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Fantasies were one thing. But throughout months of frustration and with so much at stake, Irina had accepted beforehand that finally fucking Ramsey Acton would probably prove anticlimactic. She’d been braced for awkwardness, even a tragicomic wilting at the gates. Reared overhead at the Royal Bath, Ramsey himself had said drolly before taking the plunge, “This is what’s known in snooker, pet, as a ‘pressure pot.’ ” Moreover, at the risk of tautology, sex was only sex—it got only so good, lasted only so long, mattered only so much. You still fretted afterward that you were out of milk, or hastened to turn on the news.
Truth be told, fucking had always been a touch disappointing—like so many experiences in life generally of which much is made, from island holidays (with biting black flies) to $300 French dinners (rarely surpassing a cracking bowl of pasta). Losing her virginity in particular had failed to live up to its billing. A lanky guitarist in a garage band, with entrancing long blond hair, Chris had been her high school boyfriend throughout her junior year; he was solicitous, patient, and, if not a novice himself, no rake. But when the big afternoon arrived, his mother safely shopping in Jersey, Chris had trouble getting in, and the condom was gross—its lubrication slimy, its latex the color of molted snake skin. Once he’d inched inside with all the romanticism of a carpenter working a dowel into a snug hole with a slather of axle grease, her deflowering was over in short order, and left her sore. The experience of entry had been neither here nor there; it was bigger, but still a penis didn’t feel that different from a finger or a tampon. She’d anticipated a sensation more momentous, unimaginable. Not only did the real McCoy lie well within the realm of the known, but her imagination had done a more bang-up job. Having agreeably entertained herself in private, Irina had assumed that she would orgasm as a matter of course. No one had warned her that women had to learn how to come all over again—that for women coming through fucking was often work, sometimes so much work that the results didn’t merit the effort. But since fucking for men roughly approximated what they did with the bathroom door closed, Chris only suffered the typical teenage difficulty of coming a little soon. Irina felt cheated. The exercise dispatched, she hadn’t reclined in dreamy satisfaction, but had retreated up onto the pillows with sullen, barely disguised petulance. She’d been awaiting this for years, and now look: like so much else, sex was a sell.
Fair enough, she’d warmed to the pastime, systematically researching which positions accomplished at least a tiny amount of friction in the right place, abetting these calisthenics with sordid little stories in her head. The one upside of all this yeomanlike fucking was that she no longer brought unrealistic expectations to the erotic table. At best, sex with Ramsey would be nice. She hadn’t presumed that she would come. After all, even tried-and-true sex with Lawrence had never lost a trace of effortfulness, of having to expend quantities of energy and concentration for a marginal reward.
So had Irina placed a premium on validating her worldview—if she cared more about being right than being happy, and there are plenty of such people—she’d have been disgruntled. Lo and behold, sex with Ramsey failed to live
down
to her expectations. Dazed and dizzy in those thick linen sheets of the Royal Bath, as if recovering from a head-on collision, she had the distinct impression that she’d never really
fucked
before, leaving her to wonder what it was all those years that she’d been doing instead.
“Come to think of it,” Irina speculated in the crook of Ramsey’s arm on perhaps the third day in Bournemouth (it was hard to keep track of time, which had grown fat, sluggish, and lazy like an overfed cat), “before your birthday, I’d never fantasized about fucking. It’s always seemed, as an idea anyway, too permissible. Even when I was fucking, I was sneakily thinking about something else. Something more forbidden.”
“Like what?” asked Ramsey.
Strange, but no one had ever asked her that before. With trepidation, she ventured, “Oral sex, sometimes.”
“You mean, sucking cock,” he corrected.
She laughed. “Yes,
sucking cock.
Though with a twist. I like the idea of being forced. I don’t think women are supposed to admit things like that, but yes, forced—to drink it. In theory anyway. In my head. I don’t know if I’d like it in real life.”
“Oi, I had rape fancies for years,” he volunteered cheerfully. “Had one about you last week. I
ravished
you. Up against a wall. Put up a right good fight at first, but in the end you was begging for more dick.”
