Young Wives' Tales (27 page)

Silly, I know.

Totally pathetic.

I’m probably seeing too much of Connie, the Queen of Romantic Notions. She’s slowly managing to brainwash me and I have started to think maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there for me. It’s not David Clark, that’s for certain. What a nightmare the tea date was today. The man was so pompous. He approached the date as though he was interviewing me. My romantic CV was dissected over a period of an hour and a half, and it appears I was found sadly lacking. Finally, he insisted that we split the bill but he paid 40 pence less as he drank tea and I’d had coffee. This cannot be the route to true love.

If only someone like Craig had answered my personal ad. Someone kind and considerate. Someone thoughtful and thought-provoking. I push this nonsense out of my head.

‘No thank you. I’d better not. My sister mentioned she had somewhere to go later tonight. I have to get home so she can be on her way.’

His smile collapses. It must be the poor lighting in here but for a fraction of a second I thought he looked genuinely disappointed. Ridiculous of course. He must be relieved, not disappointed. He’s made the polite offer but he’s off the hook.

We gather together our coats and all the other paraphernalia necessary to protect against autumn elements and head towards the door.

As Craig locks the door behind us, he says, ‘I meant to ask you, how’s the internet dating getting along? Met anyone special yet?’

‘The vast majority of them are special needs but that’s not what you mean, is it?’I joke.

He turns to look at me and stays absolutely still. The night’s blackness falls around us and London seems unusually peaceful. Is he waiting for me to elaborate? The shame.

‘I’m becoming a pro. Or at least I’m getting used to feeling like a total witch when I pass over someone’s carefully drafted profile,’I confess.

‘What makes you reject a guy?’

‘I dismiss some brave souls because they tell me that in another life they’d have been a cat or a tree. Obviously,
I dismiss a fair number that look like serial killers. I dismissed one guy because he claimed to have read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Haruki Murakami, Jose Saramago, Don DeLillo, Orhan Pamuk and Marquez.’

‘Don’t you like any of those authors?’

‘Yes, the ones I’ve read, but the guy is either a hermit or a pathological liar. I skipped over a guy’s profile because he claimed to be Mr Average looking for someone special to spoil.’

‘Why?’Craig looks surprised.

‘It didn’t ring true. No one truly believes they’re average, do they? And I didn’t like the feeling that he was dangling a carrot. Women can’t be wooed with the temptation of being bought things. Least, not all of us.’Craig nods and does not call me picky or judgemental the way Daisy and Connie do. Still, I want to explain why I’m being so fastidious. ‘The thing is, I’ve done my time with the one who turned out not to be the one and I don’t want to waste more time than necessary.’

‘Quite right,’confirms Craig. I’m grateful for his support.

‘It’s a minefield. The other day I read an article that said one in three of online daters lie about their marital status.’

Craig gasps. Like me, he finds dishonesty shocking and disheartening. Connie had simply commented, ‘So few? I’d have guessed fifty per cent,’and Daisy suggested I pay special attention to tan marks on the ring finger.

I grin at him. ‘Despite all of this, I have been on some dates but nothing has come of any of them.’

‘So why do you keep trying, Rose?’

‘I don’t know. I must be a glutton for punishment.’

‘I think you’re hopeful, a true romantic,’he says.

I bask in the glow of being thought of so optimistically.

‘I’ve upped the ante. I’ve tried placing a personal ad in
Time Out
. It’s unlikely to bear fruit but it keeps my friends’spirits up.’

My God, what is wrong with me? Why do I keep slipping out these terrible admissions to my sons’headmaster? Craig is very easy to talk to and I’d never think of lying to him but do I have to be
this
confessional? I’ve seen more discreet people on Jerry Springer. Poor Craig looks confused by my outpouring. If he could wave a sign declaring ‘Too much information’, I’m sure he would.

‘Keep me informed about how you get along,’he mumbles.

‘I think that might be inappropriate, Craig.’

‘Only if you insist on detailing your progress at school assembly. But maybe we could meet for that drink some other time. I owe you.’

‘You’re too busy,’I say dismissively. There’s a frost on the ground. I stomp my feet, hoping to stay warm.

