Johnny & Lula

Johnny & Lula

An intake of breath later I gasp, ‘Don't know when I last hoovered the carpet on the stairs . . . but I should do it very soon.’
‘What are you talking about?’ says Jeremy, taking his jacket off and letting it drop, a thud as his mobile phone hits the red-varnished floorboards.
‘Didn't you notice I was a bit unresponsive when you were fucking me from behind? I had to keep my mouth shut so I wouldn't choke on the dust balls. You had my face pushed right into the steps. They are filthy.’
He laughs heartily. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I had no idea.’
I give him a mock duh look. ‘You didn't notice I didn't grab you much? Like when you stuck your dick in my mouth I didn't use my hand? I took my chewing gum out but I couldn't think of where to put it. I was trying to reach the wall but you didn't let me – bit gross I know.’
His face creases into a wider smile. ‘Ingrid, remind me to book an appointment next time you want a surprise fuck, so you can sort all these little things out.’
‘Oh gosh no, it's not like that, but I heard this story recently. Friend of mine's boyfriend got chewing gum tangled into his pubic hair. I tell you it wasn’t pleasant.’
‘She had it in her mouth? Trashy girl . . .’
‘No, I mean she did, but it got lost in the bed and he woke up thinking, “Christ, what's this?”’
‘Oh come on,’ says Jeremy, smoothing down his shirt.
‘No, it's true, they were both crying with laughter when they told me, and you know the best part? They weren't even together that long when it happened. I think it's a good sign. That relationship will last, I tell you.’
‘God, some of your friends are mad.’
‘They’re not mad, and she’s a lawyer!’ I say, on the defensive.
I throw my coat on the nearest chair and as I turn to open the fridge he grabs me by the hips and pulls me to him.
‘Hey, wait, can't we open a bottle of wine first?’
‘No, I want you over here,’ he says, playfully twisting one of my arms behind my back.
He positions me in front of the large mirror in the living room, pulls my skirt up and in one smooth movement hooks his hand inside my tights and knickers. In two yanks they are down around my ankles. I don’t think this is a very attractive look, so I reach down and remove them completely.
‘I should have worn hold ups. Sorry I had no time, but managed at least to change into a short skirt. Do you like it?’
Running his hand over the fabric he says, ‘Yes, I do, especially the feel of it. What is it?’
‘Satin I believe. You should have seen me with the teenagers in Top Shop where I bought it. Felt a bit of a fraud and thought the music was too loud. Me!’
Jeremy’s not listening. Swiftly hitching me up on his hips he slides me over his hard cock. I let out a quick scream and he freezes for a second.
‘Am I hurting you?’ he asks, concerned.
‘No, no, but the curtains are open.’
‘Oh leave them,’ he says, resuming his pushing. I know he can’t keep this position up for long, but I appreciate he’s trying and it’s so pretty to watch.
‘No, no, it's bad enough I nearly died when the light went off in the hall earlier. What would we have done if the neighbours had come in then?’
‘Nothing, we'd have heard them turning keys in the door and stuff first.’
‘You might have. I wouldn’t. I was trying not to eat dust, remember? It's bad enough you grabbed me in the car earlier.’
‘You shouldn't bend like that to get the shopping.’
‘Back door doesn't open, and you put the stuff on the back seat,’ I say feebly.
‘Anyway, it's quiet around here,’ he replies.
‘Agreed, but it's only seven o'clock. There's people coming back from work.’
‘Oh, Ingrid, stop it now.’ He pulls out and dropping me on my knees thrusts his cock in my mouth again. I register that it tastes clean, a mixture of me, with just a faint hint of that body lotion he uses after the gym.

We catch each other both looking sideways at our reflections. I know he's thinking 'movies' – after all, I tell him often enough that he's nearly as big as that super-porn hero I like, the Italian one, Rocco. I am vain, too, but I think other movies, box office stuff. The light is dim and in this halfway position I sort of look like that woman in Star Wars, not the first one, the latest one, what's her name? Natalie Portman. I think of her as French but the name is not entirely. Jeremy looks good too. My mouth is sliding effortlessly up and down on his cock. His hair is still brown here, not grey like on his head and the forest on his chest. He has a hint of a tan, but maybe again it's the light. He didn’t go with us to Formentera this year. I can still remember the argument we had and the kids got very upset. I felt like some sad divorcee and of course none of my single friends wanted to come with us – wouldn’t have been much fun going to bed early and being all responsible. Mirelle likes her cocktails, so does Hannah, though now that she’s pregnant perhaps not; Maxine was busy working. Oh never mind. He didn’t come with us and we managed, end of story.

