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Siobhan

Monday

As soon as he was through my front door, Phil told me that he and Lynn had split up.

‘Why?’ I asked, trying not to gloat visibly.

‘We want different things,’ he said. I nearly laughed out loud. That easy, catch-all, convenience excuse, like bands breaking up because of ‘musical differences’. In my opinion, couples should want different things. Life would be pretty excruciating if couples wore matching clothes, ordered the same things off menus, went to the same place on holiday every year for the rest of their lives because they both liked it. Of course I knew he really meant ‘she wants kids and I don’t,’ but I didn’t care. I didn’t even feel sorry for her, which surprised me. I suppose I always imagined myself as more empathic than that.

‘So the holiday’s off?’

He nodded, looking so crestfallen that I forgot he was technically out of bounds now, and touched his shoulder. It made me shiver with possibilities and remembered sensations, the way his solid body felt underneath that stripy shirt. I’d forgotten that he always really turned me on – until we actually got down to it, that is. With Phil, the idea was always better than the reality: anticipation was everything. It’s weird how my body used to dupe me into thinking it was going to be great. I must be a sexual optimist, if such a term exists.

‘And what are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘You know I’m not a fan of unannounced visitors – what if the house had been a mess?’

He half laughed, stretching out on the sofa the way he used to, having to bend his knees so his feet didn’t stick over the end. He was flattening all my cushions and I wanted to pull them out from under him and bang them together to fluff them up again.

‘Your house is never a mess, Shuv. I just wanted to talk to an old friend, that’s all. You don’t mind, do you?’

An old friend? I’m not a sodding old friend! His socks were worn thin on the soles and I thought, I’d have chucked that pair away long ago. I hadn’t noticed him take his shoes off, but when I looked over, there they were in the hall, just like old times. I wondered if the next time I turned around he’d be stark naked and I wouldn’t have noticed him undressing either.

‘It was nice to see you the other day outside Starbucks. I’m sorry if I was a bit short – Lynn and I were rowing then too, and I – well – seeing you just made me miss you more than ever.’

I must have looked at him with a particularly gormless expression on my face. He reached out and touched my cheek, and I felt a callous on his finger scrape against my skin. ‘I really miss you, Siobhan,’ he said.

Suddenly I just wanted him so badly that I thought I was going to cry, like craving chocolate when your blood sugar is at rock bottom, or that overwhelming desire for a glass of wine at the end of a long, hard day. I wanted the familiarity of his skin and his soft clumsy kisses, even his hairy chest. I wanted someone to bring me tea in the morning.

I practically dragged him up to the bedroom and ripped off his clothes, and then there was the shock of the cold bedclothes over and under our hot flesh…

…and nothing had changed. The cat hair still made him sneeze. He squashed me under his weight. He moaned and grunted and thrust, ripping at my hair and using his fingers in all the wrong places. I’d been really turned on for the first two minutes but then I just kept thinking, I want a real man. I wanted to be fucked by a man with a dick like a truncheon, not this skinny little excuse for a penis. I want to come three times in a night.

I’m sorry, but Phil is ridiculous in bed. I’d forgotten quite how ridiculous, but really, all that contrived ass-slapping and cringe-worthy fantasy-whispering. How can he think it’s a turn-on? And worse: now he’s started using all this yucky babytalk – ‘Does my ’ikkle Shuvvie want it bad from her big boy Phil?’ Ugh!! (And ‘big boy?’ I mean, hello? Who’s he trying to kid?) I was rolling my eyes when he came. The baby talk must be Lynn’s influence – he never used to do that.

All in all, the idea of Phil is still way better than the reality of Phil. He’s a lovely bloke, and we did care about each other, and he made me laugh and bought me tampons without blanching if I needed him to – but now I remember why I wasn’t heartbroken when he finished with me. Now I remember that I’d thought, oh well, might get a decent shag now, if anyone will still have me.

Nice as it was to think about getting tea brought to me in the morning, I suddenly couldn’t countenance the idea of Phil staying the night; this night, or any other. I’d get my own tea – no big deal. But before I could say ‘yes, well, thanks for that, Phil, but I really must be getting on with my life now,’ he’d jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to wash his willy in the sink, as he always did. (It’s such an unpleasant thought – really, the male anatomy is pretty revolting, once you take away the components of arousal. Perhaps I ought to become a lesbian instead, like Kathy.)