‘I’d like it. You’d be doing me the favour. I’m trying to meet someone special too. You could point me in the right direction. Give me tips on which sites are best, etiquette for blind dates, etc.’

He’s single. Craig is
single
. The news makes me want to smile. And laugh. And grab his arm and accept the glass of wine.

Whoa, hang on cowgirl, why do I care? Even if he hasn’t got a girlfriend, what difference does it make? He’s my boys’headmaster, not a man. Well, obviously he is a man but he’s not a man in the way the internet-date men are men. For a start he listens. And he doesn’t have BO. But, and it’s a big but, he is still my boys’headmaster and as such not at all appropriate or available. I can’t believe I’m even thinking of him in that way; not even for a nano-second.

‘I couldn’t interfere with your love-life like that.’Why do I use phrases like ‘love-life’? No one says ‘love-life’except my mother.

‘Oh really, that’s not a problem. Anything you could say would be a light touch in comparison to my pals. I really don’t think I can stomach another Saturday night on the pull with them.’

I laugh at the expression on his face when he uses the term ‘on the pull’; he simply could not look more aghast. I wish I hadn’t made up such a convincing lie about Daisy needing to go on some place tonight, I’d really like to spend some more time with Craig.

No I wouldn’t. That’s a ridiculous idea.

And a wonderful idea. Ridiculously wonderful. Wonderfully ridiculous.

Of course, we’d be nothing more than friends. If we did find ourselves spending time together. Not that I’m expecting we will.

This internal battle is still raging three hours later when I am tucked up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate. I always treat myself to a hot chocolate after a particularly pleasant day. My last waking thought is of Craig and then I fall to sleep and dream of him too.

In my dream, he’s spanking me. I wake up too ashamed to look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

It wasn’t tricky to get her into bed. But then, as soon as I saw her at the school gate, weeks back, I knew it wouldn’t be much of a challenge. There’s a type of woman that wants her fun whenever and wherever she can find it, and they are transparent. Of course, there had to be the obligatory protests about her husband and children. That’s the modern woman’s stab at respectability; they remind a man that they have a family just before they lose all memory of the said family themselves.

Technically the sex was fine. As I mentioned, she’s in good shape for her age and she was enthusiastic, confident and practised. We went back to my apartment, the one the firm have rented for me. She was thrilled with it. It’s in a huge Georgian terrace in a good part of town. The white façade, original wooden floors, high ceilings and long sash windows all create a fairly romantic setting. That’s what she was looking for, a bit of disposable romance. Most women are. And it suited me, taking her back, as I have no privacy issues. Some
blokes prefer not to bring women back to their own gaff; it’s usually a hygiene issue (their lack of it) or a commitment issue (their lack of it). But I didn’t think it was worth splashing out on a hotel. This lay wasn’t worth that much to me. Nor did I fancy doing her back at her family home. Even I can be put off my stride if there are wedding pictures and school photographs on the bedstands. Poor innocent little kids smiling down at their mother as she wraps her legs around a strange man’s neck. It’s not right. So back to my place it was.

The encounter had a perfunctory air to it. As we walked into my apartment I offered her a coffee but she said not now, she’d have one after. I went to the bog and by the time I came out she was standing in the bedroom, wearing nothing but her bra and pants, carefully folding her tracksuit. She unclipped her bra and turned to me, treating me to an unobstructed view of her surgically enhanced, very lovely orbs.

I did make an effort. If word gets back I want it to be known that my performance is still up to scratch. She certainly seemed satisfied. But it was a bit one-sided, if you know what I mean. Put it this way, she was more of a receiver than a giver. Too worried it would mess up her hair no doubt, hubby might just notice that. Still, I’m not complaining, sex is sex and there’s no such thing as bad sex, at least not in my book.

After she showered we stood in the kitchen and had a quick coffee. It seemed rude not to make conversation.

‘I take it you’ve done this before?’I asked.

‘Once or twice. My husband works away a lot and
I married him when I was very young. He’s never been very young.’I shifted uncomfortably. I hate it when they start telling me their life stories. How can they possibly think I have an interest? She noted my discomfort and added, ‘I’m not making excuses or expecting sympathy. I’m simply laying out the facts. The old goat wanted a young piece of arm-candy and he got it. He must have known how that would pan out twelve years down the line. I do love him, in my own way. And of course, there’s the children. We have an agreement. It’s unspoken but we’re both aware of it.’

