by Jane Moore
Sober, it would be erotic. But in my heavily inebriated state, I feel the frustration is going to kill me. So, apologies in advance to the two ferocious women who wrote that dating book The Rules, I lurch forward in a most unseemly fashion and push my tongue into his mouth.
He responds fully and pushes me backwards, my back rammed firmly against the rear of the booth, my legs intertwined with his.
After about a minute of intense kissing, he pulls away, dragging me back to the reality of our surroundings and blinking rapidly with the short, sharp shock.
"Cheesy I know, but your place or mine?" he murmurs with a heart-stopping grin.
"Yours." I may be pissed, but I still have enough wits about me to know that going to his means I can leave when I want. It also gives me a chance to see if there are any visible traces left of his wife.
For the fifteen-minute taxi journey, I throw caution to the wind on the basis that as there are thousands of cab drivers, I'm never likely to see this one again. Just as well really.
Within seconds of pulling away, we have resumed our intense kissing and Simon's hand has snaked up my dress. As his hand reaches the top of my stockings, he groans loudly.
"Fuck, you're sexy."
"Thanks, so are you" seems a little too tritely polite under the circumstances, so I say nothing, simply stepping up the pressure of our kiss and placing my right hand on his groin and rubbing slowly. It's toweringly clear he needs little stimulation.
"Here y'are. That's sixteen quid, please." The driver's voice is loud, but his face impassive.
I step out of the cab, the cold night air bringing a welcome flash of sobriety. Pulling my coat tighter, I wait for Simon to pay and gaze up at the modern apartment block in front of me. All I know is that we're in Maida Vale. Somewhere.
Simon grabs my elbow and guides me towards the front door. "The lift's broken, I'm afraid, but I live only on the second floor. Come on."
A man on a promise, he leaps like a mountain goat up the first flight of stairs, turning to find me several steps behind.
"Kitten heels aren't designed for walking," I say, as I reach him in the first-floor stairwell.
But he doesn't appear to be listening. Cupping my chin in his hand, he stares into my eyes and watches them flicker with surprise as his other hand reaches up my dress. Running a finger around the top of my stocking, he tilts his head and whispers in my ear: "I've wanted to fuck you since the first moment I saw you."
The jury's out on whether this is a compliment or not, but right now, with a powerful mixture of alcohol and adrenaline pumping round my veins, my knees almost buckle with lust.
For the next flight of stairs, we are two mountain goats together, propelled to his front door by the thought of what . . . and who . . . was to come.
Fumbling and stumbling down his hallway, we shed our coats along the way, our mouths remaining firmly pressed together. We reach a doorway and he pushes me through it, moving backwards until my legs hit what feels like the edge of a bed.
Our tongues still intertwined, his hands move from my arms down to the hem of my dress, yanking it upwards until it rests above my buttocks. Then, just as swiftly, he unzips the back of my dress, pulling it halfway down my arms to expose my bra.
Now his mouth has moved away from mine and down to my right breast, his teeth pulling the lace to one side to reveal my nipple. One of his hands is splayed against my buttock, pulling me towards him, the other is rubbing the area of lace directly between my legs.
My eyes are closed, my head thrown back in abandon. I'm doing nothing in return, simply enjoying the experience.
I feel his hand tug my pants to one side, then the unmistakable nudging sensation of his flesh against mine. My eyes snap open and I clamp my legs together. "Condom. Must use a condom."
"It's already on," he murmurs, his hands pushing my knees apart again. Either he wore it to the restaurant, or the man has a sleight of hand that makes David Blaine looks positively snail-like.
Pushing me back onto the bed, my dress hitched around my waist, he lowers himself onto me and pushes himself inside.
Sorry about that," he says a couple of minutes later, falling off me and laying to one side. "Another fifty-seven minutes and that would have been our finest hour."
I laugh and pull my dress back into place. "Well, it seemed pretty fine to me anyway. I've got no complaints."
He stands up and pulls his trousers and socks off, throwing them onto a chair in the corner. "It was the big buildup. I have spent all night wanting to do that, so when we got behind closed doors I couldn't contain myself."
