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I’ve just had rampant sex.
She smiled hugely, winked, said ‘Go for it, girl’ out loud, and flushed the toilet with triumphant force. The phone had begun to ring. Sally gave herself another beaming smile and then sauntered, positively swaggered, to answer it. It was her mother, officious as ever, voice shrill, no time for a greeting.
‘Darling I’ve been ringing for hours, I thought you’d be busy marking essays?’
‘No, I had to be elsewhere, something far more pressing,’ Sally said truthfully.
‘What?’
Oh, you know how it is, Mum. When there’s six foot of beefcake in your bed, more handsome and brawny than in your most incorrigible dreams, great hands, a wonderful mouth and a dick to die for; obviously marking a ten-yearold’s ‘What I did over half term’ rather pales into insignificance.
Taking a sharp bite on her tongue, Sally, however, did not speak her mind. My, how she would have relished the ensuing stunned silence of matriarchal disbelief. How she would have loved to have breezed straight on with mundane enquiries about the health of the cat and the younger sisters (in that order). Today, though, decorum won. The ravaged Rodin was diplomatically replaced by an old friend who would have been quite compliant had she known the circumstances (she was, in fact, holidaying in Tunisia).
‘Daph is a little low, so I’ve been with her.’
‘Darling, did you remember Aunt Martha’s seventieth?’
Sally had forgotten.
‘Is blasphemy really necessary? I suggest you phone her right this minute.’
So she did. Sally, sweet Sally; the prettiest of the nieces, the dutiful, good-natured Sally, chatted to Aunt Martha for a full and enjoyable ten minutes. She was careful not to mention her late uncle, and remembered to ask if the cold was causing the dreaded arthritis.
‘Arthur Ritus comes to us all in old age, it’s to be expected, I’m not one to complain …’ But she was and she did. Sally ummed, ahhed and tutted at the apposite moments and Aunt Martha, as she hung up the phone, took down the silver-framed photo of her husband and declared to it that Sally was a gem and would make a treasure of a wife.
Sally gazed at the replaced handset.
Do I feel guilty? Should I? For what? For forgetting Aunt Martha’s birthday? For lying to my mother? Or for having performed a carnal act of such outrageous proportions? Guilt, show me thy face! I’ll give you three seconds!
Right then, off I go, back to my boudoir, quick-change into my doppelgänger, the temptress, the vixen, the wicked lusting girl. Woman! Hardly a lady, hardly a girl. Today I am suddenly the sort of person I thought I was not and yet today I really feel like Me. Pure and simple, this is who I am.
She entered her room and any purity simply vanished. She flew on top of the knackered male form and kissed it outrageously with a scheming and lively tongue.
ONE
Such a lovely girl, what an angel, isn’t she wonderful, such a good girl. Sally Lomax was adorable and adored. She was extremely polite, tirelessly friendly, always amiable and genteel. She was chatty and respectful to the elderly and a much-loved teacher of youngsters. She kept herself trim, never let the ends of her hair split and always folded clothes away at the end of a day. She cooked well, cleaned well, and although she could not knit, she made enviable things on her sewing machine. When in her car, a spotless if noisy six-year-old Mini Cooper, she was courteous and never lost her temper, never overtook on the inside and slowed down well in advance of pedestrian crossings – even on a deserted Sunday. Just in case.
When Sally was a child, she was angelic in physique and character. Skin as smooth and opalescent as her prettiest Bakelite doll, features and figure doll-like too, her demeanour open and engaging. Sally at six was altogether flawless, faultless. It was as much a pleasure for her parents to invite ageing relatives for tea, as it was for them to venture out of retirement bungalows to be sung to and danced for. At tea-time, Sally never stretched over, never ate with her mouth open, and always asked if she could have some more with a ‘please’. At her birthday parties she never snatched her guests’ presents and was always keen for the entertainer not to show her any favouritism. But Sally was simply everyone’s favourite.
At twenty-five, her skin is still flawless and, though we would be hard-pressed to call the Sally we’ve just met angelic, it took very little hard pressing for the Rodin to deem the ways and wiles of her body thoroughly heavenly.
Well, where do we find Sally today? It is the day after the Big Bonk. She is spending Sunday afternoon by herself, in the one-bedroom flat she rents in Highgate. He had stayed for breakfast-cum-lunch and had thus deprived Sally of her sacred hour with the Observer, so she is reading it now. Her routine is out of sync, she really should be ironing. It will wait a week. Today Sally is not flustered by such a thing, today she is enjoying aloneness. Today she enjoys the self-condoned liberation from the previously self-imposed Sunday schedule. She is very proud of herself and finds she frequently bursts into an ecstatic smile.
