Dear Beneficiary (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I'm not sure how I got to be sixty without really noticing. I'm not particularly worried about it, just taken by surprise. People tell me I don't look my age. I put that down to keeping a slim, neat figure and moisturising every day, although I have good genes – inherited from my mother's side of the family. She looked a bit like Vivien Leigh, and some say I do too. I certainly don't look as old as Mrs Goodwin over the road, who hasn't retained any youthful looks. I think she was born old, welcoming a future full of uni-slippers and Steradent. I'm rather pleased to retain a youthful appearance which happily includes pert breasts, which considering the four children I've had are something of a testament to the benefits of swimming.

Marriage to Colin had its positive points. I have a comfortable home, and since his death I've learned a few things about DIY and rarely cried. Except the time I set fire to myself after trying to change a socket in the kitchen. It taught me the value of calling a professional when electricity and water are involved in the same place at the same time.

I had routines. Colin liked them and they gave my life structure. Mr Hartworth, as he was known within the diplomatic service, was particularly good at routines.

Too good, I'd say. Compared to Darius, who likes the element of surprise, I might even go so far as to say that Colin was so predictable his mental health could be called into question.

I still have a fair amount of the good wine he laid down for special occasions but have demolished many of the other systems we had in place when domestic life ran very smoothly. It was just habit. Years of corporate socialising with Colin's ‘very important' colleagues demanded it. I didn't question it at the time but I often wonder why I put up with so many boring bastards, each with very elevated ideas of their worth in society. I suppose I was just doing the right thing – in their opinion rather than mine, but I hadn't thought I was entitled to one.

I didn't need much entertaining. Even my TV still sits in the same small and unobtrusive corner, resting beneath an old G Plan cabinet of indeterminate years, bought by Colin without any discussion with me. It's covered with numerous gilt-framed pictures of my children: Jonathan, or Jonjo as I like to call him (much to his wife's disgust); Patrick, who I call Paddy in deference to my Irish ancestry; Roberta, or Bobbie; and Titch. Well, Kathryn is her real name but she was always very small and the youngest, so the name stuck. I also have nine grandchildren of varying ages with such a variety of names I wonder who thought of them all. It is hard work remembering which one is which. After the first, Tom, they seem to meld into variations on a theme. I get their names wrong sometimes. Still, it causes much amusement at family gatherings – which I stopped going to soon after the funeral.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my family and they seem to like me up to a point, but I do find large parties, with lots of people, tense and irritating. My children think I'm ancient and my grandchildren think I'm deaf. One way or another they patronise me, usually in very loud voices, and I seem to be able to say things to my children that upset them, while everything I say to the youngsters seems to be funny and I'm not sure why.

I didn't want to waste whatever time I have left to me, so I would often leave get-togethers early and then I'd have to wait some days before calling Bobbie in the hope that any resulting angst had gone. I did feel guilty about my waning interest in maternal responsibilities but I'd done my time looking after that lot and it was time to live a little.

Once I'd extricated myself from most maternal duties I enjoyed taking on new activities even if they may not have been what was expected of a widow of a certain age.

My upbringing did equip me to some extent to follow the patterns of traditional married life, but with no one to ‘keep me in line' I decided there was no harm in letting loose a little, even if I did have to do it in private. Without the need to be a role model as a mother or wife, I was free to have a clandestine affair with a shiny black management consultant I'd met on an Advanced Driving course. And why not?

Darius intrigued me with his deep, dark voice that night at the driving class, as he told me he'd been in the UK for just over three months, on secondment from a Nigerian IT company. He added he was working on a special project, something to do with investigating fraud within a large financial corporation. Hotel life was dull, and although he'd been offered the chance of rented accommodation instead, he'd thought it pointless as that would mean he'd have to cook for himself – at least in a hotel everything was provided.

‘So why are you doing this course?' Darius had asked when we first spoke, looking at me as if he was actually interested rather than being polite. The blood coursed through my veins and trampolined on the ventricles of my heart while my stomach flipped up to meet it. I explained that since being on my own I was a nervous driver and wanted to improve my skills. I hoped I hadn't been too subtle about being single.

