Sally

I want to suck your chin.

‘Delicious.’

Giving himself a dignified minute in which to let his erection melt away, he rose to fetch the next dish. A warm salad of rocket and baby spinach with roasted red peppers and individual goat cheeses. Richard offered to dress it for Sally. She watched him whisk the vinaigrette and liked the way that such a simple task was possible only with great effort from the ligaments and tendons of his wrist – she wanted to place a finger over them lightly as they twitched and sprang. She thought how lovely Richard’s wrist was, slender and tanned and sporting a most beautiful watch (Cartier). She had never paid attention to a wrist before.

Sally ate delicately, folding the leaves securely over her fork and cutting each slither of pepper into careful pieces. She could not risk splash-back tonight – for the sake of both Richard’s libido and her new silk shirt.

Richard finished before Sally. He watched. She stared back, eating all the while.

The skill of it! Every forkful placed perfectly in the centre of your perfect mouth without looking! Can I kiss you yet? When?

The plate was now bare but there was still a film of vinaigrette left. It was such a beautiful dressing, why shouldn’t Sally run her finger round her plate? After all, waste not, want not. And, after all, it stirred Richard’s groin again, not that Sally was aware of it.

The main course consisted of a bed of pappardelle woven throughout with porcini and chicken, and suffused with garlic, basil, sage and the ubiquitous olive oil. That it was extra virgin and cold pressed goes without saying, we know Richard now. Sally had never had porcini before and was at first baffled as to whether they were meat or vegetable, so savoury was the taste, so firm the texture.

I must buy some of these.

Sally, they cost Richard twelve pounds.

The whole was a perfect partnership and created a lovely warm aromatic cloud in the mouth.

Thank God we’re both having garlic, thought Sally, anticipating post-dinner sport. The pasta, broader than tagliatelle, was much more fork-friendly, preventing dribbles of sauce to the chin, or stray pieces hanging regrettably from the corner of the mouth (much to the chagrin of Richard’s tongue).

The olive oil gave Sally’s lips a gloss, too tantalizing for Richard to sit and merely observe. The vinaigrette jug was now off the table, the bread basket was on the floor. The scene had set itself for Richard; there was space for him to lean across, there were the sides of the table to hold for stability. Assertively he swiped Sally’s mouth with his tongue. Her lips tasted of dressing, her mouth of Sally. Richard’s tongue tasted of passion. Sally was buzzing between her legs, her bosom was heaving cinematically. She was ready to leave the meal for a banquet of sex.

No. Wait. Not yet. Keep it going, keep him just there. Let him stay a while hovering on the brink of being crazed and senseless with desire. Pull away. Smile as sweetly as you can and take a coy sip of that lovely Bardolino.

‘Cheese?’ Richard croaked.

‘Please,’ Sally purred.

Just two cheeses, complementing each other and the food that had gone before and that was to follow; the oozing, subtle Taleggio and spicier Pecorino accompanied by further slithers of Rosa Gambini’s ciabatta, flatter yet with so much more spring and taste than the dull supermarket counterfeits. Richard had cleverly judged the servings and though they were both thoroughly satisfied, an all-important space still existed in their stomachs.

Undoubtedly, the pièce de résistance was the pudding. Tiramisù, of course. Another first for Sally. Richard had bought a complete dish from Rosa, just under a foot square, and Sally was soon fantasizing about diving into the centre of it and eating her way to the surface. Remembering his first taste of tiramisù, that it was not merely a delicious flavour but a sensation, an unforgettable experience too, Richard decided to halt his spoon midway to his portion so he could observe Sally’s reaction.

As she spooned into it, she thought how beautiful it looked. The dark matt brown of the cocoa powder, the soft ivory of the marscapone, the glistening sponge, speckled through with espresso coffee.

I think I’m probably going to enjoy this very much. It could be dangerous!

As the spoon neared her mouth, a wisp of scent seduced her nose. Coffee-booze-chocolate. She looked across at Richard, waiting in anticipation. She smiled, giving a fleeting twitch of eyebrow. Still holding his gaze, she slowly pushed the loaded spoon into her mouth. It was like a trigger, a chemical reaction: her eyes snapped shut and simultaneously Richard grinned broadly. The first thing to accost her was the bitterness of the cocoa, thick and dry against the roof of her mouth. In an instant, the cool fluff of marscapone filtered through, wetting the powder which metamorphosed into a subtle and heavenly chocolaty sludge. The texture and taste were heady and incomparable. Then the marsala and rum, sodden in the sponge, broke through and created a warmth that trickled down into her chest. Finally, a kick from the espresso forced her eyes open and her head to shake slowly in astonishment. It was the signal for Richard to have his spoonful. For Sally, tiramisù was more than a ‘pick me up’, she was literally stoned on the stuff.

An orgasm versus a first taste of tiramisù. A tough choice if ever there was one! Both, please!

Later, Sally, later. There’s still one more thing for you to try.

After Sally’s second helping (Richard was delighted – he could not abide the Abstemious Woman), he poured her a full and very chilled glass of Beaumes de Venise. Again he watched. First Sally cleaned her teeth with her tongue, searching for any hidden cocoa. Somewhat dismayed, she found nothing. She raised the glass, now aesthetically bloomed with condensation, and took note of the golden blush colour and the sweet, floral smell. Bouquet, Sally, bouquet. She took a sip. It was liquid silk. It was cold, clean and exquisite. If ambrosia is tiramisù, and she suspected it very probably was, then Beaumes de Venise was nectar. The food, the drink of the gods.

