The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (15 page)

And as she started to take off her top, she was singing very softly. I'd heard the English variation of the song before, but this was the first time that I had heard Charles Trenet's original French version of ‘La Mer'. She knew every word of it; I could not take my eyes off her. She stood just a few feet in front of me and took off her fleece before letting it fall to the floor. She kicked off her espadrilles, and then pulled off her trousers. I don't know how she did it, but she managed to make it all look so unbelievably sexy. Firm, solid thighs, a rider's thighs, well-muscled and used to hard work. She was wearing simple white cotton knickers. I loved that. I longed to stretch out and touch her, and to taste her skin, but I knew that in this first dance, Cally had the lead.

She had on a white cotton shirt and was still singing in French as she unbuttoned it. She unbuttoned the cuffs and then she stepped out of her shirt and towards me. I marvelled. She was quite unlike any of my other lovers. In Cally, there was no rake-thin flesh, no obsession with diet and drink and no absurd quest for the Perfect Size Zero like there is today. Her hips rolled out from underneath the elastic of her knickers, and as for her breasts, they positively strained against the confines of her bra. She was sexy as hell.

She stretched behind her, undid the clasps, and her white bra fell to the floor.

‘How am I doing so far?' she said.

‘Pretty well.'

‘Can I join you?'

‘I'd like that.' I stretched a hand up to her. ‘I'd like that very much.'

I lay back on the bed and Cally lay on top off me, her warm skin pressed hard against mine. She kissed me, our legs locked with each other and for a moment we writhed.

We kissed again and she broke off and she smiled at me. ‘I don't know about you,' she said, ‘and this may sound a bit previous. But I'm…' She kissed me again. ‘I'm very excited at the prospect of making love with you.'

‘Are you now?'

‘Very,' she said. ‘But, actually there is one thing: the
petit mort
, if you don't mind me calling it that.'

‘I don't mind you talking about my little death.'

‘The other words for it are all so coarse.'

‘I've never thought about it like that, but you're probably right—'

‘Will you humour me?' she said.

‘How.'

‘When it comes to your petit mort, you must first have my permission. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘Good.' She clapped her hands. ‘But let me tell you now, Kim, that that permission will not be given lightly.'

‘But there is going to be some tit for tat isn't there?' I asked. ‘You're also going to be asking for my permission?'

‘Of course,' she said.

‘Excellent.'

As we kissed, our hands roamed free about each other's skin. For a moment her fingers strayed teasingly beneath my boxers. There was something incredibly erotic about the thin strips of cotton that still divided us.

Slowly our lips strayed from mouths to necks and chests and belly buttons and knees, with lingering tongues that promised so much yet never quite touched.

I don't know how it would have turned out if I had had my way that afternoon, but I think that after perhaps an hour or so of licking and stroking and teasing, then I might have suggested that it was time for the
coup de grace
. But not Cally. Her kisses had wandered all about my body and she had come back up for air, while I was burning with desire, like a tinder-dry forest that needs but one single spark to start an inferno.

‘Fancy a beer?' she said.

It was not remotely what I'd expected to hear, but I submitted.

‘I'd love a beer,' I said.

I watched as she sashayed over to the icebox by the sink, her gorgeous rolling hips lilting from side to side. She stooped deliciously and retrieved a single bottle of beer. She opened it, brought it back, and then straddled me as she took a deep sip from the bottle. She leant forward, her full breasts trailing lightly on my chest, and kissed me, the beer trickling from her mouth into mine.

What a way to drink an entire bottle of beer. I was as putty in her hands.

I smelled something in her hair. It was like pine resin in a verdant Spanish forest on a hot summer's day.

‘Is that turps in your hair?' I asked.

She took a lock of hair and sniffed. ‘It's like artist's turpentine,' she said. ‘It's Damask resin, a varnish. It's a bit more gummy, like a globule of tree sap.'

‘A globule of tree sap?' I echoed. ‘That's a nice turn of phrase. And what other smells do you have about you?'

‘Let me see,' she said. And she started to sniff at her hands and her forearms. ‘There's the white spirit, rather acrid, chemical, gets you right at the back of the throat.'

‘For cleaning your brushes?'

She nodded before sniffing her wrist, and when she could find nothing new there, she stretched to the floor and picked up her Musto. She put one of the sleeves to her nose and inhaled.

‘Ah!' she breathed and she inhaled again. ‘Musty and sweet. Linseed. Useful for diluting the paint mix.'

She thrust the sleeve under my nose and the smell brought back memories of summer holidays in the Cotswolds and fields of grey-blue pastel flowers. ‘Cricket bats,' I said.

