This Charming Man (39 page)

‘No. No, not at all!’

‘I’m not a… pervert, a… a… deviant. It’s nothing at all to do with sex. I’d be happy enough just watching telly in my outfits.’

‘Of course!’

‘Natasha says you’ll help me order clothes and shoes from catalogues?’

Cripes. Swallowed spasm of terror. But I felt for this poor man. I wanted to help. I
could
help.

Noel modelled his new clothes, including pink baby-doll nightie and matching knickers.

Difficult to endure.

Enthusiastic discussion of gorgeous frocks on
Strictly Come Dancing
. Had not seen it due to lack of telly so could not join in.

Noel noisily flicked through
Vogue
and criticized all the models, calling them ‘fat bitches.’

Blanche scoured trannie catalogues. Dismissed most dresses as ‘too racy’ but stabbed a horny finger at navy shift dress and dignified lambswool cardigan. ‘Classic.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Streamlined. Would be nice on you.’ Had sudden idea! ‘Could I perhaps make suggestion…? You won’t be offended? If you wore pearl choker around neck would cover Adam’s apple.’

‘Not offended in slightest.’

‘And maybe navy pumps with little bit of heel?’

‘Yes.’

‘And… again, hope you won’t be offended… but special underwear to preserve your modesty?’ Meant, To tuck in your man-bits so they won’t be poking out through your navy dress. He understood. No offence taken. Pleased, in fact.

When selection finalized, he produced pencil, licked it, totted up cost, shoved pencil behind ear, opened antediluvian handbag, took out huge dirty-looking wedge of fifty-euro notes, peeled off several and slapped them into my hand as if he had just bought prize bullock from me.

‘You’ve given me too much money,’ I said.

‘For your trouble.’

Noel looked up, flint-eyed, from magazine. ‘You have to declare all income,’ he said sharply.

‘Isn’t income,’ Blanche said. ‘Is present.’

Felt uncomfortable. Many worries. Was Blanche bribing me to be nice to him? Was I running business from Uncle Tom’s cabin? Where would it all end?

Evening drew to a close. Blanche had to leave. Is dairy farmer. Has sixty head of cattle and has to get up at 5 a.m. to milk them. Blanche is man of means.

‘Can I come again next Friday?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and every Friday,’ Noel replied.

‘You are decent woman,’ Blanche said to me. ‘I’ve felt so alone.’

Walking into town
Chilly night but warm glow. Fashioned plan. (Pun.) If Uncle Tom agreeable to let not just one but
two
trannies into his home, then I would help them. Well, actually didn’t want to help Noel, didn’t like Noel at all, would do bare minimum for him. But this poor Blanche creature. Would give make-up lesson – appalling the way he just slapped it on, like he was whitewashing a wall. Would teach him how to accessorize. Would give lessons in deportment. Had spent my life trying to make women beautiful. No different now just because women were men.

Sudden charming idea – would get nice film for us to watch next Friday. Nice, clothes-based film. Would be doubly wonderful if it could also be revenge film. Would put it to Brandon. A challenge.

Hmmm. Walking home. Decided cut down to sea route instead of up main street. Justification? None. Just wanted to… see… surf boys’ house but, as approached, it was in darkness. Deflated.

Stood outside for moment, staring up at top window, watching for flickering of candles. Was he up there?

Nothing. Below me, sea sucking and crashing. Turned to carry on
my way when heard someone say in low pitch, voice undercutting rush of waves, ‘Lola.’

Startled. It was Jake, sitting on window sill, his legs crossed. Could hardly see him, just occasional glint of silver as light from sea caught his eyes.

‘What you doing sitting here in the dark?’ I asked.

‘Listening to the sea.’ Beat. ‘Thinking about you.’ Beat. ‘And here you are.’

All senses leapt to full alert, like animal in danger. Didn’t matter that he had been named after cream cracker –fingertips tingled, nipples jumped to attention, suddenly aware of my cotton knickers.

‘What
you
doing?’ he asked. His voice… so affecting.

‘Going home.’

‘Not any more. Come here.’

Considered it. What would happen if did?

‘Only one way to find out,’ he said, reading my mind.

Took three steps towards him and when was close enough he unwrapped his legs and used them to quickly pull me to him. Suddenly close enough to smell the salt, the sweat. Mildly shocked at his nearness. Hadn’t been prepared for it. Our faces on a level, his silvery eyes locked on to mine, his legendary mouth six inches away.