What does it mean, this smile, what does it mean?
Her answer is defiant.
I feel wonderful. It was good. It was a good thing to do.
She laughs at the paradox. In the clear light of a November day, and looked at objectively, she had indeed committed a wanton act of slack morals and shameful lust which, justifiably, could be categorized by most as Bad. Yet Sally feels good and can see nothing to be ashamed of. She feels elated, happy and downright proud.
My flesh might be ravaged, my mind sullied, but Gracious Good Lord do they feel the better for it!
Sally knows what she wants, and what she must do.
It’ll be a swift and easy transition, and it must start, quite simply, with a change to my wardrobe. I shall do Ms Collins proud and move with one fell swoop from Laura Ashley to Whistles, from Marks and Sparks undies to none whatsoever. Hampstead here I come, cheque book at the ready.
Should I be ironing?
No.
I should be buying clothes that are Dry Clean Only.
TWO
Sunday in Hampstead, silver winter sun making everybody look beautiful. The Barbour Brigade are out walking retrievers who have never retrieved in the countryside because the Heath suffices. The Young Trendies are here in force, hanging out, hanging about, sipping cappuccino at the pavement café, queuing for crêpes, looking around all the while to catch sight of their reflection whilst spying out anyone good-looking to look good for.
There is a young woman who weaves in and around these two species. She is smiling; it is a smile of energy and ease and it is infectious. She seems simultaneously absorbed in her own world yet aware of, and enjoying, her surroundings. And the shopping, by the looks of the two bags she swings. She is of average height, of slight build and her hair is a nothing-special brown, mid-length with a kink that is natural and nice. Her skin glows and there is a sheen to her very good cheekbones, a becoming blush to her cheeks, an endearing rosiness to the edge of her chin and the end of her nose. Her hazel eyes glint and dance. Her lips, naturally full, are soft red – Sally always uses lip balm during the winter months. And, though her legs would not see her to a Levi jeans commercial, her walk is a sexy, assertive stride. As a package, she looks very pleasingly put together. She is not stunning but she is radiant and heads turn.
Sally jigs past a boutique, one selling excessively expensive accessories. Two strides later (and unknowingly witnessed by at least three envious Hampstead Darlings), our erstwhile ballerina performs a fluid halt, heel-spin, about-turn, and floats effortlessly into the shop. Inside, the opulent aroma of fine leather envelops her, the hand of a skilled interior decorator is much in evidence and her senses are solicited at once. The rag-rolled walls in Homes-and-Gardens hues of ecru and taupe, and the polished wood floor covered here and there by a jaded kelim, provide a splendid setting for pieces of old furniture over which cashmere throws and finely woven woollen shawls are nonchalantly draped. Belts hang from a fabulously gnarled piece of driftwood; from leather trunks, suitcases and holdalls, a carefully spewed selection of socks and silk camisoles accost the eye. But Sally, who thinks the current fashion and hefty prices for bashed, blemished, artistically distressed leather goods somewhat daft, has made a beeline for the old Welsh dresser where the hats are displayed.
She has never worn a hat but she is trying them on with the jaunty confidence of one who would not entertain going out without one. The black felt cloche suits her well but makes her look too cutesy, the trilby is too butch and the beret too ordinaire. She looks stunning in the claret bowler but feels best in the black velvet. It is soft, floppy but beautifully cut. It hugs her skull and the brim, up the front, falls gently around her face and drapes elegantly at the back. She looks at herself in the mirror and the shop assistant, usually pushy, looks on too. She makes no attempt to goad her customer; she watches, slightly jealous, from a discreet distance. Sally is intrigued to find that the shape of the hat accentuates her bone structure and appears to lengthen her neck; under the black velvet, her eyes turn from hazelnuts into freshly shelled conkers.
I look really rather good, sort of alluring, feminine and vampish all at the same time.
It takes Sally but an instant to decide the hat must be hers; costing, though it does, a day’s pay.
