The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (11 page)

“Let’s eat something,” I said brusquely. “Could you pass me my bra, please?”

He didn’t reply.

“Sebastian?”

“No,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to give you your bra.”

“Oh for goodness sake. Fine!”

I sat up and brushed sand off my breasts, stomach and arms, aware that his gaze was pinned to me.

My bra was still damp and my nipples hardened automatically as I slipped it on. I glanced across to see Sebastian’s eyes wide and wanting. It made me feel like a goddess.

“You might want to put your eyes back in before they roll down the beach,” I said sarcastically.

“It would be worth it,” he said, his tone matching mine.

I shook my head to hide a smile; he really was incorrigible.

We ate our subs which, by this time, were rather warm and limp. The sweet soda set my teeth on edge. A bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc would have been perfect. Then it occurred to me that Sebastian wasn’t even allowed to drink alcohol for another three years.

His youth and our age difference kept booby-trapping my happy thoughts. Everything had a price: every glance, every kiss, every stolen touch. It seemed desperately unfair—I didn’t want to live without love. Why should I?

“Hey, where did you go just now?” he said softly.

“Nowhere as nice as here and now,” I said honestly, and sighed.

“It’ll be okay, Caro, I promise,” he said.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep
.

“I think it’s time to leave,” I said sadly. “I have to buy some groceries and…” my words trailed off.

I didn’t want to taint him with the dreary trivia of my life with David.

“Okay,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice neutral.

He stood up and offered me his hand. But he took me by surprise when he crushed me to his chest and kissed me fiercely, an edge of desperation in the way his hands tightened around my waist. I kissed him back, matching his urgency, the specter of separation hanging over us, our own invisible sword of Damocles.

When he released me, when I could bring myself to let him go, there were no words. Solemnly I reached for my wrinkled clothes and Sebastian pulled his t-shirt over his head, then collected up the abandoned food wrappers to deposit in the nearest trashcan.

It was a strangely domestic scene, at odds with the sudden tension we both felt.

We walked back to my car, each wrapped in the emptiness of our thoughts.

“So, I’ll see the guy about that job with Ches?” he said at last.

“Yes, good idea,” I murmured, trying to dispel the image of large tips from
older women
.

“Do you still want me to read your ideas for some more articles?” he said hesitantly.

“Oh, yes, please. I’ll email them to you.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“Maybe that’s not a good idea. What if your parents saw that I’d been emailing you?”

He shook his head. “Mom doesn’t know how to program the washing machine, let alone check my email. And Dad,” he glowered, “he doesn’t know my password.”

“Well, okay, then,” I said, reassured.

“What about David?” he said. “Does he read your email?”

I had a horrible thought that he probably did and Sebastian saw the doubt reflected on my face.

“Bastard!” he said viciously. “Set up a Hotmail account, Caro, and email me from there.”

“Okay,” I said faintly.

“And you’d better turn your phone off when he’s there so I can still text you, or he’ll want to know who’s sending messages. Then check in when you can.”

I was so bad at the practicalities of an affair. I wondered absently where Sebastian had learned such expertise. But then, I supposed, with two controlling parents, evasive tactics were fundamental to survival.

He looked at me, frowning.

“Are you okay, Caro?”

I nearly laughed.

“It’s just that I’ve never … done anything like this.”

“Like this?”

“Had an affair.” I blushed saying the words.

“Don’t say that,” he said heatedly. “That’s not how I think about us, Caro.”

I sighed. “Neither do I—but that’s what people would call it, if they knew.”

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he said, fiercely. “Just you.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned my head on his shoulder. I felt his body relax slightly.

“It’s going to be a long weekend,” he muttered, “not being able to see you.”

“You could come to our soirée.” I laughed mirthlessly. “Your parents will be there. David has invited all the
right
people.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said, quietly.

I looked up at him, horrified. “No! I was teasing. You mustn’t. I couldn’t … if you were there I know I’d give myself away.”

“But I could make sure that the asshole doesn’t touch you,” he snarled.

“Sebastian, no. I mean it.”

He scowled at me belligerently.

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Stop it!” I said, trying to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me go.

“I can’t wait four months, Caro,” he said, almost desperately.

I felt panicky, but at the same time, aroused by his need.

“We have to,” I said, barely able to think coherently. “You know what they’d do to me.”

He sighed and pulled me closer.

We’d survived another 24 hours, but it was getting harder.

I drove back with one hand in his. That small connection meant so much.

As was fast becoming our routine, I dropped him off several blocks from his home. I hated that moment of desolation when he slammed shut the passenger door and I accelerated away from him: it felt so wrong.

David’s sulk had finally come to an end. Whether this was because he was over his irritation or because we had a social engagement to live up to, I couldn’t say. It made things both easier and harder.

I dreaded the nights the most; that moment when he sank onto the bed. If he picked up one of his journals I could relax; if he didn’t…

After dinner and after he’d spent a couple of hours in his study doing God knows what, evening had passed into night.

I was already in my nightgown when he strolled out of the bathroom and eased himself onto the bed. The journal remained on his bedside table. He looked at me expectantly.

I tried to ignore him and he frowned.

“Is everything ready for tomorrow, Caroline?”

“I need to go to the store in the morning for a few things.”
Everything, in fact
.