She'd found another smell on the collar of her fleece. ‘And beeswax.'

‘Like honey mixed with turps.' I'd never dreamed that a single item of clothing could have held such a wealth of smells. ‘What's that for?'

‘Makes the paint more opaque. Gives it a soapy texture.'

I had the front of her Musto to my nose now and was picking up the smells of the paints themselves. I'd thought that they would smell the same, but each had its own peculiar aroma. The creamy sweet smell of titanium white and the more acidic smell of Indian yellow, which was the colour of bright turmeric.

Towards the zipper, where she'd leaned against the easel, I came across a rich vein of umbers. ‘I like these.'

She took the Musto back and held it to her face. She knew the oils without even having to open her eyes. ‘Burnt sienna,' she said. ‘Raw umber. Oh, and that's burnt umber, redder, chocolatey.'

She thrust the fleece back under my nose. ‘By the zipper. It's like damp undergrowth.'

‘Mulchy wood chips.'

Cally looked at me, arch. ‘All this talk of paint. It reminds me that…' She kissed me. ‘We need some oil.'

She broke off to start nosing through a cupboard by the sink. ‘Olive oil?' she asked. ‘Sesame oil? That might be nice. White wine vinegar? Red wine vinegar? Or even malt vinegar?'

She squatted down and I gazed at those solid, firm thighs. She was rooting through a cupboard under the sink. ‘Never seen this before,' she said, holding up what looked like a small brown medicine bottle. ‘It must be Fiona's.' She squinted at the stained label. ‘Coconut oil! Perfect!'

She asked me to lie on my front and, well trained and obedient, I submitted. I could hear her rubbing the coconut oil into her hands and then Cally's strong fingers began working at my neck and my shoulders and down the spine of my back.

‘It might be easier if I helped you off with your boxers,' she said.

‘I thought you'd never ask.' I lifted up and my boxers were eased down my legs. Her hands lingered for a moment at the bottom of my spine before moving to my legs and the backs of my knees. She was humming to herself, very happy with her work.

‘And turn over,' she said.

I turned over. She had taken off her knickers and she was naked and she was lovely.

She was sitting astride my legs. We both admired each other, eyes dwelling on supple skin and curves that dimpled.

She leant forward and took a pinch of my stomach between thumb and forefinger. ‘What it is to be young,' she said.

I cupped my hand round her waist. ‘What it is to be beautiful.'

She laughed and busied herself with more coconut oil. ‘You're a charmer.'

‘Kiss me.'

Cally looked at me in query. ‘I thought I was in charge.'

‘So you are.'

And this time, with the oil and with her lips she led me to the very brink. But not quite over the edge. I was only just coming to appreciate what a skilful practitioner she was in the art of love.

She gazed at me.

‘I like that look of hunger in your eyes,' she said.

‘I'm hungry.' I stroked her breast. I wanted her.

‘Oh you're hungry?' she said in mock surprise. ‘Well, let me make you a sandwich! I have ham. I have pickles. I have tomatoes and lettuce and mayonnaise and several pots of mustard!'

I groaned and I smiled. I don't know how long we'd been in the beach hut, but it must have been several hours.

But my darling Cally knew what all women know: when a man is hot with desire, you can lead him any which way you please. You can do with him what you will. He is a rubber band that you can wind around your fingers and knot and stretch and play with to your heart's content. It is an extraordinary power, and a woman knows it. But once a man is spent, once that rubber band has snapped, that power dissipates in a moment. We men are like balloons. You can blow the balloon up with all your might, and you can let the air out, and you can keep on blowing until the very fabric of the balloon is quivering with tension and you can let the air out again. And, if you have a mind for it and if you have the patience, you can string it out for hours on end. But when, finally, you've had the explosion and the hot air and all the noise, as we all know, the game is over.

Cally was rummaging by the sink. I watched her.

‘I can feel your eyes on me,' she said.

‘I can't look at anything else.'

She came back to the bed with a tray and on it were two rolls, some home-cooked ham, tomatoes, lettuce and, just as she'd said, a selection of pickles and mustards. She sat cross-legged at the end of the bed with the tray in front of her and would look at me occasionally as she made me a ham sandwich.

‘What do you want on it?'

‘I want everything.'

‘I'll bet you do.'

Cally's strong thumbs peeled the roll open, and then with a fine French blade she smeared on butter and pickled walnut and mustard and mayonnaise, and topped it off with two thick slices of ham.

She passed me the roll on a plate. ‘Eat,' she said. I waited until she had made her own roll.

