Altar Ego (8 page)

‘Yes/No,’ I replied.

He laughed. God. Even his teeth were perfect. He was what Anouska called a ‘good drop of skin’; what Kate referred to as a ‘root rat’. Basically, the guy could star in a Diet Pepsi break.

‘So, ya mean we’ve gotta do like, ten dull dinners and talk about Human Relationships in microscopic detail before we can finally rip each other’s clothin’ off with our teeth?’

‘For your information,’ I smugged, ‘I’ve never been to bed with a Lowlife and I have no intention of …’

‘Bet you’ve woken up with a shitload of ’em, though.’ He crackled open a fresh packet of Marlboros.

I studied him with narrow eyes. ‘What’s
with
you? You’re too young to be such a chauvinist.’

‘Thank Christ there’s a few of us left!’ He lit two cigarettes before passing one to me.

‘Well, that tells me all I need to know about your brain-cell capacity.’ I ostentatiously wiped the filter on my hem before inserting the cigarette between my lips. ‘And it’s only going to get worse, buddy. It’s scientifically proven that as men get older, their brains atrophy.’

‘At-ra-what? … Trouble with you British babes, you spend so many words saying nuthin’ at all. Can’t yer just use a normal word now an’ again. Just as well us guys are so much brainier to start with.’

‘Men? More intelligent? … Yeah. Right.’ I dragged deeply on my cancer stick. ‘Which is why your idea of
fun
is to snap towels at each others’ bottoms. What the hell
is
that …?’

‘And why youse chicks’ idea of cool is to act like men.’

‘
Chicks?
’ I picked the expression up with a pair of invisible sterilized tongs.

‘Can’t fuck ya for fear I’m turnin’ gay.’

‘I’m sorry. I beg your pardon? Me? Having a carnal encounter with someone like
you
, is about as likely as you being able to find the hypotenuse of a triangle.’

‘Hell, I didn’t know it was lost.’

Despite being an unevolved Neanderthal, he had charm, you had to admit. Goddamnit. The guy was more disarming than a team of UN weapons inspectors. ‘Um … it’s the end of the twentieth century. Men don’t treat women like objects, any more.’

‘Hey, I don’t treat women like objects. Hell no.’ He gave a kind of James Cagney shrug. ‘I treat my objects
way
better.’

Like I said – smartass. ‘I’ll have you know that women can do everything that men can do. The only thing men do better is die earlier.’

‘Crap. Men are loads better than women at loads of stuff.’

‘Oh, yes? Like what?’

He smirked. The sort of smirk that hints at unmentionable sexual acts, things you couldn’t possibly care for – at first. ‘Guilt-free sex and whistlin’.’

I put two fingers in my mouth and forced out a decibel-piercing shriek of air that even managed momentarily to drown out the Dire Straits hit being mangled by the band inside. On the Cliveden balcony, guests pivoted in our direction, eyes straining through the blackness. The Man Who Took Women’s Breath Away pulled me out of sight. He rattled the handles on the pavilion doors. Locked. The last door yielded, revealing the pool utility room. I could just make out the folded deckchairs, not yet unpacked for the summer, and a ping-pong table, pyjama-ed in canvas. It smelt mildewed but warm, there in the liquid, sensuous dark. We squeezed inside, close enough to feel each other’s breath. He smelt spicy, yeasty, and – it has to be said – divinely masculine.

‘Men don’t have to go to the john in pairs.’

‘Women don’t regard sitting on the toilet as a leisure activity.’

‘Men don’t get PMS.’

‘You’d
love
to have Premenstrual Syndrome. Men have PMS envy. Besides being a woman is better because, when we have kids, we never have to worry who the mother is.’

‘Yeah, but we get to have kids without havin’ to wear floral maternity dresses …’

‘Men can’t wrap things.’

‘Women can’t tell jokes.’ He came closer. Despite his Schwarzenegger pectorals, he moved with an easy grace. He leant a hand on the wall behind me, his bare
forearm
grazing my shoulder. ‘At least men know how to have fun. A chick’s idea of fun is to buy those tiny glass animals made from blown glass. Knick-knacks, yeah, that’s them. Explain that to me … Chicks get all juiced up over upholstery, man …’

‘Just like men do over gadgets. Actually men are just like those gadgets you buy which read “A little assembly required”. Then they sit in the corner all in pieces for centuries.’

‘So’ – he placed his other hand on the wall, touching the side of my face – ‘why are you hot for us, then?’

