Authors: R J Gould
And that was that. He took out his cheque book and Parker
pen while Bridget contemplated the point of the ‘eh’ when upper class men spoke.
Were they taught to use it at school? “Jolly good value, eh,” she jibed as he
was writing. She caught Bradley giving her a filthy look. She didn’t care. Three
pieces of absolute crap sold in an hour for over £70,000, and a furious boss.
“I feel terrible, do you mind if I leave early?” she asked.
“Good idea if you do,” Bradley replied.
She put on her coat and walked out without casting an eye
on the artistic offerings displayed. The Holloways were at the bottom of the talent
list, but there were some close calls for the runner up.
The Northern Line was down again due to signal failure so
she resorted to edging through central London in an overcrowded bus. She was
tired, tired of the daily commute, tired of what the West End had to offer,
tired of selling poor quality, high-priced so called art to buyers only
interested in the shock of the new or the investment potential. Perhaps she was
being arrogant to categorise art into good or bad with such authority. Over a
hundred years ago many had laughed at the Impressionists and it was left to
pioneers to buy their works, quite likely for the same two reasons as her
customers. At school she had loved Impressionism but at college she’d been
weaned off it by lecturers who considered the movement too mainstream and no
longer challenging.
Today Bridget had to have a shot of Impressionism. She
jumped off the bus as it reached Trafalgar Square and spent an hour wandering
around the late nineteenth century rooms in the National Gallery. The colour,
the movement, the sheer emotion of the works relegated the modern stuff to
pretentious insignificance.
The visit had lifted her spirits, but sitting on a less
crowded bus as she continued the journey home, she considered whether she
should quit what until now had been her single career. By the time she alighted
the decision was final. She needed to find other work, though quickly, what
with two children to provide for. But she had no idea what she should do.
The reaching of a crisis point was perfect timing as far
as David was concerned. With trepidation he double-checked her suggestion. “Do
you really think your new work could be running a café with me?”
“Well, I’ve given a tentative yes. It is possible, but I
need a lot more detail about how you think it could work.”
Kay calling out brought an abrupt end to their
discussion. Bridget went up to see what she wanted. Back downstairs she
suggested David should leave so she could change bed linen and pyjamas and make
a hot drink for her feverish daughter.
“Let’s meet up to talk things through as soon as Kay’s
better,” he suggested as he stood by the door.
“Sure, let’s,” she replied from half way up the stairs.
Although he knew the list by heart, he took it out for a
cursory glance.
Medium/Long term objectives
1. Take a
cookery course
2. Quit my
job and pack in accountancy
3. Open an
arts café
4. Have sex
with Bridget by 20 February
5. Have more
sex with Bridget by the end of the first week of March
Only one thing achieved so far, progress could perhaps be
classed as ‘satisfactory’ for the rest. He replaced the sheet inside the
document between page twenty-six, his house number, and twenty-seven.
~
Rachel and Sam were hovering in the hall as David
returned from work on Monday evening.
“Dad, we’ve got something to tell you. Well, to ask.” Rachel
looked concerned and David feared another school incident.
“Mum’s got tickets for Billy Elliot on Saturday evening
and she’s asked if we can stay over – at Jim’s. We don’t know whether to say
yes or no. Part of me thinks what’s done is done and we might as well move on. But
I don’t want to offend you. Would you mind?”
David zoomed in on the opportunity this might present. “No,
not at all. I think moving on is a sensible idea,” he replied with great generosity.
Having made certain the children were out of earshot he
called Bridget to invite her over for dinner that Saturday. She accepted.
The next evening, Tuesday, he had a trial run of
Saturday’s meal. It was still early days on his
Simple Italian Cooking
class. The ‘simple’ was proving to be a misnomer and he wasn’t confident he
could deliver a Tuscan or Sicilian delight. He decided to revisit what he’d
produced on the
Learn to Cook – Anyone Can Do It
course.
He began with seasonal vegetable soup and cheese croutons.
Theoretically this should have been followed by pan roasted free range chicken
with tarragon and crème fraiche sauce, but in preparation for Bridget he
replaced the chicken with quorn. The children were suspicious of this soggy new
ingredient and stabbed at it with their forks. David gave it a try before
rejecting it as unappetising. After work the next day he scoured the
supermarket shelves for a substitute before serving up a near identical meal for
his bemused children, but with marinated tofu replacing quorn. The children
moaned but he thought it was better. As a reward for resilience he cooked them
unadorned chicken on the Thursday.
~
Saturday at last.
He drove Rachel and Sam to Jim’s house, an attractive
semi-detached building on the border between Finchley and Mill Hill. He’d
visited many times and it was disconcerting to return now that it was Jane’s
home. Out of curiosity rather than need he escorted the children up the path to
the front door. Sam rang the bell and Jane answered.
“Hello everyone.” She looked at David intently. “Thanks
for letting them stay here, I appreciate it. Would you like to come in for a coffee?”
David noticed the small table and above it the painting
of a man and woman at the seaside, stretched out on striped canvas deckchairs,
munching ice cream cornets. He and Jane had bought the painting in Brighton way
back, before the children were born. Until a few days ago both table and
painting had been in what was now his house.
“Thanks, but I need to head on. I’ve got rather a lot to
do today.”
“Anything nice?”
He didn’t answer.
Jane continued. “We’re thinking of going ice skating at
Somerset House tomorrow afternoon. We’ll bring them back after that.”
“That’s fine,” David said. He looked across at his
children and gave them a reassuring smile. “Have a good time,” he added as he
headed off.
Once home and full of nervous energy, he embarked on worthless
garden maintenance considering the bleakness of the early January day. He then
took a shower and began to prepare the food.
