Sleeping Beauties

by Mavis Cheek

  Do not be too clever. Do not say things like, In General I Support The Chaos Theory – or – Interesting Man, Balzac. Say things – when you are not smiling and looking agreeable – say things like, Oh Really? – or – I Never Knew That. And remember to nod.

  You have to be joking, thinks Gemma.

  But she is not.

  Where did intellectual equality get you? A packet of wine gums and a Saturday night in. That’s where.

  She says ‘Oh Really? I Never Knew That.’ Repeatedly. And she nods like billy-o when he says, ‘I Nailed My Colours To The University of Life.’

  She couldn’t believe it. The more you played the role, the more it worked. Was it so simple? Why was it so simple? What had she spent all those years being a bright young thing for, if all she needed was a bit of lipstick and a lowered IQ? You really just hung on to his every word, intimated he was someone you could look up to (keeping yourself a little lower than him to suit deed to words) and in general gave the impression that you were shy but arousable, and once aroused very dangerous.

  The red mouth said that. The red mouth said a lot of things. She heard it. The red mouth said Do Go On, Fascinating: and especially said it when she was at her most bored. The more bored she felt, the more she said Fascinating. Any minute now he’d think she was ESN, the way she appeared to have an intellectual orgasm over the efficiency of French toll roads.

  She drifted off. She thought, no wonder men and women found life ever after hard – it was usually based on an erroneous start position. After all, here she was all attention as he grappled with the difficulties of route planning, kilometres, ferry times, and there he was thinking that this was just the sort of thing she wanted to know. But hey presto, two years on and if he tried it she’d be saying, ‘Who fucking well cares if Cherbourg could fit in an extra sailing – did you collect the dry cleaning?’

  But this little game should be child’s play. She was a woman. Women were good at it. Not a lot had changed in a few thousand years. Ancient Hittite woman undoubtedly sat in much the same position in which Gemma sat now and flashed a juicy smile at the Ancient Hittite man she was after, while he engaged her in debate regarding the benefits of mud over stone for the bit hilani, and how he’d rather like to spend more time in the Lebanon sniffing cedar if he could get away for a few days. Quite what Ancient Hittite man and Ancient Hittite woman then went on to argue about after the first two years Gemma was unsure – what might the Ancient Hittite equivalent of dry cleaning be?

  Did you pluck those grasses like I asked you?

  Why can’t we have a brick kiln like everybody else?

  She opted for I Dug Up The Roots Last Time – a cry that must be beyond time or culture. She began to feel the part. She began to feel pretty and silly and feminine, and from the way he was looking at her, he was beginning to agree. Poor man, she thought rather fondly, it wasn’t – really – fair.

  She stroked the silk, licked her lips, and thought the investment had certainly been worthwhile. He admired the suit, and he admired her in it. Easy. Never mind that it really belonged to the bank manager.

  She went on listening, accommodating. Mustn’t forget that she had Chloe’s friend’s lipstick story to tell him if the conversation lagged. Didn’t seem any sign of that for the moment though. He was going great guns over his entrée.

  Keeping her red lips slightly parted, she let her mind dwell on such important matters as whether her Rafaello bikini from six years ago was still stylish enough for draping around the Château’s sunloungers, and whether she could do anything to stop her stomach draping itself around them too.

  She needed a pee and would have to be careful since she had said she knew the place well. Wouldn’t do to be tripping over the dustbins at the back. A silly lie, really. Imagine bringing a moron from Crawley here and telling him that peapod soup was a mere five pounds a bowl? Goodbye to all that.

  All the same, she needed a pee. She recrossed her legs. She would have to hang on until the waiter came and then hope by standing up he would immediately point her in the right direction.

  He had been speaking. She exchanged the grimness for bright cheer.

  ‘You smile a lot,’ he said. Not altogether delightedly.

  She swallowed, thinking If Only You Knew ...

  Out loud she said, ‘That’s because you are hugely entertaining.’

  He smiled. Looked questioning.

