SEVEN DAYS (5 page)

Part of her wanted to keep her extended visit to the gallery a secret. Her early moments with ‘Mark’ had been magical, although she was resigned to thinking of him in inverted commas. Although there had been hundreds of people around them that evening, she had felt as if she was both giving and receiving a private viewing. She felt as though she was seeing the work in a way that nobody else could; it had been unique and unrepeatable.

Not finding out his true identity irritated her. Aside from his slippery act of deception, he'd been near-perfect. At least, he had seemed so.

Judy looked into Peter's eyes, searching for his solidity, which she desperately needed right now. He seemed concerned for her, but more for her mental health than her emotional well-being. His eyes were flat, reflecting the lights above them, but offering nothing of their own.

She told him about the naked bulb and the naked flame and other visual puns. She left out any mention of Mark. She recalled that there had been a take on the Blackpool beach sidings with the heads cut out, so people could put their faces on cartoon bodies. She asked Peter if he would have had a go, as she had, and he didn't know how to answer her.

“Look,” Judy said, and she pulled the little book out of her bag.

Peter turned it over in his hands and flicked through the pages.

 “I was late because I was getting you this book. It's a gift for you.”

He didn't say thank you.

“And then it seemed silly not to have a quick look at the exhibition as well,” she added. “A lot of those works were in the gallery. I thought it would give us something to talk about.”

He said nothing, except: “The queues must have been horrendous. No wonder you were late. Not such a quick look, after all, eh?”

“I didn't feel much of anything at first,” Judy went on, “but after a while it was extraordinarily erotic. I came out feeling like a different woman. It's been too long since I had some fun.”

Peter didn't look at her.

“Maybe you could come with me?” Judy said.

Again, he refused to look up, as if eye-contact was dangerous now. Perhaps it was.

She told him about some of the exhibits she had seen. She admitted to feelings that she hadn't admitted to Mark, because Mark had been wrapped up in them. She tried to explain to Peter that art had teased the emptiness inside her and inspired her to fill it.

With his help.

Tonight.

“Maybe that's why I ran all the way here,” she said. “I couldn't wait to be with you.”

Peter grunted, conflicted, as reluctant to look at her as to look at the book.

“Open it up,” Judy whispered. “It's all yours.”

The first image he turned to was that of a cup and saucer covered in fur. Even the spoon was covered in fur.

“Are these postcards?” he said.

“There are some postcards, yes,” she replied, “but there are words, too. Look properly.”

“I've seen enough,” he said and riffled the pages noisily.

“It's not a flip book,” Judy said.

“Isn't it?” he replied and handed it back with a derisive sneer.

Peter had a child from an ex-partner. He saw him at weekends. A little boy named Eric. She could imagine Peter looking at Eric's school drawings and turning them over and over in his hands before intoning:

“Very good, Eric, very good, but what is it supposed to be?”

Peter was smart and interesting and practical and dependable, a provider and a rock, but he wasn't kind. He had softness to him, which Judy was attracted to, but he wasn't gentle. She realised that those weren't the same things.

A man could be firm and strong, but gentle. He could be smart and opinionated, but kind.

She was on the brink of mentioning Mark, wanting something to throw in Peter's face, but that act of cruelty would make her a hypocrite, and she wasn't sure it would hit its target anyway. Peter seemed to be distancing himself from her. It was more than dissatisfaction with her lateness and she knew it.

She recalled how Mark had said that he would have waited for her all night, as long as it took. In the end, however, nothing about him was credible. Perhaps it had all been a line to string her along.

She was torn between the attentions of a mysterious liar and the frank words of someone who didn't see her at all. Was that any choice at all?

Her mouth watered at the sight of Peter's strong, clean-shaven jaw, his immaculate appearance in his crisp shirt and perfectly-knotted tie, but it was Mark who made her stomach flutter. She kept thinking about him, even though he had let her down at the last moment.

Still, she couldn’t help comparing them and as she did so she noted that, unlike Mark, Peter hadn't once asked for her opinion on the exhibition. He appeared to listen to her under duress.

She downed her second gin and tonic and Peter gave her a disapproving frown. His expression made her feel angry again, but the alcohol was soaring to her head and she was taking off. Rather than succumb to her anger, she rose above it.

Her gallery experience had evidently woken something in her, something that had been dormant since she had been at Sixth Form College, desiring to undertake a course in Art, but being pushed and pulled in other directions by teachers and parents and timetables. She had forgotten herself during the subsequent years, but Mark had given her a shake and now she was waking up again.

It was a glorious feeling.

