by Dawn French
My desire for a rub-down is simple. The cleansing. I want to rid myself of any previous sordid desires and I want to prepare myself for the pure beauty that lies ahead. I want to be clean in thought, word and deed. Well. In thought and word at any rate. Well. In word.
I’ve always imagined a Turkish bath would go some way to bowdlerizing one’s less savoury memories. Perhaps the folly of former misdeeds would in turn be steamed, rubbed and slapped out of every pore? Perhaps the vigorous scrubbing would purge one of improper imaginings? Perhaps. One would like the option to try it at least. And of that there is very little chance in these hereabouts.
I wanted to be squeaky and fragrant at Delinquent Dora’s party, for what was in essence my first real date with Wilson. I simply can’t conceive of how I have foolishly overlooked him in the past. My Noel goggles were an ill-fitting pair with utterly the wrong prescription.
In lieu of a Turkish bath, I chose instead to ablute in Mama’s bathroom since she was conveniently absent and since she also has by far the most superior products in the house. I lit a fresh candle and soaked in something oily and jasminy and divine. I made use of her magnifying mirror with all its alarming revelations. I’d never fully realized just how errant my eyebrow hairs have become. They are positively cheeky. Some of them are presuming they are entitled to grow between the two brows. I think not. I attacked at once with tweezers. Back, sir! Back! Have at you, you varlet! With patience and a modicum of skill they were tamed. I can be quite appealingly assertive when required.
Suitable attire for a sister’s Eighteenth Birthday Party? Quite frankly, the answer, surely, is the humble smoking jacket. Yet again. One simply cannot fail to impress with its classic timeless panache. They really do make ideal loungewear, smart daywear and stylish partywear, and I do believe they truly are synonymous with comfort.
Obviously, I don’t own a couture model myself as yet but my custom-made gown must suffice for now. Black silk slacks, brocade slippers, a generous helping of the Pater’s Brylcreem, a Jezebel of a brooch, and I was ready.
Darling Dora really was a peach all day, and everso grateful for the bracelet I gave her. I should co-co. That trinket cost me forty-five English pounds. Cash I was sorely tempted to spend instead on a big fat Havana cigar to go with my jacket. However, one only comes of age once apparently and, much as she bullies and annoys me, I can’t help loving the silly creature. I think it’s that I know she would always bat for my side if called upon, and likewise I would for hers. Lord only knows which team I’m batting for at present …
Wilson arrived, promptly, at the party, transported here by his doting mother, who came in for light refreshment with the Pater. I find it hard to refer to him as ‘Luke’ as he has requested, only because it seems so significantly intimate, and hell’s bells, we haven’t so much as held hands thus far. Although, of course, I anticipate that blissful scenario with bated breath. I acquiesced to his offer and called him by his Christian name, and what a very solid, biblical, good and true name it is. How well it suits him. It has air in it, suitable for an angel, but it also has profundity, suitable for a man. Truly, he is both.
I noticed immediately that he had taken much care with his appearance, and felt flattered that it might be on my account. He was sporting a cerise shirt with an oversized collar and a lilac tie with an oversized knot. The oversizing was promising, I felt … He wore drainpipe slacks of the black denim variety and a large studded belt. He had the look of a young Jarvis Cocker but with less geek, and much more tendril action about the golden hair. So much lovely curly blond hair. He must have been a cherub as a child. I noticed that he wore cowboy boots with a Cuban heel, and shamefully I pictured him in only those. So much for the cleansing bath …
We kept ourselves to ourselves for much of the evening since Desperate Dora had invited the oddest group. I think she is a little bit Directionless Dora since the split with Lottie. However, we did have a dance together to Girls Aloud’s ‘Sound of the Underground’, she and I, during which I noticed Wilson … Luke … couldn’t tear his eyes from me. I threw in a couple of my PlayStation dance mat moves for his benefit, and did my reputation as a smooth hoofer no harm whatsoever.
