Putty In Her Hands (9 page)

Joyful, I locked myself in the
bathroom, and texted back:
Having a great time. Pissed and
happy. Wish I could give you a new year kiss. Your so fucking
wonderful, love you, R.

1.30 p.m.
I’ve done a
bit of work, not much. Updating the ‘Learning and Development
Directory’, but mainly sorting out my files – the sort of New Year
task I always quite enjoy. Dull stuff really but I am on the top of
the world – I have just received a text from Dawn:
Can you
escape to mine tomorrow after work?

I text home:
Ok if I go out
for a drink tomorrow after work?
An hour later, comes back the
response from home:
Yes.

I text Dawn in return:
Sorted. I’ll be at yours tomorrow from 5.30.
And in return a
slightly disappointing text:
Great. Bring some dvds.

DVDs? Are we going to watch
bloody DVDs all night? I rather had other plans; plans that were
exciting me and making me nervous at the same time. Again, the old
anxieties creep in – what if I don’t get an erection this time, I
did last time but that doesn’t mean anything. Viagra. It’s the only
solution; might not need it but better safe than sorry, etc.
There’s a sex shop about two miles from home; surely they’d sell
it. But if we’re simply going to watch a DVD then why the bother?
Perhaps in Dawn’s world, “watching DVDs” is merely a euphemism for
an evening of rampant sex. I certainly hope so. Since December
21
^st
, I’ve visualised many a time her nakedness, the
shape of her breasts. And I want more, desperately so.

5 p.m.
It’s dark, I pull
on my hood and park a little distance away. I have no qualms about
going into a sex shop in Central London but here, in my own
backyard, so to speak, where I know people and have friends living
nearby, this is different. I scuttle along, head down, conscious of
a large bus queue on the other side of the road. The door is open,
and I push aside the beaded curtain and enter. Like any sex shop,
it’s brightly coloured, too hot and induces in one a sense of
unease and guilt. Inside a couple of blokes in suits stand back to
back looking at the array of porno DVDs. Behind a high counter,
perched on a high stool, sits a pale faced man with tattoos on his
hands and knuckles, smoking a roll-up. Behind him is a TV screen
showing one of his products – a porno film with a couple making
noises of operatic proportions with various genealogical close-ups
where cameras should not tread. How can one work with that behind
one all day long? Does one become immune to it? Maybe we should try
it at the office.

Hi,
I say. Between us,
on the counter, sits a display of brightly coloured vibrators, some
which bend at peculiar angles, others surely too thick for your
average woman to even contemplate.

Right.
His accent his
Irish, his voice bored. His fingers are heavily stained with
nicotine. I venture that this man has never read our ‘Guide to
Providing a Customer Led Service’, which I helped compose.

Do you sell Viagra?

Yeah. How many will you be
wanting?

I glance up at the TV. God,
that woman is flexible.
Don’t know, to be honest, I’ve never
taken it before.

Right. They all say that.

God, that man in the film has
got some cock. I’ve seen horses with less girth.
Oh. Well. I
guess one will do.

He rummaged beneath the counter
as the screams on the TV behind reached a new crescendo. I would
hate it if Emily screamed like that; the neighbours would never
forgive us. And surely that bloke isn’t going to put it there?

Ten pounds,
he says,
wrapping the blue, diamond-shaped pill in a twist of paper.

Ten pounds for one pill?
It seemed very large as pills go.
Should I take it all in one
go?
I ask handing over a tenner.

I wouldn’t; else you’ll have a
hard-on from now to Easter. Just take half, or if it’s really yer
first go, take a quarter. Anything else?

What? No, thanks.

You sure? We’ve got a new batch
of anal DVDs, and a great one for Granny fuckers. And what about
dwarves? You look like a man who likes a bit of midget banging.

What?! Most kind but I’ll give
it a miss for now. Thanks anyway.

I left, walking briskly back up
the pavement, head down, not wanting to look at the bus queue
opposite, trying to shake my mind free of banging midget
grannies.

