look anaemic – pasty-faced, unhealthy. And yet Colin had been a tower of strength, offering instant help in her ‘emergency’ – could he lend her money, or make her tea before she left? – support and comfort, in return for craven lies.

  The tall blonde suddenly erupted from the sofa, tugging her brief mini over bronzed and shapely legs. ‘Sorry to break up the happy party, but Pete and I simply must push off. We’re meeting Roger in the pub, and we’re frightfully late already. Why don’t you all come too?’

  ‘Good idea!’ said Michael. ‘We’re running low on booze here, and I could do with something to eat.’

  ‘I’m on nights, so count me out,’ groaned Jo. ‘Though I wish to God I was back on that Greek island, with nothing to do but laze in the sun and …’

  ‘And take your clothes off,’ Tristram grinned.

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again. Will I ever live it down?’

  ‘No,’ said Jennifer. ‘You won’t. And we’d better put our clothes on. It may be hot in Vassiliki, but it’s freezing cold in Headington. Just listen to that rain!’

  ‘Tessa, where’s your coat?’ Michael shook the last few peanuts from the bottom of the bag, then licked the salty crumbs up from his palm.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it. The pub’s only round the corner, but you don’t want to get drowned.’

  She followed him into the hall, so she could inform him sotto voce that she didn’t plan to join them, would cycle back to college, catch up with some work.

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived.’ He swung round to face her, obviously put out. ‘I’ve got loads and loads to tell you.’

  ‘If you mean about your holiday, I think I’ve got the gist already.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Listen, Michael, you might at least have mentioned the fact that you’d be away for several weeks.’

  ‘Ten days. And if we’re going to argue, I suggest we do it in private, rather than embarrass all my friends.’ He strode into his bedroom, pulled her after him, then slammed the door behind them both.

  She leaned against the wall, keeping a safe distance from the bed, and trying to sound reasonable, controlled. ‘Never mind how many days. That’s not the point at issue. You completely disappeared, without a …’

  ‘I sent a postcard – two, in fact – one of a taverna near our villa, and one of the whole bay.’

  ‘How odd. They never arrived.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘No, I’m merely saying that I didn’t get your cards – or any hint or warning that you’d be away at all. The last thing you told me was …’

  There was a sudden hammering at the door, a hail of shouts and catcalls, as the others trooped out into the hall – was Michael bloody coming, and could he get a move on, they hadn’t got all night.

  Michael changed his voice to breezy, shouted through the door. ‘We’ll join you in the pub, okay? We’ve got a spot of business first.’ He grimaced at the inevitable taunts about the nature of their ‘business’, then sat down on the bed, his tone now petulant. ‘Look, I couldn’t tell you, Tessa – there simply wasn’t time. It was all a spur
-of-the-moment thing. Tristram had organized this villa party with Joshua and Pam and a few other bods we know, but I wasn’t all that keen myself, told him to count me out. Then one of the group cried off, just a day or two before the flight, and there was a bloody great kerfuffle about finding a replacement, preferably a guy, to keep the numbers equal – all that sort of crap, so in the end I let them talk me round. I was damned lucky in a way. It’s usually a problem getting locums at short notice, if you decide to go away without planning it in advance. But I knew this fifth-year student who was almost begging on his hind legs for the experience. So he was happy, I was happy, and …’

  ‘And I was quite delirious.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘I feel sarcastic. Can’t you see that I was worried?’

  He shrugged. ‘I assumed you’d got my cards.’

  ‘Perhaps you forgot to post the blasted cards. They’re probably basking in the sun, or lying in a darkened room, recovering.’

  He grabbed her by the wrists, almost shook her in exasperation. ‘Listen, woman, never mind the cards! The posts are lousy anyway, and half of Greece is usually on strike. What’s important is I missed you – thought about you every fucking day. Why the hell d’ you think I phoned you the minute I got back?’

  ‘Tristram said you got back a week ago.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, Tessa, I do have a job, you know.’ He let her go, sank down on the bed.

  ‘Okay, okay, you’re busy. I understand.’

  ‘I wonder if you do? I’ve worked a hundred and seven hours since our plane touched down last Thursday. The weekend was so pressured, any good the holiday did was entirely cancelled out. I came close to cracking up, if you really want to know. We kicked off on Saturday morning with an emergency at eight – a guy with multiple stab-wounds which only just missed the heart – then we had a slow death in intensive care, and by Sunday midnight we were still admitting patients for Monday’s list. And for that marathon stint I actually earned less per hour than the bloody hospital cleaners. They get time and a half on Sundays, while we poor suckers are only entitled to a third of our usual rate. Anyway, I won’t bore you with the horrors of the system. I can see it doesn’t interest you.’

  ‘Look, it does, of course it does. It’s just that …’

  Her voice was swamped as he continued with his outburst; face now turned away from her, hands yanking at the duvet. ‘This is the first sodding day I’ve had time to get my breath back, and what do I do but brave that lousy traffic in the town, to leave a note at Balliol for some ungrateful bloody bitch who accuses me of lying.’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, then let his back and shoulders droop, as if he’d suddenly lost heart, had no more powers of argument.

  The silence in the room seemed a more vehement reproach than the fury of his tirade. She rubbed her wrists, which were hurting still; edged towards the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, honestly. I missed you too – a lot.’

  ‘Did you? I’m surprised. You sound as if you’ve hardly had the time.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, Eights Week and your college ball, and all those trendy parties. Even if I’d been kneeling at your feet, would you really have been able to tear yourself away?’

  ‘Oh, I’d have fitted you in somehow,’ she said airily, relishing the fact that even the swaggering Michael Edwards could be jealous. ‘Why don’t you kneel now?’

