by Adele Parks
‘Sting was in it,’ he added and raised his voice at the end of the sentence the way people do when they expect you to know what they’re talking about.
Martha shook her head to convey that she was none the wiser. It wasn’t unusual for Martha not to recognize references to popular culture, unless they related to Bob the Builder or the Tweenies. ‘What’s your real name?’
‘Jack, Jack Hope.’ Martha nodded and tried desperately to commit it to memory. She knew she was hopelessly drunk but she didn’t want to offend him by forgetting his name, at least not in the next twenty minutes. ‘And you are?’
This was when Martha wished her parents had called her Scarlet.
‘Martha.’
‘That’s unusual,’ he said, without missing a beat.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ giggled Martha. ‘I hate it.’
‘Well, Babe. What’s your second name?’
‘Evergreen.’ Martha gave her maiden name without even thinking about the fact that, technically, she was still West.
‘Well, I shall call you Little Miss E.’
Little Missy, thought Martha. She liked it.
Little Miss E. and Jack talked all night. They told each other their life stories. They veered wildly through the trivial: favourite colours, music they liked to listen to, shops they bought clothes from, the fact that when he was a little boy Jack carved Rambo into his arm with a compass. And, just because she knew Eliza would ask, Martha got him to tell her his birth sign.
‘Which did you prefer: Starsky and Hutch or The Dukes of Hazzard?’ she asked.
‘Dukes of Hazzard.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, lots more tits and ass.’
‘Right.’
Martha told him that she listened to Billie Holiday even though Eliza had given her strict instructions to drop the Chemical Brothers and Freestylers into conversation if asked. Martha told him that she’d fancied Paul Young when it was clearly more acceptable to admit to a crush on any one of Spandau Ballet. She said that currently her favourite colour was green, because it represented independence and healing, but normally she’d choose silver or blue. Martha told him she was a mother of two, waiting for a divorce. She thought that about summed her up. She waited for him to say he was going to the loo. It had been a nice flirtation, but now that she’d blurted out the truth it had to be over. Over before it had begun. She waited for him to disappear.
He didn’t. He just said, ‘So – Blue Peter or Magpie?’
‘Blue Peter.’
‘Me too. Morecambe and Wise or The Two Ronnies?’
‘Oh, that’s tough,’ sighed Martha. ‘They were both good, though slightly different eras. It’s a close call, but I think it’ll have to be Morecambe and Wise.’
‘I feel exactly the same,’ grinned Jack Hope. He played with an imaginary (presumably skewed) pair of glasses. Martha grinned back. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been asked her opinion or when anyone had listened to the answers. She felt fantastic, uncorked. She felt as though she was talking to one of her good girl friends or Eliza, not to a man at all. It seemed OK to tell him all of this and it was easy to slip from the trivial to the amazingly intimate. He told her about his family, his disappointing mother, his admirable father. He talked about his first love and his last. She wondered if he was as intimate and honest with everyone – she hoped not. She hoped that somehow she’d unlocked something. She asked him if she had. She hadn’t. He was this honest and open indiscriminately. ‘Why not?’ Honesty was a big thing for Jack.
The conversation began to swim in front of Martha’s mind. She wasn’t too sure what she was saying but apparently it was fascinating. Or at least interesting. Jack seemed interested. And everything he said was amusing, intelligent, sharp, fun. She wasn’t sure how they started kissing. It was more than possible that she asked him to kiss her.
As simple as that.
As bold as that.
He was a fabulous kisser.
His lips were firm and tender. Slick, clear, they fitted.
She wasn’t sure when he picked her up. Literally. But at one point he lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him like Julia Roberts in some film or other. He made her feel so delicate, so girl-like. They fitted. They were in a club, kissing and fitting. He made her feel like a film star.
‘Aren’t you drinking?’ asked Martha, more than aware that she was drinking enough for them both.
‘No.’
‘Are you driving?’
‘Yes, but that’s not why I’m not drinking. I never drink.’
He’s an alcoholic, thought Martha, and she immediately started to calculate if she had the emotional resources to deal with it, because if this man was an alcoholic and he needed someone with the emotional resources to deal with it, she would like it to be her.