At the Tea Pot Shoppe, Carlos was clearing the mountain of froth-stained cups from one of the outside tables, pocketing a mound of gratuitously small change left as a gratuity. It was nearing the end of his first month in England, he was tired and slightly homesick. It was a thankless job for a nuclear physics graduate, and the tips were lower than he’d been led to believe. Then he saw her, caught in profile as she started to cross the road, a pretty face framed perfectly by a sumptuous black hat. Suddenly, life in this strange country of offish Barbours and oafish Trendies had a plus to it. This, Carlos realized with a great deal of excitement, was his first glimpse of an English Rose. He gawped transfixed; watching the cars slither and toot while she danced and laughed her way between them. There is a zebra crossing a hundred yards ahead but today Sally prefers to jay-walk. Bella, bella! The hat, the face, the rosiness – and here she is, ordering a cappuccino and a Danish pastry.
Sally graciously accepted the compliments of the waiter. Soon she was deftly scooping up the chocolate-dusted froth and thinking of nothing in particular as it fluffed into nothingness on her tongue. The pastry was absolutely heavenly and she even closed her eyes as the first mouthful revealed to her tastebuds apple, crème patissière and the lightest of pastry. By the second sip and third mouthful, Sally was happily recalling the details of her decadent afternoon. A coffee-brown lambswool blazer; two silk shirts, one olive, one cream; a pair of exorbitantly expensive designer jeans; and a short (was it too short?) black devoré velvet skirt.
When on earth am I going to wear that?
You will.
She had indulged in garments of the finest fabrics, and at the most exorbitant prices. The whole experience had been so pleasurable, the looking, the touching, the trying on; the decision-making so effortless. Finally, it had been a joy and well worth the money to watch her acquisitions being coddled in tissue paper and then handed to her so reverently.
As she pressed a determined fork against the last flakes of Danish, she pondered for a moment; common sense versus decadence. Sally, you must understand, had spent her rainy-day money. Frequently she put a little aside ‘for a rainy day’, not really knowing when that would be. But it was definitely today and common sense had a place neither in her scheme of things nor her purse.
Today, she told herself as the brisk November breeze reddened her nose and chin a little more, today it is pouring.
Despite the pavements being dry and no umbrella in sight, Sally decided that it was the rainiest day in ages and the spending of pounds amassed from hard-saved pennies was utterly justified. These purchases, after all, were an investment. She turned to look for her waiter, and in doing so felt a whisper of velvet against her cheek. Its caress felt wonderful and, as the waiter was nowhere to be seen, she kept her head still a moment longer.
Over her second cappuccino, Sally indulged in recalling, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, and if one can feel light-headed between the legs, then that was how Sally was feeling.
Never have I been worshipped like that, never have I been so aware of my body, what it can do, how it can feel, how it can make another feel.
Perhaps it was because she had consciously watched, analyzed even, a man totally absorbed in her, so hungry for her, that her own physical awareness had been heightened. The sex seemed so much more fulfilling, the orgasm so exquisite. New. Sitting there, in Hampstead, with the light growing thin, a November navy replacing the afternoon silver, Sally decided to recast herself as a fly on the wall of her replay and ran the whole sequence again, this time as a series of film stills. Vivid in her mind’s eye was the interlocking of two bodies, the various formations and patterns, firm flesh, the spaces in between; Rodin’s marble; Henry Moore’s bronze.
Carlos found himself unable to resist. The English Rose, smiling carefree out loud, was compelling, magnetic. He was helpless in the face of her. As his luck would have it, she turned to him with that very smile as he presented the bill to her. With his very best English, he let go:
‘Señorita, your smile, it makes my day. Is so very beautiful. In you I see the English Rosa. If I was Shake His Speare, I write a play for you. You are foods for my ’eart and a vision for my eyes. Is so very lovely. I am breaking open for your smile of pretty innocence.’
Hand pressed with conviction against his heart, he kissed up at the sky as if imploring the gods to grant his wish. Sally was flattered to the hilt. Cocking her head, she gave him the smile to make his day, a wink too, and a tip which far exceeded her previously uniform ten per cent.
Not quite, thought Sally as she strolled away home, but thank you anyway. She threw back her head and grinned hugely at the near-dark sky. Actually, the smile that has made your day is not that of an innocent English Rose, but is rather the glow of a well-laid woman.
THREE
‘Foxy Lady!’
Jimi Hendrix’s chocolate voice, the aggressive twang and slice of his guitar, rings out and reverberates off the walls. The music is loud and frantic. It adds action and life to the room.
