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  She could see he liked that idea; she was quite keen on it herself. Plus the Courier advised taking it in turns, which she liked the sound of even more – though if they didn’t get a move on, they’d run out of time and she wouldn’t get a look in.

  As usual.

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  ‘First, we take off our clothes.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  When they were both naked he began to move towards her, arms outstretched. She held up a warning finger. ‘Uh oh. Not allowed to touch.’ The article emphasised how much more erotic the effect of this particular trick was if there was no embracing or kissing beforehand. Fine; what was good enough for Sexy Sindy was good enough for her. She took a cushion from the rocking chair and threw it on the lino near the fridge. ‘Lie down, and make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘He grinned. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He lay down, his head resting on the cushion. ‘What now?’

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Anna went to the fridge, removed the purchase she’d made at the corner shop on her way home – a family-size plastic pot of yoghurt, lavishly decorated with frolicking, bright pink cows – and knelt down beside Jack.

  ‘Anna? What on earth …?’

  She smiled. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘But what do I have to …’

  She put her hand gently over his mouth. ‘Absolutely nothing, my darling. Just lie back and think of England, and leave the rest to me.’

  She peeled the silver lid off the pot, and scooped out some of the contents. ‘This might be a touch cold at first, but don’t worry. I think you’ll like it …’

  She lowered her hand slowly. Waited a tantalising moment, then began to apply the fragrant pink cream to his suddenly erect penis.

  ‘Anna! Oh god! Anna! Don’t stop…!’

  Stop? She had no intention of stopping. In fact, she was having nearly as fun as Jack obviously was. Well no, not quite as much, maybe; he was practically beside himself with ecstasy, and had been for the last half hour. And there was so much you could do! Licking, sucking, stroking, and when she cupped one hand round the shaft and sort of fluttered the fingers of her other hand round the head like this …

  Kneeling on the floor was painful. As she shifted to a more comfortable position she knocked over the yoghurt pot; pink goo splattered over the lino. Damn. ‘Hang on a sec – just going to get a cloth –’

  ‘For god’s sake, what …?’ Jack opened his eyes.

  Anna smiled seductively and held up the pot. ‘Strawberry yogurt.’

  Uttering a high scream, he shoved her aside and sat bolt upright, eyes bulging.

  He grabbed a teacloth and scrubbed at himself. ‘Yuk! Yuk! Strawberry –? There’s lumps, urgh, it looks like … Yuk!’ He checked his watch. ‘Shit. No time to wash. Let’s just hope I don’t throw up on the way home.’

  He pulled on his clothes, fast; bent down and kissed her briefly on the cheek. Shuddered as he caught sight of the yogurt-splashed lino, and almost ran towards the door. ‘Call you tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘Jack, I’m terribly sor –’

  He was gone.

  Anna sat gazing at the almost empty plastic pot – as she’d paid for it she’d imagined the fun she and Jack would have together – until the candles guttered out. Then she got up stiffly and flipped on the overhead light; the kitchen looked drab and lifeless in its harsh glare. Shivering, she pulled on her sweater. Scrubbed the floor. Washed up the supper things. If only she could phone him and apologise – she’d had no idea he was allergic to strawberries! She was tired, and there was a coach party booked for lunch at Avant Art tomorrow, but she knew she was too miserable to sleep. Tipping the last of the wine into her glass, she went into the living room and turned on the television. Anything would be better than lying in bed remembering …

  First, she sat through what must have been the hundredth repeat of a sitcom about a charmingly disingenuous couple who were trying to make a go of living in the country. This was timely, as it kept her mind occupied deciding which of the two she’d kill first if offered the choice. As the maddening theme tune tinkled to its close, she was grateful that they’d prevented her from thinking about the expression on Jack’s face as he left or the way he’d just sort of pecked at her instead of kissing her.

