Barefoot in the Dark (19 page)

Which was why it had failed him this evening.

‘Bloody women, eh?’ said Danny now. He added a tut, and Jack realised he was saying it off the back of an erroneous assumption. That Danny thought it must have been Allegra and not him who had bought the evening to an unconsummated close. This struck him as sad. Even sadder than Julie finding his porn stash. It had obviously not occurred to Danny that it might be Jack. Never occurred to him that Jack wouldn’t have been able to perform. Or if it had crossed Danny’s mind, it would not be acknowledged and therefore would not be discussed. Which, when you thought about it, Jack decided with painful clarity, was the really sad thing about men.

‘Bloody women,’ he agreed, grateful to collude in this falsehood nevertheless. ‘I’ll go sort the bed out for you, mate.’

Lying sleepless in his own bed at three-thirty in the morning, Jack felt as wretched as he thought it was possible to feel. More wretched, he realised, than he had at any point during or after the divorce. At that time, though it was often pretty grisly, there had at least begun to blossom in him a keen sense of relief. They would not need to keep up the pretence any more. They could communicate at last in a currency other than one of denial and simmering resentment. And as for afterwards – well, after the divorce, there had been the future to look forward to, hadn’t there? Thoughts of a different and better life. Women. Attraction. Affection. He’d felt liberated. Liberated from Lydia’s expectations of him. Free to pursue his real goals – goals that had all but been quashed with her. His coaching, his writing. The real things he loved. Sure he’d be poorer, but as he had always wanted and needed money far less than Lydia had, it didn’t worry him unduly. Another relief. Their financial personalities were perhaps even less well matched than their sexual ones, and his lack of financial ambition had irritated her, he knew. Funny, then, that this TV opportunity should come along now. Funny that after years of steady-state salary and the quiet brown-envelope anxiety of the freelancer, he would perhaps be better off now than at any point in his life. He could tell by her expression the last time he had seen her – and told her – that she thought he had actually planned things this way.

What he hadn’t expected, all this time down the line, was that something so commonplace, so unremarkable, so ordinary as not being able to hang on to an erection, should affect him so profoundly. What exactly had happened there? He imagined himself as a participant in a quietly earnest documentary, where men with shadowed faces talked candidly (though anonymously, naturally) about the shame and indignity of their potency problems, intercut with cameos from patient, understanding wives. Was this him now? Was this the next step? This shift from the animal to the essentially cerebral? There was no doubt that it had been his brain which had damned him. ‘Overruled, OK, penis? Overruled, I say!’ And his penis, the wimp, had obeyed.

But that was the thing about sex. He’d spent most of his life working so damn bloody hard to try and get some. As a teenager (and a reasonably good-looking one – if only he’d realised it then) he had had no shortage of girls to go out with. Trouble was, the ones he
wanted
to go out with were generally of the ‘kiss on the first date, bra on the third or fourth, knickers after four months (if you were lucky), and sorry, but that’s your lot’ variety. And they’d only touch him on the outside of his trousers, which always struck him as wildly unfair.

University had been better – he was a classic late-developer – but after losing his virginity while too drunk to notice (ironically, no erection difficulties in those days – it would never go
down
) and having no more than three unremarkable encounters with girls he felt bad about screwing, he’d met Lydia, who was at that time doing anthropology and whose passionate debating style and breadth of knowledge about indigenous populations and global politics and apartheid had somehow led him to reach the mistaken conclusion that this fiery, committed and intelligent girl just had to be the one for him. (Two years after her degree she had swapped the dungarees and spiky rhetoric for a job as a marketing assistant at a cruise line, the fire in her belly all gone. But where?)

In any event, sex after that had been on a steadily downward trajectory. Twice a day for six months, twice a week for six months, and then they’d somehow slipped into the routine of him wanting sex and cajoling her to have it, with varying degrees of participation and success. Jack wondered if Lydia was experiencing a sexual renaissance with the man who should have been on the divorce papers.

Was that his problem? Was he so conditioned to sex being something he had to work hard at getting that when offered to him freely by a woman with her own sexual agenda, his brain couldn’t cope? But how could that be? Hope Shepherd (damn her) had been all over him, hadn’t she? And his reproductive equipment had been truly joyous to behold – unstoppable, rampant, efficient, enduring – moreover, he recalled with some regret (
damn
her, damn
him
– how had he screwed that one up so completely?) – it had barely stopped twitching at the memory all week.

Well, it had certainly stopped twitching now. That had been all about
her.
So wild and passionate, but so feminine with it. So self-conscious. So tender. So sweet. Not that he wanted to dominate anyone, but her incredulity that he should awaken such behaviour in her had been the greatest aphrodisiac of all. Because it made him feel strong. Made him feel like a man.