‘Are you an alcoholic?’ Martha asked, too drunk to beat about the bush or consider how impertinent she was being.
‘Everyone asks that.’ Martha was stung; she didn’t want to be like everyone. Still, at least he didn’t seem offended. ‘No, I’m not. I just don’t like the taste.’
Since when had the word ‘taste’ been so sexy?
Everything Martha had ever known advised against the next move. Her upbringing, her current circumstances, the local news, the rules. She shouldn’t accept a lift home. She certainly shouldn’t suggest that there was a place they could park up. She definitely shouldn’t give him a blow job. But what could she do? She couldn’t let her days drift by – a tribute to missed opportunities.
Maybe it was the alcohol that was buoying her up. Or maybe it was the realization that she’d always played by the rules and look where that had landed her. Whatever.
His dick smelt clean. He smelt clean. And it was beautiful. Large, magnificent, straight, strong, symmetrical. Martha had always thought penises were rather silly. Odd shapes and ugly colours – but his was a joy. He was a joy.
She sat up, cum and saliva on her cheek, and she felt clean. Not smutty, which surely should have been the order of the day, considering she was more than necking, parked up half a mile from home, age thirty-two.
She trusted him.
He dropped her off. The house was silent and Martha felt strangely relieved that Eliza was in bed. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to go to bed and dream.
She forced her eyes open and was surprised to find the sun slamming through the curtains. It was December, shouldn’t it be grey? She moved her head; it didn’t hurt, shouldn’t she have a hangover? Shouldn’t her first thought be absolute horror, swiftly served up with a large dollop of shame and regret?
No sign.
Martha stretched her legs and arms. My God, she’d gone to bed naked. She reached for her pyjamas and just managed to pull the top over her head and slither into the bottoms before Eliza, Mathew and Maisie burst into her bedroom.
‘Rise and shine. I’ve brought you a cup of tea, I certainly hope you’re feeling terrible.’ Eliza handed Maisie to Martha and put the tea on the bedside table. Mathew jumped on the bed, nearly knocking the tea over, and then he snuggled under the covers with his mother and sister. Although Eliza was already dressed she couldn’t resist the intimacy and also climbed into the bed, on what Martha still thought of as Michael’s side.
‘So, did you have a good night?’
‘Very, thanks.’
‘Thought you must have. See, I knew you’d enjoy it when you got there. What time did you get in? It must have been late because I stayed up watching some film on Sky until three.’
‘Er, yeah, I think I got in nearer four.’
‘What were you doing until that time? Did you go back to Claire’s for more drinks?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
‘I was in Holland Park giving a B-L-O-W-J-O-B.’ Martha spelt the words out, although it was impossible that Mathew would know what it me
ant.
‘You what?’ Eliza sat bolt upright, and this time the tea did go flying. There was a quick scrabble around for tissues, the duvet was mopped clean, but nothing could budge the look of shock from Eliza’s face. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Who was he? Do I know him?’
‘No. I just met him.’
‘Bloody hell, Martha.’ Eliza considered what to say next. She was sure her sister would be immersed in remorse and humiliation, and so she didn’t want to be too harsh, however knocked sideways she herself felt. ‘Look, don’t worry Martha. Lots of people do silly things when they’re drunk. Just put it down as a life experience and don’t dwell on the humiliation too much.’
‘I don’t feel humiliated.’
‘Well, self-loathing, then. That’s just as negative, more so, don’t dwell or self-loathe.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, I had a brilliant time,’ asserted Martha and she grinned to herself as a flashback sprung to mind: Jack picking her up and her clinging to him – ‘Cheeky monkey,’ he’d said. He was impressive, beautiful, large, in fact huge. He’d seemed to really like her blow job. He’d been throbbing hard. And it was so sexy to be wanted in such a crude, candid way. Martha scratched her nose and wondered how she could possibly be turning into the type of woman who was interested in beautiful cocks.
