Sisteria (23 page)

He stabbed the off button on his mobile. How could he have been such a fool? Instead of getting wiser as he'd got older, he'd simply learned new ways to be stupid. He took a sip of tea. For a minute or two he pondered driving to Beachy Head and throwing himself off. But he couldn't do it. First he was a coward. Second the Passat, which they were still driving because they hadn't got round to buying a new car, wouldn't survive a long journey, since it was now steadfastly refusing to go any higher than third gear.

He finished his mug of tea and thought about ordering another. Realizing he was already speeding from the caffeine, he decided not to. He looked at his watch. It was nearly lunchtime, but he wasn't even slightly hungry. He decided to spend the rest of the day in the library, reading the papers. It was warm and maybe he could take some comfort from swapping hard-luck stories with all the other down-and-outs.

Melvin never made it to the library. Instead, having paid his bill and peed out the half-dozen mugs of tea into the caff's squalid loo, he got back into the Passat and started to drive aimlessly. Although he didn't know it, his depression had taken a sudden and extremely serious turn for the worse.

After half an hour, he ended up heading east on the North Circular. This was his route to work. He didn't want to go to work, he knew that. But for some perverted reason his subconscious mind was taking him somewhere else, to a place where he would be forced to confront yet another of his failures.

After fifteen minutes he was aware of passing the North Middlesex hospital on his right. At the same time he was struck by the wretched realization that he was no more than a few minutes now from F.R. Shadbolt, the renowned wood veneering factory in Chingford.

He had made his daily treks from Finchley to Buckhurst Hill for the best part of twenty years, and for as long as he could remember there had been a huge sign on the front of the Shadbolt factory announcing ‘Veneer of the Week'. Melvin had always assumed it was some kind of wacky sales gimmick. But not one which made any sense to him.

‘They're mad,' he'd mutter to himself each morning as he drove by. ‘Totally mad. Some chipboard-brained marketing executive seriously expects people to see the sign, turn to their husband and say, “Blast. We bought eggs, we bought bread, we bought cheese, but d'you know what we forgot? The veneer. Let's pull in. What do you fancy this week, Ash or Peruvian Walnut?”'

In those early weeks, Melvin's attitude towards F.R. Shadbolt and their sign went from irritation to amusement and ended in a fascination bordering on obsession. Every Friday night, knowing that the factory had changed the sign during the day, he would head home in the Passat and endeavour, between Buckhurst Hill and Chingford, to guess the veneer of the week.

In all the years he had been playing ‘Name that Veneer' he had never got it right. Not once.

‘Yew, Yew, Yew,' he would urge as he sat gripping the wheel at a pre-Shadbolt traffic light. A moment later he would get an overwhelming sense that he should change tack and go for European Cherry or Honduras Cedar.

Melvin would change his mind five or ten times before reaching the factory. Without fail, the correct answer was one he'd rejected.

It wasn't long before he began to see his perpetual failure at Shadboltism as a metaphor for his general incompetence and uselessness.

***

As he approached the Shadbolt factory this afternoon, he could feel adrenaline starting to fill his body. He was overcome with the mad desire to make one last-ditch attempt to guess the Veneer of the Week. Maybe, just fucking maybe, God would let him get it right for once. If he did, he would take it as a sign that he wasn't a feeble, impotent loser and that he was capable of getting better and making a success of his life. If he got it wrong he would throw himself off the factory roof.

As he sped past MFI he realized he had a matter of seconds to make his decision.

‘Pine, Pine, Pine,' he screamed breathlessly. ‘No, Eucalyptus. No, Myrtle Burr. Coromandel. Wenge. Ash. No, Scots Fir... That's it, Scots Fir. Come on. Come on... it has to be Scots Fir.'

The last thing he remembered was looking up at the white letters and seeing the words ‘Rose Zebrano'.

