by Sue Margolis
‘Please,’ she begged, ‘please.’
‘Ssh,’ he whispered. ‘What’s your rush?’
The next moment his finger, still outside her pants, was thrusting repeatedly into her. She could feel the roughness of the lace inside her and let out a gentle sigh. Finally he made her lift up her bottom and pulled off her pants. Barely conscious now, she let her legs fall open.
But instead of doing what she wanted, he turned her over once again. As she knelt on all fours, he placed a couple of pillows under her stomach.
She felt more oil. Lots this time, dripping down her buttocks. He began sliding his hands over her bottom. The next thing she knew, he was running his fingers towards her swollen, aching clitoris. The moment he touched her, she cried out in delight. He rubbed her, flicked and teased her, varying the pressure all the time. Just as she was on the point of coming, he moved away from her and drew himself on to his knees. He spread open her labia and pushed himself into her. She thought she would come within seconds, but he teased her clitoris, keeping her going until he was ready to come. Finally the thrusting stopped and he rested his head on her back. Her orgasm, powerful and blissful as it was, reminded her nevertheless of Melvin’s decrepit Passat and the way its engine overran when the timing was out.
‘I know this sounds daft,’ she said afterwards as she lay wrapped in his arms, ‘but until this moment I think I’ve always felt like a virgin. Now I’ve got this sudden urge to tell the entire world that at the age of forty-two I finally lost it. Maybe I should throw a coming-in party.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, laughing. He began trailing his finger from her navel to her pubes, ‘You know, Bev, I promise we’ll make up for lost time.’
‘Really?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘OK, then let’s do it again. Now.’
She let out an exceedingly theatrical moan.
‘Hang on,’ he chuckled. ‘What are you doing? I haven’t touched you yet.’
‘I know,’ she giggled, ‘but I couldn’t wait, so I started without you.’
***
While Beverley and Tom devoured each other, Melvin shovelled fridge-cold bolognese sauce into his mouth.
Beverley had left him a note reminding him she was spending the evening at the pictures and that Queenie and the children had gone to see My Fair Lady at the kids’ school. She also told him to heat up the bolognese sauce and pour it on the fresh M&S spaghetti she’d left in the fridge, but he was tired and miserable and couldn’t be bothered. Instead he’d taken the Tupperware full of sauce from the fridge, along with a bottle of Budvar. Then he’d gone into the living room and plonked himself down on the sofa, the TV remote at his side.
As he ate the cold sauce, complete with solid globules of pale orange, tomato-dyed fat, he took the occasional swig of beer and channel-surfed. The best he could come up with was a documentary on the Serengeti or an ITV quiz show. He plumped for the quiz show.
‘So, Donna from Billericay - you’re going for answer number three,’ the quiz master gushed. ‘And remember, ladies and gentlemen, if she gets it right, our Donna will be taking a state-of-the-art deep-fat fryer home to Billericay tonight. So, Donna, you say a Pavlovian response is one which comes about as a result of craving for meringue...’
Melvin grimaced and stabbed the remote again.
‘And just before we end this edition of Watchdog,’ Anne Robinson was saying, ‘a quick word of warning to all you snorers out there...’ He’d been about to hit the remote again and go in search of football on Sky, but the word ‘snorers’ had caught his attention.
‘People have been e-mailing us all week,’ Anne Robinson continued, ‘to complain about some electronic snoring devices - reputedly developed for Mir, the Russian space station. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. Anyway these are they...’ She held up two five-pence-coin-sized pieces of white plastic. Melvin leaned forward on the sofa, holding a forkful of bolognese sauce in mid air. Fucking shitting bollocks, they were his, the ones Vladimir had sold him.
‘According to the advertisements which have been cropping up in all the national newspapers over the last few weeks, you put this in your ear - yes, you did hear correctly, your ear - and hey presto, it’ll stop you snoring. The manufacturers don’t explain exactly how. Funny, that. Well, it seems there are hundreds of gullible punters out there who’ve shelled out twenty pounds for these things which, according to the ads, are “guaranteed to put an end to snoring”. Right, let’s give one a try.’