‘And what about you?' I'd asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I was mesmerised as he explained he'd been bored with what Surrey had to offer in terms of a night life and opted for continued education as a means to pass the time he was committed to working in the country. He'd said he'd been contracted to work in the UK for up to a year.

‘I do a lot of driving in my work and wanted to make it more interesting,' he'd said, adding that his hotel was only a short walk from the school and he wanted to take part in something local.

‘It's a chance to get to know people,' added Darius. I sincerely hoped he wanted to get to know me.

The class went by in a blur. My heart raced and my stomach churned faster than a cheese-maker. I vaguely recognised the feeling, which must have dated back to my early teens when I fell for the gorgeous Kevin Smith who lived three doors up from us and owned his own drop-handled racing bike.

I adored Kevin, who was two years older than me. Being fifteen he didn't want to be seen with a thirteen-year-old girl, the sister of one of his school mates, but I would follow him everywhere. I think I must have annoyed him because one Thursday evening when I was on my way to Girl Guides, he called me over to his group of friends as they were standing outside the fish and chip shop. He leaned forward and I thought he was going to kiss me but he didn't. He just asked me to buy him some chips. I used the money my mum had just given me for my weekly subs to do so. After queuing nearly twelve minutes to buy them, I came to hand them over and he laughed in my face before racing off on his bike, his mates in tow. I tried to catch up with him and nearly caught the back of his shirt as it flapped behind him, but he just pedalled faster, shouting ‘Go away, little girl'. I was heartbroken but still loved him, as one always loves the one who gets away.

As for Darius, I couldn't see him behaving so badly. I was smitten. At first I didn't anticipate he would have any interest in me on a physical level. I was old enough to be his mother, for goodness' sake – despite retaining excellent bone structure and good skin.

I hung on to the hope that he'd see in me what the lady at the Boots make-up counter could see. A few weeks after Colin's death I'd treated myself to a new foundation and, having nothing else to do, took up the offer of a free makeover.

‘You have amazing skin, you know,' she'd said as she dabbed various colours and consistencies onto my face. ‘A lot of women in their forties start to lose structure but you look fab,' she added, pulling my eyelid down and scribbling black gunk along the edge. I thought I was going to end up looking like a panda after a long night.

‘I'm nearly sixty, actually,' I said, feeling very flattered but trying not to show it.

The make-up woman screeched so loudly a few passing customers looked at her disapprovingly. I'd have done the same in different circumstances.

‘Well, I never would have believed it!' she said. ‘You're gorgeous. I hope I look as sexy as you at your age.'

She hasn't been the only person to tell me something similar. I've been likened to film stars, mistaken for my daughters' sister (much to their annoyance) and refused entry to an over-fifties Christmas luncheon on the basis I didn't qualify. So I reckoned physically I could be in with a chance of finding some romantic interests in my later years.

But being an open-minded and intellectually broad kind of person, I'd been keen to develop our friendship on a deeper level, and offer my skills as a home cook and social entertainer to a man clearly deprived of such comforts. Darius was attentive, and the way I caught him looking at my legs suggested his interest was more than platonic. I'm not a natural flirt, but on the many times our eyes made contact he'd hold my gaze for just slightly longer than I felt comfortable. I'd seen that look before and had a good idea what it meant.

On the way down the school drive back to the car park on that fateful night, I suggested Darius might like to visit me one evening for a light supper and maybe to listen to some music. Throughout the evening he had intimated he'd very much like some company and was keen to explore more of what British culture had to offer.

