Sally Read online

  Sally graciously accepted the compliments of the waiter. Soon she was deftly scooping up the chocolate-dusted froth and thinking of nothing in particular as it fluffed into nothingness on her tongue. The pastry was absolutely heavenly and she even closed her eyes as the first mouthful revealed to her tastebuds apple, crème patissière and the lightest of pastry. By the second sip and third mouthful, Sally was happily recalling the details of her decadent afternoon. A coffee-brown lambswool blazer; two silk shirts, one olive, one cream; a pair of exorbitantly expensive designer jeans; and a short (was it too short?) black devoré velvet skirt.

  When on earth am I going to wear that?

  You will.

  She had indulged in garments of the finest fabrics, and at the most exorbitant prices. The whole experience had been so pleasurable, the looking, the touching, the trying on; the decision-making so effortless. Finally, it had been a joy and well worth the money to watch her acquisitions being coddled in tissue paper and then handed to her so reverently.

  As she pressed a determined fork against the last flakes of Danish, she pondered for a moment; common sense versus decadence. Sally, you must understand, had spent her rainy-day money. Frequently she put a little aside ‘for a rainy day’, not really knowing when that would be. But it was definitely today and common sense had a place neither in her scheme of things nor her purse.

  Today, she told herself as the brisk November breeze reddened her nose and chin a little more, today it is pouring.

  Despite the pavements being dry and no umbrella in sight, Sally decided that it was the rainiest day in ages and the spending of pounds amassed from hard-saved pennies was utterly justified. These purchases, after all, were an investment. She turned to look for her waiter, and in doing so felt a whisper of velvet against her cheek. Its caress felt wonderful and, as the waiter was nowhere to be seen, she kept her head still a moment longer.

  Over her second cappuccino, Sally indulged in recalling, moment by moment, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, and if one can feel light-headed between the legs, then that was how Sally was feeling.

  Never have I been worshipped like that, never have I been so aware of my body, what it can do, how it can feel, how it can make another feel.

  Perhaps it was because she had consciously watched, analyzed even, a man totally absorbed in her, so hungry for her, that her own physical awareness had been heightened. The sex seemed so much more fulfilling, the orgasm so exquisite. New. Sitting there, in Hampstead, with the light growing thin, a November navy replacing the afternoon silver, Sally decided to recast herself as a fly on the wall of her replay and ran the whole sequence again, this time as a series of film stills. Vivid in her mind’s eye was the interlocking of two bodies, the various formations and patterns, firm flesh, the spaces in between; Rodin’s marble; Henry Moore’s bronze.

  Carlos found himself unable to resist. The English Rose, smiling carefree out loud, was compelling, magnetic. He was helpless in the face of her. As his luck would have it, she turned to him with that very smile as he presented the bill to her. With his very best English, he let go:

  ‘Señorita, your smile, it makes my day. Is so very beautiful. In you I see the English Rosa. If I was Shake His Speare, I write a play for you. You are foods for my ’eart and a vision for my eyes. Is so very lovely. I am breaking open for your smile of pretty innocence.’

  Hand pressed with conviction against his heart, he kissed up at the sky as if imploring the gods to grant his wish. Sally was flattered to the hilt. Cocking her head, she gave him the smile to make his day, a wink too, and a tip which far exceeded her previously uniform ten per cent.

  Not quite, thought Sally as she strolled away home, but thank you anyway. She threw back her head and grinned hugely at the near-dark sky. Actually, the smile that has made your day is not that of an innocent English Rose, but is rather the glow of a well-laid woman.

  THREE

  ‘Foxy Lady!’

  Jimi Hendrix’s chocolate voice, the aggressive twang and slice of his guitar, rings out and reverberates off the walls. The music is loud and frantic. It adds action and life to the room.

