by Freya North
nice weather!
Alice glanced out of the window. It was a nice day.
go climb a mountain / have a wank! Alice texted back. me v busy xxx
Her phone rang. ‘Alice Heggarty,’ she answered, her eyes fixed on a spreadsheet.
‘And just how busy is “busy”?’ Paul was asking.
‘Listen, you!’ Alice chided. ‘I've a job to do!’
‘How about a blow-job?’ Paul riposted predictably.
‘Go and have a wank – go and climb a mountain! Bugger off.’
‘Well, there are no mountains in London,’ Paul mused, ‘and Leicester Square is not the place for a wank.’
Alice was struck silent. Paul was chuckling. Paul was here? There in Leicester Square? How could that be? She hadn't sent him tickets. She hadn't sent for him full stop. It never crossed her mind that he'd come unless she called. In an instant, she had to assess that affairs are not about control at all, but a teeter on the knife edge of chaos.
Paul loved every second of Alice's silence – he envisaged her shocked and delighted, rapidly rearranging all her after-noon meetings and planning the fastest route to him. He wasn't sure where Liverpool Street was in relation to Leicester Square.
‘You're here?’ Alice managed to exclaim at last.
‘Yup,’ Paul proclaimed.
‘But when?’ Alice asked. ‘And how long for? And why didn't you say? I'd've sent tickets.’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Paul said.
Alice scanned her diary. She had very little on that after-noon and only momentarily did she wonder whether this was a godsend or not. She had no deadlines to oversee, no one to let down and thus no lies to tell – no excuse, really, not to take the afternoon off. Rapidly, she reasoned that the fact that the path to proscribed passion was today paved her way with no obstacles whatsoever was a Sign. It was Fate giving her the nod to go forth and fornicate. She felt almost protected. Surely if it was wrong, it wouldn't be so easy.
Where, when, how?
Crouch End?
Today was absolutely not the day to ask Thea to assist Alice's adulterous proclivities.
‘Take the Northern Line to Camden Town and meet me in the shoe shop opposite the Tube in twenty,’ Alice whispered covertly, leaping back into her role as adulteress.
Paul hadn't a clue what she meant. ‘Is the Tube in Twenty a store too?’
Alice was a little irritated. ‘Stupid! The Tube – the underground station – in twenty minutes.’
‘Oh – OK! Cool.’
He'd annoyed her and the thrill of what was meant to be furtive had been diluted and that made her cross.
Is it a Sign pointing the other way, then? A dead-end street with an unmissable No Entry sign? As she packed her handbag, she decided to leave all sobering thoughts and responsibility behind in her office.
It's a quiet day, it's a lovely day, no one will know, why deny myself pure physical pleasure?
Alice was slightly irked to arrive at the shoe shop before Paul. She'd wanted to sashay in with a toss of her hair and beckon him over with the magnetism of her raised eyebrow alone. Instead, she found herself browsing shoes she'd never wear, glancing at her watch and wondering if the shop had done research into whether blaring hip-hop actually increased sales.
Paul was fifteen minutes late. ‘Sorry, baby – that Northern Line is mental! I went too far up and had to jump off at Tough Nell's Something.’
‘Tufnell Park,’ Alice corrected. ‘Hullo.’
‘Hiya. Cool trainers,’ Paul remarked, picking up a pair. ‘How much is £70?’
‘Well, let's see,’ Alice said coolly, ‘I reckon it's about seventy pounds.’
Paul laughed. ‘I mean in euros,’ he apologized.
‘Are you seriously going to buy them?’ Alice asked, glancing at her watch. She wasn't in a rush but she was bored of the shop.
Paul had a good look at the trainers. They were funky. But £70 was probably expensive. ‘Nah,’ he said, putting them back and giving Alice a squeeze. ‘You look fab.’
‘Come on,’ said Alice though she wasn't quite sure where they were going.
They meandered into Inverness Street and walked slowly by the fruit and vegetable stalls. ‘What do you want to do?’ Alice asked Paul, assuming he didn't really want to buy apples or carrots.
He raised his eyebrow lasciviously and Alice smirked back. ‘But let's get something to eat first,’ Paul countered prosaically, ‘I'm hungry.’
Alice watched him wolf down spaghetti bolognese and diverted her gaze as he chatted with his mouth full. She paid before he could order dessert. She wanted to cut to the sex. Paul Brusseque wasn't meant to be about friendly chit-chat and perusing trendy trainers. He wasn't meant to be a somewhat naive tourist in London. He wasn't meant to turn up late or be bamboozled by the London Underground system and the Euro–Sterling exchange rate. He was only meant to be about raw sex. He should grunt, not chat. He should be naked and manly – not fixated by trendy footwear. Ultimately, he should be her lover; rampant and masculine – not a cheery friend.