I pulled on my bathrobe and followed him to the bathroom, giving him a respectable couple of willy-washing minutes to himself first. When I got there, he’d wrapped a towel round his waist, and was enthusiastically brushing his teeth with the old green toothbrush he used to call his. He must have unearthed it from the back of the bathroom cabinet.

I leaned against the door frame and just said it straight out: ‘We’re not back on, so don’t get too comfortable.’ It came out a lot more harshly than I intended.

I wasn’t wearing my glasses so I couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes, reflected in the mirrored door of the cabinet, but I could hear it in his voice, indistinct through a mouthful of toothpaste: ‘But – I thought we… I need you, Shuv.’

With my blurry vision and his hairy back, he looked like a large doleful black bear standing by the basin. When he turned to face me, foaming at the mouth, I thought how his chest made me feel as if I’m suffocating, all that thick hair up my nose when we’re in bed. I’d forgotten about that, too.

‘No, you don’t,’ I said. ‘Don’t settle for something that’s less than what you want. You finished with me, remember? Don’t think that because you’ve been dumped, that makes things suddenly perfect with us.’

‘I haven’t been dumped,’ he said, turning back to the basin, brushing furiously again and then spitting violently. He always cleaned his teeth like someone trying to scrub barnacles off the bottom of a boat. I’d be surprised if there was any enamel at all left on them.

‘Oh. You dumped her, then, did you?’

He didn’t answer, although I saw in the mirror that he’d closed his eyes like a small child who thinks that if he can’t see you, you can’t see him either.

I had a brief pang, thinking of that fortnight in Portugal going to waste. I’m glad I had the writing class to think of, otherwise I might have been tempted to ask if I could take Lynn’s place. Perhaps I was being too hasty. There was a lot about Phil that was great, too; sweet and loving and patient. And his hairy body was lovely and warm on a cold night…

But no. I really don’t think it would work out between us. It was just one of those things – probably as much my fault as his.

‘Sorry,’ I conceded. ‘I’m being pissy. It doesn’t matter who dumped who. This is about you and me, not you and Lynn. We shouldn’t have slept together just now – it’s always a mistake to go back, I think. Let’s just call it one for old time’s sake, shall we?’

His shoulders slumped, and I felt really sorry for him. I went over and put my arms around him.

‘Oh Phil, it’s been lovely to see you, honestly, and I’m sorry that things haven’t worked out for you and Lynn. But I just don’t think it would be a good idea for us to try and pick up where we left off. I think you did the right thing, to break up with me.’

That was about as diplomatic as I could be, without recourse to the words ‘pencil’ and ‘dick’. It wasn’t his fault that he was bad in bed. And maybe he’d meet a girl who liked his little… foibles. I had loved him once. I didn’t wish him any harm, not really. It was just the sting of rejection that hurt – but now we’d had this liaison, actually, I felt better about it. For the first time I really started to believe that I could do better than Phil.

‘So I suppose you want me to leave, then,’ he said, drying his mouth on another of my towels.

I nodded, wincing at the rejection. ‘Sorry,’ I repeated. ‘I do care about you, Phil, but… ’

‘I understand,’ he said dolefully, and took himself back off to the bedroom to get dressed. I left him to it, and went to fold my washing off the drying rack I’d positioned by the radiator in the living room. Biggles was curled up asleep underneath it – he loved it under there, playing with bra straps in the damp curtained hideyhole.

‘See you around, Siobhan.’ Phil came into the room, dressed once more, and jingling his car keys. He wouldn’t look me in the eye as he gave me a brief, minty kiss goodbye.

‘Take care of yourself, OK?’ I said, annoyed to feel tears stinging my eyes. I folded a pair of socks and threw them into the laundry basket, so he couldn’t see that I was upset.

He nodded brusquely, and let himself out of the house. I pulled back the curtain to watch him lower his bulky frame into his car, and heard the slam of the door echo round the deserted street. As his headlights flooded the stationary vehicles in front of him, I was sure I saw a sudden movement, like someone ducking down behind a car. I stared harder, but nothing else moved, so I thought it must have been a fox, or a cat jumping off the car roof. I hope it wasn’t a burglar.

I went to both front and back doors to check they were double-locked, sighing as I walked back upstairs. Alone again – naturally – as the song goes… Just as I got back into my bedroom, surveying the rumpled bedclothes, the phone rang. I sighed again, this time with irritation, and picked up. What had he forgotten?

‘Phil?’

Nothing. The line was dead.

I sat on the bed for a long time, not moving, wondering if I’d done the right thing.