I was suddenly very hungry. We ate in silence, looking at each other, her feet straying up towards me to stroke my knee. It was one of those sandwiches which needed two hands to keep it all under control, and even then the mustard still dripped onto my chest. She watched it, her roll suddenly forgotten.

‘I like that look of hunger in your eyes,' I said, echoing her words back at her.

She nodded at me. ‘Very good,' she said. ‘I am hungry.'

She took another small bite from her roll, but she was now watching my every move. I sensed a turning of the tide. Because although I was not spent, I was quite deliriously content, with food in my belly and the promise of all that was yet to come. Cally watched as I swallowed down the last of the roll. I wiped my lips with my fingers. She put her half-eaten roll onto the tray, put the tray onto the floor, and then she pounced. She was a very strong woman. She was on top of me and she was licking the mustard off my chest.

And so it started all over again, with the teasing and the dinking, only this time, for the first time, it was I who took Cally to the very brink.

‘Please?' she said.

‘Are you begging me?'

‘I might be.'

Our eyes were but a few inches apart. She had this lazy smile on her face.

‘I'm begging you,' she said. ‘Please, Kim.'

‘Very well.'

And hand in hand, over the edge of the abyss we went, freefalling through the air to our little deaths as the sea rushed up to meet us. And when we were done, and when all that we were left with was that calm sweep of the sea, we lay on our sides and cupped each other in our arms.

Cally stroked my nose, her forefinger running along the bridge of my snub. ‘That was something.'

‘That's an understatement.'

‘All right,' she said. ‘That was quite something.'

‘That was quite exceptional.'

She kissed me, moistly, lovingly, on the mouth. ‘And I hope it will be the first of many other somethings.'

I looked at her and then I stared out of the window. It was late afternoon by now, and our fire in the dunes was long burned out and our food long ago eaten by Goldilocks and the bears. I smiled to myself in perfect ecstasy. This woman, this calm, confident beauty, she wanted more of me; and I most definitely wanted more of her.

We spent the night together in her beach hut, with candles on the shelves and the breeze blowing in through the window. We made love again, though this time without quite so much time taxiing down the runway, and once again we were airborne and laughing and gazing at each other with such utter adoration.

What a splendid thing it is to be in love, when the slate is wiped clean and when all those past hurts and shattered dreams are forgotten in an instant.

We ate rolls and ham, and when the ham was finished, she opened up a tin of sardines, eating them whole and the olive oil dripping down her chest and I licked off every drop of it. I don't know whether it was our love making or Cally herself, but I was suddenly ravenous. I ate a tin of corned beef with my bare fingers, dipping it into one of the chutneys and then tearing off great chunks with my teeth. It was not elegant, far from it, but it was in keeping with the general earthy mood of the evening.

And when we'd drunk the beer, we started on the red wine, and had drunk nearly two bottles of it before we made drowsy love for a third time, and yet again, she showed me sights that I had never seen and things that I had heard tale of, but had hitherto believed were the most fantastical fictions.

What I remember about it was that it was all so very good natured. There was no shyness, no awkwardness, no desperation to please; right from the first, it felt in the natural order of things to be there lying in bed with Cally beneath me. And how refreshing it was to find a woman whose libido matched my own. Cally revelled in sex for its own sake. Never once did she use sex as a carrot and as a reward for good behaviour, and nor, indeed, did she ever withdraw her sexual favours on account of behaviour unbecoming. Rather, sex was there to be enjoyed, savoured, and in our time together, we gorged ourselves upon each other until we were sated to the last drop.

Before we fell asleep, we had cleared the bed as best we could of all the debris of bread and oil and ham, and then with Cally soft in my arms, we lay there as the candles flickered in the wind, and I watched as she closed her eyes with a contented smile upon her face.

We made love again in the middle of the night. The rapture of waking while it was still dark, and as I fumbled to get my bearings and work out where I was I realised that I was with Cally, and that she was in my arms and that we were by the sea, and that, very simply, everything was on offer. I kissed her and kissed her again and gradually she groaned and opened her eyes, and remembered that it was me, and then she grabbed at me and she took me with all the earnest energy of a woman consumed by desire.

I was in love.

Cally woke at sun up. She always woke early. She kissed me awake, and I squinted at her and at the scene of our debauchery. One candle was still burning.

‘Good morning,' I said.

‘Hello,' she said.

I looked at my watch. It was not even six.

‘Do we have time?' she asked.

I loved that. Oftentimes with a new love, there can be some awkwardness in the morning. But with Cally, there was none of that. We started our day in the best way possible way by reaffirming each other.

