Sally (7 page)

And then it moved.

It was a spider. The intimate peace of the situation had been disrupted. Sally was now aware of other movements and noises. The blind breezed forward every now and then. The duvet curved up and fell down peacefully with her breathing. She could hear the clock, digital but audible; phit, phit, phit. For every three phits came one long, hushed, oblivious breath from Richard. A distant thrush sang to the morning while an occasional car hummed by. Under it all she could decipher the fridge adjusting its thermostat.

She lay on her back with Richard's arm lolling on top of the quilt over her stomach. She checked for the spider and found him a little further along the ceiling, playing dents again.

If I woke now, and saw him, I'd probably presume again that he was a dent. I wonder if he times his sorties according to phits?
Sally grinned at her early-morning dedication to pointless ponderings, her commitment to theorizing over nothing particular. Shyly, she looked across at Richard. Asleep and safe and soundless. She wondered what time it was and reckoned round about 7.30. But then knowing the exact time suddenly assumed great importance so she tuned into the phitting and travelled her eyes up over Richard to locate the clock. 7.45. She smiled. And then smiled again, not knowing why.

He's awfully good-looking. I have chosen well.

But over and above the surge she felt on gazing at him, was a softness and warmth inside for him.

Stop it, stop it. Sally, stop.

And yet she found herself not recalling, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, but simply looking at him in the here and now. Asleep. Lovely. She felt compelled to reach out and delicately stroke away the flop of hair meandering over his eye and the bridge of his nose. Then she lingered and, with her fingertips, traced his eyebrows and the soft dips in the corners of his eyes. A careful fingertip brushed away an endearing pip of sleepydust. Again she found herself smiling and felt that same softness and warmth within.

No, Sally, no. Stop it. No. Impossible. Not after a week. Not ever.

The spider was on the move again and scuttled across and over to where the cupboards met the ceiling. The crack was plenty big enough and it disappeared from view.

Well, if the spider can snoop then so can I.

She left the bedroom noiselessly and went through to the lounge and over to the kitchen.

You can tell a lot about a person by what he keeps in the fridge.

You can tell a lot about a person by what they eat for breakfast, and with the fridge door still open, Sally ate
tiramisù
straight from the dish. Crouching on her heels, she noted that the milk was semi-skimmed and the eggs were free-range. There were peppers of every conceivable colour, flat-leaf parsley in a small tumbler of water, live yoghurts, slices of meat in Harrod's cellophane and a punnet of raspberries.

In November!

Having had enough
tiramisù
(for now), Sally opened a limed oak cupboard and catalogued the fine oils and vinegar, the packet of
porcini
which looked withered, rather sorry and somewhat inedible in their dried state. Much to her amusement and relief, right at the back she spied a large bottle of HP Sauce. She smiled and opened the next cupboard and examined the china. Villeroy and Boch.

That'll do.

Over in the lounge, she went to the bookcase to handle those sumptuous leather volumes. She ran her hand along the ash, very smooth and surprisingly warm. With a tentative fingertip, she felt the embossed spines and read the titles to herself. She took down
Julius Caesar
and ran it over her cheek. She fanned the pages and inhaled deeply. Then she touched the spine with her tongue tip and was miles away in another small heaven of her own when peace was shattered by the post.

He gets
The National Geographic
, what luxury!

Leaving the rest of the post with the
Guardian
on the doormat, Sally curled up on the leather recliner and lost herself in the social behaviour of the humpback whale, and went on a fascinating trip through Alaska by husky.

And that was how Richard found her when he surfaced half an hour later.

‘Morning, Sal.'

‘Morning, Richie.'

‘Breakfast?'

‘Mmm.'

‘In bed?'

‘And why not?'

How civilized: warm croissants, freshly juiced oranges, a good pot of Earl Grey and the morning paper.

‘This is my favourite part of Saturday's
Guardian
, the Questionnaire,' revealed Sally, and they laughed out loud at Alan Bennett's disclosures. Richard grabbed a spoon and turned it into a microphone.

