Blind Faith (13 page)

When he got home, Trafford found Chantorria still
swathed in metres of white plastic.

'Some of the other girls were supposed to help,' she
explained, 'but Tinkerbell needs hugs. She's gone all
emotional on us. So I'm doing this on my own while the
other girls are there for Tinks.'

Trafford glanced at the multistream on the wall; he
could see that Tinkerbell's apartment was crammed with at
least a dozen of the young women from the tenement.

They were all drinking alcopops and eating crisps and
chocolates.

'She really really needs her mates right now.' Barbieheart
spoke up from her corner of the wall. 'Mates and chocolate,
a girl's best friends.'

'Yes, that's right, Barbieheart. She really needs her mates
to be there for her,' said Chantorria, her fingers red and
sore from stitching the thick plastic. 'We're all trying to do
our bit for Tinkerbell.'

'Yes, you're all lovely girls, in different ways,' Barbieheart
agreed. 'Tink is lucky to have such an ace crew.'

'Well, she's been such a great mate to me and all that . . .
to all of us,' Chantorria replied, and Trafford felt wretched
to see his wife so needy and so put upon. He understood
that she was meekly accepting her lowly position in the
social pecking order for fear of having no position at all.
He leaned forward over the video table and kissed her.

Perhaps sensing his pity, Chantorria returned to her
work on the bridal dress with renewed energy. She hardly
spoke for the rest of the evening but focused grimly on
stitching the flashing lights to the plastic sheet.

Occasionally the prospective bride deigned to drop in over
the tenement podcast to see how the dress was progressing.

'Good on you, babes,' Tinkerbell slurred drunkenly.
'Don't know what I'd do without you. You are so amazing.
Do you know that, babes? So amazing. The wind beneath
my wings actually.'

Behind Tinkerbell, Trafford could see the other women
laughing and screaming. Inevitably pizzas had arrived and
the karaoke had begun.

'Gotta go, babes,' Tinkerbell said. 'My song's up next.
Love you, babes.'

Having her crew be there for her was clearly working
wonders for Tinkerbell's emotional well-being. She had
cheered up enormously and, as Chantorria finally put
down her stitching and began to prepare for bed, the party
to which she had not been invited seemed to have only
just begun.

Trafford had spent part of the evening doing what he
had done every night for some weeks, which was to go to
his computer and look at what lies Sandra Dee had chosen
to upload that day. His secret obsession made him
desperate for any connection with her, and although he
knew that everything she posted was stolen he hoped that
by studying the lies he might glean some truth about her
and begin to unlock her secrets.

For instance, Sandra Dee often cut and pasted items
into her blog which had been written by childless
women, women writing about their deep desire to have
kiddies. Clearly Sandra Dee must be childless herself; she
was always careful not to copy blogs which blatantly
contradicted the reality of her circumstances. But how
did she feel about being childless? Trafford wondered
whether her choice of stolen blog indicated that she
really did want children or whether she posted it merely
for the sake of convention. Could she in fact be
happy
being childless?

He had come to the conclusion that it was the latter.
Based on no real evidence at all, he had decided that
Sandra Dee did not want children. Was she therefore a
user of contraception? Condoms and Dutch caps were
illegal but readily available, as was the pill for those who
were rich enough. The Temple tended to turn a blind eye
to this particular vice, especially in the case of women who
were already raising large families. But for a childless
woman to habitually seek to avoid becoming pregnant
was not acceptable, and if the woman was discovered she
would certainly be whipped and then placed in the stocks.
After that, although the official punishment would be
over, she could also expect to become a target for rape.

If she was using contraceptives, it would have to be with
a man who was prepared to go along with the deceit. Or a
woman! The Temple of course regarded sapphic sex as the
lust of the Devil's whores (except in sex games played out
for the benefit of men) and if Sandra Dee was indulging in
that sort of thing then it was no wonder that she chose to
hide behind a tissue of cyber lies. Trafford knew that the
video diaries she posted, purporting to be of her having
'great' and 'amazing' sex, were not recordings of her at all
but those of strangers plucked from the net. Did her
choice of recordings indicate what she actually wanted
in bed? Or was it the opposite? Did she really crave two
or sometimes three big men using a woman roughly as
the videos she posted often showed? Or was this a
double bluff to further protect her privacy? Did she really
crave gentleness, sensitivity, perhaps even the touch of
another woman?

