An Enormous Yes (12 page)

‘But, listen, talking of money, did Silas ever give you any – at least for the abortion he seemed so mad keen you should have?’

Maria shrugged. ‘I told you, he was penniless. He did ask his friends for the cash, but, despite his famous charm, they all declined on that occasion. Maybe they didn’t like the thought of being mixed up with such sordid stuff.’

‘I still don’t see why he couldn’t have got a proper job.’

‘Oh, he claimed that would be selling out, or compromising his art. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I must have bored you rigid by now.’

‘Of course you haven’t. A man like Silas is hardly boring. But,’ she added, with a glance at the clock, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to get my skates on. I need to leave soon to collect the girls from school. I’d invite you to come with me and join us all for tea back here, but I’m taking them on to a ballet class, and then to—’

‘Oh my God!’ Maria exclaimed.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve been so fixated on Amy, I’ve clean forgotten Felix.’

‘Felix?’

‘The guy who runs my life class.’

‘But I thought the class was on Friday.’

‘It is, but he’s asked me to… Look, forget it, Kate – you’re in a rush.’

‘No, tell me what he asked. I still have ten minutes before I have to go.’

Suddenly, and against her better judgement, Maria began relaying the whole Felix saga, too, as if, having started in confessional mode, she couldn’t stop. Yet there was a huge relief in sharing the story with someone unshockable and non-judgemental. ‘I can’t possibly see him tonight,’ she concluded, ‘not in this awful state and, anyway, I ought to stay home, so as to be there when Amy gets back.’

‘No, I don’t agree. She’ll need time to simmer down. Once you’ve
delivered
the note and the shawl, she’s bound to feel heaps better, but I wouldn’t push things, if I were you. Leave it till tomorrow. In any case, it’ll do you good to have a bit of male company.’

‘But that’s what scares me, Kate. If Felix does take things further, I’m so out of practice, I’ll be like a virgin again.’

‘Well, as far as I can gather, most men find virgins the most fantastic turn-on, so Felix will be in clover!’

‘I doubt if virgins in their sixties have quite the same appeal.’

‘Do stop going on about age. My Aunt Agnes embarked on a wild affair when she was only a year off eighty and she swore it kept her young. You’re never too old for a lover – that’s what
I
say. Of course, it used to be tricky for men – you know, losing their erections, once they’d passed a certain birthday, but now we have Viagra the whole thing’s so much easier.’

Viagra? She was so naïve, it hadn’t crossed her mind. And the thought of Felix needing a little blue pill to perform didn’t fit her ardent fantasies. Shouldn’t passion be the spur?

‘And, whatever else, Maria, make sure he uses a condom – or you risk landing up in the STD clinic!’

She willed Kate to change the subject; couldn’t bear to think of Felix struggling with a condom, or infecting her with some ghastly disease. In fact, if sex was so unromantic, she wasn’t sure she wanted it at all – or only in her head, at home.

Fortunately, her friend began darting round the kitchen, collecting up her keys and bag, now clearly pressed for time. ‘Look, go for it tonight,’ she
called, as she went to fetch her jacket from the hall. ‘And finish up your brandy – that’ll give you courage!’

Maria rationed herself to one more consoling sip. She needed a clear head to deal with the two tricky situations – her daughter and her tutor – and ensure that neither went from bad to worse. First and most important, she must try to make her peace with Amy, write her the most loving note conceivable and emphasize the fact that she felt no shred of resentment – never had and never would. But once note and shawl were delivered, she
would
keep the date with Felix, insisting, however, that they returned the relationship to strictly friendship only. The kiss, she would explain, had been an aberration – one she now regretted and which mustn’t be repeated. Perhaps they could have supper together instead. It would certainly help her to recover from the highly stressful last few hours, if they could enjoy a leisurely meal and discuss non-threatening subjects such as their favourite painters and writers. And, if he couldn’t cook, well,
she
would. At least her culinary skills were in good working order – more than could be said about her bedroom ones.

‘M
ORE, MORE
–
YES
,
more
!’