He squeezed his legs even tighter so my feet had to shuffle closer to him. Went with it. His hands resting on my shoulders, pulling me nearer still. Slight smile twitching his lips up at corners. Challenge? Admiration?

Didn’t know what to do with my arms. Then decided, What the hell? Am grown woman. Slid them around his neck.

‘That’s more like it.’ Staring at his mouth. ‘Listen to the sea,’ he whispered. ‘Close your eyes and listen.’

Shut eyes. Suck and hiss of sea instantly louder. Sound of Jake’s breathing. Then, shock! Shock of his touch, as felt tip of his tongue on my mouth. Slowly, achingly slowly, he ran it along my bottom lip. God, was nice. God, was really nice. With agonizing pleasure, tip of his tongue eventually reached corner of my mouth and along top lip in dizzying circle of swollen nerve endings. Then proper hot-monkey kissing.

‘Come inside,’ he said, low and warm, into my ear.

Thought of the magic bedroom. Thought of all that could happen if I stepped over the threshold.

A rush of panic. He was too near. Too much man-ness that wasn’t Paddy.

Tore self from embrace, like attention-seeking type in melodrama. ‘No, cannot.’

‘Oh Lola!’ Sounded annoyed, but as I hurried up road, he didn’t follow.

Was glad. Shouldn’t have gone there. Shouldn’t have kissed him. Distressed. Love-God offering me sex. On a plate! And lost nerve at final hurdle. Is all fault of Paddy de Courcy. Has ruined me for normal sex with other men!

Unpleasant thought. In addition to being racist and trannie-disliker, am now also prick-tease.

Paddy so different from all others. Large man. Naked, he looked even larger. Hairy chest. When it came to sex, very focused. Eyes gleaming. Game-player. Inventive imagination. Liked props.

After first date, wanted another. Had gone from being doubtful about his cheesiness to being utterly in thrall. All wanted to do was sleep with him again. Every time closed eyes, saw him leaning over me, slick with sweat, just the way had imagined in graveyard.

Tried to ask Mum about it, but got no answering voice in my head. So called for summit meeting in restaurant with Bridie, Treese and Jem. Told them the whole story: the car, the shop, the underwear, the further underwear, the lust and the rush to my flat to have frenzied sex. At start of story, they oohed and aahed in surprise and appreciation, but as story unfolded, they became quieter. By time finished narration, table silent. Three pairs of eyes slid from my gaze. No one spoke. Sudden regret at having told them.

‘… Um…’ I spread fingers and studied butter knife.

Bridie spoke out. ‘I have lived too sheltered a life!’ she declared with unexpected bitterness. ‘Am jealous of you, Lola, yes, admit it, jealous.’

‘God,’ Jem muttered. ‘Am really horny. Think I might have to go home. Sorry.’

‘If that’s what happens on a first date with Paddy de Courcy,’ Treese said, ‘what will the rest be like?’

Jem’s eyes lit up. ‘Be sure to tell us, Lola.’

Treese wasn’t amused. ‘Lola, don’t do anything you don’t want to.’

(And did I ever? Well, maybe hadn’t wanted to in the first instance, but sooner or later always changed mind.)

Second date with Paddy began mundanely enough: Spanish John collected me from flat and after time spent in Dublin gridlock, drew up outside some unremarkable Georgian house. He made quiet call saying we were outside, then nondescript door opened and murmury gent escorted me to inner sanctum. Many red-plush booths. Realized was in private club, not ordinary restaurant. Suspected game would feature heavily on menu.

Staff – all men – dropped their eyes carpetward in elaborate show of discretion as I approached.

Paddy already waiting in high-backed booth, marking up some document with red pen. Felt teeniest wobble at his bouffy hair, then skewered by his blue, blue eyes, like human kebab, and was lost.

‘This place! What a production!’ I was laughing as sat down. ‘Bet if waiters saw something they shouldn’t, they would happily gouge their eyes out if you asked them.’

‘Is somewhat over the top,’ Paddy admitted.

‘Aged demographic,’ I said, looking around.

‘Yes. Fear might get gout if spend too long here, but at least can relax. No danger of getting photo in paper.’

Personally would have no problem getting photo in paper, but refrained from saying so. Didn’t want him to think was with him for fame and fortune.

