Ordinary Miracles (36 page)

‘Well, it makes a nice change, doesn’t it?’ Al is holding
me quite tightly and his chest seems to be heaving. It occurs to me that he might be crying. I pull back and look up at his face. He is. This exotic creature that has somehow landed in my day is clinging to me now for comfort. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. Susan says I have a comforting face. Susan says I’m good at comforting others and what I need to do now is learn to comfort myself.

‘You poor old thing,’ I squeeze Al’s elbow. ‘I’m sorry that you’re sad.’

We spread out our towels then and I take off my skirt and blouse. I’ve my bikini underneath them. Al’s got his swimming trunks under his jeans too. I rub suntan lotion onto Al’s back and he rubs it onto mine. Then we lie down and let the sun shine on us. Roast us gently in the cooling sea breeze. Feeling so at ease with him is not what I expected. It’s like that night at the line dance when the steps didn’t matter any more.

‘Al,’ I say, turning to him cosily. ‘Do you think I should take a chance on that man I mentioned? You know – Charlie. He really is very nice.’

‘I don’t know, Jasmine,’ Al replies. ‘You need to follow your own instincts on these things.’ Then he sits up and says, ‘Would you like a massage?’

‘A massage?’ I squint up at him warily, shading my eyes from the sun.

‘Yes. I’ve been doing that course. I need some practice.’

I look around. ‘Are you sure it’s all right to – you know – do it here?’

‘Of course it is. Who’s going to see us? The nearest people are right down the other end of the beach. They’d need binoculars.’

‘I dunno.’ I wriggle uncomfortably. There’s something about Al that makes candour obligatory. ‘I’m not sure massaging me is such a good idea.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s rather intimate – isn’t it?’

‘Only if you want it to be. Do you want it to be, Jasmine?’

I stare down at the sand guiltily. ‘I think most women
would want it to be intimate with you, Al. Look, I’m not
your type – you and I know that. I’m too uptight. Didn’t you listen to all the stuff I said earlier?’

‘Shhhh,’ says Al – reaching for his suntan oil. ‘Stop making
complications where there are none.’

‘But there are complications!’ I protest. ‘Piles and piles of them.’

‘They’re only in your head, Jasmine,’ Al replies. ‘Now lie
down on your stomach and relax.’

I follow his instructions grimly. ‘I want you to know, Al,
that I’m beginning to feel very tense,’ I mumble rebelliously.

‘Shut up,’ Al laughs. And so I do.

Al’s practised hands knead my skin pleasurably, as though
I am a ball of dough. He’s using just the right amount of force
and gentleness. The long sweeping movements up my back
are especially nice. I feel my rebellion, my tension, easing.
I’m growing heavier – sinking into the sand.

‘Thank you,’ I mumble every so often. I feel extremely
humble.

‘Shhh,’ Al says. ‘Just relax.’

I turn over after a while, so he can get at the front bits.
His warm hand moves down my belly so innocently that I
hardly register that it has reached my crotch. He slips two
fingers under my bikini bottoms. I sit up.

‘No, no, Al. I can’t let you do this,’ I say, reddening.

‘Why not?’ He looks at me. Perplexed. He’s used to this
kind of thing. I can sense it. But I’m not.

‘You can’t because – because…’ His fingers have found
my vagina now. As he slips one of them inside me I lie down
again. It’s just so nice.

‘I can’t let him do this,’ I think. ‘I must stop him now,
immediately.’ Even though we’re shaded by some rocks, the
midday heat is intense. It’s making my feelings hard to fight.
Al’s fingers are working – sending tingles all over my body.
I squirm with pleasure and shyness.

‘Mmmm,’ Al says, looking as playful and pleased as a puppy. ‘You’re all warm and wet. I’d love to kiss you there.
Can I?’

‘No! No! I hardly know you,’ I say through half-moans, as though what he’s already doing is somehow the sex
ual equivalent of small talk. Something that can somehow
accommodate ambiguous intent. A small act of wantonness.
Nothing serious.

‘Is anyone coming?’ I’m terrified that some clump of
earnest British tourists are going to suddenly appear with their open-toed sandals and their
Reader’s Digests.

Al looks around. ‘No, Jasmine. We’re quite alone. The
only person who is coming is you.’

‘I’m not sure if I can – not here. Oh, Al, you should be
doing this with someone else. Someone more modern.’

Another frightening image has occurred to me. The image
of Al rubbing and rubbing my clitoris for hours and hours,
waiting for me to come. Patiently, diligently. Occasionally
stifling a yawn. Changing hands maybe because of tired
muscles. My face tight and grim. The sun, perhaps, already
setting.

‘It doesn’t matter if you come or not, Jasmine,’ Al says.
‘Just enjoy yourself.’