Jeremy lifts me up and turns me to face the table. Just as well I haven't set it yet as I’m soon holding the edges while he keeps fucking me. This is a good height for both of us. We are not going to come, not now I don’t think. We are just finding out that our bodies are the same as the last time, that it feels good this way or that way. I try to kiss him – I always do – but he's not in that mood. I am not sure he ever was. I think of a much younger lover I had once. We used to kiss all the time. Maybe you don't kiss so much when you are older or just not so in love perhaps.
After a few last harder thrusts he pulls out. I move away. My heels gets caught in the cracks between the floorboards. ‘Damn this floor. It drives me nuts.’
‘Take your shoes off then. I know you don’t like being short, but it’s fine by me.’
‘No, it rather ruins the outfit. Wait, I'll go find different ones and some hold-up stockings. Feel naked without them.’ I return from the bedroom with an even higher, but less spiky pair.
I reach for the bags from Marks & Spencer and start opening packets and getting pans out of cupboards, but Jeremy says he's got us a surprise starter. And it is: paté de foie gras. In his excitement he's forgotten I don't eat meat. In my excitement I say I'll have some. Why the hell not? I was never a veggie for the sake of the animals, and if I were, this would be really the wrong sort of meat to eat. I allow myself a little, just in case a stomach upset by long-forgotten protein ends up ruining our evening. The wine he's brought to go with it has the consistency of an intoxicating liqueur. I wonder if I'll ever stop associating anything French with his ex-girlfriend. It was long ago, but moments later as if on cue he says, ‘I’ve been talking to my dad and really, you know that spare cash I saved? Well, it can’t buy much here – in fact, nothing in London and nothing much in Devon. I was thinking of Northern France. What do you think?’
‘Don’t know, Jez, I think if you are planning to drive it’s still a long way there and back, depends how often you’ll do it.’
‘Every couple of weeks, if I get the contract I want,’ he says, savouring his baguette.
I am not sure I like France at all – Italy suits me better – but he does. I hold back criticizing his plan; it could take months to find the property and sort out the admin, so I beam him a smile and ask, 'Can we have dogs there?’
‘Sure, why not? We can bring them back and forth now,’ he answers in his best indulgent voice.
'But they'll be confused by the language and where do we keep them here? This flat’s too small.’
‘Let's start with just one dog. OK?'
‘Fine, but we’ll have to fight the kids for who gets to name him. If we are not careful we’ll end up with something out of a Pokemon sticker pack.’
I turn away to get my starter. It’s come out well too: Thai prawns on a bed of noodles, just a little as there's tuna steaks and vegetables and dessert – all easy. Dessert is one of my favourites, couldn't be simpler: slices of panettone dipped in brandy. Jeremy doesn't do coffee, which is an inconceivable flaw. Maybe that’s why the French girl left him. I could have some, but it feels wrong. I could definitely do with a cigarette though, but those are totally out of bounds. He hates smokers, says watching his mother slowly die of emphysema was agony for him. I am not sure that has anything to do with me making an effort to give up; it's more likely those ads about prematurely ageing skin speak to me more strongly.
I see Jeremy looking at some of the Christmas presents still unopened under the tree, and that reminds me: ‘Lula wants to go climbing with you. “Real mountains” – she said it again yesterday. You have to take her. You promised.’
‘I mean to. I want her to get a taste for it but it needs planning. It has to be somewhere safe, and it's too cold now. Shall I call them? What time is it?’
‘No, my mum will be putting them to bed shortly. Best not to get them excited again. Johnny was a bit fractious anyway – he’s still dragging that flu with him.’

We feed each other some more panettone on the sofa and there's a movie on. We watch it for a while. It's near the end, but it’s boring and I want to switch off but Jeremy says, 'Wait, there's more.'
'When did you see this?' I ask, absent-mindedly picking up some of Johnny’s Playstation2 discs from the floor.
'When it came out,’ he replies.
I do the maths quickly. 'Not with me you didn't,' I say, turning sharply to face him.
'I was probably away working in Northampton then,’ comes the measured reply.
Changing the subject I add, ‘You must really help me to get Johnny understand he can’t just leave his stuff wherever it suits him. It turns into chaos in here and you know he listens to you.’
‘I will talk to him,’ says Jeremy, not really paying attention, ‘but you have to cut him some slack. His school reports are rather good aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they are, but even Lula picks up after him and I don’t want her to. She’s got years of that to come when she grows up, believe me.’

