by Emlyn Rees
Only then I freeze.
Because Jessie’s back.
She’s standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, and I’m so shocked by the sight, that all thoughts of escape, and everything else for that matter, fly from my mind. Until all that remains are two numbers – and two letters.
36DD.
A mystery, it seems, has been solved. Ever since Jessie first told me that the code for her burglar alarm was the same as her bra size, I’ve wondered whether she was joking, or whether it really was true.
I need wonder no more.
I can see for myself.
And – Hey, Breast-o! – what I can see is this: Jessie, naked as the day she was born, foxy, and fanciable, and gorgeous as can be.
If certain parts of her are too perfectly rounded to possibly be true, so what? If her plastic surgeon was here, I’d have no option other than to congratulate him on an awesome piece of work.
And I’m not the only one who’s impressed. Phalius has just fallen in love with a Brazilian.
Suffice it to say, my Itch is on fire.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘What does it look like?’
I hold my hands up as she walks towards me. ‘No.’
‘Don’t be silly. You know you want to.’
‘I don’t,’ I say. Which is a lie, because I do. It’s just that I can’t.
She stops right in front of me and leans forward, her hands snaking down her bare thighs.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispers. ‘Not after everything you just told me . . .’
‘But that’s all in the past. I’ve changed.’
‘No one ever leaves their past fully behind, Jack,’ she tells me, kneeling down, ‘and especially not someone like you, someone who used to be such a naughty boy . . .’
She pushes me back on the sofa bed and reaches out for my belt.
‘It’s all right,’ she says with a wink. ‘I promise I won’t bite.’
If there’s one thing I know for certain right now, it’s that this sentence could only be less convincing if it were being spoken by a lion.
13
Amy
The Erotic Bath Bomb
‘I feel like we’re in a movie,’ Jack says, as the yellow cab pulls to a stop outside the hotel on Thompson Street.
‘Here we go,’ I say. ‘The Big Apple.’
I slide up the black seat and swivel out of the cab’s door and on to the sidewalk. I look up at the façade of the hotel stretching towards the starry sky and all my tiredness and anxiety vanish.
‘Good evening folks and welcome to New York. I’m Stephan and I can organise your luggage for you. Just one moment, please.’
Jack and I stare at the absurdly handsome porter who has just addressed us. He’s wearing an earpiece and a black designer suit.
‘OK,’ I mumble. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, Ma’am.’ He flashes me a bright smile.
Inside, the concierge is waiting for us like we’re long-lost friends. She’s over six foot and has the most piercing green eyes and flawless skin I’ve ever seen. She walks regally in front of us, and I watch Jack’s eyes widen as he tries to take in the impossible length of her legs.
The hotel lobby upstairs is gobsmackingly cool. There’s funky music playing and everything is uber-chic and large – even the flower arrangements are made of whole branches of cherry-blossom trees. As we wait by the desk, I notice a group of trendy models lolling over the designer sofas, slurping iced lattes through straws, at the end of a photo shoot. Jack squeezes my hand, clearly as amazed and excited as I am.
In no time at all, we’re shown to the top of the hotel in the sleek black lift and then into our suite. Jack tips Stephan, who has brought up our luggage, and manages to keep a straight face, until Stephan leaves, closing the door gently behind him. The second it shuts, we both look at each other, then squeal like little kids.
‘Bloody hell!’ Jack exclaims.
The suite we’re in is bigger than our entire flat. Jack kicks off his boots and we both leap up and down on the bed. I’ve never seen one this size before. We lie down side by side and practise rolling together on it, before dissolving into giggles.
It’s the closest I’ve felt to him for so long, and we stare at each other, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy. For a second, I think we’re going to lose it again and retreat into the separate shells we’ve been living in for weeks.
But then Jack smiles.
And I smile back.
And I know that this is going to work, that we’re both really going to give this a go. Everything is going to turn out right.
Jack kisses me and grins. ‘Let’s party,’ he says.
