Ice and a Slice (6 page)

Chapter Six

It was several weeks before they moved beyond friendship and SJ found Tom’s patience both sweet and unsettling. Her overactive imagination went into overdrive. She began to worry he might have some hidden reason why he didn’t want to seduce her. Perhaps he had a complex about his body, like a guy she’d been out with at college who’d insisted they always make love in the dark. Then on one memorable morning when he’d stayed over and all the covers had fallen off, she’d woken up to find herself face to face with a life size tattoo of Margaret Thatcher’s head on his back. That had been very disconcerting.

One evening, about two months after her first date with Tom, when they were having an after-work drink at The Feathers, she asked him if he had any tattoos.

“Yeah, I have actually,” he confessed, smiling at her. “I had it done when I was on an eighteen-to-thirty holiday with the boys. I was drunk at the time – I’ve regretted it ever since. Why? Don’t you like tattoos?”

“It depends,” SJ replied, feeling her heart start to thud. “It’s not a person, is it?”

“No.” Tom looked amused. “It’s no one’s name either – I wasn’t that drunk.”

“Phew,” SJ said, although she hadn’t considered girls’ names. That wouldn’t have been too good either – finding a girl’s name tattooed down your lover’s manhood would be very off-putting. Not, of course, that Tom had said where the tattoo was – but she’d seen most bits of him. It had been a blazing summer and they’d sunbathed in the park quite a bit, as well as visiting the gym when she was feeling industrious – Tom loved the pool – and she’d seen no sign of any tattoos, so it had to be somewhere quite discreet.

“Where is it?” she pressed.

“On my bum.”

“Can I see it?”

“I don’t see why not. Although I don’t think I ought to show you in here. We might get kicked out.”

“Let’s go back to your place.” SJ gulped down her wine, her inhibitions having vanished with the second glass, and wondered if she’d have suggested such a thing if she hadn’t drunk quite so much.

Tom looked at her thoughtfully.

“I’ve never known you so anxious to leave a pub before. Is that a proposition?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling slightly embarrassed that she’d had to ask for a peek at his tattoo in order to move things on a bit. He should have been the one doing the asking. Derek had seduced her within hours of their first meeting.

On the way home, she worried that Tom might have some other reason for not wanting to take her to bed. Perhaps he had genital herpes or some other horrible disease. Perhaps he was impotent. Or shy? Or had only one testicle – or no testicles at all. Perhaps he was really a woman. Oh God, what was she doing? Perhaps she should call the whole thing off before they got to his flat.

But the real reason was so blindingly obvious it never even occurred to her. He told her what it was when they got back to his maisonette – although he was pretty oblique, even about that.

“SJ, are you sure about this?” he asked, one hand on his bedroom door.

“Sure about seeing your tattoo? Yes, I can’t wait.” She smiled at him. “Why? Have you changed your mind about showing me?”

He blinked a couple of times and frowned. “We’re not just talking about seeing my tattoo, though, are we? If I’m going to strip off in front of you, then I don’t think I’ll have the self control to get dressed again without – well – you know – taking our relationship a stage further.” He was blushing, she saw, feeling a little tug of tenderness. He was such a nice man.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” The words were out of her mouth before she’d put her brain in gear. And she wished she could retract them because they sounded so tactless, not to mention hurtful. There was nothing wrong with being a virgin, even at thirty-five. Tom was a very nice guy. He was bound to have a good reason.

“No, of course I’m not a virgin.” He shut his eyes and sighed. “I just don’t sleep around. As, I’m sure, you don’t.”

“No.” She felt light-headed with wanting him, and the idea of them making love, now it was out in the air, was impossible to put back in its box.

Yet still he hesitated and suddenly she was afraid it was her. He didn’t want her because she wasn’t attractive, because she’d been too pushy, because he didn’t see her as anything other than a friend. In an instant she was full of self doubt.

“I’ve never slept around,” SJ said again, aching with insecurity and shame. She’d had boyfriends at college and uni, sometimes quite unsuitable ones, but once she’d met Derek that had been it – and there had been no one since. Her confidence had been smashed to pieces when they had separated. It was Tom, she realised, who had helped her pick up the pieces again.

“And I wanted you to be sure you were ready,” Tom continued softly.

READY? If she got any more ready she’d need another pair of knickers. She nearly told Tom that, then decided he might think that too pushy as well. But it really was amazing how a bit of drawn out expectation could heighten your arousal.

“Yes, I am absolutely sure I’d like us to make love,” she said, putting a hand on Tom’s arm and propelling him into the bedroom. Which she thought was incredibly restrained – because what she’d actually have liked to do was hurl him to the floor and rip off all his clothes.