‘Sally Lomax, twenty-five, teacher,
National Geographic
reader,
tiramisù
demolisher and sex-goddess, what is your idea of perfect happiness?' He thrust the spoon at her.

Delighted, Sally sparked back: ‘A beautiful stone farmhouse in Tuscany and a dark swarthy male to go with it.'

Actually, Saturday morning, breakfast in bed, the paper and you would do nicely. But you shan't know that.

‘With which historical figure do you most identify?'

‘Lady Godiva.'

‘Which living person do you most admire?'

‘Aunt Celia. She's seventy and has the strength of an ox and the courage of Samson.'

‘What vehicles do you own?'

‘Strong pair of legs.'

‘And a Mini Cooper. What is your greatest extravagance?'

‘Danish pastries.'

‘And
tiramisù
for breakfast?'

Sally blushed.

‘Sal, you're blushing! What objects do you always carry with you?'

‘Donor card, paracetamol, rape alarm, pocket hankies, emery board, safety pins, stamps, address book.'

‘Am I in it?'

‘No.'

‘What makes you most depressed?'

‘Child abuse. Oh, and synthetic cream.'

‘What do you most dislike about your appearance?'

‘I rather like it!'

‘Sally!' Richard chastized.

‘Okay, my bikini line hair,' Sally confided.

‘What is your most unappealing habit?'

‘I don't have any.'

‘Sally!' Richard warned again.

‘Oh, God. Okay, I fart in the bath.' They fell about laughing and Richard admitted quite happily that he did too.

‘What would you like for your next birthday?'

‘An answerphone. No, a weekend in Boston.'

‘When is your birthday?'

‘Next year. May the nineteenth.'

‘What is your favourite word?'

‘Funicular.'

‘You
what
?'

‘It's a lovely word to say. Try it.'

‘Fu-nic-u-lar. Hmm. What is your favourite journey?'

‘The road to Oban, the boat to Mull; to Aunt Celia's.'

‘Who are your favourite musicians?'

‘Genesis, Van the Man, Dylan.'

‘Anyone told you it's now the 1990s? Who are your favourite writers?'

‘Alice Thomas Ellis and Jane Austen.'
Oh, and Ms Collins.

‘What or who is the greatest love of your life?'

She panicked momentarily and looked at him blankly. ‘Myself?' she ventured. He seemed pleased with that.

‘Which living person do you most despise?'

‘Despise? I don't care much for Myra Hindley or Peter Sutcliffe.'

‘What do you consider the most overrated virtue?'

‘Chasteness. Decorum.' Richard raised his eyebrows at the intensity of her proclamation.

‘What is your greatest regret?'

‘Not being good enough to go to ballet school.'

‘Ballet?'

‘Ten years of it.'

‘That explains your hyper-mobility then! When and where were you happiest?'

‘Childhood holidays at Aunt Celia's in Mull.'

‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?'

‘A farmhouse in Tuscany.'

‘And the dark, swarthy man?'

‘Him too.'

‘What would your motto be?'

‘Don't look before you leap.'

‘How would you like to die?'

‘When I'm ready.'

‘How would you like to be remembered?'

‘With desire and longing and a twinkle in the eye.'

‘Thank you, Ms Lomax,' said Richard, pouring her another cup of Earl Grey and stirring it with the microphone, ‘that was intriguing!'

And necessary, my love.
‘But there's one more question,' he asked lasciviously, ‘how do you like it best?'

Sally smirked. ‘Milk, no sugar?' she ventured.

Richard raised his eyebrows in a that-won't-do fashion.

‘I'll show you later. First, there's the small but pressing issue of your answers, Richard Stonehill.'

‘And then you'll show me?'

‘Then I'll show you.'

‘R
ichard Stonehill, thirty-five, architect, new-age man and all round good-looker, what is your idea of perfect happiness?'

‘Yachting in Australia.'
You, Sal.

‘Ever done it?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘What is your greatest fear?'

‘Multiple sclerosis.'

‘With which historical figure do you most identify?'