  She turned up the volume as Newsnight began. Tonight she would listen to every word, instead of half reading a novel and redoing the polish on her toenails at the same time. By the end she’d be better informed about world affairs and hopefully sleepy, too. Things went well for about twenty minutes; the report on recent Japanese developments in organ transplantation proved to be fascinating. Unfortunately the report segued into film of an operation, complete with close-ups of details she’d very much prefer not to see. Hastily averting her eyes, Anna fumbled for the remote control and changed channels. This wasn’t much better: an enormously fat woman was describing (with some relish, Anna thought) just how badly wrong her recent liposuction operation had gone, and just how much she was planning to sue the surgeon for. As she prepared to pull up her dress to exhibit the evidence, Anna changed channels again and got photographs of thunderous rain clouds as a pleased voice described just how bad the local weather was going to be during the coming week.

  OK, she’d give it one last try, and if it turned out to be a documentary on vivisection, or an Open University programme on bridge for beginners, she’d watch an old DVD. She pressed the remote and found herself gazing at an intimate close-up of a couple, locked in passionate embrace. That was all she needed. She was about to switch off when the pair stopped kissing and began to argue heatedly in French. The camera pulled back to reveal powdered wigs and exquisite costumes, all jewelled silks and foaming lace. A few moments later it became clear that the setting was a sumptuous eighteenth-century chateau.

  Anna was enchanted; she spoke very little French, but the cinematography was more than enough to hold her interest. Some while later, during a particularly long speech, her attention was caught by a courtier’s gown. It was made of velvet, and an exquisite shade of delphinium blue – precisely the same shade, oddly enough, as her living-room curtains. What wouldn’t she give to have a dress like that? Well, not exactly like that, obviously. But perhaps … a suit? With a narrow skirt reaching just above the knee, and a jacket with an elegant stand-up collar …

  No, she couldn’t possibly.

  But blue was allowed for the M-of-the-G – one of those old bats had been wearing navy. And surely delphinium wasn’t so very different.

  She glanced back at the screen.

  Oh yes, she could.

  There was no time to watch the rest of the film – she had to make a start at once. She clicked off the television. Jumping to her feet, she ran to the bureau and began to search for her sketch pad and coloured pencils.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Late spring became summer.

  The weeks passed quickly. The coffee bar was busier than ever as tourists and foreign students flocked into town. Mercifully, Anna had no further contact with Tina apart from one late-night phone call in which she demanded to know whether Anna was quite clear about not wearing anything that would clash with lime green, and another which informed her that her room at the Grand Hotel had been booked but not paid for.

  Things were going better than ever with Jack. For a while, Anna had made a point of reading Sexy Sindy’s column, but since a debacle with the shower attachment and baby oil she’d managed to persuade Jack that they should put further experimentation on hold until they didn’t have such time restrictions on their intimate moments.

  Late summer quietly turned into early autumn.

  The right moment to tell Ruth had almost come several times – last weekend Jack had actually begun to tell her, apparently, when there was a ring at the doorbell; it was the father of a girl in the twins’ class, who’d come to complain about the pornographic films his daughter had let slip she watched with the twin
s when she came to tea. Obviously it was all a ghastly mistake, but by the time things were sorted out the moment had passed and Jack thought it wise to get on with making the Ovaltine, rather than persevere with his mission. ‘Telling Ruth’ hadn’t been mentioned since.

  Perhaps the happiest occasion had been last Sunday, when Sam and Lucy came to supper for the last time before the wedding. While they were having coffee, Anna passed Lucy the box that contained the Venetian glass. The look of joyful amazement on their faces as they unwrapped the first of the goblets and held it aloft in the soft glow of candlelight would remain in her memory for ever. If she’d had to walk to Ireland barefoot and wear a sack to the wedding the staggering price would have been worth it.

  Then, of course, there was her suit. She’d taken down the curtains the night after she’d seen the French film, and washed and carefully ironed them. It had taken several evenings to complete the pattern. When the details were perfect she set to work, spending every spare moment measuring and cutting, turning and basting, hemming and edging. At night, she dreamed of darts and buttonholes, cuffs and seams. When the jacket was finished she celebrated by buying a tiny pill box hat, a pair of dark blue Italian shoes and a matching pair of gloves made of leather so fine they fitted like a second skin.

