The Last Year Of Being Married

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Pierce—‘I can smell your perfume.’

Sarah—‘Oh, yes. Right.’

Pierce—‘What is it?’

Sarah—‘Sure antiperspirant. Won’t let you down.’

Pierce—‘Ah. Right.’

I straddle him and start massaging in a similar way to theway he massaged me, but with longer, harder, firmer strokes—across the back—up and down—side to side. I’d learnt how to massage on a gulet holiday in Turkey, where one of the girls in the crew was a sexual masseuse. I watched her like a hawk to learn the art. It’s served me well ever since. It was always wonderful pre-coitus.

The muscles in his back are more relaxed than those in his legs, and I need to be firm and push deeply, which Pierce seems to like. He lets out the occasional sigh, but we don’t speak. There is no music in the background, so I’m able to hear him breathing quite clearly. I move down his legs slowly and start to massage his feet. And then, for some reason, start to blow between his toes.

I think I’m teasing him. Or am I teasing myself? Toying with the idea of having sex with him? Shall I? Shan’t I? Shall I? Shan’t I? Imagining the what ifs. What would the harm be if I did suddenly start to kiss or lick or stroke? I haven’t had sex for years. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to do it. How to feel again. Feel sexual again. Give and receive pleasure. Feel lust. That lust I last felt with Stephen. With John. And a long time ago—a very long time ago—with Paul. Feel that energy. That release. Feel like a woman. Behave like a woman. Use that bloody box splits position and really give Pierce something to talk about in the office the next day. And make everyone jealous. Even Paul.

Perhaps I should move my hands more provocatively. I know he wouldn’t resist. I know he would take the opportunity. But this is not the right man. I realise this now. On the verge, I realise this. At this moment. This is not the right man. Not the right time. Not the right place. Too soon. Someone not suitable. And Ben is in bed upstairs. Three strikes, and he doesn’t know it but he’s out.

Pierce—‘Ohh. That’s different. That’s nice, Sarah. Blowing between the toes. That’s really feels good.’

Sarah—‘Sort of refreshes the parts other strokes can’t reach. It should give you quite a good sensation.’

Pierce—‘It does. This is almost better than sex.’

Sarah—‘I don’t think so, somehow. But it’s safer. Better to blow than suck or whip or beat. That’s what I say.’

Pierce laughs.

Pierce—‘Mmm, well…’

I move from the feet to the hands and massage his palms and each finger. Sucking the fingers will be a bit too suggestive. So I stop there.

As I finish I lift my legs over his body and he coils round, smiling broadly.

Pierce—‘Thank you, Sarah. That was lovely. Unexpected and lovely.’

Then:

Pierce—‘I understand how you feel. But I know how I feel, too. And, well, I find you very sexy—that’s all I can say. You will be fine. You’re a babe, and you’ll find another man who will love you. And will treat you the way you want and deserve to be treated.’

Sarah—‘Yes, I know. But at this moment in time I just want Paul back. Funny, that. Wish I could be cold-blooded about it. But I can’t. And while I still have this love for him I want to try to make it work. Because I realise once the love has disappeared—that’s it. That’s it with me. I don’t look back. I’m not that sort of person.’

Pierce—‘I feel sorry for you both, Sarah. But he’s so stubborn.’

Sarah—‘I know. Want a cup of tea?’

Pierce—‘That would be good.’

I feel more relaxed with Pierce, somehow. As though the tension has been released. I don’t feel threatened by his presence in the house any more.

Pierce—‘Do you like poetry?’

Sarah—‘I love poetry. I had a thing about Keats at school. Read all his odes. Nightingale was wonderful. Depressing as hell, but wonderful. Think I’ve got a book of his poems upstairs. Do you want me to read you one?’

Pierce—‘That would be wonderful.’

I run upstairs and get the little black book John gave me as a present the first time we went away for a whole romantic weekend. I always keep it by my bedside. Wellthumbed, the pages fall open at Ode to a Nightingale naturally, and I read it as I walk down the stairs.

A drowsy numbness pains my sense, As though of hemlock I had drunk.

Wonderfully depressing. Keats was indeed the Dido of his time.

I recite the poem to Pierce. He listens quietly and patiently, sipping coffee, which should have been tea because I forgot what I’d suggested and made coffee anyway.

And then he recites poem after poem by Wordsworth. The most beautiful poetry, beautifully spoken. Probably word-perfect. Eloquent. He doesn’t lift his gaze from mine and his deep voice resonates over every vowel, every syllable, with just the right inflection. It’s magical. And then he stops.

Pierce—‘I have to go now.’

Sarah—‘Okay, then. That was wonderful. You are very talented, Pierce. Where did you learn that?’

Pierce—‘Oh, at school. The dregs of an expensive education. And I love poetry, too, which helps.’

Sarah—‘And I expect it helps to pull the sex kittens.’

Pierce—‘They’re not interested in poetry, Sarah. They’re interested in this.’

He grabs his crotch and jiggles his balls about as though they are worry beads.

Sarah—‘I wonder? I think if you recited more poetry you’d attract a different sort of pussycat.’

Pierce—‘Perhaps. Jane was the closest I’ve met to my match. She’s sexy and brilliant, and I love her energy and attitude.’

Sarah—‘But you couldn’t live with her.’

Pierce—‘No. Couldn’t live with her.’

Sarah—‘Do you know why?’

Pierce—‘Perhaps we’re too much alike. Perhaps. We went to counselling, but it didn’t help much.’

Sarah—‘Have you had much counselling?’

Pierce—‘Yes. It helps me. But it depends how open your mind is to it. And what you want to learn about yourself. You’ve got to make yourself very vulnerable.’

Sarah—‘What sort of things did you and Jane do?’

Pierce—‘Oh, we had to write a list of things we liked about each other. I think I got mine wrong about Jane.’

Sarah—‘How can you get it wrong?’

Pierce—‘Well, I put all stuff about how she made me look good, and what she did for me that was good, rather than anything about her in her own right. And the counsellor said that said a lot about me.’