Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  I’ve heard it all before, but never from these lips and as I watch her lips (pink, plump and wet) tip out this confession my cock stirs, almost shudders. And more unusual yet, there’s a tightening in my chest. I wonder whether I should kiss her. I watch her lips move. Temptingly. Tauntingly? What’s she saying now?

  ‘But that was then and this is now. You completely destroyed what I felt. I’m not in love with you any more and I never will be again.’

  She stares at me with the gaze of one who owns an uncomplicated soul. Where has her tortured soul gone? When did she work everything out? When did she still the longings and find the answers? Why haven’t I yet? A wave of excitement begins to slosh over me. It starts at my toes and seems to swell and build until, by the time it rises to my chest, it overpowers me.

  I watch Connie gather up her bag. She fishes out some notes from her purse and leaves them on the bar, insisting that this bottle of champers is on her. She walks out of the bar with the jaunty step of a free woman. She thinks she has just closed a chapter. She’s finally had the opportunity to say her piece after it festering for years. She thinks she’s just got even. She’s generous enough to be happy that she’s paid me the compliment and I’m that bit closer to knowing and understanding her. Women have complicated thoughts like that. And she’s thrilled that now it’s all over.

  But she’s wrong.

  By admitting she was in love with me, she has not slammed shut the door and drawn the bolt, as was her intention. Instead, she’s just pushed the door ajar. Opportunity scuttles in like a determined cockroach.

  If she was once in love with me, she can be in love with me again. And now, for the first time in a long time, I know what I want. What I need. What I must have. Connie.

  22

  Thursday 5 October

  Lucy

  ‘We should go on holiday,’says Peter.

  There, that’s why I love him. He knows me so well. He’s always with me. No, he’s a step ahead of me. A holiday is just what we need.

  ‘Alone,’I say. I’m trying to remember when we last got away alone and I mean truly alone, without nannies or Auriol, or the twins or even a BlackBerry. Peter has wandered through to the bathroom and is splashing water on his face to remove the day’s grime. He clearly hasn’t heard me.

  He says, ‘Auriol will love it.’

  Fuck what Auriol will love. Auriol would love staying at home with Eva if we left her enough DVDs and Smarties. I realize that this would be a terrible thing to say to Peter so I try another tack.

  ‘Do you remember the Maldives?’I call through to the bathroom.

  ‘Oh God, yes, it was beautiful there. I loved the Maldives.’

  We went a year before Auriol was born. We stayed at the Banyan Tree. It was beautiful, relaxed, spoiling and sophisticated. I spent the entire holiday wearing skimpy bikini bottoms and not much else. That was when cellulite was still something that only other women had to worry about.

  Peter re-emerges from the en-suite, sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his socks; he starts to cut his toenails. I hate it when he does this in the bedroom. I’ve spent a great deal of time and effort creating a love haven but no amount of chocolate velvet throws, walnut floorboards and slate-grey lacquer consoles can battle against the reality of treading on toenail clippings. It’s a passion-killer, no questions. Before we married I never saw him cut his toenails. Or sniff his armpits. Or scratch his bollocks. Or check for dandruff. He had standards. I push this extremely irritating line of thought to the back of my head and try to concentrate on wangling the holiday I desire. At all costs I must avoid a week at the middle-class equivalent of Butlins, an all-inclusive break at Center Parcs en famille.

  I kneel behind him on the bed and wrap my arms around his neck. I’m wearing matching Agent Provocateur bra and pants and a short silk wrap – he must have noticed. If he hasn’t, he certainly will when the Visa statement arrives.

  ‘It was so hot in the Maldives, I hardly had to pack a thing,’I whisper into his ear.

  Peter thinks about it and then a slow smile stretches across his face. He’s taken the bait and chosen a jaunt down Memory Lane. No doubt he is remembering undoing the side ties of my bikini bottoms with his teeth, as we made love on the private beach our rooms backed on to. Men are very simple.

