Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  “But—”

  “Sophie, drop it. We’re probably wasting our time, anyway. The odds against success are enormous. Huge. Astronomical. Off the bloody chart, so let’s call it a night and go to bed.”

  * * *

  Claudia produces a set of keys for the cottage and reminds me to let the farmer’s wife know we’re there. “Don’t forget to feed my cat, and if you’ve got time, perhaps you’d be kind enough to check on my squirrels.”

  Sophie looks up from stuffing my bag and the box with our precious cargo into the trunk of her car. “Mum, Jill’s got better things to do than worry about your blasted rodents.”

  * * *

  We drive west and London’s suburbs give way to relentlessly green hills and chocolate-box villages that look as if they’ve grown up through the earth rather than having been built on top of it. In between bouts of admiring the scenery, I manage to convince myself that Colin and I won’t click this time; that we’ve merely been fooling ourselves with marathon phone calls and gushy letters. Then Sophie adds to my stress by suggesting we take a detour and drive past North Lodge.

  “No way,” I protest.

  “We have plenty of time.” Sophie slows down. “We can spy on that woman he lives with.”

  Suppose Colin sees us? What then? He was quite clear about meeting me far away from his village. A roadside pub, ten miles down the road.

  “Come on, Jill. It’ll be just like old times.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I sigh. “All right, but no cloak-and-dagger stuff. No hiding behind bushes and skulking in doorways.”

  “I promise.” Sophie pulls off at the next exit.

  Colin’s house is breathtaking. So incredibly gorgeous, I struggle for words to describe its stately chimneys, its steeply-pitched slate roof, and its golden Cotswold stone covered with honeysuckle and wisteria. Petunias and forget-me-nots tumble from boxes beneath tiny bow windows. Early roses climb above the wooden front door.

  Talk about picture-postcard.

  “My God,” Sophie says, slowing the car to a crawl. “I’d no idea the place was so grand.”

  Neither had I.

  The village recedes and I turn for one last look.

  He’s giving up all this, for me?

  * * *

  Colin sweeps me off the ground and swings me in a circle like a jitterbug dancer and my doubt evaporates. His bone-crunching hug tightens and something lets loose. Dear God, it’s my bra. The flimsy one with spaghetti straps from Victoria’s Secret. When my head stops spinning, I spot a sign with the letters WC and an arrow pointing toward a narrow pathway almost entirely hidden by overgrown shrubs.

  “Put me down, crazy man. I’ve got to spend a penny.”

  I give him a blistering kiss—sexy enough to earn piercing whistles from a man delivering crates of Guinness to the saloon bar—and head for the loo.

  Once inside, I remove my sweater, then my bra. Its single hook is broken. Fixable, but not without needle and thread, so I stuff it into my purse and pull my sweater on. The feel of it against my nipples is extraordinarily sensuous as I walk back to join Colin.

  He’s leaning against his car, waiting, smiling, passenger door open. It’s lovely inside. A real wooden dashboard, leather seats. Moon roof. All mod cons. Luxurious. Seductive.

  “Music?” Colin asks.

  I fasten my seat belt. “Please.”

  He slots in a CD—one of my favorites, an old Henry Mancini—and I lean back and lose myself in Charade and Moon River. We hit the road and I pretend we’re Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford in The Way We Were, driving his tiny MG through the hills above Hollywood. I loved that film, but I’d have been happier if they’d gotten back together again. I hate sad endings.

  Colin guns the engine and we zoom onto the motorway. The car purrs and eats up the miles. I look at his profile. Grecian nose, high cheekbones. Luscious lips. My nipples twitch. Frisky buggers. They’re not used to rubbing against the rough wool of an Aran sweater.

  Colin asks if I’d like to go and see a manor house in St. Ives that just came on the market. It’s only a few miles from Claudia’s cottage and it would make a fine luxury hotel. An excellent investment. I nod, yes, that would be lovely. How about tomorrow? I nod again. His hand is on my lap. Pretty soon it’ll slide between my legs. How long does it take to get to Claudia’s from here? Three hours? Four? Should we stop at a motel?

  I pick up his hand and press my lips to his palm. “You’d better keep your paws off me or you’ll drive us off the road.”

