She lay luxuriating, her face against his neck, their legs entwined, savouring the sense of union, completion. She loved this man, because, by some magical alchemy, he had refashioned her muted, meagre self into a exuberant, full-blooded woman. And, suddenly, the lines she’d spoken on stage last month, playing the lead in the student production of Romeo and Juliet, became authentic and alive, as if only now did she fully comprehend them.
My bounty is as endless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
Words like ‘infinite’ and ‘endless’ were totally correct. Indeed, all the erotic poetry she’d ever read was imbued with new depth and truth through Neil’s miraculous powers. Even the reference to the sea was apt, because it was prowling underneath their window, the insistent waves softly breaking, breaking, breaking on the shore: the soundtrack to their lovemaking.
‘Sleepy?’ he asked.
‘No, excited still. I’m on such a high, I can’t come down!’
In response, he clamped his mouth against hers, as if her very words had ignited him again. Could he really recover so quickly, repeat that amazing performance? It must be way past midnight by now – except there was no time in this new realm; no norms, no rules, no limitations, nothing to stop them making love all night, the whole weekend, all week, all month, for ever.
‘Neil, are you awake?’ she whispered, gently disentangling her body from his slumped and solid form.
His only reply was to turn over on his stomach, to shield his eyes from the eager morning light nudging through the window. She had deliberately left the curtains open, so she could watch the skittish moon flirt in and out of the clouds, and observe the different shades in the sky, as it slowly lightened from black to charcoal to bruise-grey to silvery-pink. Too hyped up to sleep much, she had simply lain exulting in this whole transformative experience, staying in the most romantic place on earth, with the most sensational man she had ever met.
Yet, far from feeling tired, she was so energized, she wanted to slither down the cliff-face and race along the beach, or take off like a seagull and soar across to France. It would be unfair to wake poor Neil, though, since his job was so demanding, he was forced to rely on weekends to catch up on his sleep. When, at getting on for 3 a.m., he’d finally collapsed, exhausted, he’d said he hoped she wouldn’t mind, but he just had to have a lie-in this morning and had no intention of stirring before eleven.
However, it was impossible for her to lie still any longer, let alone return to sleep. So, with the utmost caution, she eased herself out of bed, gathered up her clothes, which he’d peeled off last night in a thrillingly sensuous manner, and took them into the bathroom. There, she quickly washed and dressed, then crept downstairs and left a hastily scribbled note on the table, explaining she had gone out for a walk. And, not stopping for a drink, or for her jacket, she bounded out of the front door, closing it so carefully it made not the slightest sound. But, as soon as she was out of earshot, she skittered along the winding road that led down from the cliff-top, relishing the fresh morning smells of sea and grass and gorse. The place seemed deserted, apart from the gulls wheeling overhead, so it was easy to pretend that she’d just bought this whole wide stretch of cliff and now owned it as her private possession, sacred to her and Neil. She would ban all other visitors, and even his parents would have to give up all claim to their cottage and stay indefinitely in Provence.
Once she reached level ground, she ran still faster; the sun warm against her face now, the wind tousling her hair into crazy disarray. She had no idea where she was headed; she just needed to be on the move, like everything else around her. Tall, feathery grasses were rippling in the wind; clouds scudding across the sky; ungainly cormorants skimming the waves; the waves themselves frothing and flailing on the sand.
Careering on, she was almost disappointed to see houses, pavements, lamp-posts – boring, townie things that had no place near a wild, untrammelled ocean. She was about to turn round and go back, when she spotted a small general store, its windows plastered with special offers for sausages and coffee, fish fingers, Fairy Liquid. She skidded to a halt, an idea taking root in her head. The idea needed money, and she’d dashed out without her bag or purse, but she always kept a spare tenner in the back pocket of her jeans, which would come in very handy right at present.
Elated, she sailed into the shop, smiling at the thought of laying on a little surprise for her incredible new man.