  I start to nibble his ear. I can almost hear the sea lapping the shore as I remember his kisses. Back then, they still varied in intensity, hastening from dreamy to devilish. Nowadays kissing stays pretty neutral; I sometimes have to remind him to use his tongue. And we didn’t worry about the sand getting in uncomfortable places, or being spotted, or being bitten by mosquitoes. In those days we never worried about anything much. If I close my eyes now I can almost feel his careful caress, the exciting frisson. In the Maldives we made love on the beach, in the hotel room and on the veranda and we made honest love. We honestly made love.

  I clearly remember Peter confidently and expertly easing me from one position to the next, leaving me feeling fragile and cherished, while making him appear vigorous and robust; a cliché but a delicious one. Of course he was stronger then, no sign of a paunch. In those days he dared to confidently drag his T-shirt over his head in one, swift, practised movement. Now he’s more likely to want to turn off the light; he often sleeps in pyjamas.

  God, I feel hot just thinking about how it used to be. Remembering him and how he used to be. I wish he’d stop cutting his toenails and just turn to me and cup my breast in the cool, confident way he used to. I wouldn’t even make him wash his hands, despite the fact that he’s been touching his feet. I just long for his fingers to wander over my body again, to find the hottest place between my legs and to push upwards to reclaim me, to reignite me.

  I start to kiss his neck. Sod the holiday; we can talk about that later. What I need now is Peter. My Peter, the one who anticipates where I’d like to be touched next and knows the exact pressure I’d like him to apply. I need him to make me grunt, and growl, and moan.

  Suddenly Peter is kissing my lips. And I mean kissing. He pushes hard, sensing my urgency and the fact that, in this instance, I want a certain amount of authority from him. He pushes me back on to the bed and climbs astride me. He pulls my robe apart and sits back to admire the view.

  ‘You are so sexy,’he mutters.

  Finally, the penny has dropped. Yes, I am. He’d do well to remember as much and I don’t just mean once a fortnight. I pull his face back down to mine and start to kiss him again. I gently chew his lips and probe with my tongue. I feel his cock solid against my body. He’s clearly eager to go. I’m tempted to ask him to simply ride me hard and now. I so want to feel him inside me again, it’s been far too long, but I resist. I tantalize to increase his longing and mine. I want to please. To be desired. To desire and then to fuck.

  His kisses sear my lips – each one dissolves a jot of resentment or tension between us. I feel myself falling into the moment and it’s a glorious moment. I close my eyes and my mind and open my legs. I feel my limbs stretch and flex, ready to push and pull and fuel desire. I can smell my own cum. It smells fantastic. Raw and brave and young. It smells like chances and our history and the future.

  He licks, strokes and eventually strikes with the exact precision to leave me gasping, grateful, powerless, powerful. Sex, when executed correctly, can be the most complex contradiction; a daily mystery. We ride firm and fast and then change gear to luxuriate in the lust. I cling to him. Like a monkey, I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. We roll on our sheets, over and over and over again. Our limbs become tangled as we grab and grasp at one another, desperate to consume one another, to gorge and to satiate. Sweat runs down his back and slips between his buttocks, making his skin look like the luminous treasure I know it to be. I chase the stream with my pointed tongue. I come again and again. And with each delicious wave of ecstasy the weeks of frustration are forgotten and the gap between us is washed away.

  He howls and then falls off me.

&n
bsp; See, we can still do it with style and meaning.

  I wish this hadn’t been my first thought.

  Peter beams at me. I try to focus, something I struggle with if I orgasm violently. ‘So I should book us all a holiday?’

  ‘Yes,’I agree, with a broad grin. Men are so simple.

  23

  Thursday 5 October

  Rose

  The school hall is, as usual, horribly cold and draughty. There are six mothers gathered in the hall; as we chat to one another our breath billows in the air. Lyn Finch jokes that we look like a gang of dragons. We, the class reps who make up the Parents’Association, always arrive earlier than the governors. I suppose the businessmen and the vicar are busier with more important things to attend to, or at least they like to give that impression. The majority of class reps are the type of mums that have not been able or not wanted to go out of the home to work and can no longer remember when something could be considered more important than these meetings and all that they represent.

