in Kenya. Depressing stuff.
Thank goodness, I can switch this off – Miles is home!
11.45 pm
I am so embarrassed!
Miles came in. Heated up his meal and sat with me on the sofa. TV went back on. He wanted to hear about the elections in Germany … Arghh… I took out my Kindle and read some poetry, to get ideas. Then I got fed up.
“Do you want to go to bed soon, Miles? I’ve got another story. I think you’ll like it!”
“Sorry that I fell asleep last night Beth, it was very relaxing!”
He pulled me close but continued to watch the News Channel.
“I did have a nice dream by the way.”
“What?”
“Your text!”
He had forgotten.
“Busy day. Difficult day.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Hmm … better not. Too upsetting, want to forget about it.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk.”
“You wouldn’t like it, Beth. Had to sign a baby into care because his mother had burned his legs with a cigarette.”
“Oh Miles.”
“And more of the same. Why do people have kids? It’s a fuck awful world to bring them into!”
It’s so unusual for Miles to swear and he had descended into his ‘I don’t want any kids’ argument which I found hard to deal with. I left him sitting on the sofa and went to bed. I heard him play some jazz on the CD player and knew he would come to bed soon. When he did I held him close and kissed him softly on the lips.
“I wrote this for you Miles, to thank you for last night. It’s called ‘2 am’.”
2. “2 am”
He could not sleep and looked at the clock, 2 am. He looked across at his wife lying on her back, sleeping peacefully. Her silk chemise had ridden up and he gazed at her beautiful pussy illuminated by the silvery harvest moon.
He moved his head down and planted tiny kisses on her stomach and thighs. Then very gently he parted her legs. He lightly licked her labia, just pushing into her a little. He loved to give cunnilingus to his wife. Not because she might then reciprocate, but because he loved the softness of his tongue and lips against the softness of her clitoris and pussy lips. The closeness and intimacy, the taste and the smell, it was as though he were performing an act of worship to her femaleness.
With his thumb and forefinger he parted her inner lips and darted his tongue against the liquid walls of fleshy softness. With the tip of his tongue he lifted the hood and then licked her clit with slow tender strokes of his rough tongue, exploring her and relishing her smoothness. He stroked his tongue against her a little harder, a little faster. He carried on. Increasing the pressure then barely touching her. Slowing down, then speeding up. He heard his wife moan softly in her sleep and then he tasted the sweet honeydew from her pussy, glistening in the moonlight.
He put his head back on the pillow. It was 2.30. With a sudden rush he felt an overwhelming love for his wife. Then, weary, he drifted into contented sleep.
“Was this your dream, Beth?”
I realised then that he knew nothing about it.
“Did you not do this to me?”
“No. You woke me up, thrashing and moaning.”
It was so awful. My cheeks burned red. He looked amused.
“Sexy writing though. Sounds like you enjoyed it!”
I was mortified. This is not going the way I planned. Miles didn’t seem too bothered; he patted me on the tummy like I was one of his patients, turned over and went to sleep.
So I’m sitting here again writing this in my diary. We are meant to be having exciting sex and I’m turning him off by my stupid stories. I feel so frustrated and foolish. It is pointless. His job is so stressful, I just can’t reach him anymore.
Day Three – Wednesday 25th September
7.38 am
The sun is shining, casting a soft light over the bedclothes. I am smiling. Miles woke me with a cup of tea as usual, pulled down the strap of my nightie, lowered his head, hair still wet from the shower and sucked my nipples softly.
“We’ll go away for the weekend,” he whispered.
I know I did not dream this. Today was going to be better. I pulled off my nightie and lay naked on the bed watching the sun trace across my skin and thought of Miles, and the poem I read last night.
‘Your scent is still on the pillow and I gather the softness into my arms and smell you and the sun comes once more to welcome me through the mottled panes, dancing with lace and comes to rest just for a moment to gather breath, before travelling on a languid journey, taking time, slowly, glancing the tips of my toes and sparkling the hairs on my legs’.
Oh dear, John Donne will be turning in his grave! But the promise of a weekend away … I wonder what he has in mind?
Back to reality and work. And I need to check my emails and get Imo’s stories.
Quick look on the iPad. Yup, Imo’s email is there with an attachment. Good! No time to read now. Later. Facebook can wait until lunchtime – I am seriously behind.
10.30 am
Coffee time. Lingered a bit with the office girls listening to the gossip. The new technician is causing a stir. Oh these twenty-somethings – they make me feel so old. By the time I was their age, I had run away with Laurent, got married and was living in the south of France. Seems like a lifetime ago now.
Got an hour to fill before the Rubens lecture. Know this off pat, done it a hundred times – it does make me feel sexy and slim looking at his paintings! If the students knew what was going through my head, haha!
Damn! Damn! Fucking Damn! God I am so angry! Just read Imo’s email, quote: … ‘By the way Beth, I was in London yesterday to pick up some props and ran into Lucinda, did you know Laurent is staging a retrospective at White Cube gallery next month … Uzes 2003 … Thought you should know …’ did she just throw that in for fun? I’m being unkind, she’s giving me advance warning, knowing full well how I’ll react… but what the hell … he wouldn’t dare would he?
12.53 pm
Can’t concentrate. Did the lecture on autopilot. Have walked to the park and got a sandwich from Pret. Sitting looking at the ducks splooshing about in the green water. Ripples scattering like my thoughts. He’s bound to show the portraits. It’s his best work,
