by Sue Margolis
Most of the time, however, they went to bed and spent hours having the kind of sex that left Beverley reeling and walking on air for days afterwards.
Even when she’d thought they’d finished making love they rarely had. She remembered how, two days ago, she’d been standing in the kitchen eating another of her beetroot and salad cream sandwiches while he was buttering himself some toast, when he suddenly put down his knife, turned to her with a mischievous smile on his lips and said sorry, but he just had to have her one more time before she went home. He took hold of her shoulders and pinned her against one of the tall kitchen cupboards. As he kissed her he undid the buttons of the shirt he’d given her to wear and began biting and sucking her nipples. Then he pulled the crotch of her pants to one side and shoved two fingers hard inside her.
‘Tom,’ she cried out, her mouth full of bread and beetroot, ‘at least let me put down the blinkin’ sandwich.’
Laughing, he took it from her and threw it down on the worktop. A moment later he had undone his fly buttons. She watched his erection spring out of his jeans. Then, gripping her buttocks, he thrust himself into her over and over again.
He came quickly, leaving her gasping with frustration.
‘Come over here,’ he said softly, pulling her to the wooden peninsula unit standing in the middle of the kitchen. Directly underneath was a shelf. On it there lay a row of large cook’s knives.
‘Christ, what are you going to do?’ she gasped.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he laughed. ‘Go on, climb up and lie down.’
Giving him a quizzical look, she laid herself down. The unit was almost the same length as her body.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘shuffle towards the end.’ He pulled off her pants and told her to open her legs.
She let them flop open, and he stood between them and began running his tongue over her clitoris. Her gasps turned to loud grunts as he subtly altered the pressure, and went from light, fleeting, tantalising licks to firmer, longer caresses. She was on the point of orgasm when he moved away. She begged him to come back, but he didn’t. She was vaguely aware of him picking up a tall silver object from the worktop.
She cried out like a wild animal as she felt the cold, smooth metal make contact with the opening to her vagina.
‘What you have to realize,’ he said, ‘is that I haven’t so much got designs on you, as in you.’
Slowly, bit by bit, he eased into her the rounded end of the Alessi lemon squeezer.
***
If there were two or three days in a row when she couldn’t get to see him, Beverley sat on her bed and wrote him long, long letters telling him how much she loved him and was missing him and about all the wondrously disgusting things she wanted him to do to her.
‘I know I’ve got to end it,’ she’d said to Rochelle on the phone the day before, ‘but I love him... and the sex is just so utterly indescribable...’
‘Don’t, Bev, please. You’ll only me feel worse. Me and Mitchell did it last night and I’m still suffering from post-coital depression.’
They both giggled.
‘Look,’ Rochelle went on, ‘if you’re sure you really do love Tom, maybe you should start thinking about leaving Mel. It would be cruel to stay with him under false pretences. He’s not a fool. He’s soon going to see how miserable you are and realize something’s up. That you don’t really want to be with him. Chances are it’ll end eventually anyway.’
‘Possibly, but I just haven’t got it in me to desert him. He needs somebody to come home to. Somebody to love him and look after him. I owe him, Rochelle. If I hadn’t agreed to take Naomi’s money, he’d still be OK. Then there’s Naomi. I promised her and Tom this child and look what I’ve done to her. She and Tom would still be happy if it weren’t for me.’
‘The hell they would,’ Rochelle shot back. ‘Now you’re just being ridiculous. Only the Prince of Darkness could be happy with that woman.’
‘Well, at least I have to give them a chance to patch up their relationship. I must end it with Tom. And soon. The longer I leave it, the harder it will be.’
Beverley was replaying those last words in her mind and wiping away the tears when the phone rang.
She carried on wiping for a few more seconds. Then she turned towards the bedside table and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello,’ she sniffed.
‘Is that Beverley? Beverley Littlestone?’ It was a woman. She sounded extremely nervous.
‘Who is this?’ Beverley asked curtly. She never gave her name to strangers - even harmless-sounding ones.
