Chapter 7

Sunday morning at 8.00, I was awake and in fighting mood. It was a renewed me, a new Sam. I’d been pushed around too much.

The first thing I needed was Mum and I found her in Dad’s room, ready to turn him. Not literally, it’s an expression. A person fixed in one position will develop bed sores and must be moved every two hours. We did this throughout the day because the dream paralysed the muscles preventing him from moving himself. By contrast, it was unnecessary in the night, because when he wasn’t dreaming, he tossed and turned like the rest of us.

A Sinatra album was playing. The volume was low, as he sang Watertown. “Mum, aren’t you tired?”

I assumed she retired late; it was the hostess’s responsibility. Despite that, she was up hours before anyone else. As a nurse, she was accustomed to rise early, including Sundays, and I presumed by that time, she found it impossible to lie in.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, although the weariness in her eyes told me different.

We walked to the kitchen where she prepared the coffee, while I poured our orange juice. We sat at the farmhouse table and chatted. It was pleasant to have those occasional times on our own, just the two of us. After ten minutes talk of inconsequential matters, she said, “I trust you’ll be able to square things with Brad. You weren’t on friendly terms yesterday evening ... although, maybe he’s found himself another friend.” She peered over the top of her mug and raised an eyebrow as a question.

“Everything’s great,” I stated firmly. I paused for effect, as she often did when she was ready to surprise me. “We made up last night.” I simpered slyly and Mum frowned.

“But Brad and Carly didn’t go to bed until after midnight and you went...”

“At ten.”

Again, I paused, a longer one, as though I was undecided if I should tell her or not. “He sneaked into my room late last night ... and we ... made up.” I showed her my big leer.

“Oh!” She struggled to find other words, but in the end settled on a repeat. “Oh!”

I rose, smirked and kissed the tip of her nose. “Mum, when I lose my virginity to Brad, it will not be anyone’s business. Despite that, I promise, if I tell anybody, you’ll be one of the first to know. Now, tell me which bedroom you gave to Carly.”

Five minutes later, I strode into the cow’s room and silently shut the door behind me. It was early and I didn’t want to disturb the rest of the household.

“Excuse me, bitch, but our introduction is way overdue.”

Carly woke and I waited while she collected her senses. She was startled for maybe a second, although her recovery was quick. She gave me an ice glare. She sat up, pulled the bedclothes with her, and blinked at her bedside clock. She groaned.

Inwardly, I was exultant at the prospect of what was to follow. I held out my hand which, as expected, she ignored. “I’m Sam. We saw one another yesterday and of course, on a previous occasion, you met my boyfriend, Brad Devereau. I know you’re a lecturer, therefore I’m sure you’ve grasped the concept of the possessive pronoun. Please note I said ‘my’ boyfriend and ‘my’ denotes the pronoun, ‘mine, ‘ not ever to be misinterpreted as ‘yours.’”

I was enjoying it, and at the risk of her being apathetic, I decided to show off. “I have fashioned what I consider to be an adequately expressed assertion. However, should it be your intention to repudiate my affirmation, I ought to forewarn you I’m completing my finals in English Lit. Consequently, I consider myself to be a superlative expert on grammar.”

It was clear she was bored. She threw back the duvet and slid out of bed. She was naked. A glimpse of her body told me two things. One, red wasn’t her natural hair colour and two, she was as near perfect as it was possible to be.

Carly faced me, her arms relaxed by her sides and her head at a slight tilt.

I perfectly understood the reason she exhibited her body. It was a challenge. She knew she held the edge on me with her experience, her face and even her height. In addition, she expected to intimidate me with her body. I was curious, it would have been educational to examine a real life Aphrodite. Nevertheless, I was determined not to. That was what she wanted.

We glared at one another and she stared me down, but that was a minor battle. I would win the war.

She was Miss Smug as she paraded to the dressing table and picked up a sheer dressing gown from the stool. Without a word, she slipped into it, so I continued to talk.

“I know you want Brad. Yesterday, I studied your face when you first saw him, and during the evening. From what I’ve deduced, it’s four years since you last met.”

She continued to glare.

“Brad’s parents have an intense pride in their firstborn, and they’ve shown me hundreds of photographs. I love him dearly, but even I’ve experienced a smidgen of monotony as I view endless photos. By now, I believe that I’m able to describe him at every age, right from one day old. Four years ago, he was eighteen. He was okay, although nothing special, perhaps even a bit skinny.”