‘Byron.'

‘How pretentious! Which living person do you most admire?'

‘Bob.'

‘Bob-and-Catherine Bob?'

‘Yes.'

‘What vehicles do you own?'

‘An Alfa Romeo Spyder and a Cannondale mountain bike.'

‘What is your greatest extravagance?'

‘Silk ties and olive oil that's as expensive as the former.'

‘What objects do you always carry with you?'

‘Why, my little black book of course.'

‘Am I in your little black book?'

‘You are in my little black book.'

‘What makes you most depressed?'

‘Housing estates. Oh, and nylon.'

‘Hear hear. What do you most dislike about your appearance?'

‘My legs.'

‘Your legs?'

‘Too skinny.'

Richard, they're gorgeous, unquestionably masculine, you vain old thing.

‘What is your most unappealing habit?'

‘
Moi? Rien!
'

‘Ri-
chard!
'

‘Okay, I pick my nose, fart and belch.'

‘Big deal.'

‘Simultaneously. In the bath.'

‘Gracious Good Lord. What would you most like for your next birthday present?'

‘You. Wrapped up in brown paper and red ribbons.'

‘When is your birthday?'

‘June the second.'

‘I'll see what I can do. What is your favourite word?'

‘Telecommunication,' proclaimed Richard. ‘Well, it
sounds
nice, doesn't it?' Sally raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, all right then – copulation.'

‘Later. What or who is the greatest love of your life?'

‘My mummy!'

Laughter erupted and Sally tickled Richard into saying ‘Architecture' and finally admitting ‘Food'.

‘Ooops, watch that cup! What do you consider the most overrated virtue?'

‘Etiquette.'

‘What is your greatest regret?'

‘That my father and I did not get along.'

‘It's never too late for a reconciliation.'

‘He's dead.'

‘Oh. Poor Richie. Mine died when I was fifteen. When and where were you happiest?'

‘Finishing the London marathon three years ago.'

‘What single thing would improve the quality of your life?'

‘A housekeeper-cum-therapist-cum-masseuse-cum-sex-goddess. Want the job? Seven-fifty an hour?'

‘Ten? Done! Which talent would you most like to have?'

‘Telepathy.'

‘What would your motto be?'

‘
Bien faire ce que j'ai à faire
.' Sally nodded, earnestly hoping to veil the fact that she had not the faintest idea what that meant.

‘How would you like to be remembered?'

‘As Sally Lomax's favourite lay!'
As Sally Lomax's favourite.

‘Thank you, Richard Stonehill, for your co-operation and honesty. Would you like your reward now or after lunch?'

‘What do you think?'

Richard and Sally explored each other's bodies with a new inquisitiveness and a new depth. A new tenderness, too. Richard found how Sally's personality shone through; her breasts spoke of it, her fuzzy bikini line proclaimed it. She spent a long time caressing his legs, with hands, lips and eyes, showing him that they drove her wild. She whispered ‘telecommunication' as she chewed and licked his ear lobes. He hummed Genesis and sang ‘Turn It On Again' after she came. She came again. She felt more fulfilled than she had with any other man, not that there had been that many. Now they both wanted to give, not merely to take. To give and to receive, to linger and to lap it up.

What is it that I am feeling?
thought Sally as she showered, alone, in Richard's bathroom.
What is it?
she wondered, as she swathed herself in Richard's thick, burgundy towelling robe.
What is it that feels so, well, nice?
she asked herself as she padded across the bedroom to gaze out of the window at nothing in particular.

They lunched and munched together, snuggled deep in Richard's voluminous sofa;
du pain, du vin, du Boursin
. Later, they browsed and tinkered at Portobello Market. He bought her two pounds of Cox's Orange Pippins, she bought him half a pound of pear drops which tasted of white paper bag, just like they had in childhood, just as they should. The weather was as crisp as the apples, their noses were reddened and noisy, their fingers chilled. They thawed out at the Gate Cinema and were warmed by coffee, carrot cake and a Louis Malle matinée.