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Day One – Monday 23rd September.

4.12 pm

Big breath as I start this diary. Putting pen to the pristine pages. Here goes.

Dear Diary,

Isn’t that the way to start off? Haven’t kept one since I was a kid. I went into Paperchase at lunchtime and got this lovely loose-leaf book with natural paper and ribbon fastening. Must use my best handwriting, so I got a really nice pen with butterflies on it. I know, I have tons of pens in the cupboard but I wanted something new and special.

The first story will be easy. It’s the one Imo gave me. It’s going to get much more challenging as the nights go on but fingers crossed that I can keep going.

What’s the plan? I’m already a day late in starting; last night was a washout. Miles came home from the golf about midnight, pretty drunk and was asleep before I could even say ‘how was your weekend?’

I’m sending him a text asking to meet me at Costa after work. I need somewhere neutral to get his attention and tell him about my idea.

He replied right away.

>>>Sorry love, got to work late home @ 8 xxxxx

Got to work late…

I decided to go to Costa on my own. I needed a coffee. Two lattes. One after the other. Caffeine rush to the head. Sat at the window and watched people go by and wondered where it was all going. Maybe it’s me. When I got home I took off all my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. How many women do this I wonder? The summer tan is still there, a bit. Boobs are lively! They haven’t sunk to my navel yet. Miles likes the brownness of my nipples. And my belly’s not too round. If I hold myself in it looks quite flat! Legs are still strong, cycling to work helps. No unsightly hair, everything nice and groomed, courtesy of Gina’s. Toenails, red. Yet, despite my best efforts, I still feel inadequate somehow. I have Laurent to blame for that I suppose. It’s not great for the self-esteem when your husband of 18 months runs off with one of his models. Of course that’s what he did with me, and then left his wife. Well, that’s another story.

But Miles always loved my body and made me feel good about myself, so there must be something that’s turning him away from me.

I can feel this whole idea failing before it even gets going! And I’ve still to make dinner and have essays to mark for tomorrow. I’ll be dead in bed before I can even think about reading Miles a story. But I’ve really got to try, and my first story is so sweet!

Around 9 pm

“Communication.”

“What?” Miles had a mouthful of lasagne.

“I said, communication.”

He looked at me and then glanced at his phone for the football results.

“Imo says it’s all about communication.”

“What is?”

“Our problem.”

“What problem? And what’s Imo got to do with it?”

“I went over to her house for coffee on Sunday afternoon when you were golfing and we talked about things.”

He put down his phone and looked at me with his smokey grey eyes. He frowned and my stomach gave a little lurch as the lines around his eyes creased; he seemed so vulnerable. I felt guilty for discussing our sex life with someone else.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Oh, Miles. I’ve been trying for weeks.”

I was on the brink of crying and I am almost in tears as I write this now, remembering how hurt he looked. The two of us in the dining room trying to find the right words. I grabbed his hand across the table.

“I love you so much and I want you to be happy. I want you to desire me, Miles.”

I find this kind of honest talk quite difficult. My upbringing was of a very down to earth, working class nature, with little room for sentiment and soppy emotions. Sweet talk is embarrassing for me but I had learned some very deep emotions with Laurent and he had taught me how to be naughty. I had never shown this side of myself to Miles. It isn’t really me but perhaps it was time for extreme measures. I continued to push the point.

“I am going to be Sheherazade. I am going to read you a story every night for the next 101 days, until the New Year.”

He smiled and my stomach lurched again.

“This sounds like one of Imogen’s charades. Are you going to dress up like an Arabian princess and do I have to kill you in the morning?” He wasn’t taking me seriously.

“I’ll dress up if you want me too! And you won’t want to kill me because you’ll be desperate to hear the next story!”

He leaned over and kissed me softly. I could taste the Chablis on his lips.

“You don’t have to go to such lengths, Beth.”

“You have to be honest Miles, you’ve hardly touched me for weeks. I do need to go to such lengths, and I will!”

I showed him the Diary. He could see I was serious.

“Okay, I’ll humour you, but I can’t see how a story can make any difference.”

“Just wait and see.”

“Okay, will we finish the wine first?”

11.10 pm

And so we went to bed, a little drunk, Miles smirking at the ridiculousness of it all and me nervous as anything. What if I just embarrassed myself? He made himself comfortable, head back on the pillows, eyes closed. I asked him if he wanted a blindfold and he snorted in disbelief! Silk negligee to the ready, I read the first story.

1. “Ghassan”

The 17 year-old Ghassan longed for love – or so he thought. What he really longed for was sex; any kind of sex would do, he just needed an outlet for all this pent up energy, waiting to burst forth and, luckily for him, his cousin Faisal sensed this need. Ever since he was a small boy, Faisal had led the way for his younger cousin and he had watched him these past weeks longingly gazing across the street to catch a glimpse of the college girls before they were whisked away from view. Ghassan’s family had big plans for their son, so no early marriage had been talked of; he was to travel to America and attend College there, just as soon as his final year was ended. Meanwhile the urges of a 17 year old boy are strong and, left unfulfilled, begin to take over all his waking hours, and most of his sleeping hours too.

“We have an appointment, Ghassan. Meet me at my market stall around 2pm – and look smart!”

Ghassan was intrigued of course but knew better than to ask questions. Faisal loved a secret and nothing would have persuaded him to impart even a tiny detail of the ‘appointment’.

“What is this place, Faisal? Everyone seems to know you.”

“All in good time my boy, all in good time.”