Had they been in the West End, she might have been tempted to blow a fortune on a hip hotel room for the afternoon. But they were in Camden Town with not a boutique hotel in sight, let alone walking distance. ‘We'll go to mine, it's just up the road,’ Alice told him, hailing a cab by whistling through her fingers, which charmed Paul no end. So he told her how cool he thought she was. And kept asking her to whistle like that again. And Alice wished he'd just be quiet. His sex appeal was ebbing away and she was desperate to fuck him before it disappeared entirely.
Come back, Paul, back to how I remember you.
But Alice, this is Paul. You want Paul as you've imagined him, as you've reinvented him since your trip to France. After all, a fleeting dalliance deepened by the economy of text messaging leaves plenty of room for fanciful embellishment.
By Belsize Park, to prevent Paul wittering on, Alice started kissing him. He was, after all, still extremely kissable on the surface. She closed her eyes to the familiarity of Haverstock Hill and transported herself back to Les Baux. Back to Clapham. The times and places where Paul had kissed her before. He tasted the same and his expert oscillation turned her on again, much to her relief.
In silence, she paid the taxi and led the way up the steps to her house. She didn't want to note Paul's reaction. No doubt he'd be gobsmacked by the beauty of her home and she didn't want to see the effect on him, didn't want to invite questions, didn't want to think about betraying her husband under his own roof.
‘Christ, Alice,’ he marvelled in a hush. She plugged his mouth with her tongue while closing the front door with a kick.
‘Hullo, Mrs Sinclair.’
Oh, fucking hell.
Wednesday. The cleaner came on Wednesday afternoons. ‘Hullo, Carmen,’ Alice said to the robust Brazilian lady, relieved to detect that Carmen hadn't witnessed her snogging Paul, ‘how are you?’
‘Very good, Mrs Sinclair, thank you! I am doing ironing now – the house is very clean.’
‘Thank you, Carmen.’ Introduce Paul. Think of something. ‘This is Paulo – he has come to look at the, at the –’ At the what, for heaven's sake? He's come to look at my tits, Carmen. I wanted him to screw me on the freshly laid linen on my bed, Carmen. ‘– at the main bathroom.’
‘You change your bathroom, Mrs Sinclair?’ Carmen looked horrified. ‘But it is very beautiful bathroom. Very new. Very clean.’
‘Pressure,’ Alice said, ‘he's come to check the pressure. This way, Paulo. Follow me.’
Alice took Paul into the bathroom. She thought about pressure and allowed herself an exasperated glance in the mirror. Actually, the water pressure was wonderful, thanks to Mark's insistence on hi-tech pumping. ‘Paulo,’ Alice said loudly just in case Carmen could hear or was remotely interested, ‘this is what I mean.’ She ran the bath taps and the water gushed impressively and conspiratorially loudly. Alice turned to Paul and placed her finger over his lips
. She unzipped his jeans whilst unbuttoning her blouse. She wanted to fuck and go. She wanted to have sex with him and then she wanted him to go. He fondled her breasts and took his mouth to them greedily while she enmeshed her fingers in his hair and regarded their clinch reflected in the mirror. They looked good. It was a sexy sight. She pulled his face up to hers and they tongued voraciously. Slowly, she knelt and eased down his jeans, pulled down his boxer shorts and took her mouth immediately to his glorious hard-on. She almost gagged. He'd had a long journey. He'd raced around central London. He needed a shower, ideally. A wash at the very least. But there wasn't the time for that. All Alice wanted was fast, urgent sex. ‘Do you see what I mean, Paulo?’ she suddenly called, for Carmen's benefit.
‘Yes!’ Paul called out, as Alice sucked his cock and caressed his balls.
Paul pulled Alice up, positioned so she could grab hold of the sink, facing into the mirror. He bent her over slightly, yanked down her knickers and penetrated her. She watched herself being humped, watched his face contorted with intense pleasure. This was precisely what she wanted – to be desired sexually to such a degree that the act itself was greedy, carnal, basic and verging on rough. She observed Paul – his teeth clenched, his eyes screwed shut. He pumped and thrust and came explosively.
