‘I slept with him.’
‘I know that.’ Fi waves my confession away with a beer mat. It strikes me that when other women confess this type of thing the reaction is usually a little more stunning. Fi goes on to explain why she’s not that astounded. ‘But you sleep with everyone.’
‘Actually I don’t. Not any more. I haven’t slept with anyone since Darren.’
‘Not even—’
‘Not even Josh.’
Fi looks as though she’s just received news that there is intelligent life on Mars. More, that they are male. I take a deep breath.
‘We tried but – well, it was awkward, and so we thought it’s probably just the pressure.’ She doesn’t seem to be following me. ‘Josh says it doesn’t matter.’
But patently it does. Josh must be wondering how, since I’ve slept with half the male race in London, I can’t have sex with him – my fiancé. It is a good question. He’s lovely. I’ve slept with men I barely knew, never mind liked. Why the sudden capricious nature? Sex has never been in my head, firmly staying where it should be, in bed. Except for the mind fuck games which I played, but that was entertainment. I don’t do sentimentality or lamenting lost love.
At least I didn’t.
I got on. So there was never any issue about, ‘I like him but I just don’t fancy him’. Now I have problems with every aspect. His smell. Not that he smells terrible – the reverse is true. Josh always smells beautifully coiffured and doused in aftershave. But I want to smell him. His fingers, his armpits, his feet, his sperm.
But then I don’t.
‘Well, you know, it was bound to be difficult because we’ve known each other so long, in such a different context.’ I look at Fi again. From her face it’s clear that my explanation is mud. ‘And so we thought we’d wait until after the… you know—’
‘Wedding?’ prompts Fi. I’m grateful.
‘Yeah, the wedding.’
‘But the real reason is because you’ve still got the hots for Darren.’
‘I’m not saying that.’
‘Oh, I thought you were.’
Another cab. This time to Josh’s. I find him in front of his PlayStation. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he tells me that there’s beer in the fridge.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he yells through to the kitchen. ‘What’s on your mind? If it’s the ushers, don’t worry, your mother’s already called me. And she mentioned the honeymoon, too. I’ve cancelled the bungy jumping from Sydney harbour.’
I bring my beer back into the living room and don’t waste any time trying to work out if he’s kidding or not.
‘No, nothing to do with wedding arrangements, I just – look put away the PlayStation. I’ve a couple of other dials for you to play with.’
I sort of dive on to him, quickly fastening my mouth on to his before he can comment on my terrible seduction line. I hastily unbutton his shirt and push it back off his shoulders. I frantically kiss his chest and neck whilst tearing at his buckle.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asks as he tries to turn my hasty pecks into lingering kisses.
‘It’s time now,’ I insist. ‘We’ve waited too long.’
It’s encouragement enough. After all, he is male. He jumps up and walks to the bedroom. I follow him. We undress ourselves quickly. He folds and hangs up his clothes. We get into bed and have sex.
He wants to please me, that’s obvious. He strokes my head and thighs and caresses my breasts. I bury my head into his neck and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s pointless. Darren is tattooed on to the inside of my lids.
It’s fine, absolutely fine. I even have brief waves of orgasm, although I don’t quite achieve a full climax, but then, I rarely do.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Josh props himself up on one arm and lies facing me. I pull the duvet up to my armpits. He strokes my hair.
‘I’m sorry that was all a bit quick.’
‘No, no, it was – fine. Great.’ I’m desperate for a cigarette.
‘Really, you, er, enjoyed yourself?’ He wants to believe it. ‘I mean, did you, er—’
‘Yes, really, I came. Well, just about.’
Relieved, he reaches for his cigarettes. ‘Well, that’s good, then.’
‘Yes.’
He hands me a lit fag and I edge up the headboard so that I can smoke it. I’m gripping on to the duvet like a Victorian virgin. We smoke in silence and then we stub out in silence.
‘Do you think we are doing the right thing, Josh?’
‘What a big wedding, rather than something small and intimate? Absolutely. It’s going to be a great party and we’ve both got loads of people we have to invite – my family, your colleagues – and a few we actually want to invite. A big wedding is definitely right for us.’
I hold my breath. As I let it go, unscheduled words tumble out. ‘No, I mean by getting married at all.’ Double jeopardy. Gin-induced soul-searching, the worst kind.
‘Well, even if we simply lived together you’d still have to have sex with me,’ jokes Josh. I turn to him and see he’s terrified. He coughs. ‘Was it that bad?’
‘No,’ I smile, messing his hair and planting a big kiss on his cheek. ‘You are every bit as good as you’ve always said.’
We laugh, me and mymateJosh. I feel more relaxed with Josh than I have done since the engagement. Obviously it was the sex thing that was stressing me out. It’s better to have got that over with. I feel I can talk to him again. I push on.
‘I just worry that neither of us knows how to do this. Neither of us has ever sustained a relationship for any length of time—’
‘That’s because we were with the wrong people. We are meant for each other.’
Of course.
‘But my parents are divorced and yours just stay together to spite one another. Hardly ideal role models.’ Why am I trying to reach for the self-destruct button? Marrying Josh is what I want to do. Why am I putting doubts in his mind?
‘Loads of people manage.’
‘Loads of people mess it up too,’ I counterargue grimly. But then I remind myself: those who don’t make it through are the ones who marry for the wrong reasons, for lust, for passion, because they are irrationally in love. Josh and I are quite different. We are marrying because we are alike. We are compatible. We are comfortable.
Fine.
Josh puts his hand under the duvet. He rests it on my thigh. He moves his thumb in circles. It feels like he is dragging my skin in the wrong direction.
‘Again?’ he asks.
Again? I hadn’t thought about again. But of course there’s an again. And again and again.
‘I’m a bit tired actually.’
‘No worries. We’ve got all the time in the world.’ Josh turns away from me and is asleep in seconds. His breathing is deep and relaxed.
A lifetime of doing it again.
My feet are ice blocks.
17
Bale has come up with his most ridiculous, irritating and inconvenient idea yet.
‘A party?’ I’m incredulous.
‘Yes, Jocasta, you know the sort of thing – music, drink, merriment.’
‘But what for?’
‘For the troops, of course. To thank them for all their hard work during the difficult times, to celebrate these delightful ones.’
Bale, nearer the bile of human meanness than the milk of human kindness, has never been within miles of being altruistic. I can’t credit it now. I wonder which young PA he has his eye on. I assume that there must be someone he wants the opportunity to befuddle. Even so, it’s a lot of expense to run to just to get someone drunk.
‘Come off it, Bale. What’s really going on?’