Breaking the Chain (16 page)

‘No,’ Phoebe said. ‘Don’t go anywhere. Come and have a bath with me!’

Duncan looked taken aback. ‘The-There isn’t r-room,’ he said.

‘Of course there’s room! Fitting in together is half the fun. Haven’t you ever tried it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, before you do, pour us a gin and tonic each, and we can be really sinful.’

‘It’s t-too early for me,’ Duncan said, noticing the bottles for the first time, with disapproval.

‘Don’t be so stuffy,’ Phoebe said. ‘Throw caution to the winds and live a little!’

‘W-what’s all this about?’ Duncan asked suspiciously.

‘It isn’t
about
anything,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s just a fun idea. Go on, Dunc, just to please me?’

She succeeded in persuading him to take his clothes off and join her. He even poured her a drink, but refused to have one himself, electing to drink her tea instead. As he stepped awkwardly into the bath, Phoebe looked up at him with pride. He was a good figure of a man. His legs were long and muscular and a fine shape. His sleeping penis was also long, and his darker dangling scrotum looked vulnerable and endearingly ugly. He had enough hair on his chest to look masculine, but not so much that he became apelike. His shoulders were broad and his biceps looked as though they worked. His face wasn’t especially macho, Phoebe thought. In fact it was a very mild face, almost vague, with absent blue eyes and scars where he had cut himself when shaving.

‘There i-isn’t room,’ Duncan said again.

‘Yes, there is. Go on, sit down facing me and then put one of your legs over mine and one under … like that … see? And then lie back. Now what do you think?’

Duncan looked embarrassed. ‘I s-still think it’s a bit c-cramped,’ he said.

Phoebe attempted to pull one of his nipples with her toes. ‘Relax,’ she said. She applied soap to her foot and tried again, slithering over his chest and giggling. ‘Lovely slidey stuff, soap,’ she said.

‘We’re not going to g-get very c-clean like this,’ Duncan said.

Phoebe stopped laughing. ‘That’s not really the point,’ she said, ‘but I’ll wash you if you like.’ She took hold of his foot and massaged it with soapy hands, running a finger between each toe in turn.

‘Eeeek,’ Duncan squealed. ‘It t-t-tickles!’

Phoebe shifted her hips and slid porpoise-like as she extracted his other foot from underneath her. Another dollop of water slopped over the edge of the bath. Phoebe gave the second foot the same treatment. Then she placed it onto one of her breasts, all slippery with soap, and moved it about on the soft roundness.

‘Nice?’ she asked him.

‘It s-still t-tickles.’ He couldn’t seem to let himself go, Phoebe saw. He was sitting there as if he had committed some social solecism whilst reluctantly attending a formal tea party. (
I’m so sorry, Mrs Cholmondely.
I’m being bothered by a wasp
.) His penis, which under those conditions would be safely bundled up in his Y-fronts with no demands being made upon it, was now exposed, floating disconsolately out of its depth and getting more and more wrinkly and waterlogged. It looked both sulky and bashful, and it clearly had no intention of rising to the occasion.

Phoebe took a swig of gin. She was determined not to be beaten so easily.

‘Stand up,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll do the rest of you.’ Duncan stood up, spilling more water as he did so. They stood facing each other, steaming.

‘G-Good thing we haven’t g-got a c-carpet,’ Duncan said. (
The rain has simply ruined my petunias, Mrs Cholmondely
.)

Phoebe ignored him. She rubbed more soap onto her hands and worked it to a creamy lather on his chest and belly. Then she put her arms round his waist and rubbed herself against him. His skin slid under hers and back again, unhindered in every direction, their bodies moving over each other with the effortless ease of skaters on ice, but hot and tactile and wonderfully delicious. Phoebe could feel her own blood responding. She put a hand on each of Duncan’s buttocks and held him close, writhing against him. It was working! She could feel him beginning to take an interest.
She thought, if I’m not careful it will be all over in a couple of seconds, probably even before he gets inside! I must make him take it gently. She stopped moving and looked up at him. His expression had not changed.

‘Let’s get rinsed off and dried, and go to bed,’ she suggested, smiling.

‘Go on then. A-After you,’ Duncan said. (
Another biscuit? After you, Mrs Cholmondely
.)