As I talked, I moved around the bedroom, while Carly’s eyes followed me. I could almost touch the hostility. “Until yesterday, you hadn’t seen him for four years, and it was obvious you were amazed at how he improved. I could tell by your face you have the hots for him. You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself and you all but choked him with your tongue.”

I sensed I had her and I went in for the kill. “Despite the way you threw yourself at him, you know he’s not interested. He demonstrated that yesterday evening. I’m sure you were aware how much you annoyed him with your continual clinging. In addition, you probably guessed he accepted it for my sake, to be precise, for Dad’s benefit.”

I ceased my pacing and stared into her eyes. “Today, you have no prospects of taking Brad from me. Next week, next year, who knows, you may have, but not if you screw with me. Brad’s a charitable, noble guy and he detests anyone who isn’t equally generous. If you don’t help me, he’ll know what you are and as a result, you’ll be out of the running for ever.”

Carly sat on the bed. It was five minutes since I entered and she hadn’t said a word, whereas on Saturday, she wouldn’t shut up. She spoke. “Brad told me you were gutsy and I argued it was bullshit. Perhaps I was wrong.”

That was true. Most people underestimate me and assume I’m uncut saccharine because I’m so easy going. Those who think I’m a pushover may push me near the edge, but never over. They shove me only so far before they learn their mistake.

I said nothing. It was her chance to talk.

She studied me, obviously confused. “You’re right. Brad’s improved - that’s an understatement. What I can’t understand, what beats me, is why he would want you when he could have me. You’re just a girl. I admit I expected I would wake up with him this morning.” She glanced at the clock. “In fact, at this moment...” She broke off. She was peeved, followed by angry.

I assumed Carly had her way the majority of times and found it difficult to accept defeat. By then, I was nauseated with her and was eager to conclude our business. I spoke before she had chance to continue. “Let’s wind this up, shall we? I don’t know what was agreed with Brad, but I’m happy to pay you for your time and expenses. My cheque book’s down the hall. How much will it cost?” I sneered at her. “Do you charge by the hour?”

From the bedside table, she collected her cigarettes. Carly positioned herself by the window as she gazed at the snow which blanketed the lawns. “Brad and I have discussed this already. Yesterday evening he offered me a consultancy fee.” She lit a cigarette. “I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t want your money, I’m going for the spin offs. When I solve this problem I’ll be set up for life.”

She whirled to face me, disdain distorting her beauty. “You see there never was any danger I would leave. I’ll be at the meeting this afternoon.”

I walked to the door and turned. “It’s clear you have a hearing problem. Colin requested you wouldn’t smoke in your bedroom.”

After the communal breakfast, Brad took me to the arboretum so we’d be alone. “What did you say to Carly?” he asked. “I was in bed when she arrived. She even knocked first.”

“Was she dressed?”

He was curious. “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t she be?”

I shrugged. “I suspect she’s an exhibitionist,” I said straight faced.

He exhibited more confusion and I imagine he considered that topic wasn’t going anywhere, hence he ignored it. “She told me you’d talked this morning. Then she apologised for yesterday and insisted we maintain a platonic alliance. I explained, as far as I was concerned, it always had been.”

Carly didn’t fool me. She hadn’t given up and was trying to convince Brad she was a ‘nice’ girl. Apart from which, I was only interested in what he said. He had no inkling of how relieved I was at what he told me. Her powers scared me. I couldn’t avoid the horror that she would wear him down and he would give in to her obvious assets. My eyes were moist and it was imperative I cling to him.

“I still don’t understand what you did to make her back off,” he continued. “She always gets what she wants when men are involved.”

I was forced to speak louder to overcome the muffling effect of Brad’s sweater as I hugged him like fury. “I promised I wouldn’t tell you, although it’s nothing that would interest you.” I giggled. “Just a little blackmail.”

“Blackmail! I’ve no idea what possible hold you could have over her, but I’m relieved. Yesterday evening, after you went to bed, she was like an octopus - unquestionably she was randy.”

“I thought men approved of such things.”

He pulled me from him and gave me a soft smile. “Sam, this man approves only when it’s the right girl.”

During the winter months, I roamed France, always my favourite holiday destination. I started at Calais and followed a planned route returning to the places Sandra and I took the girls. I worked my way down the Atlantic contour until I reached Biarritz, from there I travelled the Mediterranean coastline. My lone excursion was a leisurely tour and I was not back at my Monté-Carlo apartment until Easter.