There is little furniture but what there is has, undoubtedly, the British Design Council seal of approval. The run of the floorboards, interrupted only occasionally by a piece of carefully chosen, intelligently placed furniture, leads the eye to the fireplace above which an Alexander Calder gouache explodes colour and shape on to the intensely white wall. The low coffee table is a sleek construction in burnished steel and tinted glass. It supports a matt black vase stuffed with emphatically upright tulips; white, waxy but not real. On a diagonal to the table’s edge is a copy of Warhol’s Diaries. Along one wall stands an ash and glass cabinet. Understated and stunning, the carpentry is exquisite. It is filled with books meticulously organized into a personal library system. Pride of place is given to the leather-bound volumes: Shakespeare, Donne, Fielding, the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the Dictionary of Quotations. On the shelf above are art books, epic tomes and sumptuous catalogues: Mantegna, Vermeer, Cézanne and Poussin. The shelves below carry novels, all hardback, all standing proud in alphabetical order: Bellow, Heller, Kafka, Marquez, Nabokov, Pasternak, Seth.
On one side of the fireplace, a fabulous Conran standard lamp stands to attention while on the other side is the CD system, a veritable piece of sculpture in itself; wafer-thin, subtle Scandinavian lines, matt black, obviously. On custom-built shelves (oak and chrome) are enough CDs to open a shop. They are categorized, of course; the concise rock section alphabetically, the comprehensive classical section chronologically: Monteverdi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, Schoenberg, Bartok, Tippett. And yet it is Mr Hendrix who somewhat anomalously fills this unnervingly chic room in Notting Hill with sound.
Can you guess where we are? It is still the day of the Big B. and, a few miles away, Sally has just arrived home, where she is presently dancing Giselle in the devoré skirt and nothing else. Physically, she may be some distance from Jimi and the Calder and the tulips; however, the memory of her is very much here, clear and current in the mind of this flat’s occupant, evoked by Mr Hendrix’s beast of chase. It is time for the Rodin to assume his true identity.
Would Richard Stonehill please stand up?
Look there! Against the long sash window, framed movie-like by imperceptibly breezing muslin drapes. That’s him, resting his brow against his outstretched arm against the window. Turn around – oh, just look! Six foot two and-a-bit, perfectly carved and gorgeously chiselled. Now this is the stuff of Levi jeans commercials. Hair the colour of the sand at Rosilli Bay where his childhood was spent, Richard’s skin boasts the health, vitality and natural tan of someone who lived long in the care and goodness of Welsh sea air. His eyes are the most extraordinary dark violet, his teeth are very good, his hands could be those of a concert pianist, he is fiendishly good-looking and he smells delicious – a fine mixture of freshly laundered clothes, scrubbed skin and Calvin Klein scent.
Eyes closed, long and lithe legs stretched out, arms relaxed, Richard Stonehill slithers into his black leather recliner, and converses with Jimi.
‘I’m too exhausted to get up and scream, Mr Hendrix,’ he apologises, but finds ample energy to sing that he too has wasted precious time; that he has therefore made up his mind to make this foxy lady his, all his.
Bay-beh!
Jimi, it appears is singing about Sally. Or someone just like her. But Richard has never met anyone who comes remotely near her. He sincerely hopes that this vixen will have her sport with him a while longer.
A wry smile creeps from one side of his mouth to the other. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. What does he shake in it? Disbelief? But it did happen, his pleasantly tired body is proof, and so are the images which constantly assault his memory. Does he shake it in amusement? But the night with Sally was more than just fun. His gaze rests upon Julius Caesar, third volume into the run of Shakespeare. Richard sees its title and suddenly Sally, in her naked glory, appears before him too. Caesar. Seize her.
Seize who? Who on earth is this woman? This Sally Lomax? The classic friend of a friend of a friend whom he met less than twenty-four hours ago at the party of a friend of a friend. How come he had not met, even heard of her before? Fate. It must have been. At 11 o’clock the previous evening, Fate had pushed them both on to the balcony at that dull party in Barnes. Fate had allowed conversation to flow, flattery and flirtations to be accepted, and Sally to be without a ride back into London. Fate took them past an all-night bagel bakery and Fate uncovered a shared passion for the smoked salmon-cream cheese variety. Fate filled Richard’s car with laughter and sexual chemistry. If Fate took him to Highgate, where he’d never even thought of going before, where was it to take him from here?
As quickly as the vision came, Sally now disappeared from the cabinet and the complete works of Shakespeare stared back at Richard in their leather-bound splendour. Hendrix was now proclaiming that an angel had come down from heaven yesterday, staying just long enough to rescue him.