Phoebe sat down quickly in the bath and slooshed all the soap off herself. Duncan stood awkwardly, waiting for her to finish. He certainly had an erection, but he didn’t look particularly proud of it. Phoebe almost expected him to whistle casually, as if disowning it. He ought to be wearing a T-shirt with the slogan ‘That silly prick is not with me!’ she thought, suppressing another giggle. She got out and dried herself and took her gin to bed, rewarding herself with a good gulp before stretching out under the duvet to await her man.

Duncan took a long time. He always took a long time. When he did appear, Phoebe realized at once that she would have to start all over again, this time with Plan B. This involved the use of Johnson’s baby oil and her own capable hands. She bounced out of bed, smoothed the duvet over and invited Duncan to lie face downwards on top of it.

‘What you need,’ she said, ‘is a relaxing massage.’

‘What’s that b-baby stuff f-for?’ Duncan asked suspiciously.

‘It helps the massage.’

‘B-But won’t it g-get all over the sheets?’

‘And who washes the sheets? Me. So relax!’

‘Is all this r-r-really n-necessary?’ (
Please forgive me, Mrs Cholmondely, I have to rush off
.)

‘Compulsory,’ Phoebe said firmly.

Duncan suffered himself to be arranged in a prone position with his arms outstretched, his head on one side and his legs together. Phoebe climbed on top and sat astride him. She poured a little oil onto her palm and rubbed it between both her hands. Then she began the massage. She did Duncan’s shoulders, his neck, his back, his waist, his thighs, his calves and
his soles. She stroked his back with her pendant breasts. She caressed him with her lips.

Duncan lay like a log with his eyes shut. No groans of ecstasy escaped from his lips, not even a faint sigh of pleasure. After a while Phoebe decided to turn him over to assess the results of her labours.

‘Roll over,’ she said. He didn’t move. ‘Come on, Duncan,’ she said. ‘I’ll do your front now.’ He still didn’t move. He was asleep. ‘For God’s sake!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Haven’t you got any bloody hormones?’ In a rage, she climbed off the bed, administering a good slap to his behind as she passed. She started getting dressed.

‘Ow!’ Duncan said, blinking. He rolled over and sat up, looking confused. ‘What t-time is it?’

‘Half-past six.’

‘What’s the m-matter?’

‘Oh, nothing worth mentioning.’

‘Aren’t we having any s-supper tonight then?’ He smiled at her rather sheepishly. ‘After all, a ch-chap can’t be expected to p-perform on an empty stomach.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Phoebe said furiously, ‘I’ve given up expecting you to
perform
at all!’

Duncan had come home that day exhausted after a heavy day’s work. He had managed to finish the wall and it looked good. His client had been pleased with it. Now all he wanted to do was to sit in front of the telly with his mug of tea, waiting for Phoebe to cook him his evening meal. He had earned it. He was slightly put out when she wasn’t in the kitchen to greet him as usual. Then Diggory went haring up the stairs and Duncan had to follow him. Phoebe was sitting in a bath full of foam and rabbiting on about drowning. Duncan was confused. She usually had her bath in the evening.

She told him to go downstairs, so he had concluded that he’d better make his own tea as it was fairly obvious that Phoebe wasn’t going to. Poor Phoebe, in spite of the camouflaging bubbles, she was not a pretty sight, he thought. A roll of flab hung round her middle and her tummy stuck out. Her hair was
sticking out too, all wet round the edges. So he’d made the tea and taken hers up, and then she’d wanted him to drink gin instead, in the bath with her! At least she seemed to be in a good mood for a change, so he decided to humour her.

It was bloody uncomfortable. Thank goodness he didn’t have the taps end – she must surely be burning her right ear? In his book, baths were things one took not more than once a week in order to get clean. That seemed an unlikely outcome of this one. Then she’d grabbed hold of his feet and started tickling them. It was worse than Chinese torture! When she started washing his chest, he reverted to his childhood instantly. He remembered his mother washing him in the same way. He couldn’t visualize the exclusive first years when he had had the bath, and Hope, all to himself. He could only remember competing for her attention with Conrad, and later with Conrad and Hereward, and losing.

Then Phoebe had started cavorting about like a demented belly dancer and, taken by surprise, Duncan had begun to feel randy. But the image of his mother was still there, unavailable yet disapproving. He sat in the bath long after Phoebe had got out. The soap had killed the foam and left scummy green water which was rapidly cooling. It was obvious what Phoebe expected of him. He realized with a stab of petulance that he didn’t like being manipulated in this way. He decided to get rid of his inconvenient erection by having a quick wank there and then. It didn’t take long and it wasn’t especially pleasurable, and as soon as he had done it he felt guilty. He pulled the plug and watched his precious semen whirl in a watery vortex down the drain. He didn’t want Phoebe to know what he had done, so he realized he would have to co-operate in the charade of whatever it was she planned to do next, whilst knowing only too well what the outcome would be.

