Losing Me (12 page)

“No. Only men.”

“Ken’s not. You’ve always said that you two get on like a couple of girls.”

“OK, I admit that Ken is the exception.”

Just then a text pinged on Barbara’s phone. She reached over to the coffee table. “It’s Ben. . . . Little sod. Get this: ‘Mum, is that you downstairs? If it is you and not a burglar, could you possibly bring me up a cup of tea with two sugars and one of those chocolate ginger biscuits?’” She texted back:
No can do. I’m the burglar.

Two minutes later, Ben appeared.

“Hey, Mum. Guess I’ll have to go without tea, then. But don’t you worry about me.”

“I’m not. Now say hello to Jean.”

“Hi, Aunty Jean.”

He went over and gave Jean a kiss on the cheek. She wasn’t his real aunt, of course, but when they were little, Ben and Jess had decided that she was and “Aunty Jean” had stuck. By the same token, Adam and Oliver called Barbara “Aunty Bar.”

Jean asked him how the writing was going. He said OK. Jean knew enough about Ben’s situation to have the good sense not to push it and demand details. Instead she remarked on his hair. “With that mop of yours, you’re looking more like Bob Dylan every time I see you.” She turned to Barbara. “And of course Bob Dylan was the image of Frank when he was young. Or should that be the other way round?”

Ben said it was funny that Aunty Jean should bring up the subject of his hair, because it could actually do with a cut.

“Don’t even go there,” Barbara said. “The bank’s empty.” It seemed that the kid who felt so guilty about living off his parents was still capable of reverting to being a teenager when it suited him. She looked at her watch and then at her son. “It’s only four o’clock. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you sleep?”

“Very funny. . . . Look, Mum, instead of a haircut, could I possibly have fifty quid for some new Converse? These are falling apart.”

“I just told you, there’s no money.”

“Please? I’ll pay you back.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’ll look after you and Dad when you’re old and incontinent. Of course, by that I mean I will get carers in. I’m not going to actually wipe your bums.”

“Well, that’s good to know—on both counts,” Barbara said, shaking her head in mock despair. “So you want fifty quid? For plimsolls.”

“It’s not my fault. That’s how much they cost.” Only now did he notice that his mother was wrapped in a duvet. “Mum, you OK? If you’re coming down with something, don’t come near me. I’ve got this gig tomorrow night.”

“And you’ll be wanting money for that, too, I presume.”

“Come on. You love me really.”

“You think?”

“So are you ill?”

“Not exactly.”

Barbara told him the tale.

“You’ll be fine,” Ben said. “My mate Chris used to have these terrible panic attacks. He’d totally freak out if we were at a gig and it was rammed. He’s on meds now, and he’s completely OK. . . . So can I take your credit card? I promise I won’t take more than I need.”

“I suppose so. And put your big coat on. It’s freezing.”

After he’d gone, Barbara turned to Jean. “He’s so like his father. I could be having a nervous breakdown here and all he’s interested in is himself.”

“Maybe it’s not as simple as that. Kids get scared when their parents get ill—even adult kids. I remember reading about it when I was doing my nursing training. And it’s true. Deep down they think you might be about to die and abandon them. Ben’s just too macho to show it.”

“Perhaps. I just worry that sometimes he behaves like such a spoiled brat. One minute he’s telling me how much he hates living off me and his dad. The next he’s coming round me for cash, just like a kid.”

“Ken and I had all this with our two. Don’t forget Oliver and Adam both went through what Ben’s going through. The kid’s unemployed. His band crashed and died. He’s got no money. So he reverts to being a teenager. I know it’s hard, but what are you going to do? Kick him out?”

“Some parents would.”

“I know, but I’m not sure tough love is the answer. People don’t understand that these kids can’t see a future for themselves. They’re frightened. But eventually my two sorted themselves out. Ben will, too. You just need to sit tight and not panic.”

“I wish you’d tell Frank that. He won’t listen to me.” Barbara arranged the duvet, which had slipped off her shoulders. “I know I moan, but if I’m honest, I’ll miss Ben when he finally moves out.”

Jean said she’d cried for a month when her last layabout left. “It’s not the laundry, the picking up after them that you miss. It’s the having them around—cracking jokes, squirting cream into their mouths straight from the can. Then, before you know it, they get engaged and married and there are in-laws to contend with.”