  There is little furniture but what there is has, undoubtedly, the British Design Council seal of approval. The run of the floorboards, interrupted only occasionally by a piece of carefully chosen, intelligently placed furniture, leads the eye to the fireplace above which an Alexander Calder gouache explodes colour and shape on to the intensely white wall. The low coffee table is a sleek construction in burnished steel and tinted glass. It supports a matt black vase stuffed with emphatically upright tulips; white, waxy but not real. On a diagonal to the table’s edge is a copy of Warhol’s Diaries. Along one wall stands an ash and glass cabinet. Understated and stunning, the carpentry is exquisite. It is filled with books meticulously organized into a personal library system. Pride of place is given to the leather-bound volumes: Shakespeare, Donne, Fielding, the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the Dictionary of Quotations. On the shelf above are art books, epic tomes and sumptuous catalogues: Mantegna, Vermeer, Cézanne and Poussin. The shelves below carry novels, all hardback, all standing proud in alphabetical order: Bellow, Heller, Kafka, Marquez, Nabokov, Pasternak, Seth.

  On one side of the fireplace, a fabulous Conran standard lamp stands to attention while on the other side is the CD system, a veritable piece of sculpture in itself; wafer-thin, subtle Scandinavian lines, matt black, obviously. On custom-built shelves (oak and chrome) are enough CDs to open a shop. They are categorized, of course; the concise rock section alphabetically, the comprehensive classical section chronologically: Monteverdi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, Schoenberg, Bartok, Tippett. And yet it is Mr Hendrix who somewhat anomalously fills this unnervingly chic room in Notting Hill with sound.

  Can you guess where we are? It is still the day of the Big B. and, a few miles away, Sally has just arrived home, where she is presently dancing Giselle in the devoré skirt and nothing else. Physically, she may be some distance from Jimi and the Calder and the tulips; however, the memory of her is very much here, clear and current in the mind of this flat’s occupant, evoked by Mr Hendrix’s beast of chase. It is time for the Rodin to assume his true identity.

  Would Richard Stonehill please stand up?

  Look there! Against the long sash window, framed movie-like by imperceptibly breezing muslin drapes. That’s him, resting his brow against his outstretched arm against the window. Turn around – oh, just look! Six foot two and-a-bit, perfectly carved and gorgeously chiselled. Now this is the stuff of Levi jeans commercials. Hair the colour of the sand at Rosilli Bay where his childhood was spent, Richard’s skin boasts the health, vitality and natural tan of someone who lived long in the care and goodness of Welsh sea air. His eyes are the most extraordinary dark violet, his teeth are very good, his hands could be those of a concert pianist, he is fiendishly good-looking and he smells delicious – a fine mixture of freshly laundered clothes, scrubbed skin and Calvin Klein scent.

  Eyes closed, long and lithe legs stretched out, arms relaxed, Richard Stonehill slithers into his black leather recliner, and converses with Jimi.

  ‘I’m too exhausted to get up and scream, Mr Hendrix,’ he apologises, but finds ample energy to sing that he too has wasted precious time; that he has therefore made up his mind to make this foxy lady his, all his.

  Bay-beh!

  Jimi, it appears is singing about Sally. Or someone just like her. But Richard has never met anyone who comes remotely near her. He sincerely hopes that this vixen will have her sport with him a while longer.

  A wry smile creeps from one side of his mouth to the other. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. What does he shake in it? Disbelief? But it did happen, his pleasantly tired body is proof, and so are the images which constantly assault his memory. Does he shake it in amusement? But the night with Sally was more than just fun. His gaze rests upon Julius Caesar, third volume into the run of Shakespeare. Richard sees its title and
suddenly Sally, in her naked glory, appears before him too. Caesar. Seize her.

  Seize who? Who on earth is this woman? This Sally Lomax? The classic friend of a friend of a friend whom he met less than twenty-four hours ago at the party of a friend of a friend. How come he had not met, even heard of her before? Fate. It must have been. At 11 o’clock the previous evening, Fate had pushed them both on to the balcony at that dull party in Barnes. Fate had allowed conversation to flow, flattery and flirtations to be accepted, and Sally to be without a ride back into London. Fate took them past an all-night bagel bakery and Fate uncovered a shared passion for the smoked salmon-cream cheese variety. Fate filled Richard’s car with laughter and sexual chemistry. If Fate took him to Highgate, where he’d never even thought of going before, where was it to take him from here?

  As quickly as the vision came, Sally now disappeared from the cabinet and the complete works of Shakespeare stared back at Richard in their leather-bound splendour. Hendrix was now proclaiming that an angel had come down from heaven yesterday, staying just long enough to rescue him.