‘Well, whatever makes you happy,’I said as I lit a fag.

She stared at me for a long time and then turned the subject. ‘I was rather surprised when you asked for my number. I thought you’d been hanging around the school gates to catch the attention of Constance Baker.’

Hearing Diane say her name gave me a jolt.

‘Did you?’In those situations it’s always best to say as little as possible. Even a denial can make you look as guilty as sin. I pulled Diane close to me and gave her a long, slow kiss. It had the required effect, it silenced her.

As she dressed she asked, ‘Do you want to do this again some time?’

‘Of course, babe.’

As she left the flat the door banged behind her and I deleted her number from my phone. I’m not one for closing down options under normal circumstances and she’d made it clear that she was keen for uncomplicated,
no-strings-attached sex, normally my favourite type. Normally.

But when I was humping away the strangest thing had happened. The act started to feel like a duty shag, the sort you have with a long-term girlfriend, just to prove to her that you love her at the point when you probably don’t. It didn’t have the buzz that sex with someone new is supposed to have. Odd, but I just couldn’t gather the required enthusiasm. Gutting. I guess my lack of gusto did answer the one question I hoped would be answered by shagging a married mother.

I’m not chasing Connie just because she’s a married mother.

I know it sounds weird but I did wonder. The shag was an experiment. Is it the mum thing that’s turning me on? Or the unavailable thing? Or the Connie thing? So I thought I’d try another mum. The experiment was conclusive. I’m pursuing Connie because I want Connie.

It’s been ten days since we spent the whole day together. A day I’d planned with strategic precision and that she threw out of kilter in a matter of moments. I am not used to her opposition, but oddly her sparky defiance just strengthens my resolve and I find myself wanting her more. We breakfasted together and then she agreed to ditch work and have a laugh. So far so good. I suggested that we could go to Brighton. I’d even made a booking at Hotel Pelirocco. Funny that less than two weeks ago an afternoon session hadn’t
seemed completely unreasonable. Now it seems as distant a possibility as a trip to the moon. I’d thought that getting her out of town would work very nicely. It’s easier to abandon responsibilities on new turf but she wouldn’t go for it, she insisted that she had to stay in London. She said she couldn’t risk getting snarled up in bad traffic as her kid would be devastated if she was late for pick-up. Still, I wasn’t disheartened; a certain amount of discouragement was to be expected.

I had to think on my feet then. I needed somewhere far enough away from her stomping ground for her to forget St Luke for a few hours. I had to be careful not to pick somewhere too significant, somewhere we’d visited together before for instance. It’s best to start a fresh set of memories rather than risk old issues kicking off. I had a bit of a problem there, mind you, in so much as I couldn’t remember exactly where we used to hang out. The whole relationship is blurred into a mass of dodgy pubs and alley walls.

So we settled on Tate Modern. I am absolutely certain that we’ve never visited a gallery together and she said there was an installation that she wanted to see. She commented, ‘That way I won’t feel bad about skiving. Seeing the installation is work of sorts.’Her need to justify spending time with me was irritating but I took a deep breath and accepted that it was to be expected. I guess I’d used up her resource of wild abandon. I’d squandered it.

We had a laugh. The aspect I couldn’t plan or bank on, but that I hoped for, that just sort of happened.

Connie and I clicked. We still have that spark. I know she knows it’s there too. It thrills me. I think it worries her.

We had a great time. It’s official. It was a bright, fresh day. The sky was a solid block of blue and a winter sun reflected off the river, giving the impression that the sludgy Thames was a ribbon of silver. We walked and talked all day. Nothing heavy, neither of us really wanted that, but we never stopped gassing on to one another. There wasn’t a single awkward moment. She liked it. I know she did.

But no action. We occasionally banged hands and I had to lean across her a couple of times to open doors or pass the salt, and when there was accidental body contact we were both more than aware. I felt a slight quiver in my cock; she shuddered and then jumped a foot away from me as though she was tangled on an electric fence.