Not her voice – couldn’t be; not that insatiable, primeval cry of need. Normal self left far behind, abandoned by the bed, with the pile of crumpled clothes. All the emotion, passion, wild desire, suppressed and denied for decades, pouring out in a white heat of lust; all those terrifying sins, denounced by the Church – intemperance, licentiousness,
concupiscence
– now changing to intoxicating pleasure. Anger, too; a reckless energy possessing her, as she raged against her past: the closing down of prospects; the loss of independence; her timid, craven celibacy in those long years of stagnation. Anger not another sin, but simply part of lust; a ferocious and ecstatic part, as Felix thrust against her, in tune with her, in time with her, fused with her and one with her; no boundaries, no his-
and-hers
.

‘Go
on
!’ she shouted, glorying in the rhythm; the sudden, savage impetus as they pounded to a close – one body, inextricable.

‘My God!’ he gasped, slumping down, exhausted, breathless, spent.

His weight hunkered on her body, his heat and sweat flowing into hers. Couldn’t speak; wouldn’t even look at him; refused to leave this new, unchartered world. The only thing that mattered was the moment, these rapturous sensations of skin against bare skin; warm hands on startled breasts; semen leaking out of her; no condom; no restraints.

‘Maria …’ He twined his fingers through her tangled mane of hair, long since fallen from its neat, obedient chignon. ‘That was just …’

She closed her ears. Words would only bring her back to guilt or shame or worry, and it was essential to stay longer with this new, outrageous self. Neither must he move, or she would lose that sense of fusion: belly pressing belly; limbs interlocked, conjoined.

‘I hope you realize, woman, you’re the most amazing fuck.’

Those words she
did
allow: the crude thrill of ‘fuck’, and that
unceremonious
‘woman’, which made her fiercely female; rebellious Eve, not virginal Maria.

‘I adore the noise you make. It’s so utterly abandoned, like you couldn’t give a toss if the whole of London heard! You seem to be two people – one dutiful and prudish, and the other a tornado.’ He broke off, suddenly, levered himself up on his elbows, so he could look at her more closely. ‘What’s wrong, Maria? You haven’t said a word.’

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, feeling a flicker of surprise to see grey hair and jowly face. Where was her impetuous young lover?
She
had been no age at all during the last tempestuous hour; every stage and segment of her life – infant, child, student, sinner, mother, adult, carer – streaming out in one curdled tide of remorse, relief, release.

‘I hope your back’s not hurting. It actually suits me to sleep in the studio, but these pull-out beds are fiendishly uncomfortable. Or maybe the smells are getting to you? Jesso and white spirit are hardly the most seductive scents!’

‘Felix,’ she said, still unwilling to speak, but clasping him tightly, so he wouldn’t feel rejected, ‘nothing’s wrong in the slightest.’

‘But you seem so quiet – I mean, compared with how you were before. I’m worried you might be having second thoughts. After all, when you first arrived, you told me even a kiss was forbidden.’

‘And I meant it,’ she whispered, ‘honestly.’

He couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘Well, it didn’t take much to change your mind.’

‘Don’t say that, or I
will
have second thoughts.’

‘No, they’re strictly banned. But I’m dying for a drink, aren’t you? How about some orange juice? Or another glass of wine?’

‘Orange juice would be lovely.’ How banal it sounded but, if he left the room a moment, she could savour, in silence, this extraordinary sense of liberation; the fact that all her onerous past, even her current problems, had wafted away like thistledown. She lay, eyes open, the unfamiliar
surroundings
gradually coming into focus: the two half-finished paintings on the two adjacent easels; other pictures stacked against the walls; the three mismatched wooden chairs; the four rows of shelves, holding brushes, paints and varnishes, all tidily arranged; the contrasting savage chaos of his latest composition, a huge canvas hanging opposite the bed. Its plunging verticals and violent brushstrokes seemed to capture her own mood, as did the jolting colours – not docile Virgin-Mary blue but seditious scarlet, heinous black.