  Chapter 21

  Cornwall

  May 2011

  We reach Claudia’s cottage at dusk. I give Colin the keys. He opens the door and I’m overwhelmed with another attack of doubt. What if it’s not the same? What if we disappoint one another? But when Colin presses himself against me in Claudia’s tiny front hall I can tell he isn’t disappointed.

  “This place is gorgeous,” Colin says, “and I’ll admire it all later, but first—” Without taking his eyes off my face, he picks me up. The stairs, steep and narrow, squeak with protest under our combined weight. I look over his shoulder. Somber-faced Neville ancestors stare back from sepia-toned photographs that hang on the wall. Are we being censured, perhaps?

  I steer him into Claudia’s room. Bigger bed. Better view. We’ll be able to see the ocean from here. He sets me down beneath a portrait of Alexandra Forbes, Claudia’s maternal grandmother, ample-bosomed in bombazine and ostrich feathers, hands planted on the silver-topped handle of a walking cane. Should we turn her against the wall? Oops, no time for that now because Colin’s kneeling, pulling off my slacks, and doing something unspeakably delicious with his fingers. His mouth brushes across my belly, slides down my legs. I shudder and lean back and forget all about Alexandra because Colin’s nibbling the inside of my thighs.

  I bite my lip to keep from crying out loud.

  He hooks both thumbs into the crotch of my panties. “Lovely,” he murmurs, kissing green satin. I tug at the elastic. “Not yet,” he says. “Leave them on for now.”

  I catch my breath and slide my hands over his buttery leather jacket, slip it from his shoulders, and undo the cartwheel buttons of his shirt. The pink one. Did he wear it on purpose? Does he remember wearing it the day I fell back into his life? My fingers are thick, clumsy. I struggle with the last button.

  He stands and shakes off his boots, unzips his jeans, and sheds his underpants. Jockeys. Gray cotton. Oh yes, I did the right thing, buying those Calvins.

  He gathers me up, smothers my face with kisses, and lowers me onto Claudia’s double bed. I raise my arms. He lifts my sweater and I wish I were wearing silk instead of scratchy Irish wool. Cables, twists, and bobbles rasp against my belly like a giant tongue. Up, up, and over my breasts. They tumble free like warm cottage loaves spilling from a basket.

  “Oh, my God.” Colin’s voice is thick. “You’re not wearing a—”

  I’d forgotten about my busted bra.

  Then he groans, and so do I because now he’s cupping my breasts, stroking them and licking my nipples, and I want to French kiss the genius who invented those unreliable hooks.

  “Oh, Jilly,” Colin moans. “I don’t know how I’ve survived without you, without—”

  “Sshhh.” I pull him toward me. I want him to crush me. I want his weight to pin me to the bed. I also want him to remove my knickers, so I guide his hands down and raise my hips, sighing with relief when he rips off my double-digit lingerie and drops it on the floor.

  I clamp my mouth onto his and devour him with all the pent-up desire and deprivation of the past two months. I want to swallow him. I vacuum up his tongue. Our teeth clink and I have a momentary panic about my crown. What if it falls off and I swallow it? What if it falls off and he swallows it? We rearrange our lips and laugh. A minor embarrassment. Time to catch our breaths.

  Colin kisses me, then abandons my face to explore farther south. His tongue slides down my neck, between my breasts, be
neath them, circling and licking and I whimper while he sucks on one nipple and tugs at the other with his thumb and forefinger. I groan. Oh, God, don’t ever let this stop.

  I beg for more.

  Whatever you want.

  Leaning back, I wallow in the softness of down pillows and old linen. I reach behind and grab the brass spindles of Claudia’s antique bed, hold tight and thrust myself toward him. Colin parts my legs, sinks between them, touching, probing. I spread my legs wider. His tongue flirts with me. It teases and tastes, and I gasp again when it plunges inside and brings me to the edge of a place I’ve rarely reached with anyone else and certainly not with Richard. I hated having sex with him. The more he tried—elaborate maneuvers gleaned from erotic movies and pornographic magazines—the less responsive I became. Sometimes, to make him feel better, I faked it, moaning and writhing and giving a performance worthy of an Oscar.