They sat at low tables and Ghassan was mesmerized by the rustling of the women’s skirts skimming the marble floors as they served mint tea in the customary cups. He could feel his usual problem threatening to rear up without much warning, so quickly began a mundane conversation with his cousin about the coming week-end’s hunting trip – anything to steer his thoughts away from the bosoms and thighs now so obvious beneath the girls’ flimsy attire. Four of them begin to sway to the music and the conversation drifts away to nothing as all eyes are fixed on the gentle movements of the dancers. One of them unties a scarf from her waist and playfully entwines it around Ghassan’s neck inviting him to join her and he willingly follows as she leads him through to another room.

A soft, yet firm whisper, “Don’t speak”, enters his blindfolded world. He knows she’s there before the voice confirms it; that unmistakable musky scent combines with an undertone of apricot oil to invade his confused thoughts. The softest touch of a silken finger brushes the downy centre of his abdomen in slow, circular motions moving teasingly downwards. Not sleeping but just below the surface, inhaling deeply, he is intoxicated by the heady perfume, as a hand slips down to the oily pool that now lies in the well below his belly.

He hears a murmured inducement: “Lest you wake from your reverie, my sweet boy.”

He smells a smoky, woody opiate and willingly sinks into a dreamlike state. Too soft this touch upon his thighs, a tongue tip searches inwards, whilst fingers dip into the oil and find their slippery way to his waiting manhood. Tongue and fingers become one in his dancing mind and still the dance goes on.

Her breath is warm as the Mistral in June as he feels the weight of gossamer-clad breasts fall upon his unsuspecting face. A gasp, “hush!” A throaty whisper from her now as she places a bud-like nipple to his open mouth and he tastes the apricots as she sits astride him:

“Not yet, dear one, not yet …” Her lips so close he feels the breath as she withdraws and slides down to take him in her mouth. A probing tongue lingers and swirls ’til his single thought is of the utter softness of her and he can hold back no longer. Her wet lips graze his cheek in a parting gesture and she gently removes the silken scarf from his eyes:

“Remember me, as I shall remember you, Ghassan.” He hears the door click shut. His eyes have yet to adjust but the husky voice and her scent will stay with him always.

11.38 pm

Miles has fallen asleep. I am wide awake. So much for that then!

He looks gorgeous lying there, the strong line of his jaw, dark stubble, tousled hair, a bit too long. Is that grey hair at the temples? The moon is bright tonight, waning yet giving a strong light across the room. We sleep with the curtains open – helps us get up in the morning!

I want to draw him. I haven’t drawn for ages and my life drawing must be rubbish now. Laurent used to say anyone can draw if they practice enough. He taught me the principles of perspective one hot balmy day in Uzes … enough Beth, enough!

I’ve fetched my pad and charcoal from the bottom of the wardrobe. Miles is still asleep. I draw his face, every line and crease so familiar and I fall further in love with every stroke. His kind of love, constant, honest.

I’m tired now. It’s already tomorrow. I need some sleep.

Day Two – Tuesday 24th September

7.48 am

Miles has woken me with a cup of tea, kissed me on the head and gone off to work. I feel awful. I’m all tangled up in the duvet. My drawing pad is on the floor and there are charcoal marks over the sheets. Did I really draw Miles last night? Haven’t lost the skills then. Wonder if he noticed?

Can’t be bothered getting up, but must. First class is at 9. They’ll be expecting their essays back. The tea is good. Miles knows I like Earl Grey with lemon in the morning. He thinks it’s very middle class! I feel so tired … that dream?

Okay, up girl! Short cycle to work will get me going.

10.30 am

Coffee break – starving. Have taken a pastry from the canteen and am now sitting at my desk. Julie is wondering why I’m not staying to gossip as usual – told her I had work to do. The class were restless today, maybe it’s just me. Found the cycle run hard today, seemed uncomfortable! Maybe I need a new seat, maybe one of those soft gel ones for ladies! Don’t want to get a thrush infection at this stage in proceedings! Thinking of tonight’s story … Maybe I could just read Ghassan again since he fell asleep halfway through.

Text from Miles:

>>> Hi sweetie, sorry I fell asleep last night! Did you have a nice dream? Xxxx

How did he know about my dream …?

12.38 pm

Lunch. No time to write. ‘Leaving’ lunch for James the technician. He’s off on a world trip. Lucky him. Have bored him to death already with tales of my gap year!

5.59 pm

Busy afternoon. Too much paperwork. Home now.

Stripped the bed. Must not use charcoal in bed again! The drawing is good. Make a mental note to do some more.

Imogen’s on the phone.

“How’s it going Beth? Did he like Ghassan?”

“Hi Imo! He fell asleep.”

“Early days Beth, early days. Have you got one for tonight?”

“Maybe!”

“Okay I’m sending you an email with a PDF of some stuff you might find useful and I’ve challenged the writer’s club to come up with some stories for you!”

“Okay, that’s great, thanks Imo!”

“No probs! See you later. Bye…”

Oh God! It all feels so public somehow. Even though her club is online and anonymous, it still feels like other people are taking over. I’ll reserve judgement until I see what transpires but I must find some stuff myself.

What will I do for tonight’s story? Last night was a bit disappointing and I can’t get the ‘dream’ out of my head. Did it really happen? If it did, then Miles wasn’t so sleepy after all! I’m going to try and scribble it down before he comes home. This will be tonight’s offering. I’ll call it ‘2.00 am.’ I’ll write it from his point of view, that should give him a surprise!

7.35 pm

Managed to write something. Hope he isn’t shocked!

He should be home soon. It’s his squash night. There’s an M&S Jalfrezi in the fridge. I’m sitting watching Game of Thrones on Sky eating macaroni and cheese. I’m trying a vegetarian phase. Laurent was vegan. Very challenging. I found Miles such a relief after all of that – he’ll eat anything!

8.58 pm

He’s still not home. I’m having a cup of camomile tea. Will watch the news.

Ariel Castro has been found dead in his cell. David Cameron on Syria. Mall shooting in Kenya. Depressing stuff.