He hops off the bed and flings open the mini-bar. It’s fully stacked, and in a moment he’s popped a mini bottle of Laurent Perrier. Meanwhile, I check out the drawers and cupboards.
‘Oh my God! Look at this stuff.’ There are goodies of all descriptions. I unscrew the bottle of aromatherapy massage oil and offer it to Jack. ‘Smell that.’
‘Look at this,’ Jack says, undoing a plastic bag with his teeth. ‘Wey-hey! It’s a shag bag! I mean it,’ he laughs, ‘it’s actually got it written on the side.’ He pours out condoms, and a small packet labelled clitoral stimulant gel, a scented candle, an erotic bath bomb and a specially compiled chill-out CD on to the bed. ‘This is awesome.’
I undo the erotic bath bomb and take a sniff. ‘Let’s give it a whirl,’ I tell him. ‘Honey, I think we’ve just got time for a freshen-up before our complimentary cocktail in the private members’ rooftop bar,’ I remind him in my best New York accent, as I guzzle champagne and unwrap one of the Hershey’s Kisses from the packet Jack opens.
I feel euphoric. Dizzy with excitement. I haven’t felt like this since . . . well, not since our wedding night.
I take the bath bomb into the bathroom.
‘Wow! Check it out in here!’ I call.
There’s a walk-in shower with jets at all angles and a seat, plus a giant Jacuzzi bath with room for about ten. There are twin basins and a pile of blindingly white towels and two of the fluffiest dressing gowns hanging from pegs set in the chic brown-black tiles. There’s not a plastic duck in sight, or a tub of chewed foam letters half filled with old bathwater, or leaking bottles of kids’ shampoo, or any wind-up plastic submarines and boats.
In other words: It’s Heaven.
It takes me a full minute to work out how to put the water on in the bath, but once it’s on, I go to the mirrors by the basins. They are lit with film-star bulbs. There’s a pot full of complimentary Mac make-up, so I open the eyebrow pencil and start experimenting.
Jack appears at the door. He’s holding a piece of paper in his hand.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘The price list.’ His face is grim.
My hand freezes as my eyes meet his in the mirror.
‘So far, we’ve been in the hotel for seven and a half minutes and we’re . . . two hundred and eighty-five dollars down.’
‘Shit.’
I follow him back through to the bedroom and watch from behind as he picks up his glass and downs the champagne. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I suspect that this could be the start of a row. I know how suspicious Jack has been all along about our ‘free’ trip, and I’ve been the one saying it’s going to be fine.
I can’t bear it if we’re going to fight again. Since I got back from my chat with H, I’ve been making a superhuman effort. Every time we’ve even veered towards tension, I’ve done a U-turn.
I didn’t complain when he took ages to leave the flat and we were late getting to my mother’s. I didn’t rise when he accused me of forgetting his iPod, or fight back when he told me off when I got the directions wrong to the airport carpark. I even beat down my feelings when he told me to stop talking about Ben on the plane.
So now, if that’s our moment of fun over and he starts making a fuss, I’m all out of energy.
I can’t keep treading on eggshells.
But Jack turns and hands me my glass.
‘Oh well, we might as well enjoy it,’ he says. ‘I guess we can take the chocolate home for Ben.’
I take the glass, weak with relief.
‘Oh Jack, do you think he’ll be OK?’ I ask.
Time is doing funny things, now we’re the other side of the world from Ben. Being with him in my mother’s kitchen earlier today feels like it happened a month ago.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ he teases.
‘Don’t. I’m finding this really hard.’ And I am. I feel the pull to my child like a physical ache. ‘I’ve never left him for this long before.’
‘I wish you’d chill out. Your mother’s going to spoil him rotten and undo every bit of our good work. He’ll have her eating out of his hand by now.’
‘Do you think?’
I picture Ben, sobbing like his heart was breaking, his fists clinging to clumps of my hair, as he screamed at me not to leave him.
‘Come on,’ Jack says, smiling. ‘We’re here to have fun, remember? It’s a Friday night in New York. Let’s forget the bath and hit the rooftop bar. What do you say?’