Chapter 19

Beverley stood in front of Tom's front door, her hand hovering nervously over the bell. As she took a few deep, calming breaths, she ran over her plan. She would ring the bell, wait until she heard footsteps approaching and then let the coat drop to the floor. The moment he swung the door open, he would be greeted by her standing in front of him wearing nothing but the black lace suspender belt and stockings.

But suppose he took one look and hated it? Suppose he really did think she looked like a reader's wife, or a seedy dominatrix from Bexleyheath? What then? She took another deep breath while she thought. In that case she would simply smile, bend down (from the knees, not the waist, because then her tits would go pendulous and start swaying), pick up her coat and walk out of his life for ever. At no stage would she let him see she was upset or embarrassed. Then she would cry all the way home and allow herself five or six hundred years to live down the humiliation.

Finally she pressed the bell. After a few seconds she heard footsteps. She glanced round quickly to check nobody was coming up or down the stairs or out of any of the other flats. Then she dropped the coat, formed her lips into a sexy pout and assumed her best temptress pose with her forearm draped sexily behind her head.

The next moment the door was wide open. Beverley let out a horrified gasp.

‘Oh, Mr J,' the tiny elderly woman in the teacosy hat called out, turning her head, ‘I think your lady friend's here.'

Beverley said nothing. She didn't need to. Her head-to-toe blush said it all. In a flash she'd retrieved the coat from the floor, put it on and was busy doing up the buttons.

‘Don't mind me, my darlin'. I'm unshockable,' the woman laughed. She motioned Beverley towards her and lowered her voice. ‘You have to be, if you've been married for forty years to a man with a goitre the size of a cauliflower on the side of his 'ead. Ta-ta. Tell Mr J I'm off now and that I'll give 'im a thorough seeing-to when I come in again on Friday.'

‘OK,' Beverley said, offering the woman an embarrassed smile. ‘I'll tell him.'

She went in and closed the door behind her.

‘Oh good, Lily let you in,' Tom said, coming towards her in jeans, bare feet and wet hair. He'd clearly just got out of the shower. ‘She's lovely, isn't she? Been cleaning for me for donkey's years. She's too old for it really, but I haven't got the heart to... Beverley, you OK? You look slightly red in the face. You're not coming down with anything, are you?'

‘No. No. I'm fine. Really,' she said uneasily. ‘It's...er...well, I had this stupid plan to surprise you. And it sort of backfired.'

‘Sounds ominous. Let me take your coat and then you can tell me all about it.'

‘No. Don't,' she exclaimed, pulling the coat tight round her. He immediately took two steps back.

‘OK, sorry,' he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘Beverley, do you mind telling me what is going on?'

She lowered her head and blurted it out. She thought he would burst out laughing, but he didn't.

‘God, I've made such a twit of myself,' she said finally.

‘No, you haven't. I promise.'

He held out his hand. She put her bag down on the floor and let him lead her into the huge living area. The blinds were already down. The table lamps were on and every surface was smothered in lighted candles.

‘Gosh, this is so pretty,' she remarked.

‘Come here,' he said softly, ignoring the comment.

Her face still burning with embarrassment, she stood in front of him. Very slowly, he began unbuttoning her coat. She closed her eyes because she couldn't face seeing his disgusted expression. He opened the coat.

‘Oh my God,' he said slowly, pulling it off her shoulders.

‘There,' she said, her eyes still closed, ‘you think I look ridiculous, don't you?' By now she was close to tears.

‘Why don't you just have a feel of how ridiculous I think you look,' Tom said. She opened her eyes and placed her hand on the front of his jeans. He was rock hard.

‘This is amazing,' he said. ‘You look so absolutely beautiful. I just love this suspender belt thing.' He ran his hand over the black lace. Then he took one of her nipples in his month and began sucking and nipping it. She could feel herself getting more and more wet.

‘God, you look like such a tart,' he said eventually. ‘I can't believe you did this for me.'

As his tongue came deep in her mouth, he forced his hand between her legs. A moment later his fingers were deep inside her. The delight was so intense, she thought her legs were about to give way.

‘Come with me,' he said.