  Mr Walker, bless him, always tries to be on time, preferring to throw his lot in with the mums, rather than the men, on the committee. We’re all particularly fond of him because of this consideration and many others. Today when he bustles into the freezing hall, clapping his hands together in an attempt to keep warm, I hardly recognize him. He’s had his hair cut. He now wears a style which suits him and adds to his attractiveness, whereas before his hair fulfilled a more functional role – it gave his hat a target.

  ‘Mr Walker’s wearing new clothes,’whispers Lyn Finch.

  He’s got rid of his hacking jacket with the patches on the elbows and has ditched the brown cords. He’s wearing French Connection trousers and a Ted Baker top.

  ‘He must have a girlfriend,’she adds.

  ‘Why do you say that?’I ask. I’m irritated. How come Mr Walker can just waltz out and get himself a new partner when I’m failing miserably? Life is easier for men. Fact.

  ‘Well, he’s rather lovely, isn’t he? Very kind, great smile. I’d imagine lots of women would class him as quite a catch, except his dress sense used to be dire and gave the impression that he collected model aeroplanes. Some bright young woman has spotted his potential and realized that clothes do make the man – all she had to do to upgrade him was pop to High Street Kensington.’

  I don’t like Lyn Finch’s line of thinking. Mr Walker’s girlfriend shouldn’t be trying to alter him – he’s perfectly lovely as he is. Why do people have to go around changing things? Haircuts? Clothes? Marital status? Why can’t people leave well alone?

  ‘Is it just me, or is it cold in here?’asks Mr Walker.

  ‘It is a bit nippy,’I confirm.

  ‘How old do you think he is?’whispers Lyn.

  ‘I don’t know – thirty-three, thirty-five at tops.’

  ‘He always sounds like someone’s dad. “Is it me or is it cold in here?”’she mimics. ‘I bet he’s the sort of man who always asks about parking before he goes anywhere and he probably has a shed.’

  I always ask about parking before I go anywhere and I have a shed, so I don’t understand Lyn’s point.

  ‘The Vicar, Mr Jones and Mr Watkinson have all sent their apologies. I wonder, without them, can we squeeze into my office? It’s much warmer there,’says Mr Walker.

  ‘Are you being rude about the size of the gentlemen’s girths, Mr Walker?’asks Lyn. She can’t resist teasing him.

  I think she ought to have more respect. He’s young, yes, but he is the headmaster. Besides, with this new haircut he finally looks more manly. It’s not that the haircut has aged him – it’s more that it’s unearthed a new presence that presumably was there all along but hidden under the bowl-cut, circa 1979.

  Presence aside, Mr Walker blushes. ‘No, no, of course not.’

  The governors are extraordinarily fat. They look like characters from a Charles Dickens novel; the sort who run orphanages on a shoestring and gobble the profits.

  ‘You must call me Craig, at these meetings. Mr Walker is so formal.’

  ‘Righto, Craig,’laughs Lyn. ‘You can call me Mrs Finch.’

  Poor Mr Walker. He blushes again but marches us all out of the hall towards his office, with something akin to grim determination. He is young to hold such a position. When he was appointed a number of parents tested his resolve. They questioned his decisions on everything from uniform, to timetable changes, to the shape of the sports day trophy. The general belief was that he had to show he could keep the parents in check, because if not, how could he be expected to handle the children’s backchat? It was all rather exhausting and depressing to watch until it became clear that somehow Mr Walker does manage everything quite nicely. And now the parents are all fond and proud of him.

  The Head’s office is a far more pleasant venue for a school governors’meeting, although in the absence of external governors this meeting now ought to really be described as a Parents’Association meeting. Today we are meeting to discuss whether it’s practical to introduce cooked school lunches, an issue which needs the attention of the governors but grips the heart of the parents, on or off the association. As such we are unlikely to find a resolution today but it doesn’t stop us chewing over the issue.