  ‘Kneel to a woman? You must be joking. You kneel.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why should I? You were the one who suggested it.’

  ‘Okay, let’s both kneel. We’ll kneel to one another.’

  They subsided to their knees at exactly the same moment, Michael watching Tessa warily, as if frightened she might cheat. A yard or two of carpet stretched between them, a dingy pinkish carpet, patterned with blowzy flowers. Again at the same moment, they began walking on their knees, one towards the other. Their mouths met first, and joined. The kiss was very slow. Everything was slow – his hand sauntering down her throat towards her breasts; the drone of a car dawdling past the house; his stealthy tongue loitering in her mouth, gliding over her teeth, nudging at her lips. It was so different from the picnic. He seemed to be treating her as fragile, something precious which might break. Yet she felt as strong as Magog, empowered by the delirious fact that he still wanted her, desired her, had thought about her ‘every fucking day’, fought traffic jams and downpours to leave a note for her in college. And it wasn’t simply words. The proof was his great corduroy erection, champing at her groin, the corrugated velvet chafing through her dress.

  ‘I’m boiling,’ she whispered, shrinking back from the clutches of his sweater, which seemed to be mumbling her as well with its fuzzy scarlet tongue.

  ‘So am I.’

  They caught each other’s eye; burst out laughing for no reason they could think of, except the absurdity of still having all their clothes on. She unzipped her dress, pulled it off, while he eased the tight-necked jersey over his head.

  ‘The suntan really suits you, Michael. How far does it go down?’

  ‘Not around my bum, alas. They’re still surprisingly strict in Greece. Even topless is forbidden, let alone bottomless.’

  ‘We’re not in Greece,’ she challenged, hand moving to his belt. She helped him slide his cords down; the mahogany tan dulling to light caramel on the private strip between his navel and his groin. Shouldn’t he be paler there – almost white, as he had been at the picnic? She could see him lying in the lecherous Vassiliki sun, as naked as the sultry blonde beside him, her thatch a platinum candyfloss, with Michael’s hand exploring it. Dr Michael Edwards didn’t obey pettifogging rules about sunbathing with nothing on, or screwing randy nurses.

  She suddenly pushed him to the floor, climbed on top, skewering herself on his traitorous tanned prick, then thwacking hard against him, building up an angry lunging rhythm. He immediately picked up the rhythm; his prick so deep inside her, it seemed to be anchored like a limpet, so that he was butting every fold and crevice, every hidden cranny. Neither said a word. She hadn’t energy to speak; needed all her stamina to keep slamming, circling, slamming; he following every movement, like her shadow or her double.

  She leaned right back, hands stretched out behind her and taking all her weight; knees hurting and uncomfortable, pressed down on the floor. The pain was nothing, lost in fiercer pleasure. He was now reaching forward to slick her with a finger, and the two matched but different probings – one shallow and one deep – were creating an unbearable momentum, in which she must either explode or stop. She arched even further back, so that there was more of her to touch, felt his finger slip inside, almost to its hilt; knead and fret, like a second, smaller prick. She was crying out for him to stop, with great yammering choking gasps, but the word ‘stop’ meant nothing, nothing, and suddenly all the wild sensations clashed and seethed together, and she slumped forward on his chest, still whimpering and pleading, ‘Stop stop stop stop stop!’

  ‘Christ! I love your comes, Tessa. You make such a marvellous racket. You must have woken the whole village, including all the corpses in the graveyard.’

  She laughed, still half-ashamed, and uncramping all her limbs now, stretching like a cat. ‘You didn’t come, though.’

  ‘How could I, when you kept yelling out ‘‘Stop! Stop!’’?’

  ‘I really meant ‘‘Go on!’’’

  ‘Crazy girl.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. It was pretty damned fantastic. You felt incredible, you know – all plumped up and moist inside, and sort of closing round me like a demented sea anemone.’

  She turned over on her side, hand ruffling his dark pubic hair. ‘But you’re still stiff.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t we …?’

  ‘In a while – no rush. Let’s lie down on the bed. This floor’s too bloody hard.’

  �
��I haven’t got the strength to move.’

  ‘So shall I pick you up?’

  ‘No fear!’

  Michael struggled to his feet, grabbed his sheepskin coat, which lay crumpled in a corner – looked as if it had been left there since May Morning. ‘Here, lie on this. The carpet’s filthy dirty.’ He laid it fleece side up, rolled her gently on to it, sprawled out again beside her.

  ‘It’s all tickly,’ she observed, taking hold of one of the sleeves and stroking it against her breasts to contrast the two textures.

  ‘Does that turn you on?’ he asked, obviously intrigued.

  ‘Mm … It does a bit.’ She yawned indulgently, spread her arms and legs apart, luxuriating in the softness of the fur. The clips had fallen from her hair, which was escaping from the bandeau, tumbling round her shoulders. She tugged the headband off, tossed it on to Michael’s naked chest. He picked it up, wound it tightly round his prick, as if to keep it still erect.

  ‘You’re beautiful like that,’ he said. ‘All heavy and shagged out, and showing everything you’ve got. No – don’t close your legs. I want to take a look.’ He knelt up on the floor, spread her thighs again, both hands reaching down. ‘You’ve got these quite amazing labia, which stick out like little wings – except they’re almost hidden by this wild and woolly fuzz. What a bush! Look – it even strays halfway up your stomach.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I hate that.’ She made a face, tried to push his hand off. ‘You’re meant to use these creams and things to strip the straggly hairs off, tidy it all up.’

  ‘You dare! If you don’t like it, turn over on your front.’