Later, when the karaoke began, I chose carefully and sung Eartha Kitt’s version of ‘Mad About the Boy’. I directed it to the whole room with the occasional sly glance tossed in his direction. It was oh so subtle, but I knew that boy could read me like a well-thumbed saucy book. He appreciated the sentiment, of that I was certain. I needed no further proof when we settled down next to each other on the sofa under a blanket to watch The Little Mermaid with all the gals. We were forced up against each other, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. It was completely thrilling.
He whispered to me, ‘You know I think very highly of you, Oscar, you do know that, don’t you?’
‘I do indeed, my dear boy. You have in the past led me to believe you are not entirely indifferent to me.’
He continued, ‘I’m fully determined to accept you, should you ask me to step out with you, you’ve certainly been long enough about it.’
I laughed. ‘I feel bound to tell you, Luke, that I have conducted a lengthy meeting with my tempted self and, believe me …’
‘Oh do shut up and ask me, Oscar.’
‘Luke Wilson. Might you consider … ?’
Quick as a flash he interrupted with, ‘Yes, I will. I do. I am. Whatever.’
We sat for a while saying nothing, just watching the mermaid learn how to use her legs in order to pursue her prince. He crept his hand into mine under the blanket. I ventured, ‘Might I attempt a little wickedness?’ to which he replied, ‘Not here, Oscar, no. But know this, I will never forgive you if you should never try again.’ What a gloriously sassy fellow. How delightfully fresh.
So, on my sister’s eighteenth birthday it happened. At last, I am partnered. I took off my smoking jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘I want you to have this, Luke. I can’t bear for you to ever be alone or cold again.’
SEVENTY
Mo
Guilt. It’s definitely lurking uncomfortably. It fills every waking thought to the brim. There’s no more room for anything else. Especially more guilt. If my mind sprung a leak, and some of the giddy seeped out, leaving an inch at the top for new thoughts, I would only permit more lovely, frothy giddy to be poured in. I am suffused with it, full up with it the way a balloon is full of air, right to the very edge. There is no crevice or cranny where a shard of guilt can lodge. It tries to, but I am resolute. I am staunchly defending my right to be this much in denial. I know full well what I’m doing by deciding not to feel uncomfortable feelings. What I can’t quite discern yet, is the line between this delicious adventure and my real life.
I went to work as per usual on Dora’s eighteenth birthday, after a delightful start to the day where she grudgingly allowed me to participate in the well-wishes. She genuinely seemed to love her gift, the iPhone she has been coveting for the last year. It was Husband’s idea to get it, against my better judgement. I thought she should have something more lasting, more memorable. Some important first piece of substantial jewellery, perhaps? But he was right, an iPhone was what she really wanted, her happiness at the sight of it was palpable, undeniable.
The day was just a day. An agonizingly slow day which seemed to have the brakes on. All of my concentration and energy was bound up in the tension of what was to follow. Honestly, I ought to give my clients a refund for the second-rate service I gave. I don’t think they noticed, which, ironically, is disappointing, but nevertheless I know I wasn’t entirely present, and that’s not good. Not being there is bad, but not minding that is worse. That’s what I don’t: I don’t care.
I ordinarily loathe people like me. Yes, I think I do genuinely loathe me at the moment, but it’s hard to investigate that when I see myself reflected in his eyes as the opposite of loathsome. His eyes. My God. His eyes are the only place I want to look and the only place I want to be seen.
I want to be held there in the strength of that irrefutably unflinching gaze, held in marvellous suspension. Held by him. I can’t wait for that.
Lisa herded us out at the end of the day and I faked a kind of reluctance to go. I’m not sure why I did that, except perhaps as a feeble attempt to throw her off a trail I don’t think she’s even on. Maybe I have taken her hunting and scouting skills far too seriously. She is wearing a helmet now. A sort of safari hat customized to hold lots of tools and instruments, small knives, screwdrivers and corkscrews, along with what appears to be an assortment of medical or dental apparatus. I even spied a good-sized hammer. She ushered us out using a shepherd’s whistle and we jostled along and obliged. I climbed into my car and drove off.