“So are you going to show me your tattoo?”

He still wasn’t in a hurry. He crossed the room, drew the curtains and put on the bedside light, which threw soft shadows over his red and black striped duvet cover.

She’d never seen his bedroom before. It was a typical bachelor room – neat, with a white towelling robe on the back of the door and a copy of Richard Branson’s autobiography on the bedside table. The way she felt now, SJ couldn’t believe he’d managed to keep her out of it for so long.

“I haven’t got any tattoos,” she joked as he came back across the room. “I haven’t got anything interesting to show you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” He kissed her and she found herself hoping he wasn’t a man who spent hours on foreplay. Their slowly building relationship had been all the foreplay she’d needed – not to mention the long months of celibacy before it.

She slid her hands up his back and tugged his shirt from his jeans.

“So impatient,” he said, but that was the last resistance he put up, thank God. Within a few moments they were both undressed, from the waist up anyway. He had a great body: finely muscled, with a light smattering of dark hair on his chest and a thin line leading downwards.

He let her unfasten his jeans, but he tugged them down himself. His boxers came with them, and he kicked them off onto the carpet.

“I thought you wanted to see my tattoo,” he said, huskily, as she stared downwards. He had a pretty fine erection, which was much more interesting than his tattoo, but she decided to humour him and had a peek at his bottom.

“Delicious,” she said, touching the curved warmth of his skin. The tattoo itself was a rose and didn’t hold her attention for long. Fortunately, he didn’t seem too set on giving her a full inspection of it either. He tugged her towards the bed with a slight moan, deftly removed the rest of her clothes and SJ got so carried away she forgot to hold her stomach in – ah well – he’d find out soon enough that her washboard stomach was the result of hold-you-in pants and not workouts. They collapsed on the duvet in a tangle of limbs.

After that, apart from a brief pause while he foraged for a condom in his bedside table, there were no further distractions. Considering the build-up they’d had, it wasn’t the most exciting sex in the world. It was over far too soon, but SJ put that down to newness and overexcitement. Perfection came with practice. They could work on the finer details later.

“Sorry,” Tom said, as he slid out of her, holding the condom so it didn’t slip off. “I’d planned on lasting a bit longer than that.”

“It was wonderful,” SJ said. And in a way it had been. Just before he’d come Tom had told her again how beautiful she was.

Now, as she looked at the strong planes of his face, she was filled with a quiet contentment. She was not the ugly unlovable person she had felt since things had gone so horribly wrong with Derek. Maybe she would be able to love again.

Chapter Seven

The morning after she’d been to S.A.A.D SJ woke up with a hangover and a vague sense of remorse. The bed was cold. Tom must have left hours ago. His ability to head brightly off to work with a hangover had always amazed her.

They’d both drunk far too much last night. She had a vague memory of them making love too, which had been more functional than fun – at least for her. Success and sex went together for Tom. They always had, and SJ knew she should have mentioned long ago that their lovemaking wasn’t always as good for her as she pretended. But telling him that had got harder as time went on. Small white lies that had seemed harmless when told had a habit of growing into whopping great big ones.

Blinking sleepily, she reached for her mobile which had just bleeped with a text and found a message from Tanya.

How’s it going? Did you stick to target? Ring me.

SJ sighed. What time was it anyway? Eight thirty-five – shit, she was going to be late if she wasn’t careful. Her class didn’t start until ten, but she had to get things prepared and she needed at least three mugs of strong coffee to face a roomful of students.

SJ rarely had any absentees in her classes and students often came early so they could ask her questions. She encouraged it. It wasn’t a chore to talk about a subject she loved.

Today, however, she could have done with just a few minutes to gather herself. She felt unravelled, probably because of oversleeping. The headache wasn’t helping either. She was popping out Nurofen from their foil when Jimmy, one of her younger students, bounded into the classroom.

“Hiya, SJ. Any chance you could spare me a sec? There’s a couple of things I’d really like to run by you …” He was at her desk now and she gave him her most blazing smile to make up for the fact she wasn’t exactly on top form.

“Heavy night, was it?” He brushed a lock of unruly dark hair out of his eyes. “Sympathies, mate.”

“Just a slight headache,” SJ said, alarmed that he’d seen straight through her smile disguise.

“Tush,” Jimmy said, which she wasn’t sure meant he believed her or not. But at least he was grinning. He pulled a chair up to her desk, the scrape of chair legs on floor tiles overloud. SJ tried not to wince.