"I'm only thankful you managed to restrain yourself in the restaurant." I smile, uncertain what to do now it's all over.
"Next time, I'll make sure it's one of those Sting shags . . . you know, Tantric sex that lasts for seven hours."
I pull a face. "Bloody hell, I hope that includes the cinema, dinner, and the journey home. I can't think of anything worse."
He laughs. "You see? That's why men and women will never understand each other. There we are thinking you want big knobs and marathon sex sessions, and all you want is chipolatas and quickies."
"It's true that size doesn't matter to us . . ." I reply. "Well, as long as it's not small."
He snorts with laughter. "Good one." Glancing down to his crotch, he adds: "Does this condom make me look fat?"
Walking over to the back of his bedroom door, he unhooks a dressing gown and places it across my legs. "Here you are, put this on and get into bed. I'll go make some coffee."
And there it was, as simple as that. No awkwardness, no stilted conversation or hidden meanings. Just a straightforward invitation to stay the night, the whole night, and nothing but the night. Well, so far anyway.
But, judging by his easygoing, uncomplicated attitude, I sense that Simon will ask to see me again and this just might be the start of something good.
Folding my dress and placing it on the chair, I peel off my stockings and bind the dressing gown tightly around my waist before clambering into the king-size bed. It dominates the room, which has fitted beech wardrobes at one end, the lone chair, and two bedside tables; a remnant from his marriage perhaps? There are no photographs on display and no feminine touches whatsoever.
Laying back on the feathery pillows, I jiggle my toes in delight as I think about the feverish sex we shared just a few minutes ago and look forward to the promised, more languorous session yet to come.
Yes, yes, I know I said I wasn't going to have sex with him under any circumstances whatsoever, but technically speaking, it is our second date.
Twenty Six
We're all going on a summer holiday!" I sing at the top of my voice, as the Renault Espace weaves its way around the country lanes.
Matthew gives me a withering look. "Aunty Jess, it's October and we're actually going to Grandma and Grandpa's. What a silly song to sing."
"OK, point taken." I smile. "As it's near-ish to Christmas, how about 'Jingle Bells' then?"
An arm clasped round each of them in the backseat, I lead Matthew and Emily in a pitiful rendition of "Jingle Bells" whilst keeping a concerned eye on Olivia, who's sitting in the front passenger seat whilst Michael drives.
As far as the children are concerned, this is just a routine visit to their grandparents' house for Sunday lunch. But the adults in the car know better, hence the rather gloomy atmosphere I am trying desperately to lighten in case the children pick up on it.
Olivia is booked in for her mastectomy and reconstructive surgery tomorrow, and our parents still don't know she's even got cancer. This trip is specifically so she can tell them.
I offered to look after Matthew and Emily in London, so she and Michael could face it alone. But Olivia wanted the rest of the day to feel as normal as possible, and felt the presence of the children might stop Mum, in particular, from becoming too hysterical.
"We'll have lunch, then when I give you the nod, I want you to take the children out for a lo
ng walk," she said earlier when we were packing up the car. I silently nodded my agreement.
Pulling into the parentals' gravel drive, I have to admit I'm dreading today. Usually, this is a warm blanket of a place I associate with lots of laughter, affection, good wine and food. A pleasurable haven from the often harsh realities of life.
Now we are bringing one of those harsh realities with us and plonking it right on their doorstep. But I know it can't be any other way.
"Dahling! You look so well." Mum envelops me in a hug and I want to cling onto her forever, soothed by the familiar smell of her flowery perfume combined with her favorite hairspray. But she breaks away and moves on to Olivia.
"And how's my biggest girl?" she beams, drawing Liv into her chest. "It's been too long, really it has."
Dad emerges from the front door, wiping his oily hands on an old cloth. No doubt the remnants of another ongoing invention.
"Ah, I'm glad you two have arrived," he says, rubbing the tops of Matthew and Emily's heads. "There are a couple of chocolate bars hidden somewhere in the house, and I need your help to find them."
