Neurotica (8 page)

Her head was filled with an amalgam of profound fear and
self-reproach. She didn't know which was worse—the thought
that she was about to commit adultery while her possibly terminally
ill husband was sending off stamped addressed envelopes for hospice
brochures, or the thought that Charlie Kaplan might decide he didn't
fancy her after all once he saw her without her clothes.

The anxiety persisted throughout the drive to the Park Royal.
Stepping into the lift it had got much worse. Finally it took on a
physical manifestation and the sweating and nausea had begun.

A
nna got up from the lavender stool and went
over to the
washbasin, which was shaped like an oyster shell. She rinsed her
hands, wet with perspiration as they were, and took a small cotton
hand towel from the pile next to the soap dish. As she dried her
hands, Anna looked at herself in the mirror. Pendulous boobs and
her graying bush aside, she had to admit she didn't look half bad.
Rupert, he of Patrick and Rupert in South Molton Street, had cut
her hair the day before so that it was now slightly longer than chin
length. He had
also put in some wonderfully subtle dark-blond
streaks and
given her a trendy side parting. Finally, he had used
one of
those little curling brushes to flick up the ends. When she
pushed her hair behind her ears, which seemed to be the
way everybody was wearing it just now, it showed off her high cheekbones
and rather excellent jawline. Her elfin face with its huge gray-blue eyes was still a long way off Nora Batty droop.

Anna took a couple of paces back from the mirror. The dress
and coat hung beautifully and the blue was an almost perfect match
for her eyes. More to the point, she was, at nearly forty, still
wearing a size eight.

She did a half-turn towards the mirror, flicked imaginary
dandruff from the back of her shoulders and decided that if Charlie
Kaplan turned out to be the kind of shallow, superficial git who
couldn't see beyond a Pamela Anderson cleavage then that was his
problem. She had no idea where this sudden surge of right-on
thinking and self-assurance had sprung from, but for the time being,
at least, she was feeling much better about herself. Even the guilt
about cheating on her possibly dying husband was beginning to
recede.

Anna fiddled with her hair one last time. Then she took
a deep,
calming breath. A moment later she was dashing
out of the powder
room, almost knocking over the nice lady
loo attendant, who was on
the way back from her lunch break.

C
harlie, this really has to be one of the most magnificent views in London. You can see right into Kensington Palace and
straight across the river to Battersea. Must be glorious at
night.”

Charlie trickled champagne into two glasses and carried them
over towards Anna. She was standing with her back to him, gazing out
of the enormous floor-to-ceiling window which ran the length of the
living-room part of Charlie's hotel suite. She wondered whether he
was normally this extravagant, or had taken the suite specially to
impress her.

“Anna, how's about we try and forget the view for a minute?”
he laughed. “We've talked about nothing else since you arrived. Come
on and have some of this. It'll calm you down.”

Anna turned round looking a bit sheepish, as Charlie handed
her a champagne flute. Then, in a very gentle voice, he said,
“Look, if you're having second thoughts about being here, that's
OK. Nothing needs to happen, not if you don't want it to.”

Anna took a huge swig of the champagne. Then she looked at
Charlie standing in front of her in his bare feet, faded Levis
and white T-shirt. His hair was still slightly damp from the
shower. This wasn't a man dressed for lunch at a five-star hotel.
There was no doubt in Anna's mind about what he wanted to
happen next, and it didn't involve smoked salmon parcels in a
dill sauce.

Once again Anna's body was experiencing the kind of glorious
biochemical sexual responses around which Masters and Johnson
could have based an entire symposium. She held Charlie's gaze in
hers for a couple of seconds.

“No, I've thought about it and I want it to. Honest.”
Charlie's face was now inches from hers. She sensed he was about to
kiss her, but instead of letting him, she allowed her nervousness
to overtake her once more. She moved away, leaving him alone by the
window, and began flitting around the room scrutinizing paintings
and ornaments like an
Antiques Road Show
expert with St.
Vitus's dance.