“That doesn’t sound very organized.”

“I wanted the ingredients to be as fresh as possible.”

He grunted, then moved his hand down to his dick, pulling it out of his PJ pants and stroking it suggestively.

“I’m a little tired tonight, David,” I said, trying to stay calm.

“So am I. I’ll sleep better and so will you. Come here.”

I took a deep breath. “No, David. Not tonight.”

He looked irritated. “Well, the least you can do is relieve me, Caroline.”

I closed my eyes, but closing my mind to the sounds and sensations was not so easy.

When he was finished, I walked into the bathroom to wash my hands and stared at my impassive reflection in the mirror. David was already asleep by the time I could face going back. I stood looking down at him, wondering: who was this man I’d married? Why had he married me? Had there ever been love? I knew I had never felt this way before, the way I felt when I was with Sebastian. Was David happy? I knew he was frustrated by not having climbed the career ladder with the speed and success of other men. He didn’t have friends; he networked with people who could be useful.

I lay awake for a long time, refusing to cry. I’d made my bed.

Saturday started with a guilty dash to the large, out-of-town grocery store.

David had enticed his colleagues with promises of fine Italian cuisine—I doubted it was his sunny personality and winning ways that made so many people desirous of attending our supper party—so fine cuisine was what I had to supply. All homemade. David wouldn’t allow anything pre-prepared—he liked to see me busy in the kitchen.

I checked my phone as soon as I left the house but there were no messages from Sebastian. I decided to text while I was out and hoped that’d he’d reply quickly while I dared to leave my phone on.

* Am shopping but thinking of you. Cx *

I was stupidly happy when he replied immediately.

* I think of you all the time. xx *

I read the simple message three times and then, with a sigh, deleted it. Now I had groceries to buy: I had to be
that
person—David’s wife.

Ninety minutes later I staggered into the house, bowed under the weight of a multitude of loaves and fishes, and unloaded all the grocery bags into the kitchen. David was doing something in his study—he was too busy and important to help me. I hoped I’d bought enough for the 35 people I was expected to feed.

At noon I made him a quick sandwich and delivered it express. I surprised him. He snapped shut the lid of his laptop as I entered, but not before I’d seen that he was playing card games. Yeah, too busy to help me. Not that I cared anymore, but it was another irritant. I realized my tolerance levels were being eroded—every moment I spent with Sebastian made the long hours with David more unbearable.

By early evening I was exhausted. I’d been standing in the kitchen all day and I felt tired and bad-tempered. David wandered in fresh from the shower and eyed the buffet table with the air of a lord surveying his fiefdom.

“You’re not ready,” he said, gazing at me in my flour-stained, rumpled apron.

“I’ve just spent seven hours cooking, David.”

“You look like it.”

I turned on my heel. He couldn’t even bring himself to say a simple ‘thank you’ or that the food looked damn fine, which it did. Bastard.

I thought again about Sebastian’s words:
four months
. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t last that long either.

Then I saw that the dress I’d laid out to wear tonight had slid off the bed. David would have had to step over it three or four times as he’d moved around the bedroom, but he’d left it in a crumpled heap.

His pettiness filled me with sudden fury. I supposed his childish behavior was punishment for not fully attending to his
needs
last night. Whatever the reason, I felt a small kernel of real dislike hardening in the pit of my stomach.

I showered quickly, running through all the angry words I wanted to spit in his face; words that were getting harder to bite back.

Once I’d dried my hair, I swept it up into a simple chignon—one of the few arts of graceful dressing that I learned from my mom—then slipped on my favorite, if slightly wrinkled, terracotta cocktail dress, and cream pumps.

I was applying some gloss lipstick when I heard the first car pull up outside, followed by David’s hysterical yell for me to be front and center in the living room.

Tempted as I was to keep him waiting, it just wasn’t worth his prima donna overreaction later. He always found a way to exorcise his pique. It occurred to me that over the next few months it would behove me to be a model wife—it would certainly make life easier, but I severely doubted I was up to the challenge. But not when I felt like stabbing him with a pastry fork.

The early arrivals were a Commander Dawson and his wife Bette, a well-dressed couple in their mid-thirties who radiated curiosity, looking at me, the food, the house, our fixtures and fittings with such avid eyes, I wondered if they’d try to sell it on the home-shopping channel.

Then four people arrived together: two single officers and a couple called the Bennetts who were friendly and easy-going, greeting me kindly and ooh-ing and ah-ing over the food.

By the time Donna and Johan arrived, the house was filling up and people spilled out into the yard, the pleasant hum of chat drifting on the summer air.

“Darling Caroline. You look beautiful, as always,” said Donna, kissing me on the cheek and holding my hands. “It’s so good of you to have everyone over so soon after moving in.”

I felt she was trying to convey some sort of message with her words, but I just smiled and nodded, and accepted a quick peck from Johan, whose eyes were fixed expectantly on the buffet.

Donna hooked her arm through mine and asked how I was settling back into the old neighborhood.

“I hear you’re taking up your journalism again,” she said.

“Oh?” I was surprised. I hadn’t broadcast the fact and I doubted David would have mentioned it to anyone.

She winked at me. “No secrets on the Base; you should know that, Caroline. I just happened to run into Shirley Peters and she told me you’d been out with Mitch and the boys.”