Jack sat up and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. That was it, wasn’t it? Yes, Allegra was beautiful. Yes, she was sexy. Yes, she was all those things that inhabit male fantasies, and more. But she had made him feel emasculated. With her slick, film star home, that made him feel poor and her seem so powerful; with her self-assurance, her ease, her practised hands on his body; ‘I know what
you
need… ’ It made him cringe to recall it. He knew what
she
needed too, but he couldn’t supply it. Not for all her sex toys, her candles, her velvet-smooth, almost hairless body. Everything about her was so perfectly, artfully, libidinously arranged. There was nothing he could give her but his raw masculinity. And that one thing, that unremarkable constant, his maleness, had shrunk back, inadequate. Recoiled.

He drank some water then lay back against the pillows, tucking his laced hands behind his head. He had always taken his male state for granted. That he would pursue a woman (oh ho, hypothesise, why don’t you, Jack?) and if she responded – as, well… well, Hope Shepherd had –
that
was the thing that governed the process. Gave it momentum. With Allegra he had felt like a rabbit caught in headlamps. Scrutinised. Assessed. Not masculine at all. Biology had more hold on humanity, he decided, than sophisticated people sometimes gave it credit for.

Basic biology. He thought about the second time he had made love to Hope Shepherd. A little on the bed and a great deal on the floor. He remembered how he’d tugged a pillow from the bed and tucked it behind her head so she wouldn’t bang it against the bedside table leg. He recalled the exact contours of her face as she’d smiled up at him and mouthed the words ‘thank you’. Thinking this caused his own biology to respond now, gloriously, and quite without direction. He considered the phenomenon, the autonomy of the process, even as he lay there and surrendered himself to its images and sensations, at four a.m., in the dark, with the rain lashing down outside. Here was her face now. And here was her body. Basic biology.
QED
.

Damn her.
Damn
her, he thought.

Chapter 20

Damn Jack Valentine, thought Hope.
Damn
him. It really was high time she stopped mooning over him and started taking charge of her life. It was getting on for six and she hadn’t even showered yet, and she really did not want to go to Paul and Suze’s pot luck party. Tom did not want to go to Paul and Suze’s pot luck party. Chloe did not want to go to Paul and Suze’s pot luck party. Truth be known, Paul and Suze probably didn’t even want them to go to Paul and Suze’s pot luck party. Yet what was she doing right now? Cancelling? No, she was standing in her kitchen, still damp and sweaty from her run with Simon, cutting small resistant vegetable items into amusing shapes with a sharp knife. And that, she thought irritably, should have been another New Year’s resolution. Never say ‘anything I can do to help?’ to a person who keeps an itinerary in her knickers.

Her mother, naturally, was very much looking forward to Paul and Suze’s pot luck party, and had been saying so at roughly five-minute intervals, in order, Hope suspected, to ‘jolly her along’. Which was because, when she had arrived mid-afternoon, she had been bearing news.

‘Hmm,’ she’d said, in that way she had that seemed to indicate she’d already started the conversation some minutes before she’d actually arrived. ‘You’ve had words then?’

Hope, who hadn’t had the slightest idea who or what she was talking about, had raised her eyebrows in enquiry.

‘You and Suze,’ her mother had elaborated. ‘She sounded terribly upset.’

Hope was entirely mystified by this, but also suddenly alert. The conjunction of the words ‘Suze’ and ‘upset’ in one sentence was too daunting a prospect to ignore.

‘First I’ve heard of it,’ she’d said. ‘What about?’

‘About the casseroles, of course. You know, you really could give her a little more credit, Hope. She’s always been very kind to you. It’s very hurtful. I had her on the phone in tears.’

A sliver of recall wormed its way into Hope’s mind. ‘Hang
on
. Hang on just one minute, Mother. Words? What ‘words’ do you refer to, precisely?’

Her mother had fastened her eye on Hope then, the better to gauge her reaction. ‘Now don’t let’s go getting all uppity, dear. I only thought I’d mention it.’