When the movie ends I get up to get some more wine and say, ‘Hey, I found some footage of me in a mini-kilt, just like in one of your fantasies. Wanna watch?’
He sits straighter on the sofa and takes a sip from his glass. He looks a bit unsure, and I can read his thoughts so clearly: 'Who filmed you then?' But he’s too cool for that and he controls it.
‘Sure, show me,’ he says, and lies back.
I press Play. I lined it up earlier, and we see these two children in matching red tartan skirts. They are gathering snowballs on a pavement by some black iron gates. The colours are saturated bright; it was a sunny day.
‘Which one are you?’ asks Jeremy, smiling as my little trick is revealed.
‘I'm the one on the left, in the little white boots. How cute are they? The other one is my cousin Susan.’
‘How old were you there?’
I nestle on his lap and kiss his neck. ‘Two and a half, nearly three. My mum is not pregnant with my sister here yet – must have been the following year.’ She's nice, my mum. I take in the stylish sixties coat casually on her shoulders, fox on the collar with a silver brooch, and her black hair, lacquered high. The images fizz out to static.
‘Such a pity there was no money to shoot hours of Super 8, only a few minutes here and there,’ I remark.
‘Super 8 films only came in rolls of a few minutes each,’ Jeremy says.
‘They did? You know everything, darling.’ I've lost interest already and am pulling at his belt. ‘Take it off,’ I say.
‘No, you take it off for me, then maybe if you are good . . .’
‘Oh,’ I say, a touch too quickly, ‘you'll go down on me? You haven't done that yet. You seem a bit cock centred tonight.’
I pull his jeans down and now comes the awkward moment – you never get over it. What to do when they are blocking his movements, halfway down his thighs, his knees? But he moves away and takes his shoes and socks off like you don’t even notice, and the jeans come off pretty fast. He's great Jez, he never fears losing his erection for one second. Not even after a bottle of wine on his own. All is done so fast. I imagine him arriving in the operating theatre and just thrusting his hands into the sleeves of the gown, which a nurse is holding ready for him. Someone will put the mask on him, hand him the gloves. Like dressers do for actors. He fucks me for a while then pulls out and kneels on the floor and starts to lick me, very slowly. I forgot how good he is. When he does it, I get the full edit. I make sure he's got a cushion under his knees. I want this to last as long as possible but I am too excited and he knows it. He moves his tongue faster then slows down and faster again and I come clutching his shoulders and burying his face into me. As I go limp he lifts me and carries me to the bedroom. I like this part; my weight is easy on him. Though I am aware it's not a great distance to go, I know he'd carry me to safety if our home was washed away in a flood. He’d walk for miles. I like holding on to him, breathing in the creases of his neck. He throws me on the bed and I reach to turn the small fairy lights on. In this light you can't see I haven’t had time to tidy up in here. Not that it makes any difference to him.
Turning around I knock a pile of books from under the window and they scatter around.
'You've got too many books in here,' he says.
'I know, mean to read them but who's got the time? Shall I read you a story now?' I ask teasingly, picking up a hefty novel.
‘No, I have brought back a little something, a toy,’ he says.
‘Oh yeah,’ I answer, eyes I am sure glimmering with anticipation, ‘what is it?’
He goes into the living room and comes back with his hands behind his back. I can't see what it is, but I want to be helpful. ‘Shall I get a blindfold?’
‘Yes, but first I want you to wear this,’ he says handing me a . . . ‘A hospital gown?’ I screech. ‘Honey, this rather defeats all my efforts with the “turning on” underwear, but whatever does it for you, does it for me – I think. Can I keep my stockings on and my heels?’
‘No, I want you to take everything off.’
I do, and put on the soft cotton robe with the silly fastening at the back, and then the blindfold. Thank god this one doesn’t have an airline logo on it, but it’s white so it goes with the theme. I lie back and can't stop squeezing my legs together as I feel the excitement building up in my womb. His hands pull my knees apart gently and I barely feel he's inserted something and it's not his hot cock. The hospital gown rather gave it away I think and it's one of those gynaecological gizmos, the ones that seemed so frightening when you first went for your swabs as a teenager. Now it's not such a scary thing; the cold metal feels fantastic as it cools the temperature in my body. I want to touch it and hold it, but I hear the noise it makes when it gets screwed into place. I can only guess Jez is looking at me, deep inside me, as he's not touching me, just saying ‘Very nice’ in a hypnotized sort of rhythm.
‘Is everything OK with my womb, doctor?’ I ask in my best tremulous voice.
‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘you’ve done a great job with the shaving.’
‘Mmm yes, I knew you’d appreciate it.’ I hear the noise of his hand rubbing himself. I instantly want to participate, but in this game tonight I don't necessarily make the rules, though my co-operation is required soon after. As he frees me from the implement he loses the faraway look and says, ‘You know I wouldn’t ever think of this when I am with patients, don’t you?’
‘I know, honey, and thank god you are not a gynaecologist. And I’d ask for a woman anyway. But it can be very erotic. We know it, you know it.’
I consider for a moment whether this is bizarre. It is not the most bizarre thing I can think of. You use what you know. If Jez was a barber he’d give me the most erotic haircut ever. If he was an accountant he’d make me write figures very precisely in a big ledger, murmuring numbers in my ears as I sit on his knees and concentrate. We’d be wearing suits of course and he would spank me if I added up wrong. But he’s not a fetishist and never requests anything kinky and there are no obscenities either. Now there’s a word . . . I wish there was some kind of evolution in the language available to us for all this: throbbing, pulsing, rubbing, pumping, cock, cunt – it’s all so basic. I specifically hate ‘juicy’.
He strokes the back of my neck and I feel like a sort of Bambi going doe-eyed and sleepy, but he’s not ready for that. He moves his hand to the front and gently presses on my windpipe. There’s an exercise that feels like this in yoga class: you compress the thyroid and when you let go, your blood courses faster around your veins and you get a small rush. He knows I get off on my throat being constricted, but is ever so careful and never presses that hard. We fuck again like this till I come as the usual ‘Oh gods’ try to make their way out of my mouth. Then it’s his turn, and then he's lost to me. I lie next to him and watch him regain his breath. I twine my legs with his and rest. A few moments later he moves over and holds me in a tight embrace, his heart still beating fast. He kisses my hair, my head, my neck. I burrow further into his chest and squeeze his shoulders, my palms flat on his blades. I wish I could press him into my body as one and for him to say ‘I love you’ but he doesn’t. So I don’t say it either. We fall asleep instantly.

