Calendar Girl (2 page)

“Sarah, it’s your mother. Darling, why don’t you ever answer your phone? Daddy and I were hoping you’d come home for dinner some time this week. A little celebration for your birthday. Do you have a job at the moment? Because if not, we’d love to see you. I don’t really know what to get you, Cassie just said maybe you could do with some money? But it seems so cold to me, anyway dear perhaps you could give me a call, um and … Cassie said she didn’t think you were seeing anyone, but if you are then maybe you’d like to bring them … I mean her … home too? That is, if you are … well I’d best be off now, take care and hope you’re not suffering with hayfever like Dad. God Bless darling.”

“Ms Martin, it’s Colleen from the Enterprise Allowance office. Perhaps you could come in some time next week –
it’s almost the end of the first six months of your business and I’d like to go through your quarterly accounts with you. Please call to arrange an appointment as soon as possible.”

“Saz, it’s Cassie. Mother’s been harassing me about your birthday, I don’t know what you want, I said they should give you cash, hope that’s OK. Look do you fancy babysitting this Wednesday only Tony wants to go out, get completely pissed and then ravish me and you wouldn’t want to stop us from enjoying anything as married and juicily heterosexual as that would you? Let me know, only quickly cos otherwise I’ll have to pay someone which would be distressing and probably mean you’d only get a cheap and shoddy birthday present, instead of merely a shoddy one! Bye.”

“Saz, Claire here, was I pissed last night or did I make a complete fool of myself sober? I’ll stick to the former if it’s all right with you. Let’s do something civilised tomorrow like walking in the park and having tea, don’t worry, I’ll pay, and then I can tell you all about the damn fine sex I had last night. Hah!”

“Cassie again, Mum also wants to know if you’re doing it with anyone. So does Tony. I don’t. I think eleven months of celibacy is wonderful and healthy and all I want to know is, will you babysit? Call me quickly, my loins can’t stand the suspense.”

“Hello, Miss Martin, ah … you don’t know me but I was given your number by a friend, well an acquaintance really, and you see the thing is, oh God I hate these machines, don’t you? … actually I’m ringing to see if you could help me, I mean I’d like to employ you, that is if you
still do the sort of work my friend said you do … I mean I’ve never employed anyone to … spy on anyone before, well it’s not spying is it, more like checking up … well, perhaps you could call me – John Clark, ah … and maybe you could be discreet … it’s a work number …”

He waffled on a bit more, left the number and apologised again, Saz wrote his number on the back of her hand as the answerphone bleeped four times signalling the end of the messages. She poured fresh coffee.

“Thank God for continuous tape.”

She then dialled her sister’s number.

“Cassie, it’s me … no, I just woke up … no, I was not having sex, I gave that up remember? I went dancing and drinking and slept for three hours, ran for one and then slept for another three. I now feel fresh and alive and willing to commit myself to several hours of torture at the sticky fingers of your three brats … yes, I thought you’d be happy for me. Look, will you tell Mum, I do definitely prefer cash to anything else she might think I need, it’ll make my Enterprise Allowance ‘supervisor’ very happy – I’ll tell her it came from some old lady who needed me to find her long lost son … well, whatever – I need cash and I have enough tupperware and ‘nice linen’ to last me several millennia in suburbia, let alone the single lesbian life in the inner city … yes, I said single and I did mean single, anyway I think I might have a job … I don’t know yet, I have to call him back … yes, it’s a man … well, of course I won’t do it if it’s an ex-husband. Look babe, I’ve got to go and call this bloke back, when you speak to Mother don’t tell her I’m working, I think she’s prefers me unemployed and poor to unsafe and working … No, I’m not unsafe, it’s just that’s how she sees it. OK give my love
to Tony, tell him not to worry, I prefer my brothers-in-law bald. Bye.”

Saz hung up and dialled Claire’s number.

“Smart, Holland and Swift, Solicitors, can I help you?”

The idea of Claire Holland, old school friend, dizzy blonde, raving pisshead and the first of Saz’s friends to come out, as a really truly grown up solicitor (with receptionist and secretary) never failed to stun Saz.

“Can I speak to Ms Holland, please?”

“I’m sorry, Ms Holland’s in a meeting at the moment, can I take a message?”

“No, it’s fine, just say Saz called, I’ll call her back. Just ask her if her headache’s OK.”

“Oh, her headache’s gone now, she threw up not long after her first meeting, ordered a BLT and tomato juice and is feeling just fine. I’ll tell her you called. Bye Ms Martin.”