  Three weeks later, she sewed the zip into the skirt and snipped the last tacking stitch from its dusky pink silk lining. It was four in the morning. She made herself a cup of tea, had a shower, put up her hair and fixed her make-up – it took a while, her hand was shaking with exhaustion – and then she tried on le tout ensemble.

  Her first thought was that it was perfect.

  Her second was that Jack wouldn’t be standing by her side when she wore it.

  As she turned away from the mirror, tears were running down her face.

  Suddenly it was seven o’clock in the morning on Friday, the twenty-third of September, and she was running about the house like a mad thing, stuffing last-minute items into her suitcase, searching for her hairbrush, and trying to remember if she’d reminded Roxy to buy extra baguettes for the group of language-school students arriving at the coffee bar at lunchtime. She’d cancelled the milk, asked Mr Simwak-Kim to water the tomato plants and emptied the kitchen bin. Jack had come last night. After supper they’d made love and he’d promised to think about her every moment she was away. If only he was coming with her … But she mustn’t think about Jack now, it would only make her sad. Quickly, she drank the rest of her coffee, rinsed out her mug and unplugged the toaster. There was her hairbrush, on the dresser beside the oil and vinegar containers. Great, all she had to do now was –

  The phone rang.

  Anna froze.

  Father O’Malley, calling to ask whether the Mother of the Groom was prepared to take his special crash conversion course before the ceremony?

  Tina, calling to say she’d decided puce was the perfect colour to offset lime green, she’d found the very dress for Anna and wouldn’t take no for an answer?

  Eamonn, calling to say a cordial goodbye; he could take no more and had decided to top himself?

  She hurried into the living room and snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Angel – I’m so glad I caught you before you left! I just had to call and …’

  Anna sat down on the arm of the sofa, feeling suddenly faint. Jack calling so early could only mean one thing: he’d told Ruth. She jumped up again, overjoyed.

  ‘Oh, I can’t believe it! What hap –’

  ‘… wish you luck, and Dan too, of course. I know everything’s going to go absolutely brilliantly.’

  She sat down again slowly, dimly aware of the letterbox rattling as the postman shoved a heap of letters through it.

  ‘You know I’ll be thinking of you absolutely every second, darling.’ From somewhere in the background came a series of piercing screams, accompanied by dull, regular thumps and wild barking.

  ‘What’s going on, Jack – are you all right?’

  ‘Get that jock strap off the dog at once, Charlie. You know football’s forbidden in the garden since you broke Mrs Cooper’s window again.’ There were muffled shouts. The dull thumps came nearer. ‘Charlie! You’ll hit some –’ There was a cry, and the phone went dead.

  ‘Jack? Jack…?’

  The phone began to ring again. She snatched up the receiver; it buzzed dully in her hand. The ringing didn’t stop. It took her a moment or two to realise it was the doorbell. The taxi! She slammed down the phone and ran back to the kitchen. Shoving her hairbrush in her pocket, she zipped her case shut, staggered with it into the hall, grabbed her jacket, gathered up the pile of post, shoved it into her bag together with the magazine and stash of chocolate she’d bought for the journey, and opened the front door.

  Three minutes later she was on her way to the bus station, and the eight-thirty coach to Stansted.

  ‘And if you’ll be lookin’ at this little red whistle here …’ The stewardess whipped a plastic trinket which in Anna’s opinion wouldn’t have passed muster as a child’s toy from a tiny pouch in the side of the yellow life jacket. ‘… sure and it’ll summon assistance in the event of a marine emergency.’

  She beamed down the aisle at the rows of helpless, seat-belted passengers like an infants’ schoolteacher pleased with the good behaviour of her class. ‘So I’ll be wishin’ you all a pleasant trip, and remindin’ you to keep those seat belts fastened good and tight now till we’re up and away and Captain O’Hara switches on the little red sign givin’ us the go ahead to unbuckle – if he’s managed to get it workin’ again.’ She gestured daintily at a sign on the cabin wall behind her.