Jimmy smelled of aftershave and young man’s hormones. SJ couldn’t remember if she’d put on scent this morning. She had a routine on hangover days – one in which she metamorphosed from a bleary-eyed, blotchy-faced wreck into a shiny, bouncy professional. It was amazing what make up, a smile and a heavy dollop of enthusiasm could do. But sometimes lately, she had noticed the transformation had got harder. Getting older had a lot to answer for.

Fortunately, by the time the rest of her class had arrived – three coffees later and the Nurofen had also kicked in – she was her usual self again. Her students were a mixture. They ranged from youngsters like Jimmy, who were on a catch up from courses they hadn’t completed or done at college – to people who thought A-level English Literature would be useful for their career. She also had one lady, Sylvia, who was in her seventies and just wanted to keep her mind active.

SJ loved the teaching part. She enjoyed the course preparation too. She wasn’t so keen on the marking part, but the very worst bit – the bit she had complained to Kit about – was the endless aims and objectives and learning outcomes part that the government insisted every tutor do for every student on a weekly basis to secure funding – and to ‘prove’ that learning had taken place.

This was, as far as SJ could see, a complete and utter waste of both the students’ and her time.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Harry, one of the art tutors, who SJ bumped into when she took her register back to the office. “If they give us much more paperwork there won’t be time for teaching. And my course isn’t even an exam subject. Totally ridiculous.”

“SJ, did you see that letter in your register file?” called out the receptionist in between taking phone calls.

SJ hadn’t, but she pulled it out now.

Harry glanced at it over her shoulder. “Fan mail?” he joked. “Or someone having a whinge?”

SJ blushed. “One of my ex students has just got into Oxford. He’s writing to thank me.”

“Hey – isn’t that something. You should frame that one.”

SJ stuffed the letter into her bag, pleased despite herself. Letters like this one made up for the paperwork. By the time she had filled in her time sheet and walked back out into the lunchtime sunshine the last vestiges of her hangover had disappeared.

She was almost home when she remembered the text from Tanya. Yesterday, in the mood of relief, confession and sisterly solidarity, she’d promised Tanya faithfully she wouldn’t lie about her drinking – well, not to Tanya anyway.

When she got back she phoned and confessed she’d gone slightly over the top the previous night, but qualified this by saying there was bound to be a certain adjustment period.

Tanya sighed. “I meant what I said yesterday, you know. I’ll help in any way I can. Do you want me to come over later – so I can keep you on the straight and narrow?”

“That’s very sweet of you, but I’m busy. It’s my Poetry and a Pint night.”

There was a small silence which, to SJ’s over-sensitive ears, sounded accusing, and she felt the need to fill it with an explanation.

“It’s work, not pleasure. I’m teaching so I can’t drink too much. I mean, the pint’s practically metaphorical. Honestly, Tanya, I’m not that irresponsible. I mean, I’m glad I went yesterday – obviously – but I don’t think I need any more sessions. It’s not as though I’ve got a serious problem. Thanks for the offer anyway,” she added, pleased with herself for being so open and honest.

“What did Tom say?”

“Not much. He’s just been promoted.”

They talked about Tom’s promotion for a while and then SJ managed to change the subject before she gave herself away and let it slip that she hadn’t yet said anything to Tom.

“Anyway, enough of me. We sorted all my problems out yesterday. Haven’t you got any?”

She wasn’t expecting Tanya to say yes, but her friend gave the slightest of hesitations and suddenly her instincts told her she was right on target.

“It’s something to do with all those texts, isn’t it? Oh, Tanya, I’ve been really selfish. What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?”

“Because we had other things to discuss,” Tanya said. “And my problems are minor compared to yours.”

“Mine are minor, too,” SJ said, torn between guilt that she’d been so selfish and relief that she wasn’t the only one with a problem. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“I can’t on the phone.”

“What if I come round? I don’t have to go out until later.”

“No, don’t worry. It’s nothing urgent. Besides, I’m working. We can talk about it next time I see you. There’s no rush. It’s not the sort of thing that’s going to disappear overnight.”

Intrigued, SJ agreed that next time they met they’d devote the entire time to Tanya’s problems and her friend laughed nervously.

“We probably won’t need to, but thanks, you’re a good friend.”

SJ hung up, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t like her beautiful, self-assured friend to have serious problems. Not ones that involved text messages from someone who SJ was suddenly sure wasn’t Michael. Briefly, she considered the possibility that Tanya was having an affair. But that was ludicrous. Tanya would never have an affair. She adored her husband.