She surveyed the table with definite satisfaction. The blue-and-white-checked tablecloth set off the vase of flowers, also mostly blue. She’d found them growing wild on the cliff-top and picked a few of the tiny, fragile blooms. Back in the cottage, she’d unearthed some poppy patterned crockery from the bottom kitchen-cupboard; laid out plates and mugs and egg-cups, and a large ceramic bowl that now held an array of fresh fruit. Of course, she’d had to think very carefully before deciding what to buy, as a tenner would hardly stretch to a feast, but Neil’s parents already had the basics in their larder – tea, coffee, marmalade, cereal, milk and sugar – so she’d been free to use her money for the best organic eggs, a fresh, crusty loaf and slab of butter, and a good selection of grapes, nectarines and plums.
Everything was ready now, except the eggs themselves. But, since the whole point of this breakfast was that each should be boiled for a different length of time – one for exactly three minutes, one for three-and-a-half, one for four, and so on – she decided she’d better wake Neil before she actually cooked them. If he took a while getting up, it would ruin her plan of making him a genuine ‘Prince Charles’ breakfast.
First checking it was gone eleven, she ran upstairs and tapped on the bedroom door, about to announce herself as His Royal Highness’s personal valet, summoning him to his favourite royal repast.
No answer. He was probably so deeply asleep it would take more than a knock to rouse him, so she breezed into the room, only to stop dead. The bed was empty, the duvet flung back. He must be in the bathroom – although strange she hadn’t heard him, since it was directly over the kitchen and the pipes made a gurgling noise.
But he wasn’t there, nor in the second bedroom, so she catapulted downstairs again to check the lounge – no one – then zoomed out of the back door and surveyed the small cliff-top garden and the expanse of land beyond. Not a sign of him.
Only when she walked round to the front of the cottage did she notice that the car had gone, which was definitely peculiar, since he’d told her last night that he’d done quite enough driving for one short weekend and had no intention of getting in the car again until it was time for them to leave on Sunday. There was no need to drive, he’d said, with the shop so close and the village less than half a mile away, boasting a variety of pubs, all serving excellent food. In fact, they’d both agreed that a relaxed weekend – strolling, lazing, making love – would be infinitely preferable to getting stuck in traffic on polluted, tourist-clogged roads. So where the hell had he gone? And why had he got up earlier than he said, when he’d been adamant about sleeping late?
‘Neil!’ she called. ‘Where are you?’
The sound echoed back, as if mocking her, so she darted back inside to grab her phone. But, when she dialled his number, she found his mobile was switched off. Why, for heaven’s sake? And couldn’t he have left a note, explaining where he’d gone? He must have seen her note, so surely he would reciprocate – unless, of course, he was deliberately trying to avoid her.
She rang again – still nothing. And, suddenly, her mother’s voice was chiming in her head. ‘You can’t trust older men. They’re bound to let you down.’ Her father had been much older than her mum, which, she claimed, had made him selfish, unpredictable and arrogant. So was Neil repeating the pattern, proving her mother right?
No, that was plain ridiculous. Why should he have left her when things had gone so well? Except perhaps they hadn’t – in his view. She’d been so full o
f her own preening little triumph, she had hardly spared a thought for how it might have seemed to him. All along, she’d feared he’d find her tepid, even boring, but it could have been the opposite: he regarded her as greedy and voracious, focused on her selfish pleasure, taking rather than giving. Or perhaps she’d been too demanding, urging him on and on, regardless of the fact he had put in five hours’ driving, after a long, pressured day on-site, whereas her only pressures had been whether to paint her nails purple or puce-pink, or wear her hair loose or in a bandeau.
And she’d been greedy, too, in the motorway café, ordering loads of food and gobbling it too fast, with no concern for what he was eating, no offer of titbits from her overloaded plate. So maybe, in the cold clear light of morning, he’d concluded he was better off without her. There was also the matter of his high ideals – those very issues they’d been discussing over supper. She had made no real attempt to disguise her lack of interest in river pollution or sustainable farming, so he was bound to judge her harshly, as someone wrapped up in herself, with no zeal for improving the world.