Melvin’s heart went from canter to gallop as he watched her place one of the anti-snoring devices in her ear.
‘Well,’ Anne Robinson said, grinning broadly, ‘I have to say that the only thing this will put an end to is a decent night’s sleep. You see, the moment you put the thing in your ear, you discover that what you’ve in fact bought is a miniature radio and, lo and behold, you start picking up - wait for it - Radio 5 Live. I kid you not. Right now, even inside the studio here, which our engineers say is pretty well shielded from radio transmissions, I’m getting full live commentary on Nottingham Forest versus Birmingham City, loud and clear. And Forest are one down already...’
Melvin lowered his fork and stuck it into what remained of the bolognese sauce. Then he picked up the Tupperware and his beer bottle and placed them both on the coffee table in front of him. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He didn’t punch sofa cushions. He didn’t start ripping at his clothes. He stared with his mouth open.
Above all, he was just puzzled. He’d been selling Vlad the Impala’s in-ear anti-snoring gadgets for a month without a single complaint. OK, his own desperation and wishful thinking had prevented him testing the devices himself. It was quite possible that if they simply didn’t work very well, customers wouldn’t have bothered to demand refunds. But surely if they were useless and also picked up Radio sodding 5, there’d have been a riot?
Then, his lips moving, he repeated to himself what Anne Robinson had said: ‘People have been e-mailing us all week.’ All week! It was the latest bunch, the last case he’d opened, that he’d been selling for the past ten days. These were the ones which were faulty, and which, by utterly horrific bad fortune, Watchdog had got wind of. Melvin had thought they were a slightly different shade of white when he saw them. They must have been a different design, and thanks to the incompetent, useless Russian cretins making them, they were going to be his final nemesis.
Even a congenitally unrealistic man such as Melvin knew what would happen now. Once they’d been on Watchdog , the game was totally up. It would be no use squealing that they were a dud consignment. He would never sell another, and half the OK ones would probably come back if they hadn’t effected a total cure. By a stroke of atrocious, definitively, exquisitely Melvin-esque luck, the game was up.
There was now no hope of his clearing his overdraft under his own steam, unless Vladimir turned out to be the most honourable Russian businessman ever born and refunded him for all the soon-to-be returned devices.
As for Melvin making his fortune from Russian space technology, fat chance. Of course, he wouldn’t now go bust because Beverley’s surrogacy money would come to the rescue. As she’d paid it into their joint bank account, he wouldn’t need to ask her for the money or even discuss it. All he had to do was make one phone call to the bank and ask for it to be transferred into the business account. But to Melvin it still felt like a handout. The humiliation would be too much to bear.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled our Rebecca’s crumpled Christmas card. He still had fantasies about her carrying a torch for him and couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He sat gazing at the ‘thinking of you, as always’ part of her message - as he had done umpteen times since Christmas. Then he wished to God - as he had done umpteen times daring his adult life - that he’d gone into business with her instead of walking away.
‘Just think what I could have had,’ he whispered to himself as a single tear started rolling down his face. ‘And what have I got? Bugger fucking all. Here
lies Melvin Littlestone, the fifth Beatle of the bagel business. Rest In Torment.’
Chapter 18
Once again, Queenie took her powder compact out of her handbag and dabbed at the non-existent shine on her nose and chin.
‘Bev, are you sure I look OK?’ she asked anxiously, snapping her compact shut.
‘Mum, how many more times?’ Beverley said, starting to get fed up. ‘If you put any more powder on your face you’ll start to look like Marcel Marceau in drag. Believe me, you look fine.’
Queenie and Beverley were standing by the front door, looking out for Lenny’s car. Naomi had been as good as her word. She’d phoned Queenie a couple of nights ago to arrange their long-awaited reunion, which was going to double up as a meeting to discuss the day centre scandal. Queenie asked if she could bring Lenny, since he was her co-conspirator. Naomi said the more the merrier and suggested the three of them met at the Dorchester for coffee. If she was honest, Queenie had been hoping her daughter would suggest lunch or dinner. After all, they hadn’t seen each other for six years and they had so much to say and catch up on. But so desperate was she to see Naomi and tell her about the scandal that she buried her disappointment, said coffee would be lovely and that she couldn’t wait.