Bridget arrived soon after 7.30. As he greeted then took
hold of her, David was hit by a powerful physical force like an electric
charge. The effect of that first contact, just a touch against the fabric of
her soft purple jumper, was so intense he pulled away.
Bridget stepped back. “Objective number four tonight,
isn’t it?”
“Maybe we should postpone that and work on my coffee bar plans
instead,” he joked as he put his arms around her shoulders. Then they were back
in an embrace, kissing passionately.
Dinner was a success with Bridget complimenting him. He wanted
her to think that the meal was one of a range of menu options at his disposal. But
he’d forgotten cookery was included in the list of objectives she’d seen.
“Have you started your cookery course yet?” she inquired.
“Sort of, just half a day so far. But now I’ve signed up
for
Simple Italian Cooking
.”
“So is this from that first course?”
“I’ve refined it quite a bit. Have some more wine,” he
added, keen to change the subject.
They’d already finished a bottle of Vouvray and were on
their second. Bridget took a couple of sips from her newly filled glass then
stood and walked round to David’s side of the table.
“Now, where were we up to last time I was here?” she
teased as she began undoing his shirt buttons. “This too, I seem to remember,”
she added as she leaned forward to kiss his chest as she opened each button.
He removed her cardigan and bra. “We got this far I
believe. Upstairs?” he suggested.
“Yes, good idea. I know it worked in Lady Chatterley’s
Lover and The Postman Always Rings Twice, but having sex on a kitchen table’s
never appealed to me. Come on, up we go.”
David laughed as he followed Bridget up the stairs. The
wine had made him rather light headed. He leaned forward in an attempt to
caress her naked back but misjudged her stepping speed, stumbled and ended up
on his knees stroking a stair.
Bridget turned and gave him a puzzled look. “You OK?”
“Yes, fine. I thought I saw a tack poking through the
carpet but I was wrong, there isn’t one.”
“Shall we keep going then?”
In the bedroom he hastily undid his belt and pulled down
his trousers. He struggled to take them off, but they tangled with his shoes
and he toppled down onto the bed. Bridget was smiling at him: he was acting
like a first-timer.
“Here, let me help,” she offered as she bent down to
untie his laces and remove his shoes. She then yanked off his trousers and took
off her own skirt. “You need some space around here too by the looks of
things,” she added, looking at his erection. She slid off his boxers, running
her hand against his penis as she did so. With David motionless she took off
her own knickers. He stood, took hold of her and dropped them both onto the bed.
“Finally. Alone together,” he exclaimed looking into
light blue eyes exuding far more confidence about what was to happen than he felt.
He adjusted his position until their bodies pressed together.
He was all set. At last. He caressed the small of her back and moved his hand
downwards.
“Err, just one thing David.”
“Mm?”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, what?”
“Socks.”
“Yes?”
“Your socks are still on, I’ve got a bit of a thing about
having sex with a man wearing socks.”
David sat up with a start, his head colliding with
Bridget’s. After the initial shock and shot of dizzying pain they both laughed.
He took off his socks, noting with horror that his right foot big toe had been
poking through a hole. He looked down at his shrivelling penis and then with
intense embarrassment up to Bridget. Her smile was wonderful, but was it to
share or directed at him?
“Come here you,” she said as she pulled him close. His
erection was restored and they were engaging in blissful foreplay. As he was
about to enter her he had one more practical thought and considered it his
moral duty to raise it.
“Bridget”
“Yes?”
“No condom.”
“What?”
“I haven’t put on a condom. They’re in the drawer.”
“No problem, don’t need it, I’m protected. That is, for
contraception, not STDs. But somehow I don’t think you’re a risk.” At last conversation
ceased, replaced by heavy breathing and gasps of joy.
~
He woke with a dull ache where Bridget’s head was resting
on his upper arm. He looked across at the clock, it was 3.17. The light was
still on in the landing so he could see her face, a face that had enchanted him
from the instant they’d met at the reunion. The quilt was pulled up high to her
neck. He was hungry to see more of her so edged it down to expose her breasts. She
giggled in her sleep as he stretched down to kiss a nipple. Turned on, he moved
his hand down to her stomach, onwards through her tight curls of hair, to
between her legs. She responded, still half asleep, stroking him. This
soporific foreplay continued for quite some time until, with Bridget wet and
David hard, he entered her with far greater conviction and self-confidence than
the first time and they made serene and rhythmic love.
When they woke late morning Bridget was the first to
speak. “That was lovely David, wonderful.”
“You’re amazing.”
“You’re not bad yourself. I suppose congratulations are
due.”
“What for?”
“You’ve accomplished objective number four and five, the
latter well ahead of schedule. It’s only the café left, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’ve given myself permission to repeat numbers
four and five as much as you want!”
David and Bridget were chatting about the café while brunching
in his kitchen. She’d produced two perfect cappuccinos using the espresso
machine that until then only Jane had mastered. When they’d divided possessions
he’d queried her omission of this prize asset, but Jane didn’t need it because
Jim had purchased a top of the range machine as a moving in present.
David waited for the next round of bread to pop out. Jane
had taken the previous toaster. As a counter to her ‘top of the range’ jibe,
he’d bought the most expensive replacement he could find, an art deco black and
silver steel model.
Focusing on the café wasn’t easy. Bridget was wearing the
same Simpsons tee shirt that David had provided during her first visit, the
family in a line smiling. She was naked underneath and he could see the outline
of her nipples through the material. To make matters worse, or better depending
on how you looked at it, the garment had ridden up to the top of her thighs.
Bridget was blissfully unaware of his thoughts and was
chatting away about the cost of opening and running the café. “The arts focus is
exciting and I accept what you say about needing a unique selling point, but we
must sort out the money side before getting carried away with anything else.”