Thank goodness, I can switch this off – Miles is home!

11.45 pm

I am so embarrassed!

Miles came in. Heated up his meal and sat with me on the sofa. TV went back on. He wanted to hear about the elections in Germany … Arghh… I took out my Kindle and read some poetry, to get ideas. Then I got fed up.

“Do you want to go to bed soon, Miles? I’ve got another story. I think you’ll like it!”

“Sorry that I fell asleep last night Beth, it was very relaxing!”

He pulled me close but continued to watch the News Channel.

“I did have a nice dream by the way.”

“What?”

“Your text!”

He had forgotten.

“Busy day. Difficult day.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hmm … better not. Too upsetting, want to forget about it.”

“Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“You wouldn’t like it, Beth. Had to sign a baby into care because his mother had burned his legs with a cigarette.”

“Oh Miles.”

“And more of the same. Why do people have kids? It’s a fuck awful world to bring them into!”

It’s so unusual for Miles to swear and he had descended into his ‘I don’t want any kids’ argument which I found hard to deal with. I left him sitting on the sofa and went to bed. I heard him play some jazz on the CD player and knew he would come to bed soon. When he did I held him close and kissed him softly on the lips.

“I wrote this for you Miles, to thank you for last night. It’s called ‘2 am’.”

2. “2 am”

He could not sleep and looked at the clock, 2 am. He looked across at his wife lying on her back, sleeping peacefully. Her silk chemise had ridden up and he gazed at her beautiful pussy illuminated by the silvery harvest moon.

He moved his head down and planted tiny kisses on her stomach and thighs. Then very gently he parted her legs. He lightly licked her labia, just pushing into her a little. He loved to give cunnilingus to his wife. Not because she might then reciprocate, but because he loved the softness of his tongue and lips against the softness of her clitoris and pussy lips. The closeness and intimacy, the taste and the smell, it was as though he were performing an act of worship to her femaleness.

With his thumb and forefinger he parted her inner lips and darted his tongue against the liquid walls of fleshy softness. With the tip of his tongue he lifted the hood and then licked her clit with slow tender strokes of his rough tongue, exploring her and relishing her smoothness. He stroked his tongue against her a little harder, a little faster. He carried on. Increasing the pressure then barely touching her. Slowing down, then speeding up. He heard his wife moan softly in her sleep and then he tasted the sweet honeydew from her pussy, glistening in the moonlight.

He put his head back on the pillow. It was 2.30. With a sudden rush he felt an overwhelming love for his wife. Then, weary, he drifted into contented sleep.

“Was this your dream, Beth?”

I realised then that he knew nothing about it.

“Did you not do this to me?”

“No. You woke me up, thrashing and moaning.”

It was so awful. My cheeks burned red. He looked amused.

“Sexy writing though. Sounds like you enjoyed it!”

I was mortified. This is not going the way I planned. Miles didn’t seem too bothered; he patted me on the tummy like I was one of his patients, turned over and went to sleep.

So I’m sitting here again writing this in my diary. We are meant to be having exciting sex and I’m turning him off by my stupid stories. I feel so frustrated and foolish. It is pointless. His job is so stressful, I just can’t reach him anymore.

Day Three – Wednesday 25th September

7.38 am

The sun is shining, casting a soft light over the bedclothes. I am smiling. Miles woke me with a cup of tea as usual, pulled down the strap of my nightie, lowered his head, hair still wet from the shower and sucked my nipples softly.

“We’ll go away for the weekend,” he whispered.

I know I did not dream this. Today was going to be better. I pulled off my nightie and lay naked on the bed watching the sun trace across my skin and thought of Miles, and the poem I read last night.

‘Your scent is still on the pillow and I gather the softness into my arms and smell you and the sun comes once more to welcome me through the mottled panes, dancing with lace and comes to rest just for a moment to gather breath, before travelling on a languid journey, taking time, slowly, glancing the tips of my toes and sparkling the hairs on my legs’.

Oh dear, John Donne will be turning in his grave! But the promise of a weekend away … I wonder what he has in mind?

Back to reality and work. And I need to check my emails and get Imo’s stories.

Quick look on the iPad. Yup, Imo’s email is there with an attachment. Good! No time to read now. Later. Facebook can wait until lunchtime – I am seriously behind.

10.30 am

Coffee time. Lingered a bit with the office girls listening to the gossip. The new technician is causing a stir. Oh these twenty-somethings – they make me feel so old. By the time I was their age, I had run away with Laurent, got married and was living in the south of France. Seems like a lifetime ago now.

Got an hour to fill before the Rubens lecture. Know this off pat, done it a hundred times – it does make me feel sexy and slim looking at his paintings! If the students knew what was going through my head, haha!

Damn! Damn! Fucking Damn! God I am so angry! Just read Imo’s email, quote: … ‘By the way Beth, I was in London yesterday to pick up some props and ran into Lucinda, did you know Laurent is staging a retrospective at White Cube gallery next month … Uzes 2003 … Thought you should know …’ did she just throw that in for fun? I’m being unkind, she’s giving me advance warning, knowing full well how I’ll react… but what the hell … he wouldn’t dare would he?

12.53 pm

Can’t concentrate. Did the lecture on autopilot. Have walked to the park and got a sandwich from Pret. Sitting looking at the ducks splooshing about in the green water. Ripples scattering like my thoughts. He’s bound to show the portraits. It’s his best work, he always said that. It must be twelve years at least since he had an exhibition in the UK. The press will be all over it. But why Uzes, and why now? I need to phone Lucinda, she’ll know more.

“Luce?”

“Beth! Darling, how are you?”

She was just as reassuringly OTT as ever.

“I was expecting you to call. Have you spoken to Imo?”

