Playing Away Read online

  Before the invention of networking, people simply met, social-climbed or licked arse. Now it's more hygienic. Now we have networking conferences in Blackpool. I don't know which is more depressing.

  I walk into the hotel lobby, late, to demonstrate my mindset. I shake the April showers from my umbrella and I'm immediately splattered with boisterous laughter from the hotel bar. The evening's entertainment is already under way. My esteemed colleagues are tipping sand buckets down the stairs and racing shots, badly, so that pink, sticky liquid comes out of their noses. My heart sinks; I don't want to be here. I want to be at home with my husband, curled up in bed, reading or making love. Husband! I love that word. It's my favorite word and I've used it excessively over the last nine months since I netted him.

  I know the whole conference will be a fearful bore: too much testosterone and not enough intelligence. I work for a large management consultancy (Looper Jackson) and in six months' time we are merging with a mammoth management consultancy (Peterson Wind) to form a huge, dick-swinging one (Peterson Windlooper—I'm unsure what is to become of Jackson). The purpose of this conference is for the manage-

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  ment to identify natural leaders, team players and losers in a bid to reconstruct departments. I imagine preferred scenarios. I want to be on a beach in Barbados, I want to be in All Bar One with the girls, the King's Road; I want to be just about anywhere other than here. I pause. Except the office. That was a very miserable thought. Best to check in, clean up and face it.

  I drop my bag, sigh, cast a glance around the chintzy bedroom, then call my husband. Disappointingly but somewhat predictably, he isn't in. The bathroom is large and white, with hideous gold-swan taps; I turn the taps, breaking their necks, a butcher's window at Christmastime. I run a bath, emptying the Crabtree &C Evelyn salts into the plunging water. After bathing I dress. It's a black-tie evening and every woman will opt for a conventional flouncy dress. To provide contrast I dress with a nurtured, rebellious streak, choosing a sheer black trouser suit. The top parts to show a tantalizing flash of my stomach—currently flat, brown and sexy. I pile my hair on top; it looks too serious, so roughly, hurriedly, I pull down random strands and twist them into dreadlocks. I check the result in the mirror and I'm pleased. I'm even more pleased when later I thread my way through the white tablecloths, black suits and predictable, unflattering ball dresses.

  It's the usual corporate dinner thing: vast, unseemly and profligate. Everyone is really going for it, a scene from Sodom and Gomorrah. Beery, bleary men stand in pulsing packs leering at the women. Red, drunken faces lurch forward, slurring their words and thoughts. The women wear their makeup smudged around their eyes and their noses; their foreheads are shining, hardly vogue. Tomorrow will be the day for embarrassed nods and painful headaches, but fuck it tonight is the time to go for it. Sod them and tomorrow. By contrast my plan is: dinner, excuse, retreat, retire and ring husband. I find my table and nameplate, sit down and pull my face into a practiced, polished, social smile.

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  His eyes are unfair.

  Too big, too blue, too overwhelming to allow any female a reasonable attempt at indifference. He has fine, transparent skin with a sprinkling of freckles. He is lean, taut, well defined, athletic. Not an ounce of unnecessary about him. He smells clean but not perfumed. He looks at me and his eyes level me, slice me. He's exploded a kaleidoscope of emotion. Fizzy splinters of rich colors blast internally, lodging in my head and breasts. My knickers and heart pull together. I'm shivering. The predictable masses surrounding us merge into one pointless, homogeneous blur; we're left in an appalling clarity. I'm shocked and disturbed by my jumping Marks & Spencer briefs. I immediately dismiss any semblance of disguising, polite, small talk.

  "I'm married."

  "I'm a tart," he smiles.

  Both the defense and challenge.

  "That's the introductions over with. Want a drink?" He is already pouring me one.

