Marriage and Other Games (24 page)
Sebastian leaped across the room to give her a hug.
‘Penny!’ he greeted her warmly. ‘Welcome to the lions’ den. This is Penny,’ he turned to Martin. ‘And if you try anything on with her you’ll have me to answer to.’
Penny looked rather startled by this unconventional introduction. Martin didn’t turn a single steel-grey hair. Catkin felt as if she might be about to pass out.
‘Nikita,’ she said faintly, ‘could you bring in the champagne? I think we could all do with a drink.’
Charlotte pulled on her camel coat with the faux fur collar and snuggled it round her neck. She decided to walk to Withybrook Hall. It was only half a mile up the road, and she craved fresh air. The village was sleepy and quiet as she strolled up the high street. She’d heard the bells ring out at about half past ten, but everyone must be back from church by now. She imagined the families inside their houses, sliding their Sunday joints into the oven, peeling potatoes, rolling out pastry for apple pies . . . She hurried on to where the houses dwindled away and the road narrowed, twisting up a hill lined with a traditional Devon bank wall. It wasn’t long before she reached the entrance to Withybrook Hall - a set of double gates which led to a long, sweeping drive that curved around an expanse of lawn surrounded by beech trees, oaks and acers. At the end of it stood the house. It was a classic Georgian rectory. Long and low, painted white with a grey slate roof, it had two large bay windows either side of a pillared entrance approached by wide stone steps.
It was idyllic and stopped Charlotte in her tracks. The November breeze ruffled her hair, and she could smell the distant sea. She gave the smallest of sighs. This would have been Ed’s dream. This must have been what he had in mind when he made his massive error of judgement. She could picture him imagining them in a house like this, their children frolicking on the lawn, swinging from the branches of the massive oak. She remembered all the brochures she had found over the years. Tears stung her eyes for a moment. Where were they now? He was stuck in prison, and she was working on the hardest job she had ever done in her life, for the smallest return, and with no idea where she would go and what she would do once it was finished.
She gave herself a little shake. This was her day off, and she was determined to enjoy it. She ran up the steps and took hold of the lion’s head knocker, giving two sharp raps. She had to move forward. She wasn’t going to let her past spoil her future.
The girl who answered the door seemed vaguely familiar. Charlotte couldn’t place her until she greeted her with a croaky Devon burr and a shy smile.
‘All right?’
Charlotte peered at her more closely. It was the girl from the post office; she’d popped in several times this week for baked beans, fresh eggs and fish fingers from the dodgy freezer when she couldn’t face the thirty-mile round trip to the supermarket.
‘Nikita?’
The girl nodded, embarrassed. ‘I feel like a right div.’
‘You look gorgeous.’
‘If Brindley ever saw me, he’d take the piss something wicked.’
‘Brindley?’
‘My boyfriend. He’d laugh his head off.’
‘I doubt he would.’ Charlotte couldn’t believe the difference in her.
‘May I take your coat?’ Nikita held out her hand and smiled, as Catkin had taught her. Charlotte slithered out of her coat and handed it over.
‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
‘Weekends. Me and Mum. My sister Montana has to look after the kids. But it’s OK. Mrs T pays good money, and we get to take the leftovers home. They last us till Wednesday, usually.’
Having heard voices, Sebastian shot out into the hall.
‘Charlotte. Thank God you’re here. I’m surrounded by complete tossers.’ He handed her a glass of champagne with a grimace. ‘Get this down your neck. You’re going to need it.’
He led her through into the drawing room. Charlotte’s experienced eye took in her surroundings; traditional English, nothing but the best though nearly thirty years out of date. Yet somehow it was timeless, with its plump sofas, occasional tables scattered with trinkets and photo-frames, the club fender in front of the fire. It wasn’t at all what she had expected. She’d imagined stark punk-rock minimalism - ironic stags heads next to brightly coloured works of art, high-concept lighting and pony-skin rugs. Nothing redolent of family life. This room felt happy, cosy, welcoming, unthreatening.
A striking woman with a sharp bob glided across the room.
‘You must be Charlotte,’ she gushed. ‘I’m Catkin. Let me introduce you to the rest of the suspects . . .’
Penny stood awkwardly by the fireplace, furious with herself for feeling so out of place. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t a perfectly attractive, intelligent woman with something to say for herself. She’d spent years mingling with consultants and eminent surgeons and specialists who were far more talented and gifted in their own fields than any of this lot, for heaven’s sake, and she’d always managed to hold her own. But she felt rather tongue-tied. There was a smug arrogance to these media types. She could almost see their eyes glazing over when they realised she was a mere mortal. Even their wives had perfected the rather dismissive smile, the disinterested nod, and what the hell did they do with their lives? Bugger all, as far as she could make out. Just spent the vast amounts of money their smarmy husbands made, judging by their tans and their jewellery. Trophy wives, both of them. Small-boned, doe-eyed and dim. Martin Galt made her flesh creep. Jonathan Elder wasn’t so bad, but incredibly pompous - pseudo-intellectual, and for no good reason, for as far as she could make out he published kiss-and-tell celebrity memoirs, which were hardly edifying. But then, that was where the money was.
Add to this was the stress of being in the same room as Sebastian. He always made her feel light-headed, weak-kneed, dry-mouthed. Her brain turned to mush and her words came out all wrong. And a moment ago, Catkin had given her a small, patronising and knowing smile from across the room, as if to say she knew exactly what Penny was feeling, and that she should join the queue. After all, who wouldn’t find him irresistible?