  ‘The question is can we afford the significant investment required to employ outside caterers?’

  ‘We must find the money. The advantage of the children having a hot meal in cold weather can’t be overvalued,’says Lesley Downes, mother of Joe, Year Two.

  ‘And mums wouldn’t be challenged daily to come up with something creative for the lunchbox,’says Lyn. ‘Anything that means a job less for me gets my vote.’

  ‘Yes, but at least if you pack their lunch you know what they are eating. School meals receive such bad press, and unless we get Jamie Oliver to pop to Holland Park every lunchtime to check nutritional content, few of us have much faith in the quality of food made by external caterers,’I point out.

  ‘True, I don’t like the idea of my Katie and Tim eating chicken’s claws and bollocks and such,’says Wendy Pickering.

  I shuffle uncomfortably. Why does Wendy Pickering always have to lower the tone? I don’t think there’s any need for that sort of language, especially in front of the headmaster. It’ll embarrass him.

  ‘No, Wendy, of course not. None of us want to see the children eating bollocks, since it will only serve as an excuse for why so many of them spout it,’says Mr Walker, with a grin.

  Wendy smiles back. She thinks he’s a bit stuck up and she’s still testing him. I think he’s just passed.

  ‘Now without the governors we can’t definitively resolve this one. But it’s an important issue and I feel we ought to progress it. I think we ought to allow a number of catering companies to pitch to us. Say three or four? We could ask them to present menus and costing plans and if we are impressed by any of them, we can meet them and test the food.’

  ‘Are you suggesting taking us six women out for lunch?’laughs Wendy. ‘There’ll be talk. I can see the headline now: orgies at Holland House, womanizing headmaster caught spanking mothers who put their elbows on the table at mealtimes.’

  Really, she’s too much.

  ‘Six women, and the Vicar and good Mr Watkinson and Mr Jones,’laughs Mr Walker. ‘Let them talk. Print and we’ll sue.’

  ‘I think we should follow Mr Walker’s suggestion. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’I say, trying to drag the meeting back on to a more formal note. Clearly the lack of outside influence has had a detrimental effect on the proceedings and I don’t like things to be slapdash.

  We move on to the subjects of the firework display and the Christmas party. The firework party is organized, as there is an extremely efficient subcommittee dealing with it (I’m on that committee). Today we just have to hand out schedules detailing everyone’s duties for the evening. However, the Christmas party is looking shambolic; nothing is booked, not the venue, the DJ, the caterer or even glass hire. I’m panicked about this and think
we should have addressed the issue on the first day of term. No doubt all the decent venues will be taken now, and yet it’s impossible to get the committee to see the urgency of making a decision.

  ‘Why don’t we have it at school? It will save spending money on hiring a venue and then we can spend a bit extra on the food and drink.’

  ‘We can’t get a licence to serve alcohol on the premises, we’ve tried before,’I point out.

  ‘We should hire a hall,’suggests Lyn Finch.

  ‘Halls are too impersonal. It would remind me of being a teenager again and going to the local youth club disco,’says Lesley Downes with a mock shiver of horror.

  ‘I don’t know that that’s a bad thing. I’d quite like someone to try to stuff their hand down my bra and for me to get a high from half a pint of cider,’says Wendy Pickering. ‘It takes so much more nowadays.’

  How did this woman ever get voted to be class rep? I cough, embarrassed for Mr Walker, but he’s grinning. Such a good sport.

  ‘What about a restaurant?’

  ‘It gets costly and no one is ever happy with the way the bill is divided.’

  ‘How about hosting it in one of our homes?’

  ‘Well, whose house is big enough?’

  Lucy’s might be but they’d have to drag out my fingernails before I’d admit as much. There is no way I’m allowing her to become the hostess with the mostest. The last thing I want is for her to have a reputation for generosity stretching across the school. And she would go to town, embrace the whole school Christmas party as though she were entertaining the Queen, just to spite me.

  The debate regarding venue flows for about forty minutes. Every time somewhere appears to be agreed upon, someone or other comes up with an objection.