Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (12 page)

‘Fuck, yes,’ moans Guy.

And by the time I’m on the edge of climax, Valerie comes in a tearing explosion of squeals and thumping, and thrusting frenzy, and Guy groans at the very same time, shouting, ‘Yes, oh, fuck it, yes … ’

And from the squelching noises Valerie’s pussy is making, he must be slicked with her wetness, and that’s when I come, the heat erupting, my own pussy filling with a tingly high that rises and quells, then rises and quells, then rises and rises and quells yet again.

Of course, I made one hell of a noise. That’s why, when I finally come down, both of them are staring at me.

Valerie clambers off him, a look of horror on her face as she hides her boobs … as if it matters now … but Guy, who’s presumably seen me climax, watches me with a hefty lust. ‘Oh, you sexy bitch,’ he murmurs, rising to his feet and climbing out of the trousers that imprison him.

I have no idea what to say. So I just stand there, stunned.

In a moment, he has me forced against the door frame with my skirt hitched up and the gusset of my knickers swept aside; and he’s in me, Kitten, and I’m wet as hell, and he’s fucking me and fucking me – where does he get the energy? – and as I’m about to come, high as a kite, I glimpse Valerie sitting on the desk, touching herself. She has a blissed-out look on her face, as she whispers, ‘Oh, fuck,’ and watches me.

It’s Valerie that makes me come like the clappers, with Guy groaning as he shoves himself into me, over and over. I might as well be fucking a silver pole – that’s how hard and slick he is. But as Valerie’s head rolls back and her breasts pop out of her corset again, my whole body is full of hers, and I’m dizzy with abandon.

Then, afterwards, I’m surprised to find that my face is wet with tears.

I dry my eyes as Guy pulls out of me. He tries to touch my face as he murmurs, ‘What’s wrong?’ but surely he knows what’s wrong, the arrogant bastard. ‘You should have told me,’ I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. ‘You should have said that you two were having a thing, and
I
was
your
third.’

‘It isn’t like that,’ says Guy, trying to reach for me, but I twist away, fumbling with my skirt.

‘I’m going,’ I announce.

Valerie stays silent.

‘Deborah …’ says Guy, ‘I thought you knew this wasn’t serious …’

‘That isn’t the point!’ I snap. ‘You were with Valerie and you never even said!’

Guy follows me as I march back through the front office, saying he’s sorry if – it’s the ‘if’ that gets me, Kitten – sorry
if
I thought we were monogamous.

Just as I’m rushing to get the hell away from this stupid place, I hear Valerie in the background: ‘I told you we should have said something.’

But I’m practically running out of the door because all I need is a lover who’s going to treat me like a goddess … and I thought Guy was going to do that. But no.

Mere minutes later, while I’m pacing down the road, my phone rings. When I see that it’s Henry, I feel such a mixture of sickness and triumph because he’s actually calling me that I don’t know where to put myself. I mean, I’d love to hear him grovel, Kitten, and tell me he made a huge mistake. But at the same time, will I fall for him if I’m with him? Will he put a spell on me, like he did in the past? Anyway, on the phone I let him do most of the speaking. He’s back in the area, he tells me. Would I like to meet for dinner tonight? His treat. He’d love to see me.

I was about to say no. Make
him
feel what it’s like to be rejected, for once!

But what I really want, if I’m honest, is for him to grovel at my feet and tell me he made a horrible mistake. I want to feel wanted by him to make up for having been so
un
wanted. So I agree to the date.

And when I come off the phone, the first thing I think is: Janey can never know. Is that messed up or what?

Friday, 23 March

Oh Kitten!

I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes late. Make ’em wait, Gladys always says, and it’s Gladys I turned to today. On the phone, I told her about my nightmare of a lunch break, in which I came like the clappers and discovered what Guy is really like. But I also tell Gladys I’m going for dinner with an old friend. If I’d mentioned it was Henry, she’d have come round and tied me to a chair.

And, frankly, her instincts are pretty darn good.

Henry’s already at our table in one of his usual grey suits – although his shirt is an almost electric blue, which is really quite bold for him. I know it sounds rude, but I’m thrilled to see that he’s aged a little, his dirty blond hair a mixture of gold and grey. He’s got new glasses too – a trendier pair that are blockier than his old ones. I wonder if she chose them for him, that delectable slapper of his. Predictably, he’s doing the newspaper crossword when I arrive. As the waitress leads me over, I can see that he’s almost filled the whole lot in.