‘Did you come, baby?’ he asked. Alice thought about climaxes and anti-climaxes and decided not to answer directly. She put her finger over her lips and mouthed ‘hush’ as she switched off the taps. Silence. As she watched Paul pull up his trousers, she felt his semen dribble out of her. They hadn't used a condom. How could she have been so stupid and reckless? What on earth was she thinking? What the fuck was she playing at? Alice detested herself.
‘What shall we do now?’ Paul asked, thinking along the lines of Bucking-Ham Palace, perhaps. Or Carnaby Street.
‘I need to make some work calls,’ Alice replied.
‘You wouldn't know anyone whose floor I can crash on?’ Paul asked. Alice looked confused. ‘Clapham's not available – my mate's away and I forgot to ask him for keys.’
‘Sorry,’ Alice said, ‘I don't think I can help.’
‘Your mate up in that Crouch place?’
‘No! I mean, she's moving soon – so we can't ask her.’
Paul looked at Alice. Alice looked back at him. ‘Two nights, right? I'll book you a hotel.’
‘Alice, I'm broke.’
‘I'll pay for it.’
Should I go to an STD clinic?
Should I take the morning-after pill?
I desperately need Thea, but no way can I burden her with this. Not only will it upset her but there's far more on her plate at the moment than I could stomach. I wanted my cake but now I'll just have to choke on it. I'll just have to suffer feeling wretched all on my own and accept it as my comeuppance.
Alice doesn't doubt that a slap of humiliation would be cathartic, so she goes to the chemist and forces herself to maintain eye contact as she asks for emergency contraception. She knows that a dose of guilt would be medicinal too. She is subsumed by it when Mark comes strolling home a couple of hours later, with his customary cheery kiss, a lovely bottle of wine and the fresh ingredients for his home-made pesto. She isn't hungry. Her remorse and self-loathing have filled her up.
It is only when she's trying to wash away her shame in a scalding hot bath later that evening that she realizes she forgot all about her Pilates class. She won't get a refund now. It means that lousy, pathetic shag with Paul cost her £45. Plus his hotel bill. Actually, the price she is paying is far higher and she's acutely aware of it. She's taking a bath in the guest bathroom because she just can't face going back into hers. And she's told Mark she's going to sleep in the spare room, fabricating a dose of Thea's phony flu as the reason though in truth she feels she does not deserve to sleep with him in their marital bed. She ought to give Thea a quick call to check she's OK. But Thea's mobile is off because she's currently engrossed in her conversation with Richard Stonehill.
Oh, Thea. Oh, Thea. How can we be in such a mess when we're only in our early thirties and our lives until recently were really so charmed? How did everything plummet from our control so quickly? The major difference is that you're the victim in your situation and I'm the perpetrator in mine. You deserve only salvation and happiness – but privately I just can't see how you'll find this. Look at me with my faithful, adoring husband. What the hell was I doing? Please God don't let my comeuppance depend on Mark finding out. Please God, just don't let Mark find out – it will slaughter him. I don't want Mark to hurt. I never did it to hurt Mark. Please save him from pain. Please God, don't let Mark ever find out what I've done – I promise I'll never do it again. Please God, save Mark the torment – I swear it won't be me getting away with it; my shame and regret will ensure it. Honestly.
But do you know what? I don't actually believe in God.
I'm scared.
I feel sick.
Oh, Thea, I so need to talk all this through with you. But I can't, I can't. You have an unfathomable amount to cope with. My isolation and my remorse must somehow carry me through and teach me to live and love better than I have been.
Saul's Three O'Clock
can i c u?
no – pls undstnd
fuck u! come on! i go 2nite …
no Paul – not poss. pls, pls undstnd
i came all this way 4 u …
i didn't ask u 2
oh no?
cant – sorry. Ax ps: no more txts etc PLEASE
Etc.? Paul reads reams into the word on his phone. Was Alice referring to sex as an ‘etc.’? Arrogant bitch. Paul decided it would be easier to simply hate her than to object, plead or protest. He didn't want to feel his trip was wasted. The fact that he'd ended up paying for his plane ticket slightly irked him – but ordering excessively from the room-service menu and raiding the mini-bar onto Alice's tab at the hotel gave him some satisfaction. There was more to London than Alice bloody Heggarty or St Clair or whoever she was. He'd damn well go to Buckingham Palace and Carnaby Street. He'd put Alice down to experience; after all, he liked plenty of it in his life; it was his chosen mode of living. Toyboy, sex tool, rich bitch's bit on the side? Fine. Whatever. Been there, done that. Tick that one off the list now.
Saul was looking forward to his three-o'clock meeting with Alice. He loved brainstorming ideas so he prepared well and arrived at the offices early.