Charlie made himself comfortable in a rose-pink velvet
armchair with tassels round the bottom and watched her, smiling.
She darted all over the room, picking up and examining
department-store china figures usually associated with detached
houses in Weybridge and peering closely at the bland
central-purchasing-department hotel-room watercolors of Tuscan
landscapes.

After a minute or so, her eye seemed to be taken by a large and
heavy reproduction mahogany desk. She walked over to it briskly,
and ran her fingers over the green leather writing top. Then she
started opening and closing the dinky drawers and pushed her
fingers inside a couple of them as if she were looking for a hidden
catch. Finally, muttering and tutting and looking perplexed, but
determined—and still holding one of the Weybridge figurines
of a crinolined lady carrying a spaniel and a nosegay—she got
down on all fours, her hands caressing the carved wooden legs as she
went. Then she crawled under the desk and disappeared.

Charlie shifted off the chair, and sat himself cross-legged on
the carpet like a rather sexy gnome, his head peeping into Anna's
hideout.

“Anna, please stop running away. You know it's all
reproduction crap. I think you'll find there are no hidden
compartments.”

Realizing she had made a complete fool of herself, Anna
scrambled out from under the desk. Charlie was already on his feet
and offering a hand to help her up.

“Sorry,” said Anna. “I guess I'm finding this adultery lark
a bit scary after all.” Once again she was filled with the need to
escape, or at the very least crack a joke.

“My mother's house in Stanmore is full of this kind of repro
stuff. She calls it her period furniture. More like menstruation
furniture, if you ask me.”

Charlie laughed but was beginning to get a bit cross.

“Stop it. Stop trying to change the subject all the time. You
haven't even given me the chance to tell you how absolutely gorgeous
and stunning you look in that dress. .   .   . Anna, do
you know you are one of the most beautiful, sexy and funny women I
have ever met? I want to make love to you right now.”

Anna resisted replying, no, you sing it and I'll hum along.
Instead she said, “What do you mean, “one of'?” and this time she
let him kiss her.

As they kissed and Anna felt his arms around her, his erection
against her, she experienced a luscious quivering deep inside her
belly which she hadn't felt for years and had almost forgotten.
Breathing in his warm body smell, which was a mixture of newly
washed skin with a hint of fresh sweat and washing powder, all the
fear and tension she had been feeling began to drain away. Her
sexual energy, suppressed for ages living with Dan, was being
unleashed with an almighty intensity that was taking her breath
away.

“Come on,” said Charlie after they had stopped kissing. “I'm
taking you to bed.” The next moment, he was scooping her up into
his arms like some medieval knight and carrying her towards the
bedroom, ignoring Anna's mild protestations of fury.

“Charlie, for Christ's sake, put me down. You can't cart me
off like some bloody chattel. If anyone finds out, I'll be outed on
the
Guardian
women's page.”

In the bedroom, they kissed again, but more urgently this
time. By now, both of them were breathing like raging buffaloes,
and Anna suspected that she alone was giving off enough body heat
to keep an average Inuit family going through a particularly chilly
winter.

As Charlie started to run his hands over her breasts and then
down to her bottom, Anna could feel herself becoming more and more
wet. Taking his time, he began to undress her. As
he unzipped her
dress and ran his tongue over the back of
her neck, her head
rolled forward and she began to wonder
how much longer she would be
able to remain upright. Then,
almost as if he were reading her mind,
Charlie pushed her
gently backwards onto the bed, slipped down her
bra straps and began biting and nipping her shoulders and the tops
of her breasts.

Finally, he unhooked her bra and her breasts spilled out and
arranged themselves tidily on the front of her chest. He spent what
felt like ages telling her how beautiful they were before he started
kissing them and sucking her nipples.

By now Anna's eyes were closed and she was moaning softly while
Charlie concentrated on her breasts. After a few minutes he drew her
towards him so that she was on her side, and she felt his fingers
slide over her pants and penetrate slightly between her buttocks.
She was now desperate for him to take off her pants and she let out
another moan, but he ignored it. His response was to let her lie
back on the bed and begin kissing her on the lips. With his tongue
deep inside her mouth she felt his hand push the crotch of her
pants to one side and his fingers brush past her bush, but barely
touch her labia.