He took her hand, picked up a small purple cushion and led her to a glass table. He slid the turquoise Apple Mac along it to make more room. Then he put the cushion down on the table.

He kissed her again very slowly.

‘Now, bend over,' he said.

She did as he told her.

The next moment he had undone his flies.

‘Spread your legs,' he whispered in between licking the back of her neck.

She stood astride in the black satin heels.

For a few moments he rubbed her wet into her buttocks. Then, clearly unable to wait any longer, he pushed himself inside her. It was sudden and without warning. The sensation was somewhere between ecstasy and pain and she couldn't stop herself from crying out. But he didn't ease up. He carried on pushing and thrusting and separating her buttocks. Occasionally he brushed her clitoris with the lightest, most teasing of touches, but she was aware that he was taking his turn first this time to show her how much the outfit had turned him on - and she was adoring it.

After he came copiously in her, he pulled her up, turned her towards him and kissed her.

‘Jeez, I feel a bit dizzy,' she said.

‘Ill dizzy or sexy dizzy?'

‘No, sexy dizzy.'

‘Good. Come on, I'll carry you to bed.'

She laughed as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed, kissing her all the way.

As he let her down, her head sank into the huge feather pillow.

‘You know you really are very, very beautiful.'

‘You mean that?'

He pulled off his jeans and tee-shirt. As his pants came off his huge erection sprang out in front of him.

‘Once again, you have your answer,' he said.

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned across and kissed her. The deep, tender kiss seemed to go on for minutes. Afterwards he lay down beside her, swept her hair off her face and began licking the inside of her ear. She giggled and begged him to stop because the pleasure was unbearable. He smiled, nipped her earlobe one last time and eased himself gently on top of her. They kissed again. This time it was urgent and frantic. She wrapped her arms and legs tight round him as if she never wanted to let him go.

‘Please,' she managed to gasp eventually, ‘please, make me come.'

‘Soon,' Tom whispered.

Without taking his eyes off hers, he began stroking her stomach. Little by little his hand moved towards her bush. Suddenly she felt his finger tips trailing over her labia. As the ecstasy took over, she pushed her pelvis up towards his hand.

‘Please,' she whimpered again.

‘Sssh.'

She watched his face form a grin. Gently, gently he opened her legs a little wider. She could feel her milky liquid trickling down her inner thighs. He massaged it slowly into her skin. From time to time he allowed his hand to brush the opening to her labia. He carried on with his tantalising rubbing and occasional brushing for a minute. Maybe two. Only then did he finally part her. A moment later she could feel his finger gliding over her clitoris. She let out a series of little cries.

‘God, you are so wet,' he said.

But she barely heard him. By now he was flicking her lightly with his fingers and tongue.

‘Come on. Your legs are still tense. Relax. Let me do the work.'

She let her legs flop open on to the bed.

‘That's better.'

He carried on whispering into her ear, gently urging her to let go and float away. After a while she felt as if she was slipping into some kind of tight hypnotic state. She'd read about this in books, but never once imagined it could happen to her. As she began to lose touch with reality, she realized she was completely and utterly out of control. If she was going to come, then Tom would control when, not her. Although her eyes were shut, she could sense him watching her facial expressions. His touches on her clitoris were painfully, frustratingly light. But there was nothing she could do about it. There was no point pleading. He would allow her to come when he was ready. Her breathing became heavier and heavier. Suddenly the pressure changed. His flicking became heavier. Now he wasn't simply flicking, he was rubbing. She could feel his fingertip making large circles. As her head sank further into the pillow and her bottom relaxed onto the bed, she felt the first tremor inside her. This was followed by another and another. Her orgasm seemed to go on for minutes. Every time she thought it was over, she felt another spasm deep inside her and her entire body would shudder. When it finally ended and she lay on the bed limp and exhausted, he kissed her.

‘It's not your tongue I want in my mouth,' she said eventually.

‘OK,' he said, moving his body so that his knees ended up straddling her face.

