Fire After Dark (6 page)

Never mind, I’ll just have to pretend to be your typical British eccentric if anyone asks.

No one will ask, I remind myself. No one gives a damn. That’s what’s seductive about this city. I can be whoever or whatever I like. It’s so different from home, where a change of hair colour can spark a frenzied debate that grips the entire populace.

We walk through dark streets and then come out onto a busy main road with cars, buses and taxis whizzing along it. We cross it and then are in some chic, pedestrian byways, with unusual boutiques and bars and pubs buzzing with young people standing about on the pavements, drinking and smoking. I’m worried I’ll lose Mr R and the woman as they weave through the crowd but they’re moving at a regular pace, obviously utterly unaware that they’re being followed. We’re heading into a different part of the city and I soon see bars of a more vibrant nature. Rainbow flags hang outside some – they’re gay bars, I recognise the emblem – others have discreetly curtained entrances. I realise that I can see women dressed in miniskirts and bustiers standing outside doorways hanging with glittering streamers.

The red-light district?
I think disbelievingly.
This is where they’re going?

We pass a couple of seedy-looking shops and just as I’m wondering what on earth is happening, we come out in a busy, vibrant area with yet another identity. This has a curious mixture of business and play: everywhere I can see work buildings, the kind devoted to media pursuits of film, television, advertising and marketing, but around them are countless bars and restaurants. There are people everywhere, in all kinds of dress, from sloppy and casual, to sharp and very expensive. They are dining on food of all kinds in every sort of restaurant, or drinking wine, beer or cocktails at tables on the pavement. The air has curious aroma of a summer evening mixed with the bitterness of petrol fumes and cigarette smoke, and the cooking smells of hundred of restaurants. This place is humming with activity of a kind that won’t begin to lose momentum until the early hours, long after theatres have closed and the pubs have shut.

But I can see that this isn’t just a place devoted to work and consumption. There’s something else going on here too. The first indication is when I walk past a sex shop, one of those high-street ones that seem mostly to sell feather boas, naughtily shaped chocolates and saucy underwear to hen parties. Although they’ve got their fair share of brightly coloured vibrating plastic, they don’t seem all that interested in sex itself but more as a phwoar-style joke. But soon I see another shop selling gear of another order altogether. The mannequins in the illuminated window are wearing shiny plastic boots, zipped or laced, with vertiginous heels, fishnet stockings, crotchless lace panties, studded garter belts and leather bras, some studded, some spiked, all with holes for the nipples. The models wear leather caps or masks, and hold whips in their hand. Inside the shop, I see rails of outfits and more underwear and for a moment I’m tempted to move inside and touch some of them.

Hardly have I taken this in than I’m passing another kind of shop, this time a bookshop. In the window are displays of artistic-looking black-and-white volumes, but they are unashamedly devoted to the naked human body, the human body in all sorts of exotic sex gear and the human body locked in embrace with another human body . . .

Mr R and the woman are still walking ahead of me, and the pavements are busy with people. I’m trying to keep them in sight while also taking in the fact that I’m now passing a sex shop, beautifully presented and with gold angel wings over the door, but a sex shop all the same, cautioning anyone who’s entering that they must be over 18 and not offended by adult material.

I know where I am. This must be Soho.

I’m not such an innocent that I haven’t heard of the famous red-light district of London, but its seedy days are clearly long behind it. There’s nothing furtive or grubby about all this. The streets are awash with money and glamour, filled with all sorts of people and entertaining every sort of lifestyle, and none of them seem the least perturbed by the flagrant display of sexual paraphernalia. It simply exists alongside all the other aspects of human indulgence.

But still, I feel like a country bumpkin among all of this. The truth is, I’ve never seen anything like it, and I feel strange even looking at such things in public. Adam and I felt self-conscious about holding hands, and even alone we hardly ever discussed exactly what we were doing with one another. I can’t imagine walking into a place like these shops and casually picking up bits and pieces that would announce to everyone that I was in the habit of having sex, of putting on gear like that or of using the toys and gadgets they had on offer. I mean, chocolate body paint is one thing, a huge throbbing vibrator something else entirely. I picture myself standing at the till, handing over a sex toy and then paying for it without dying of embarrassment. There’s only one way I’m going to use it, after all, and the idea of having someone know that is almost more than I could bear.