Afterwards, we raced naked into the sea, and though there were dog walkers about on that early morning beach, we waved at them as we charged delirious into the sea. It was cold and it was heady and it was good to be alive. The saltwater washed away the alcohol and the night's depredations. By the time we walked back hand in hand to the beach hut, we were reborn.

We towelled each other down and we kissed, and then Cally sat naked on the edge of the bed and watched me dress.

‘I like you,' she said.

‘I like you, too,' I dusted the sand off my toes and pulled on a sock.

‘I like being with you. You give me energy. And I've not had so much of that recently.'

‘No?'

‘No. I want to see more of you.'

‘What about in three hours' time, after I've served breakfast?'

She laughed at me. She had finished towelling her hair and was brushing it with an elegant Mason Pearson hairbrush. I remember the name; they'd been making hairbrushes for over one hundred and twenty years. My mother used to use them.

‘I'd love to see you after breakfast,' she said, ‘but I've got to sort out the horses and I've got to go up to London. Some essential pieces of necessary boredom that I have to do, and an exhibition that can't wait any longer.' She tugged at a knot in her hair. The knot wouldn't give. She gave another tug and then ignored it and went on to another shank of hair. ‘I'll be three days. I wish it was less.'

‘I'll be waiting for you,' I said. ‘Brimming with ardour.'

‘How do I get in touch with you?'

‘You could write,' I said. ‘The only person who's written to me in the last three months is my father, how sad is that?'

‘Or you could call me,' she said. ‘I'll give you my numbers, here and in London. If I'm not in, just leave a message.'

‘Sounds good.'

As I tied up my laces, she wrote her numbers on a piece of paper, along with her address. She lived in Holland Park.

‘Thank you,' she said. She stood next to me and stroked my hair. I liked her doing that almost more than anything else that had occurred between us. I stayed quite still and closed my eyes. I don't know what long-forgotten memory she had tapped into, but I luxuriated in the feel of her fingers upon my scalp.

‘Yes,' I said.

Her hand trailed to the nape of my neck.

‘In three days?'

‘I can't wait.' I stood up and hugged her. Cally was naked, while I was now fully clothed. I cupped her breast and kissed her and then I walked out of the beach hut and strode off along the sand. After a short distance, I turned back. She was watching me.

I was overcome with adoration for this extraordinary force that had come into my life. ‘You're the best!' I called out to her.

She flapped her hand down in mock disparagement, then blew me a kiss and waved, and when I next looked back, she had gone.

I'd never known a woman like Cally before. As I walked up the hill to the hotel, I was sated and serene. There was dew light on the leaves and the sand crunched underfoot. Compared to my past lovers, she was so calm and at one with herself. What I did I care about the age difference between us? It was Cally, the woman, I wanted. Whether she was forty-four or twenty-four, it made no difference to me.

Yet, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself to the contrary, Cally's age
did
make a difference. I wasn't ashamed of her. It wasn't that I didn't want to be seen out in public with her. But I was nevertheless aware that I was not quite ready to start trumpeting my love to the world. It would be different, I thought, if I'd fallen for a girl my own age. But as it was, with this woman twenty years older...

I had already divined the need for circumspection. I think that Cally knew that too. It wasn't that we weren't proud to be in each other's company; and neither of us were ever much swayed by other people's opinions. And yet, right from the start, we both of us knew that as soon as our love became public knowledge, then it would lead to complications. Of course, these complications could all be dealt with – true love conquers all – but certainly at first we both of us realised that it would be easier all round if we kept things quiet.

At least that was my intention.

But in that tiny little goldfish pond that was the Knoll House Hotel, I was rumbled almost immediately. Looking back, it now seems utterly ridiculous: young Kim endeavouring to sneak unseen into his hotel room, only to be accosted at almost every turn.

It started as I was walking back on the main road to the hotel, with my head still filled with the night before.

A large black Citroen drove past. I didn't even notice it until it pulled up a few yards ahead of me.

The passenger window rolled down. It was Anthony.

‘Give you a lift?'

‘I'm fine thanks, Anthony. Just going for a walk.'

He inspected me slowly. ‘And don't tell me: you've been walking right through the night.'

I laughed him off and continued on my way. But then, as I walked up the hotel drive and past the staff entrance, who should I see but Tracy, bright eyed and cheery as she went in for her breakfast.

She laughed when she saw me. ‘Dirty stop-out?' she said.

I grinned innocently. ‘What a wicked little mind you have in that pretty head of yours, Tracy,' I said.

‘Those flowers must have worked a treat,' she said.

‘Tracy, darling Tracy. I am shocked – shocked – that you see me out for a morning walk and automatically think that I've been with a lover.'