“What’s all this about Laurent?”

“It’s true sweetie, I heard it from the horse’s mouth myself!”

“What? You’ve seen Laurent?”

“In Paris, at the weekend. Rob flew me over for a dirty weekend!”

Luce and her lifestyle was one of the reasons I wanted away from London. I couldn’t keep up with her. And then there was her penchant for threesomes, which I could not and did not share … So Laurent was still in Paris. Did he still have the studio on Rue St. Jacques where I first met him?

“Oh don’t worry babes! At least the exhibition’s not coming to Edinburgh until next January!”

Oh God! I don’t have that many friends here, and my students are pretty broad-minded but it could be very embarrassing for Miles. Edinburgh was about as far away as we could get. It was an obvious choice for Miles, he did his medic training here and knew the system well. I was a bit reluctant but Imo was here, having moved up with Cameron’s job and she convinced me to move to the frozen north. I was really lucky to land the Art History lecturing job at the FE college; it helped that I could name-drop about Laurent Fournier – he did come in useful eventually. And, I have to admit, that in the autumn light, Edinburgh looks stunning today. The artist in me quivers at the beauty of it sometimes…

“There’s no need to tell Miles, darling. Why don’t you come and stay next month and we can go and see it together … moral support and all that … and you can let your hair down after all those months in that dreary place!”

She had no idea. She thought they all wore kilts, ate haggis and played the bagpipes. When I first told her we were moving, she said ‘Oh my God, what will you eat, how will you manage without Waitrose and M&S?’

Well what now? Do I keep it from Miles? Risk upsetting him when he is so fragile?

This calls for serious action. When I’m stressed, I eat. Real food. Miles says I’m only slim these days because I’m happy. I was more Rubenesque, when I was with Laurent, as it will show in the portraits. OMG! Well it could all be about to change – after work I’m going to cycle round to Valvona and Crolla’s, see if Giuseppe has truffles, and prosciutto tortellini … Cream … Parmesan…a nice Orvieto Classico … Need to get back to work … And I need another story for tonight … seriously stressed !!!!

5 pm

Managed to get through the afternoon somehow and I’ve got all the goodies for dinner. Easy to rustle up in a few minutes. Time to download Imo’s PDF and see what she’s come up with. I’m in need of some TLC tonight. I hope Miles doesn’t sense there’s something up. I’m almost hyperventilating at the thought of Laurent and the exhibition.

6.15 pm

Well, there’s some very juicy stuff in Imo’s folder! And much more to come by the sounds of it – quite made me blush and I thought I was a woman of the world. But I’ll go easy tonight – don’t want to scare him off, haha! There’s a lovely one set in Sri Lanka … we went there for our honeymoon so it’s quite apt, though we didn’t go for the massage option – wish we had! Come to think of it, there’s a box of aromatherapy oils in the bathroom that I got from Lucinda last Xmas …

Writing this quickly before dinner … smells great … Miles is in the shower … He came home with a bunch of pink, sweetheart roses … beautiful…But he was ashen-faced!

“Roses! How lovely, Miles!”

“I’ve been neglecting you, Beth.” He gave me a hug then sat down heavily on the sofa.

“Bad day?”

“The worst.”

“What happened?”

“The baby died.”

“What baby?”

“The one I told you about. The one with the cigarette burns. I was suspicious about his eye movements and requested a scan. Turned out he’d multiple skull fractures with intracranial bleeding. He started having fits … there was nothing they could do.”

“That’s awful, Miles.”

“The police came to the surgery of course, taking statements. It doesn’t look good.”

“Why?”

“Well it turns out that Bill had seen the baby the day before and gave the mother a prescription for paracetamol.”

Bill was an old-school, misogynist who filled in when they were short-staffed. He must be about seventy.

“And the Health Visitor was in tears.”

“Who? Shonagh?”

He nodded. I’d met her at last year’s Xmas party. Young, very pretty.

“So what happens now?”

“An inquiry, murder trial, newspapers. The works. After baby P, we’ll be dragged over the coals.”

“Surely it’s not your fault?”

When I first met Miles he was a paediatrician at Guy’s. If anybody knew about kids’ health, it was him.

“You need a gentle evening, Miles, and I have something in mind that will make you feel better.”

I have to concentrate on Miles. My worries about the exhibition will just have to take a back seat. For now.

Midnight

Too tired and full of sex … will write it all up tomorrow!

Day Four – Thursday 26th September

7.30 am

Woken bleary eyed and very tired. The cup of tea on the bedside table is still warm and I vaguely remember Miles kissing me goodbye. He has left a rose on the pillow. How sweet! I feel quite guilty when he has to get up so early.

Last night … The dinner was excellent (I learned a few things from Laurent’s housekeeper, Maria. She was a marvellous cook but then I found Laurent was enjoying more than just her culinary skills.) Miles relaxed as the wine and the flavours caressed his mouth. Slowly he began to forget about the horrors of the day and we moved on to the sofa, lit some oriental candles, John Coltrane playing sax softly in the background … And I read him the story.

3. “Honeymoon Memories”

We stood on the hotel veranda, enjoying the colours of Sri Lanka, when we were both distracted by movement in the adjacent room. As the verandas were staggered, it was perfectly possible to see almost directly into their bedroom. An Asian couple were entwined in an embrace and as we watched, you drew me close and raised a finger to your lips. The beautiful woman was dressed in a sari of pale lilac and he wore a dark purple velvet jerkin over black trousers. She untucked an edge of the sari and placed it in his palm without taking her eyes from his and slowly she began turning, slender arms raised high, long-fingered hands drawing shapes in the air, the chiffon unravelling as she spun in a passionate, symbolic dance.