Just then, Mr R turns a sharp left and we cross a dark square, then another road and take another turn along a small street that’s lit only by one lamp burning orange in the night. It’s like stepping back in time: it’s lined by tall Regency houses set back from the path behind iron railings, each with a metal staircase leading down to a basement. I can’t tell if these are private houses or hotels or businesses, their elegant paned windows are mostly shuttered, some with a golden line showing there is light and life behind them.

The couple in front of me go straight to one of the houses of dark red-brown brick and descend the stairs, their steps resounding on the metal, and a moment later a door opens and they disappear inside. When I’m sure that they’re well and truly in, I go to the railings and peer over. Below are two large windows, not shuttered as they look out below street level, and I can see that the room beyond is dimly lit and figures are moving inside. What place is this? A bar? A private house?

I have no idea, and I’m far too shy to find out more. When a deep voice says ‘Excuse me’ and a man in a smart suit goes by me, marching smartly down the stairs with absolute purpose and going through the door, I step back, feeling foolish. I can’t follow them any more and I can hardly wait around for them. I’m going to have to find my way home on my own, but I have a feeling that Oxford Street is nearby and if I can locate that, I’ll be able to get home from there.

You’re acting really strangely,
I tell myself sternly. But I can’t help it. I have the sense of a world of adventure existing somewhere very close nearby which I long to be a part of. It’s closed to me, but open to Mr R and his girlfriend. Somewhere, they’re living a life a thousand times more exciting than mine, than anything I’ve ever known during my quiet, provincial life. I ought to leave them to it, but I can’t. It’s as though I’ve stumbled on a small shining thread and I can’t help pulling it, no matter how much it might cause my life to unravel.

I take off my raincoat.

It’s time to go home.

I walk back the way I’ve come, looking at street names until I see some I recognise from looking at my map earlier. As I follow the way I believe leads back to Oxford Street, I see a shop that is still open alongside some small cafe bars and restaurants. It looks like a bookshop but with pretty knick-knacks as well, and on impulse I step inside.

A smiling grey-haired woman greets me as I come in and then makes a point of leaving me to myself as I begin to browse. I can see why: the books cover all manner of topics but principally they are erotic – saucy novels, pictures and poems. I wander about, glancing at titles and resisting the impulse to open the covers. I can’t, not with someone here to see what interests me. I move away from the books and inspect the beautifully drawn sketches on the wall, then gasp and flush, casting around quickly to see if I’ve been noticed. The pictures are graphic depictions of sex. The bodies are headless, the artist concentrating only the torsos of the subjects and the way they are joined together: a woman sits straddled on a man, her back arching and her hands on his chest; another is kneeling forward on a divan, a man engulfed in her bulging sex and thrusting into her from behind.

I’m scarlet. Wherever I look, I see something else: hands holding a huge erection, a woman bending over it as if in worship; the most intimate parts of a female spread open and inviting, fingers parting it to give full access. A woman and two huge penises, one penetrating at the front, one at the back . . .

Oh my God. What is all this?

I look about for something else to focus on and move towards a large walnut glass-fronted cabinet with beautiful objects on the shelves. I can see carved marble and jade and crystal, fine leather and velvet.

I gasp again. I’m so many different kinds of fool. I’m looking at a wide variety of obscenely beautiful sex toys. I can see handwritten cards beside each one:

Jade pleasure-giving dildo £545

Crystal butt plug £230

Marble eggs £200 for the three

A string of onyx love pearls £400

On the shelf beneath is a collection of slender leather riding whips and an antique walking stick with a carved handle which, as I look harder, I can see is the long shaft of a phallus, its testicles tucked up at the base.