By now, she was begging him to come inside her. To make her
point she undid his jeans belt and started to undo his fly
buttons.

Charlie stood up by the side of the bed, and Anna watched him
as he pulled his T-shirt up over his head. His upper body wasn't
exactly six-pack himbo, but nudging in that direction. He clearly
lifted weights when he wasn't landing sick aircraft in
out-of-the-way bits of Upper Volta.

Anna knelt on the bed and helped him to pull down his jeans
and black cotton boxers. As his erection—which was large,
but not quite of zebra proportions, she noted with some
relief—flopped forward, she began stroking the underside of
his balls. Slowly, she moved her hand to the base of his penis. As
she held it there, she moved her head forward and began licking
his erection in long, slow strokes from the base to the head. As she
covered the tip of his penis with her mouth and let her tongue run
lazily over it, Charlie's breathing became more shallow and he began
digging his fingers into her shoulders. Anna took more of his penis
into her mouth and continued to caress it with her tongue.

Charlie closed his eyes and carried on gripping Anna for all he
was worth. Anna could tell he was determined not to let himself come.
Instead he pushed her head away and told her to lie back down on
the bed. Anna whimpered as he finally pulled her pants down to her
ankles and slid them over her feet.

As he ran his tongue along the inside of her thighs, Charlie
spread her legs apart. He opened her labia and trailed his
forefinger along the folds inside. Then he did the same with
his tongue—probing and flicking. After a while, Anna felt his
tongue on her clitoris, licking and teasing, hard enough to drive
her crazy with excitement but not strong enough to make her come.
He brought his head between her legs and pushed his tongue inside
her. He started to rub her clitoris with his finger. Once again, it
felt as if he could read her mind. She didn't have to tell him
precisely where to put pressure. He just seemed to know. He
tormented her with touches so light she could hardly feel them and
cried out with frustration. Never before had she felt so completely
out of control.

As she got close to orgasm, it was Charlie who orchestrated it,
who slowed her down, speeded her up, kept her on the same plateau
for minutes on end. When he finally allowed her to come, a wave of
seismic activity of Los Angeles proportions shot through her entire
body, for which, it seemed, San Andreas was not merely at fault,
but was wholly culpable.

“Blimey, Charlie,” Anna gasped as she officially entered
postorgasmic glow. “Have you always been this good at it or is
there something extra they put in the Guinness across the water
that we don't get over here?”

Charlie just cradled her and grinned.

While Anna got her breath back, Charlie stroked her hair and
ran his fingers over her face.

“Don't look too closely,” she whispered. “Last time I went
for a facial, they offered to make me boots for all my crow's-feet.”

“You're a daft girl, you know that, don't you?” Charlie
said quietly. “How can you not realize how beautiful you are?”

“Maybe I haven't had much reminding lately.”

Anna didn't elaborate. Charlie didn't ask. He looked at her
for a while and then, kissing one of her breasts, he said very
gently:

“Come on, roll over.”

Anna plumped up one of the huge hotel pillows and hugged it as
she turned onto her stomach. Charlie ran a finger down her backbone
as far as her bottom. She let out a deep sigh into the feather pillow
as he brushed past her anus.

She pulled herself up onto her hands and knees. She knew what
Charlie wanted her to do. In the next second, he pushed himself deep
inside her. With each slow, penetrating motion she gave a
little cry.

“Anna, it's OK, I won't hurt you. Come on, just
relax.”

He cupped one of her breasts and with the other hand felt for
her clitoris, which he stroked with tiny, tight circular movements.
A minute later they had turned over and he was on top of her,
kissing her neck and mouth, searching for her tongue. Once again
he was teasing her—this time by almost completely withdrawing
after each thrust. Five, ten minutes went by and Charlie controlled
her in his easy, almost leisurely way, just like before. Anna was
feeling exceedingly light-headed and floaty. It was as if her entire
consciousness was focused solely on the sensations coming from
her vagina and clitoris. She was aware of nothing else, nothing
else at all.