Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  She stood there at the window, screwing up her eyes against the floodlights’ silver swathes; seeing not the dapper garden, but the barren hills beyond. The moon was out already, but thin and frail – an invalid.

  Michael gave a mock shiver as he rubbed the clammy pane. ‘It’s a bit cold and dark for a walk, and probably too late for tea, so …’

  She knew he wouldn’t admit that, for all his apprehension, he was dying to go to bed with her, so she’d better do the decent thing and put him out of his misery by suggesting it herself. As far as April was concerned, she was away with a new and younger man, called Ivor. The name Ivor meant ‘Lord’ – she’d looked it up in her book of babies’ names – and a Lord was someone you obeyed. If Michael wanted sex, she must submit. No. Submit was the wrong word. It was her resigned and fatalistic state which had put him off the first time, when she’d lain passive like a sack of bones, freezing at his touch. She must feign some passionate response, even play the courtesan, forget herself in him. If one of them didn’t overcome their nerves, they’d land up watching television, goggle-eyed till closedown. It should be easier this time round. At least they weren’t in Michael’s home, with the omnipresent Eileen, and she wouldn’t have to worry about pregnancy, since she’d gone back on the pill.

  ‘Why don’t we try out this enormous bed?’ She tossed her coat and jacket on a chair, sprawled across the counterpane, reaching up her arms to him. Strange how small he felt, once he was lying right against her – no broad and powerful shoulders, no opera singer’s chest; even his hands modest in their size and strength – modest like their owner, too timid to unbutton her blouse. She began to do it for him, touched by his reaction when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. He was Jasper offered sirloin steak; Jasper allowed to chase the ducks; Jasper worshipping.

  ‘Oh, Tessa, you’re so beautiful!’ He put out a hand to stroke her nipple – timorously, as if frightened it might break. ‘May I … er … take your blouse off?’

  It seemed odd that he should ask, especially with such diffidence. Michaels stripped you bare, grabbed anything they wanted. She slipped it off herself, suspecting he would find it so daunting to undress her that she’d still be sitting in her skirt and shoes by breakfast-time next morning. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he and Eileen had made love with half their clothes on, to save them the huge challenge of removing them. She sat up on the bed, pulled off her skirt and tights as well, as if determined to show Eileen that there was a different and more flagrant way to turn her husband on. Though Michael appeared mesmerized by the sight of her bare body, and was gazing at it with something close to awe. He was still armoured in his clothes – jacket, shirt, trousers, tie, and a hand-knitted Fair Isle pullover – the last Eileen’s own handiwork, she guessed. No, she must banish Eileen from the room, concentrate on Michael – Michael Chalmers.

  ‘Darling, you’re just … just …’ He was lost for words. If only Jasper were there to help him out. The dog could practically talk made low gargling rumbling noises when he was excited or worked up, and had a whole impressive repertoire of whines and barks and yelps. All Michael had managed was a stifled exclamation as he ran his fingers through her hair. She shook it free provocatively, knew he liked to see it loose around her shoulders. The Eileen of the photographs had a short and rather sparse crop, tightly permed and flecked with grey.

  ‘You’ve got marvellous hair, so thick and … Oh, Tessa, I don’t deserve you. You’re too good for me, you know.’

  ‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Don’t say that.’ It alarmed her that he saw her as all-good – beautiful inside and out, innocent and virtuous – when soon she would have to leave him, betray his hopeless love. He had proved that love already in so many small endearing ways, continually buying her presents – things her Oxford friends would trash – a china dog which looked identical to Jasper, a pair of woolly gloves, some boring lavender scent more suited to a grandma. And even now, he was stuttering out his compliments, absorbed still by her hair.

  ‘It’s so dark it’s almost black, darling.’ He glanced down at the pubic hair escaping from her pants, as if comparing the two thatches, though his hand had strayed no further than her neck.

  ‘I’m going to award you a gold medal for your fuzz-pie! It’s the greediest damn snatch in the whole of Oxfordshire, and probably in the world. And it tastes fantastic, darling – a touch of the old caviar!’