Thursday, 3 January

12.45 p.m.
I feel on
edge all day; can’t concentrate. Even my work on absence monitoring
holds little joy. Lunchtime, I trot off to the library near work,
library card in hand to choose my DVDs. A rather different
selection from the one in the sex shop. The library’s only just
re-opened and it looks great – spacious, clean, smiley staff, good
stock, lots of PCs; a far cry from the library my mother used to
take me to all those years ago, when the female librarians doubled
up as prison wardens ready to pounce on you for the slightest
indiscretion, quoting by-laws and pointing to a mass array of ‘DO
NOT…’ posters. As I enter, the children’s section seems full of
lactating mothers bouncing new-borns on their knees in time to a
muted rendition of Incy-Wincy Spider. I pick out four DVDs,
carefully chosen to hopefully have limited appeal for Dawn. Job
done, I’m on my way back to work, hurrying against the cold, and as
I pass by De Niro's, a familiar voice calls me back. It’s Paul,
offering to buy me a coffee, and tempted though I am to make
excuses I feel I can’t refuse his peace offering.

Settling down at the table
beneath a poster for ‘Heat’, I opt for a small Americano and an
apple Danish.

That’s a lot of DVDs you’ve got
there, Rob. Planning a night in?
Something like that.

So,
he says, after we’d
dissected the weather,
how did you get on with Dawn that
night?

What do you mean?

You know, when she took you
home. You both left fairly sharpish.

Nothing happened,
I say,
visualising her straddled on top of me on the bedroom floor, the
khaki bra, the feel of her breasts in my hands.
She drove me
back and dropped me off outside my house; that was all. But look,
Paul, I’m sorry –

Ah, don’t worry about it. All
fair in love and war, and all that. Anyway, it was obvious she only
had eyes for you.

Was it?
Totally, you lucky bastard.

Paul, you forget she’s
married.

And so are you.

Oh yes, so I am.

You rascal, you. So come on,
what really happened?

For a moment, a nanosecond, I
almost tell him, a part of me wanted to, to tell someone, even
moon-faced Paul, that I am falling in love with Dawn but just in
time, at the last moment, I spot the trap and neatly avoid it.
Like I said, Paul, she simply took me home. End of.

I believe you,
he said
in a tone that implied the total opposite.
Well, whatever,
he added.
Good luck to you, mate, she’s one heck of a
babe.

She is that!
He shoots
me a gleeful look.
I mean, not that she does anything for
me
.

Yeah, right, and your blood
runs cold. But don’t worry, mate, your secret’s safe with me.

There is no secret, Paul, just…
just leave it.

OK, OK, I can take a hint.

5.15 p.m.
I’ve stopped off at De Niro’s again, deciding
that one Danish pastry is not enough sustenance for a day, and I’m
forcing down a baked potato with baked beans and melted cheese,
washed down with a cup of tea. But I’ve also come here to calm my
nerves. I’ve been in a state of such high tension all day. Tonight,
if things go according to plans, I’ll be committing adultery. Not
something to value, not something to be proud of, but something I
desire nonetheless. Perhaps if Dawn had been less beautiful, less
sexy, less so damn
nice
, I wouldn’t be in this situation. But to me she’s what Bo
Derek was to Dudley Moore in ‘Ten’ – Dawn is my ten, my
interpretation of perfect femininity. I think of Emily, and I know
I love her, and will always love her, but I feel helpless in this
pursuit of perfection. It controls me.

Making sure
no one is watching, I reach for the diamond-shaped pill in my
pocket, and remembering the words of the Irishman in the sex shop,
I bite it in half and swallow it down with a gulp of tea. I’ve
never taken Viagra before and hope it has the desired effect. Then
after a few moments of deliberation, I think, bugger it, and take
the rest. So, I’ve taken the Viagra; had something to eat; got my
DVDs; and had a little time to myself. Haven’t been able to calm my
nerves but I don’t think anything could. And now it’s time. Time to
go.