Phone in hand, she again ventured outside and started prowling round and round the cottage, from front to back, from front to back, keeping a careful watch for him; ears straining to hear his car or voice – a futile exercise, because there was no sound of anything except the restless sea. She also kept a constant check on the time. He’d been gone so long, he couldn’t merely have driven to the village and, if for some unknown reason, he’d popped to the shop by car, she would have met him on her way back, a good three-quarters of an hour ago. However, she couldn’t clock-watch all morning, or stay out here indefinitely walking in endless circles and fruitlessly phoning every few minutes. So she forced herself to return to the house and try to get a grip, simply trusting he’d be back.
But, once in the lounge, she was unable to relax, or read, or even sit still, so she resumed her nervous pacing; this time up and down the room, although still trying to reassure herself that, in another few moments, he would sail in through the door, with some simple explanation for his sudden disappearance. Yet unsettling, frightening memories began stirring in her mind, of that nightmare Saturday when her father had walked out in the same sudden, inexplicable manner. Despite being only four at the time, she could still recall her mother’s grief and shock, and the black, choking cloud it cast upon the house; her mum no longer able to cook or clean, only to sob and storm.
Another thing that struck her with a chill was her growing realization that she knew scarily little about Neil’s character or background. He was actually just a pick-up, someone she’d happened to meet at a party. Even Carole, the party hostess, had seemed vague about his identity. ‘I don’t know who you mean, Lara. I suspect he was just a gate-crasher. But what the hell? The more the merrier!’
They’d laughed about it at the time, but now a surge of apprehension began prickling down her spine. He might be a total neurotic who derived his kicks from ensnaring women, only to leave them in the lurch. Granted, he’d been decent enough at the party, mopping up the wine-stain, but that could have been a ploy, a deliberate ruse to gain her trust. Just as all the spiel about climate-change and human rights might be a clever smokescreen to present himself in a favourable light. One read about men like that; men who could charm and flatter before wrenching women’s lives apart – her own father, for example, at least according to her mum. Or Neil might be a downright sadist, a woman-hater, with an innate desire to punish the entire female sex. Perhaps he too, had been burdened with an unbalanced, bitter mother, who had perverted his thinking from an early, impressionable age.
Her guilt was giving way to anger. How dare he treat her like that, or pose as a friend of Carole, when he was an imposter, an intruder? Her mother was right – you couldn’t trust any man. In fact, when she thought back to her first boyfriend, Ben, he, too, had dumped her, refusing to discuss their relationship in person, but cravenly resorting to a brief, insulting text. Neil was probably equally unwilling to face the hassle of long-winded explanations, or the risk of tears and arguments, so preferred simply to push off. How mortifying – indeed maddening – that, having always resolved to be the first to leave, fate had forced her to break that vow, not just once but twice. Anyway, how could she leave in this present situation: 200-odd miles from London, with no means of transport and no station within reach? She was trapped here, in effect, unless she phoned for a taxi to the station, which would more or less clean her out.
As she passed the sofa in her frantic circling, she slammed her fists against its smugly solid, green-plush back, taking out her fury on a dull, inanimate object, because she couldn’t lash out at Neil.
But, just at that moment, she heard a noise – a car coming up the cliff-road and, as she dashed to the window, she saw Neil’s sleek grey Citroën carefully nosing its way along the narrow, winding track. Her relief was overwhelming, yet it couldn’t suppress the churning seethe of all her former emotions: anger, resentment, repugnance, indignation. Her first instinct was to hide, unable to face him in such an agitated state. But he had come into the cottage now and was calling out excitedly, ignoring the fact that he had thrown her into a turmoil of panic, grief and rage.
‘Lara!’ he called, again. ‘I’m in the kitchen. Come and see what I’ve got!’
She forced herself to move, although her body was so tense, every step required effort.
‘Look!’ he crowed, holding up a string of fish – revolting-looking, dead things, with bloodied gills, glazed eyes.
‘Three fat mackerel! That’s quite a catch! I went out specially so I could surprise you with a fresh fish breakfast. They’re delicious fried in butter.’