I shift and wake up. I am very thirsty and slowly and awkwardly reach on the floor to find the bottle of water. I sense Jeremy’s not asleep because he's not snoring. He speaks first, quietly.
‘Are you awake?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Wide awake?’
‘Think so,’ I reply.
‘You know why, don’t you?’ he says, turning to me and gently tugging at my hair.
‘Aw, but that was such a tiny line and it was hours ago,’ I say, regretting how it was me who suggested it.
‘Yes, but we’re not used to it anymore,’ he chuckles in the dark.
‘Either that or it’s gone off, I’ve kept it such a long time. Do drugs go off?’
‘Not really. It was in the fridge wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, do you think that’s off limits enough for the children? It’s in one of my eye drops packets.’
‘Oh no, that won’t do, Ingy. You better put it somewhere more difficult to reach.’
‘OK. Talk to me, I am definitely awake now,’ I say, hearing weariness creep into my voice. He tells me about this book he's nearly finished reading, the third part of His Dark Materials. I don’t know how he manages such long novels. Then again, it’s hardly a taxing one and anyway, I no longer think he’s fucking nurses every time he’s on call. You’ve got to get bored of it after twenty-odd years, not counting medical school, I reason to myself.
‘There's a drama version on at the National Theatre. Got great reviews – want me to get tickets?' I ask.
‘Not sure what my schedule is and the new guy at Médecins Sans Frontières wants me to go to Iran – there’s a lot of follow-up work to do on the earthquake.’
I tense. ‘Oh, Jeremy, no, the kids won't like it at all. They never get used to it, and neither do I. We haven't discussed this properly – you can't just keep making all the decisions without us.’
‘Ingy come on, you know I want to. It's just been too long since I've been in that situation. I have to keep my skills up.’
‘For what? So that next time you can go even further away? I know, I know, but it's just . . . For a start I inherit the swimming pool run, the ballet school run and – everything really. We need to organize this properly. We can't just rely on Alisha all the time – it gets to be very expensive.’
‘We’ll talk about it. I won’t have to go till next week. And I hope my phone will work there – I'll call every night, I'll send pictures. They won't miss me that much and it's good for them to know what goes on in the world.’
‘They won't care. What do death and destruction mean to a five- and a nine-year-old? They just want their daddy, here.’ I can sense this is going nowhere at this time. I haven’t got the energy and I always lose, so I add in my sternest pleading voice, ‘You make sure you find a satellite link and you call. Every day, OK?’
I make to turn away from him, but his hand slides under my belly and he starts playing with me. The rhythm is wrong and I am a bit dry and too tired. I know I won't come now so I just lie there. I hear the noise of his other hand on his cock and I lift my head.
'Darling, surely you don't want more? You're just so greedy, there's no way you have more sperm now.'
'I know, but I like falling asleep doing this, you know that.'
An image of him as a child tugging at his penis for comfort pops into my head and I feel very protective.

