Sally (18 page)

Richard, what are you going to do? Are you sure you want to? Is it to spite Sally? Is it to persuade yourself that you're over her, that she never meant that much anyway? Is it to reinstate your macho pride which she inadvertently damaged? What do you see as you look at your wet face? As you watch the drops fall from your nose and from your chin?

Richard Stonehill, do you want it? Is she worth it? Was Sally worth it? I thought so, didn't I? Sal, who
were
you? Were you trying to be Carlotta, all vampish and sophisticated and alluring? Carlotta is a vamp but I can see her for what she is. That is all she is. I do want her. I want to screw and be screwed. Illicit. No deep, meaningful looks. Just sex, raw and uninhibited. Yes, I want it and I'll go and get it. Sorry, Sally, but you lost your chance, so play your games with someone else. Come on, Richie, dry your face and let's get laid.

Richard lunged for the door to take him to the pleasures of the body and, noisily, found it locked. He fumbled with the bolt and, with a final clatter, burst into the room where Carlotta stood pretty much where he had left her. She began to unbutton his shirt and he slid his hands to her waist.

Is it slimmer than Sally's?

Carlotta eased the shirt away from his chest and traced a long, pointed and polished nail down his neck and around and over his nipples. Down she went in a straight line, dipping into and out of his navel until she arrived at his trousers. She undid the button with an assertive pop and then tugged the zip down. Richard pushed his trousers away as Carlotta pulled at his boxer shorts. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him yet, somehow, the image of a stunning woman giving head was more of a turn-on than the sensation itself. As blow jobs went, it was good. But it was familiar. Richard shut his eyes from the mirror and saw Sally and felt again the astonishing newness of their couplings.

Don't think Sally.

Richard opened his eyes and there again, in the mirror, was the man, him, being sucked and licked by this gorgeous woman. And once again, the physical pleasure of the here and now subsided a little.

Don't look at the mirror!

Why, Richard? Afraid of what you see there? What does the mirror reflect? Only the truth.

Shut up.

Richard pulls Carlotta to her feet and pushes his tongue into her mouth. He can taste himself on her. He finds her breasts and fondles them but there's too much itchy lace. Get it off. He fiddles with the clasp but Carlotta rescues him and now she is naked. That's better.

They're big, more of a handful. They're different. They're not as firm or smooth as – stop it! These nipples are much longer, sort of rubbery. Nice, though.

Carlotta pushes Richard's head down to them and he decides they taste pretty much the same. He also decides to concentrate more on the job in hand and to concentrate on not thinking or comparing size, look and texture to Sally.

Sally's in France. And Sally hates me.

They fall to the bed and Richard feels Carlotta up and down. There is plenty of bare flesh
up
, but only a lot of interfering material
down
. Get it off, get it off. It seems to be desperately complicated. As Richard fumbles and follows ribbons and cords to cul de sacs, Carlotta lies still, bored; eyes looking at the plaster flourishes on the cornice. She smiles sweetly at Richard as she pushes him away and sits up to unsnap her suspenders and wriggle free from her panties.

Perhaps he can manage to roll down a pair of stockings?

He can, and expertly runs his soft, warm hands over the cool, firm flesh of her legs and follows his touch with kisses that she finds touching.

Get to it, baby, get to it, cut the crap and lick me!

Carlotta pulls Richard's head from her thighs, spreads her legs and pushes his face to where she wants him.

Am I doing something wrong?
Richard wonders.
Why won't she writhe?
It occurs to Carlotta that the concept of oral sex is far sexier than the reality itself so she is quite content when Richard leaves off to travel his tongue up and over her body.

He's got a great body
, she assesses.
Good, broad shoulders, a strong, muscular back tapering to a tight, firm butt. Let me look at your chest. You could be hairier for my liking but I like to see your stomach. I just love those little boxes of muscle on either side. Oh, so you like it when I run my fingers feather-light over them? You do, do you? Well, I fancy feeling your dick, which I know you'll like too. About average, I'd say, neat little balls. Uncircumcized! Shit, cut the crap, I want you in me sooner rather than later.

Richard flips her off and under him, which excites her. He pins her arms above her head and lowers his face to hers, eyes closed. His flop of hair tickles her nose but ceases to do so once the kiss has been planted.

