night he was too tired, and as soon as I got into bed he told me, by rolling over into his sleeping position: on his side, elbow out. The position he always uses when he isn’t interested. But not so tonight.
He is hot.
I can smell it.
He moves towards me, erect. He pushes my hands behind my back with one hand, puts a pillow under my rear with his other and goes down on me. I love this. Every flick of his tongue is exquisite. Perfect. Delicious. Whipping me into a frenzy of lust so perfect that as soon as he enters me I am ready to climax. But I hold off because I want more – I want this to last forever. Wrapping my legs around him, I push him further into me, pressing my feet against his bum. Thrashing. Gyrating. Moaning uncontrollably. I reach for his balls and squeeze them, climaxing hard. This is beautiful. This is what I need.
Rob is a gentleman. A real gentleman. My joy is his aphrodisiac. Now I have finished he lets himself go; jerking, grunting in my ear and juddering. We fall apart exhausted, exhilarated. I am still so charged it will be a while before I sleep. He closes his eyes and I can sense the moment he slips into dreams. I wait until I am sure he is sleeping, then I get out of bed and head for the bathroom. I sit on the toilet in our compact en-suite, but my nervous system is still so charged that I cannot urinate. Instead, I play with my clitoris. Legs apart on the lavatory is a good position. I climax again.
This time I am thinking of Craig.
I am living within my own personal nightmare, the sort we all have to wade through at some point in our lives. Nothing seems real. Nothing tangible. One day I will wake up to find that this is not really happening – that my sixty-six-year-old mother will carry on mothering me forever.
Craig has tried to comfort me. He held me in bed while I cried. He listened to me when I vented my anger – listened with his ears and with his eyes.
Rob came round to see me a few afternoons ago, when I was still at home on my own with the children. He fitted me in in the middle of his home visits. I made him a cup of tea and he stayed for an hour, making me feel guilty for taking up his time. When he left, he pressed his card with his mobile number on it into my hand in case I needed any advice – day or night. He told me the dire statistics for my mother’s stage of ovarian cancer and lectured me on pain relief. I asked how Carly was because I hadn’t seen her since our dinner party. He didn’t reply as he was too busy fussing over my mother.
Carly. I think of her blue eyes, the deep blue of the sea. I didn’t manage to pop and see her before I left, but I know from Craig that she is helping me, by helping him with the children while I stay with my father in Chessingfold, over an hour away. My mother is incarcerated in St Richard’s Hospital, laid low by her chemo, so I’m chauffeuring him between their bungalow and the ward. And Craig, my rock, my brick, is looking after the kids on his break between shifts. Even though I miss him and the children dreadfully, I don’t want the little ones here at the moment. They must not see my mother like this.
My parents’ bungalow is packed with family treasures and memories; photographs, ornaments, tarnished silver cutlery. A conch shell I found on the beach when I was three. When I hold it to my ear I can still hear the sea. I spend too much time looking into the past, not knowing who worries me more; Mum or Dad. They met at school when they were fourteen. A lifetime together. I don’t suppose they can remember a life apart. Dad hardly leaves my mother’s side. He sits with her while she has her chemo, watching its poison drip into her body. He sits with her as she sleeps.
Two days after Jenni has left to be with her mother, the object of my now regular late night masturbation is standing on my doorstep. In my fantasy, he is a cross between Jude Law and David Beckham. In reality, he is a slightly overweight thirty-eight-year-old man with a dimple, wearing jeans with holes in and a Canadian-style woodcutter shirt. Rob has been called out to an emergency; a suspected severe stroke in one of his elderly patients. Craig steps into the dull light of my hallway and towers above me. He is a big man. Much bigger than Rob.
‘Thanks for having the children,’ he says.
‘My pleasure. Did my usual. Another trip to Snakes and Ladders.’ I smile at him. ‘How’s Jenni getting on? I haven’t had a chance to ring her.’
‘No news is good news. Her mother’s holding on at the moment.’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘It must be awful for her.’
He follows me into the sitting room, which is superficially tidy, the usual litter of plastic toys thrown into the cupboard at high speed.
‘They’re all asleep,’ I continue. ‘Exhausted. You can leave them here tonight if you like. I’ll run them back in the morning.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. It’s not a problem.’ I smile. ‘But before you go, do sit down and relax for a bit. Would you like a glass of red wine?’
He sits on the sofa. The wine is already open on the mantelpiece and I pour us a glass each. As I hand Craig his glass, our fingers touch. I leave my fingers resting on his for as long as I can before he moves them away. I sit next to him on the sofa, pushing my leg against his. Again he moves away.
What is it, Craig? Are you frightened of me?
The door key rattles as it turns. Rob is home. His footsteps pad across the hallway. The sitting room door opens and he is standing in front of us, dripping with familiarity. I know from the shadows of sadness beneath his eyes that it hasn’t gone well for his elderly patient.
Craig jumps up from the sofa.
‘Thanks so much for looking after the boys. Great to see you both, but I must go. I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘You’re welcome to stay, mate,’ Rob tries to insist, but Craig is almost at the sitting room door.
‘No thanks. Stuff to do. Got to make the best of my opportunity while Carly has the children. It’s been rather hard work lately.’
‘Carly has the children?’
‘Yes. After a day out. Fast asleep upstairs.’
‘Wonders never cease.’
I give him my look. My ‘stop teasing me’ look.
‘I’ll drop them round after breakfast,’ I say, following Craig to the front door, leaving my husband to pour himself a glass of wine and sprawl across the sofa.
In the hall, Craig kisses my cheek. A dry, pastry-brush kiss.
‘Thanks again.’
I open the front door and he walks slowly down the front path. Halfway towards the gate he turns to look back. I give him my best smile, the one I practise in the mirror sometimes. My Scarlett Johansson look.
When I return to the sitting room, Rob is lying on the sofa, feet up on the arm, shoes tossed off in front of him. He moves his legs so that I can join him.
‘What was all that about?’ he asks.
‘Me being helpful with the children? Haven’t you noticed? I’m turning over a new leaf.’
‘Of course I haven’t noticed. I don’t notice anything except for my patients.’ He laughs as he waves the remote at the television. ‘If there really are five children upstairs let’s hope they stay asleep.’
I