In the heat of the afternoon it was hard to tell if our mutual perspiration was due to the temperature or the scene we were witnessing through the patio doors. I could feel your arousal and our breathing became fast as the beauty of the woman was slowly revealed. Her coffee coloured breasts rose and fell, encased in a white lace bodice and she offered them to her man as the finale to the dance was played out. He buried his head in her loveliness and she immediately drew away in a teasing bow of powerful dominance from his pleading, outstretched arms. The second part of her sari was still intact and we both held our breath as she once more began twirling whilst he held the soft fabric and we watched it fall away little by little leaving her long, brown legs exposed. She now stood in a white lace ensemble which he tore away in a show of his own dominance. By then we were wrapped in our own embrace, completely involved in this love-making spectacle.

Tenderness took over and the Asian man laid his naked lady gently down on the rug, entering her with such precision and delicacy, we were moved to sighing. As she reached her climax, we watched enthralled and were frantic to begin our own lovemaking, just as she glanced in our direction and gave a wink – she’d known all along that we were watching.

We walked off the white sand beach hand-in-hand to make our afternoon massage appointment. The room was cool with the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks in the background and views of the turquoise ocean from every aspect. We removed each other’s beachwear and stood under a cool shower. As soon as we stepped out we were wrapped in soft white, fleecy towels by a handsome young man in his twenties and a dark-skinned masseuse about the same age. We donned robes and sat in comfy wicker loungers to begin the head massage with almond oil – the boy for me and the girl for you. You reached across and stroked my hand as we drifted in and out of light sleep.

We then lay face down for the body massage and I sensed you were enjoying those delicate yet strong hands easing their way down your spine in slow circular movements. I too felt excited by the firmness of the pressure and the intense aroma of the oils as practised hands moved their way slowly down my legs.

At some point – you must have waited until I was completely subdued by the ambience of this relaxing retreat – you quietly took over from my masseur. I felt hands smoothing the inside of my thighs with a greater intensity, teasing that place just below my buttocks. I turned my head to see you naked, your erection sliding easily up and down between my legs, a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat on your beautiful face. You slipped easily inside me and I remember the intensity of us climaxing together with the sound of those crashing waves audible. We sheepishly beat a retreat, running past the giggling masseurs down to the waiting salty sea; I felt happier than ever before in my life and you told me you felt the same.

The following day dawned, beautiful and sun-drenched. We decided to walk and the tree-lined lane offered all the shade you needed to walk and enjoy this remarkable place.

A woman was bent over tending the garden of her little abode and we both breathed in deeply, relishing the scent of rosemary, lemon and thyme, so fresh in the heat. She nodded her head as we passed and beckoned us in, offering a sprig of thyme to me and a hibiscus flower to you, the colour of which was somewhere between apricot and gold:

“Sit in my garden, I bring you mint tea, rest a while.”

The smell of incense emanated from the house as she swung the door and I felt a sense of welcoming peace. We kissed like teenagers, exploring tongues and teeth in between giggles. Your hand moved to the flimsy blouse I wore and oh so gently you pushed against the side of my nipple, back and forth until I felt the juices flow and the hardness of your prick against me. As our hostess returned, we straightened up and took a breath.

“Cooling balm” she said, demonstrating how to rub it lightly on your neck and wrists. “And mint tea for refreshment.”

We offered our thanks, and payment, but she wanted nothing – “just the joy of watching two young people in love” she smiled and disappeared inside the bungalow.

I can feel the freshness of the buttery balm now – you began at my neck and teased each nipple, over and over until I gasped and thrust your hand ’neath my skirt to rub your creamy-tipped fingers inside my yielding, fulsome lips. My eyes must have shown my pleasure because you kissed me with a tenderness I will never forget and I fell into your arms sated and willing.

… I was wrapped in Miles’ arms and he kissed the top of my head.

“That was amazing Beth, I feel as if I’m back there again with you.”

“Come on Miles, I want to give you a massage.”

I had no idea how to do it but I was going to try my best.

He laughed but didn’t resist as I took his hand and led him through to the bedroom. Candles still wafted their cinnamon and ginger vapours and I had draped a beautiful silk sari over the bed, which shimmered in the dusky light. He let me take off his clothes, like a child, allowing me to undress him and I laid him down. I spread some oil on my hands and slowly massaged his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his thighs until he grew beneath my hands. He gave a soft moan and I took him in my mouth. Exhausted, he fell asleep and we lay together most of the night, soundly sleeping.

I feel such a warmth in my belly. The fulfilment of loving him. Storm clouds are gathering and I want to build a wall to protect us from the world outside. I will use these stories to create a little fantasy for us, where we can laugh, love and cry together, and maybe it will help us get through the troubles ahead.

Now … Enough philosophising – Off to work!

8.15 am

Just about to leave for work. Text from Miles:

“Love you loads xxxxxxxx What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Calippos!”

“What??? The ice lollies?? ”

“Yup”

“WTF …”

“Now, now Miles. Don’t swear! Love you xxxx”

10.30 am

Pelting with rain this morning. Took the bus. Still feeling warm inside despite the rain dripping down the windows. The whole college feels damp, wet brollies, steaming clothes. Julie got the new technician to check her computer. His name is Alex. It was a bit like a Coke advert, the secretaries all staring at him. At least I was in the office with a credible excuse – trying to sort out the students’ assignments, but I found myself smiling at Julie’s rather feeble attempts at flirting and thinking about my story for tonight!

Email from Lucinda.

Hi Babes

Re our phone call… Hope you’re not too worried about you know who!

Have to tell more about Paris and Mr X. …

Lucinda has no idea how to be properly discreet – she does all this cloak and dagger stuff on a private email but posts incriminating photos on YouTube. Never tell Lucinda anything you don’t want the whole world and his wife to know … I owe her and Imo so much for looking after me when I left Laurent … they’d warned me, so had his ex-wife, but they never judged me. Never once did they say ‘I told you so’ and they were there for me when I was at my worst, but they can both be soooo annoying at times!!