Eliza stared at her sister. She couldn’t decide what line to take. Her expression was a bewildered mix of amazement, delight and fury. Martha wasn’t supposed to do that kind of thing. Eliza never thought of herself as someone who was resistant to change. But Martha behaving like this was odd. Eliza wanted everything to go back to how it was – and this was never how it was. Or was it? Thinking right back to their school days, Martha did get her share of snogs at the church hall disco. They used to hide in their bedrooms on Saturday morning, eating toast, drinking tea, ignoring their parents and talking tongues.
But tongues, not cocks.
‘What’s he like then?’ Eliza muttered.
‘Very nice.’
‘Very nice? Sounds terrible. Give me details.’
Martha stalled by lifting Mathew out of bed and setting him on the floor with a jigsaw. She was stuck. Not only was she out of practice with the official debriefing scenario and didn’t remember that she was supposed to describe the guy and their meeting in tiny, gruesome detail, but also she didn’t have the vocabulary to describe him – and if she had, no one would have believed her anyway.
He was divine.
Absolutely perfect.
The kind of bloke you only ever came across in books or films. Not real at all.
She looked at Eliza and wondered how she would even start to explain. Eliza waited, her face now eager and aglow.
‘Well, it’s hard to say exactly.’
‘Well, start with the physical stuff: what does he look like?’
‘Divine, perfect. Like the hero in a book or film.’ Martha grinned, broadly; she couldn’t help herself. Eliza’s eager face fell; she nodded and tried to smile her encouragement, but Martha saw the caution cloud her sister’s eyes. ‘What?’ she demanded crossly.
‘Nothing, nothing. Go on.’
‘Why are you looking so concerned?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’ Martha kissed Maisie’s head and absent-mindedly traced ‘Round and Round the Garden like a Teddy Bear’ on her foot. Maisie giggled.
‘Well, it’s just that there aren’t any men like in books and films. Not really. That’s why we buy the books and go to see the films, to fulfil our fantasy life,’ said Eliza. She was sorry to be the one who had to break this news to Martha; on the other hand, someone had to. Martha was a lamb wearing a big sign saying ‘Eat Me Alive’, and she had just wandered into a den of lions.
‘Well, Jack is. He’s gorgeous-looking, ’s got a bod to live for, he’s straightforward, dresses well and is very kind,’ maintained Martha.
Bod? thought Eliza. ‘A bod to live for’: had her sister really just said that? ‘How can you know that if you’ve just met him?’
‘I don’t know how I know, but I do.’
‘Can he dance?’ she probed.
‘Yes, brilliantly, and he doesn’t drink.’
‘See, there’s always a flaw. Why doesn’t he drink? Is he an alcoholic?’
‘Says not.’ Martha was ruffled, not least because this thought had crossed her mind too. ‘So what if he is?’ she asked defiantly.
Eliza simply raised her eyebrows. ‘So he’s a “my body is a temple” type, is he? Won’t drink because it’s loaded with calories. A control freak.’
‘He simply doesn’t like the taste,’ sighed Martha, wishing Eliza wasn’t hell-bent on pouring icy water. ‘Look, it was a great night. That’s all. I’m just saying I’m not wracked with shame or guilt. I don’t feel smutty or slutty. It was a lovely experience. It was you who told me to take some risks.’
‘Buy a suede skirt, not give blow jobs in public places, to total strangers.’
‘He doesn’t feel like a stranger.’
‘But he is. He could have been a murderer.’
‘But he wasn’t.’
‘He won’t respect you.’
‘I think he does.’
‘You are so naive.’
‘And you are a cynic.’
‘He won’t call you.’
‘Ha ha, that’s where you’re wrong.’ Martha stretched her arm and felt under her bed. She located her mobile and held it up triumphantly to Eliza. The text message read ‘Hello, Gorgeous. Want to hook up later?’
Eliza was stunned. Not least because Martha had successfully swapped telephone numbers and negotiated her way around the mobile menu.
‘I’m not proposing to marry him, just hang out with him,’ defended Martha.
‘Hang out with him’ – Martha never hung out anything other than the washing. ‘Well, you’re a fast learner, I’ll give you that,’ said Eliza. ‘Come on, Mathew, Maisie, let’s leave your mother alone, we’ll go and have breakfast.’ Eliza flounced out of the room and, really, it was a shame she wasn’t wearing a big, long skirt with a bustle to complete the effect.