‘Look, you don’t know me,’ the voice went on. ‘My name’s Mo. Mo Newbegin.’
The woman’s voice went up at the end of each statement, as if she were in some doubt about her own identity.
‘Oh, right,’ Beverley said, her voice immediately friendly. ‘Duncan’s mother.’
‘Yes. I’m Duncan’s mum. For my sins.’ She gave an uneasy giggle.
‘Goodness, this is so embarrassing,’ Beverley said. ‘I feel awful about never having met Duncan. I keep asking Natalie to invite him over, but she always finds an excuse. I’m convinced she thinks I haven’t come to terms with the religion thing and that I’m going to cause a scene, but...’
‘Look,’ Mo broke in, ‘that’s sort of what I wanted to talk about. You see, I’ve got Natalie here. I’m afraid she’s in a bit of a state and she asked me to call you.’
Beverley froze with terror.
‘Oh my God. What’s happened? Is she all right?’
‘Don’t worry. She’s absolutely fine physically. She’s just a bit upset. Well, very upset really.’
‘But how come she’s with you? She told me she was going shopping with her friend Allegra.’
‘I think that may have been a little white lie. She’s actually been here for the last couple of hours. Look, I don’t quite know how to put this, but she’s asked to stay with us for a while.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Beverley said, sounding confused. ‘What - overnight?’
‘No,’ Mo said gently, ‘for a bit longer actually. It’s just that under the circumstances, Natalie thought it best if she came to live with us. Just for a while. To give the two of you some space... until you get used to the idea.’
‘Live with you? What idea?’ Beverley exclaimed. ‘Sorry, Mo, I’m losing the plot here. Why on earth would my daughter want to come and live with your family?’
‘She’s been trying to tell you about it since Christmas, when it was first planned, but she kept getting cold feet. I know how hard it’s been for her, what with you being of the Jewish persuasion...’
‘Nobody persuaded us, Mo,’ Beverley shot back, her hackles not so much raised as standing to attention. ‘You make it sound like we worship some kind of ethereal double-glazing salesman.’
‘Oh, sorry. No, I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t think we’re anti-Jewish. We’ve got nothing against the Jews. No, not at all. And we don’t think you tortured and murdered our Lord at all. Well, not you personally. And we even like Vanessa... well, tell a lie - my husband Clive can’t stand her actually. Every time she comes on he calls her “that kosher pig”, ’scuse my French. I mean no offence.’
‘None taken, I’m sure,’ Beverley said curtly. ‘Look, Mo, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind telling me what the bloody hell, ’scuse my English, you are on about?’
‘Well, it’s Natalie...’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ she barked, sounding exactly like Naomi all of a sudden, ‘will you please spit it out?’
‘You see... well... Oh, Lord, where do I start? OK. You see, a couple of times a year we hold a special service at church where everybody stands up and gives their personal testimony about how they came to be born again. Take me, for example, five years ago I became a neo-virgin. My hymen grew back overnight. It was a miracle, an absolute miracle...’
‘Mo, I sense a distinct lack of spitting,’ Beverley growled.
&nbs
p; ‘Well, you see, the next service is at the end of the month and it... it always ends with half a dozen people being... Look, the fact of the matter is...’ She took a deep breath.
‘Natalie is going to be baptised a month next Sunday.’
***
Melvin got back from his therapy session, during which Wim had once again made it clear, in the most gentle of terms, that he should forget Rebecca. But suppose, he cogitated, just suppose, Wim was wrong. It wasn’t impossible. He was only human. What was more, the man wore a fez. Wonderfully helpful as Wim had been, surely that fact alone had to cast a shadow over his credibility. How many times had Melvin walked down the street, seen a man wearing a Salvador Dali moustache and a brocade fez and remarked to himself: ‘Ah, there goes a sensible, rational human being’? How could he sit back and let this bloke, who looked like he’d been dispatched to the Friary by surrealist central casting, tell him how to run his life?
He sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Without thinking, he yanked open the drawer in the bedside cabinet and took out his wallet. Somewhere among his long-ago-cancelled credit cards and photographs of Benny and Natalie as babies was a scrap of paper. On it was Rebecca’s home telephone number in New York. All her printed Christmas messages had included her number. Two or three years ago he’d written it down and kept it hidden in his wallet ever since. At the time he had no idea why he’d done it. Back then, although he had feelings for her, he certainly had no desire to meet her. He’d been far too ashamed of his business failure for that.
He looked at the paper. He still felt ashamed and humiliated, but not as badly as he had back then.
He looked at his watch. Three thirty. Ten thirty, New York time. He picked up the phone from the top of the bedside cabinet and placed it on the bed next to him. Then he lifted the receiver. Giving no thought to the fact that the Friary charged the same extortionate rates for phone calls as most hotels, or the likelihood of his wife walking in at any moment, he dialled Rebecca’s number.
***
Long ring, long gap. He could feel his heart starting to race. Suppose Wim was right. Maybe ‘Thinking of you, as always’ meant nothing. Perhaps she was just being polite. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she wrote that.
It’s what you say, he thought. It was like being on holiday and giving your address to the Dullard-Borings from Widnes who’d latched on to you for the entire fortnight. You insist they look you up when they’re in the neighbourhood. You don’t mean it. You’re just being polite and at the same time hoping the fuck they don’t get out of Widnes much.
Long ring, long gap. What if Brad answered? What was he supposed to say - ‘Hello there, you don’t know me, but I’m one of your wife’s old boyfriends and I’m simply phoning to say I that in twenty years I’ve never stopped loving her’? He was on the point of putting the phone down.
Long ring...
‘Fludd-Weintraub residence.’ Sing-song voice. Not even a hint of Yorkshire. Puerto Rican at a guess. Clearly the maid.
Melvin swallowed hard.
‘Er, oh, hello. Would it be possible to speak to Mrs Fludd-Weintraub?’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Could you just say it’s Militant.’
‘Pardon me? Is that Millie Tan?’
‘No, that’s Militant.’
‘Mr Milligan?’
‘No, it’s Militant. You know as in belligerent, combative, aggressive.’
‘Sorree?’
‘Mi-li-tant. That is M for mother, I for India, L for Lima...’
But before he could finish, Val, Bernard and Cilla, who’d been quiet for the last few minutes, suddenly started going at it again at full volume. It appeared that Val and Cilla were arguing in favour of a cup of decaf, while Bernard was complaining that the caffeine gave him palpitations.
‘Shut the fuck up down there, you cunting bunch of psychotic bastards,’ Melvin yelled. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’
‘Meesis Weintraub,’ the maid shouted, ‘you come queek. I think I got some wacko crazy man on the phone...’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean you. Sorry,’ Melvin blustered. ‘It’s just some people next door making a noise. Look, tell Mrs Fludd-Weintraub it’s Mr Littlestone. I’m an old friend.’
‘OK,’ the maid said, ‘I tell her.’
There was a pause.
‘Meesis Weintraub,’ he heard her calling, ‘shall I hang up? Wacko crazy person now say he Old Fred Flintstone.’
***
When Beverley arrived at the Friary just after four, bearing half of Marks and Spencer’s fruit department, her husband seemed noticeably distracted. Even when she broke the news of Natalie’s forthcoming conversion to Christianity, all he did was smile vaguely and say, ‘That’ll be nice.’
Several times she waved her hand in front of his face and said jokily, ‘Beverley to Mel. Come in, Mel.’ He immediately came back to earth, but was gone again a few seconds later. She hoped to God he wasn’t taking a turn for the worse.