"But they are not to be eaten until after lunch." Mum's voice trails after them as they run off into the house.
Greetings over, the adults troop in behind them and move into the cozy sitting room, its real log fire crackling away as the centerpiece.
"Drink?" Dad waves a whisky bottle at Michael, who holds his hand up in the air.
"No thanks, I'm the designated driver today."
"Ah, my girls have got you under the thumb, have they?" Dad chortles.
"Alan," says Mum rather sharply. "Never mind pouring yourself whisky. Have you checked on the meat recently?"
He scuttles off and Olivia, Michael, and I share a furtive, ironic smile.
"Come on through to the dining room," says Mum, hustling us in the door. "Let's find the children and get settled."
Wow, that was fantastic." I slump back in my chair, my plate now empty of the sizable portion of beef Wellington that occupied it earlier. "You really must give me the recipe for that." So it can lie untouched in a kitchen drawer whilst I carry on making baked beans on toast and Pot Noodles.
I notice that Michael has worked his way through most of his food, but that Olivia's is barely touched. She has made a valiant attempt to move it around the plate a little, but it's fooling no one.
"Aren't you hungry, dear?" Mum's expression is faintly hurt and I find myself contemplating, not for the first time during this lunch, how her cozy, ordered world is about to be turned upside down irrevocably.
Without wishing to sound overly dramatic, I know that whatever the outcome of Olivia's illness, none of us will ever be the same people again. Facing death, either your own or that of a loved one, is an experience that never leaves you and colors every life decision you make from then on.
"Sorry, Mum, bit of a dicky tummy, I'm afraid." Olivia smiles apologetically and pats her stomach.
Mum is on her feet in an instant. "I have just the thing for that . . . some nice peppermint tea. I'll pop the kettle on whilst Dad clears the plates. You three sit here, won't be a moment."
When they have both left the room, Olivia glances at the door to make sure the coast is clear, then turns back to face me. "Can you go and find the children?" she says in an urgent whisper. "Then, when Mum comes back with the mint tea, say you're taking them out for some fresh air."
"No problem." I get to my feet immediately, feeling nauseous with expectation and dread. Michael, staring rigidly at the table, looks even worse. At least I don't have to be here when they're told the terrible news, I think, thankful for small mercies.
Five minutes later, I usher Matthew and Emily back into the dining room, where Mum is pouring Olivia's tea and Dad is ensconced back in his chair at the head of the table.
"Are you going out?" Mum looks baffled.
"Yes, I thought I'd take them out for some fresh air," I say brightly, sticking to the script. "We'll probably just go across the field to the village, then back again."
Mum looks at her watch. "If you wait ten minutes, we'll all come."
"No, really," I urge. "We want to go on our own because we have a little magic show planned for everyone when we get back and we need to discuss it."
Matthew and Emily are both as surprised by this sudden announcement as I am, and make no attempts to disguise it. "What magic show?" says Emily.
"Ha, ha, what magic show?" I burble. "Isn't she good?" I clamp a gloved hand onto both of their backs and gently shove them towards the door. "Won't be long," I shout over my shoulder as we walk through the front door.
"What magic show?" parrots Emily again, once we're outside.
"There isn't a magic show, darling," I confess. "I just made that up because I thought it would be nice for Mummy and Daddy to spend some time on their own with Grandma and Grandpa."
"Why?" Now Matthew is on my case, too.
"Oh, I don't know," I reply desperately. "I just did. Come on . . ." I start to run towards the field. "First one to find a cowpat wins a prize!"
Sadly, it's me. A gigantically huge, juicy one that is now hanging in murky globules off the bottom and side of my new pale pink suede loafer. Whilst the children choose their promised candy in the village shop, I lurk outside trying to scrape off the worst of it against a milestone that reads "Pushkin, five miles."
After a few minutes, I give it up as a bad job and sit on the shop's stone step, waiting for the children to emerge.