She was still thinking about Tanya as she gathered her stuff together for her Poetry and a Pint class. The Red Lion was within walking distance at a stretch, but she usually caught the bus because she had too much to carry – she had a cupboard at the pub, but it wasn’t very big and SJ had a fear of being under prepared. As the bus trundled through the housing estates she wondered if it was Michael who was having an affair. But that didn’t explain Tanya’s texts. Unless she was speaking to his mistress. No – unlikely. She’d seemed embarrassed by the texts, guilty almost, but not upset or annoyed. Still deep in thought, SJ crossed the pub car park, called out a greeting to Jim, who was polishing glasses and didn’t answer, and headed up the uncarpeted back stairs to her room.

Poetry and a Pint was a delightful antidote to English Literature. There were no exams, no stress and she didn’t even have a fixed syllabus – she tended to flow with the group. Her seven students were united by their love of poetry and they were a diverse bunch. At the moment she had two performance poets, Matt and Steve, whose work was quite edgy; Matt wrote rap and Steve wrote controversial free verse. An older married couple, Bruce and Sybil, published anthologies of Christian verse, but had an excellent sense of humour and luckily were not easily offended. The rest of the class were women who just liked poetry and wanted something to do on a Wednesday night. One of them, Dorothy, who was always beautifully dressed and made-up – she reminded SJ of the women who worked on the posh make up section of a department store – wrote erotic novels as her day job.

Fascinated when she’d discovered this, SJ had volunteered herself as a proof reader if ever Dorothy wanted one.

At first she’d laughingly refused. “It might change the way you see me. And besides, you’re busy enough with your teaching, I’m sure.”

“I’m not too busy to help you – it’s always a pleasure to look at your work. And besides, it’s my job.”

“We both know that’s not true. This is a poetry class, after all. Reading chapters of my bonk-busters does not constitute teaching me poetry.”

“I don’t mind helping. You know I don’t. So how’s the latest one going?”

“Slowly. My editor’s told me I need more sex in it – a wee bit more spice – you know.”

Dorothy winked, but SJ fancied she saw a trace of wistfulness behind the humour. “I must say I do find it hard going since I lost my Alfie. We used to have such fun trying out all these new positions.” She shot SJ a wicked smile, and added, “I’ve only my memories to rely on now, hen, although I’m not complaining. I’ve plenty of those.”

SJ giggled. She’d seen Dorothy in a whole different light since she’d read her novels. Romantic they might be; Barbara Cartland they were certainly not.

People were endlessly fascinating, SJ decided, as she set up the tables and chairs in her room and liberated the white board from its dusty cupboard. The faces they wore for the world weren’t always a true reflection of what was going on underneath. All authors could be glimpsed through their writing, but poetry tended to unveil people completely.

She’d once had a student, a teenager, who had read out a poem about having a miscarriage. Towards the end of it her voice had begun to shake and by the time she’d stopped reading the entire class had been in tears.

SJ had abandoned her desk and given her a hug. There had really been nothing else to do, and the class had talked about heartbreak and life for the rest of the session.

Afterwards, Dorothy had stayed behind.

“Well done,” she’d said, her soft Scottish accent colouring her words. “You were very good with that wee girl.”

“I think she just needed to get it out of her system,” SJ said.

“Yes, love, I think you’re right.”

SJ was glad that it didn’t happen too often, but she was well aware of the cathartic effects of poetry – she’d written a whole heap of angry poetry when she’d been a teenager, and some more equally self-indulgent poems when she’d split up with Derek. Not that she was ever planning on showing them to anyone. They were for her eyes only, but they had helped her deal with her pain.

Her students began to arrive. She heard voices and the clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs as they collected their pints from the bar en route to class, as was the tradition.

SJ got herself a pint of Diet Coke, despite having to put up with a flurry of teasing comments ranging from, “Are you ill, Teach?” from Matt to “Blimey, the girl’s on Coke – what is the world coming to? I thought this was poetry and a pint!” from one of the women.

She ignored their good-natured jibes and was pleased to reach the end of the session stone cold sober. This was easy – she’d certainly achieve her target tonight. By the time she’d got in and they’d eaten and cleared up, it would be time for bed. And as they’d made love last night, Tom wouldn’t be expecting to do it again. So they could have an early night and she’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow. Alcoholic – pah! She was beginning to feel something bordering on smugness as she said her goodbyes and headed for home.

The table was already laid when she got in. Tom had recently invested in a pasta maker, declaring that nothing beat fresh pasta – a sentiment SJ wholeheartedly agreed with. She hoped they were having pasta tonight. An open bottle of Merlot stood warming on the back of the oven. She glanced at it, suppressed the urge to pour herself a large glass and fetched a Diet Coke from the fridge instead.