Chapter 21
At the same time as trying to pluck up the courage to get Tom out of her life, Beverley had spent the last two weeks trying desperately to get her daughter back in it. Every time she rang the Newbegins, Natalie steadfastly refused to come to the phone. Beverley had stopped trying to discuss the situation with Melvin because the bit of his brain which dealt with concentration still wasn’t functioning. She assumed his vagueness and inability to focus on everyday issues was due to his having reached a particularly painful stage in his psychotherapy. Although Wim assured Beverley he was on the mend, he made it clear that Melvin hadn’t quite got to the point where he could start taking on parental responsibilities again.
Beverley turned to Rochelle, who told her (as did Queenie and Tom) that Natalie would get in touch when she was ready and that she should back off and give her the space she clearly needed. But when Natalie was still refusing to speak to her after two weeks, Beverley could bear it no longer and decided to take action.
She phoned Mo, determined to brook no objection to her plan or even let the poor woman get a word in edgeways.
‘Please don’t get me wrong,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m very grateful to you for taking her in, but I am Natalie’s mother and I need to find out why she feels she can’t talk to me any more. I must insist on seeing her. I’ll be round in a few minutes and I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her I’m coming because it might frighten her off.’
Mo Newbegin opened the front door of the small Victorian house.
‘Ah, Beverley.’ She smiled uneasily. ‘Do come in.’ Beverley stepped into the hall.
Mo gave every appearance of having just emerged from a Sketchley bag. Her calf-length floral skirt contained not so much as a hint of a crease. Her brilliant white pie-crust-collar blouse looked like it probably moonlighted in soap powder commercials and her flat green T-bar sandals were so highly polished that if Beverley had bent down only slightly she would undoubtedly have seen Mo’s freshly ironed knickers reflected in the leather. The woman was clearly in the prim of life. Even her straight chin-length bob looked like it had been cut with the aid of a set square.
‘I wonder,’ Mo said, giving a nervous giggle, ‘if I could ask you to take off your shoes. Only we’ve just put down brand-new twist pile. You know what it’s like with beige. Shows every mark.’
No, Beverley thought - this woman’s hymen hadn’t grown back just the once. A neatness fanatic like her would have trained it to grow back each time she had sex. Not that she’d have done it more than once – to make Duncan. The mere thought of a damp patch probably caused her to hyperventilate. Beverley couldn’t help thinking that Mo Newbegin gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘immaculate conception’.
‘Oh, no, that’s fine,’ Beverley said, kicking off her scruffy trainers.
‘Come through,’ Mo said, leading Beverley down the plastic carpet protector. The smell of baking bread wafted in from the kitchen.
‘Oooh,
what a wonderful smell,’ Beverley said by way of making polite conversation.
‘Yes,’ Mo said smugly, leading Beverley into the excruciatingly neat John Lewis living room. ‘I bake all my own bread and cakes and we grow all our own veg. There’s almost nothing shop-bought in this house. Oh no. I even make the church communion wafers.’
‘Goodness,’ Beverley said, feigning admiration and at the same time noticing that there was no TV or stereo in the room, only two bookcases lined with religious books.
Mo showed Beverley to the floral sofa. She hovered over the seat cushion for a moment or two until she was satisfied Mo wasn’t about to slide a newspaper under her bum.
‘I do hope you don’t think Duncan influenced Natalie’s decision to be baptised,’ Mo said, squatting on the edge of an armchair. ‘I mean, we brought him up to respect all religions. And I do so admire you Jews. I mean, you’re all so shrewd businesswise, aren’t you? I know it’s wrong to make generalisations. I mean, you personally - you’re probably not shrewd at all. Probably quite the opposite, in fact. Not that you’re stupid, I don’t mean that. Goodness, no. But it doesn’t matter what business empire you think of, you can be sure there’ll be a Jew at the helm. Aren’t I right, Beverley?’
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s quite the case,’ Beverley said, doing her level best not to get up and throttle the woman.
‘I mean, take Harrods, for example,’ Mo said, warming to her theme now. ‘There’s that little Al Fayed chappy.’
‘Actually, Mohammed Al Fayed isn’t strictly Jewish, Mo.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Oh. Well, he certainly looks it. Anyway, you take my general point.’