She licked the tip of his penis with her tongue and he threw his head back with delight. Finally she parted her lips and took him deep in her mouth. He thrust inside her, crying out with pleasure. When he came she swallowed every drop.

***

‘So, sperm's kosher then, is it?' he said, grinning, as they lay wrapped round each other. ‘What does it count as, fish?'

‘Dunno,' she chuckled, as she pulled gently on his chest hairs. ‘Never really been an issue up to now. I've only tried the guaranteed kosher sort.'

‘So what you did just then could really get you into trouble with him upstairs?'

‘Absolutely. I mean, this time next week I'll probably be seeking political asylum in Sodom and Gomorrah.'

He laughed and began kissing her breasts, while she massaged his head tenderly.

‘Tom,' she said, ‘speaking of fish. I don't know whether it was that hors d'oeuvres just now, or all this exercise, or just being pregnant, but I'm absolutely starving. You'll never guess what I could really murder.'

He thought for a moment. ‘I know, black pudding sarnies,' he said. ‘The perfect main course to follow a starter of non-kosher sperm.'

‘You're really serious about this trip to Sodom and Gomorrah, aren't you?' She giggled. ‘No, I'm not sure black pudding sandwiches are
quite
what I had in mind.'

‘What then?' he said, looking up from kissing her left breast. ‘Oh God, this isn't going to be some ridiculous pregnancy thing, is it, like anthracite and chips?'

‘No,' she laughed. ‘Salad cream and beetroot sandwiches.'

‘Right,' he said slowly. ‘I'm fine on the bread part. Salad cream and beetroot might be a bit of a problem. Just gimme five minutes to nip to the Mace on the corner.'

She protested, but he insisted on going. She watched him pull on a sweatshirt and his jeans over his bare backside. A couple of minutes later he was gone, but not before he'd forced her legs apart and spent a while flicking her with his tongue.

***

He stood spreading slices of beetroot onto Hovis while she dipped her finger into the salad cream bottle and licked greedily.

‘Beverley,' he said, looking up.

‘Yeah,' she said, noticing the way he never shortened her name. She liked that.

‘There's something you ought to know. I'm pretty sure Naomi is seeing somebody else.'

‘What?' she gasped. ‘Say that again.' Beverley dropped on to one of the stainless steel kitchen chairs and wiped her finger on the baggy shirt he'd given her to wear.

‘It's true,' he said, rinsing his beetrooty hands under the tap. ‘I'm convinced she's got a bloke down in Cornwall. The film thing's just an excuse. Anyway, half the time she's down there and she hasn't even got a crew with her. I checked with Plum. It's now March and she hasn't been home for more than three nights at a stretch. Then if she does come back, she doesn't spend any time at home. I hardly go to her flat these days. Most nights I stay here. She claims she's having meetings with Fallopia at her house in Cricklewood, but I'm sure she's seeing somebody.'

‘Why didn't you say anything about this last week?'

‘I wasn't sure then, but I've spoken to her a couple of times since then on the phone. She sounds so cold. So distant. Something's definitely up.'

She looked at him quizzically.

‘You don't seem particularly upset that she might be seeing somebody else.'

He shrugged.

‘Maybe I'm not. I told you what it's felt like living with Naomi. I am going to finish it, you know.'

‘No, Tom,' she shot back. ‘You can't do that. Please. Please. You have to stop her going off with this bloke and you have to get her back. For heaven's sake, the pair of you are about to become parents.'

He went over to where she was sitting, knelt beside the chair and began running his finger along the inside of her thigh.

‘Beverley, you have to understand,' he said gently, ‘one way or another, Naomi and I are finished. I know it's crap timing...'

‘Crap?' she retorted, ‘It's bloody disastrous. Have you given even a moment's thought to this baby and what's going to happen to the poor little mite?'

‘Beverley, of course I have. I keep thinking about the baby... but I'm also aware of what's happening to me. Beverley, I'm falling in love with you.'

She immediately turned away and started gazing down at the floor. She didn't want to hear this. He put his hand gently under her chin and brought her face back towards him.