Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘Yes. Yes I am.’ I whisper. ‘Close the door first then I’ll
explain.’
‘I’ve closed it.’ Charlie looks at me expectantly and I look
at Charlie’s bed. It seems very big and it makes me uneasy,
especially since Charlie isn’t wearing anything apart from
jeans. I move to a chair by the door and sit down, shoulders
hunched.
‘Katie’ – my voice comes out as a croak. ‘Katie is, at this
moment in…there…’ I gesture in the general direction of Sarah’s bedroom.
‘In the bathroom?’ Charlie is seated on the edge of his bed.
He seems somewhat bemused.
‘No – no – not the bathroom! Of course she’s not in the bathroom.’
‘Sorry – it just seemed a remote possibility.’ He’s trying not to smile.
‘This is serious, Charlie.’ I take a deep breath. ‘She’s in
Sarah’s bedroom. They’re having sex.’
‘Are you sure?’ Charlie often asks me that question.
‘Yes. Yes. Of course I am. I heard her.’
‘Moaning or something?’
‘No, no. I heard her go into Sarah’s room. Why else would
she go in there? She told me herself she thinks she might be a lesbian. What should I do Charlie? What should I do?’ I
look at him pleadingly.
Despite my distress I can’t help noticing that Charlie has
a great body from the waist up – and below it too most
probably
–
only that bit’s covered. His chest is really broad
and well-built and has just the right amount of muscle. I wish
he’d cover up.
Charlie calmly reaches for a T-shirt.
‘Well, Jasmine,’ he says. ‘It seems to me you could go in
there and tell them to stop, which you have every right to do
since they are your guests.’
Charlie pulls the T-shirt over his head as he says this. The hair under his arms is very fine and bushy, and I see that he
has a mole under his right nipple.
‘Or you could just let them get on with it and talk to Katie
about it tomorrow.’
‘What would you do, Charlie?’
‘I’d probably talk with her about it tomorrow.’
‘Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll talk with her tomorrow.’
I feel a great surge of relief as I decide this. Then I
notice Charlie’s eyes wandering appreciatively and I realise
my night-dress is extremely short and rather see-through.
I jump up, arms crossed. ‘So that’s decided then. Thanks.
Sorry for disturbing you.’
‘You didn’t disturb me.’ Charlie gives me an amused,
affectionate look. ‘Or maybe I should say you did, but not
in quite the way you mean.’
‘Oh God,’ I think. ‘That look that made my stomach lurch
wasn’t in my imagination after all.’
He gets up from the bed and moves towards me. ‘You
look lovely,’ he says.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
He’s standing right in front of me now. The space between us feels electric. It’s like he’s a magnet and any moment now
I’m going to be drawn – wham – into his arms. I feel as though
we’re both going to ignite with sexual tension. If I don’t get out of here fast Katie will find two little heaps of cinders on
the floor.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better get back to bed,’ I say. I’m
shivering, but it isn’t because of the cold.
‘Yes, perhaps you’d better.’ Charlie’s eyes hold mine. They’re like headlights, and I’m caught like a rabbit. I’ve
often seen affection in those eyes before, but now there’s
something more. Determination. Amusement. Passion. Love?
I’m almost dizzy with longing and fear.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he says. His fingers brush my cheek
ever so gently.
Then they trace my eyebrows and my lips. They move
tenderly along my nape and down to my breasts. He touches
m
y left nipple, making little circular movements that send a
tingle straight to my heart.
I want him. I wish I didn’t but I want him so much.
And then I hear Katie coming out of Sarah’s room. She’s
tapping on my door. She’s saying, ‘Mum, can I come in for
a moment? I want to ask you something.’
‘Oh God!’ I moan. ‘What am I going to do? She can’t find
me here. She’ll go into my bedroom if I don’t answer.’
Charlie’s face stiffens with frustration, then he sighs. ‘Hide
behind the curtains,’ he says. Then he opens the door.
‘I think I heard your mother go downstairs,’ he says to Katie.
‘Thanks, Charlie. I’ll have a look.’
‘The coast is clear. Now go into the bathroom,’ Charlie
whispers urgently.
Katie comes back upstairs just as I bolt the bathroom door.
‘She’s not there, Charlie.’
‘Have you tried the bathroom?’
Katie bangs on the door.