I was pleasantly taken aback by
the reception I received on arriving at Dawn’s flat. On opening the
door she flung her arms round me and held me some time, nuzzling in
my neck, whispering,
I’ve so missed you
and
It’s so
lovely to see you again.
In the kitchen she asked if I wanted
anything to eat and seemed relieved when I said no, but I did say
yes to the glass of port.

She led me through to her
living room, which I didn’t get chance to see last time. Painted
pale blue and infused with a soft orange light, as elsewhere it was
impeccably tidy, with a few landscape paintings hanging from the
wall, a photo of her mother and step-father, and another of her and
Duncan on their wedding day; a low glass-topped table in front of
the TV, piled with a few glossy magazines, and in the corner a
writing bureau with a laptop, and next to it a small rack of CDs.
She sat down on a brown leather settee, and patted the cushion next
to her, inviting me to sit. Sipping our ports, she asked after my
Christmas, and I of hers, and asked after everyone at work. Then
she enquired about the DVDs.

I showed her:
This one is a
European art-house film; this one an old classic; this a worthy
British film; and this one… I don’t really know. Directed by…
I
read the name.
Werner Herzog, whoever he is.

God, I love Werner Herzog’s
work.

Oh, fuck, do you?

He’s brilliant. Good choice,
well done, Robbie.

Yeah, right. A good choice.

She took a sip of port, swilled
it in her mouth, then reached over and kissed me, a syrupy kiss
that gave me an immediate, extremely hard erection, aided, I
guessed, by the Viagra. But just as I was falling under the spell
of desire, her telephone rang. I hoped she wouldn’t answer it. She
did. It was her mother. She spoke half in English, half in French.
Meanwhile, my hard-on remained firmly in place, almost painful in
its strength, pressing against my trousers. Dawn motioned for a
top-up of port which meant I had to get up from the settee and
sidle along, trying to disguise the tent-like shape in my
pants.

Are you OK?
she
mouthed.

Yes,
I whispered.
War
wound.

She giggled.
Pardon, maman,
vous disiez?

You speak French to your
mother?
I asked once we were both settled back down on the
settee. We spoke of our parents, and slowly, very slowly, the
tumult in my pants subsided but the desire in my heart burnt
undiminished. I watched her as she spoke and found it odd that I
should be here, dazed by her beauty, awed by the yearning that
stirred within me. And the path that had led me to this point had
been all my doing, a step-by-step approach that had opened up
before me at my command. I’d never expected it to be so free of
obstacles. Yet here I was, a step away from consummating what had
gone before.

She was still talking, but of
what I don’t know, when I took her face in my hands and kissed her
gently. She smiled at me, looked coy. I reached out for the port
and took a fortifying sip, then kissed her again, my hands feeling
the outline of her breasts.
Oh, Robbie,
she breathed.
Don’t stop kissing me; your kiss, it’s so…

Hmm?
So… just kiss me.

I did, again
and again. And as I did so, I slowly unbuttoned her blouse. I
cupped her bra, pale green, and kissed her neck. I could feel her
heartbeat. I reached behind her back and with surprising ease
overcame that great male obstacle – the bra strap. The bra fell
away and my stomach clenched as my eyes beheld her breasts and
those wondrously dark nipples…

I’m not sure about this,
Rob.

That’s fine, we don’t have
to,
I said, lying.

We can kiss though, can’t
we?

Yes, of course, just
kissing.

I love your kissing; my husband
never kisses me like you do. Will you teach him?

Sure, send him over. Although
I’m not overly thrilled by the thought of kissing a man with a
goatee.

I knew as I kissed her that she
was melting, her determination to resist me weakening as I kissed
her slender, brown neck. I took my shirt and tie off, trying to do
so calmly while my cock strained against my trousers. I slid my
hands down the back of her tracksuit bottoms and down her knickers,
gently cupping her arse.