Back On My Comfortable Reef
I wake up and the sun is streaming in through the bedroom window. Jack is sitting on the windowsill and the sound of New York waking up billows in with the net curtain.
I feel my heart flip over. For the first time, for as long as I can remember, Jack is doing something amazing. He’s sketching. He’s totally absorbed and he doesn’t notice that I’ve woken up.
I watch the way the sunlight falls on his face.
My Jack.
I smile, images of last night coming back to me. How we strolled hand in hand through the streets of SoHo, diving into a steakhouse with red-and-white chequered tablecloths and ordering the most massive meal we’ve ever had. Then walking more and finding a bar where we drank tequila and played pool and met some guys who took us to a jazz club, where we danced until we fell over with exhaustion just as it was getting light.
We had more fun in one night than we’ve had in five years.
I feel winded – breathless – when I think of the mistake I might have made with Tom. Now it’s all over, I feel like a fish who just poked its head above the confines of the nice, comfortable reef and nearly got eaten by a shark.
What was I thinking?
Lying here, it seems utterly absurd, unfathomable, but I’m not going to dwell on it. I’m not going to even let it into my head. That’s all in the past. H was right. It was just a blip. A warning. This is a new dawn of my relationship with Jack.
I yawn and stretch, luxuriating in lying like a starfish under the Indian cotton sheet. ‘What time is it?’ I ask.
Jack turns and smiles at me. ‘Early, but it doesn’t matter. Isn’t it great?’
He comes and lies down next to me on the bed. He holds my hand and we listen to the sounds of distant traffic and beeping cabs and voices drifting up from the sidewalk.
‘It’s so weird,’ he says. ‘So urban, but so peaceful at the same time.’
‘I love it,’ I say. ‘It’s the first time I’ve woken up and not had Ben jump on my head for as long as I can remember. And I don’t have to empty the dishwasher. Or make cereal. Or clear up. Or find shoes . . .’
I roll over and make gleeful noises into my pillow, kicking my feet.
Jack laughs and strokes my back. ‘Poor Amy,’ he says. ‘It’s sometimes a bit of a mindless slog for you, isn’t it?’
I turn and look at him. It’s the first time Jack has said anything that remotely acknowledges my day-to-day life. I didn’t even realise he’d noticed.
‘I know I’ve been rubbish,’ he says. ‘When we get home, I promise I’ll get up more, and take care of him more. You know, being away from him, I miss the little guy.’
I reach up and kiss him. I feel strangely moved. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes, it’s weird without him. Nice, but weird.’
‘Shall we call?’
We dial up my mother’s house and I hold the phone, our heads pressed together, as my mother puts Ben on at the other end. His voice sounds babyish and confused.
‘Are you being a good boy?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ he replies, and Jack laughs.
My mother shoos me off the phone with hardly any information about how Ben is coping without me. ‘It’s an International Call,’ she reminds me. She’s shouting and enunciating, even though the line is perfectly clear.
I put the phone down.
‘You see,’ Jack said. ‘I told you he’d be fine.’
But I press my lips together.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, smoothing my hair behind my ear.
‘Nothing,’ I say, laughing and flapping my hand over my mouth, as tears start rolling down my face. ‘I’m fine.’
Jack hugs me. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK to miss him . . . but you know – I’ve got an excellent way of taking your mind off it . . .’
After an hour of fabulous, sensuous, satisfying, uninterrupted morning sex, a full half an hour on my own in the bathroom, listening to music and putting on make-up, and having left the hotel in less than a minute, on account of the fact that I didn’t have to pack nappies, juice and select a particular toy truck, I feel marvellously refreshed as we hit the streets.
I’ve turned down the corner of nearly every page of the Time Out guide Faith gave me just before we left. I’m amazed by how well she knows this place. I can’t imagine Faith living here, let alone clubbing and drinking in all the places she’s recommended, but I guess I must have underestimated her. If I’d had a funky previous jet-set life, I’d have made sure Camilla and the rest of the Vipers heard all about it, but Faith has kept schtum. I had no idea she once held down an international job. Maybe she’s not so thick after all.
