I march along our neat, tree-lined street, full of purpose and bubbling excitement. What else should I buy? Something hormone-stirring to slip into Jed’s drink? The only aphrodisiacs I can think of are oysters, which I don’t know how to prepare, or essence of dried bull’s penis or something, and I don’t imagine Tesco stock it. Then, as I approach the store’s entrance, an idea hits me.
Underwear. Nothing ridiculously porno – I have neither the nerve nor the body for that. Just a new bra and knickers that actually match, and are more alluring than the saggy articles I resort to these days. Maybe stockings, suspenders. Corny, I know, but Jed would love that. It doesn’t feel quite right, buying underwear in a supermarket, but he’ll be far too excited to check labels.
I glide around the aisles, lulled by the bland music, ridiculously grateful to Mum for having the children overnight. After choosing supper ingredients, I browse the make-up section. While hardly vast, it’s still overwhelming. Are the colours I used to wear hopelessly outdated, along with my au naturelle do? I’m supposed to know what looks good. It’s my job, and I have enough regular clients to know that I’m reasonably good at it. Here, though, I’m lost in an ocean of lip plumpers and mineral face powders – make-up that didn’t exist the last time I bought any. I grab a blusher, a smoky grey eye shadow and a sheer lipstick, making a mental note to hide them from Toby. Then, on a roll, I snatch some razors and passion-flower body lotion.
In the underwear aisle the knickers seem to fall into two categories – thongs or industrial old-lady pants – neither of which I had in mind. A man with generous chin-folds sidles up next to me and gives me a slimy, wet-lipped grin. This is the kind of male attention I attract these days. Middle-aged, sweating perverts who spend their Friday nights in the lingerie aisle. I realise with horror that that’s how a stranger might describe me, lurking here, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Quickly, I grab a black lacy bra and knicker ensemble, then black stockings and any old random suspender belt and stuff them into my basket. Without checking the sizes, I hurtle towards the checkout.
My stomach rumbles as I join the queue, and I eye the king prawns in the clear plastic packet in my basket. Is it normal to lust over food the way I do? To feel constantly ravenous? The checkout boy, who looks all of twelve, is taking an age to barcode-bleep everything. Finally, it’s my turn. I place my purchases on the conveyor belt, trying to conceal the underwear by laying the bag of rocket on top of it. The boy picks up the rocket and stares at the scraps of black lace. Only, they’re not just black lace. Neatly stitched between the bra cups – and at the front of the knickers, I now realise – are tiny pink satin teddy bears stitched with the words ‘Hugga Bubba’.
The boy smirks. I grimace back, willing him to bleep everything at breakneck speed so I can get out before my head bursts. ‘No price on this,’ he announces, dangling the suspender belt delicately between thumb and forefinger.
‘I can get another one if you like,’ I blurt out, blood swirling in my ears.
‘No, it’s okay . . . Cathy! Can you get another one of these? What size is it?’ He turns to me.
‘Um, medium, I think.’ I wonder what might be the most efficient way of committing suicide in Tesco. Impaling myself on a cooking utensil? Or hiding until closing time, then shutting myself in a freezer? A woman with her lips pressed into a prim, scarlet line stands behind me in the queue. Her eyes meet mine. Medium? she’s obviously thinking. A little optimistic, aren’t we, love? I glance down at her basket. It contains soya milk, porridge oats and a punnet of raspberries. No pervo underwear. No desperate woman trying to perk up her disinterested husband on a Saturday night. Bitterly, I wonder if he’s finished that book yet.
Somehow, though, by the time Cathy returns with another suspender belt, I’m beyond embarrassment and decide to just brazen it out. ‘Thanks,’ I say grandly, giving it a little twirl before dropping it into my shopping bag. ‘Have a great evening.’
‘You too,’ the checkout boy says, grinning. As I leave, making a supreme effort to walk tall and proud – with a slight sashay, actually – I feel the scarlet-lipped woman’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Who cares what she thinks? I am Laura Swan, a mother of three but also a woman, dammit, who is reclaiming her sexuality.
I march home, swinging my bag and breathing in the cool, soft air of a perfect April evening. Tonight will bring Jed back to me, I can feel it.
As I stride home, I figure that maybe Jed was right. Who needs a hotel room when there’s a child-free house on offer? Lighting some candles and playing our music – without Finn thrashing his drum kit above our heads – will create a romantic ambience. I picture the two of us, snuggled up on the sofa, in a flattering candlelit glow. I won’t bring up the Celeste stuff – not tonight. Anyway, I’m sure Simone’s right. What’s wrong with having a friend of the opposite sex? I should lighten up, learn to keep things in perspective.
I let myself in, pleased that I’ve cunningly concealed my saucy new lingerie at the bottom of the bag. However, I needn’t have worried about Jed spotting it and the surprise being ruined. Clearly beside himself with lust at the prospect of my return, he’s asleep in the armchair. His head has lolled to one side, and his bottom lip reverberates slightly with each soft snore. Hardly alluring, but at least he’ll be nice and rested for later.
I creep through to the kitchen and unpack the shopping, plotting what to get up to later in bed. Will it be wild, like in the old days, or affectionate and gentle? I don’t mind either way. Hell, I’ll take whatever I can get. Just a kiss and a cuddle would be fine, if he’s too tired for anything else. I do worry, though, that it’s not normal to think about sex as often as I do, and that I’m having some kind of hormonal breakdown. Whenever the subject comes up among the playgroup mums, the others start cackling that they’d rather have a quiet lie down with no one pawing at them, or a DVD and a box of chocolates. ‘Give me Coronation Street any day,’ I heard Ruth groan last week. The difference is, their men actually want to do it. Yet these women talk about sex as something to be got over and done with, like having a wasps’ nest removed from the loft.
Gathering up my saucy undies and beauty accoutrements, I tiptoe upstairs to the bathroom, ashamed at how surly I’ve been with Jed these past few months. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a fantastic dad with endless time and patience for the children. It’s not just sport, either: he thinks nothing of spending hours working on incredible Lego constructions, which Toby finds hilarious to smash up into pieces. He’ll even set up foul-smelling science experiments in the kitchen. As for our lack of bedtime action, he’s probably worn out, that’s all. Aren’t I knackered most of the time? Maybe we’re just out of practice – plus, I’m hardly comfortable prancing around in the nude with my body looking so mournful and collapsed.
So what if he has a silly, schoolboy’s crush? It’s natural to fancy other people. It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t I experience a distinct flickering of – well, not desire exactly, but something for Danny in Starbucks? It was the attention, that’s all. I picture my male friends from college and wonder if it might be possible to ever have a man friend again. Would Jed mind? No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d be glad to see me all cheered up and perky.
I undress in the bathroom and step into the shower’s steamy blast. As I run the cheap plastic razor over my legs and underarms, I start wondering if I should extend my endeavours elsewhere. What did that supplement say about au naturelle? I’m probably the last woman in Britain not to have a Brazilian. What is a Brazilian exactly? Is it