‘Hot for you! Huh! I don’t think so.’ Hot for him? I was bleeding from the ears. ‘How could anyone be hot for the sort of breed who like to drop bombs on urban areas?’

‘Yer know, yer right. Men are only good at the little things … like runnin’ the world and goin’ to war.’

‘At least we’re not always timing ourselves. Oh, that nuclear detonation took 12.6 seconds …’ I hooked one stockinged leg around his calf and drew him closer to me. Nothing like a touch of IBS (Irritable Boyfriend Syndrome) to make you horny and reckless with a complete and utter stranger. ‘Oh look! We did that trip in 1 hour, 13 minutes and exactly 3.6 seconds. And you won’t give way to traffic either. Especially to another man.’ My fragile dress fretted against his hard denim. ‘You’ll accelerate past the speed of light, before either of you idiots will give way … We can drive a small car
and
not worry what people are saying about our sexual prowess.’

‘Yeah, but garage mechanics don’t see
us
comin’.’ He slipped his hand down inside my bodice and rolled my nipple between two warm fingers. I drank in the details of his face. This guy was the practice run Mother Nature had for Brad Pitt but the slight flaws – the indecently juicy lips, the sleepy eyes, the scar calligraphied across one cheek – made him even more dangerously irresistible.

‘Men don’t write thank-you notes. Or remember anniversaries …’

‘Men never get cellulite. Doan’ have ta wax nuthin’ neither. Plus nobody will ever ask us to wear suspenders … Do yer? By the way?’ He ran his other hand up under my dress.

‘Not to forget the way you’re always scratching yourselves, idly, in the crotch area. You never see a
woman
scratching her genitals, now do you?’

‘Maybe not in public.’ He nibbled on my neck as he massaged my inner thighs. ‘’Cause yer not as honest about yer urges.’

‘Honest! Huh!’ I winkled my finger inside the hole in his jeans leg. The velvet flesh was hot and hard. ‘How can you expect me to find a species attractive who lust indiscriminately? Women are capable of not thinking about sex occasionally.’ I held my breath, as his fingers strayed higher. ‘Men can never find things either.’ I groaned again as he sent me into orbit.

‘Except G spots,’ he grinned.

By now I was liquefying. It was all I could do to keep standing. In the time it took the band to segue from ‘Ina Gadda De Vita’ to ‘Honky Tonk Women’, I’d been in orbit so often I started to feel like the Mir Space Station.

It was then the stranger leant down and kissed me. It was a kiss like liquid caramel. ‘Kissin’ … the second best thing you can do with your lips.’

‘Second?’

He lay me back across the ping-pong table and disappeared under my PFNK in one fluid, graceful movement. Now that’s what I call paying lip-service to love.

It was the first time I’d ever made love with a black man.

7
A Lick And A Promise

‘WHERE’VE YOU BEEN?’
Julian interrogated upon my dishevelled return. Judging by the stained tuxedos of the wrung-out wedding band on their seventh rendition of ‘Jumping Jack Flash’, I’d been gone for longer than I realized. I waited for the wave of guilt, but no psychological surf rolled in. After all, what exactly was I guilty of? It was nothing more than a crime of passion. Not even a crime, more a folly of passion; a sexual
faux pas
.

‘Walking,’ I lied effortlessly, omitting the destination,
on the wild side
: It wasn’t a big lie. More like a half truth. I just told him the wrong half. I noticed the squadron of plaster cupids buzzing overhead and, for a disquieting moment, thought they might dive-bomb.

Lord and Lady Darius Gore appeared on the stairs
together
for the traditional Bouquet-Tossing-Let’s All-Pretend-She-Has-A-Hymen Moment.

Kate and I were just placing twenty-pound bets on how long the marriage would last when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, alcohol-lubricated females hurtling bouquet-wards. But the orchid homing missile was rocketing with ironic accuracy straight towards Yours Truly. It was not so much a catch as a floral facial. There was a muted gasp of breath and muffled whisperings. I peered out from between the fronds to see friends rolling their eyes in embarrassment. I tried to speak, but could only spit out greenery.

‘Déjà vu,’ said Julian, with droll disdain.

As the queue of well-wishers pressed in on all sides, I kissed Anouska goodbye. She whispered urgently in my ear. ‘I think I may have made a mistake.’

‘What? With your going-away outfit?’ She was wearing a transparent lacy dress with Big Underpants.

‘No. With my husband.’

‘Anouska, it’s the
reception
. Things aren’t supposed to sour until oh, at least until you get back to the honeymoon suite.’