  Michael Edwards’ taunting voice exploded through the room. She could hear his sensual laugh, feel his hungry mouth lapping up the caviar. She pushed the other Michael off, blundered out of bed, startled by a sudden intuition that her lover was close by – staying with his parents for the weekend. For the last half-year, he’d been so far away – in a foreign northern country with a high wall all around it – but now he was a stone’s throw down the road. She could reach his house in minutes, demand to be let in, dash up to his bedroom, naked, as she was.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Michael Chalmers, sitting up in alarm.

  ‘Er … nothing. I … I just need the loo. And I’d better have a wash while I’m about it.’ She grabbed her toilet things from the suitcase, locked the bathroom door. She was torn all ways – torn between the Michaels, torn between her duty and her memories of Oxford; recalling other tastes and smells – strawberries, mangoes, runny Brie, the taste of sweat and sperm. She unzipped her sponge-bag, her eye lighting on her pack of pills. It was the same batch she’d been prescribed in May – six months’ supply, most of which she had never used. When she’d dug them out two weeks ago, she’d been so overwhelmed with misery, she had found it quite impossible to force one down until much later in the day. The half-used packet seemed symbolical of the broken-off relationship, the underdeveloped foetus; of things begun, but not completed – thwarted, unfulfilled.

  She tossed the packet aside, drew out the tube of spermicide, which she’d decided to use as well as pill and condom. Three-way contraception was probably excessive, but she couldn’t be too careful; had no intention of conceiving again – not with the wrong Michael. She ran some water in the basin, unwrapped the floral soap. There were several other guest-soaps in a tiny wicker basket on the shelf, along with miniature shampoos, conditioner, and bath foam. She was tempted to take them home for April, buy her a whole shower of gifts, to make up to her for the lies and the deception, for the fact that she earned nothing, let her mother keep her, contributing only grouses in return. But she could hardly admit she’d been staying in a swish hotel, when she was meant to be at Ivor’s house, meeting his large family.

  ‘And when do I meet him?’ April had demanded, the day before she left.

  ‘You don’t, Mum – not after the way you behaved with Michael.’ She had said it semi-teasingly, softened her words with a laugh, but the ensuing silence had been fraught with guilt – guilt on both their parts. She had informed her mother that Michael had vanished from her life after that fateful Sunday lunch, so the bust-up was all April’s fault. It was only sheer good luck, she’d said, that she’d met another guy so soon, and she’d no intention of jeopardizing this important new relationship by bringing Ivor home.

  ‘But he is younger, isn’t he, Tess?’ The worry in her mother’s voice had amplified the guilt.

  ‘Oh, yes – he’s twenty-three.’

  Ivor wasn’t simply an alibi, but another kind of present for her mother. She had made him everything April could desire – dynamic, handsome, wealthy, and only four years older than herself. She longed to please her mother – as she longed to please this Michael – yet each case involved deceit and complication.

  She washed, and cleaned her teeth, applied the slimy spermicide, sprayed her breasts with scent – all as a duty, an offering to Michael. When she emerged, she found him sitting on the bed in just his underpants, peeling off his navy nylon socks. She stood rigid by the wardrobe, feeling the same distaste for his body as she had experienced the first time. Although he couldn’t be described as fat, his flesh was slack
and flabby, the consistency of uncooked dough. He had very little body-hair, apart from a few grizzled hairs untidying his chest. Even his underpants were saggy – plain white ones drooping down his thighs. Her Michael’s were low-cut and tight – black satin or bright scarlet – and he’d never keep them on when she was standing facing him stark naked; still less back away from her with such obvious agitation.

  ‘I … er … think I’ll have a wash myself.’

  Don’t go! she almost shouted, suddenly yearning to cling on to him, forget about good hygiene, ditch façades and duty, and simply pour out all her jumbled tangled feelings. If only she could tell him what the date meant: not the first of a new month, but the end of hope, of motherhood. But he had already closed the bathroom door, leaving her imprisoned in the labour ward – her baby fighting to be born, butting at her body, screaming its way out and down, only to discover that life meant death.

