2000 - The Feng-Shui Junkie (39 page)

“Is it meaningful for you and Ronan?”

A smile slowly and temptingly spreads across her wide mouth, as we cross a narrow bridge over a small stream and head towards the orang-utan enclosure.

“The sex is…”

She falters.

“Go on, Nicole. We don’t mind.”

“It’s wonderful.” She says this almost nostalgically.

This issue has been nagging away at me, really plaguing me.

“What about foreplay?” I ask her.

Sylvana groans.

Nicole turns to me and smiles. “You mean…?”

“For instance, do you and Ronan build up slowly?”

Her green eyes are presently dilating in their orbits. She glances at Sylvana for moral support. But my pal is staring into space, exhaling cigarette smoke into the surrounding shrubbery.

“Take Helmut, for instance,” I deviate, to ease her gently into the topic. “With him, the definition of foreplay is the time it takes for him to get from the shower to the bed. You have to whip him to get him going and even then it’s a battle against nature.”

Nicole is nodding quietly as if I’ve just told her my husband died recently. Any minute now she’ll tell me how sorry she is for my loss.

I repeat my question about whether or not she builds up slowly with my husband. The corner of her mouth is now teetering on the brink of a grin. Incredibly, she asks Sylvana for a cigarette. Sylvana obliges and offers her a light.

Nicole lights up, inhaling deeply. She exhales, staring ahead into blankness. “With Ronan…” she marvels, “foreplay is an art form.”

“You paint him first.”

She clicks her finger. “He can bring me to it just like
that
”

“That’s not foreplay, Nicole.”

“Or he can drag it out. To the very, very…”

“Bitter.”

“…
very
end.”

“That might be foreplay.”

“AH he has to do is go near me and I’ve suddenly got G-spots all over my body. It’s amazing.”

“And how is the orgasm?” I ask her, like I’m referring to a well-known brand of washing detergent.

“
Don’t talk to me about orgasm
!” she chuckles, reddening.

“Sorry to be harping on about it.”

“Actually,” she confesses, “I get multiple orgasms when I’m with him.”

“Factor fifty?”

Sylvana: “She’s not talking about suntan cream, Julianne.”

“Factor sixty-nine?”

“Ronan is amazing.”

“I adore multiple orgasms myself,” Sylvana comments. “Especially since you don’t need a man to give you one.”

“That’s all very well, Imelda,” I shoot back, “but when you’ve got this implement at home – a fully accessoried male – it’s a pity when it stops doing what it was put on this world to do.”

I have both of them roaring with laughter.

“I mean, would someone please describe the multiple-experience thing to me?
Please?
Helmut is a drip. He couldn’t satisfy me if you bloated him with Viagra.”

“Oh no,” she says earnestly. “Ronan always stays with me. He never rushes. He’s very affectionate, very sensitive.”

“He must really love you so.”

As we walk on, I’m desperately trying not to appear too shattered in front of them. I must focus on the positive: the three o’clock rendezvous with my future.

At the orang-utan precinct, Nicole is transfixed. The orang closest to us, rust-coloured and reminiscent of a red-brown rug on legs, is moving slowly in our direction. You can just about make out the tiny gentle eyes darting through flabby cheek pads, which remind me of huge black puddings stuck to her face. In her arms is a tiny baby orang.

Nicole is over the moon. She stands there, spellbound, for several minutes as we all watch mother and baby messing around in this primeval-ape compound.

She turns to me at last. “Julianne?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’ve been keeping it to myself up to now.”

“Right.”

“Nobody else knows. Can I tell you?”

“Yes.
What?
”

She looks at Sylvana, then back at me. “Julianne, I’m pregnant.”

M
y days spent visiting zoos are over.

Never again can I look at an orang-utan.

Especially not an orang-utan bearing young.

At first I thought I’d misheard what Nicole had said. I asked her to repeat herself. She just smiled and told me and Sylvana not to look so worried, that she’d get through it fine.

“How long have you known this?” demanded Sylvana.