  We are outrageously overt. We flirt to an awe-inspiring level. Within minutes I slip back into my flirtatious ways that were second nature before I married, but have been unnecessary and unseemly for some time. I am direct, evasive, sophisticated, straightforward, coy, seductive. Much more seductive than I've ever been before. He is also full of contradictions. He talks about his job, which is dull, but he appears brilliant. He's jumped through burning hoops and balanced balls on his nose to secure his position at Peterson Wind. Now he can smell his own success, it reeks. He tells me he deserves the conference gig, the whole jolly. It's obvious he has no intention of doing any work, beyond scoring women and drugs. He stands up and is disappointingly short but seems majestic. It is devastatingly ambiguous. It is irreparably clear-cut.

  We talk about sex and not much else, establishing the

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  things we have in common. He confesses that he has an unsquashable habit of immediately identifying the most desirable woman in the vicinity. Wherever he is—a bar, at work, the pub, the subway, in a shop. I remember that skill and tell him so. He nods and simply affirms, "It's compulsive. I don't think this talent is a unique one. Many a time a mate and I have settled on the same sleek bob of hair or slim set of hips. The odd thing is finding a woman who tells me she does the same." He shakes his head in disbelief. "Sometimes if I am on the pull I don't bother with chasing the most attractive. I mean it's a waste of fucking time if you just want to get your end away. So I identify the most readily available. Quite distinct and apart."

  "What am I?" I ask shamelessly. I know he is unlikely to admit he is keen for a quick shag and I'm giving off available signals. But I so want him to flatter me.

  "You, Gorgeous, with your masses and masses of long blond hair, beautiful face, cracking figure, full round tits and tiny waist—"

  He touches my knee with the edge of his whiskey glass. I shiver but drag it away.

  "—you with your intelligent eyes, eyes which you turn on me with cold indifference, are undoubtedly the most attractive woman here."

  He touches my knee again and I don't move it.

  "But you are different. Because, while being undoubtedly the most attractive woman here, you are also the most unobtainable. You see, I never dip my pen in the company ink, and besides which you're married." Yet habit compels him to add, "I've slept with ninety-nine women—how do you fancy being the hundredth?"

  "Does that line ever work?" I ask, laughing at his audacity despite myself.

  "Ninety-nine times, to my certain knowledge."

  "You're pathetic."

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  "But it doesn't worry you."

  He is right. I fancy him so much I think I'm going to be sick. I fancy him so much I think I must be sick. He leans toward me. I'm so very close to his mouth I can taste, on the air that he expounds, beer and cigarettes, an intoxicating perfume.

  "You fascinate me, Sweetie, you are fucking fascinating."

  I bristle with the excitement, have I ever fascinated my husband?

  "You are so bloody cocky, full of yourself. I like that in a girl."

  He adjusts his trousers, fighting his erection.

  "I like your calmness of manner. It disarms me slightly that you are so confident. But, fair play to you, I admit, your assessment of your attractiveness is in no way over-ambitious. You are a very beautiful woman. You're also very clever, more intuitive than intellectual, and to tell the truth I rate the latter higher than the former, but neither should be ignored." Without giving me time to be offended, he continues, "You are dead amusing. You really must be, because I've laughed all night and I can't imagine that it is all motivated by my desire to flatter you."

  I nod, momentarily too hoarse with desire to answer. I sip some water.

  "Bu
t we agreed I am unavailable."

  He smiles. "Yes. Having said that, it seems odd to me that earlier, when I smiled and nodded to you, you returned with a smashing smile. It seemed to me that your eyes, well"—he shrugs—"I'm experienced enough to know that your indifference is feigned. I think you are quite capable of myopic and hedonistic fucking; your brazen frivolity is obvious."

  "I'm married," I insist.

  "You mentioned that."

  "Blissfully so."

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  He grins. "How long?"

  "Nine months."

  "Nine months and you are behaving like this?"

  For a second I despise his smugness.

  "We've been together for four years."

  He raises his eyebrows as if he's heard it all before. I'm furious with myself for trying to justify myself.

  "I've never looked at another man in all that time—"

  "Until now." He finishes my sentence with appalling accuracy. "Can I get you another drink?"

  I hesitate.

  "Go on, a quick one," he coaxes. He stands up and makes toward the bar. I look at the gold and diamonds on my left hand and throw out a final, desperate clasp at respectability.