She goes on…

Rob and I (and others!!) had a whale of a time and Laurent was up to his usual shenanigans. He still has the studio you know, but the stuff he is doing is way over my head, lumps of paint chucked on canvas if you ask me, darling! Rob wrote a very graphic account of their doings, to whet my fancy, not that it needs much whetting Beth, and we both thought you might like to hear what Laurent was getting up to! So excited that you are coming to stay … Can’t wait!! Have attached Rob’s doc.

Luv Luce xxxx

I do NOT want to read this, but curiosity is getting the better of me. Not on an empty stomach – Rob’s stories are always pretty graphic! I’ll wait until after lunch. Time for class now, Van Dyke… Wonder where I can buy Calippos?

Lunch

I’ve just read Rob’s account of his jaunt in Paris with Laurent. It’s weird, he writes about himself in third person … Luce and Rob obviously write stories to each other about their extra-marital exploits; Imo said she reads stories to Cameron … looks like I’ve just joined their kinky clique … I’m not sure if I like that!

Miles tolerates Imo and her eccentricities, but he positively dislikes Rob. He thinks Luce is an idiot and a rotten parent, but accepts the fact that I need to go and see them from time to time because I’m the twins’ godmother. Best not to think about it too much. Just concentrate on making things as good as I can for Miles. Last night certainly worked and we’re both going to need a bit of light relief over the next few months.

Rob’s story is not one I could ever read to Miles, but it’s par for the course as far as Rob and Laurent are concerned. Seems that nothing really does change … leopards and spots … Laurent was a great lover, no doubt about it. He completely enthralled me, dusky skin the colour of pale gingerbread … he just couldn’t stay monogamous … despite purporting to be vegan, his appetite for female flesh was insatiable … and it seems nothing has changed!

4. “Private Viewing”

… Apart from the Michelin starred cuisine and service, the best thing about the old restaurant right on the bank of the Seine was its private dining rooms. Each was an exquisite suite with an intimacy all of its own and decorated with style from a bygone age when gentlemen took their female company more seriously than their food. The dark wood-panelled walls had been privy to much debauchery over the years and the four diners that had taken the room on Friday 13th were not going to disappoint. They arrived hot foot from Laurent’s private viewing and even though he had to schmooze with some of the gallery’s wealthier clients he had managed several glasses of fizz. Rob too had taken on board his fair share and like a schoolboy let loose in a tuck shop, he had imbibed with enthusiasm. The two girls, Valerie and Chandelle, seemed at first to be taking the art on the walls of Laurent’s exhibition a bit too seriously. They arrived and wandered around the show with a distinct air of female Parisian shoppers. Rob thought that even though Chandelle was drop dead gorgeous, she was probably also going to be drop dead dull. Laurent and Valerie had history and Rob could detect the chemistry between the two, that secret invisible cord that trails around between a consenting couple.

“So what dew think?” said Laurent

“I think she looks fantastic,” said Rob

“No not her, the exhibition, my latest work, you bastard.”

“Oh that. It’s up to your usual high standard of bullshit I suppose.”

“Well thank you! Thanks a million.”

“I guess it will probably earn you about that.”

“I wish,” said Laurent. “The gallery and my agent will make more than I do on this little lot.”

“But you know you couldn’t do without them.”

The two friends clinked their glasses together before Laurent was ushered away by the flustered French gallery assistant to meet another potential collector. Rob found the two girlfriends standing in front of one of the larger canvasses. It was number 32 and entitled “Candid with a cat.”

“Can you see her pussy?” said Rob, who was beginning to feel a bit frivolous after the champagne.

“Wet?” said Valerie.

“Oh I expect so,” he said, studying more closely that portion of the painting he thought contained the furry mound covering Candid’s crotch.

“Wet, did you say?” said Valerie smiling at the Englishman.

“Oh I see. I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I was wondering if you could see the feline creature alluded to in the picture.”

“By veline greeture yer min chat?”

“Yes I suppose I do,” said Rob wishing that he spoke better French than he did but loving the sound of Valerie’s sexy attempt at English.

“Is there. I sink it ez chat.” Chandelle was pointing her perfect finger at a rough patch of thick tortoiseshell-coloured oil obviously applied with a palette knife and given little chance to be stroked by any sort of brush.

“I think you are right,” said Rob following the white French finger.

“I am nearly alwizz right,” said Chandelle and she recoiled her outstretched digit and let it fall back in place with the others in her hand.

“Is chat,” she exclaimed again rather too loudly so that those making their way in procession around the exhibition made a mental note to see if the attractive French girl was right in her judgement of picture number 32.

The fine French bubbles seemed to help to relax the fine French girls. Rob found himself perfectly able to chat to Chandelle and she understood pretty much what he had to say. They found that they had quite a lot in common and there was even something about the French girl that reminded him of the early days with Lucinda. She had the confidence of a woman who knew what she wanted and as the evening progressed Rob knew that Chandelle wanted him.

It was probably Laurent who started the whole thing off by trying to feed Valerie with the asparagus that came with the veal. He picked up one of the butter-dripped spears and held it out, a limp invitation, in front of Valerie’s lips and she took it into her mouth in an unhurried, provocative way that told him she was game on. She’d certainly cope with something more enticing than a floppy green vegetable. Spurred on by Valerie’s gourmet exhibition, Chandelle picked up her fork and, having speared a portion of meat, she sucked it gently, almost kissing it, before passing it over to Rob making the noise of a French train as she did.

“Choo, choo. Choo, choo!” she said as the fork full made its journey up to and into his open mouth.