As far back in my childhood as I remember, I loved books: to read, browse through or merely to relish their texture and cherish the smell. Anyone with a passion for them will appreciate the pleasure of being in a bookshop and it was that delight which compelled me to visit the Book Department at FNAC. I went, although I knew I was unable to read. It wasn’t a difficulty with French, I was fluent. The problem was the fault of my dream, because it’s almost impossible to read words in a dream. Even a single letter may be illegible. When I bought Le Monde on my first day in Monaco, I realised it was balderdash, a string of unrelated rubbish.

FNAC is a French chain of shops which sell books, CDs, DVDs, videos, and whatever other formats for music and visuals exist. The Monté-Carlo branch is located underground a few hundred metres from the Casino. After a stroll in the bright sunshine, the fluorescent shop lighting was a sharp contrast.

I was strolling through the store when I saw her in the Poetry section, engrossed in a hardback as she leafed through the pages. I positioned myself close by and craned my head to see what she read. As I struggled with the words, it appeared to be a volume of contemporary poetry. My deduction was more intuition than visual and, either way, it told me little.

She noticed me as I leaned sideways, and it was evident the intrusion rankled her. Despite that, I didn’t give up easily. I straightened, regarded her face and assessed her age to be from mid to late twenties. “Bonjour Madame.”

At the sound of my voice, her eyelids fluttered upwards, although not at me. She continued to scan the page, her lips imperceptibly moving as she silently read the words to herself.

She was so attractive I would’ve been happy to leer at her until closing time. She was excellent and I self-congratulated my subconscious for a masterpiece of refinement. Her appearance was cool and fresh, despite the dark blue, fleece jacket and matching trousers she wore. Her clothes were more suited for autumn than for the warm spring morning. She was a blonde. Her hair parted centrally with the two halves falling until they almost touched her shoulders, from whence they curled inwards to frame her oval face.

As I watched, her head shot around in my direction. She was irritable and grimaced, despite that, she was beautiful. When she glanced at me I noticed the paleness of her blue eyes and her petite nose had a slight upward tilt. She was stunning.

She grew more irascible, until at length she slammed the book shut, threw it on the display unit and marched over. She positioned herself a short distance away, folded her arms in defense and scowled, her eyes flashing with indignation. She was shorter than me, but compensated for that with her powerful presence. She was intimidating.

Her eyes bored into mine as she demanded, “Why are you staring at me? What do you want?”

I was taken aback. She was English, not what I expected.

It had been two months earlier when I finally overcame my shy awkwardness, due to my consistent reminder that the dream women wanted to please me. After all, that was the purpose of everyone in my world. Faced with one who revealed no desire to please, I slipped back into my old habits. With my customary lack of originality when confronted with an attractive woman, I inanely stuttered, “Oh, you ... you’re English.”

“Naturally,” she fired at me. “what did you expect?” Her body impatiently swayed from side to side as she forcibly repeated, “What do you want?”

I could think of the truth, nothing else, but I knew that would irritate her more. I declined to tell her I wished to become acquainted, but it left the problem of what to say next. I lied. “I thought you were someone I knew.”

As I spoke, I realised a more implausible line didn’t exist. My Seduction Made Easy couldn’t have been more farcical and it was no surprise that she whirled and walked away. I wanted to protest. Didn’t she know she was created by my subconscious and must do what I wanted? I wouldn’t let her leave and my brain scrambled for a scrap of enlightenment. It didn’t uncover inspiration and I blurted out another lie. “I, I work here,” I faltered. “ ... I’m a salesman.”

She stopped dead, paused and turned until she confronted me once more. She scowled before retrieving the book from the display unit. “Why didn’t you say before?” she said with obvious exasperation.

I gaped at her like a goldfish - with a brain to match. My mind was blank, my ancient problem. It was like the bad old days when shyness reigned.

“This book,” she said, as she thrust it into my hand, “how much is it?”

I pored over the title. It was Yhtr Lmoa - bloody gibberish. Sod it, I thought. I fingered the spine nervously as I searched for the bar code, knowing the price would be in the same place. I found the bar code on the inside of the dust jacket. And another. And one more. As I watched, the whole of the bloody book, front and back, filled with bars in a range of different sizes and a rainbow of colours.

I panicked as I pushed the book back at her as though it was on fire. “I’m sorry Madam, but I’ve mislaid my glasses. I can’t read the price.”