  Richard, who did not feel rescued so much as released, rose and sauntered to the bathroom, a tiler’s delight in damson, citron and bleu di bleu majolica ceramic. His bladder was full and he stood expectant for the blissful moment of release. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he glanced down. It looked like it always did and felt like it should. Eyes slightly closed, he tried again. Nothing. Slight pain but nothing.

  Come on, mate, syphon the python, have a slash, take a leak.

  Nothing. He fiddled a bit, gave a little squeeze, a little pull, a slight twist, a gentle shake. Nothing. He turned the tap on to a drizzle.

  But I’m bursting.

  Bursting. Immediately his mind flashed up an image of the night before, a clear picture and a vivid sensation at the same time. There is Sally’s nipple brushing the corner of his mouth; he sees himself thrusting into her, pump, spurt, release.

  Stop it, I’ve got to piss.

  Richard looked down and his penis, as erect and straining as his perfect tulips, leered up at him lasciviously. No peeing for the time being. He ached in his lower back and his groin and decided to sit awhile instead. Chin resting on a fist, elbow balanced on a knee; he is Rodin’s Thinker to a ‘t’. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took a long, hard stare.

  I am thirty-five and have had a mind-blowing sexual encounter. I do not know the girl, though carnally I know her inside out. And today I cannot pee. Look at me, blond, handsome – very – virile, manly, hunky, horny. Suave, debonair, sophisticated. In control – of my life, of my mind, of my work.

  But not of my dick.

  Who is this woman? This Sally Lomax? She is a teacher, she is twenty-five, she lives by herself in urban cottagey style amongst pine dressers, floral table cloths, Lloyd-Loom chairs and a patchwork eiderdown. Shabby chic, everything fresh, clean and bright. Objectively, she is not even that beautiful, not really my type. So what has she done to me? My tackle has never ached before, nor my gut felt so hollow, my mind so distracted. What have I done? What has been done to me? Why can’t I pee? When will I see her again? Jeez, will I see her again?

  The horror and accompanying adrenalin at the thought of never seeing Sally again opened the sluice gates of the Stonehill bladder. Richard had just enough time to release the Thinker’s pose so that the torrent hit the bowl and not the double weave, thick-pile carpet.

  FOUR

  ‘Did you see Miss Lomax in assembly? Did you see what she was wearing? You can see her knees! And she has make-up on. Definitely mascara and lipstick.’

  ‘My mum says that a woman should never go out without lipstick on.’

  ‘But Miss Lomax is a teacher!’

  ‘My mum says it’s tarty to put make-up on unless it’s a special occasion.’

  ‘Yes, but Miss Lomax is a teacher.’

  Gossip was always an integral part of Monday morning school but rarely were the teachers its main topic. On a Thursday or a Friday maybe, but Monday was usually dedicated to the football scores, shopping trips and birthday parties of the weekend just past. That Monday morning, in the all-too-short ten minutes between assembly and first lesson, Miss Lomax was the exclusive subject for discussion.

  Class Five were stupefied, traumatized and desperately excited. Scandal, they believed, was about to shake the school. Of what it was they were as yet unsure. To an extent it was irrelevant, the truth may not be nearly so exciting as wild conjecture. Was she going somewhere after school? If so, where? To dinner? To the opera, the theatre? To court? Was she about to get engaged? Was she leading a double life as a model as well as a teacher? (To a ten-year-old, anyone taller or older, anyone in high heels or even just a trace of lipstick, was very glamorous indeed.) Maybe she was going to elope – please, no, that would mean a new teacher and Miss Lomax was irreplaceable. Miss Lomax warranted compliments usually paid to footballers, pop stars and ponies; she was the business, the bestest, brill, fab.

  ‘Who do you think she’s going to elope with?’

  ‘Maybe they’ll be catching a train to Gretna Green straight after school!’

  ‘Quick, who passes King’s Cross Station on their way home?’

  Suddenly the classroom reverberated with the age-old sound of desks creaking, chairs being scraped into forward-facing position and a few nervous, last-minute giggles and whispers. Teacher had arrived. There she was, resplendent in a tight skirt and loose, silky blouse. Miss Lomax stood before them, feet slightly apart, hands on hips.