  But I’m not faking now. I stiffen. I hold my breath. Waves peak, curl, and crash. I’m drowning. I shudder and cry out. I release the bars and reach for Colin, clutching his hair, his ears, anything to bring his face level with mine so I can kiss him and taste myself in his mouth.

  “Your turn, your turn,” I whisper, biting his lips. His tongue. “I want to do this again, with you. I want us to come together.”

  He’s ready. More than ready. Can I take all of him? He drives himself inside. Deeper, deeper. I’m throbbing, wide open.

  More, more. I want more.

  I dig my heels into the mattress and lift my buttocks off the bed. Ahh, that’s good but—

  “More,” I say.

  He lifts my legs onto his shoulders. I grab the bedposts and push myself higher. A wave, more explosive than before, gathers momentum. It crests and breaks. The room rocks and sways and while I seriously doubt I’m a reliable witness at this point, I could swear Claudia’s grandmother winked at me.

  Chapter 22

  Cornwall

  May 2011

  What was I thinking? I’m too old for this. My nipples are on strike and my undercarriage is waving a white flag. Poor Colin. I took more than I gave last night—a whole lot more—and I’m going to make up for it by cooking breakfast. I lurch into the kitchen. Max miaows and curls around my legs, reminding me he’s another mouth to feed. I pour food in his dish, plug in the coffee, and crack the farm-fresh eggs we bought yesterday into a bowl. I whisk them, leaning against the counter. Will I ever be able to stand upright again? Walk without a waddle?

  “Are you up for St. Ives?” Colin slides his arms around my waist. Nibbles my ear. “Because if you’re not, we could always go back to bed.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “About last night,” he says.

  Don’t tell me he’s eager for more.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you suppose others our age get fired up the way we do?”

  “Judging by all those kids, I’d say Keith certainly does.” I drop six rashers of bacon in a frying pan. Tomorrow we’ll eat nuts and grains. Today we sin. “So does Sophie. She collects lovers and has them for dessert.”

  Colin smiles and sets the table. I pour coffee and pile our plates with cholesterol and hot buttered toast. Wedges of orange, just to be healthy. A sprig of parsley I plucked from a flowerpot on the windowsill.

  “Then how about people in their sixties and seventies?” Colin says. He folds blue cotton napkins into triangles, tucks them beneath our silverware. I forget he’s a professional. “Do you wonder what their sex lives are like?” he asks, pulling out my chair. “Do you ask yourself if they even have sex lives?”

  “All the time,” I reply. “Geriatric sex fascinates me.” I sit down and sigh with relief that it only hurts a little. “My latest hobby, in fact.”

  Peering at me through the steam rising from his coffee, Colin doesn’t look much older than he did the afternoon we shared a mug of tea. He and I had the one with no handle. Hugh and Keith arm wrestled. Sophie wasn’t wearing a bra. I won biggest chicken wings. My God, how young we all were.

  “Know what I used to think?” he says.

  “What?”

  “When I was a kid, a teenager, I thought old people didn’t have nerve endings. That everyone over fifty was numb and there’d be no point in them doing anything that felt good, like drinking beer or having sex, because they wouldn’t be able to feel it.”

  My parents slept in separate rooms.

  “But I was wrong, thank God,” Colin says, grinning. “Sex gets better with age because we’ve had time to figure it out. We know how the bits and pieces fit together.”

  I wince. “You can say that again.”

  “If it helps,” Colin says, “I’m a bit fragile, too.” He sucks on a slice of orange. Offers one to me. “I wasn’t always this way.”

  “Fragile?”

  “No, sex mad.”

  “Neither was I.”

  Colin hesitates. “Tell me about Richard.”

  “Only if you tell me about your wife.”

  For a second or two, his face looks as if somebody took it off and put it back on all wrong. Then it passes and he smiles again.

  He nods. “You go first.”

  All I can remember is the bad stuff. Digging up the good is like looking for loose change between the couch cushions. You know it’s there, but you can’t, at this particular moment, put your hands on it. So I describe family vacations, the cocktail parties and five-bedroom house in suburbia, and how Richard wanted nothing to do with the derelict beach cottage he inherited from a great-aunt. Then I go for broke and tell him about the final straw in my doctor’s office.