Menu much as expected. ‘Venison! Roast woodcock! Look at these things! Gammon and pineapple! Blast from the past! My mother used to make this when was little girl. Think will have it for old times’ sake.’

Paddy ordered for me – how objectionable! But he said the waiters couldn’t hear women, they were like aural eunuchs.

‘Tell me about your day,’ he said.

Began account of magazine shoot, feeling – ever so slightly – like child recounting day’s activities at school.

‘Is that what you always wanted to do? Styling?’

‘Cripes, no. Had far loftier ambitions to be designer but didn’t work out.’

He fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly he refocused, fixing me once more with those blue headlamps. ‘You think it changed direction of your life, your mother dying so young?’

‘Don’t know. Suppose can never know. Don’t know if I ever had talent to be designer. Maybe with her encouragement, could have done better… Who knows? Perhaps I might be better at being happy. How about you?’

Stared into middle distance. Spoke slowly. ‘Yes, might be better, like you say, at being happy. When parent dies when you’re still young, you know the worst can happen. You lose that innocence, that faith in happy endings. See world in far bleaker way than others. You know what really gets me?’ he said. ‘The way people always complaining about their mothers!’

‘Yes! People going on that mother is naggy nag, forever asking why you’re not married yet to nice man with good pension plan.’

‘Or laughing at her for cooking old-fashioned dinners like stew and chops. They would want to do without mother for a while, then they would be damn glad of chop!’

Also discovered we had absent fathers. In way, we were both orphans!

‘Mine lives in Birmingham,’ I said.

‘Mine might
as well
live in Birmingham.’

‘Why?’

‘He is waste of space!’ Said dismissively. Then slight edge of bitterness. ‘Never see him.’ Paddy, sensitive man. You would never guess he was such perv.

Meal lengthy. A never-ending saga of cheese trolleys and port and Armagnac. Kept being offered more and more things. Getting slightly desperate by time bill finally appeared in fat, red, leather folder. Man who delivered it so obsequious, almost crawling on his stomach.

‘I will get this,’ I said.

Paddy indicated no. Whispered into ear, ‘If woman tried pay here, shock would kill them. They still think women not allowed rent telly in own name. Will you come back to mine?’

Startled by sudden change of subject and mood. Rallied gamely. ‘My place nearer.’ But was curious to get a look at where he lived.

Not that got much of chance. As soon as arrived, I went to bathroom and when emerged, heard Paddy calling from another room, ‘Lola. In here.’

Followed his voice. Pushed open door. Not living room, as expected, but bedroom.

Paddy lying across his bed, entirely naked, reading something. A magazine. Photographs. I got closer. Suddenly stopped. Aghast. It was porn. Then saw his erection, enormous and purple, springing up from dense, dark pubic hair.

Recoiled. Insulted. Immediately wanted to leave.

‘Don’t go.’ He laughed. Actually laughed. ‘You’ll enjoy this.’

‘No, I won’t,’ I said.

But although wounded, was curious. Even a little… aroused.

He patted the bed. ‘Come and look.’

I didn’t move. My legs couldn’t decide what to do.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘You’ll love this.’

Some part of me couldn’t help but believe him. Gingerly approached the bed and sat primly on the edge.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look at her.’

The pages were open on picture of Asian girl with long black hair and large breasts. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

I hesitated. Then, ‘Yes.’

He was lying on his side, his hand on himself. Realized he was masturbating slowly. Aghast again.

Asked me, ‘Would you like to fuck her?’

‘No!’

‘No? I would.’

His hand moving faster. Faster and faster. He was sweating now, his eyes open, watching me.

‘I’d love to see you and her in bed together,’ he said.

I felt jealous and sullied and queasy and, against better judgement, oh-so-turned-on.

‘I’m going to come,’ he told me, his voice thick. ‘I’m going to come.’

‘Don’t!’ I said sharply.

I slapped his hand away from himself, picked up the magazine and tossed it across the room.

‘Don’t come until I say so! Where are the condoms?’

‘In there,’ he said, with wild eyes.

Wrenched open drawer, found condom, got it on, fastest had ever got one on anyone, grabbed his erection like gear lever and slid down onto him, the first waves of pleasure already starting to break.

Rang Bridie. Told her to tell Uncle Tom that trannies in his home had doubled in number.

‘Will inform him. Doubt if he’ll mind. You sleep with surf boy yet?’