Felix strode back in, still naked, a glass in either hand. ‘I’m still worrying about that bloody bed. The mattress has seen better days and—’

‘Felix, the last thing on my mind was the comfort or discomfort of the bed!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, d’you imagine I was faking all that noise?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly. But you
are
two people, you know, and I suppose that rather threw me. Although I reckon, this is the real you – I mean, lying here, with your legs apart and your voluptuous body on show.’

‘
Fat
body, don’t you mean?’

‘Not at all. I loathe skinny women – the sort who go straight up and down, and are always dieting. As far as I’m concerned, proper women are curvaceous and celebrate their appetites.’

More words to relish: voluptuous, curvaceous. All her life, she’d been plump: a chubby baby, a podgy child, a teen eiderdowned in puppy-fat, a bosomy adult and, now, an overweight grandmother-to-be. Yet Felix had changed the categories.

‘And I love your bush. It’s so wonderfully dark. Where do you get your sultry looks?’

‘From my Hungarian grandfather, so I’m told. Apparently, my father was blue-eyed and fair, so I’m nothing like him in appearance.’ Her pubic hair had kindly maintained its colour, rather than gone the way of her head-hair; its once-dramatic black now stippled grey.

‘Have you always slept in your studio?’ she asked, embarrassed by his scrutiny. He was still gazing at her body, as if they were back at the life class and he had selected her as model.

‘No, only since I moved here and had less space than before. Frankly, it’s a waste of a room to keep it just for sleeping and, in any case, a bed destroys a room.’

The thought jolted her, yet maybe it was right. Amy and Hugo’s bed – a ruffled, white, giant meringue –
was
a shade absurd.

‘Besides, sleeping in my studio seems to give me useful dreams. Sometimes, if I’m stuck on a painting, I’ll dream the solution on an
imaginary
canvas and, however hard I might have been struggling during the waking hours, everything falls into place in the dream. So, the minute I wake up from it, I jot down the shapes and colours I’ve seen and, when I start work the next day, I use it as a memory jog, which means I can focus on the dream again and make it a reality.’ He leaned across and placed the glass of juice in her hand. ‘But that’s enough about work – we’re meant to be off duty. Drink this up and I’ll fetch us something to eat.’

‘Can I help?’ she asked, surprised by her avid thirst as she drained the glass.

‘No, it’s hardly haute cuisine, just croissants and cheese and stuff – oh, and those strawberries you kindly brought.’

‘I’ll get dressed, then,’ she said, swinging her legs off the bed.

‘What for? I presume you’re staying the night.’

‘Felix, I can’t possibly! My daughter will be worried sick if I don’t come home tonight.’

‘Well, give her a ring and explain.’

‘I, er, can’t. Things are a bit tricky at the moment.’ Amy might still be furious and, in any case, what could she ‘explain’ – that she was staying the night with a lover, so they could continue their blatant antics till dawn?

‘Surely you don’t let her dictate your movements?’

‘No, of course not. But please don’t press me, Felix. I have to be back tonight – no argument.’

‘OK, but it’s only five to nine, so no need to rush off now. Let’s have our food, then I’ll walk you to the tube. But don’t you dare get dressed! I want to enjoy your body as long as I possibly can.’

Basking in his approbation, she made a supreme effort to stop obsessing about her daughter again. Not easy, now the subject had come up.

However, Felix’s presence helped. He returned with a loaded tray, which he placed on the upturned wooden box that served as a bedside table. Then, having coaxed her to loll back against the pillows, he began feeding her mouthfuls of croissant, along with cubes of cheese.

She gave a sudden laugh. ‘Do you realize, Felix, it’s Lent, which means I should be fasting, not gorging, let alone indulging what the Church would call my baser passions.’

‘Bugger the Church!’

She gasped at the blasphemous words; almost scared that Hanna had heard them from her presumably high place in Heaven.

‘I’ve no time for all that stress on fasting – and Ramadan’s even worse than Lent. All these religions do is try to control us; damp down our vital life-force so we won’t have the energy we need to lead a full, instinctual life.’