  She prayed he wouldn’t ask, because her mind had drifted a bit. Something about his MG, she thought vaguely.

  ‘Have a moule?’ she offered.

  He declined.

  ‘Go on with what you were saying,’ she said. ‘It’s fascinating.’ She gave a girlish giggle. ‘Really amusing.’ She gave a wicked pout and tapped his hand. ‘Go – on –’ she urged playfully, ‘Do.’

  He looked puzzled.

  He stared for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘You find my having a near miss on the N155 amusing?’

  Fuck.

  ‘No no – the bit before that.’

  What was the bit before that?

  ‘Foreign purchase rules or local cheeses?’ he asked, slightly irritatedly.

  She knew what to do.

  She leaned forwards.

  She traced the vein on his hand.

  She opened those big red lips in a wide inviting smile.

  She shrugged.

  And she said, ‘I just like the way you talk.’

  She widened the smile even further.

  ‘That’s all.’

  And from then on she concentrated.

  He really was rather nice. Just – well – not quite fully illuminated – one or two of the lights hadn’t been switched on. And not very demanding at all. In fact, now she came to think of it, he hadn’t exactly asked her much about herself at all. She had a cheering thought. He might not be demanding in bed either. She wasn’t exactly consumed with lust for him and the thought of attempting pyrotechnics with a medallion flapping in your face was ... She played with the stem of her glass provocatively, and felt a fleeting regret that he didn’t have a bit more brain about him.

  But what was she saying? Not very demanding? Couldn’t this be viewed as positive? Hadn’t she had all those demanding men? Hadn’t she been worn out by all that keeping up? Why did she want a male partner to be cleverer, brighter, more intellectually demanding than her? Why shouldn’t she have the edge this time?

  One very good reason.

  Back to the little beautician, Chloe, whose argument was growing more convincing by the minute. Chloe said, as she formed the top bow of Gemma’s naked lip, that Real Men ...

  Define this, said Gemma.

  The little beautician did.

  Real Men, she opined, were those interested in balls. First their own, and then anything ball-like made of rubber, leather or wood. Well, such Real Men would run a mile at too much cleverness. But you can be funny once, she said. Which was when she told her the Jo-Jo story. The kind of story, thought Gemma, which sorted out the ewes from the shepherdesses. She hoped she’d get the chance to tell it. It was too good to waste.

  ‘Use it wisely,’ said Chloe. Just like a fairy godmother granting wishes.

  So far he had talked so much, she hadn’t had the chance.

  But this was certainly a Real Man all right, hacking his way through a galantine of rabbit and grouse, the backs of his hands strong and suntanned, gold ring on his little finger, careless manner of chewing – and though clearly advanced from his Tabloid swigging rivals he was certainly not that mythological male creature who reputedly admired the female mind over female matter. Hard bloody job this, needing to be both attractive and good company, without being threateningly bright or asleep.

  ‘I am beginning to like you very much,’ he said. He meant it. She could tell.

  So I should think, she mused, the way I’ve been carrying on.

  ‘You are?’ she said.

  ‘Yup.’

  She pouted and puckered some more.

>   Think unneedy.

  Marriage.

  Security.

  Affection.

  Companionship.

  Don’t think.

  Dangerous to have such words brimming near those juicy lips of hers. She buried them quickly and nodded agreement that yes, indeed, Loire wines were the finest of all: Sancerre (she fluttered her eyelashes), Reuilly (and looked down, remembering Chloe’s recommendation to go easy on the eyes), Pouilly-sur-Loire (big, wide, welcoming grin), Chinon (a lick of her lips), Vouvray (ooh), Cabernet d’Anjou (aah).

  Already, she was sure, she could love this man.

  Gemma, she said to herself, Do You Love This Man?

  And Gemma said, ‘Yup.’

  Megan was in luck.

  Jim was quite, quite safe.

  ‘Oh really?’ says Gemma brightly, cursing herself for having momentarily lost it again, praying he hadn’t just said his granny died. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘No wonder that corner of France was adopted by so many kings and courtiers. Do you know that it has more than one hundred and twenty châteaux?’