I was astonished at my sudden sagacity. Equal was my surprise when I observed the degree to which my action upset her composure. At first she frowned and shook her head dumbly as she peered at the book. She soon tired of that and raised her head towards the ceiling as though she expected to find inspiration there. I swore she was thinking, but what of? What to have for lunch, maybe? I enjoyed a remarkable superiority and suppressed a chuckle. Come on, woman, I thought, tell me the price.

Her space gazing paid dividends and a self satisfied glee was evident as she opened her shoulder bag and took out a leather wallet. From it she extracted a Platinum credit card which she handed me with relish. “Never mind the cost. I’ll take it.” She waited expectantly.

My face dropped. Oh no, what now? I snatched the book out of her hand and attempted to recall the location of the cash desk. I should have left, but I wanted to know her better, despite the pain she put me through. I held the book in one hand and her card in the other. She paced from side to side like a caged animal while my eyes travelled back and forth between the book and the card.

I considered my options. She placed me in a worse predicament. If I took her to the cash desk, the cashier would know I didn’t work there and give the game away, whereas if I directed her to the desk, I would lose her. Somehow, I needed to sustain the pretence.

She was talking to me, but I missed what she said. My mind had worked on another more interesting concept. A few seconds later it finished its task and prompted me to ask, “Voulez-vous repétez, s’il vous plaît?”

She hesitated and took a step backwards. Her face scrunched up and she watched me warily as though I was a lunatic ready to pounce. Her caution was momentary and she was quickly back on the offensive. “Why are you chuntering on in French again?”

“It’s simple,” I explained, daring to add a trivial sarcasm, “it’s the native tongue of Monaco.”

She was speechless.

“When did you arrive in Monté-Carlo?” I asked.

I could tell she saw a glimmer of light and, though uncertain, she stuck with me. “You’re telling me you’re in Monté-Carlo?” she said, part question and part statement.

“There are two alternatives,” I told her. “Either we’re both in Monté-Carlo and you’re in a conversation with a mental case, or I’m alone in Monaco, which would place you somewhere else.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “That puts you in another part of the world.”

She considered the alternatives. Brave girl, she reckoned I wasn’t nuts, because she said, “I’m in a bookshop in the West End.”

“London’s West End?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “that’s correct.”

London

His hand snaked under and up inside my nightdress as he fumbled to grip my breast. Harry was always the same when he was drunk. He found it and with thumb and forefinger crudely rubbed the nipple as an inexperienced youth might do.

Please Harry, what became of the delicate touch? I wondered as I lay breathing regularly, feigning sleep. During the previous year I’d often practiced in the hope I would perfect it.

He persisted with the nipple even though it remained soft. After a few seconds he gave up and stormed from the bed, pulling the duvet from me.

My instinct was to shiver in the chill of the early spring, but I concentrated my efforts on remaining motionless, simulating sleep.

Harry grunted an expletive and my mind warned me I should react to it as the noise would have disturbed my slumber. I murmured once before I resumed my ‘sleep.’

Judging by the stillness, he waited to see if I would awake fully. I was surprised he didn’t try to rouse me, perhaps his passion had changed to anger. If so, he would make me know it the next morning. He padded across the floor, used a fresh four-letter word and slammed the bedroom door behind him.

I waited, counted a slow sixty before turning my head to peer through slitted eyes into the semi-darkness. He wasn’t lurking in the bedroom; I was alone. I pulled the duvet back over me, mostly for heat; partially for a sense of security as I brought my knees up under my chin.

Tears erupted while I wondered, not for the first time, why I didn’t give in. Five minutes sex was all he wanted. For that sacrifice I would be rewarded with the relative certainty of a day free of his moods and heavy sarcasm which had worn me down over the months. Logically, it was a small price, but the sense of self loathing on those occasions when I sold out haunted me for days after.

On my back, I cried in silence through my open mouth, gasping for air as salt tears stung my face. I’d never been so unhappy, trapped in a detestable marriage, and for the umpteenth time, wondered how I could change it to how it was. My problem was, I didn’t know what was wrong; what had happened to alienate Harry. Whenever I asked him what we should do, or if we ought to seek professional help, he became angry and escaped my questions in a moody silence. I held the option of freedom from the marriage, yet whatever was to be done to repair the damage, I would do it. Running away was not a choice. Once before, I’d fled in fear and that had shamed me so much I would never do it again. I would face up to it when the tears were dry. Tomorrow, I’d conceive a plan. Now, I thought, I’m too upset to think straight ... far too tired...