“I will,” he said. “Every last bit.”

With cheese came more fine wine and laughter. Laurent took up his linen napkin and made a blindfold which he tied around Valerie’s pretty head so that it looked like a crisp white bandana covering her eyes. Chandelle too had her eyes obscured and the two drunk men started to play the game of guess what it is?

“Is goat shes,” said Chandelle as Rob fed her a small portion of soft goat’s cheese.

“Bravo!”

“That doesn’t taste so good,” said Valerie as Laurent put the stem of a carnation into her mouth. Valerie spat it out.

“That’s not fair,” she complained as he kissed her hard on the lips and pushed some of the wine from his mouth into hers which made her squeal like a schoolgirl.

“Our turn now” said Valerie as she removed her napkin and mopped her chin.

The two men sat at the table in the comfortable chairs with their masks in place. With the dexterity of a skilled undresser Valerie pulled down the shoulder straps to her dress and revealed two beautiful breasts as though it was the most natural thing to do, as though they were a planned part of the culinary experience, firmly on the menu, perfectly and lovingly prepared by a knowledgeable chef. She took the left breast in her hand and encouraged it towards Laurent’s waiting and eager mouth. His tongue found the erect nipple before the firm bosom itself smothered his gluttonous mouth. He knew what it was but under his own blindfold Rob could only make out the contented slurps and grunts coming from his friend.

“Delicious!” said Laurent when he was allowed to come up for air and he roared with laughter as Valerie put away her assets.

Chandelle followed suit and Rob thought that the hard button-like nipple placed into his care was without doubt one of the best puddings he had tasted in a long time.

“I know they are very discreet here but better put a chair against the door,” said Laurent as he stood up and dropped his trousers to reveal his stiff artistic intent.

“Oh la la!” said Valerie like a Can-Can girl as she slid onto the end of the table between Laurent and his place.

She sat in front of him with her legs stretched out on each side and without any hint of underwear so that without much difficulty he was able to reach the damp place between her legs with his own upstanding achievement.

“Fuck the coffee!” said Laurent as he placed himself at her disposal.

“Fuck me!” said Valerie as she threw her head back in anticipation of having her request granted.

For a brief moment Rob and Chandelle looked on with mild amusement. What was a bloke to do? But his musings were interrupted when Chandelle dropped to the floor and disappeared under the table. She surfaced moments later in Rob‘s lap and her nimble fingers, including the one that had pointed so beautifully at Laurent’s art, found what they were looking for inside the warm folds of Rob’s trousers. Chandelle released the beast and gave a small gasp as she took it into her mouth and sucked and sucked as though she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. God, Rob thought, if this is Paris then I’m insane. All four were on the bank of the Seine, in a restaurant, performing as naturally as those that had for generations and they were enjoying the healthy gastronomic feast.

“A very reasonable meal, didn’t you think?” said Laurent

“Thanks for arranging it,” said Rob

“Well thanks for coming, mon ami!”

“Any time,” said Rob and the two thumped each other on the back like the naughty conspirators they were.

…This was enough to spoil anybody’s appetite! Grabbed a couple of digestives from the biscuit tin and off to enlighten the class with my knowledge of Baroque painting. Taking them over to the National Gallery for an injection of the real thing!

5.26 pm

Home now, students were great. They always love a trip out, especially when it involves a coffee stop! We dallied a bit on the way back to listen to a street busker and one of the girls, Caroline, went off with him to Starbucks. I’m not their keeper after all, and they are adults. He was rather nice looking!

Right. Concentrate! Forget all about today’s rubbishy emails. Got a box of Calippos from Sainsburys and they are in the freezer. Also picked up a nice ciabatta from The Artisan Bakery on the corner. It’s really a delight living in Stockbridge, and the walk back from town was so lovely, the rain has left everything fresh and glistening.

Turned on the radio to get the local news. Edinburgh City Council is debating whether to renew the licences of certain “massage” parlours in the town … now that is funny!

Midnight

Miles is fast asleep

He came home tired as usual but excited.

“What’s all this about Calippos then?”

“Have you been thinking about this all day, Miles?”

“Well not all day … had a meeting with Shonagh and Bill about the inquiry. The police have requested that we don’t go too far away over the next few months because we might be called to give evidence, so no jaunts abroad for us then.”

“That’s a shame, but never mind Miles, I can take you to some fabulous destinations in my stories!”

“Now … Calippos … Hope you’re not thinking what I’m thinking Beth, you could get an ice burn in a very sensitive place!”

“Well we’ve got a doctor on hand, but it may not be me who gets the burn, Miles!”

That worried him! We hurried through the meal. The bread was lovely, with some rosemary-infused oil and left-over prosciutto. Dessert was in the freezer! Then on to business! We settled down on the sofa, which seemed to work better than reading in bed (less chance of him falling asleep) some more gentle jazz – didn’t want to change the winning formula – and I read the next story which is set in one of our familiar locations.

5. “Orlando”

Orlando was 18 and working in the Claims department of an insurance company – hardly an earth shattering job but in these times of recession, he was grateful just to be employed. Rebecca worked in Policies and Orlando spent a good part of his day finding excuses to walk across St James’s Square to her department, housed in the opposite building, just to get a glimpse of her shapely legs as she spun round in her swivel chair to acknowledge him. They’d had lunch together in the canteen and when she strode up to order an apple crumble for dessert, he’d been unable to take his eyes off the legs he would very much like to have wrapped around his back, or neck, either would do he mused as she made her way back to sit with him.