  Gemma implies with gesture and expression that if she could, she would be swooning at the very suggestion. Her mouth lusting on his every word.

  ‘Yup. Each more grand and beautiful than the next, lying beside the banks of the area’s meandering waterways, their turrets and pinnacles reflected in the lakes.’

  Something of the old Gemma rises. It twinkles briefly in her eyes. She says, ‘You sound as if you could write a guidebook for the place.’

  He looks pleased.

  She knows perfectly well that that is from the guidebook about the place.

  He takes her hand. He looks enamoured, serious, convinced.

  ‘You say all the right things. You look all the right way. You aren’t too serious about life. I thought you might be the right one.’

  Serious about life?

  Me?

  Gemma shrugs again as if Life was a mere bagatelle. ‘I’m all for fun. Life in the fast lane. I’m like your MG really.’

  ‘Classy bodywork,’ he says, with as much pride as if he were Oscar Wilde at his peak.

  She has not rehearsed the MG, and hopes she will not be called upon to know more than that it has bucket seats and wire wheels and is British Racing Green. He doesn’t seem the sort of chap who would want his girlfriend to understand the finer points of piston slap, otherwise she would have read it up. Like she read up the Loire, thus knowing he has swallowed the Blue Guide whole.

  They eat on.

  Eventually she gets to the loo safely without appearing to be unfamiliar with its whereabouts. She does this by observing other women, and when she is sure they are not going for a quick look in the kitchens or slipping out the back way because they Just Can’t Stand Any More Of It, she takes the same route.

  She notices how all these women return with smoothed hair, refreshed faces, the animator’s paint. The loo provides quite a relief in more ways than one. Here she is herself again. She leans towards her reflection and applies more glossy redness to her faded smile. She looks in the mirror, and exaggeratedly mouths, Sublime to the Ridiculous. Which is satisfying for some reason.

  If the woman who appears beside her in the mirror thinks her odd, she doesn’t show it. How can she, when she is frowning and concentrating on the twist of an eyebrow, the shine of a cheekbone, the position of the curl?

  Back at the table she mentions finance, forgetting for a moment that she should not expose her knowledge.

  His eyes cloud.

  She says brightly, ‘But I Know Nothing.’ And immediately adds, ‘My beautician told me a funny story. Want to hear it? It’s a bit risqué.’

  His eyes light up. She crosses her fingers and hopes he is broad-minded, remembering Megan and Jim’s reaction. She begins.

  ‘Jo-Jo’s friend Mike has two married friends, Pam and Eric, who are getting divorced. They are not getting divorced amicably. In fact, Pam and Eric have had to be separated by the police on several occasions. Over the weeks Jo-Jo’s friend Mike has oscillated as a listening ear. One night Eric, one night Pam. Sometimes it could be acutely boring. But not on this particular night ...’

  She checks. Is he listening? He is. But he is not concentrating. She smiles to herself. He will be in a moment. Carry on ...

  ‘Eric apparently has a girlfriend. Pam, though not wanting her husband, is nevertheless not happy about this. She has been away for a week and when she returns, she rings up Mike, in some perturbation, and arranges to meet him in the Dog and Duck. Where, over a bottle or three, and having railed to Mike about the Other Woman, Pam becomes extremely tired and emotional. She can scarcely speak.

  ‘Nevertheless, she suddenly stands up, climbs on to a table, and declares to the world, as assembled in the Dog and Duck, that the one thing she can never forgive Eric’s fucking fancy woman – ever – is that when she, Pam, came home from Lanzarote, – and here she, Pam, nearly fell off the table with acute emotion – when she, Pam, returned to her home – she found that his fancy woman had left – and she stabs the air at each subsequent word – had left Her Lipstick On My Vibrator.’

  Gemma stops. She looks at him. His face registers astonished speculation.