At the bottom are some metal implements that baffle me until I see the little cards beside them: they are nipple clamps and vices for seizing the tenderest parts of the body. Beside them are handcuffs in black leather lined with white fur, and slender plaited ropes in different colours.

‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ asks a voice. The woman is standing near me now, looking friendly, but I am immediately full of confusion.

‘Oh . . . no, thank you . . . I’m just looking.’

‘Okay.’ She looks at me as though she completely understands my embarrassment and at once I feel a little more relaxed. She gestures to shelves on the other side of the room. ‘There are some other bits and pieces over here if this is a little pricy for you. This really is our
objets d’arts
range. Those are more affordable.’

She leads me over to them. There are a huge variety of rubber and latex toys here, some like enormous rockets with all manner of projections, some smooth and slender like stylish pens in bright greens, blues and pinks. ‘You’ll probably have heard of some of these before.’ She sees where I’m looking. ‘Those thin ones are more for anal use, if you’re wondering. The traditional vaginal ones are these larger ones. This, for example’ – she picks up one of the monsters – ‘is quite famous, and one of our bestsellers.’

I stare and draw a loud intake of breath without meaning to. It’s so long and thick. Can it really be accommodated in . . .
in there
? I’ve never used a sex toy, never even really imagined it, and now I can’t envisage how it would fit anyone, let alone me. I’ve only ever had sex with one man and though he was perfectly well endowed, he certainly wasn’t anything like this size.

The woman indicates one of the larger protrusions on its shaft. ‘This is the clitoral stimulator. You can leave it just as it is, or . . .’ She flicks a switch on the base and the little thumb-like swelling starts to hum and move in a grinding motion. It also flickers with little lights inside it, as though it’s dancing at its own personal disco. She smiles at me. ‘This works a treat. It’s one of the reasons it’s our bestseller. And look at this.’ She presses another switch and the whole shaft begins vibrating, a large inner ring pulsing up and down it, bulging in and out. It hums in a low, rhythmic way that reminds me of De Havilland’s purring, which makes it seem like rather a happy thing. It looks strangely alive, especially with the lights glowing inside it – like some extraordinary and dense jellyfish. I can’t help almost gulping at the sight. After a moment, the woman switches it off and puts the monster down. ‘We’ve got plenty of others as well. Just ask me if you’d like any more explanation. I’m here to help.’

‘Thank you.’ I stare at the range of vibrators and feel a strange sense of excitement building in me. People do this. Normal people. Not perverts or nymphomaniacs, but normal women with sexual urges. The truth is that sex is one of things that I’ve been mourning over. Without Adam, I’ve lost not just my friend and the man I’ve given my heart to, but my lover, the man who touches me, kisses me, hugs me. The man who desired me, who longed to caress my breasts and run his hands over my hips, who wanted to know my intimate places and love them, with his tongue, his fingers and his cock. Now he’s gone and my body is already crying out for his attention. When I’ve cried into my pillow at night, weeping over Adam’s betrayal and the knowledge that he’s now doing all those things with someone else, I’ve also been grieving for the loss of physical love and the pleasure it brought me. Could these things – the little buzzers to be held to that most tender nub, the bobbled, battery-powered rubber shafts with G-spot tantalisers – be the answer?

You could buy one. There’s no one else here. The woman is friendly and anyway, you’ll never see her again. She doesn’t care what you want to do with it . . .

If there was ever a place to explore and experiment, then the solitude of Celia’s flat is the place to do it.

Then I remember. I came out without my money. I don’t have any way of buying anything. All the deliciously enticing thoughts disappear and suddenly I feel that I want to be at home.

‘Thank you,’ I call to the shop lady, and I turn, thrusting my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat, and hurry out, the shop bell chiming behind me as the door closes.

I concentrate on finding my way back to Randolph Gardens, but even as I stride towards the busier street, I’m aware that something has changed. I’m alive in a different way, tingling, aware even of the breeze against my cheek and the way it tickles. Beneath my coat, I’m hot and needy.