Martha hadn’t expected her sister to be so censorious. After all, Martha had listened to Eliza’s countless accounts of similar exploits, and she had never passed judgement, although at the time she’d wanted to. Eliza had always maintained that a few well-placed one-night stands give you cred; she was not the type of girl who believed that they left you tarnished. The infuriating thing was, Martha knew this wasn’t about whether Eliza morally approved or disapproved of her behaviour; she knew that Eliza’s objection was spurred by concern. Eliza didn’t think Martha could cope with this, didn’t think she was experienced enough, because sex was Eliza’s area of expertise, not Martha’s. How patronizing, thought Martha, I’ve given birth twice, of course I can give head. Besides, my husband has just left me, I haven’t got a heart to break; it’s disintegrated. I’m safe.
25
‘Will you babysit tonight?’ Martha asked Eliza. She’d been working up the courage to ask this question for about an hour. She’d given the children their tea and bath, so babysitting wouldn’t be hard work, and Eliza generally didn’t mind helping out. In fact, wasn’t it Eliza who’d said Martha should go out more? But Martha had a sneaky suspicion that Eliza wouldn’t approve of her plans.
‘Why? Where you going?’ Eliza replied, without looking up from her magazine.
Martha knew her sister well enough to know that she was entirely focused on Martha’s social life, and not on the article about detoxing. ‘Out with Jack, if that’s OK, Mum.’ Martha tried to make light of her little sister’s officious, meddlesome attitude, but actually she was irritated by it. She drew the curtains, locking out the winter night and holding in the happy domestic scene. Mathew was playing quietly with his train set. Maisie was drinking her milk. Martha stooped to pick up her daughter a
nd to give her a cuddle. She breathed in the smell of her newly washed hair, the most precious perfume. Calvin Klein could never bottle this.
‘You’ve already agreed, have you?’ asked Eliza irritably.
‘No. I said yes, provisionally, but I explained that I’d have to check if you could sit for me,’ replied Martha patiently.
And dishonestly.
She’d already agreed to hook up with Jack. She’d calculated that her sister was unlikely to be going anywhere on a Monday night and therefore would be free to sit.
‘So, have you told him you have children?’ challenged Eliza.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he make of that?’
‘He was cool with it.’
‘Cool with it’, ‘cool with it’. Eliza repeated the phrase in her head. A perfectly ordinary phrase made extraordinary because her sister had uttered it. She looked at Martha to see if her new and affected language embarrassed her. Martha seemed unconcerned. In fact, the only odd thing about Martha was that she seemed so content, so natural.
‘Well, he’s keen, I’ll give you that. He texted you straight away, and less than forty-eight hours after meeting you, he’s already taking you out,’ commented Eliza.
‘Do you think he’s keen?’ Martha threw Maisie in the air and caught her again, a bundle of chuckles and gurgles. Martha giggled too; Eliza wasn’t sure if she was giggling at Maisie or with delight at the idea of Jack’s keenness.
‘Yeah, of course he’s keen.’
‘Really?’ Martha couldn’t hide her joy.
‘Yeah, you haven’t slept with him yet.’
‘Will you babysit, or do I need to call an agency?’ asked Martha calmly, refusing to take the bait.
‘I’ll do it,’ sighed Eliza.
‘Thank you.’ Martha turned to walk out of the room.
Just as Martha was leaving the sitting room Eliza added, ‘Look, Martha, it’s not that I mind babysitting, you know.’
‘I know.’ She closed the door.
Not much had actually been said, but the sisters had spoken volumes.
Martha thought it was unnecessary for Eliza to worry as much as she was doing. It wasn’t as though Martha had spent the entire two days mooning around thinking about Jack. She hadn’t been dwelling on flashbacks of the things he said, the way he smiled, the way he moved. She hadn’t been planning what to wear and say on their first date. She hadn’t chalked his name on Mathew’s blackboard. She hadn’t punched the air when he called, or danced around the house when he suggested meeting up.