  “Okay, I’ve spilled the beans,” I say. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Again, that look. Is he going to reneg on his promise?

  “Come on,” I say, hoping to lighten his mood. “It can’t be that bad.”

  No worse than gonorrhea.

  “My wife,” Colin finally says, “left me for another woman.”

  For once, I’m at a loss for words. If this were a scene from a movie, it’d fade away so the characters wouldn’t have to cope. A novel would have those convenient little dots. But this, dammit, is real. It’s not going to dissolve, or dot off, and now Colin’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

  “What about your daughter?”

  He groans and I’m stunned by the rawness of his pain. “I rarely see her,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “My ex-wife and her partner emigrated to New Zealand. They took Nancy with them.”

  “Christ! That’s the other side of the world.”

  Colin wipes his eyes with a napkin. “Tell me about it.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Time for her to start thinking about college,” I say. “Maybe she’ll choose one in England. Or the States.”

  “Nancy hasn’t left New Zealand since they arrived.”

  “Not even to come and see you?”

  “I go down there, occasionally, but—” He shrugs. “It’s difficult. Uncomfortable.” His face clouds over again. I’ve seen that look before, in the cafe when he told me about his parents. So now I’m totally stumped. I didn’t know what to say then, and I’m damned if I know what to say now. I can’t imagine not seeing my kids. Yes, my two boys are grown and gone, doing their own thing, but they’re only a phone call away. A short plane ride for Jordan down in Washington; a couple of hours by train or car for Alistair in Boston. But better than that, they’re the foundation of my life.

  “A lot can happen in two years,” I say, forcing myself to sound optimistic. “By the time Nancy’s eighteen, she’ll be raring to go. When you and I were that age, going down to Brighton was a big deal. Not any more. Today’s kids are global gypsies. Jordan hitch-hiked through Spain his junior year in college. Alistair went to China last summer. Told me they have the best bones.”

  Colin looks up. “Bones?”

  “He’s a paleontologist.”
<
br />   * * *

  Colin says it’ll only take him an hour to deal with St. Ives, so I send him off by himself. I need time to mull over what he told me about his ex-wife. Plus I’m too stiff and sore to walk around a big old house, listening to a hopeful estate agent gush about inlaid marble and fitted bathrooms.

  Climbing upstairs is a challenge. I search out fresh linens and change Claudia’s bed—we made a proper mess of it—and scoop clothes off the floor. My green satin panties are torn. I toss them in the trash. A musky aroma—something old, something a little bit forbidden—lingers like the touch of a secret lover. I wipe the dust from Alexandra’s portrait with my sleeve and examine her face, looking for the woman I saw last night, but her heavy-lidded eyes give nothing away.

  Sunlight slants through the shutters and falls in diagonal stripes on the floor. I open the window and fill my lungs with the smell of salt air. If only it were this easy to fling open the windows in Colin’s mind.

  I wrestle pillows back into their shams. I fluff them and make a nest on the bed. I crawl into it, pull Claudia’s old quilt over me, and wonder how I’d feel if Richard had left me for another man and taken my sons halfway around the world.

  * * *

  The manor house is a bust and Colin returns at noon armed with warm pasties from the pub, a bag of chips, and two bottles of brown ale. He doesn’t say a word about Nancy, so I don’t either. It’s as if we never had that conversation. I guess this is how he copes, just like he does with his parents. Pretend it didn’t happen. Sweep it under the rug. Or perhaps it’s a case of moving forward and putting the past behind you.

  Whatever works for him is fine with me. It’s not my past we’re dealing with, but I can’t help but wonder how I’d react if I were in his shoes.

  We pack a picnic and follow a path I hadn’t seen before, down the cliffs to that crescent-shaped beach. I kick off my sneakers and pad down the slope carved by years of violent tides. Waves fling themselves onto jagged rocks. Surf sizzles like soapy foam around my feet and the wind fingers my hair. I breathe in the familiar smell of damp seaweed; dig my bare toes in wet sand.