bathroom, change and get the hell out of there as soon as he can. He could, but he won’t. He gives himself a moment, a long moment, then he slides out of her, lies on his back, lets her lie on his chest, lets her run her hands in that post-coital languor over his torso. But he can’t feel it. His spent body is numb now, there’s nothing left inside or outside. And he can hear her talking but he’s not really listening.
‘My husband had an accident at work. We don’t have sex. He has depression – impotence. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely man. But I need sex, you know? I’m almost fifty. I love my husband – don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want to leave him and I don’t want to find myself drawn to having an affair. So that’s why I do the websites – because they’re discreet, aren’t they? People like me – like you – good people who have needs. It’s saved my marriage. Do you know that? It’s saved it.’ She pauses for breath. Oliver hopes she’ll start up again with, Well, anyway, I’d better go now. Thanks a lot and good luck!
But no.
‘So Pete – tell me. Shall we meet again? I work part-time. I could be here Wednesday.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Home? Wife?’
‘Something like that,’ he says.
‘You told me your wife isn’t around?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You just don’t want another relationship?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, nor do I. That suits me. I could do this time next week, then, if you can’t do Wednesday.’
‘I’ll check – and I’ll email you.’ He smiles at her. ‘I’ll email you if I can do this time next week.’
And he hates it that her eyes light up. She no longer looks or sounds like the horny vixen who’d screwed him senseless minutes ago. She looks, now, on the plain side of normal but her eyes don’t sparkle, they have a dullness, a sadness. Everything about her expression points to too much hope at the thought of being able to escape home again this time next week. Her make-up has smudged. Oliver wonders if at some point during sex, she’d wept silently too.
She’d paid for the room in advance. She won’t take any contribution from him.
‘You can pay next time – if you might be able to do this time next week,’ she says. ‘Email me, won’t you – either way.’
‘Of course.’
And he will. That was the beauty of these websites; that’s the etiquette – no embarrassment emailing to say, Actually, it was bloody great but I’m not into seeing the same person more than once. He could be as honest as that. It didn’t matter. There were plenty of other willing one-off bunk-ups online. A whole society. It wasn’t about relationships for any of them. For Louise it wasn’t about this Pete man at all – it was purely about being able to have good sex, fantasy sex, sex full stop, without cruising some dreadful bar on a Friday night and bullshitting her way through a loud evening of overpriced drinks and inane chatting-up in the hope that she might pull at the end. She’d never do that – what, with her husband at home? What kind of a Friday night would that be for him? She wouldn’t do that. Ever. But she could tell him she was off shopping on a Saturday afternoon, have someone clean, sober and like-minded fuck her brains out and restore her to the good wife she still really wanted to be.
Oliver Bourne. Forty-six. Lost his beautiful wife not quite three years ago in a tragic road accident. She was forty-three. No age. They’d been together since they were both twenty-one. And he’d loved her and she’d loved him. He’d been faithful to her and it had been easy. And now she was gone and he was mortal and every now and then his physical needs were overwhelming. And websites like the one which had brought him into contact with Louise today were the way forward for him to survive as a man on earth who had a wife once, but no more, and never wanted a relationship again. Louise and an alarming number of others just like her, able to replace something missing in their lives. For Oliver though, something was missing which he believed could never be replaced. Because it hadn’t been lost, it had gone. DeeDee had gone and life would go on; it just wouldn’t be the same and it could never, ever, be as good as it had been.
Suzie Vs Candy
‘How’s Vita, then?’ Suzie asked, trying to be casual by using a vague but light tone of voice while flipping through a magazine.
‘Vita?’
‘Yeah – you know. Just wondered, that’s all. You know – how things are. With – the shop? And stuff.’
‘Stuff?’
Suzie didn’t like it when Tim was like this. Unhelpful. Sharp. All she really needed – and surely he could fathom this – was an answer along the lines of, Oh, Vita’s fine, I think – haven’t had to speak to her much at all recently, thank God. But Tim wasn’t saying that. He wasn’t saying much and his tone was flat, guarded. Suzie couldn’t leave it at that, now. She needed more information but also to bring back his focus to the brilliant fun beauty that she spent so much effort hoping he’d see. She walked over to him, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his jeans and giving a squeeze. She took the plates from him and took over loading the dishwasher. He went and sat down at his kitchen table; she glanced over her shoulder hoping to catch his eye. He was reading the paper. Yesterday’s.
Breezy. Be breezy. ‘Because you were saying that it’s been – what did you say – stressy.’
Tim shrugged. ‘Only in terms of the business – it’s not making what we’d forecasted. It’s now practically July.’
‘Only in terms of the business.’ She needed that phrase to be repeated out loud, as if she was quoting his statement of intent. ‘So you’re getting on well outside of that?’
‘I hardly see or speak to her!’ Tim paused, irritated, and looked over to her. ‘You know all this – why do you ask? Nothing’s changed.’
‘I’m just interested.’ Smile. Sweet sweet smile. ‘I care. What I mean is, I care about you and I hope she’s not giving you a hard time or stressing you out. With texts and stuff.’
You’re paranoid, Tim thought to himself. You sound like Vita started to. Just then, to him, it seemed an annoying coincidence that the women he chose seemed to exhibit similar traits.
‘So you don’t speak to her socially then? Much? At all?’
Tim looked at Suzie as if he didn’t quite understand the question. She came and sat at the table, flipped through a magazine. Lingered a while and then started up again, as if momentarily she’d forgotten she was halfway through a conversation because it was so unimportant.
‘She doesn’t – you know – bother you with late-night texts? She leaves you alone now, does she?’
‘Jesus – I’m with you. Why would I socialize with her? If it wasn’t for the business, there’d probably be no contact. Texts bypass the need to talk.’
Suzie nodded slowly as if it was no issue and she understood completely, as if she was only half aware of the conversation because mostly she was engrossed in the magazine. But actually she was on the horoscope page and, as was her habit, she was reading her star sign. And Tim’s. But also Vita’s too. She was drawn to doing so in any magazine or newspaper no matter how trashy; to read and cross-reference the three star signs. Today, Vita’s and Tim’s reports – though different – had a worrying synergy. The astrologer was prophesying that communication could vanquish a difficult period, understanding could deepen and dreams which had seemed impossible could be within reach. A new, rejuvenated period of domestic happiness was forecast. Suzie shuddered. Hers simply said to trust her instincts and be prepared to relinquish foundering projects with dignity.
‘Actually, I’m seeing Vita today,’ Tim said and, though faint, there was