‘Look, it’s you Naomi wants to see,’ Beverley went on, still doing her best to reassure her mother, ‘not your clothes.’
‘I dunno. Maybe I should go upstairs and put on something a bit more dressy.’
‘Mum - enough,’ Beverley said, finally putting her foot down. ‘You’ve already changed three times this morning.’
At that moment there were several loud beeps from a car horn.
‘Right,’ Beverley said, ‘that’s Lenny. Now then, off you go. And have a wonderful time. Give Naomi my love.’ She kissed her mother on the cheek.
‘You sure these trousers aren’t a bit past it?’
‘Mum, just get outa here.’
But Queenie was already halfway down the garden path. Beverley closed the door and stood with her back resting on it, praying that her mother’s reunion with Naomi would live up to her expectations. After a few moments she went upstairs to run a bath.
***
‘Oh my God, you didn’t?’
‘I did,’ Beverley said, colouring up. The portable to her ear, she scooped up a handful of bubbles and deposited a tiny fizzy mound on each of her nipples. She’d waited a week to tell Rochelle about having slept with Tom. Somehow, sharing the news, even with her best friend, felt like she was betraying Mel even more than she had already. Then, just as she was about to get in the bath a couple of minutes ago, she realized she couldn’t keep it to herself any longer.
‘Oh my God. You and the gorgeous Tom. Of course I knew you would. Oh my God.’
‘How? And stop saying “oh my God” all the time. Makes you sound about fourteen. So come on - how did you know?’
She flicked the foam off her nipples and watched a few tiny bubbles float up into the air.
‘Well, of course nobody else noticed, but I saw the way he looked at you during Christmas lunch... out of the corner of his eye when he knew you weren’t watching. I could see he fancied the pants off you. And now they’re off. Oh, God, please tell me you were wearing new ones and not those vast flesh-coloured jobs I usually see hanging on your washing line. I mean, a couple of tent pegs and you could camp out in them.’
‘Yes,’ she said, raising her eyes heavenwards, ‘I had on new ones.’
‘So,’ Rochelle said, ‘is this serious or... um, just a flash in the pants?’
‘Ha, blinkin’ ha,’ Beverley said, sitting up in the bath and turning on the hot tap. ‘We’re doing our best to keep it light. You know - passionate, but casual.’
‘Blimey. Bit of a contradiction in terms, if you ask me. And you think you can keep it like that?’
‘We’ve got no choice,’ she said, swishing hot water round the bath. ‘You know as well as I do we can’t afford to get serious. We’ve both got partners. I’ve promised to give Naomi this baby. There’s just too much at stake.’
‘So you’re not about to leave Mel, then?’
‘Look, I won’t say I haven’t fantasised about it over the last few days. But you want to see the state he’s in just now, Rochelle. He’s so depressed. I feel awful even thinking about leaving him.’
She turned off the tap. As she began soaping herself, she explained that for the past week Melvin had barely spoken to her. Or to the children, come to that. She told Rochelle that when he wasn’t at work he would shuffle round the house in his old slippers and dressing gown, or sit slumped in front of the TV for hours on end. Although he was still showering, he hadn’t shaved in days and he only put on clean clothes if she left them out for him.
‘It did occur to me that somehow he’d found out about Tom, but knowing how jealous he’s become lately, I reckon he wouldn’t hesitate to confront me if he thought I was cheating on him.’
She told Rochelle how she’d begged and pleaded with Melvin to tell her what was worrying him, but he always refused to.
‘He’s clearly never going to come to terms with me becoming a surrogate. I know that now. But I’ve got this gut feeling there’s more to his depression than that. I think it’s got something to do with money. I mean, when I brought up the subject of these toupees he started selling a few months ago and asked how they were doing, his face turned almost purple with fury. Couldn’t tell you why. Even if they bombed, we’ve got plenty of money to pay off the bank. I don’t get it. Our financial situation couldn’t be better, and yet he’s going round the house looking like his world’s come to an end. Anyway, I’ve decided there’s no point in forcing the issue. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.’