  "It's OK our flirting like this, as I really am happily married and it can't go anywhere. I will never, ever have an affair. I will never, ever have sex with anyone other than my husband."

  I spell it out plainly before he gets the wrong idea, before I get the wrong idea! But just as I settle into smug self-righteousness, I hear myself add, "But if I'm wrong and if ever I were to have an affair, it would be with you."

  "Yesssssssss." He punches the air and practically skips to the bar.

  Nooooooooooooo. I sit alone in the crowd, horrified with myself. As soon as his back is turned, I run to my room. I close the bedroom door behind me and lean heavily on it, shaking. I kick off my Gucci steel-heeled shoes, slowly undress and climb into bed.

  "Shit. That was close, too close." Angrily I punch the pillows and make a feather husband. Curling tight into the effigy I vow to spend the rest of the conference arduously avoiding him.

  I struggle to open my eyes and sit up, as Luke carefully lays the breakfast tray on the bed. Pain au chocolat, fresh orange juice, coffee, cards and lilies. Anniversary fare.

  "Oh, thank you," I smile. My lazy, sexy, contented smile which I keep especially for wedding nights, anniversaries, birthdays, nights of seduction and other distinguished occasions. Since I married I've extended the usage to weekends, weekdays, sunny days, wet days, days with an r in the month and days without. I can't help it. I'm so happy. Delirious. I know it's a cliche, I know it's sick-making and I know single people or people in crappy marriages take an instant dislike to me. But it's just like that.

  He puts the tray on our bed and I clap my hands and shout, "How wonderful." We kiss, slowly, gently. "Thank you."

  "No, thank you for the best year of my life," smiles Luke.

  "No, thank you," I insist. I love this conversation, which can carry on indefinitely, both of us arguing over who's the most lucky to have married the other. I am. But this time, before we get too carried away, Luke jumps up.

  "Don't move," he instructs. As if. He dashes downstairs

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  and returns with a bottle of Bollie and two champagne flutes. "De rigueur," he laughs.

  We open our cards, drink champagne and make love; the usual kind of things that couples celebrating their first wedding anniversary do. We keep asking each other, "Are you happy?"

  "Delirious. Are you happy?"

  "Never more so."

  This is another one of our favorite sketches. These words are so often repeated I answer without thinking. The truth of them is indisputable. We are wild about each other.

  I've never been happier, more content or more confident in my life. I had been fairly disdainful when my three younger sisters all rushed down the aisle before me. Although my mother and father had the opposite reaction. They were delighted and mollified; more so when my siblings settled in Sheffield, within a three-mile radius of our parental home. I had confounded my mother by insisting on "gallivanting off" to London, where, she advised me, "I could expect nothing but trouble." Therefore I labored under the knowledge that every year that ticked by, I further disappointed her. I wore the cloud of shame quite stylishly, mostly in cocktail bars and nightclubs. Although my mother thought I had terminal china stamped on my arse, top shelf city, it surprised my friends that I got engaged so young. That I got engaged at all. I was not blushing bride material. Before I met Luke I'd positioned myself as the absolute Cosmopolitan woman. I had always been an outrageous flirt and when flirting became frustrating I had hurried to be a good soldier of the sexual revolution. Like many women I was desperate to shake off the embarrassment of not knowing, and desperate to be known. I rushed and jostled and queue-jumped, then carelessly shrugged off my innocence. I left the image of one Madonna behind and took on the pop star version as a role model. No reserve. No trepidation. There wasn't a position in the Kama Sutra I didn't try

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  (except the unappealing up-the-bum). On scores of occasions I indulged in a number of extraordinarily romantic and sexual liaisons.

  I thrived on the challenge.

  I lived for the hunt.

  I died for the kill.