  Anna risked a sideways look at her neighbour, an ancient, sourfaced nun who had ignored Anna’s polite good morning as she took her seat and continued to mutter what Anna assumed were prayers, but could have been voodoo curses to judge from her expression. She smelled strongly of cat’s pee. Anna did her best not to breathe through her nose and tried to remember whether cats or chickens were ritually sacrificed in black-magic ceremonies. The Ancient had ignored the stewardess’s safety lecture, concentrating instead on telling the beads of a clicking rosary she’d hauled from the depths of her capacious habit. The beads were huge – Anna hoped it was a rosary. The chance of it being a string of tiny shrunken heads was too high for comfort.

  The idling engines began to hum. Anna felt sick; she’d always hated take-off. If only Jack was beside her, holding her hand and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, instead of this toothless old crone who looked like an extra from a Dennis Wheatley film. She glanced at the rows of passengers on the other side of the aisle. Everywhere she looked there were couples, talking and laughing, holding hands and kissing … Apart from her neighbour, she seemed to be the only passenger travelling alone.

  The hum increased to a roar and the plane began to roll forward, gathering speed as the noise increased. Anna swallowed hard and clutched the arms of her seat, palms damp with sweat. Think of something nice, that was the thing to do. Right, Jack, yes, good. Let’s see; what sprang to mind? Stockings. No, please not bondage, not while she was strapped in her seat like this, it only made her feel worse … The plane gathered speed, gave a final shudder, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then left the ground and slowly began to climb. Soon the pressure began to build in her ears. What if her eardrums burst? She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to concentrate on Jack again. What the hell was that weird crackling noise? One of the engines must be on fire! She opened one eye a fraction and turned her head slightly to the window. The engines were fine, as far as she could see but the Ancient was irritably wrenching a sick bag from the seat pocket, swearing colourfully as several dog-eared travel brochures shot out at the same time and cascaded into her dusty lap. She began to vomit copiously.

  Anna swallowed hard and forced herself to unclench her fists. She leaned back against the sticky plastic headrest.

  She was on her way.

>   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jack walked slowly down Beech Avenue. His head had been aching all day – he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some kind of brain haemorrhage going on after the whack he’d received from Charlie’s football. He’d had a hell of an afternoon with the Arts Sixth; all they were interested in was exactly how often and in what positions Romeo would have shafted Juliet after he’d shinned up the balcony, whether Mercutio was gay, whether the Friar would have got done for murder and whether Capulet senior might have been having a thing with the Nurse.

  It hadn’t been a great week. It had kicked off to a lousy start on Sunday. Ruth had been glued to some documentary about divorce and he’d been sitting at the table pretending to mark essays but actually listening like a hawk. A lot of the people interviewed thought divorce was a jolly good thing if you’d had a gutful, and it occurred to him that he could casually instigate a discussion when the programme finished and then subtly direct the conversation round to his plans with Anna.

  It hadn’t worked out that way. The programme was coming to an end when there was a ring at the doorbell; it was the father of one of the twins’ friends, Ruby. He’d assumed from the occasional sighting of Ruby as she disappeared, giggling, into the twins’ bedroom that she was suffering from some fatal disease, but when he’d mentioned it to the twins they’d explained with studied patience that she was a Goth. Her father was relatively normal in appearance, apart from the fact that he was apoplectic with fury – he began to shout as soon as Jack opened the front door. Fortunately Ruth appeared then, and took charge; incredible as it seemed, the fellow had come to complain about his daughter watching porn films with the twins! Well, obviously Ruth was incandescent – in fact, he’d actually felt a bit sorry for Ruby’s father, he was practically cowering in his chair – and she’d insisted on calling the twins down. Naturally, the whole thing was a complete misunderstanding, turned out the wrong film had been put into the Mr Bean box by mistake at the video rental shop. The girls hadn’t realised what they were watching at first, of course – Jess said they’d thought it must be Mr Bean Goes to Hospital. Poppy nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah, because of all the nurses.’ Of course, as soon as they’d realised what it really was – ‘Wow, like disgusting!’ Jess shuddered. ‘Yeah, gross.’ Poppy rolled her eyes – they’d stopped watching and put on ET instead, and taken the offending video back to the shop the very next day.