by Sue Margolis
“Ssh.”
He made her turn onto all fours. His fingers were up inside her again. He spread her juices over her buttocks. She let out another gasp as his penis entered her. “It’s okay, just relax.” He moved in and out in a slow firm rhythm, kissing the back of her neck. He was still on her clitoris, his finger moving in a firm circular motion now. “There you go. There you go.”
Her quivering was growing now, taking her over. There was no stopping it. His thrusts were becoming harder and sharper. He kept up the pressure between her legs. She was all sensation. She held on tight to her breath. Another thrust came hard inside her. Then another. She felt his body go rigid as she let out one final moan. But the shuddering and quaking inside her wouldn’t stop. Unaware, he took his fingers away, but she made him put them back, begged him to carry on until the sensation had subsided. When it did, she let her body sink down onto the bed. The two of them rolled over so that he was on top of her. He kissed her gently on the lips and stroked her hair.
“Do you have a thesaurus?” he said. She noticed that he was panting.
“A what?”
“A thesaurus. You know, it’s a lexicon, a word list.”
“I know what a thesaurus is. What I don’t understand is why you want one. A postcoital cigarette is one thing, although I can’t say I approve, but a postcoital word search is a new one on me.”
“It’s just that I’m lost for words. I’m not sure how to describe what just happened,” he said. “‘Fantastic’ doesn’t quite do it justice.”
She laughed. “I’ll drink to that. Okay, how about incredible … unbelievable … out of this world?”
“It was all those things, but I think we can come up with something better.”
“Extraordinary? Stupendous?”
“More.”
“Quintessential? Awesome?”
“Where’s your laptop?” he said.
She told him it was on charge under the bed. He reached down and picked it up. A few seconds later, he let out a loud, “Aha. I’ve got it … thaumaturgical, that’s what it was,” he told her. “You and I just had thaumaturgical sex.”
Things got thaumaturgical twice more that afternoon before they realized it was nearly four and they were both starving.
Amy made them beans on toast, covered in grated cheese, which they ate at the kitchen table. They chatted about his pro bono work in Africa. It turned out it had all started six years ago when he took a gap year from his job to do volunteer work in Rwanda.
“So when I was having Charlie, you were in Africa. God knows I wouldn’t not have him for all the world, but I wish I’d taken some time out to do charity work abroad. Sometimes I look back on those years I spent in PR and think what a waste they were. On the other hand, it did give me a chance to save enough money to become a mum.”
A moment’s silence followed. Sam was looking around the room. “You know, this is a great flat,” he said.
“It’s certainly got potential. I’ve got plans, but I can’t afford to do anything right now.”
“You need to knock this kitchen wall down and open up the living space.”
“I know. And I thought I’d lose the French doors into the garden and replace them with a wall of sliding glass.” She was warming to her theme now. “I’ve thought loads about paint color. I was thinking basic white, but with the odd wall covered in paper. I’m mad about all those fifties sciencey space-age designs. And I’ve thought about fabrics. I’ve got dozens of samples. Would you like to see?”
“Absolutely.”
She went into the bedroom and came back with her box of swatches.
“Wow, how many have you got here?”
“I’ve been collecting them for years. I love them all. I’d like to use each one someday, but this is such a tiny place, I know I could only choose a couple of accent colors. Look at this one.” She produced a heavy cotton print in olive green, yellow, and white. This was more than a swatch. There was enough fabric to make a couple of cushion covers, maybe. It was an original fifties fabric that she’d picked up at Camden Market. They agreed that the design reminded them of the ancient TV aerials that people used to have on their roofs. “I can just imagine curtains like this with a low Scandinavian sideboard and perhaps an Eames chair. Not that I could begin to afford the real thing. They cost a fortune.”
Finally she produced the cream damask she’d bought in Paris and told him about her plans for her froufrou French armchairs. “I’m thinking now that they would look terrible if I went for a fifties theme. I’d need to put them in the bedroom.”
She got more and more excited, spreading swatches over the floor, asking for his opinion on various color and texture combinations. “Don’t you just love fuchsia and orange?” she said. “It’s the ultimate clash, but it works so well.”
“If design is such a passion and inspires you this much,” he said finally, “why on earth don’t you try to make a career of it?”
“You mean designing for other people?”
“Why not?”
“I’ve thought about it, but it just doesn’t give me the buzz I get from writing.”
He looked thoughtful. “Okay, if you could do one thing to this flat today, what would it be?”
“Oh, I dunno … take up all the old carpets, maybe, and strip the floors. I’ve been thinking about doing it for ages.”
“Let’s do it now.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“What, now, as in right this very minute?”
“Why not now? If we can hire an electric sander, it really won’t take that long. I’ve done it loads of times. We could do the entire flat in a few hours.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. What do you say? Let’s give it a go.”
She laughed. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m not. It’s called seizing the day. What do you say?”
“Okay, consider it seized.”
An hour later, with a floor sander rented until the following evening, they were ripping up carpets. The difficult part was moving the heavy furniture, particularly Amy’s double bed, but they managed. While Amy made tea, Sam got started with the sander. “These are lovely pine boards,” he said.