  I was grateful that women had chained themselves to railings for me. I enjoyed being a "more than five less than ten girl." After all, they were all nice blokes, or gorgeous-looking, or I thought I loved them, or at least one of the three. I quickly became a "more than ten less than twenty girl." I was more often the ditcher than the ditchee. I'd done it all: one-night stands, long-term commitment, sleeping with men because everyone else wanted to, sleeping with a man because no one else wanted to, because they were fit, or cool, or captain of a sports team, because they were older than me, because they were younger, to help me get over a disastrous affair, to help them get over their last lay, because they wore their hair longer than anyone else, because they wore it shorter, because I was too tired to get a cab home and, on one occasion, because he did a clever trick with the wrapper of an amaretti biscuit. It was then that I stopped counting and began to wonder if shagging around was really what the suffragettes had had in mind. Even variety became boring.

  Then I met Luke. At a wedding. He was an usher and took the opportunity to flirt with me as he led me to my pew. He is over six feet with straight, floppy blond hair that simply demands fingers are run through it; he has this huge enveloping smile, and naturally he was wearing tails. I instantly fell in lust. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I watched as he handed out song sheets, chatted to aunts and grannies, making them feel important and interesting. By the time Rose had cut the cake I was deeply in like. As she threw the bouquet I was in love.

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  Luke.

  Luke had an altogether distinct seduction technique. A walking Time Out guide, Luke's fun to be with. Eternally unfazed and with an inability to do anything half-heartedly, he's one of those guys who will give anything a go: ceroc, body painting, mountain climbing, radio debates, canoeing, roller skating, greyhound racing.

  "Fancy a game of squash?"

  "I can't play squash," I'd replied, cursing my hand-to-eye-to-ball coordination, or rather, the magnificent lack of it.

  "I'll teach you." And he did. Because suddenly, when I was with him, I could do things that had previously seemed impossible. He approached everything with steady confidence and patience and although my approach was more haphazard and impatient, the confidence was infectious. We never went to pubs or sat in front of the TV, instead we did exciting, extraordinary, wondrous things on our dates. He always "just happened" to have tickets for the Comedy Club or opening nights for some obscure fringe performance, played out at venues with funny names like Onion Shed or Man in the Moon. We were always busy: swimming, windsurfing, visiting galleries or throwing dinner parties. We did everything together; he be
came my new best friend. My best, best friend. Pretty sharpish, I realized that he was the man I looked forward to looking back with.

  I felt a distinct release and relief. I was delighted to rediscover sex really could be game free, pain free, shame free. Within months of our meeting Luke offered me a beautiful diamond ring, which I confidently accepted. It was love. Loving Luke just made sense. I thought the speed was romantic; perversely, my mother thought it suspect and insisted on a three-year engagement to quell rumors of visits to Baby Gap.

  With Luke I feel shrouded and protected and decent. I've

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  never been able to explain this to any of my friends, married or otherwise, drunken or sober. We discuss calorie intake, childhood experiences of shoplifting, the number of tampons you need for a heavy period and just about everything you can imagine.

  We loll around in bed for ages. I'm thrilled to be spending time with him. Recently, Luke has been working a regular fourteen-hour day because, despite being an ostensibly normal bloke, he likes his job. When he's not working we "do things around the house." The eternal battle with cracked walls, and a garden that insists on growing. Fringe theaters and windsurfing are luxuries we can no longer afford. Today's a holiday, so we talk. We talk about our past, remembering films we've watched together, places we've visited, rows we've roared through and reconciliations we've run to. We plan our future, which is unquestionably coruscating. I moan about my job at Looper Jackson, saying that I am bored. Luke reminds me that it pays well and that perhaps the upcoming merger will offer me new challenges. It is sweet of him to try to make me feel valued and worthwhile but I remain unconvinced. Loving his work as he does means that he has no comprehension. It's not his fault. Talking about my work depresses us both, so I change the subject. I tell him the washing machine is leaking and he responds with a funny story about the neighbors' cat peeing on our herb garden. Unreasonably, this story makes us laugh so much (it must be the champagne) that he can hardly finish it and I have to run to the loo. He won't let me, but holds me down until I'm forced to shout playful threats. We drift in and out of intensity as we are firmly embedded in intimacy. It's sunny. He covers my body with little butterfly kisses and I give him the king of all blow jobs, then we fall asleep.