  Perhaps Jim’s response was unusual? For a moment she thinks she has gone too far. Then his expression changes – to slight confusion – but overriding lust. She breathes a sigh of relief. Thank you, Chloe, she thinks, thank you.

  *

  The meal is over.

  Duck with Peas at his suggestion.

  Duck is his favourite.

  He pronounces Canard with the d.

  Very good, she says.

  Very greasy, she thinks.

  And hopes she isn’t sick.

  It has been Very Hard Work but she knows that she has won.

  ‘Will you come to France with me soon?’ he says, fondling her hand.

  No pudding, then? she thinks, disappointed.

  ‘Will you?’

  Gooey and gummy, of course she will. Was ever woman won thus? Indeed she was. Was ever man seduced thus? Indeed, indeed he was.

  Her heart, which should feel elated, feels dry.

  Now they are outside, on the pavement, leaning up against his car. She has put a little scent in her cleavage which the warmth of the night brings out. And she has put as much energy into that mouth of hers as she possibly can. Up to him now, to consider its coloured mobilility and dream of where the redness might be smeared and lost later on his skin. So she knew. And she waited, the pulse between them, for confirmation.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me back?’ He made a sort of scuffling with his nose in her hair. She blinked, right into his medallion, and was surprised to find she had made a mistake. He wanted to go to her place. Damn. She had confidently and pointedly told Megan that the flat was theirs for the night.

  Megan or Jim, and sometimes both, snored. They ate from cartons which would be in the kitchen. Megan might well have washed some of Jim’s socks and underpants and they would be drying in the bathroom along with Megan’s mammoth bloomers. None of that went with erogenous promise.

  Oh bums. Now he was nuzzling the nape of her neck, and his chin rasped slightly, tickling her very pleasantly. She could get up a head of steam, she was sure, if only they could keep the thread alive.

  ‘I really like you,’ he said. ‘So come on. How about asking me back for coffee?’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to be a real Bimbo and say, ‘But we’ve just had coffee.’

  Instead she said, ‘My mother’s staying.’ As fibs go, not bad.

  He stopped nuzzling immediately.

  She put up a hand and touched him on the cheek.

  ‘Mothers!’ she said brightly. And then she tickled his chin.

  He was beginning to look twitchy.

  Oh well – in for a penny, in for a demi-château. ‘You could ask me back,’ she said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Um.’ And then, ‘Oh.’

&
nbsp; She got quite wheedling. Perhaps he hadn’t done the washing-up? Perhaps his underpants were festooned around the place. She would just have to reassure him, that was all. She brightened her smile, widened her gleaming lips. ‘It can’t be that far,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And I really don’t mind.’ She moved closer. She planted a kiss with moist parted lips upon his cheek. She breathed rather than spoke. ‘Really I don’t.’

  He jumped as if scalded.

  He looked hunted.

  ‘Ah,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she laughed, ‘that you’ve got a mother there too ...’

  ‘Um. Oh.’ He shook his head. Suddenly he looked as if his medallion was too small for him. His eyes bulged slightly, and he had changed colour. She decided to ignore the unattractiveness for the Greater Good.

  ‘Not a mother exactly,’ he said. And then, as if yielding to a greater force nudging him from on high, he added, ‘Actually, a wife.’

  Sod the Greater Good.

  A wife?

  A fucking WIFE?

  She looked at him anew.

  He was positively gross.

  Her mouth reverted to normal with extraordinary facility. Indeed it went, immediately, rather thin. ‘You never said,’ she accused.

  ‘You never asked,’ he said indignantly.

  Truth was never honest. Never.

  She had been quite prepared for anything. Mother, father, any amount of siblings – even, perhaps, she thought wildly, a goat or two – but not – most definitely not, a wife. How much of a wife? she wanted to ask. I mean, big? little? some of the time? all of the time?

  ‘Children?’ she asked.

  He nodded and had what was in her opinion the serious temerity to look proud. ‘Two. Boy and a girl. Six and ten.’

  Six and ten? Hardly poised on the threshold of life.