Emboldened, she went further. “For a while I found the idea of two men together exciting. Lately, with Lawrence . . . I shouldn’t tell you this, it’s too embarrassing.”
“There’s
nothing
you shouldn’t tell me. Never forget that.”
“All right. I’ve thought about women.”
“Eating pussy? What’s wrong with that? I think about eating pussy myself.”
“You’re a man. You’re supposed to think about that.”
“Ain’t no
supposed to
in this business.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m a dyke. I just—ran out of other ideas.”
“Only so many toys in the chest. I thought about blowing a bloke before.”
“Really?”
“Really. Not many blokes would admit as much, but I wager the notion’s not uncommon. Don’t mean you want to do it with some real-life smelly tosser, neither.”
“Thank you. That makes me feel better,” she said, resting her head on his chest. “Funny thing is, after your birthday? When we couldn’t? For the first time I fantasized about fucking. All the time. Every day. I started to feel a little crazy.”
“So what do you think about now, when we’re fucking for true?” asked Ramsey sleepily. It was early afternoon; he played his third-round match that night, and should have been at the practice table by now.
“I don’t
think about
anything,” she marveled. “With you, I don’t go elsewhere. If I fantasized when I’m fucking you, I’d fantasize that I’m fucking you. See, for the first time, fucking seems
outrageous.
You’re going to put
that
in
there
? And there’s something—primitive. So it doesn’t seem like something you’re supposed to do, but like something you
have
to do. As if I’m in heat. It’s like rutting.”
He chuckled, sliding a dry, tapered finger along her hip. “You’re an animal, know that? A bloody animal. You act so Girl Guide and that. You bake all them pies. Nobody’d ever guess it to look at you. Except me. I could see it, even if you couldn’t, pet. Keeping a beastie like you in the cupboard is a crime. Like them wankers who chain tigers in the back garden, and they get mangy and thin and depressed.”
“Should report it to PETA.”
“Peter?”
“Never mind.”
It wasn’t only sex proper, either; it was everything. Sleeping, they had yet to hit on a position that wasn’t so sumptuously comfortable that she wanted to cry. Kissing was like going for a swim, a tireless, gliding breaststroke in a sheltered pool. His skin was always cool, with the texture of kid, an apt word since his person seemed cryogenically frozen in adolescence.
Long, narrow, hairless save for a soft sprout of light brown furze in the underarms and groin, his body was neat and unmarked, as if Ramsey had been saved for her, sealed from tarnish in cellophane like polished silver. Snooker fostering an indoors life, his skin was an even cream from head to toe, with no shadow sock-line at his ankles, nor stripe under his watch. He had one of those rare figures that looked completely normal naked— sound, right, whole—whereas men often look incongruous in the nude, embarrassing or not quite themselves. Stripped, he strode their hotel room like a creature in its natural environment, and no more called out for cladding than a stag in the woods. That burnt-sugar scent was bewitching, and sometimes she would nestle down for a distilled whiff at the base of his neck like sniffing a hot oven ajar.
Objectively, Ramsey Acton was not the most handsome man in the universe. His hair was turning; his face may have transformed readily from age to age, but one of its modes was careworn. True, he was one of those irritating people who could eat and drink as much as he liked and never gain an ounce, and who retained a taut, articulated musculature absent a single sit-up. Nevertheless, he didn’t display the bulkier masculinity vaunted in magazines. That was the point. He was not unbearably handsome to every woman; he was unbearably handsome to Irina. The slight curve of his buttocks, one of which would fit perfectly in the clasp of each hand, his attenuated toes and high arches and slender hips were all designed to satisfy Irina McGovern’s personal, quixotic aesthetic. Ramsey Acton was a custom job.