Thankfully, the little gay florist - Foz, Boz? - was coming over to her now. He and his boyfriend had been bounding round the garden, admiring the box hedging and the mossy statuary, imagining it in the summer months when the herbaceous borders would be pulsating with colour. She managed to engage the pair of them in conversation, actually made them laugh with her descriptions of some of her patients and their complaints. At least they had the manners to pretend they were interested, even if they weren’t.
And then Sebastian came back into the room with his arm around Charlotte, and she felt quite sick with jealousy. She could feel herself turn green. It was the worst feeling in the world. Why was he so intimate with her, when they had only met briefly? He was introducing her to the others, laughing, his hand touching her waist as he ushered her into the group, and she seemed completely at home. Confident. Even though Penny was sure she had never met any of these people before. How did Charlotte manage to be so sparkly and radiant? Both Jonathan and Martin had perked up visibly at her arrival, and were gawping at her cleavage. Penny wished she had worn something more inspiring than a round-neck leopard-skin cardi and black denim miniskirt.
Shit. Sebastian was coming over to her now, with a bottle of champagne, to top up her glass. She felt panic. Frozen to the spot. She had no idea what to say or do.
‘Hey, Pen, relax. No one’s going to eat you. Drink up, there’s a good girl.’
She held out her glass and realised her hand was shaking. Only slightly. But Sebastian clocked it, and curled his fingers around her hand to steady it as he poured. She felt his warmth, and she felt herself melt.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to stammer, and he looked into her eyes. She blushed scarlet, couldn’t meet his gaze. Could he read in them what she had done the night before? she wondered.
The vibrator had arrived in the post on Thursday morning, just before she left for work. She’d snatched it off the doormat before either of the children could see, and thrust it into her dressing-table drawer, where it lay for the next two days. Though she could see it in her mind’s eye all the while, distracting her while she worked. Would she ever have the nerve to use it? More to the point, would she ever have the opportunity?
Serendipitously, on Saturday both children announced they were going on sleepovers and wouldn’t be back till Sunday night, which had the dual convenience of allowing her time to experiment and meant she wouldn’t feel guilty about going out for Sunday lunch. Once the house was empty, she felt slightly self-conscious. She moved around doing her chores, stacking the dishwasher, loading the washing machine, until she could no longer put off the fact that she had a hot date with her new mechanical friend.
Once she had accepted it, she felt incredibly self-aware. Her body felt alive as she prepared herself, as if her blood was slightly nearer the surface than usual. She had a long, relaxing bath, pouring a generous dollop of Champneys bath oil under the tap, and lighting several scented candles. She was going to be her own lover, but she had to get herself in the mood. She slipped on a silk kaftan she had bought from the market in Bamford. The emerald green suited her colouring, and the feather-light fabric caressed her skin as it slid down over her limbs.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d moved the candles from the bathroom to the bedroom, and the light they gave off was soft and flattering. She was quite pleased with what she saw. Her legs were long and still brown from a summer spent in shorts, her breasts were small but firm and she could see the outline of her erect nipples under the silk. She turned her back to the mirror then looked at herself over her shoulder, giving herself a little moue of a kiss. Not bad, Penny Silver, she thought.
For a moment, she felt sad. She longed for a lover to appear in the reflection behind her, to slide his arms around her waist, then nuzzle her neck. Then lift her up and carry her to the bed. But he wasn’t going to appear. She only had herself for company tonight. Well, herself and her new best friend. She wasn’t going to let her mood spoil their first encounter.
She held her purchase in her hand. It was smooth, and slightly heavier than she’d expected. She twisted the base that activated the vibrations, and it buzzed into life. She ran it over the palm of her hand, enjoying the gentle, tickling sensation. The noise was negligible, the most discreet of hums, for which she was grateful. She didn’t want to go waking up the house with her night-time shenanigans. She started by running it over her body, getting used to the feeling. The unfamiliar attention made her purr with pleasure and she began to relax.
She spread her legs and watched herself in the mirror as she rubbed in a little body lotion - the leaflet had recommended lubrication, but she was surprised to find herself already quite wet. Anticipation, it seemed, was a powerful aphrodisiac. She slid the vibrator tentatively between her legs. She manoeuvred it gently, over her labia, her clitoris, finally dipping it inside her. It was like coming alive inside, a deep but subtle renascence. Flickers of intensity shot through her loins. She could feel it in her very fingertips. Then suddenly, an incredible explosion that she could hardly bear but never wanted to end, a sweetness that devoured her from the inside. It made her cry out with surprise and pleasure, and she thanked God she hadn’t risked her adventure with the children at home.
Christ, she thought, looking at the little implement with awe. Who the hell needed men? She fell back onto the pillow, laughing, and drifted off into a delicious, much-needed slumber.
Hours later she’d woken with an immense sense of loss. She looked at the vibrator sitting innocently on her bedside table. It might have given her the most explosive, mind-blowing experience, but what wouldn’t she give to be simply lying in the arms of someone who wanted to be with her? Never mind post-coital tristesse. Post-masturbation tristesse was enough to make you want to slit your throat.
Now, as Catkin announced lunch was ready, Penny took a large gulp of champagne to blot out the memory of the night before and hopefully give her a little Dutch courage. She wondered about feigning a sudden illness and taking flight, so she didn’t have to face the ordeal of lunch, but the lure of two more hours looking at Sebastian won out. Just to breathe the same air he was breathing was enough.
Catkin managed to corner Sebastian before they went into the dining room.
‘Sebastian,’ she pleaded, ‘please try to talk to Jonathan at lunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got a contract upstairs in his suitcase. He’s desperate to sign you.’
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