It wasn't long before our shared isolation became a source of mutual attraction, at which point I allowed him to provide an uncharacteristic injection of carnal pleasure. It had happened naturally and without any guile on my part. Yes, I'd worn stockings and my sexiest little black dress. I'd gone to the hairdresser's for the first time in six months to have my grey hair, usually tied in a tight bun, delicately coloured and dried into a soft and loose arrangement. I even shaved my legs! I hadn't done that for years, as the hairs I had left were mostly unnoticeable, having diminished in their strength over the years. It formed part of the process of getting ready to meet a man and I was amazed how quickly those feelings came back to me after decades of dormancy. I felt young again, only with far more knowledge and a total commitment to making the most of what might be on offer.

CHAPTER NINE

When Darius arrived at my house the first time, he smelled divine. It was a heady mixture of cleanliness and a crisp cologne, encased in fresh air from where he'd walked in from the chilly night breeze. I put the rush of blood to my head down to the small glass of Martini I'd drunk to calm my nerves before his arrival. No one had ever regarded me as a passionate woman on any level, and it certainly wasn't a trait I saw in myself, so I was surprised, but happy, to feel so giddy.

After a meal of chicken breasts wrapped in ham with a small salad, dressed with a mixture of sesame oil and balsamic vinegar, we sat together on the settee to watch a classical concert on BBC 4.

I remembered how gentle he was in his approach, and how considerate, even though he liked to take me by surprise. Like the time I was focusing on keeping my balance in the ‘doggy' position and he whipped me round onto my back like a chop in a frying pan. As much as I'd hoped, I'd never believed he'd find me attractive. I had been prepared for a platonic relationship but when he made it clear he had other ideas I was willing his touch, his closeness, and welcoming the nerve-jangling excitement I'd been deprived of.

He'd always pick up on my signals quickly. Maybe the dress was a bit too short? He responded by kissing my lips gently, kneeling down in front of me and making me feel incredibly small against his vast build. His sheer size was overwhelming in many ways, so his position was ideal. I watched as his lips, larger than I'd ever seen and pink inside the darkest chocolate coloured frame, met mine. Something deep in the pit of my belly stirred and I started to wonder if I'd cooked the chicken properly.

When his hands moved up my body from my hips to just under my breasts, I caught my breath and kissed him back. His thumbs barely moved to touch the end of my nipples, and I jumped. Not with shock, but spontaneous reaction to the effect he was having on my body.

‘Let's go upstairs,' I'd whispered to him, barely able to contain the thought of the possibilities to come. I imagined his naked body sliding against mine, engulfing me with its hugeness and overpowering me with desire, rendering me useless against his demands and heady with pleasure.

He said nothing, but followed me to my room which still had the hallmarks of marriage; two dressing gowns on the hook behind the door, two sets of wardrobes and bedside tables complete with lamps for each person. Three years on and I still couldn't quite convert from being part of a couple to being single. By keeping his belongings it was like Colin had just gone away on business and would soon be back. That was easier than coping with the eternal loneliness of widowhood.

I slipped my clothes off quickly. I'd become suddenly shy about the suspenders, fearing he would think me too forward, so I jumped under the duvet and hid my body beneath the covers. Only the top half of my head was on show – my eyes had to be clear so I could watch this massive man take off first his pale pink shirt and then his jeans, socks and underwear.

He'd already removed his shoes at the front door on my request.

I'd never seen boxer shorts so close up before. Colin always wore white Y-fronts with rather too much space at the front. More importantly at that moment, I'd never seen a penis like it. Not only much larger than Colin's, my only other lover, but so erect it looked like it was going to burst. I noticed its strong upwards angle and considerable girth, and was surprised to see the end of it was pink. Like his lips, a surprising contrast to the blackness of the rest of his skin.

Darius slid smoothly into the bed beside me and then disappeared below the covers. The soft roundness of his lips moved gently down my stomach until they met the area most demanding his attention. His hands were clasped around the top of my legs, his thumbs pressing at the soft, overly sensitive skin at the top of my inner thighs. I wasn't sure whether moving around was sexually acceptable, but I'd no choice as the extreme pleasure I felt was coursing through my body, nudging every nerve-ending awake. Every time I lifted my hips from the bed he'd use his strong mouth to push me back, raising the stakes with every lick and nip.