  She lay down on the child’s bed, pulled the covers right up to her chin. She was a kid again, on holiday with Daddy; nothing more expected of her than to enjoy the treats he provided: ice-cream in a silver dish, a donkey-ride, a visit to the zoo. Or perhaps he’d tell her a story. Once upon a time, there was a tall and handsome doctor. His name was Michael and he met a girl called Tessa, and they fell in love and had a son (whom he loved as much as life itself), and the three of them lived happily ever …

  She sprang out of bed, stood trembling by the window. Why was she so shivery when the room was boiling hot? She jammed the window open, cold air slapping at her face, noises rushing in: a foreign voice rising from the kitchens, a woman’s tinkling laugh, a discordant snatch of jazz. She gazed up at the rows and rows of lighted curtained squares – all these people interned in the hotel with her – foreigners and strangers, couples sharing rooms, but little else. She turned her back, surveyed their own stern room. It looked unfriendly, even menacing; the television blank and dead; the flower-print on the wall opening its devouring mouth, its stem engorged, distended.

  The bathroom door was opening. She shut the window quickly, stuffed her fears and horrors into the cellar of her mind. She could no longer be a frightened child – or even a carefree one on holiday – but must now become an adult, a sophisticated woman who could rouse him, take the lead. Michael needed help as much as she did, was standing marooned between the bathroom and the bed, as if awaiting her permission to come closer. He still had the white pants on, and his hair was neatly combed. She knew he would have combed his face, groomed his ears, polished up his eyeballs, if he’d felt that it would make him more acceptable – younger, taller, handsome, like the doctor in the story.

  Impulsively, she ran to him, put her arms around him, pressed his body close. She must give, not take – give him everything she could: all the love she had stored up in her childhood for her absent distant father, who’d rejected it; all the love she’d saved for Michael; bruised and hopeless love. Yet every time she thought of Michael she was paralysed again, missing him, desiring him, resentfully aware that Michael Chalmers couldn’t measure up – not even literally. He was shorter still without his shoes, and she had to bend her head to kiss him. His mouth tasted of Listerine – a sterile kiss in all ways, and nothing like that wild first kiss which had knocked her off her guard. He seemed unable to relax here, his lips tentative and stiff. She tried to slip her tongue inside his mouth, but he pulled away, glancing nervously over his shoulder, as if afraid of being watched.

  ‘Shall we switch the lights off?’ he murmured, already edging to the door.

  ‘If you like, but let’s keep this bedside lamp on. It makes a nice soft glow.’ It also made strange shadows, left pools of gaping darkness, where things could lurk which she didn’t want to see – tiny crippled embryos; deceitful smiling doctors looming at the door on Christmas Day. She removed the heavy counterpane, deliberately narrowed down her focus to Michael Chalmers, blocking out the other faces, trying to convince herself that they were safe and snug in a nice warm cosy room. She lay back on the pillows, reached out her hand, inviting him to join her.

  He crouched above her, uncomfortable and huddled, but his hazel eyes enthralled. ‘Oh, Tessa, I could look at you for ever! I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight because I can’t bear the thought of closing my eyes with you lying there beside me. It seems such a dreadful waste.’

  ‘Touch my breasts,’ she whispered.

  He obeyed, like Jasper – instantly – his hand clammy-damp with nerves; began talking almost too much now, as if compelled to fill the silence. ‘You’ve got this darling little mole on your left shoulder. Would you let me kiss it? There – I have! And I love those tiny golden hairs on your arms. Everything about you’s so amazing, Tessa. I mean, your breasts, they’re …’

  She drew him down on top of them, to distract him while she eased the dreadful pants off; the prick beneath them as self-effacing as himself: timid, small, and sheepish, and shrinking coyly back between the safety of his legs. She knew he’d be distraught because he didn’t have an erection – again – but she must pretend it didn’t matter, help him to relax. She shifted slightly, so that she could use both hands to try to stroke him stiff; also kissed him on the mouth, nibbling at his lips, inserting her deft tongue. She kept her eyes open, to study his reaction, check on any progress. He appeared lost in the kiss, savouring each sensation, his lips and tongue gradually responding, becoming more and more alive. But he remained dead further down, despite all that she was doing with her hands. He was wounded, incapacitated, his drooping prick a casualty. The hotel had become a hospital again, and now both of them were patients. But she must also play the part of nurse, restore his strength, coax him back to health.