I’ve made a long list of things we want to do: Bloomingdale’s, Saks, the Mac shop, Kiehl’s, Donna Karan . . . the list is endless. However, Jack’s not getting into my shopaholic vibe. He wants to do the Frick Collection, the Guggenheim and the Flatiron Building. We’re never going to do it all.
We wander out of the hotel on to the sunny sidewalk, awestruck. I’ve planned a route around all the shops I want to visit, but Jack’s hungry, so we breakfast on bagels and smoothies as we walk along and, almost immediately, we get lost.
For once, it doesn’t matter. Being in New York makes me feel injected with coolness. I’m wearing my favourite halter-neck sundress and my new shades, which look like they’re designer, but were actually a tenner in Tesco’s. Jack’s wearing three-quarter-length trousers and flip-flops and his funky baseball cap, which we picked up in a store last night.
I so rarely walk anywhere with Jack in the daytime on my own that, as I catch sight of us in the reflection of a shop window, strolling hand in hand, I’m surprised at how well we match.
Every time we walk around a corner, there’s a new sight and more things going on. I feel effervescent with the sheer spontaneity of it all. I love the yellow cabs and the old buildings with their zigzagging cast-iron fire escapes and the unfamiliar font of the street signs. I love the crowds of people – the dazzling array of clothes and the flamboyant mix of races and accents.
On Spring Street, there are stalls everywhere on the wide sidewalk and Jack buys me a spotty silk headband which matches my dress. We both stop and look at the street art for sale. I fancy an impressionist painting of the skyline, done in thick oils, but Jack turns his nose up.
‘I could do that,’ he says, dragging me away.
I’m delighted to hear it, because he’s right. He could.
He’s outraged by the street hawkers’ prices. ‘Remember that ghastly “Study in Yellow” I did for Dad’s office? Even that was better than any of these.’
‘Ten times better. At least,’ I tell him. ‘I wish you hadn’t given up. I know why you did, but I miss you being an artist.’
‘Hey! Maybe we could m
ove here,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘Think about it. We could have a little SoHo loft and live the bohemian lifestyle.’
I laugh, sucking on my smoothie straw.
‘I could flog big canvases to the tourists and you could make fabulous clothes and sell them to these posh boutiques. Oh, and maybe we could both keep Branching Out going, and charge a fortune for planting up people’s window boxes.’
‘It sounds great – but darling, haven’t we missed the boat a bit? I mean, how would we get Ben into a school and what about lifting the buggy up all those stairs?’
Jack looks crestfallen. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ he says. ‘I guess we’re too old.’
‘But never say never,’ I tell him. ‘Why the hell shouldn’t we do something mad and live somewhere different? I don’t want to live in our flat in Kensal Rise forever, do you?’
Jack looks at me. ‘You’d really move? Leave all your mates?’
‘What, the Vipers? They’re not mates, Jack.’
‘But you seem . . . I don’t know, so entrenched.’
‘Well, I’m not. Not for a second. Why do you think I do the lottery all the time? Because if I won, I’d get us out of there in a flash.’
‘You would?’
‘Of course I would. I always dreamed that we’d have loads of adventures together. I always thought we’d be the type of people who would live an exciting life. That it would be like . . . like this all the time,’ I say, gesturing around us.
‘And it’s not?’ he asks.
‘Don’t say it like that.’ I can tell I’ve offended him.
‘Well, that’s what you’re implying, surely? I do my best, you know.’
I sigh. I don’t want to argue with him. I take his hand. ‘I’m not criticising you, Jack. All I’m saying is that we owe it to ourselves to make our lives amazing. Don’t you think?’
Jack gives me a funny look. ‘Where did you get that from?’
‘What?’
‘That. You don’t usually say that kind of thing.’
I can’t speak. I feel queasy with guilt, as if by accidentally quoting Tom, I’ve brought him here with me. My secret suddenly feels as tangible as if it was Tom standing next to me, holding my hand, and not Jack.