Strange, she thought, that both Silas and Felix should be so hostile to religion, when, in all other respects, they were totally unalike: the one tall, dark, Byronic and flamboyant; the other shortish, greyish, ordinaryish – although not ordinary in the slightest when it came to making love.

He was feeding her again and a few flakes of greasy croissant fell between her breasts. Immediately, he tongued them up, his tongue so
lingeringly
sensuous, she closed her eyes to block out all else. The scenario she had envisaged for tonight was a far cry from this indulgent lovers’ feast. She had seen herself concocting a meal in the kitchen, which she and Felix
would eat, fully clothed, at a table, and engaging in high-minded
conversation
.

It was time for her to feed him in her turn, although she was sadly aware that she didn’t have his erotic expertise and so couldn’t add those beguiling little refinements. But he seemed happy just to eat, licking a drool of butter from her fingers and scooping up the fragments of crumbly cheese that had fallen on the bed. They continued feeding each other until the croissants were finished and he reached out for the fruit.

‘These are very singular strawberries. Look at their weird
protuberances
!’

She flushed. She had bought them half price in the market and hadn’t even noticed their asymmetry.

‘I really like these lumps and bumps – much more original than
regular-shaped
strawberries.’ He held out a three-pronged fruit, for her to see. ‘This is my favourite. It’s curvaceous, like you, but with three breasts, instead of two!’

‘Well, if that one’s female, this one’s definitely male,’ she said, showing him another, with a distinct but diminutive phallus at each end.

‘And here’s a Henry Moore in miniature – the same satisfying curves. Although miniature’s not the word – it’s the biggest strawberry I’ve ever seen in my life. Here, have a bite.’ He held it to her mouth and, having nibbled off its swollen tip, she offered it to him, and they alternated, bite by bite, until there was nothing left but the little frilled green stalk. Instead of discarding it, he used it to trace the outline of her lips, the sensation tickly cool. Then he slipped his little finger into her mouth and gently grazed it across the tips of her teeth; the tiniest, subtlest pressure that seemed to kindle her whole body. Maybe she could learn from him all these inventive techniques, as she was learning the refinements of drawing, at the class.

He was still gazing at her intently, as if following his own advice: any artist worth his salt must observe in the closest detail. ‘You have very
interesting
eyebrows, Maria.’

‘I hate them! Eyebrows should be meek and unassuming, and mine are almost fierce.’

‘Which is exactly why I like them.’ He knelt astride her, leaned down and kissed each brow, then, moving his mouth to her lips, he kissed them in the same galvanizing fashion, and continued inching his mouth down the entire length of her body, as if it were a table, laid with sweetmeats, every one of which he must lick and sip and taste.

‘Look,’ he said, raising his head from the arch of her foot, ‘you’re turning me on again.’

She stared, intrigued, at his penis. The only one she had ever seen was Silas’s – apart from a few in the life classes at art school, which had
embarrassed
her so much, she had deliberately averted her eyes and drawn only the male models’ chests and torsos. But now she gazed in wonder at the
glistening
, stiffening insolence of this, in Felix-parlance, ‘cock’. She had to admit she found those slang words arousing, although she would never use them herself. Indeed, neither she nor her mother had ever referred to the male member under any appellation, slang or anatomical, during the whole course of their lives. Hanna had even been uneasy about words like ‘breasts’ and ‘bottom’.

Felix’s penis seemed much younger than the rest of him: vigorous and sturdy and clearly in its prime. Kate would probably attribute that to Viagra, but she refused to allow so pedestrian a thought. Surely it was more to do with the organ’s essential character – an assertive, bumptious
individual
, not willing to be thwarted, as she had found an hour ago.

Having flung the strawberry cartons off the bed, he lay back, reached out his arms. ‘You on top this time.’

‘Felix, I
can’t
! I have to leave.’ However strong his inducements, she had to set a limit and also keep a strict eye on the time. Her second self – the responsible and dutiful self – was still hovering somewhere, warning and restraining.

‘Not yet.’ He drew her down towards him, locked his arms across her back, keeping her his prisoner. ‘That’s tutor’s orders, and tutor’s orders have to be obeyed!’