Yet one aspect of this made-to-order sticky-trap was rather horrible. Fucking Ramsey and kissing Ramsey and sleeping with Ramsey, watching Ramsey stride naked from the bed to the minibar and letting Ramsey carry her around the room over his head, just as he had lifted her that first night, their close brush with throwing all this away like carelessly leaving a suitcase of money behind on a railway platform—well. It was all she wanted to do. She didn’t want to eat, and she didn’t want to illustrate children’s books. She didn’t want to meet her friends in Indian restaurants. She didn’t want to watch
Panorama
expose how Her Majesty’s Government had tried to cover up the truth about mad cow. For that matter, Irina posited to herself, puzzled, a little frightened even, it was entirely possible she would never want to do anything else but slide in and out of bed with Ramsey Acton for the rest of her life. Since she had always considered herself a woman with broad interests, concern for world affairs, deep affections for a range of friends, and a driving ambition to pursue her own career, the discovery that apparently all she’d really wanted all along was to get laid by a particular snooker player was a little bit grim.
“Do me a favor,” said Irina in the limo that night. “Don’t go in the stage entrance.” Frowning, Ramsey complied, though entering the conference center through the main doors cost him signing some twenty programs on the way in. “Put your arm around me.” A gratuitous directive; aside from hasty trips to the loo, they’d been in physical contact of some sort since that first embrace in the Royal Bath, from simply holding hands to such a complex interlocking of convex and concave parts that together they formed once of those coffee-table puzzle cubes that exasperate dinner guests. So in a double clasp, a neat jazz syncopation of three steps of Irina’s to Ramsey’s two, they sauntered past the ticket counter, where Irina met the eyes of that snooty booking agent. He nodded, finally with a properly shit-eating deference rather than the kind that was secretly insulting. “Thank you,” she whispered, flicking a slippery scarf of burgundy rayon back over the shoulder of the smart, slinky black frock Ramsey had also bought her that afternoon. “That made my night.”
“At last a bird what’s easy to please,” said Ramsey, and showed her to her seat in a special section for family, managers, and guests. The view of the table was peerless. “Wish me luck.” He kissed her long and deeply in open view. Others in the section cut sly, curious looks at the dark-haired woman in the first row.
Irina was apprehensive. They had taken too long shopping for her new wardrobe, leaving no time for Ramsey to warm up at the practice table. Although if he lost tonight she’d have Ramsey all to herself thereafter, she couldn’t bear responsibility for a defeat.
Ramsey’s opponent was John Parrott, a good-natured player from Liverpool who at thirty-three, chubby and moon-faced, with an aura of the two-car garage, seemed prematurely middle-aged. Thick black eyebrows forever shooting to his hairline in astonishment or plowing noseward in despair, his elastic expressions so broadcast every nuance of the game that he was effectively a commentator for the deaf. (The MC introduced Parrott by his ostensible nickname “The Entertainer,” though snooker was rife with fabricated sobriquets; flaks forced down the throats of fans improbable handles like “The Golden Boy” for Stephen Hendry or “The Darling of Dublin” for nice-guy Ken Doherty, which even an anorak wouldn’t employ with a gun to his head.) Ramsey said Parrott was a capital fellow, with a dry sense of humor and an appealing streak of self-deprecation.
Indeed, together Ramsey and Parrott epitomized their sport’s legendary decorum. Beyond a handful of raggedy debut shots, Ramsey’s lack of preparation didn’t seem to have done him much harm. In fact, she was pleased to note about his play a new ebullience. Hoping to prove a positive influence, Irina was relieved when at the interval he led by a frame.
During the break, a man in the row behind touched her arm. In his forties, he had a florid face creased from the overkill smile that he promptly unleashed, though his eyes didn’t smile with it. Slightly longer hair than suited his age betrayed a vanity, and his tie was so loud it hurt her eyes. “Anybody ever warn you, love,” he said, breath tinged with beer, “that our lad Ramsey is already married?”
Irina’s mouth parted, and despite herself her color may have dropped a shade.
Clapping her shoulder, the man laughed boisterously. “Only riding you, doll! Didn’t your face look a picture now! I meant to snooker, missy. Snooker’s his first wife, and make no mistake about it, snooker will be his last.” He stuck out his hand. “Jack Lance. Match-Makers. I’m something between Ramsey’s dogsbody and his mum.”