By the time I pulled into the empty car park of the cricket field, my breathing was fast and shallow, and I was continually repeating the mantra ‘Oh my God, oh my God’ under my breath, to try and keep my focus and excitement in check. I whipped out my make-up bag and hurriedly upgraded the daytime face into an evening one. A smokier, glossier face that just might get itself kissed again. Noel saw me only five minutes ago, wouldn’t he notice the difference? Of course not. He’s male. My hand was shaky, the rear-view mirror was too small, too dark, awkward. Breathe, Mo, breathe.
It was a forty-five-minute drive to the hotel, a sufficient distance from town to be safely anonymous. Husband and I have often passed comment on this particular hotel. How we’d like to go there for a ‘special’ occasion, y’know, treat ourselves sometime.
Oh dear. Banish him from all thoughts, quickly. If he is ensconced anywhere in this scenario, I won’t be able to continue. Squeeze eyes tight (trying not to ruin new smoky make-up) and push all thought of him away. Go away, Husband. You won’t want to see this. This will hurt you.
I sat still in the car for a few minutes. He’s waiting inside. Why did I sit there? I didn’t need to summon courage, I was definitely going in, no question. I was struck by the horrific thought that perhaps I was sitting there for effect? How dreadful. Was I sitting there because that’s what people do when they’re on the brink? For the first time in my life I slapped my own face. Quite violently.
Come on, Mo, if you are going to do this, to risk everything, at least have an authentic experience. Feel it. Smell it. Touch it. Know it. It might be the only time this ever happens, so be utterly in the present. Come on!!
With a stinging cheek I stepped out of the car and crunched across the gravel to the entrance of the hotel, a Gothic pile glowing red with warm welcome. In my hand I felt the straps of my handbag and the substantial leather handle of my small overnight tote bag. In that bag was the evidence of my intent. A new, strappy silk nightgown and a washbag. Two items that said it all. All deceit was contained right there.
As I entered, I saw him immediately sitting by the fire in the small bar, in a high-backed armchair with another empty one opposite for me. There were only two other people there, an elderly couple sitting in the corner playing a round of cards, who gave me a cursory glance. That’s all.
Noel stood up to greet me, and took me into an easy, familiar embrace. As he kissed my cheek and invited me to sit down, I wondered how we must appear? We were … what? … husband and wife? Lovers? Even in that tiny gesture of welcome, we had overstepped a very important line. We were pretending to be something we weren’t. Yet. He remembered that I drink cider and he ordered me half a pint.
‘You’re here then,’ he said, quietly.
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘I’m so glad you came. I know it’s not easy.’
Oh Noel, how wrong you are. It’s actually very easy because I’m not connected to anything that would make it difficult. I am adrift from all that. I am only focused on you, nothing else. Thank you for wearing that crisp clean blue shirt and smelling of someone very recently shaved. Thank you for sitting in that chair where the firelight glows on your face and pronounces your lovely smile so softly. Thank you for being from New Zealand which is so far away that I have been able to make that part of the exoticism. The distance is the place I am operating in. I can be sufficiently lost there. And, especially, thanks for concentrating on only me, to the exclusion of everyone, everything else. You and me. That’s all that matters. Us.
He leaned in. ‘I didn’t want you to feel compromised in any way, but I thought it would be easier if I booked the room, so it’s all ready whenever we are … Might be more private there? Or not, if you’d rather stay here? No prob either way. Genuinely. No prob.’
This has been the case at every stage so far. Other than the forthright kiss, he has carefully, considerately let me take it all at my pace. Which is why it was ‘no prob’ to guzzle down the cider in one mannish gulp and be heading for the stairs, hand in his hand, within thirty seconds. I followed him to the room and into it. Over the threshold. Way over the threshold.
The room was ridiculously romantic. The decor was red and maroon, the colours of sex. It was almost too dark and I was glad the linen on the bed was such a crisp white so as to throw some illumination, some definition, on the scene. A huge bed (where do they find the sheets for this size? – it’s bigger than a kingsize – what is it? – a God-size bed?) with a harem’s amount of pillows and cushions. There was one chair and a table, making the bed the only place to sit. On the table, though, was some champagne on ice and two tall glasses. I noticed a small vase of what looked like blue love-in-the-mist.
‘That’s nigella. Did you know it signifies fascination?’
