I love his taste, his smell. I play with him at the back of my throat. He pulsates inside my mouth in waves. And now he goes down on me, teasing me. But he doesn’t let me come. Not yet. We scramble apart and together in knots of passion. I am not sure how or where our limbs begin. We are off the bed and I am crouching in front of him on all fours. He is behind me and I am neck-stretched ecstatic at the feel of him inside me, at the touch of his fingers on my breasts and the bud of my greedy clitoris. I put my head back and moan with pleasure. We climax and climax, together. A waterfall that feels as if it will never stop.
My mother is breathing her last. Rapid gasps, as I expected. A birdlike rise and fall of the chest. I open my mouth and shout for Dad. I hold her hand and squeeze it, to let her know I am here. She squeezes back. Dad is here, on the other side of the bed, holding her hand and kissing her forehead. She turns her head and looks at me with cloudless blue eyes, the soft blue of hyacinths. As delicate as a breath of air, this transition from life to death, this gentle stiffness. We sit awhile looking at her. At her cold pallor; she who was always so warm, so full of energy.
I leave the room, letting my father say his final goodbye to her in private. I pace around the bungalow like a caged animal – three steps across the sitting room, three steps back to the hallway and the small kitchen, trying to ring Craig, but he is not answering the home phone or his mobile. I’ll wait ten minutes or so and try again. I look out of the window and see two children walking past on their way to school, their whole lives ambling in front of them, and I envy them. I return to the bedroom to find my father still sitting holding my mother’s hand; staring blankly in front of him, as he has been doing for so many weeks, as if she has not passed yet. When will reality hit him? How can I look after him? What can I do to make things right for him?
Nothing will ever be right for him again.
I collapse into my parents’ Draylon sofa and once again am filled with an overwhelming desire to speak to Craig. The only man I have ever been close to. I felt so embarrassed when he first asked me for my phone number, my cheeks were hot and I knew that I was blushing. Blushing, a habit most people grow out of at school. It is still a bit like that between us. He pays me more attention than I deserve and sometimes I still feel overwhelmed by it. I first set eyes on him when he joined our church choir. I noticed him long before he noticed me; Craig, a man out of my league. I watched him surreptitiously for months before I plucked up the courage to talk to him at tea break.
Before I married him, I prayed and prayed to the Lord. How do you know when you love someone? For in the eyes of the Lord we should love everyone. And the Lord answered my prayers and blessed my relationship. I asked my mother how you know when love is special. She said you just do. After all, she just loved my father. Always. My father and mother made a loving relationship look simple. Simpler than it is. My mind clenches in pain. I’m thinking of their relationship in the past tense. Please God, that cannot be right. Love has too much energy to cease to exist. Love lasts forever, doesn’t it? Otherwise there would be no God. The words start to muddle in my head.
I try Craig again. Still no reply. I have no choice but to try and reach him at the fire station. This is an emergency. Surely no one will mind? They confirm what I already knew – that he is not on duty. Maybe he’s taken the children swimming or something. But surely he would have told me if he was doing that? Surely he will be home soon? Please God. Please God may he not have had an accident. The dreaded sound of an ambulance siren pushes through my mind. I tremble inside. I am bursting to speak to him, to know he is all right. To impart my terrible news. I know I will feel a little better when I have spoken to the man I love. I try again. I cannot reach him. No reply from home. His mobile goes straight to voicemail. If I can’t speak to my husband I need to speak to someone else. Tears of frustration build in my eyes. I ring Carly’s mobile. No reply. I ring the surgery and ask for Rob. Apart from Dad and I, Rob is the first to know that my mother has died.
Jenni, even when I’m with Carly I think about you. I always think about you. I know I should finish it with Carly, that what I’m doing is wrong. And last night I very nearly managed to. I was going to. I walked to the Travelodge, psyching myself up; practising what I was about to say in my head.
‘It’s been fun but I don’t want to hurt my wife.’
‘Carly, this isn’t fair on our partners: on Jenni, on Rob.’
‘Carly, I promised to be faithful in church. To keep myself only unto her.’
But as soon as I reached the Travelodge something inside me contorted. The fact I shouldn’t be there turned me on.
Carly had some MDMA with her – brownish powder in a plastic bag. She showed it to me as soon as I arrived. Then she left it on the side by the kettle.
‘Where did you get it?’ I asked, shocked.
‘From Bob, behind the disused cinema.’
‘How did you know about him?’
‘Practically everyone in Stansfield knows about Bob.’
I was so taken aback that I think I must have been standing with my mouth open. She moved towards me and stroked my face.
‘You’re a very naughty girl,’ I said as I started to pull her clothes off; her thin skimpy nurse’s uniform, her lacy bra, her black G-string. ‘In fact I think you’re the worst behaved nurse in the world.’
‘I know I am,’ she said, standing in the dingy room in the Travelodge naked, ready for sex.
Carly always looks ready for sex. It is part of her charm, her allure. ‘And I’ve got some medicine to give you,’ she said as she walked across the bedroom, proud breasts jutting and erect. She shook the powder from the bag into one of the white china coffee mugs, rubbed some on her right forefinger, and walked towards me again. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’
I could feel myself straining against my underpants, against my trousers. I removed them to relieve the pressure and started to peel off my shirt.
She was in front of me. She was kissing me. Rubbing MDMA on my gums.
You are a bad girl, Carly. I’m a man who doesn’t take drugs.
‘You’re a bad girl, Carly,’ I almost hummed.
‘I know I am,’ she whispered as she kissed me.
I buried my head in her generous breasts. We clamped together, on the floor, on the bed and my orgasm came slowly. It was tumultuous. Was it the MDMA? Or was it the way she played with me?
Jenni, I love you but I just can’t help it. Carly is so naughty, and you are so good.
I’m sitting in my surgery, at my battered wooden desk, the desk that I have owned since I was a student, inputting the data from my previous patient. I am surrounded by familiarity and thanks. Thanks is one of the things, even after so many years of practice,