She doesn't do much work in the kissing department.

He lifts himself away and looks at what is beneath him. Glorious and picture perfect. Every curve and dip just where supermodels dictate they should be. Her skin is taut and smooth and evenly bronzed. Long legs, neat knees, pancake flat stomach. Almost too perfect to be real.

Let's do it.

Richard spreads her legs and lowers himself slowly, slowly, over her; masterful control thanks to his extremely strong arms.

‘Hold on, Mister!' Carlotta interjects. With one hand on Richard's chest, he is held in mid press-up position while her other arm slides over to the bedside table, from the top drawer of which she brings back her hand, condom between her first and second fingers. Richard looks at her face as she unrolls it and fits it adeptly. She's categorically beautiful.

Very.

But?

Bland.

Carlotta lies on her back and lets Richard take control. He pushes into her and she moans which turns him on. He holds himself up on his arms and she grasps his straining biceps.

‘Hard, hard,' she cries, so he grinds into her and she arches her back and asks for it harder and faster. To accommodate her request, Richard lets himself down and lies on her, scooping her up slightly and folding his arms under her, around her waist, thus finding good leverage to hump her hard and fast. She moans and gasps and calls out, ‘Yes, baby!' Richard smiles and then decides a little variety might be nice. He rolls Carlotta on top and tries to push her up so that she might sit and straddle him. No, no. She flops on to his chest and humps against him, hard and fast.

‘Harder! Faster! Jesus, what's up with you?'

‘I can't go any faster and I'm as hard as I'll ever be!' Carlotta does not see the joke and stops still to look at him, exasperated. Richard smiles at her, she scowls back.

Oh, so you want to play it mean, do you?

He rolls back on top and gives a most almighty plunge as hard and deep as is anatomically possible. She groans and says
yes, yes
. He plunges again.
Yes, yes.
And again.
Oh, baby.
And again. He looks at the clock – half-past midnight.
Faster, faster!
Okay, okay. The small of his back begins to ache as Richard plunges and surges as fast as he can. He looks at her face, flushed and strewn with wisps of jet black hair. Her eyes are closed, her lips mouth
faster, harder, baby, yes
. He tries to grant her request, consequently neglecting his own physical preferences. Suddenly her eyes are open and they both cry out; Carlotta as the orgasm assaults her at last, Richard as her pointed nails dig deep into his flesh, one set lynched on to his left buttock, the other ripping into his right shoulder. She's finished, she's still, her hold has dropped away. Richard finds his pace and moves into her. She remains motionless.

‘Carlotta?'

‘I'm pooped, hon. You take it how you wish. That's fine by me.'

Richard looks at the slumbering American beauty in disbelief and anger. He moves into her and still she just lies there. He stops looking at her face and drops his gaze to her breasts, jutting sky-high and still unbelievably pert.

Must be silicone.

They are.

He looks up at her, checking if she's asleep; alive even. He finds her analyzing the plaster work on the ceiling rose. Richard withdraws.

‘What's wrong?'

‘No, no, nothing.'

‘I don't mind, carry on!'

‘No, no, it's okay, I'm tired anyway.'

‘Maybe in the morning, babe.'

‘Maybe.'

Richard went across to the bathroom with the ulterior motive of masturbation. But once he had pulled off the condom and put a towel on the too-cold toilet seat, he lost the inclination, the desire and the erection itself. He crept back to the bed from where the audible sound of Carlotta sleeping rose. Sliding silently in between the sheets, he sidled over to the very edge of the bed, turning away from the foreign body next to him.

What on earth was all that?
he wondered as he fixed tired eyes on the gap in the curtains.

Go to sleep, Richard.

W
ell, Sally and Richard have both pursued what they thought they wanted. And both have been left dry and dismayed by their discoveries. What do they want now? They wonder. I think we know. I think we know that somewhere they must know too. How will they get there, though? Will they fight? Resist? Will pride prevent a happy ever after?

‘Di!'