Saz called the number on her hand. The voice on the other end of the phone told her she was being held in a queue and would she mind holding. Saz didn’t mind holding, what she did mind was having to listen to ‘Greensleeves’ as she did so.

“Can I speak to John Clark please?”

“John’s not here.”

“Well, could you take a message please?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said ‘No’, I can’t take a message because John’s not here, he doesn’t work here any more, he quit.”

“When?”

“About half an hour ago, took ‘voluntary redundancy’. They’ve been offering it for over a year and he decided to take it two weeks ago, only he forgot to tell me until this morning. I told him he might as well go now as far as I’m concerned. So he did. Now look dear, I’ve got plenty to do with the assistant manager having just quit on me without spending all my lunch hour answering stupid questions, so if you’re his girlfriend, then I’m bloody sorry for you, but why don’t you just try calling him at home? I’m sure Mrs Clark would love to hear from you.”

“Ah, his wife?”

“Yes darling, wife. You’re not the first to have called this morning, seems all the chickens are coming home to roost, no wonder he’s been looking so bloody worried. Now come on sweetheart, bugger off, I’ve got work to do.”

“Just one last thing, where am I calling?”

“Where? That’s a silly bloody question isn’t it, luv? This is British Telecom. Anything else I can help you with or can I get on with something that actually matters?”

“No, that’s plenty thanks, unless you have Mr Clark’s home number?”

“Darling, I’ve got all the numbers here. You probably do too. This is BT remember? Every Mr Clark in London. There’s about three thousand of them in the phone book. I suggest you start looking.”

He laughed and hung up.

Saz poured more coffee and turned on the TV. Helen Daniels was looking puzzled too.

I handed her the champagne, warm from my nervous hands and she motioned me inside. No kiss. No hug. Had I misread her totally? Was this just a 10.15pm visit for coffee? And if so how soon could I reasonably leave to get the last tube home?

The sitting room assaulted me with a garish mix of colours and sensations – Persian carpet, geranium oil burning, Liza Minnelli singing, plants and books. Books everywhere. Two deep on bookshelves, on and under the tables, covering the mantelpiece, piled on the floor in completely random arrangement. She obviously hadn’t heard of the Dewey Decimal System. The place looked less ordered than Dolores’ diary, which was saying something.

I waited for her to speak.

I’m sitting opposite the Woman with the Kelly McGillis body now. But I don’t wait for her to speak anymore.

“My nephew doesn’t understand why my mummy doesn’t make me tidy my room.”

She moved some cushions from under a pile of papers
(The Guardian, The Independent
and
New Moon)
and told me to sit down. She put the champagne in the fridge and handed me white wine. Chilled. She offered nuts and crisps. Japanese rice crackers. We mentioned work. She
told me her boss was leaving, that she was nervous, scared she’d lose her job. I imagined her flat cost a lot in mortgage repayments. It was big and would have been spacious if not for all the books. Three doors led off the room we were in – one to a large kitchen, red and black, tiled floor and walls. Huge state-of-the-art fridge (ice maker) and cooker (eye-level grill). Four shelves of cookery books. Titles in Japanese and Italian. Gleaming sets of crockery. Shiny glasses. Six of everything. Whole sets, nothing broken. Microwave and blender and juice extractor shone, spotlit from lights hidden in recesses in the ceiling. I tried not to look too impressed, too poor. As if I too could afford a kitchen from the pages of one of those magazines. As if I could afford one of those magazines.

“I love big kitchens,” I told her. “I expect you love cooking in here, all these gadgets, all this space.”

She inherited the flat lock, stock, barrel and fully furnished from her aunt. No payment involved. And she never cooks. The only thing she added to the place were the books.

Books which now line the shelves of our home. Neatly. In alphabetical order.

We exchanged pleasantries for a painfully long ten minutes. Work, weather and the United Nations. Just as I began to plan my route home and how I would manage to fend off Dolores’ questions, she grabbed my hair, pulled me to her.

She said “Kiss me.”

So I did.

We began gently. Soft kisses on her full lips. Soft kisses on my soft lips. She pulled at me, sucking my lower lip, sucking as if it was my nipple. Sucking my lips like I used
them to give nourishment, not to take it. Her tongue tasted the cool white wine on my teeth.

She opened the door to the bedroom, as I took in the cupboards – at least ten of them, the mirrors – one on each wall and the bedspread – Indian, red and purple, woven with threads of gold and silver, she removed her clothes.