Sunday

My resolve is much stronger now. By the next morning I was sure that I had done the right thing – better to be on my own than compromise with someone I wasn’t entirely convinced about. I spent the weekend at Mum’s in case Phil came over again and I let him talk me back into the relationship, but there’s been no sign of him since last week… I told Mum a little about what had happened, about him splitting up with Lynn – the censored version, of course, although it made it very difficult to explain to her why I don’t want to get back with him, without telling her that he’s got a willy like a cocktail sausage and has no idea what to do with it. Mum always had a soft spot for Phil. I think she was more upset when we split up than I was.

She’s constantly telling me how worried she is about me, regardless of how often I reassure her that there’s nothing wrong: I’m just single, that’s all. It’s not a disease. Sometimes I feel like telling her I am ill, just so that she’s got something concrete to fixate on instead of this nebulous and misguided concern over nothing. Having said that, I suppose I do like knowing somebody cares about me enough to worry so much. And she’s my mum; it’s her job to worry.

It’s nice to be home again, although I’m not getting much work done today. I’ve been on a huge cleaning jag, running the duster all round the skirting boards, rolling up the rugs and washing the floors, chasing out the tumbleweeds of dust from behind the sofa. These Victorian houses are so hard to keep clean. No matter what I do, I can still feel decades of grime pressing down on me. I’d like to rip up all this woodblock flooring and replace it with laminate, but the original floors do look so much nicer. Plus, the thought of all the dust and crap that would be disturbed in the process makes my skin crawl.

While I was dusting the books, I caught sight of TLA on the shelf. It’s funny, I haven’t looked at it for months and months. I suppose I’m so used to it sitting there that I just don’t see it anymore – it’s as much a fixture of my flat as the velvet cushions and the Paul Klee print above the fireplace. I don’t get that shiver of pride at tracing my fingers over the letters on the spine; don’t pick it out and flip through the pages, unable to believe that I personally came up with all those words. (Although I do still wonder how on earth I did it. When did I have the time?)

But today I looked at it in a different light. Its appearance in class last week has made me feel aware of it as somehow an extension of myself, that old vulnerable feeling that I had when it was first published. I feel particularly concerned about Alex, for some reason – probably because of the review he wrote. What if he thinks that Tara is me? Worse – what if he thinks that what Tara does in bed is what I would do? At least there isn’t a lot of sex; I’d be mortified to put my name to a bonkbuster. There are only two real sex scenes in TLA and I’d say they’re both artistically appropriate, and necessary for insight into the characters… I wish I did have that sort of sex!

10pm

Well, guess what? Phil’s just been round again. I’d thought after what I told him on Monday that he’d have got the message. But it seems that he hasn’t.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said. ‘That sex was so mind-blowing last week.’

I was practically biting my knuckle at this point. But he really did seem upset. If he’s that upset, why did he dump me in the first place? It seems churlish to ask him, though.

‘Did you call me, by the way, after you left that night?’

He looked surprised. ‘No. Did someone call? Bit late, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s what I thought. There was no-one there when I picked up.’

‘Probably just a wrong number then.’

I nodded, although I couldn’t help thinking about the dark shape I saw moving behind the car. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling low, Phil,’ I said.

He bent down to kiss me but I moved my head away, and his lips connected with my ear. I felt a faint twinge of lust, but told myself to get a grip. I tried to be nice, to say again that I’d moved on – I even trotted out his own excuse and told him that we both wanted different things (a decent shag being top of my list). But he didn’t seem to be hearing me. Eventually I had to put it to him straight.

‘Phil. You’re a lovely guy and a great friend, but I really feel that we aren’t sexually compatible.’

His jaw dropped and he blinked at me in amazement.

‘You never complained before,’ he said suspiciously.

I made some excuse about not realising it until last week – I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings that much – but Phil does have extraordinarily thin skin. He jerked away from me, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. I followed him into the street.

‘Don’t go like this, Phil, please,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so as not to give the neighbours a free show. This wasn’t Sex and the bloody City, after all. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t want to go back to where we were before. Please let’s stay friends. I don’t want to spoil that.’

He looked at me, and I could see humiliation in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you around then,’ he said, without a trace of his habitual smugness.

Men and their pride! Especially where it concerns their sexual prowess.

Still, I don’t suppose I’d be overly happy if some ex announced that I was rubbish in the sack. Poor Phil. But I guess he’s really got the message now. And I really do feel OK about it.