“Aren’t they? How do you think I should treat them? I’m thinking white floor paint.”
“Floor paint. Definitely. And white would work really well with those curtains you have in mind.”
“Umm … maybe with a shaggy olive rug.”
The sander wasn’t too noisy, so Amy wasn’t worried about disturbing the neighbors. The problem was the dust. Despite wearing face masks and the sander having a bag attached to collect it all, they still coughed and sneezed. All they could do was drink water and suck sweets. They took turns on the machine, but Sam, having sanded floors before, was a bit of an expert and worked faster than Amy. Despite her being slow and not very skilled, by ten they had done the living room, Amy’s bedroom, and the hallway. They fell onto the sofa, sweaty, dusty, and exhausted.
Amy opened a bottle of wine and ordered pizza. While they waited for it to arrive, they went from room to room, admiring their work.
“It looks amazing.”
“Fantastic.”
“Awesome.”
“Out of this world.”
“Quintessential.”
“Sam, thank you so much. I don’t know what to say. You bought me the earrings, now this.”
“I enjoyed it, really. I love doing stuff like this.”
“You’re like Ulf.”
“Ulf?”
“He’s a Swedish friend. Well, not exactly a friend. I hardly know him.” Amy explained how a couple weeks earlier Bel had virtually press-ganged him into assembling Charlie’s IKEA furniture and they were now going out. “Lovely chap. Brain surgeon. Bit earnest, though. Into Strindberg and Norse sagas.”
As they sat on the sofa, demolishing a seventeen-inch American Hot with extra salami, Amy suggest
ed opening another bottle of wine.
“No. I really mustn’t have any more to drink,” Sam said. “I’m driving.”
“Stay,” she whispered. “It’s late.”
“You sure? I snore, and I’m well known for stealing all the duvet.”
“Well, I’ll just have to steal it back again.”
“Okay, I’ll stay.”
“Good.” She paused. “Sam, can I pick your brain?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
While he opened the wine, she went back into the bedroom to fetch the large folder full of Charlie’s artwork that she kept behind the wardrobe.
“These all belong to Charlie,” she said, handing Sam the folder. “He forgets what he’s done and moves on to the next thing, but I don’t have the heart to throw anything away. I’d love to know what you think.”
Sam sifted through the drawings and paintings. The more he sifted, the more his eyebrows rose.
“Amy, these are incredible. I can’t believe Charlie’s only six. There’s such maturity here. He’s got a grasp of perspective and color. Look at the character in the faces. I’d say you have a prodigy on your hands.”
“You think he’s that good?”
“I do. Are you having him tutored?”
“I’ve thought about it; I’m worried it might put too much pressure on him. I don’t want his art to turn from a delight to a chore.”
“On the other hand, a child like this really needs to be challenged and brought on. I don’t know Charlie, but I bet you anything he’ll love having one-on-one lessons. And if he starts kicking up and saying it’s too much, you stop.”
“I guess. Makes sense.”
She said she needed a shower before bed. “Care to join me?” she said with a sexy giggle.
“You bet.”
There wasn’t really room for two in the narrow bath, plus the spray from the ancient overhead shower was more trickle than torrent. They took turns standing under it. Afterward, kissing and laughing, they set to work on each other with the shower gel. His hands slid over her breasts. Hers followed his hairline south from his stomach. She lathered his balls, watched his penis lengthen. She squeezed more gel onto her hand. They watched her hand glide the length of his penis. As she ran her fingers over the tip, he closed his eyes and let his head fall onto his chest. Her pace quickened. His face was contorted with pleasure. He was thrusting himself into her hand now. A tiny pearl of sperm appeared. Fearful that he was about to come too soon, he took her hand away. “Your turn,” he whispered. She leaned back against the wall tiles as he slipped a soapy hand between her thighs. As he parted her and moved his fingers over her clitoris, she let out a tiny cry of delight. At one point he turned her around to face the wall. He massaged her buttocks, slid his fingers between them, moved slowly forward until he was back on her clitoris.
“Come in me,” she whispered.
She turned around. He grabbed her thigh, pulled her leg onto his hip, and pushed hard inside her. She gripped his shoulders, felt the thrusts getting harder and deeper. She felt him hold his breath. His body shuddered. This time, because it was harder for him to reach her clitoris, she found it harder to come. As his penis slipped out of her, he started working on her again, firm circular movements over her vulva. He didn’t let up. The certain rhythm made it easier for her to lose control. As the familiar waves built up inside her, she let out a series of soft moans. “There you go,” he whispered. “There you go.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her mouth opened. He held her until she was still. Then he kissed her gently on the lips. They stayed, resting in each other’s arms, until the hot water started to run out.
“SO DOES Charlie ask why he doesn’t have a father?” Sam said a few minutes later as they lay in bed.
“Sometimes. They’re not easy conversations to have. He can’t understand why his father can’t at least come and visit. It breaks my heart having to tell him that will never happen.”
“I can imagine.”