Barbara said they didn’t see much of Matt’s folks because they’d retired to Devon. “To be honest, we don’t really know them. Apart from the wedding, we’ve met only a couple of times, but they seem like really lovely people and Atticus and Cleo adore them.”

“Bully for you. We had Felicity over for dinner last night.” Felicity was the mother of their future daughter-in-law. It was the first time Jean and Ken had met her, and it hadn’t gone well.

“We adore Emma, but her mother is a real piece of work. Terrible snob. We both tried to give her a bit of leeway because she just lost her husband, but I ended up wanting to throttle her.” She explained how the conversation had got round to the royal family and Felicity had kept going on about how Kate was so nouveau and not remotely good enough for William and how the Middleton girls had always been known as the “Wisteria Sisters”—highly decorative, terribly fragrant and with a ferocious ability to climb.

“Then she starts on immigrants and people living on benefits. And what does Ken do?”

“Buggers off to the pub?”

“Not quite. He pretends he’s got to call the hospital to check on a patient and retreats into his study for half an hour. I was furious with him. But he said it was either that or he would have shown her the front door. Afterwards poor Emma couldn’t stop apologizing for her mother. Adam and I were trying to calm her down. Meanwhile Ken sat himself down in front of the football.”

“Well, it’s good to hear everything’s got off to such a good start,” Barbara said.

They both started to laugh, and Barbara realized she was feeling warmer.

“Where does the time go?” Jean said, shaking her head. “You raise a family, and then suddenly it’s just you and the old man staring at each other across the dinner table, wondering what to talk about.”

“Stop it,” Barbara said. “You and Ken have a brilliant relationship. You’ve never had that problem.”

“OK, maybe not that exact problem, but there’s no such thing as a perfect marriage, you know. Ken and I have our ups and downs.”

“Of course you do. Doesn’t everybody?”

Jean looked down at the mug of tea she was nursing. “We hardly ever have sex,” she blurted out. Then she pursed her lips as if she regretted her revelation. It seemed pretty clear that Jean had been bottling up this information for a while.

“Come on,” Barbara soothed. “You’ve been married since ever. Sex gets boring. Plus we’re all getting older.”

“It’s nothing to do with age. Right from the start, sex has been an issue. Ken has never been what you’d call a sexual being. When he’s in the mood—which is rarely—he can perform perfectly well. But the truth is, he’s not really interested. Over the years, he’s seen specialists, had his testosterone levels checked. He’s had umpteen sessions with shrinks. And before you ask—no, he’s not gay. Nor is he repressing memories of sexual abuse—which is what we thought at first. He simply has a very low sex drive. It happens.”

“So was he like this before you got married?”

“Pretty much, but I put it down to our mutual lack of experience. I thought that, given time, we’d be able to sort it out.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But why have you never said anything?”

“I couldn’t bear to. I felt that once I’d said it out loud, it would become real. While I was keeping it to myself, I could pretend it wasn’t happening—or at least that it wasn’t so bad. And like you, I felt there was no point complaining. There was nothing to be done. I just accepted it. And it wasn’t like we were having no sex at all. That’s what kept me going.”

“Even so. You must have felt so rejected by him.”

“I did. But on the other hand, Ken is so loving and affectionate. He’s always telling me how much he adores me. He pays me no end of compliments. He fusses over me. I’ve always felt loved, and I know he wants to be with me.”

“Funny. When I saw the pair of you flirting at your birthday party, I was convinced you were still swinging from the chandeliers.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth. I think we do it for show.”

“Have you ever thought about having an affair?”

“Many times. But the danger of an affair is that you end up falling in love and walking away from your marriage. I could never put our marriage at risk. I love Ken and I want to be with him. We’re best friends. We have a good life.”

“With virtually no sex.”

“I manage.” A thin smile crossed her face. “The Rabbit is a wonderful invention.” Jean was trying to make light of it all, but Barbara wasn’t laughing. “The thing is,” Jean went on, “when I hit menopause I thought my libido would start to flag and Ken and I would be on the same page desire-wise. But it didn’t. So I finally came up with a solution.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found yourself a gigolo.”