“Several weeks,” she replied, startled.

“When are you due?” Sylvana inquisitioned.

“Mid-November.”

“That means you started it last February.”

Nicole nodded, confused.

“What makes you think it’s not Harry’s?” darted Sylvana. She was watching me like a hawk.

She shook her head. “I am absolutely sure: Harry used those things. Besides…” that’s when she pulled out the letter from her bag “…read this. Ronan sent this to me at work. You can ignore the third paragraph – he’s just being silly.”

She handed it to me. Sylvana read it over my shoulder.

3 March

Dear Nicole
,

I want to see you again. Last night was amazing. You were very good indeed, better than I’d expected. It’s the longest session I’ve had in years. I felt like I was going to explode. You mentioned that you weren’t comfortable sleeping with me because I’m married and I told you that my marriage is on its last legs. Nicole, we barely know one another; let’s not make any decisions about one another yet. Let’s just take things slowly at first. We can build up gradually; what is required will then become obvious
.

It’s important to be philosophical about this: either it will work out between us or it will not. I think it would help to see it as a chemical reaction. Two elements from the Periodic table will either combine with one another or they will not combine. The capacities of chemical reactions are determined in advance. That’s the way I see it with us: it’s already decided in advance, therefore there’s no point worrying
.

Enough of that. All I can think of right now is being with you again, just like last night
.

I have decided not to give you my mobile number yet; it’s too risky. I’ll call you. How does Thursday sound, after work? Thursday is a busy day for me, so it would be nice if you came to my surgery again, say, at about six thirty. The secretary will have gone home then. I’ll call you that morning to confirm
.

Ronan

“That was the day I became pregnant,” she said proudly.

Broken-hearted, I handed the page back to Nicole.

“Julianne, you’ve gone all white.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have! Are you okay?”

“It’s
you
that’s having the baby; it’s
you
that has all the…”

I wanted to say luck, fortune, happiness, love…but the words dried up.

Nicole started protesting: “Julianne, don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine. Childbirth isn’t
that
bad, is it Imelda?”

Sylvana snorted.

“Anyway, Ronan will be there for the delivery – I’ll make sure of that. It’s his child, after all. Don’t worry about me.”

I couldn’t help it: I burst into tears. Nicole was mortified. She put her arm round my shoulder and started fussing over me, apologizing, asking me in urgent, high-pitched tones what the matter was.

Then something dawned on her. “This is about Helmut, isn’t it? Oh God, I shouldn’t have said anything – I wasn’t thinking. It’s just when I saw those orangs…”

I started moving away. Nicole kept up, walking beside me. “Julianne, I’m really sorry, please don’t hold it against me. It’s what I was trying to tell you the whole time: part of the reason he’s so important to me is that he’s the father of my child. It wasn’t planned that way.”

“No,” remarked Sylvana. “It was the Immaculate Conception.”

“Does Ronan know about this?” I wondered weakly.

Nicole shook her head, saying she didn’t want to alarm him.

“Well, perhaps we’ll tell him today,” Sylvana suggested.

Nicole pleaded with us not to say a word to Ronan about it; that when the time was right she’d tell him herself. Besides, she added, she wanted to keep it a surprise.

Sylvana was inspecting me like a magnifying glass. She asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I didn’t know. She offered to take me home. I said no.

When we got to a fork in the path I veered right. Nicole reminded me – pained – that she was meeting Ronan very shortly in the aquarium, which was to the left. I muttered something about going to the public toilets alone, that I would be back in a few minutes. I made Sylvana wait with her. Nicole told me to take my time.

I hobbled, crying, in the direction of the women’s loos. I wanted to find a temporary hole into whose muck I could sink, to bury that grainy, heavy, totally fucked-up feeling inside. The closest equivalent I managed to get was the toilet. I entered a small cabin and was repelled by the stink of urine. I went in nevertheless and spent five minutes regurgitating my breakfast into a soiled toilet bowl.