Right. Things were beginning to make sense. ‘Oh, I’m
with
you,’ she said with elaborate emphasis. ‘Casseroles, eh? Well, if we’re talking about the casseroles I think we’re talking about, the only words
I
exchanged were entirely non-combative. Something – let me see – along the lines of her saying “I’ve made another couple of casseroles for you”, and me saying “thanks ever so, Suze, but you know, I’d feel awful taking them from you, because Tom and Chloe don’t actually like puy lentils or borlotti beans – or whatever pulse it was she’d put in them – and it seems such a shame for them to go to waste”. And then –’ she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, ‘yes,
I
remember.
Her
saying – no,
sniffing
– something along the lines of, “well if you’d
told
me that, I could have made them something else, couldn’t I?” And me saying – let me get this right – yes, that was it. That as I hadn’t
known
she’d been busy making more casseroles for us, I was hardly in a position to do that, was I? And that, grateful as I was for her thoughtfulness, perhaps it was high time I started making my own casseroles, instead of putting her to so much bother. I think she answered that by saying – no, sniffing again – “well, if that’s how you feel… ” in that conversation-stopping way she’s so good at. So yes. OK. Words. But
hers
. Not mine.’ She glared at her mother. ‘OK?’

‘But –’

‘And as far as I’m concerned I should have done it months ago. I’ve spent way too much of the last couple of years meekly letting her tell me how to run my life. Oh, yes! I missed a bit! Yes. She also pointed out that she’d only put the pulses in because she wanted to make sure they were getting a balanced diet. Bloody cheek! Frankly, Mother, with the day I’d had, she’s lucky I didn’t punch her.’

There was a brief, and clearly digestatory, silence. ‘Oh.’

Hope planted a hand on each hip. ‘Quite. Well now, aren’t we going to have a lovely time this evening? In fact, tell you what? How about I just don’t go?’

Hope’s mother looked horrified.

‘You can’t do that! Then she’d know I told you! She specifically asked me not to say anything!’

‘But you did.’

Hope’s mother looked stricken. ‘Please, Hope. You know how sensitive she is. She would hate to think she’d upset you.’

‘Yeah, right, Mum.’

‘No really.’ She’d stood in the hall all the while, still in her coat. But she took it off now, with an air of maternal resignation.’ Look, I know she can get on your nerves at times. I know she can seem a bit, well, overbearing and bossy. But she doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just her way. She’s not like that underneath. She means well, really she does. Don’t be too hard on her, love. Come on.’

‘Hard on her?’ Hope spluttered. ‘Me? Hard on
her
? Mother, are we talking about the same person?’

Her mother tutted. ‘I just think you could be a little more charitable towards her, that’s all.’

‘Oh, you do, do you? Well thanks for the character reference.’

Her mother looked defiant. ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

‘I am not being silly! God, you sound like her now!’ Hope grimaced. ‘You really have no idea, do you? There’s hardly a week goes by when she’s not bustling in, telling me what to do, pointing out my failings as a mother – not to mention as a wife – chipping away all the time at my self-esteem. Have you any idea how that feels? Have you? We’re not all as perfect as she is, OK? We know. We don’t need reminding. Perhaps she’d like to spend some time thinking about
that
.’

‘I only said –’

‘Well don’t, OK?’

‘You’re a very good mother.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘You
are.
How can you even think such nonsense? You’re –’

‘Mother, I said don’t start.’

‘All right.’

‘All right.’

‘Shall I put the kettle on, dear?’

That had been that, and Hope had been for her run, and she had calmed down a little, and yes, OK, they would all go to the party. What was the point of not going? She was too tired, too bored to have a family scene. Order restored, her mother had since been flitting around the kitchen, in that flitty way that set Hope’s teeth on edge at the best of times, but which she would try, strenuously, to ignore today.

Hope’s mother flitted particularly irritatingly whenever a social engagement with Paul and Suze loomed, even without revelations like today’s. And later she’d become manic, to boot, laughing too loudly at things that weren’t funny and washing up like a woman with a wet-crockery fetish. Hope really didn’t mind that her mother was her brother and sister-in-law’s doormat – that was entirely her business. But she was sick and tired, frankly, of being expected to be likewise. To worship at the temple of Suze. This had been a small victory. Yes, she’d caved in and would go to the party, but at least she wouldn’t be taking a bloody casserole home.

Hope’s mother, who had at last stopped flitting and come to help Hope with the food, executed an impressive radish rose and lobbed it into the bowl in the sink.

‘He seems like a nice man,’ she observed in her sly way. ‘Very chatty. Not at all like you described.’

Though she had been adamant that it would not happen, Hope had been forced to relent in the matter of Simon driving over to take her to the park for their runs. This was the second time now, and the complicating factor of her mother being in the house (and like a whippet whenever the doorbell rang) meant that he’d now stepped over the threshold. She should have stuck to her guns, she knew she should have. But Simon had a crafty way of creeping up on her absolutes. It was madness, he’d said, for him not to collect her. He’d be driving almost past her house on his way there, and was really more than happy to drop her back as well. There were only so many times you could politely say ‘it’s too much bother for you’ and no occasion whatsoever when you could less politely change tack and say ‘I just don’t want you to –
OK?
’ in its place.