Wednesday

Something very weird happened this morning. I’ve had this card, and it’s anonymous. It’s – well, it’s weird. I don’t know what to make of it.

The post came, just as I was leaving to meet Dennis Tennis. I scooped it all up off the mat and stuck it in my tennis bag. I got to the courts on time, but Dennis was late, as usual. I tried to warm up by practicing my serve, but I’d only brought four balls with me, and after a few goes I got tired of having to run down the other end of the court to retrieve the balls and try again.

Nobody else was around except a lone jogger doing circuits of the park, and a man in bright green dungarees digging up a flowerbed about a hundred feet away. He was listening to REM ‘Losing My Religion’, which was coming out of a flatbed truck parked next to him. I was quite glad Dennis wasn’t there – I was enjoying the feeling of being almost alone in a wide open space, the trees around me starting to change colour, squirrels bouncing along branches over my head, fresh air in my lungs.

I went and sat down on the court, leaning against the net post, and pulled out the mail. Two bills, a postcard from Paula in Phuket, and this interesting-looking letter with my name and address typed on the front. A good, thick envelope.

There was a postcard inside it, of a Gustav Klimt painting: Water Snakes I (Girlfriends). It’s one of his beautiful golden erotic ones, a woman on her back with that frowny, closed-eyed expression which is more likely to be orgasm than sleep. One naked breast is showing, and her arm is around another woman, who looks as though she’s sucking the other breast. The two look like one. It’s weird how he so often painted his women with their heads at ninety degree angles to their bodies.

When I turned it over it had a few lines printed on it, by hand. It said:

… I don’t think I can even write it. I’m not a prude or anything, but it makes me feel embarrassed because of the way it describes what somebody wants to do to me. It wasn’t signed. I’ll stick it in here when I find my sellotape – it’s not something I’d want to leave around for Mum to find.

I didn’t recognise the handwriting, but Phil knows I like Klimt. And it figures that he’d be trying to dispel his bad rap in bed – although it’s not like him to go in for soft porn. I thought I knew him well enough to know that it’s just not his style.

I was really shocked, actually. I didn’t realise how shocked until Dennis Tennis turned up, lolloping across the park like a daddy long legs, and when I stood up to meet him I sort of almost lost my balance. Dennis looked really concerned.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, in his funny Wiltshire accent. ‘You look a bit pale’.

Normally I’d never confide in Dennis Tennis; the 6’5” religious tennis-playing plumber. He carries his tennis racket and his Bible around with his toilet plunger and his spanners. Ours is a strictly tennis relationship, I have no idea where he even lives – but suddenly I just wanted to talk to someone, so I blurted it out. Not what the card said, of course, just that I was a bit taken aback by its content. And that I’d sort of finished with an old boyfriend, and was worried that he’d taken it badly. Dennis looked utterly mortified, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like he’d pray for me if I liked. I felt like saying, ‘No, that’s OK, just let me win at tennis for once.’

Then I suddenly thought; what if the card’s from him? The quiet ones are often the worst.

I dismissed this idea instantly. But then I thought, it can’t be Phil, either. I know Phil well enough to know that he’s not that imaginative – I lived with the man for eight months. Not Phil, not Dennis, then.

What about Poor Brian, gutted that I knocked him back? But no, how would he know where I live? And the same goes for Alex, too, my other potential admirer. It’s a picture of two women… couldn’t be from Kathy, could it? No – a woman wouldn’t be anatomically capable of doing some of the things described on the card. I can’t think of any other ex-boyfriends who would suddenly come out of the woodwork. Why is it anonymous, if they did? It must be Phil.

Needless to say, tennis was a disaster. I played atrociously, and Dennis thrashed me 6-1, 6-0, which irritated me beyond measure, even though I deserved to lose that badly. I couldn’t concentrate at all. My mind was like the ball, flying all over the place, everywhere except where I wanted it to go. I just kept thinking of those words, and seeing the rapture on the face of that Klimt woman with her long hair streaming down over her shoulders and mingling with the other woman’s hair.

When I got home, I looked at the envelope again. It’s postmarked Kentish Town, so whoever it’s from is not far away. My hands were clammy as I took out the card and re-read it, holding it between finger and thumb like it was going to contaminate me.

On second reading, I thought, maybe it’s not that obscene. It’s quite, well, erotic. It’s just the fact that it’s not signed that makes it so creepy. If I got that card from someone I was madly in love with, I’d actually be rather flattered. And turned on.

Who fancies me enough to fantasise these things, and to let me know – albeit anonymously – that they do?