  ‘Hi.’

  Thirty champion chatterboxes were stunned into a unified hush.

  Hi?

  Hi?

  What’s ‘Hi’?

  Hey, maybe she’s on drugs!

  Miss Lomax perched herself in a perfect serpentine on the edge of her table, black Lycra-clad legs plaited around each other.

  Maybe she’s drunk!

  ‘Today I thought we’d do something different. I read your “What I did over half term” stories and I’m not particularly interested in what you did this weekend. It seems that you all tend to do the same old things anyway, and your writing is rather boring. You lot don’t seem to have much imagination. With the exception of Rajiv, who seems to have a little too much because every weekend he apparently saves family or friends from fire, flood or sinking ship.’

  Twenty-nine children laughed. Miss Lomax smiled gently at Rajiv and cocked her head as if to say, Don’t take it to heart.

  ‘Shush. Thank you. No, today I thought we could talk about our best daydreams, our favourite fantasies. Now who will start? Rajiv? Okay. And easy on the fires, floods or drowning baby cousins. Fire away, fire away.’

  Rajiv began his story. His fantasy was to be all by himself, away from his family and friends, in a spacecraft made for one, operated by one. He would leave Earth, head for the stars, alight on one and discover living aliens. He would stay and befriend this new people, introduce them to such concepts as clothing empires and hotel chains and fast-food outlets. He would become their undisputed, much-loved leader, an intergalactic Richard Branson.

  Marsha, who had a soft spot for Rajiv, explained that she aimed to become a fireman-woman, so that she could help Rajiv in his brave adventures. They could be a team – firefighting heroes but also husband and wife with six children. Rajiv buried his head in his hands, wishing his spacecraft could be ready that afternoon. Miss Lomax succeeded – but only just – in suppressing potentially uncontrollable giggles. Rajiv, however, quickly succumbed to a tell-tale redness which travelled all over his face and burnt right through to his ears. A roar of ‘Ugghh’ and a spatter of laughter erupted. Marsha stared straight at him and at Miss Lomax alternately, imploring, ‘But it’s true, it’s true.’

  Law and order was easily re-established, the class was keen to listen and tell. Ambitions were mooted: to win the Grand National on a small Welsh pony; to become a very famous actress and appear on This Is Your Life; to take England to victory as the top goal scorer
in the next World Cup (‘Come on now, Andrew, be slightly realistic’, ‘Well, maybe the World Cup after next’); to be the Queen’s favourite chef. The children were loose, stimulated and creative. They produced some of their best work that day without realizing it was work at all. Miss Lomax felt proud. She was having fun.

  ‘Yes, Alice? Tell you my fantasy or daydream?’ The bell for break clanged. Saved by the bell, ho ho, thought Sally. Yet for once none of the children moved. Pen lids were left off pens, books lay threateningly open. Thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes said that break did not matter, they wanted Miss Lomax’s dreams.

  ‘My dream?’

  Yes, Miss, your dream.

  ‘Maybe next time, it’s break-time.’

  We don’t want our break, we want your fantasy!

  There was no escape, she could not punish them for showing such enthusiasm for her lesson. She could not disappoint them by merely taking theirs and not giving them hers.

  ‘Okay, okay. In a nutshell, I would like to live in Tuscany – that’s in Italy, here on the map. In a beautiful stone villa set amidst flowers and cypress trees, with its own pool and near a perfect little village. I’d like a devilishly good-looking Italian husband who is a pasta wizard, a batch of beautiful babies and a satisfying job teaching perfectly behaved, diligent (look it up in the dictionary) pupils.’

  Sally only sort-of lied. It had certainly been her fantasy right up until last week, but that was before Richard Stonehill and her current fantasies, which would most certainly earn her a dismissal and severely disturb the fresh, absorbent minds of her young charges. The Tuscan Idyll would have to suffice.

  ‘Now scram!’ Thirty pairs of androgynous legs scrammed. Out, out into the playground to munch chocolate, elaborate further on their stories and to discuss whether or not they believed Miss Lomax. The majority (all except Paula-Teacher’s-Pet-Thomson) did not.