I feel a moment of longing, up close, followed by a sickness rising in my belly. I’m not sure I should be doing this. My gut tells me everything is wrong.

When he sees me, Henry rises to his feet, eyebrows raised, and dashes to greet me. Once up close, I stay stiff enough to discourage a hug, and he awkwardly squeezes my arm. ‘My dear, my dear,’ he says. ‘How wonderful to see you. Just wonderful.’

Immediately I’m reminded of his irritating tic. The man repeats almost every word he says. Dear God, it used to drive me to distraction.

‘Hello, Henry,’ I say, giving the sort of smile that a movie star gives the press.

He pulls out my chair for me and I can smell his familiar scents – aftershave, breath mints, the tang of his car’s air freshener. A rush of memories gather me up, and I feel the strange, twisted memory of his body, and how it felt to lie in his arms, drunk on love, once upon a time. My poor insides feel raw when I think of it.

All the way to the restaurant I’ve been repeating affirmations: ‘I am happy without him …’ and ‘I deserve the best … Henry praises my strapless wine-red number with its lovely flared skirt. It’s the one Gladys says looks divine on me.

What he doesn’t notice, of course, is my pair of tiger-print stilettos. I don’t care if Guy bought them for me – they’re mine and, frankly, I earned them. But of course Henry was never interested in shoes.

The conversation is slow at first. Small talk with the ex who cheated on you is never going to be a barrel of laughs. I thank him for the flowers and he says he’s glad I like them. Originally, he was thinking of sending me lilies. ‘Wasn’t sure whether that would be too much,’ he says. And after a pause, he adds, ‘Just wasn’t sure.’

Determined to make him uncomfortable, I look him in the eyes. ‘Because lilies were in my wedding bouquet?’

Henry clears his throat, nodding. ‘Precisely. I … don’t … Precisely.’

I flap an idle hand. ‘You needn’t worry, Henry. I’m over you. Really.’

The look he gives me is haunting. It drains all his colour – pale as bone, he is, with those big, lost, welling eyes, and it’s only now that I notice he’s lost weight. His cheekbones are more pronounced than they used to be and his hair is a little floppier, as if he’s trying to hide behind it. I also notice that he keeps having to push his glasses back up his nose.

He reaches for my hands and presses them together between his own. ‘I made a huge mistake with you, Debsie.’ He pauses and repeats, ‘Huge.’

‘You were more than mistaken,’ I say. ‘You were a cheat.’ But saying these words doesn’t make me feel better.

He nods slowly. When he speaks, his voice is soft: ‘I threw away the most important person in my life – the most important, Debsie – just for a bit of totty.’

‘Don’t call her totty!’ I find myself saying. ‘She’s a person, Henry. And you cheated on
her
too.’ Holy shit, Kitten! If there’s one thing I never expected it was me standing up for his mistress!

Henry’s lips are parted in astonishment. His glasses slide down his nose a little and he doesn’t even push them back up. He gawps at me for a long time. I thought it would feel good giving him a piece of my mind, and watching him pine for me. But it actually makes me a little nauseous.

The waitress brings menus, and Henry breaks the long silence by ordering a bottle of Sauvignon blanc, without even checking with me. I used to love it when he took charge in restaurants, but now I can almost hear Janey saying,
What does that bastard think you are? His pet?
The waitress asks what we want to eat and I end up choosing the scallops, partly because they’re pricey and I know that Henry will insist on paying.

Kind of bitchy, aren’t I, Kitten? And I begin to see that it doesn’t suit me.

Anyway, Kitten, once we’ve ordered, I tell him I expect a full apology – in letter form, preferably – but now isn’t the time to talk about the past. ‘Tell me about your life,’ I say. And of course, he does. He’s moved estate agencies and is happily selling houses. He’s single; he repeats this info several times. Plus he’s taken up a new hobby. Golf. Henry on a golf course! I can just see him scratching his head staring into the distance. And yet, when he talks about it, his face lights up, and he’s quipping about getting lost in the undergrowth, trying to find his ball.

Typical Henry. Only happy when he’s playing like a boy.