There was always the possibility that Sandra Dee was
celibate. This would be a position acceptable to the
Temple as long as it was genuine and consistent. The
Temple rather approved of totally non-sexed-up women as
long as they practised self-denial for reasons of faith,
although it did prefer such women to follow their calling
in properly ordered covens.

'What are you looking at?' Chantorria's voice penetrated
Trafford's reverie.

'Oh, you know, just surfing,' he replied hastily.
'Checking a few blogs and diaries, trying to commune with
my community. Isn't that what you want? What the
Confessor says we should do?'

'Sandra Dee,' said Chantorria, leaning over Trafford's
shoulder and reading the name on the page banner, 'looks
like one hell of a raunchy chick.'

The video on screen was indeed a raunchy one, in which
the head of a girl with similar colour hair to Sandra Dee's
could be seen bobbing violently up and down.

'Yes. A girl from work. She asked me to check out her
site. Everybody always wants you to check out their sites.
Extraordinary, the pride some people take in them.'

'So you decided to check out hers,' Chantorria replied.

'That's right.'

'Every night.'

There was a pause, during which Trafford exited from
the video Sandra Dee had posted.

'You've been looking at my history?' he said casually.

'Any reason why I shouldn't?'

'No.'

'So why do you always look at this Sandra Dee
girl? Do you fancy her arse or something? It certainly
looks like she knows how to work it. I didn't realize
you were into those obvious types of girls. Nice bod,
too. Of course, kiddieless bitches usually have nice
bods, don't they?'

Clearly Chantorria had been reading some of Sandra
Dee's blogs too.

'I'm just trying to log up some screen time, Chantorria,'
Trafford said, trying not to sound too defensive, 'so I don't
look so weird. You told me not to look so weird; you told
me to spend more time perving.'

'Yes, but not just on one chick. You're supposed to perv
on loads of chicks.'

'That would be better, would it?'

'Of course it would!'

'Well, I'll certainly remember next time!' said Trafford,
feigning righteous anger and slamming down the lid of
his computer.

They remained for a little while in silence, he still
hunched over the closed laptop, she behind him.

'Well, look at me, for God's sake, why don't you?'
Chantorria demanded suddenly.

Turning round, Trafford saw that she had dressed herself
in what was known as 'the full linge'. This was a phrase
derived from the old word 'lingerie' and it meant dressing
specifically to sexually excite one's partner. It was applied
to women only. There was no male equivalent of the full
linge because men were not required to attempt to excite
their partners, although they were under considerable
pressure to become excited once they had been linged.
Any woman who donned the full linge for her partner,
particularly in a sexually moribund relationship, held a
strong moral position. Healers and counsellors would
deem her to be making the effort to put fire and spice back
into their sex lives, and the man was expected to react with
unalloyed delight.

Chantorria was wearing the classic Temple-approved
linge ensemble for women of faith: five-inch black stiletto
heels, a chocolate-flavoured edible G-string and a leather
cupless bra.

'I went to Dirty Sexy Filthy Bitch,' she said.

Dirty Sexy Filthy Bitch was one of the ubiquitous chains
of shops that sold lingerie and sex toys, which were the
only serious rivals to fast food outlets for domination of
the shopping malls.

'We haven't had great sex big time since before Caitlin
Happymeal was born,' she said.

'I know that,' Trafford replied.

'People will talk.'

'People always talk. They'll talk whatever we do.'

'Aren't you going to sort me out then?' Chantorria asked
in a small voice.