  She rolled out from underneath him, so that they were lying side by side, then knelt above his body; sensed his shock, surprise, as she took the paraplegic in her mouth. It tasted of carnation soap, and felt pappy and inert, like a piece of tepid asparagus. She must treat it very gently, not use her teeth, as her Michael had adored, but sneak her tongue lightly round and round it, while her hand moved up and down. It was Michael who had taught her, so right that she should use her skills on the man who’d bring him back. He seemed embarrassed, wary, astounded, all at once, so she suspected it was a completely new experience for him, not part of Eileen’s repertoire. He was stiffening only slowly, making not the slightest sound; his silence quite unnerving, since she’d no idea whether he was enjoying it or not. The only noise was outside the door – footsteps shambling to a halt, a man’s deep throaty guffaw. Her hand and mouth both faltered, and she lay transfixed, frightened they’d burst in, despite the fact she knew the door was locked. She could hear keys jangling on a ring; held her breath in horror as one was inserted in the door. There was a fruitless fumbling rattle, another bray of laughter, followed by a muttered curse, then finally the footsteps lurched away, the maddening laugh fading into nothing.

  Michael, too, had faded into nothing. She was right back to square one – or worse – since her mouth was getting tired, and she had cramp in her left leg, where it was doubled up uncomfortably beneath her. Well, she’d simply have to start again. She’d been called a whore, a courtesan, and whores did what they had to, regardless of their own feelings.

  Michael was struggling to sit up, stuttering out apologies, suggesting that they stop, leave it till after dinner, or maybe even till the morning, when …

  ‘No, just relax,’ she soothed him. ‘You’ll be fine again in a sec. It was only the interruption which put you off your stroke.’ She was the mother now, the parent, explaining, reassuring.

  ‘But it isn’t fair to you. I’m getting all the attention and the pleasure, and you’re getting nothing back.’

  ‘Well, I only hope it is pleasure. Maybe I’m not doing it quite right. Would you rather I …?’

  ‘Tessa, it’s … it’s heaven!’

  His voice was husky with emotion, and his rapturous expression confirmed his words, gave them still more force. So why was he still limp?
Was there something physically wrong with him? That might be the reason why he’d never had more children – he was incapable of the act. Or could he sense the fact that she wasn’t genuinely involved; that her feelings, body, passion, were committed to another man, which meant she was short-changing him? She would never find her real Michael if she didn’t serve his namesake – that was the unwritten law.

  He continued to protest that he was doing all the taking, and she the giving, but she wanted it that way; felt no flicker of desire herself, only a relief that he couldn’t enter her.

  ‘I’m loving it, don’t worry. It’s great for me as well. But let’s try something different. You sit in that armchair and I’ll kneel between your legs.’

  ‘Oh, Tessa …’ He seemed overwhelmed, bemused, moving almost in a dream towards the pink plush chair. ‘Do you realize what it means to me when you do all this for me? I’ve never met a girl like you before. Well, I haven’t met that many girls at all. But you’re unique, incredible – so … so giving and so clever. And when you say it’s great for you, I just can’t tell you how that makes me feel. And even if I could find the words, I’m not sure you’d understand. You see, I’ve always been …’

  The sentence died away. She could see that he was close to tears; felt choked herself by the fervour in his voice, by his sense of humble gratitude. She suspected he was hinting at some sort of sexual problem in his past. Perhaps beloved Eileen hadn’t loved him physically – been prudish, even frigid; or perhaps he’d never satisfied her, or the two of them had been somehow incompatible. Whatever the frustrations, she mustn’t let him dwell on them, but keep him in the here and now; be the clever giving girl he’d just described.

  She knelt back on her heels, spread his legs apart, started gently kissing the insides of his thighs, then moved her lips towards his balls; also changed location from Somerset to the Cotswolds; moved her mind to another hotel room. The last weekend she’d been away with Michael, she had sucked his balls again; driven him half-wild, been almost too impassioned and voracious. He’d had to warn her to be careful; explained how vulnerable they were – much more so than his cock. ‘Look, if you hold them in your mouth with almost no pressure at all, then you can use your tongue quite firmly, draw it up from the base and gently lick the undersides, sort of pushing them against my prick, okay?’