Before she could detail her misgivings, she was whisked away to married life. As I sought out Kate to pay up my twenty-quid bet money, I glimpsed Zachary once more before he evaporated into the night. He looked into my eyes just a split second longer than necessary … enough to make my knees buckle.

‘Well, that’s a record,’ proclaimed Kate. ‘It only took you half a second to undress that teenager with your eyes.’

I attempted to drag her on to the dance floor for a bit of pelvis jumping to ‘Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Stayin’ Alive’. Even second-rate cover versions were better than the long drive home with Julian. But there was no holding back the premature social ejaculator.

‘So who was the teenager I overheard Kate say you were flirting with?’ were his opening words as we gravel-crunched out of the drive.

‘Um … what time was it …?’ I kicked off my shoes and propped my feet on the dashboard. ‘You know I’m a serial flirt. But relax, I’m only window shopping.’

I amazed myself at how easy this lying gig was. No wonder men did it so often. My heart executed a kind of clumsy foxtrot in my chest but my face stayed composed; my voice remained level.

I rummaged in the glove compartment and slotted a CD into the player. Pink Floyd wafted out of the speakers. I groaned, stabbed at the stop button and rummaged some more.

‘Mike and the Mechanics, the Rolling Stones, The Eurythmics,
Steeleye Span
… God, Jules, don’t we have anything from this century? We’re getting so middle-aged.’

‘Becky, we
are
middle-aged.’ Rain drizzled on the windows.

‘It’s not how old you are, it’s how old you behave. And you are behaving like a geriatric.’

‘I am not.’ The wipers cleared the windscreen with a sluggish, petulant swipe.

‘You sort your socks on a Saturday night.’

‘So what? You’re making me out to be the human version of a Dr Scholl sandal.’

‘You go home early from parties.’

‘I have grave misgivings about the pleasures of rap dancing, okay?’

‘Speak for yourself. Personally, I am not ready to have the variety of life of a bloody battery chicken.’

‘What? You really want to go back to being young? … Hanging bits of lace sarongs on the wall? Wearing shirts that proclaim your philosophical beliefs? Ugh. Petting in the back seat has lost its appeal, Beck.’

‘Petting? I can’t believe you used that word. Petting? You see what I mean? You’re geriatric!’

‘If “geriatric” means no longer considering hitch-hiking a means of transport, then yes I am. I like to drink coke – not do it. I no longer wake at 6 a.m. on Christmas morning, either. I can actually be seen with my parents in public. I also find it reassuring to see policemen around the place. You too, Becky, are old enough to eliminate “catwalk modelling” from your career ambitions list.’

‘How did you know about …’

‘And anyway,’ he upped the volume on Elvis Costello. ‘We still have lots of fun.’

‘Fun! Okay, let’s think. Exactly what
did
we do last weekend? A whipped-cream orgy perhaps? No. You reorganized the condiments cupboard. I haven’t been invited to a party I wouldn’t go to in a million years! … We have the debauchery of, I dunno, an Osmond!’ I ejected Costello with a churlish jab of my manicured nail.

‘Hey, I ran a red light in 1996,’ Julian joshed. ‘And I didn’t declare that £500 purchase to Heathrow Customs. Do you remember?’

‘I used to be wild! I used to be interesting! I’ve lost my identity. You’ve stolen it from me!’

‘Well let’s go along to a police line-up and see if you can make an ID’ he said, tartly.

‘It’s just that you’ve become so, well, anal.’

‘I am not anal!’

‘You arrange my shoes in height-of-heel order. You discuss dietary fibre when it’s not even breakfast. You lecture me about which dishcloth I can use on the floor … Your main obsession is whether or not your toothpaste has tartar control. You worry about getting ringworm fungi from shared combs, and that staph thing …’

‘Staphylococcus aureus.’

‘… from public telephones. You wipe the cashpoint machine with an anti-bacterial cleanser for God’s sake. Actually, you’re a hypochondriac. You are! You just can’t leave being well enough alone.’

‘I am not a hypochondriac!’

‘Well then hypochondria is the only disease you
haven’t
got!’

‘You really think I’m a hypochondriac?’

‘Oh God. Now you’re going to get hypochondriacal about being a hypochondriac. Julian, your ailments are killing me! One measly headache and it’s swelling brainstems, one pee too often and it’s prostate cancer …’

‘At least I’m not a
psychological
hypochondriac. You take your emotional temperature all day. Am I happy? Could I be happier? Is he really the right man for me?’