“And I know that when he gets older, he might get angry with me for not giving him a proper father. I mean, even divorced kids get to see their dads. He never does. He wants to be part of a family that’s more than just me and him.”
“Maybe, but at the same time he knows that you wanted him so much that you were prepared to raise him alone. That will always mean a great deal to him.”
“I like to think so.” Neither of them spoke for a moment or two.
“You know,” he said eventually, “I used to be a sperm donor.”
“No. Really?”
“It was years ago, when I was a student in Manchester. I’d just lost my part-time job, and I was really hard up.”
“Omigod, was it excruciating? You know, being shut in a little room with a load of dirty mags.”
He laughed. “I have to say it wasn’t easy. First, the clinic was a converted church. Saint Bernadette’s, it was called. As a well-brought-up Catholic boy, it wasn’t easy jerking off in church, I can tell you.”
This made her laugh.
“Then one day I forgot to lock the door, and a nurse came barging in. There was me with my jeans around my ankles and … well, you can imagine the scene. I never went back again. I was too humiliated.” He stopped laughing. There was a pause. “Actually, there was another reason I never went back.”
“What was that?”
She watched as he gathered his thoughts. “Okay, there is something I need to tell you. I know we’ve only just started dating, so what I’m about to say is going to seem premature and a bit forward, but I couldn’t bear the thought of us getting serious and this being a deal breaker.”
“Go on.”
“I never got any money from the clinic, and when I asked why, they said I was sterile.”
“Oh, Sam, that’s awful. But isn’t there anything that can be done? I mean, you got that diagnosis years ago. There are operations. Or maybe your body’s changed.”
He shook his head. “If you’ve got a negligible sperm count, that’s pretty much it. I’ve done a fair bit of reading.”
“So how do you feel about never becoming a father?”
“As a student, fatherhood wasn’t something I’d given a moment’s thought to. You don’t at twenty. Over the years, I think I’ve just grown to accept it.” He paused. “The thing is, if my being sterile is going to be a problem for you, I’d rather you told me sooner rather than later.”
“I’m not going to lie. Part of me would love to have another baby, but with my family history, I know I’m extremely fortunate to have Charlie. I could try some more IVF by donor, but I’m not sure I want to bring another fatherless child into the world. A second child has never really been on my agenda. I think that like you, I’ve just come to accept it. So, to answer your question: The sterility issue wouldn’t be a deal breaker.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Wow, that is a weight off. I’d geared myself up to getting dumped.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re not getting dumped.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would any man in his right mind dump you?”
She let out a soft laugh. “Because they don’t want a child in their life, particularly one who isn’t theirs. The last guy I dated suggested farming Charlie out on the weekends so that he wouldn’t get in the way.”
Sam was shaking his head. “That’s appalling.”
“Men often don’t understand that I’m a mother and Charlie will always be my top priority.”
“Amy, I get it. I have a sister with small kids. I would always expect you to put Charlie first. In fact, I’d find it strange if you didn’t.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much hearing you say that means to me.”
“So we’re okay?” he said.
“We’re absolutely okay,” she said, stroking the side of his face. He wrapped her in his arms, and they both drifted off to sleep.
THEY WERE woken
about nine by frantic buzzing at the door.
“Whassat?” Sam mumbled.
“Paperboy can’t get into the building.”
Amy pulled the duvet over her head, hoping one of the other residents would come to his rescue. When the buzzing carried on, it occurred to her that it might not be the paperboy.
She sat up and swung her feet onto the floor. “Okay, I’m coming.” She reached for her dressing gown, which was at the end of the bed, and padded to the front door. She lifted up the handset on the intercom.
“Hello?”
“Amy, it’s me.”
“Who me?”
“Me … Victoria.”
“Victoria?”
“I’ve left Simon,” she wailed through the intercom. “He said I’m a monster. Amy, please tell me I’m not a monster.”
“Sweetie, of course you’re not a monster,” Amy said, buzzing her sister in. A few moments later, Victoria was weeping into Amy’s shoulder.
Victoria never cried—at least not in public—and she never left the house unless her hair, makeup, clothes, and accessories were in perfect order. Now here she was, sobbing for all she was worth, wearing not a scrap of makeup, and looking like she’d slept in her clothes. A bewildered Arthur was at her side.
“I am so sorry.” Amy said.
“You and Mum were right. Things haven’t been good between Simon and me for ages. I just never thought it would come to this. I just don’t know what to do. Suppose he wants a divorce? How would I cope?”
Panic was something else that rarely figured in Victoria’s emotional repertoire.
“It’s okay,” Amy soothed. “It won’t come to that. It will all get sorted out. Don’t worry.”
At that point, Amy turned her attention to Arthur. “Hi, poppet,” she said, bending down and giving him a kiss. “How you doing?”
He shrugged.
“Where’s Lila?” Amy asked Victoria.
“School trip. Left yesterday for ten days.”
“I guess that makes things a bit simpler.”
Victoria put a piece of crumpled tissue to her nose and nodded.
“Mummy and Daddy got cross with each other,” Arthur piped up. “It was in the night, and I was frightened.”