‘I can’t do this,’ I think. ‘I can’t let go here – on a foreign
beach – with a stranger. People do this in films. Not me. Not
Jasmine Smith. I should be shopping. What’s wrong with me?
What am I becoming?’

Part of me stands up and surveys the scene.

‘You wanton hussy!’ she screeches, reaching for a towel,
backing away. Distancing herself from this depravity. ‘I
always knew you came from the wrong side of town. Oh,
you’ve ants in your pants now, Jasmine Smith. But don’t
give in to the itchin’. Don’t scratch. It will go away if you
leave it. Remember what I taught you. Look at how you
dealt with Charlie. You don’t even know this man. This is
highly inappropriate.’

I try to listen but her voice grows fainter. And then
sensations cascade carelessly over me – washing her away.

I’m floating like a seal in the ocean – drifting deliciously
with the waves. Carried, urgently now, with a swell that
surges – cresting – to a sudden sweet release. As the
contractions close and open round Al’s fingers I look around,
shivering slightly. Spat out upon the shore.

‘Oh no, what have I done?’ I think, fearful of the desert
island that this indiscretion, this foolhardiness has surely
brought me to. But Al stares into my eyes with a warmth that
shows that he has travelled with me. That I am not alone.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and kisses me. Then he lifts his hands
to his face – drawing in my smell.

‘Thank you too,’ I mutter. Bashful. Disbelieving. But feeling so nice. So nice all over. A woman in a glossy
magazine article. One of those brazen features that scream
on the cover: ‘Casual Sex – The New Way to a Slimmer You’.

Then it occurs to me that it’s Al’s turn now.

‘Do you want me to – you know?’

‘Okay.’ Al lies down eagerly with almost boyish pleasure.
Two kids, that what we’re like. Two kids playing – experi
menting with sex instead of sandcastles. On holiday. Feckless.
Not caring that the tide may wash all traces of what we’ve
done away. I didn’t know sex could be like this – so cheerful
and casual. It’s quite a revelation.

Al has an erection. I cover him with a towel just in case the
opened-toed sandal brigade arrive unannounced. I massage
his belly and then I move down to his penis.

‘You’re good at this,’ Al smiles mischievously, all traces of
his previous moroseness now gone.

‘Am I?’ I’m absurdly pleased, as though I’ve passed some
sort of test. Bruce’s infidelity has made me insecure about
my competency in this sphere. But now I feel like I’ve
been handed a small certificate. I massage Al’s genitals carefully. After a while he begins to moan and then – pop
– l
ike champagne out of a bottle comes sperm. Squirting
rhythmically. Gathering – a little pool of swimming seed
upon his tummy. Probably perplexed at where it finds itself.
Like me.

‘Wow!’ says Al. ‘That was great.’

‘Thank you,’ I say smugly. ‘We do aim to please.’

There’s a silence then that could turn unpleasant. A
moment when the Jasmine Smith who was going to go shopping could turn with great animosity on the Jasmine
Smith who didn’t. Could tear into her like a snarling terrier,
unforgiving, relentless in her disapproval. I wait for the
blaming to start – the howls and yelps of recrimination – b
ut they don’t. I can’t quite believe it.

‘I’m glad we did this,’ Al says breezily, wiping himself with
a towel.

‘So am I,’ I say, but less blithely.

Al’s sex life has been very different to mine. He’s open.
He doesn’t hide. You can see it in his face, just like you can sometimes see a guarded, closed look on mine. I, Jasmine
Smith, have led a very sheltered life. It’s made me smaller than
I wanted to be. Too easily shocked. But maybe I can change.
Not be the Benetton shop assistant any more – tidying things away. Someone who can deal with these strange interludes.
A learner woman who knows when to take her foot off the
b
rake. This is what I travelled all these miles here for, isn’t
it? Hoping for some small epiphany.

‘I could only have done this with someone like you, Al,’ I
say. ‘Someone who understands its innocence.’

‘I feel the same way.’ Al grins disarmingly.

‘Even though I’m older?’

‘You have a bit of a hang-up about your age, don’t you
Jasmine?’

‘Do I?’ I’m digging my toes into the warm sand.

‘Yes, I think you do. Do you know what Picasso said
about age?’ Al is squinting up his eyes and looking at a
windsurfer.

‘What?’

‘He said “To be young – really young – takes a very long
time”.’

I look at him gratefully. ‘That’s lovely, Al. You know
something – you look so youthful – but you’re really rather
old and wise inside.’

I’m not noticing his looks so much any more. One soon
gets used to beauty. Beauty can even get boring if it’s only
on the outside. But Al’s isn’t. It radiates from within him.
He’s lovely. It occurs to me then that he’s just the sort of man I wish Katie would marry. And though it feels highly inappropriate to be thinking these thoughts after what we’ve just done – another part of me is wondering
if I could engineer a meeting between them. I don’t want
him for myself. I’m not sure I want any man on an on-going
basis any more.