Richard, who did not feel rescued so much as released, rose and sauntered to the bathroom, a tiler’s delight in damson, citron and bleu di bleu majolica ceramic. His bladder was full and he stood expectant for the blissful moment of release. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he glanced down. It looked like it always did and felt like it should. Eyes slightly closed, he tried again. Nothing. Slight pain but nothing.
Come on, mate, syphon the python, have a slash, take a leak.
Nothing. He fiddled a bit, gave a little squeeze, a little pull, a slight twist, a gentle shake. Nothing. He turned the tap on to a drizzle.
But I’m bursting.
Bursting. Immediately his mind flashed up an image of the night before, a clear picture and a vivid sensation at the same time. There is Sally’s nipple brushing the corner of his mouth; he sees himself thrusting into her, pump, spurt, release.
Stop it, I’ve got to piss.
Richard looked down and his penis, as erect and straining as his perfect tulips, leered up at him lasciviously. No peeing for the time being. He ached in his lower back and his groin and decided to sit awhile instead. Chin resting on a fist, elbow balanced on a knee; he is Rodin’s Thinker to a ‘t’. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took a long, hard stare.
I am thirty-five and have had a mind-blowing sexual encounter. I do not know the girl, though carnally I know her inside out. And today I cannot pee. Look at me, blond, handsome – very – virile, manly, hunky, horny. Suave, debonair, sophisticated. In control – of my life, of my mind, of my work.
But not of my dick.
Who is this woman? This Sally Lomax? She is a teacher, she is twenty-five, she lives by herself in urban cottagey style amongst pine dressers, floral table cloths, Lloyd-Loom chairs and a patchwork eiderdown. Shabby chic, everything fresh, clean and bright. Objectively, she is not even that beautiful, not really my type. So what has she done to me? My tackle has never ached before, nor my gut felt so hollow, my mind so distracted. What have I done? What has been done to me? Why can’t I pee? When will I see her again? Jeez, will I see her again?
The horror and accompanying adrenalin at the thought of never seeing Sally again opened the sluice gates of the Stonehill bladder. Richard had just enough time to release the Thinker’s pose so that the torrent hit the bowl and not the double weave, thick-pile carpet.
FOUR
‘Did you see Miss Lomax in assembly? Did you see what she was wearing? You can see her knees! And she has make-up on. Definitely mascara and lipstick.’
‘My mum says that a woman should never go out without lipstick on.’
‘But Miss Lomax is a teacher!’
‘My mum says it’s tarty to put make-up on unless it’s a special occasion.’
‘Yes, but Miss Lomax is a teacher.’
Gossip was always an integral part of Monday morning school but rarely were the teachers its main topic. On a Thursday or a Friday maybe, but Monday was usually dedicated to the football scores, shopping trips and birthday parties of the weekend just past. That Monday morning, in the all-too-short ten minutes between assembly and first lesson, Miss Lomax was the exclusive subject for discussion.
Class Five were stupefied, traumatized and desperately excited. Scandal, they believed, was about to shake the school. Of what it was they were as yet unsure. To an extent it was irrelevant, the truth may not be nearly so exciting as wild conjecture. Was she going somewhere after school? If so, where? To dinner? To the opera, the theatre? To court? Was she about to get engaged? Was she leading a double life as a model as well as a teacher? (To a ten-year-old, anyone taller or older, anyone in high heels or even just a trace of lipstick, was very glamorous indeed.) Maybe she was going to elope – please, no, that would mean a new teacher and Miss Lomax was irreplaceable. Miss Lomax warranted compliments usually paid to footballers, pop stars and ponies; she was the business, the bestest, brill, fab.
‘Who do you think she’s going to elope with?’
‘Maybe they’ll be catching a train to Gretna Green straight after school!’
‘Quick, who passes King’s Cross Station on their way home?’
Suddenly the classroom reverberated with the age-old sound of desks creaking, chairs being scraped into forward-facing position and a few nervous, last-minute giggles and whispers. Teacher had arrived. There she was, resplendent in a tight skirt and loose, silky blouse. Miss Lomax stood before them, feet slightly apart, hands on hips.
‘Hi.’
Thirty champion chatterboxes were stunned into a unified hush.
Hi?
Hi?
What’s ‘Hi’?
Hey, maybe she’s on drugs!
Miss Lomax perched herself in a perfect serpentine on the edge of her table, black Lycra-clad legs plaited around each other.
Maybe she’s drunk!