I found her again between the black sheets. I started to undress.

She said “No, slowly. Do it for me. Do it slowly.”

Typical. Bloody audiences. They think actors want to perform all the time.

They’re right.

I undid my boots, slowly pulling the laces from their holes, trying not to seem any more Jungian than necessary. I slipped off my jacket – hung it on the back of the door. Between two dressing-gowns, both silk, one red, one emerald green. I wondered which I’d use in the morning. I was wearing an ankle length black dress. Fitted bodice, then full from a drop waist. I undid the buttons and let the dress fall to the ground. I didn’t pick it up. There was a mirror just above her head where she lay in bed. I watched her watching me. And watched myself being watched. Saw my body. Sheer black tights under a black lace camisole. Pink nipples just blushing through the black. My reflection, like Alice in the looking glass, half believing the cliché I presented. I saw the body she longed to touch. I touched the body she longed to touch. I saw my hand tempting her against the black lace. I saw the full white cleavage. My body. With one movement I removed both camisole and tights and stood before her naked. Pubes vibrant testimony to the authenticity of my red hair.

She nodded and smiled, “Very good.”

I laughed, “Very practised.”

I sat beside her on the bed, began to trace the line of her collarbone. The line down to her breasts.

We were taking this slowly. Each editing the passages we’d written for this night. Editing two separate accounts of the same situation to make one homogenous version. Homogenous sounds like milk. Pasteurised. Cleaned. Our scripts were neither milky white nor germ free. But for one moment they were the same.

And for this moment they are the same too. Because she isn’t arguing with me now.

I pulled the sheets back and gently lowered myself on to her body. I lay on top of her. We breathed in rhythm. She in, me out. Me in, she out. My still soft nipples found hers erect and hard. Her hip bones, narrower than mine, fitted between mine, my flesh meeting her bone. Hip bones to pierce me on, St Sebastian, hip bones to pierce me. My toes reached down to her ankles, her longer legs passing mine. With my hands I stroked the side of her body, she began to touch my back. Touching my back, scratching my back. Kneading my pliant, compliant flesh. Needing my flesh. Her hands found my hair and pulled it, sharp so my neck and body arched back, pushing my pubic bone into hers. She pulled harder, pushing me harder into her own body. With her hands in my hair, I became the lever with which she made herself come, as I rocked faster and faster on top of her I saw myself in the mirror above her bed. Saw the crown of her head, saw her hands in my hair, locked into my locks, saw my white throat, so vulnerable, so exposed, saw my breasts, thrusting forward as they crashed down on to hers. Saw myself the wave crashing on her shore. She came with a violent shudder and threw me off her. I rested
as the aftershocks ran through her and she came round. Came to. Came back to herself. Came after coming. A while later she opened her eyes and smiled at me. A languorous smile, a sated smile, the smile of a plan well executed.

It’s a smile I know well. It’s the smile I smile to myself these days. Sometimes.

I asked her if she came.

“Darling, you’re the performer, not me. Of course I came, and came and came, what did you think that was? Going?”

I didn’t know what answer to give so I kissed her instead. I kissed her mouth and her breasts and her navel. I was about to kiss further but she pulled me up to her and said,

“Not tonight sweetheart. I promise in future I’ll give you plenty of chances to play with me, but tonight is the first night so tonight we take turns. We do it evenly. Share and share alike.”

She ran her hand over my breast and swiftly down to my stomach, then without pausing she held me round the neck, with one hand she pulled my hair fierce and tight, with the other she fucked me. Fast. Hard. And deep. So deep I couldn’t quite catch my breath. Between gasps I tried to speak.

“Don’t you … believe … aaah … believe in … ooh … oh God … don’t you believe in pre … in preliminaries? … oh fuck!”

“Shut up.”

She kissed me, her tongue far into my mouth. I lay on my back. Legs splayed, one arm pinned behind me, the other behind her, my body slightly arched where she still pulled my hair taut, her tongue thrusting against mine, her whole
hand plumbing my depths. I felt myself start to come. She felt it too and leaving her fingers in me, found my clitoris with her thumb. Her fingers inside me and her thumb outside of me pinched me between them in frantic, circling jabs, I saw the long dark tunnel, felt myself being rushed to the white wall at the end of it. Felt myself about to smash headlong into it, and just as I hit the wall, melted inwards, down from my toes and fingers into the centre of my sex, felt the blood rush to the centre, the way the sea drags back from the beach, miles and miles back, so it can build itself huge, minutes before the tsunami crashes on the shore.