Jean took a mouthful of tea. “I did. His name’s Jenson.”

“Brilliant,” Barbara said, laughing. “Jean and Jenson. So, come on. What was your actual solution?”

“That’s it.”

“What is?”

“Jenson.”

“My God—you’re serious? You’re having sex with a male prostitute?”

“You make it sound so sordid. Jenson’s a gigolo.”

Which didn’t sound remotely sordid.

“Of course, Jenson’s not his real name. All the guys at the agency have made-up gigolo names.”

“I’m speechless. I mean, what if Ken found out? What if you caught some disease?”

“Bar—this is me you’re talking to. Do you honestly think I’m going to have unprotected sex? And Ken isn’t going to find out. I meet Jenson at this place he rents—purely for entertaining purposes—and I pay him cash from the money I inherited when my mum died. And before you ask, yes, I keep it in my own private bank account. And if the worst did happen, I think that, once he got over the shock, Ken would understand.”

“You really think that?”

“Yes, I do. He’s under no illusions. He knows how much I have struggled over the years.”

“So you don’t feel guilty?”

“Actually, I don’t. I’ve spent a long time thinking about doing this. Then, after my sixtieth birthday, it hit me that we only have one shot at life. I don’t know how many years I’ve got left on this earth, but I don’t intend to spend them living like a nun. I went online, found an agency and called them.”

“So how old is this Jenson?”

“I don’t know—thirty-five maybe. And he’s gorgeous. Tall, dark. Magnificent body. At first I wouldn’t let him see me naked. But he convinced me he’s absolutely fine with my saggy bits. He actually kisses my stretch marks. Can you believe that? And when he goes down on me, it’s otherworldly. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. He flicks my clitoris with his tongue and . . .”

“Oh God.”

“It drives me crazy. And then he flips me over and takes me from behind. Next week I’m going to let him tie me up. Bar, I’m having so much fun, you wouldn’t believe.” She stopped herself. The delight drained from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m being thoughtless. I’m meant to be looking after you. I shouldn’t be sitting here telling you what a great time I’m having.”

“Yes, you should. Hearing all this is taking my mind off things. Honestly. You carry on.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. . . . But I won’t pretend I’m not shocked.”

“Why? Because I’m a midwife married to a surgeon and I’m meant to be a pillar of the community?”

“It’s not that. It’s more about you as a person. I mean, your entire house is painted magnolia. You have an automatic bird feeder in your garden. You own a Hostess Trolley.”

“And bloody useful it is, too. . . . So, you’re saying I’m boring and suburban.”

“No. I’m saying you’re conventional.”

“Well, it turns out I’m not as conventional as you thought.”

“You’re right. I appear to have misjudged you. . . . But tell me—because I’m concerned—what do you know about this guy?”

“Not a lot. That’s part of the deal. It’s to protect clients from forming attachments and putting their marriages or relationships at risk. All he’s told me is that he’s a struggling jazz musician. He plays the saxophone.”

Barbara decided this was code for layabout. But she wasn’t about to upset Jean by saying it.

“So how much does he charge?”

“Not as much as you’d think. His older women tend to see him for a couple of hours in the afternoons, so we get a special senior rate.”

“Your gigolo cuts you an early-bird deal? Now I’ve heard everything.”

“I guess older women aren’t quite as demanding as the younger ones. I’m exhausted after an hour or so. The others want him for longer.”

“And you trust him? I mean, you don’t think he could turn nasty?”

“Good Lord, no. Jenson is one of the most gentle people I’ve ever met. . . . The way he strokes my face, caresses my inner thighs, teases me . . . Bar, have you ever had a full-body orgasm?”

“What, you mean, like, in my elbows?”

“Elbows, knees, fingers—everywhere.”

“Nope. Pretty sure I haven’t.”

Jean bit into another biscuit. “I’ve disgusted you with all this, haven’t I?”

“No. Like I say, I’m taken aback and concerned for your safety, but I’m not disgusted. I totally understand why you’re doing it. I just wish there were some other way to resolve all this.”

“Believe me. There isn’t.”

Barbara nodded.

“I’m glad I told you,” Jean said.

“I’m glad you told me, too.”

Jean went to make more tea, leaving Barbara to ponder full-body orgasms.

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