Soon the waitress has arrived with our food, and he’s tucking into his roast chicken and downing big slurps of wine. I click into a better mood because the scallops are soft as butter and caramelised on top, and it seems that I
have
missed Henry’s company a little, not to mention his skills as a storyteller, because I genuinely giggle at some of the things he says. He tells one tale about getting stuck in a client’s house because the door got wedged, and in his version he makes himself a cartoon character – a frantic, powerless little man with a goofy brain.

We both laugh. It’s sweet, in its way, although I don’t look into his eyes for too long.

But perhaps the most surprising thing is his newfound interest in
me
.

‘How’s it going at Pussyfoot Shoes?’ he asks me.

I tell him I’m the manager now and he seems impressed.

‘Does that mean you hire and fire people?’

Typical Henry. All about the power. Anyway, I say yes, then tell him about Janey, who’s starting tomorrow.

‘You gave your tenant a job?’ he says. ‘Is that wise, Debsie?’

I want to say,
Wiser than cheating on your wife
, but I know that’s a bad direction. ‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘She’s a catch.’

‘A catch?’

‘Yes. Delightful.’ I find myself flushing and fiddling with my necklace. ‘She’s a student.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of the stiletto heel.’

His eyes widen and he leans right forward. ‘What on earth …? What on earth is her degree?’

‘Gender studies, I think.’

He gives a snort of dismissal and falls back in his chair. ‘Studying stilettos in gender studies! I thought gender was meant to be all serious.’ Then he gives a dismissive laugh – one that assumes I’ll join in. And an old, disused part of me actually
wants
to please him and be coddled for it. But that’s the old, dejected Deborah. Right now, the new Deborah is so pissed off that she almost rises to her feet and sweeps the crockery onto the floor. ‘Listen, buster,’ I say, ‘I’ll tell you a thing or two about the importance of stilettos.’ And I launch into a diatribe about the feminist adoption of the high-heeled shoe. By the time I’ve added a few details about France in the Renaissance, where men wore high heels as well as women, Henry’s looking mildly bemused.

‘I absolutely believe you, pumpkin,’ he tells me, smirking away, ‘but still, you have to admit, it’s hardly a subject for higher study.’

And there’s that pet name of his. Pumpkin. The old Debs would have felt all coddled, all sweet and adored, like a puppy. But Janey would say,
How dare he objectify you!
And she’d be right.

‘I’m not your pumpkin,’ I say, spearing a chunk of asparagus. ‘I’m your ex, who you betrayed, and Janey puts you to shame in more ways than I can say.’

His face goes even paler this time. ‘Oh, Debs,’ he says, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘You’re right, of course. But I can’t help expressing affection for you.’ Then he looks right at me and says, ‘I knew I was still in love with you, but hearing you speak out like this … I want you more than ever.’

I open my mouth like a goldfish, then snap it shut again. Now, I know I
said
I wanted him to want me back, but sitting here, with his words hanging between us, all I feel is a need to run away. Fast. His gaze is on me like it used to be when we were first together and desire seeped from our pores, and I realise that I could go back to him if I wanted – return to the old Debs who laughed her opinions away and did everything to look after her man. But he isn’t in love with me. Not really. I’m guessing he’s just lonely. So I say, ‘
What
do you love, exactly, Henry? Apart from my new assertiveness, I mean.’

Watching me carefully, he puts down his fork, takes a sip of his wine, then leans towards me. ‘You’re always so real,’ he says. ‘You’re always … just yourself.’

This throws me because I was so damn insecure with the man for so many years that I
wasn’t
myself – I was waiting, as if ‘being myself’ would drop from the sky if I stood there long enough. In fact, even now, in my new life, I’m not sure I’m really being myself. Janey said that owning your sexuality helps you to be authentic, and I think she was right. But how, exactly, am I owning my sex life? Here I am having dinner with my ex because a man I hardly know just cheated on me and I wanted a grovelling apology from one of the bastards in my life. Here’s what I do in my love life: I flit from one man to another, looking for … what? Prince Charming? A collection of sparkling compliments? A bouquet of flowers that only last until morning? Well, I’m done with that! No more ‘What’ll happen to me today?’ I want a woman – a strong woman – a companion in life. Someone whose love stays as fresh as the day. And I know this ‘someone’ is Janey. And I know she wants me too. But I’ve not had the guts to tell her how I feel.