Trafford looked at his wife. He was still fond of her. It
was not her fault that she was scared and put upon. He felt
scared and put upon himself most of the time. On the
other hand, he found the things she was wearing quite
ridiculous. If he did not wish to have oral sex with her,
why would he feel any more inclined to do so because her
vagina was covered in chocolate? There was chocolate in
the fridge, a kilo of it, and none of it was vagina-flavoured.
What was even more excruciating was that he knew
Chantorria herself was feeling ridiculous. Even in their
thrilling, early days together she had never been the sort of
girl who favoured 'erotic' toys and costumes. Then, of
course, it hadn't mattered; their sex life had been so full
and active that it had gone unnoticed in the tenement that
Chantorria was in fact quite shy about her body. Then they
had made love naked but beneath the sheets, and the
nurse's uniforms and pink fluffy handcuffs she had been
given as engagement presents had lain unused in a drawer.
Now it was clear that Chantorria was feeling the need to
make an effort and it was equally obvious to Trafford that
she hated it. Her expression as she stared down at him was
challenging and defiant rather than sensual, and although
she trembled Trafford knew it was with embarrassment,
not passion. His heart went out to her but at the same time
he felt angry to see her neediness so cruelly exposed.

'Do you want me to sort you out because you feel like
great sex big time or because you're worried that people
will talk?' he asked.

'Both, of course,' she replied.

But Trafford suspected he knew which reason was
greater. A vigorous and hearty sexual appetite with a
natural desire to 'do anything' was considered the proper
thing for a respectable woman of faith to exude. A woman
was expected to 'want it' and want it 'big time'. She was
also expected to provoke an insatiable lust in her partner,
otherwise it was understood that her man, being a man,
would 'get it' elsewhere. Any woman characterized as
'frigid' might find it difficult to gain a new husband when
her current partner moved on, as inevitably he would. The
pressure on young women to be highly sexualized at all
times was enormous and Trafford knew that if ever the
community noted that he had not been sorting out
Chantorria on an appropriately regular basis she was the
one most likely to be stigmatized. Hence her decision to
linge him up, a tactic that publicly put the ball back in
his court.

As if to prove the point, suddenly Barbieheart's voice
broke in on Trafford's thoughts.

'Oh my God! Doesn't she look
fabulous
! Oh my God,
girl, you look
so hot
!'

Trafford turned to the wall. Barbieheart, a chicken
drumstick in each hand and a big smile spread across her
greasy mouth, was nodding her approval.

'Hey, girls!' Barbieheart shouted. 'Check out Chantorria.
What a
babe
!'

On the part of the wallscreen which was tuned to
Tinkerbell's apartment, the girls halted in their drunken
partying to turn and stare.

'Way to go!' they whooped. 'You
own
that look, girl.
What are you waiting for, Trafford? That girl is
hot
. She is
to die for.
Sort her out!
'

Chantorria smiled shyly at the attention although she
must have known that it was nothing more than common
manners for women to loudly big up any of their number
who had gone the full linge.

Suddenly Trafford was furious. He wanted to scream at
the wall. He wanted to tear those faces from it and stamp on
every one. How dare they burst in like that! How dare they
presume to intrude upon his wife's efforts to excite him!

He said nothing, of course. Why would any man object
to the world seeing his wife in her sexiest attire? Wasn't he
proud? Wasn't he proud that she was proud? Wasn't she
beautiful? What was wrong with him? Had either of them
anything to hide?

Trafford clenched his fists and struggled to master
his anger.

'Wow,' he said finally. 'Yes, my babe certainly looks hot.'

'If you don't sort her out now, Tiger,' Barbieheart said
through a mouthful of fried chicken, 'you never will.'

'Oh, I'll sort her out all right!' Trafford said. 'Just you try
and stop me.'

There were more whoops and shouts from Tinkerbell
and her friends.

'I'll leave you two to it then,' said Barbieheart.

But as he muted the sound on their community podcast
Trafford knew that Barbieheart would not be leaving them
to it. Barbieheart would be watching. Itching to tell the
whole building that Trafford had failed to sort out
Chantorria even after she had linged him up. That they
were 'having problems'. That she was frigid. That he was
impotent. That their relationship was a pathetic lie in
which there was no great sex, either big time or any time.