The conversation skipped a couple of beats.
‘You know something, Bev - you’ve changed.’
‘I have?’ Beverley said, slightly taken aback. She put the soap back on the soap dish. ‘How?’
‘Well, for a start you’re putting yourself first for once in your life. You’re also playing the bad girl for a change. I mean, if I’d turned to you a few months ago and said you were about to start shagging your sister’s lover, you’d’ve had a fit.’
‘I know. The thing is - and God forgive me for saying it - I think I’m enjoying being bad. All my life I’ve had to consider other people - Naomi, my kids, my mum. Now I’ve realized I just want some fun... God, you think I’m being really wicked, don’t you, having an affair - particularly with Mel in this state?’
‘It may not be the wisest thing you’ve ever done, Bev. You’re certainly putting your marriage and your relationship with Benny and Natalie at risk. But wicked... ? No, I don’t think you’re being wicked. Believe me, I could see it coming. You and Mel have lived through some crappy times. It would have been different if there had been some passion there to fall back on, but there never was. If it hadn’t been Tom, it would have been somebody else.’
‘But I’m cheating on my seriously depressed husband with my sister’s lover, for Chrissake. And he’s Catholic. That’s it. God’ll probably send down an eleventh plague just for me.’
‘No, he won’t, Bev,’ Rochelle laughed. ‘Listen, of all the people I know, you are the kindest, the most caring and the most loving. If there is a God up there, believe me, He knows that too. Don’t worry. You’ll get off with a dose of thrush. Maybe hairy nipples, if He really wants to make an example of you.’
Beverley smiled.
‘Thanks, Rochelle. Hearing that means a lot to me. Honest.’ She paused. ‘By the way,’ she said, picking up the soap again and running it over her armpit, ‘Naomi was never in therapy.’
Rochelle hooted so loud, Beverley had to move the phone six inches away from her ear.
‘Now there’s a surprise. Lying cow. I told you she’d never change. Mel told you the same, but would you listen...?’
‘All right, Rochelle, I get the point.’
‘God, I bet you’re livid. Tell you what, she’s sti
ll in Cornwall, isn’t she? Let’s drive down there now, garrotte her with her Prada belt and ram a giant piskey up her.’
‘Don’t think it didn’t occur to me,’ Beverley laughed. ‘I’m still furious with her. I just don’t know why she had to lie. Anyway, I’ve decided to let it go for the time being. I mean, I’m sleeping with her bloke. I don’t think this would be the right time to claim the moral high ground, do you?’
‘Maybe not. But she is infertile, right?’
‘That’s what I asked Tom. He seems pretty sure she is.’
Rochelle grunted.
‘Watch her, Bev. I tell you, she’s bloody devious. My breast implants are more honest than she is.’
‘Yeah. You’re right. I need to have it out with her. But not yet. I just can’t, not while I’m seeing Tom.’
‘I know... Listen, Bev, I know you said you’d keep this affair casual, but it may not be that easy. Don’t let it run too long without making a decision about you and Mel.’
‘It won’t come to that, Rochelle,’ she said firmly. ‘Believe me, I’ve got this thing completely under control.’
‘OK, Bev. If you say so,’ Rochelle said gently. ‘Listen, I gotta run. I’m due at David Lloyd at ten.’
‘I thought you’d given up the gym.’
‘I did. Then I heard about this cute new trainer they’ve got working there. I tell you, Bev, I took one look and hired him on the spot. He’s called Dartford. Six six if he’s an inch. Makes Mr T look like Eddie Izzard.’
***
Still laughing, Beverley reached over the side of the bath and let the phone drop on to the mat. Then, grabbing both metal handles, she eased herself into a sitting position and started to climb out. She was convinced the new tub was at least a foot narrower than it had been in the shop. This was particularly bad news because in just over three months from now she would have morphed - as she inevitably did in late pregnancy - into Lard Woman. Even if she smeared her bum with butter, she would never get out of a bath as narrow as this. She winced as she pictured a scene involving six hulking firemen smashing the side of the bath with axes while she lay there on her back and helpless, like some giant stranded aquatic beetle.