‘Sal-
lee
! Whenjoogeback? How was it? How are you? When are you coming round?' Diana gabbled away and Sally surprised herself by doing something she thought impossible: she laughed out loud. Diana had the gift, given by God or genetics, of cheering up the saddest of souls quite inadvertently. She had no idea that Sally was caught in a chasm of gloom, that she had woken helpless and alone. Diana's happy self, coupled with her devotion to her friend, dribbled forth uncontrollably, travelling supersonic through the telephone wire, out of the receiver and slap into the very heart of Sally's being.

‘Oh, Diana, it's good to be home. Please, come over to mine? I'll cook.'

‘Yum. When?'

‘How about a late lunch?'

‘Sounds heavenly. Tell me, Sally, tell me everything! At once! No, no, no! Not now! Can't wait to see you, Sugar Pop. I'll come at one-ish?'

‘Two-ish please?'

‘Oh. Shame. Okay. 'Bye-bye, 'bye-bye!' Sally was exhausted but her head felt lighter and a smile surreptitiously crept across her lips.

I'd better pop out and buy some food then. What shall I do? What does Diana like? I know, something nice with pasta. I'll zip over to Hampstead and go to that fresh pasta shop. Damn! What am I going to wear? I've been slacking, just look at that mound of washing, and that pile of ironing. Sally Lomax, you should be ashamed of yourself!

Scramble into anything, Sally, it's only ten o'clock on a Saturday morning. And anyway, who is going to see you? There must be something at the back of your cupboard. Come on, get your skates on.

Wearing an old floral frock whose hem hung low at the back, a shabby Aran-knit cardigan for warmth, trainers with ankle socks for comfort and her hat for good measure, Sally set out for Hampstead, greeting her car like a long-lost friend. She was temporarily set back by the gaze of her mask lying on the passenger seat but, after a moment's rueful contemplation, tossed it into the back where it nestled next to the de-icer on a tartan rug. The Mini groaned and wheezed. Sally cooed and coaxed, took the key out and blew on it; she urged, she goaded, she bit her tongue. Her car was lifeless, she was bemused. Sitting still and wondering what to do, she focused on a piece of paper held by the windscreen wiper. Winding down the window she retrieved it, a handwritten note. She read it out loud: ‘“
Dear owner, it is New Year's Day and I notice that your headlights are on. I do hope you make it to your car before the battery runs flat! Best wishes for a happy year, Bill
.”' Who's Bill? Sally moaned. She moaned for her poor car and blamed herself for its current death. She moaned for herself as she remembered New Year's Eve. She moaned as she gathered her bag, her list and her wits about her and decided what to do.

Walk; that was the solution and not a bad one either. It was a precious sunny January day, cold but invigorating. Sally's route took her via Kenwood and over the Heath to Whitestone pond and the reaches of Hampstead. Once she had traded pavement for path, her mien was restored. The ground felt good underfoot, it was soft but not muddy so she could put a spring in her step without collecting clods on her shoes. The sun, trying hard to break through the thick haze created by the chill air, hung as a luminous and distant pinky puff. Sally thought it most poetic and proclaimed, ‘“Glory be to God for Dappled Things”' to a robin who cocked his head in agreement as she passed by.

I feel really okay
, she thought as she patted the bark of a particularly gnarled oak.

I think it won't be too bad a year
, she decided as she stooped to pocket a perfect pine cone.

I have my health, I have my Self, I don't need another; I am full
, she thought as she sat on a bench near the magnolia tree at Kenwood and regarded the great swathe of lawn to the mirror-flat lake.

Quite happy to stop awhile with her contemplations, Sally turned her gaze about her and felt cheered by the day. Energy and sound surrounded her; the shrieks of children, the hearty laughter of adults and the merry yapping of dogs. The residue of Christmas, its mood and paraphernalia, clothed the park. Small children rode shiny tricycles, not-so-small children tottered on sparkling bicycles with stabilizers and thoroughly big children terrorized all asunder on already muddy mountain bikes. Christmas was in the beautiful micro-fibre macs worn with pride and aplomb, in the small puppies trotting skittishly on leads, the stunt-kites and dolls' prams, the Timberland accessories and the excited voices which passed by Sally. The happy atmosphere was infectious and Sally smiled broadly to all who caught her eye. More often than not, a nod and a ‘morning' were returned. Feeling buoyant, she continued her trek to Hampstead, chatting to the flora and fauna on the way.