Gazing back across the sloping field, I can just see the thatched roof of my parents' house, a small wisp of smoke snaking out of the chimney. It's a greeting card scene, belying the nightmare undoubtedly unfolding within. Just the thought makes my stomach turn over, a small amount of bile rising in the back of my throat. I try to guess the reactions of my parents, never ones to follow obvious patterns of behavior. Initially, Mum will probably disintegrate, then gather herself to rise to the challenge, going into organizing mode, making sure Olivia has everything she needs, that Michael is able to continue working, that the children are well cared for and protected from any unnecessary upset.
Dad, on the other hand, is more of a worry. He rarely reacts emotionally to anything, keeping feelings locked inside, where they either eventually dissipate or swell to such an extent that he might explode. I know he will feel intense anger that one of his daughters has been dealt this cruel blow, and that there's still no guaranteed cure for her condition when so much money is poured into other, less life-threatening issues or projects.
"Here's your change." Matthew has appeared by my side, proffering a fifty-pence piece in his gloved hand. "Thanks for the sweets." Emily is standing right behind him, munching on a licorice whip.
"Come on then, let's get back. I'll beat you at Monopoly, if you like." I wipe a smeared stickiness off the side of Emily's top lip and flick it onto the road.
On the way back across the field, we talk about everything from the Battle of Hastings to Britney Spears. I love talking to children, they have such a refreshing view on the world, unsullied by adult expectations and, subsequently, disappointments.
As we reach the front door, I remove my ruined loafers and stand still for a moment, inhaling long, deep tendrils of icy air into my lungs. I have absolutely no idea what I'm about to encounter, and the urge to run in the opposite direction and just keep going is almost overpowering.
Matthew and Emily are still in the front yard, kicking their way through the large piles of coppery leaves and shrieking with laughter. I click the old-fashioned front door latch and walk through into the roomy, square hallway.
Silence.
"Helloooo?" I shout tentatively.
"We're in the sitting room." It's Olivia's voice.
Walking in, the scene that unfolds before my eyes is pretty much as I predicted when sitting on the shop step.
Mum is sitting on the sofa, sobbing quietly in what is clearly the lull after the storm. Her face is a mass of bright pink
blotches from crying, her eyes raw and swollen. She's wringing a soggy tissue round and round her fingers and her whole body is hunched forward, wracked with sorrow. Dad is sitting next to her, upright and stoic, his left arm placed around her shoulders. His face is chalk white, his pupils enlarged with terror, but there is no sign of tears. Every so often he whispers "Shhhhh, it's going to be all right" and rubs Mum's shoulders.
Olivia is bolt upright in one of the two armchairs adjacent to the sofa, her hands placed on her knees, her expression simply sad. She has worked through so much of her own pain in the past few weeks that clearly her only emotion right now is that of concern for her parents. Michael is sitting in the opposite armchair, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"You've told them then," I say somewhat fruitlessly.
Olivia nods. "Where are the children?"
"They're playing with the leaves outside. They're fine."
Mum looks up at me and extends her arms. "Come and sit here," she says, patting the sofa cushion next to her.
I move across the room and sit down as she wraps her arms around my neck and starts to sob loudly. "My darling Livvy," she wails. "How could this happen to my baby girl?"
I have no idea what's happened before my arrival, but it strikes me as odd that Mum is seeking solace in my arms rather than Olivia's. Then I remember something Ben told me about how families sometimes react when told a loved one is seriously ill.
He says it's common, though by no means absolute, that initially the sick person is put on a pedestal, a fragile figure who, in the eyes of the family, has become almost untouchable in case they might break.
"The family is torn between wanting to weep all over them and feeling that would be too self-indulgent. They feel they have to be strong for them and, sometimes, it makes them go the other way and become stiff and remote," he says. "But after everyone's got used to the idea, the barriers usually come down."
His words are solace to me now as I witness the effect of Olivia's illness on our otherwise close, happy-go-lucky family. Reaching across to the coffee table, I pull a fresh tissue from the box and use it to dab Mum's eyes. Olivia shifts uncomfortably in her seat and glances nervously at the door. "Mum, you need to try and calm down now," she says, her tone slightly stern. "The children might come in at any moment, and I don't want them to know anything's wrong."