‘Hu
–
hullo. Who’s there?’ I whimper.
‘Are you deaf or something, Mum? I’ve been calling you.’
‘Really? Oh, sorry. I was in the shower.’
‘It’s rather late to be having a shower, isn’t it?’
‘I
–
I just felt a bit grubby. I’ll be out in a second.’
I splash some water over my face and hair and wrap a bath
towel round myself. Then I peer out the door.
‘What is it Katie?’
‘Sarah’s got her period.’
‘Oh. Is there some reason I should know this?’
‘Yes. She forgot to pack her sanitary towels. Do you have any?’
‘I’ll bring her some in a moment, okay?’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I find the sanitary towels and go to my bedroom and put
on my dressing-gown. Then I approach Sarah’s room with
some trepidation. Katie’s gone back in there. I knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Katie calls out breezily.
And there they are, both lying on the bed, watching a small
black-and-white television.
‘I didn’t know there was a television in here.’ I’m beaming
with relief.
‘Yeah – we found it at the bottom of the wardrobe,’ says Sarah. ‘We’re watching
Little Britain.’
‘Well, don’t stay up too late, will you?’
They look like two contented kids, all snug and cosy. I
smile indulgently and go back to my room. Then I sit on my
bed in a daze, thinking about what just nearly happened.
‘It was my fault of course,’ I think. ‘Going into his room
wearing a see-through nightie. Any man would have thought
it was a come on. But Charlie isn’t any man. That’s becoming
uncomfortably clear. He’s so – he’s…no, no. I can’t
allow myself to think like this. Life’s too much of a muddle
as it is.’
I banish the incident from my mind, but it returns,
uncensored, just as I drift off into sleep. It’s been so, so long since I felt like that.
My toes curl at the memory.
Chapter
11
Susan says she’s going
to write a Mills and Boon novel. She
was going to try one of their ‘Medical Romances’. Now it
looks like she might turn her hero into an engineer, a rancher,
or a film director. She’s not sure if she’s going to go for the frequent sex or sex at the end format, but it’s going to be set
in Africa.
A lot of those novels are set in exotic locations. While the heroine feels the hardness of the man she despises – the man who has crept up on her and forced her to kiss him with a fever of passion that grips her entire body –
there are usually cicadas chirping in the background. We
have long discussions about when the hero should pounce
on the heroine, and where. We both agree that he has a
huge penis.
Susan has decided to try her hand at romantic novels
because she wants to live somewhere warm. The Irish winter
is getting to her. She’s working in an old folk’s home at the
moment
–
the place where my Dad spent his last five months
–
and I think that may be getting to her too. She’s up to her
neck in bed pans and walking frames and incontinency pads.
‘Life is so short, Jasmine,’ she says. ‘So short.’
There’s an old lady in the home whom she insists I must
meet. She’s a real character, apparently. She’s unsure of how
she spent the last half hour, but she knows an enormous a
mount about hunt balls. Hilda – that’s her name – also
wanders. They have to keep the front door on one of those
small chains to prevent her from gallivanting off on her
walking frame. Susan thinks this is most unfair. She thinks
Hilda should be allowed to gallivant if she wants to and take
her chances with the traffic.
I’ve been putting the visit off because I know it will bring
up memories and I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with them
yet. All those hours sitting at Dad’s bedside wondering if
he knew I was there. The hot, stuffy feel of the place and
the sense of time hanging heavy in the air, along with the
smell of baking and talc and urine. Sometimes, when they
changed Dad’s pads, I used to go to the television room and
sit with the residents. A lot of them didn’t know what was on
the television
–
they just sat there on enforced breaks from
their beds.
There were some people I could talk with, though, and they
usually wanted me to change channels. The remote control
was a complete mystery to them and they perked up hopefully
as the pictures switched from news to snooker to antiques to
chicken casseroles.
‘Is that the programme you want?’ I’d ask eventually. ‘Yes.
Yes. That’s the one we like,’ they’d say. It was usually some gameshow. It seemed to me a terrible injustice that the last
years of their lives should be spent watching people win
automatic washing machines.
But what should they have been doing instead? What
should we all do with these precious years we’ve been given?
That’s the question that’s been dogging me for the past year.
Susan’s right, all this stuff I’ve been going through isn’t just
to do with Cait Carmody. It was so much easier when I
thought it was.