Irina shook the hand, whose fingers sprang dark hairs. Underslept, she was slow to sort out that this was Ramsey’s manager. Instinctive dislike battled the urge to make a good impression. “Pleased to meet you. Irina McGovern.”
“American!” he accused.
“A congenital birth defect,” she said. “It’s not polite to make fun.”
“So it ain’t!” Jack laughed too hard, as if in amazement that a Yank had managed a bit of banter. “Just visiting, then. Seeing the sights? Westminster Cathedral? Big Ben? Pick up some candy floss on the pier?”
“No, I live in London. From which you may assume that I visit Big Ben about as often as New Yorkers take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. Like, never.”
Mercifully, Jack cut to the chase. “I didn’t see your man at the practice table these last three days. Now, I can see how an attractive lady like yourself might make for a formidable distraction. But we wouldn’t want our mutual friend to neglect his responsibilities, would we?”
She nodded toward the table. “He’s winning, isn’t he? What more do you want?”
“A piece of 350,000 quid.” The smile dropped.
“I had no idea the purse was that big.”
“You going to follow this sport with the pros, sweetie,” he advised, “those are the first stats you master. Fastest break, lifetime centuries— Web site filler for fans.”
“I’ll work on it.” Clipping her voice, she turned to face forward again.
“You work on Ramsey first,” said Jack to her back.
“Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” said the attractive brunette to Irina’s right, in the spirit of coming to her rescue. “You’re Ramsey’s friend, right?”
“Yes. Irina McGovern.”
“I’m afraid we’re backing different horses! I’m Karen Parrott. But John thinks so highly of Ramsey. Says it’s gobsmacking that he’s never won the World.”
“Yes, I wish it didn’t matter to Ramsey so much.”
“Oh, it’s all they care about,” said Karen. “The Crucible, the Crucible. Almost has a religious ring, you reckon?”
“Yes,
the Crucible
sounds like a church, doesn’t it?”
Karen glanced behind her; Jack Lance had left the section. “Sorry about Jack,” she said quietly. “He’s not a bad sort. But the managers either see the women as the enemy, or get matey on you and try to enlist you on the team. Either way, they’re mighty proprietary.”
“True, he didn’t seem too happy about Ramsey’s having found a
companion.
I guess he thinks he’s made an investment, and that earns him a controlling interest. As you said, the players are like racehorses.”
“Actually, it’s more like a manager’s got part-ownership of a trained seal.”
Spotting Jack again, Irina asked brightly, “Do you come to all John’s matches?”
“Crikey, not on your life! But this week I figured the kids would enjoy a trip to the seaside before it gets too nippy. Sorry to be a nosey Parker, but have you been Ramsey’s—friend very long?”
“No, not long. Funny, I used to find snooker a little dull. But now I’m starting to get it. It’s like a cross between ballet and chess.”
“Throw in the Battle of Waterloo, and you’ve got something.”
“It seemed like such a low-key sport at first—soothing. But sometimes it’s incredibly exciting.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” said Karen noncommittally.
“So how often
do
you go see John play a tournament?”
“Oh, some years I’ll go to Sheffield for the World. And maybe if he’s in a final of a ranking event. Three times a year? Something like that.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, it’s not quite like when you’ve seen one game you’ve seen them all, but . . . You’ll see.”
“So wives and girlfriends don’t usually come along on the tour?”
“Sometimes,” Karen said cautiously. “For a little while. Actually—a real little while. It’s hard. There’s no room for you. Boys, you know. Drink. And snooker.
Buckets
of snooker. It’s all they talk about. Maybe you’ll—feel differently,” she added with gracious optimism. “But, uh, most of the girls burn out.”
As the lights dropped for the second session, a small indentation dimpled between Irina’s eyes. She hadn’t thought things through. Vaguely, she’d envisioned accompanying Ramsey on his travels to a cornucopia of other lavish hotels; with equal vagueness, she’d pictured a comfortable domestic routine on Victoria Park Road, more or less a facsimile of her life with Lawrence, with better sex. Moreover, she had her own commitments that she was already neglecting. Oh, well. How much time could he spend on the road per year anyway?