He discovered that he didn’t particularly like massages either. He had no idea if Phoebe knew what she was doing or if it was all her own invention. Either way it did nothing for him. Then she began stroking him and he wondered if this was how
Diggory felt when he was stroked. It was nice; a comfortable sort of feeling. God, he was tired …

Next thing, Phoebe had spanked his bottom unnecessarily hard and was clearly in a hell of a huff. You can’t bloody win with females, Duncan thought. You don’t do what they want, and they get upset. You
do
do what they want and they still get furious. What was wrong with her? He’d had the damn bath. He’d let her pummel him about. She surely couldn’t be as cross as that just because, at the last minute, he hadn’t screwed her? That was nonsense. In spite of anything Phoebe herself might have said, Duncan had it on very good authority that decent women didn’t like sex.

As Phoebe thumped down the stairs, the telephone started ringing. It was Fay.

‘You know you said if Jack and I ever needed a break we could come to you?’ she said, without preamble.

‘Yes,’ Phoebe agreed, feeling more cheerful all at once.

‘Well, I know it’s very short notice, but we’re driving down to Cornwall on Friday to spend some time with my parents, and I wondered if we could perhaps stay with you overnight? Please say no if it’s not convenient.’

‘No, it would be great,’ Phoebe said with enthusiasm. ‘Stay the whole weekend, why don’t you? We’d love to have you.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Fay said.

‘Positive,’ Phoebe urged.

‘You’ve nothing else fixed?’

‘We never have anything else fixed!’

‘Oh Phoebe, bless you. That does take a weight off my mind. We could have stayed in a hotel, of course, but it’s not the same …’ Her voice tailed off. She didn’t sound like herself at all.

‘Will Conrad be coming too?’ Phoebe asked.

‘No,’ Fay said rather shortly.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘I’ll tell you everything when I see you,’ Fay said. ‘Until Friday then, about sixish?’

‘That’s fine. I’ll look forward to …’ but Fay had gone.

How odd! Phoebe thought, replacing the receiver thoughtfully.
There’s obviously something wrong. I wonder what. Then she thought, Great! It won’t be another difficult weekend on my own with Duncan. I’ll have somebody nice to talk to!

Fay had never felt so glad to get away. Conrad was impossible these days and it was having a disastrous effect on Jack. She had hoped that his stammering over Christmas was just a copycat thing, but he was still doing it. Perhaps it ran in families. Conrad strenuously denied this, saying it was just an affectation and the sooner the child snapped out of it, the better. Fay knew that this was nonsense.

It was for Jack’s sake that she had decided to go to Cornwall; to see if he would be happier there with his doting grandparents. Her business would have to do without her for a while. Mid-January was a quiet time anyway. They would manage. Staying with Duncan and Phoebe had seemed a bonus, an opportunity to get to know Phoebe a little. Conrad had argued about this too.

‘You’re worried about the boy stammering, yet you’re taking him to visit Duncan!’ he’d said. ‘You might as well take a first-time gambler to Las Vegas! It makes no sense at all.’

‘It’s only for a couple of days,’ Fay said. ‘It won’t make any difference.’

‘You think not? It’s not something I’d risk.’

‘He’s your
brother,
Con!’

‘So what? That doesn’t make me want my son to take after him. Jack’s at an impressionable age, Fay. Now is not the time.’ Yes, Fay thought, he is impressionable and that’s the trouble. He already knows he can’t live up to his father’s expectations, just like Duncan couldn’t with Peter. Now’s the time to get him away from Conrad, before he gets completely demoralized as well.

It was not an easy journey. Jack seemed to be incubating a bug and he was grumpy and argumentative. The weather, which had been just grey and cold in London, got gradually foggier as they drove westwards. Fay was glad finally to get off the M5, with only a twenty-minute drive to go, along country roads to Duncan’s cottage.

Phoebe must have heard them coming, because she was waiting at the front door with her ready smile. She looked fatter, Fay thought, and it was time she had her hair cut properly, but her welcome was warm and genuine. Her kitchen was humid with the sharp citrus smell of marmalade, and ten newly capped jars of it were cooling on a pad of newspaper on the elm table.