The feel of her damp clothes against her skin was pleasurable this evening, something that would have been unthinkable that morning. In place of hands, for the time being, her wet clothes reminded her of her body.

She laughed as she remembered running through the rain, shoes in hand. The past was made up of memories of such events, where an activity hadn't been pleasant at the time, but had at least allowed her to feel something. It had been such a long time since she had really felt anything.

Now that she was awake, she didn't want to go back to sleep.

Her body had certainly woken too. Every nerve ending seemed to be alive, so that each movement sent a rush of pleasure through her. Her damp blouse had become translucent in places and she was glad that Peter could see the outline of her bra.

She waited until he was glancing at her breasts, which he did every now and then, and then she undid another button.

The cold meant that her nipples were standing erect and they were ultra sensitive against the material of her bra. The sensation was so delicious that she closed her eyes, lost to it.

She rubbed wet thigh against wet thigh.

She thought she might come right there in the restaurant.

But why waste a good orgasm?

“Why do we do this every month?” she said.

“You're drunk,” Peter said.

“Yes, I am. I’m drunk and I asked a simple question. I'd appreciate a simple answer.”

“I like...talking to you,” Peter volunteered.

Not listening. Talking.

“And?” she said.

“People come and go, but we always stuck together.”

“You want to do what you've always done,” Judy translated.

“I wouldn't put it like that, but yes, it's...it's comfortable...it's nice.”

“I don't want to be comfortable. And I'm not nice.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I don't want to live in the past. I want more.”

With every word, she felt the surface of the world she knew falling apart. Underneath, colours shone through here and there. A smile flashed and caught her eye like a shooting star. The clink of glass against glass spiralled around her like the sound of a bell. The murmur of voices and the clash of cutlery against crockery became the soundtrack to the latest installment of the evening's adventure, in which success or failure meant less than trying.

“I don't want to be alone tonight,” she admitted, something she would never have said out loud 24 hours earlier. “Neither do you,” she added.

“No,” Peter agreed curtly, glancing at her breasts again. “No, I don’t.”

“So what are we going to do about it?”

* * * *

She used his tie to pull him towards her and she pressed her lips against his. His skin was much cooler than she expected and she felt a rush of pleasure, little explosions going off all over her neck and chest as she nipped at his lips and encouraged him to open his mouth wider. She gave his tongue an exploratory lick with hers. And again. And then she was probing deep inside his mouth.

After a minute, he pulled away, one hand on the steering wheel of his Audi, the other on her shoulder.

“What’s got into you?” he asked and glanced through the windscreen to see if anyone was watching them. He seemed concerned for her, but she could tell that he was enjoying her kisses and didn’t want her to stop for long.

“Nothing’s got into me,” Judy said. “Yet.” She allowed her knees to part and she put his hand on her thigh.

“You’re still wet,” he said.

“You have no idea how wet.”

“I mean your clothes. Let’s get you home.”

“I have a better idea,” she said and she pulled her top up over her head and threw it onto the backseat. Then she reached behind her and unclipped her bra. “There,” she said. “Happy now.”

Evidently, he was convinced. He took her breasts in his hands and began kissing her gently, earnestly and then licking her nipples, making her sigh.

“Bite me,” she said.

“What?”

“Bite me.”

Tentatively, he did as she demanded and she looped an arm around his neck, pulling his body closer.

“Harder.”

It had been too long since they’d been together. Getting it on in his car wasn’t perfect, but she didn’t think that she was perfect either. Physically they were a pretty good match though. He knew what turned her on and was patient, taking her there with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth.

She reached down between his legs.

“Oh my!” she said. “Is that you or the handbrake?”

“It’s all me,” Peter said between licking one breast and the next.

“Let me see it,” she said.

She helped him undo his fly and within seconds his penis was standing proud, encircled by the fingers of her left hand. There was still plenty of him to go in her mouth.

“You know what they say about men with flash cars and the size of their penises? You’re the exception to the rule.”

She began by kissing the head of his penis, little love pecks that were maddening him. The knuckles of one hand went white as he gripped the steering wheel while his other hand had her hair in an increasingly vice-like grip.

He used his hand to guide her, speeding her up when she was too slow, sending her deeper than was comfortable, so that his cock hit the back of her throat and she gagged. His need for her turned her on further and she did as he bid to the best of her ability, his hot hand on the back of her neck now as if to say:

“Now that you’ve started this don’t even think about stopping.”

She unravelled one of his condoms over his cock and then licked him from balls to tip several times, which made him throw his head back and squirm in his seat.