‘He
is
a nice man, Mum, and I never described him differently.’

Her mother sniffed. ‘Yes you did, dear. You made him sound very dull. Oh, yes. And talking about men friends –’

‘We were?’

‘We were. I remember what it was I was going to tell you now.’ She reached across Hope and picked up a cherry tomato. Why was it ever necessary to do
anything
with a cherry tomato? ‘You’ll never guess who Biddie saw in the
Pot au
whatsit the other day.’

Hope glanced across at her mother.

‘Biddie?

‘You know – Biddie Hepplewhite from the flower club. She goes there with her daughter.’

‘Lucky her,’ observed Hope, trowelling away at a mushroom and scowling.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. She says the food is a Shakespearean tragedy. Anyway, the point is, she saw your Jack Valentine in there.’

Hope put the distressed mushroom in the dish with the others and picked up another. Then thought better of it, put the mushroom down and picked up her glass of wine. Hell, her mother was driving, wasn’t she? She swallowed a mouthful. ‘Mum, he is not
my
Jack Valentine.‘

‘No, I know, dear
.
More’s the pity.’ She shook her head. Hope had told her nothing beyond the black eye at the football match. ‘But you know what I mean,’ her mother chided. ‘Anyway, he was there with that woman who used to be in Emmerdale. What
was
her name? Biddie did tell me. You know. The one who played the veterinary receptionist and ran off with the communicable diseases inspector they sent in to sort out the pigs.’

Hope swallowed another mouthful of wine. A bigger one. ‘Allegra Staunton.’

‘That’s it! Well done! Allegra Staunton.Yes, her.’

It didn’t mean anything. They could have been having a meeting. Quite easily, in fact. These broadcasting types kept funny hours, didn’t they?

And, bloody hell, what was it to her, anyway? OK, she had still been toying with the idea of calling him. But that was all. Every reservation in the entire book of reservations had so far stayed her hand on the receiver, and, well, this unexpected piece of intelligence was truly a gift. Her unspoken questions had been answered now, hadn’t they? Just as she’d predicted. Just as she’d feared. Forget the self-pity. The satisfaction of having been proved right so conclusively almost made her feel jaunty. Paul and Suze’s pot luck party notwithstanding.

‘Isn’t that lovely!’ trilled Suze when, some ninety minutes later, they arrived at the house.

Hope pushed the tray of crudités towards her and reminded Tom and Chloe crisply about removing their footwear, even as they were doing so. Why did she do that? Why the need for automatic pre-emptive strikes? She must stop doing it.

There were already enough trainers outside the front door to stock a small shoe shop, into which heap Chloe cheerfully lobbed hers, while Tom, scowling pointedly, because his were new and very precious, stepped inside in his socks and placed his own ones at the foot of the stairs.

‘And how are you two?’ enquired Suze now, flicking her pony tail and turning to march off down the hallway. It was expected, and invariably achieved, that they’d follow. A curious ritual. It always put Hope in mind of mother goose.

‘We lost one of our stick insects today,’ said Chloe, who had not yet told Hope this. ‘I’ve had to leave privet leaves all round the house.’

‘My Lord, how grisly!’ came back the laughing response. ‘Now you two, let’s see – they had now reached the kitchen – a quick glass of Ribena before you go and join the fray?’

Tom, third in the crocodile, glanced back at Hope with his eyebrows aloft. She shook her head minutely, knowing what was coming. He raised his eyebrows further. He was now six inches taller than both of them, and eyed the Ikea plastic cups that stood in a rainbow row on the table with enough pained derision to fell a rhino.

‘Actually, Auntie Suze, I don’t like Ribena. Er… any chance I could have a beer?’

Had Paul not stepped into the kitchen at this point, Hope would doubtless have inserted a reedy ‘certainly not!’ into the conversation – Suze’s face was already gearing itself up to express rigorous disapproval, and she was anxious to forestall it – but he had, and now clapped his nephew on the back.

‘Course you can, mate,’ he said, ignoring his wife’s look of horror. ‘Howdy, sis,’ he added, clapping Hope on the back as well. ‘How’s your love life?’

Paul had asked this question with tedious regularity from the day after her divorce had come through. She wondered quite how he’d respond if she told him. In detail. In millilitres of body fluids exchanged, if he bloody liked. He went across to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of something European and duty-free and held it out to Tom.

‘Marvellous,’ she answered, smiling sweetly at Suze. ‘I’ll have one of those too, if I may. How’s yours?’