Her smile felt false and forced. She should be overjoyed that his absence had been purely for her sake – a desire to please and surprise her, with absolutely no intention to abandon or betray her.
‘I used my father’s rod. He taught me to fish when I was a kid of only ten. There’s this dirty great rock a mile or so away, jutting out into the sea. The water’s really deep there and the fish come in from the Atlantic and swarm past Berry Head. I’ve even seen a whale-shark in that spot, and porpoises by the dozen.’
His excitement was patent, but she felt only dejection. Admittedly, she wasn’t keen on fish – and angling seemed cruel anyway – but what really hurt was that he had spoiled her own surprise. How could ‘Prince Charles’ eggs compare with fresh-caught mackerel; the humble village shop with a deep and dangerous ocean?
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, picking up on her mood, at last.
‘Oh, nothing …’ she said, forcing another smile. ‘I was just a bit worried about where you’d gone. I kept ringing you and texting and—’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I had to turn off my phone because there were other anglers on the rock and they hate any sort of noise. It disturbs their concentration, you see.’
‘Well, couldn’t you have left a note, at least?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I suppose I was so excited about cooking you a special breakfast, I just went tearing off without a thought.’
Instead of reproaches, she should be hugging him and thanking him. He loved her, was concerned about her, had sacrificed his lie-in to lay on a surprise. Yet there was an aching sort of hollow in her heart – a hollow where her father should have been. And the triumphantly laid table and meticulously timed eggs now seemed stupid, childish, a waste of time and money. In any case, she had lost her appetite.
‘Well, all this talk of breakfast is making me feel peckish and, anyway, it’s getting late, so I’d better gut these fish.’ He took them over to the sink and she watched in horror as he picked up each in turn, sliced off its head with a brutal-looking knife, slit open its slimy belly and yanked out long, repugnant strings of bloody entrails.
‘Do you prefer hard roe or soft, Lara? I have two hard here and one soft.’
‘If you really want to know, I’ve never eaten roe in my life. I’m not even sure w
hat it is.’ If he thought her ignorant, who cared?
‘It’s the eggs of the fish – you know, like caviar.’
No, she didn’t know. Fish fingers had been more common in her life than any posh or pricy foods.
‘It comes in all sorts of colours. This one’s pinkish-red but, in other species, the roe can be black, white, yellow or bluey-grey.’
With a disgusting sort of plop, he transferred the squelchy, glutinous mass into a plastic pot. She averted her eyes in revulsion. The roes would stink out the kitchen, pollute her ‘Prince Charles’ eggs – although the eggs were clearly superfluous. He would have probably spurned them, in any case, if she had gone through the whole rigmarole of cooking them for different lengths of time. In fact, it was beginning to strike her how little she and Neil had in common – no shared taste in food, no concern for similar interests. He might agonize over sustainable farming but, when it came to cruelty – cruelty to fish and women – he couldn’t give a damn. As he began washing the fish under the kitchen tap, the water ran blood-red, and that somehow seemed significant.
‘If you want to be more specific,’ he said, breaking off for a moment to explain, ‘soft roe is the sperm of a male fish, and hard roe is the spawn of a female. What happens is that the females lay their eggs in the river or the sea, then the males ejaculate on top, and their sperm fertilizes the eggs, right there in the water.’
Frankly, it felt insulting that he could talk so dispassionately about sperm and ejaculation, and about males and females mating, with no reference to their sex last night, nor any sign that he desired her still. It hadn’t escaped her notice that, since he’d come in, he’d made no attempt whatever to kiss or touch or caress her, so, exactly as she’d feared, he’d obviously lost all sexual interest and it would only be a matter to time before he dropped her altogether. Yet, she was the one who had vowed to be the first to leave in any doomed entanglement, so she was honour-bound to go – go now, this minute, not allow him to soft-soap her with lying, weasel-words, or poison her with a breakfast of fried male sperm. OK, she couldn’t afford a taxi, but if she died of exhaustion walking untold miles to the station, even that was preferable to ending up like her mother, being unceremoniously dumped.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 13