‘It's a lot more likely than you getting up early to go for a stroll.'

I waved her on and stole quickly to my room, only to be hammered by Janeen just as I got to the door.

‘Been out shagging have you?'

I looked at her. She was just off to the dining room, looking good in her waitress' uniform, brazen and brassy.

‘If only.'

She came over and sniffed me. She was so close to my neck that she almost kissed me.

‘So who was she?'

‘What, you can smell her on me?'

‘Smell her? You reek of it!'

I wasn't sure whether she was bluffing. But it made no difference; I was never going to admit that I'd spent the night with Cally, or anyone else.

‘You're just judging me by your own depraved standards.'

‘I don't know about that,' she said, and then she flicked my crotch with her middle finger. ‘But I certainly know there's a good reason for a guy having his flies undone first in the morning.'

I looked down, amazed. And of course my flies weren't undone at all. ‘Made you look!' Janeen crowed with laughter as she went on her way.

By the time I had showered and shaved, it would be fair to say that news of my tryst was all round the dining room. By the time breakfast was over, it was right round the entire hotel.

Annette and Oliver ran me to earth as I stumped back past the playground. In truth, although I had offered to see Cally after breakfast, I was now relieved that she'd not taken me up on my offer because I was absolutely shattered. I had gone through breakfast in a daze and all I could think of was getting back to my grey bunker and sleeping till noon.

‘When are we going to meet her?' Annette said. As ever she was holding hands with Oliver. She had a wild rose tucked behind her ear and looked quite beautiful. They were sickeningly in love and did not care who knew it.

‘When I'm good and ready,' I said.

‘Is it Cally?' Oliver asked.

‘Cally?' I was striving for a tone of slight bemusement. ‘Oh, Cally. No, it's not Cally.'

‘Really?' Oliver said. ‘I thought Cally was sweet on you.'

‘She's very attractive,' Annette said.

‘Yeah, well,' I said. ‘Cally is hot, and maybe she is sweet on me, but it's not her.' I wonder now why I fought so much to keep Cally's identity hidden. I suppose I thought that once Oliver and Annette knew, then the rest of the staff would know. Then it wouldn't be long before I became a figure of fun, mocked for dating not just a guest but a much older woman, and then mocked a again when she eventually dumped me (which I was sure that she most assuredly would).

‘So when are we going to meet her?' Annette said.

‘I told you,' I said. ‘When I'm ready. When she's ready.'

‘I think it is Cally,' Oliver ignored me completely and spoke to Annette. ‘It is not one of the staff, so it has to be a local woman.'

‘Why does she have to be local?'

‘I don't think you went up to London yesterday,' Oliver said. ‘The last time I saw you, you were going down the drive at lunchtime with a big bunch of flowers.'

‘Okay, so I didn't go to London.'

There was no respite. ‘But if she is a local, which she must be, then why would you not want to introduce her to your friends?'

‘He's a bit shy,' Annette said. ‘It's definitely Cally.'

‘It's
not
Cally!'

‘Swear on your father's life?' Annette said.

‘All right, it's Cally.'

‘So it is Cally?'

‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn't.' I was floundering, a young buck wallowing in quicksand. ‘Anyway, is this any of your business?'

‘Of course it's our business,' Oliver said. ‘You are one of our closest friends.'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘Okay, it was Cally.'

‘Cally?' Oliver said.

‘Cally!' Annette said. ‘I think she's lovely.'

‘Yes.'

‘I am surprised it has taken you so long to get together.'

‘Some of us didn't luck out quite as quickly as you two did.' I said. ‘Look, please don't tell anyone.'

‘We won't tell a soul,' said Oliver.

And, to my immense surprise, they didn't.

I called Cally from the hotel payphone after lunch, but she wasn't in. I left a stuttering message on her answerphone.

I had two days by myself, buoyed up on this wave of euphoria, and I did what any other swain does when they are alone and in love, and played back my most magical moments with Cally. That first kiss in the stable; the way her hands had snaked under my shirt; how for a whole afternoon she had teased at me; her body, naked, available and charged with desire.

It did not take the other waiters long to notice the change.

‘Are you on drugs?' Roland said.

‘He's not on drugs, are you, puss?' Tracy said. ‘He's in love.'

‘I wish I could find someone to love,' Roland said.

‘Not for want of trying,' I said.

‘We'll find you someone nice,' Tracy said.

‘What about you?' Roland said.

‘I've got a boyfriend, as you well know, Roland,' she said. ‘But if I ever dump him, I'll give you first refusal.'