I didn’t. All around the room were little votive candles flickering away in glass holders, giving off heavenly scents. If I had been in my right mind that would have certainly put me off. Entirely. Men who know anything about good candles, never mind nigella, would ordinarily elicit buckets of scorn. But now, in this blind and blinding moment, he couldn’t be more perfect. He must have taken considerable time to prepare it all. I was touched by his effort. All this attention to detail, just for me. I was half expecting, half hoping for a frantic scrabble to claw each other’s clothes off and climb quickly into those cold white sheets. His young strong brown body inside that Daz-white linen, next to me … but instead he spoke softly.
‘Sit down, Mo. Would you rather I sat on the chair?’
‘No, please sit here, next to me. I’d like you to be … next to me.’
‘I’m not going to open that bubbly right now, I don’t think. I don’t want to presume …’
‘No,’ I said, wishing the opposite.
‘The thing is,’ he continued, as he sat right next to me, very close to me, on the bed, our thighs touching, ‘I don’t want to bugger this up, y’know? I want it to be right, otherwise it won’t mean enough and it won’t last …’ He took my hand and clasped it in both of his, with the intensity of a man who has been lifelong touch-deprived. He kissed it and put it next to his cheek. He looked right at me and stayed quiet.
‘You want this to last then?’ I knew that was a high-yield, high-voltage question to ask him.
‘Yes, don’t you? I’m not here for a quick fix, Mo. Something has happened between us, I know it and I’m pretty sure you do too. When I think back, I absolutely know the exact moment, remember?’
I nodded but actually I couldn’t be entirely sure I did. I thought perhaps, possibly, maybe … it was on the picnic? I daren’t say in case he was offended, so I simply cast my eyes to the floor. Nice floor. Parquet with a deep red Persian rug.
I was astonished when he said, ‘It was the instant you walked into George’s office when you came back to work after the flu. The first time I saw you. You looked all kinda puffy and wrung out and like you needed some serious TLC. Then, when you spoke, you were super efficient, quite bossy, no-nonsense. I liked the discrepancy. The space between.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yep, that’s where I’ve wanted to be ever since. In that hinterland. I think it might be … sort of … unvisited and soft there …’
With that he leaned in and kissed me. No
thing urgent or demanding, only loving … and … slow. I disappeared into it, and somehow in the midst of it we progressed from sitting to lying on the bed, wrapped up in each other.
He murmured, ‘I am here whenever and if ever you are ready, I would love that time to be now, but I will be happy to wait here for thousands of days if that’s what it takes …’
I was speechless.
‘If I calcify in the meantime, please forgive … ? Perhaps you could just give me a good shaking when you’ve decided … ? In your own time?’
He was laughing now. It was catching, and so I started to laugh too. ‘You would be prepared to turn to stone?’
‘Yep. I will be your personal statue.’
‘You would be lying here, rigid, waiting for me? So to speak?’
‘Yep.’
‘A kind of rigor-vita?’
‘Yep. And that’s the point Mo, vita est brevis. It’s later than you think. Jump in.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Be with me.’
‘What has happened, Noel? I don’t understand it.’
‘Well don’t try then. Stop controlling it.’
‘You think I’d be lying here if I was controlling it?’
‘Listen, I lost all reason and sense the moment I saw you, and I don’t know why. But I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense, I’m following a deeper pull. I have to, no choice. I’ve never known anything like this, Mo.’
‘Me neither.’
‘It’s fucking lovely. You are just … fucking … lovely.’
He kissed me again.
Suddenly there was a loud ping of a text message on my phone. Real life clamouring to be noticed. I wanted to ignore it, and be this new person, the lover, the kisser, the carefree spirit, the object of his desire. And only that. But the simple ping catapulted my mind back into Mrs Battle mode with a thumping jolt. I was further grounded when, after a hundred years of scrabbling about in the bottom of my bag, I finally found the wretched phone and saw that the message was from Dora. Yes, I am Mrs Battle – the mother. Dora will have navigated the cursor on her phone ’til it indicated ‘MUM’, to send her short, curt, effective message which read: ‘Where U? It my 18 b.day. U selfish cow. I h8 U’.
