Dead And Buried

Forty-six

As she lay there in the darkness, listening to his wheezing snores, she remembered what it was that had put her off Guy Luscomb. He could talk the talk all right, but that was as far as it went.

She had not slept with anyone since their last time together, such had been his effect on her. Alex thought of herself as a modern woman: she did not class herself as promiscuous, but if she met a man she liked physically and who amused her enough, she would have sex with him. It had been that way since she was eighteen, and in her first year at Glasgow University, in the light of the only piece of fatherly advice she had ever received on the subject. That had been along the lines of ‘Not in your own backyard’, but actually it had been unnecessary, as none of the boys she knew at school would ever have dreamed of ‘trying it on’ with Bob Skinner’s daughter.

Even with those years of experience behind her, and her time spent living with Andy Martin when they were engaged, she did not regard herself as a sexual connoisseur. However, she knew what she liked, and she knew what she had a right to expect from a partner.

And that was a hell of a lot more than thirty seconds.

It wasn’t as if the man had been drunk: they’d shared one bottle of wine in Nargile and the cava had stayed in the fridge when they’d got back to the flat. She had her first inkling of how it was going to be when she had gone to hang up her dress, and he had gone into the en-suite to take his turn to brush his teeth. She had turned, still in her underwear and looking to be helped out of it, to find him already in bed, grinning at her from under the slightly tented duvet.

She had tried to interest him in some foreplay, until she recalled that in Guy’s mind that was a type of golf. Instead his leg had come over and he had set to work, teeth gritted. In spite of himself, he had hit the spot, and for a few seconds she had thought it was going to be all right, until his face had contorted, he had let out his patented squeal (God, the memories that come back!), she had felt the condom (hers, not his: that had been a difficult moment) twitching a little, and it had been over.

At least he hadn’t asked how it had been for her. They had listened to Radio Forth for a while, until he had indicated, not in so many words, that he was ready to try again. And she had let him, more in hope than in expectation that it would be better. It had been worse: second time round he had missed the spot completely, and she had endured a full fifty-four seconds. . she had timed him, secretly, on the bedside clock. . of pounding before he squealed again and spent himself.

When he rolled off her, shortly afterwards, and started to snore, she had to fight off the urge to laugh hysterically as she remembered something that Gina had said on a night out a few months before. ‘The saddest moments in a girl’s life are, one, when her partner can’t find her clitoris, and two, when he finds it.’ It had been an hour before she had fallen asleep.

The radio alarm kicked into life on the stroke of seven; the bright morning voice of Spike Thomson, Andy’s friend, filled the room. Guy grunted and started to waken: it took him a while, but eventually he was with her and his surroundings. ‘Morning, lovey,’ he mumbled. ‘Sleep tight?’

‘Not a lot,’ she told him. ‘It was a bit noisy in here for a while.’

He grinned, slightly uncertainly. ‘You mean me? Ah, sorry.’ A hand reached for her. She caught it before it found its mark, entwining her fingers with his. ‘Fancy some morning glory?’ he asked, undeterred.

‘Darling, you’ve worn me out.’

‘Ah, come on, fit young thing like you.’ He raised the duvet with his free hand. ‘See? I’m up for it.’

She felt her annoyance gauge approaching the red line. ‘Barely,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m out of condoms. Incidentally,’ she added, ‘it’s taken me two years to shag my way through that box.’

‘I thought all you girls were on the pill these days.’

Alex propped herself on an elbow, pulling the duvet round her breasts. ‘When was the last time you got laid, Guy?’

He frowned. ‘What sort of a question is that?’

‘It’s a straight one, now answer it.’

‘A couple of months ago; no, six weeks.’

‘Who was the lucky lady? A steady or a one-off?’

‘Someone I met at a reception: a Lithuanian girl.’

‘Did you use a condom then?’

‘Bareback,’ he answered.

‘Seen her since?’

‘No.’

‘Guy,’ she sighed, ‘are you completely unaware of sexually transmitted diseases, or are you just one of those idiots who thinks he doesn’t mix with the sort of person who might have the clap, or worse?’

‘Oh, come on, Lexy, don’t be silly.’

She swung herself out of bed, stood and looked down on him, with a hand on her hip. ‘There are a few things I hate being called. Up there at the head of the list you will find “Lexy” and “silly”. I’m going to take a shower now; if you want one before you go back to your hotel, use the other bathroom.’

She stayed longer than usual under the spray, taking the jet in her hand and directing it as if she was washing every trace of him from her. When she emerged back into the bedroom she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and her hair was towelled to dampness. Guy was buttoning his shirt, his back to the en-suite. He turned at the sound of the opening door. ‘Have you been washing this man right out of your hair?’ he asked. The question was so near the mark that she felt a burst of guilt.

‘No, not at all,’ she insisted. ‘This mop of mine takes a lot of looking after.’ He smiled and she realised that she liked him much better with his clothes on. She knew also that it would always be that way. ‘I’ll go and rustle up some breakfast,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Alex,’ he smiled as he said her name, ‘but I’ll get some back at the George. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes and I’m due to meet the unfortunate company’s anxious banker at nine thirty in his office. I’ll grab a cab outside. I imagine there are plenty around at this time.’

He picked up his jacket, which he had hung carefully over the chair that faced her dressing-table, and slipped it on. She stepped up and straightened his tie, and let him kiss her lightly, on the lips.

‘Fancy a return game tonight? This time I’ll bring the rubbers.’

Although she had guessed it might be coming, the question still managed to take her by surprise. There was a considered and distinct pause before she replied. ‘Sorry, Guy. I’m busy tonight.’

His reaction was not what she had expected. ‘Ah, too bad: I won’t ask what you’re doing, just in case you tell me you’re washing your hair.’ He reached up and patted her head.

‘I’m seeing my friend Gina,’ she heard herself say.

He nodded. ‘And I’m off to London tomorrow night. As well, I suppose: one-night stands are the best thing for swingers like us, aren’t they?’ He kissed her again, even more quickly, a mere brushing of the lips, then turned and headed for the living room.

She followed him as he picked up his yellow overcoat from the back of the couch, where he had left it on his determined rush towards her bedroom, and as he walked to the door she opened it, and held it for him. He grinned at her, all of his massive self-confidence back in place, then gave her bottom a firm squeeze. Her neighbour chose that moment to leave for work, trying not to look at her as he passed: his name was Griff and she fancied him more than a little, although he was married and they had exchanged barely more than introductions.

‘Thank you, Lexy darling,’ said Guy, in a voice that was louder than was strictly necessary. ‘That was terrific. See you again some time. Call me if you like.’

As she stepped back inside her apartment, she found herself trying to work out what been happening for the twelve hours that had just elapsed. She had been vulnerable and he had been there and useful: at least that was how it had seemed to her the day before. But who had been using whom?

She drew back the living-room curtains: it was winter-morning dark, and the Water of Leith still reflected the sodium street-lamps. ‘You know what, Alex?’ she murmured to herself eventually. ‘Someone got fucked in here. . all one minute and twenty-four seconds of it. . then brushed off, and I rather think it was you.’