‘Hiya,’ he greeted her, kissing her twice.
‘Saul,’ Alice responded cordially, offering her cheeks but not kisses. She was tired and she felt on edge. She wanted Paul Brusseque out of the country. She wanted to want her life back yet despite making the decision to cut the contact with Paul, she didn't feel like returning to Mark's warm, simple embrace. And the emotion, or lack of it, bewildered and depressed her. And now she was confronted with the dissolute Saul Mundy.
‘Coffee?’ she offered, swiftly deciding to fully immerse herself into Alice Heggarty, publisher extraordinaire, and keep her alter egos of cuckolding wife and best friend's keeper firmly out of office hours.
‘Thanks,’ said Saul. ‘How are things?’
‘Fine,’ Alice declared, trying not to balk at the question or look remotely guilty, ‘and you?’
‘There's a delay on the purchase of the new place,’ Saul bemoaned. ‘I daren't tell Thea – she appears to be so over-whelmed by her flat sale next week. I've hardly spoken to her, let alone seen her – have you? Every time I phone she says she's too busy sorting her life out to chat. It's only packing – but Christ, is it taking all her time. She won't let me go over because she says it's all a mess – yet she claims she can't afford the time to stay at mine!’ Saul laughed while Alice thought he should have read into Thea's chosen phrases. ‘She's a daft thing!’ he said affectionately. ‘When did you see her last? Pilates?’
‘No. Not since the weekend. I had to cancel my class the other day,’ Alice said, suddenly keen to swerve away from the subject. She tapped her desk. ‘Let's get crac
king,’ she said. ‘How's Adam?’
‘How about From Apple to Blackberry – technology gets fruity – and not just because I'm hoping for a freebie,’ Saul smiled.
‘I like it,’ Alice said, making notes. ‘I met Nick Hornby's agent – but rather than a straight interview, I want to pitch for a piece on his experience as parent to an autistic child. I've suggested offering an increased fee as a donation to his TreeHouse Trust charity.’
Saul nodded thoughtfully. ‘I was musing over a Fatherhood issue – writers, celebs, Joe Public.’
‘I like it!’ Alice enthused.
‘Iconic father/child relationships,’ Saul rolled on, ‘from Homer and Bart Simpson, to George Bush Senior and George Dubya, Ringo Starr and Zac Starkey, Prince Charles and Wills, Beckham and Brooklyn.’
‘And what about daughters!’ Alice protested, raising an eyebrow to challenge Saul.
‘Paul and Stella McCartney,’ Saul laughed, ‘Terry and Gaby Yorath, Jimmy and Lisa Tarbuck, Nigel and Nigella Lawson, Mick and Jade and Lizzie Jagger.’
‘Homer and Lisa Simpson,’ Alice laughed. ‘We could integrate the Nick Hornby idea into such an issue. Good. What next?’
‘I love the title Ripper Ripped Off for an investigative piece on copycat crimes,’ Saul suggested.
‘I suppose that would necessitate suitably grisly pics, then?’ Alice said hopefully.
‘Unquestionably. And how about Adult Adolescents?’ Saul suggested, ‘thinking about that whole resurgence in BMX bikes and skateboards and the Beastie Boys who I reckon are probably older than me. Buy a bike and recapture your youth, kind of thing.’
‘Good,’ Alice mused, ‘good.’
She and Saul sat in affable silence, broken only by the occasional pensive murmur or thoughtful sucking of pens when inspiration alighted. Alice was trying to process a train of thought concerning a great title, Back from the Brink, because she'd heard an inspiring interview with a mountaineer who'd lost his limbs to frostbite but lived to climb another peak. Suddenly her mind's eye beamed up Paul, in his hiking boots, his muscled bronzed legs. She felt taunted and glanced away from the unwelcome intrusion to find her gaze, previously non-focused into the middle distance, fixed on her shelf. The framed first cover of Adam. Her award for Launch of the Year – that gravity-defying jag of perspex swooping into the wooden base. Without warning, she was bombarded with the perspex shop connection, next door to that Black Beauty and those Models! top. And out of nowhere, as clear as if he was speaking right then, she recalled verbatim Saul's comments at that very awards night almost two years ago. He'd proclaimed he liked to dip his finger into a ‘fair few pies’. He'd said dollars couldn't buy his desire for diversity – well, yes, they obviously could, albeit not in dollars but his pounds sterling bought him pounds of flesh. And though, in hindsight, Alice could find double meaning in the comments he'd made about his career, there was one thing he'd said which leapt from her memory and assaulted her.