Sally’s eyes wore a glazed expression. She looked across to Richard who looked soft and mellow under the wine and the dimmed lights. She was having a thoroughly good time. Never had she been so overwhelmed by such different taste sensations. Never had she simply enjoyed food so much. Now she knew for sure that aphrodisiacs existed.

Clever boy, Richard, you’ve seduced her with food, she’s now ready, waiting and willing for part two of the evening’s schedule. Physical pleasure.

Up you get, walk across and stand behind her chair. Scoop her hair up into a pony tail, tilt her head back slightly. Release her hair and let your hands fall on to her neck. It’s delicate, you notice how vulnerable it feels, encircled entirely by your overlapping hands. Venture down and let your finger tips rest on her collar bone. Stroke that soft dip at her throat. Take one hand away and palm back the hair from her forehead. Gaze into those eyes, keep the gaze and move your other hand from her neck down across the silk of her shirt. You are between her breasts now. Find her left breast, cup it, press it, squeeze it. Let your hand lie soft, feeling her pip-like nipple in your palm. The touch of silk, the warmth and firmness of the flesh beneath.

Pull her to her feet and grasp her close to you. Keep the one hand holding her neck, put the other into the small of her back and pull her tightly against you. Press yourself against her; feel yourself hard, straining. Move your leg across and push her legs slightly apart. Now she too had something to push against. Lower your hand and feel her buttocks tense, you remember perfectly what they look like.

A gorgeous peach of an arse.

To feel its curve under velvet is as alluring as a breast under silk. But flesh itself is better. Her flesh is what you want.

Kiss her. Don’t open your mouth, just press your lips against hers. Her tongue fleets at your lips. You respond. As the kisses become longer and deeper, you both push and grind your groins against each other. You feel like eating her. Nibbling at her lips does not suffice. Push her mouth open wide, as wide as it will go and probe as deep as you can. Feel her search back. Feel her run her tongue over the inside of your teeth. Bite her. Feel her simultaneously flinch yet move even closer and more insistently against you. Bite her again and feel her bite back. You are aware that her hand is starting to travel down. Away from your earlobe, down, down.

Lower, Sally, lower. Find me hard, rub your hand against me. Trace the shape of me. No don’t take your hand away. Don’t pull away from my lips. I want you. Where have you gone?

The CD had long stopped but the silence was loaded. Richard and Sally stood there, panting, mouths reddened, feet apart, a foot apart. Sally reached out and pulled Richard towards her by grasping the front of his trousers. Again they ate-kissed. Again they separated. Again at her instigation. He stepped towards her and she stepped back. He stepped towards her and again she retreated. The two were tangoing. Then he was ready. He took two steps forward to her one back and had her again, close to him, squeezing her waist with one arm, the other enmeshed in her hair. She gasped as her hair snagged around his fingers. She tried to tug away but he simply tightened his grip. To hear her breath, rasping, sent him into a fast frenzy of desire. He held her at arms’ length as she tried to approach. Now he pushed her away.

Once more they stared, like matador and bull. Slowly he came to her and slid his hand up her skirt. It was tight but she helped by standing on her tiptoes. He wriggled upwards, effortlessly, to bullseye position. Sally lowered her heels back down. He could feel how moist she was under her panties and, with his thumb and third finger, tweaked and pressed superlatively.

Spot on, Richard.

Still they stared relentlessly into each other’s eyes while Richard’s skilful fingers set to work.

Look at her face, glazed eyes as if she does not see me though she looks right at me. Let me rub you right there. Let me go a little further. Look at your eyelids flicker. Look at your head tilt slightly back exposing your neck which I must graze with my teeth. Let me undo your blouse.

Deftly, Richard unbuttoned just enough of Sally’s blouse to expose an exquisite breast. He ceased movement with his other hand though Sally pushed herself against it eagerly.

Look at me, Richard. Never have you desired a woman so much as you yearn for me this very moment. Feel me, move your hand from my arm but don’t leave my gaze. Feel the breast that you’ve released from its shield of olive silk. Feel it. Yes, just like that. Increase the pressure. Again. Oh.

Richard introduced his finger tips and twisted Sally’s nipple gently. He felt her move against his other hand and he made his fingers there come suddenly alive. Probing, twisting, rubbing. He looked at Sally’s face. Her head was now involuntarily thrown backwards and to one side; it enticed him to suck at her neck, to fondle her breast firmly, to increase the speed of his fingers below. He felt her rocking her pelvis faster and faster. A surge of moistness. She let out a noise midway between a yelp and a gasp and brought her head back straight, once again meeting his eye directly. They stared into each other as they both felt the pulsations ebb away and stop. After a moment’s stillness, Richard probed again, stroking with dexterous mastery. The throbs returned, less defined but certainly there. Sally’s face had begun to soften. Her eyelids closed more frequently and for longer. Her head dropped slightly. To both of them, her body seemed to be melting.

Richard drew Sally towards him and cradled her carefully, holding her still and steady and close for minutes. Her head was buried against his chest, her shoulders were slumped, her exposed breast was now blushed, the nipple soft and puffy. She stayed against him feeling safe with the smell of him; sweat and pheromones filling her nose, his taste still in her mouth. He kissed the top of her head. She looked up and kissed him on the lips while he kept them motionless. With a hand on her shoulder and another around her waist, he led her to his bedroom and, on the bed with the fresh, crisp linen, he made slow and languid love to her.

EIGHT

Was it a chip in the paintwork or was it a spider?

Sally had been staring at the small, dark mark on the ceiling, trying to make up her mind. In that state of reverie, when eyes are young and focusing is lazy, she had been sure, alternately, that it was the one and then the other. Now that her eyes were awake and functioning she decided that it must be a mark or a dent.

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.’

NINE

‘Richard 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?’