Washing my mouth out with Listerine and patting my cheeks with tissue, I got the hell out of there, my face a mess on account of there being no mirrors, but I wasn’t too bothered.

And I went straight through the turnstiles.

I just couldn’t face Ronan and Nicole. Not today. A baby changed things. Drastically. I had to go home and be alone and think.

I took a bus into the city centre and another bus home – my marital ‘home’. One and a half hours in total, but then what else would you expect from the bus services?

At four thirty I got back. Mother was knitting woollen socks for a friend’s grandchild in the kitchen. I sensed something was up, something was not right. On impulse I went into our bedroom.

The wardrobe was open. There were large spaces in his section, gaps where his clothes should have been. I flung open his drawers. They were half empty. I scrambled through them. They contained non-essential items. But Ronan’s passport, his documents, his professional papers – everything important was gone.

On the bed was a folded note.

Thursday, 2.30 a.m
.

Julie
,

I am going away for a while. I have been forced to leave because of your clear desire to bring this relationship to a standstill through your suspicious and destructive behaviour, which has cost me thousands of pounds
.

So I am going to live by myself for some months. A break can be a healthy thing. It will give us both time to reconsider things
.

A major reason for my decision is your mother. It is impossible to cohabit in the same enclosed space as that woman and I don’t intend to repeat the experience. This might sound like an excuse, but it’s not. She has made it her principal aim in life to sabotage calm, ever since she moved in with that ridiculous piano of hers. I’m sure she has her virtues (not that she aggressively advertises them) but she seems to seek out subtle and ruthlessly efficient methods of irking people
.

For instance: she plays her out-of-time piano, but only when it is calculated to cause maximum offence. It would not be so bad, of course, if she could actually play. Another technique she has perfected is to storm into the lounge while you ‘re reading and turn on the television at full volume, only to disappear for ten or fifteen minutes to make herself a snack. She makes you think: is this worrian deaf? Or blind? Or a mysterious combination of the two? She’s certainly not dumb: her voice box seems to run on a permanently rechargeable battery
.

The fishpaste episode suggests psychotic leanings. Its sheer deviancy is surely unrivalled, considering your mother’s age. She has turned molestation into an exact science, and you yourself are proving a worthy successor
.

Of course, an old woman deserves her little pleasures in life. And indeed, pleasures she has had: was it not the very same
Whip Chick
I caught her watching yesterday afternoon from the comfort of our leather suite, when I returned from Paris? Of course, I’m the first to defend her inalienable right to enjoy pornography in the privacy of someone else’s home. I just thought you should know
.

I trust that in the event of my possible return this woman will have been relocated to a place of her own. With her piano
.

As for my future plans, nothing is as yet determined. But it is likely that I will sell off the practice now that I have a good excuse. I have potential earnings in lecturing, or in the art world, other than those I acquire through being what you quite rightly refer to as a professional ‘cranial-pothole filler’. And time will tell whether I decide to exploit these possibilities
.

I have put the secretary in the building in charge of forwarding any business-related mail to my new PO box. So should any arrive for me, please forward it to the surgery address
.

I should be in touch at some stage
.

Ronan

I ran from the apartment, wailing, past my mother who stood immobilized in the hall. Cascading down the stairs, I switched on my mobile and called Sylvana. She said she’d been trying to get me but my mobile was powered off.

I screamed at her to f*** herself about my mobile. I told her about Ronan’s letter. She cursed. I demanded to know what happened. She said that because I hadn’t returned from the loo she’d left the zoo herself, just before Nicole met Ronan.

“Where is she now?”

“I haven’t a clue; I’m back in my office.”

I screamed and cursed at her for letting them get away. I flung at her a string of names so inappropriate and foul that if my mother had heard me she’d have stood up and cheered.

Sylvana, though, whose voice did not betray the slightest rufflement, pointed out that it was by no means certain that Ronan was taking Nicole with him, wherever it was he was going. She also sensibly suggested that I should call Nicole, then Ronan. And if I got no satisfaction I was to call her back at once and we would meet at Nicole’s B & B.