At 5pm Orlando made sure he bumped into Rebecca as she left the building and boldly suggested they could walk across Green Park together instead of getting the tube at Piccadilly Circus. It was a real Indian summer and as they walked along in the evening sun, side by side, chatting easily, he was pleased to note he was a good head taller than she was, even in her heels. He was even more pleased when she linked her arm through his, her head resting against him so that he could see the crimson highlights in her dark cropped hair. On a secluded park bench they sat to share an ice lolly, the blackcurrant taste of which was on her lips as he leaned to kiss her in a way he had never kissed a girl before. When Orlando took another bite of the lolly, Rebecca began to lick the juice from his mouth with her delicate pointed tongue and they were lost in an embrace neither of them wanted to end. Rebecca laughed at his obvious hard on and teased him some more with little bites to his ear until he suggested they walk before he ruined the party.

Orlando was in love for the first time and next day sent a text to his love suggesting she might like to try sharing another ice lolly – strawberry perhaps:

“It’s a very hot day, tell me how you’d like to share the lolly Lando,” she replied.

He loved that she called him Lando but wasn’t sure how risqué he could be in his response. In his mind he knew exactly what he’d like to do with a fruit-flavoured ice lolly but he was desperate not to jump the gun:

“I was thinking more of a Calippo, Becky,” he ventured, and held his breath.

“Mmmm, sounds delicious, I love ice poles when I’m feeling hot.”

Orlando loosened his tie and felt his pants constrict. On previous occasions, he had had a quick fumble with a few of the seasonal temps down in the basement which housed the old ‘Bundles’. This was where he sometimes had to go to find some of the really old policies when folk tried to make a claim on a voided insurance policy. How would Becky feel about meeting him in ‘Bundles’, he wondered, just as his mobile beeped.

“I’ll be in ‘Bundles’ between 3 and 4pm – make sure you bring the ice pole.”

She’d read his mind, this was uncanny, uncanny and brilliant! Just brilliant!

He dug down into the freezer to find the coldest, iciest, strawberry flavoured Calippo which he prayed wouldn’t melt before he made it back to the office. Five to three and Orlando skipped down the three flights of stairs to the basement, slowing at the bottom before nonchalantly whistling his way along the corridor. He could smell her perfume before he caught sight of her sitting on the edge of the enormous wooden table that was used to unfold the old documents. Her lovely legs were crossed and she was leaning back, smiling, waiting for him. This last part he couldn’t believe.

She took the ice pole from him and began to stroke it along her thigh. She hitched up her already short skirt and he could see she was knickerless.

“Just watch,” she whispered. Rebecca leaned back and slowly pushed the lolly up between the silky curls, just a little way at first and then a bit further as Orlando’s eyes struggled to focus. She withdrew the now dripping ice pole and offered it to him to lick whilst he unbuttoned his bulging trousers. She moved closer to the edge of the table and they both licked the lolly, long and hard, their tongues just touching as she guided his hand to her wet, waiting mound. It felt cool and he twirled the hair around his fingers, gently tugging and teasing whilst they demolished the rest of the cold, fruity ice.

Orlando waited as long as he was able before easing his cock between her cool, gaping lips and those long-desired legs wrapped themselves around him. The taste of Rebecca and the strawberry ice mingled and he lifted her from the table, her arms around his neck, so that he could reach further inside and give her all of him. She drew away just at the end so that she could watch his smiling face as they cried out in unison. ‘Bundles’ would always hold a special place in both their hearts.

…. What can I say? We did exactly what it said on the tin! Except they were Tropical flavoured Calippos, not Strawberry!!

Miles went to bed with a big grin on his face and I think he managed to forget about the problems at work. And we have our weekend away to look forward to … so far so good …

Day Five – Friday 27th September

8.05 am

Friday! I was up first for a change and gave Miles tea in bed. He was all tousle-haired and sleepy.

“Where are we going tonight?”

“Not telling! My turn to give you a surprise!”

I wondered what he had in mind. I kissed him on the cheek and snuggled down beside him until it was time for him to get up.

The memory of last night is still tasting sweet on my lips! But I need to tell him soon about my plans to go to London. It will spoil things, I just know it will. Maybe there’ll be a time at the weekend when I can break it gently.

Laurent is not going to go away. I need to find out if he is planning to show the portraits. I tried to destroy them before I left Uzes, after the huge row – threw paint thinner over one of the bigger canvases – but Laurent just laughed. He promised he would never show them publicly, so why now, after ten years? He can’t need the money, surely?

Will cycle to work today, the sun is shining. Try to find a happy thought … Think of Calippos…

10.30 am

Coffee time. Had an easy morning, debriefing the class about yesterday’s visit to the gallery. Noticed Caroline had a dreamy look on her face – maybe her coffee with the busker led to better things!

Julie has managed to get a date with Alex the technician, much to the annoyance of the secretaries. She will give us all a blow by blow account on Monday morning no doubt. She knows Miles is taking me away for the weekend and has been nudging and winking, “Clock’s ticking, Beth!” I hate to tell her that Miles doesn’t want kids. It was something we agreed before we got married and it’s not up for discussion. But I seriously hope that I can change his mind. If I’m honest with myself, that’s one of the reasons behind the diary, hoping … and wishing…

It’s rather ironic that Laurent, who would have been a terrible father, was dead keen to start a family and was devastated when we lost the baby. I cried of course, but in retrospect it was for the best. He went right off the rails. Two weeks solid drinking. He said it was my fault, as he would. That was the final nail in the coffin for me.

Cheer up Beth! Time for the Rococo … I’m certainly rattling through the centuries!

12.58 pm

Out for lunch. Sandwich from Pret. Hummus and sun-dried tomatoes on sour dough. Watching the ducks again. I’m beginning to recognise them. There’s a frisky brown and white one who manages to bully his way to get the crumbs. I have taken to sketching on the margins of the diary and little duck is there – I’m going to call him Freddy – I have gone all Beatrix Potter!