At six thirty I wake up again without the alarm. He likes the radio but I won’t have it – if something wrong comes on like that bore, Dido, I end up having a bad day. Jez is breathing deeply now. I get up to have a cup of coffee in peace. I look in the bathroom mirror and Princess Leia is staring back, only it's the Carrie Fisher version this time – worse, as she is now, a near pensioner. Where did these lines come from? I have a quick bath and go back and get under the covers again. My breath must feel cool on his cock as he stirs and immediately pushes his hips up. I go up and down for a while as the taste of toothpaste gradually disappears from my mouth, then I stop.
'Come on, Jeremy, it's seven o' clock and if you want to be at your meeting at eight we've got to go. Like, now. And I‘ve got a bunch of Asian bankers flying in this morning. I can’t be late.’
I start pulling clothes out of the wardrobe. He's looking at me and I wonder how sexy he’ll find me now with my office uniform of black trousers and jacket and sensible shirt. There’s no time for fancy hosiery, but I grab some lacy underwear. He slaps my ass as he stands behind me one last time, limp cock nestling tightly on my bum cheeks. I turn around and scold him. 'Don’t you dare – black shows up everything.'

You never see teenagers at this time of the morning so we make a passable impression. Inside the train carriage Jez stands too close to me and occasionally leans down to kiss me. I feel slightly embarrassed, so I push him away, though I am pleased. It takes a few hours for his tenderness to surface after sex, but it always does.
He gets off first. I carry on to the City.

When I arrive home in the evening all is still and dark. I hesitate over the first flight of stairs and feel my chest tightening. Something black in the corner gives me a fright. I lean and pick up the glove. 'That's where you went then,’ I say to no one. Inside, I survey the debris of the night before. It's a mess, though I remembered to soak the pans and thanks to M&S there aren’t really that many, though the congealing fat from the paté jar floating in the sink gives me a sudden squeeze in my guts. I forgot we drank brandy too, but I find the small glasses in the bedroom. There are clothes everywhere. For a while I hold on to Jez’s Gap shirt, the collar so clean still. Lula helped me pick it for him. I hear her little voice in the shop saying ‘blue like Daddy’s eyes’. I find the gown – ‘Property of St Thomas’ Hospital’ says the tag – and then the implement, I forget what it’s called. I wash it in very hot water in the sink. I’ve never held one in my hands before. It looks like a bird’s head and it’s heavy. Not sure where to put it – it belongs to the cutlery drawer in a sense, but I end up sticking it in a shoe box. I must tidy up properly before Alisha comes tomorrow. I put a CD on, old Brian Eno for comfort. Then I run a bath and soak. It's only when I am in it that I remember I didn’t pick up matches for the candles. I hate the light in this bathroom. We have to change it, and the noisy extractor fan too. I think about where Jez is now. Not sure if I want to wash my hair, wanting to hang on to his smell for as long as possible. He's texted a couple of times during the day, nothing serious, just the usual banter: ‘Next time, young lady, prepare to feel my firm hands on your ass. You should tremble.’ I replied with some other standard script: ‘Oh, I am so wet right now, sir.’ Wet doesn’t really do it justice, I think. The weather is wet, the clothes out of the washing machine are wet. My cunt is something else, but I am lost for words.

He won't be back tonight. I hope there's no pile up on the M25, no train crashes, no real carnage. He's the senior consultant there. They only wake him up for the unmanageable stuff and I can’t bear to think of him with his hands deep inside someone’s ribcage. My uncle was a fishmonger and my auntie said that had to be worse. At least Jez never carries any smell back from the theatre. Once I asked him: 'If I turned up in casualty with a massive wound or as a train crash victim, would you operate yourself? Would you trust your hand to be steady if it was me?’
'Yes, I think I could handle it,' he replied.
'But what if it was one of the kids?' I challenged him, thrusting my face close to his.
He hesitated then. 'What's with the morbid questions? No, I don't think I could, not with them, I’d go to pieces.’

Shit! The kids. I forgot about picking up Johnny and Lula. Then again Mum hasn't rung to say ‘Come and get them off my hands, they are tearing the house down as usual and your dad’s had enough already.’
Granted, I am a bad mother, I think as I turn the hot water tap back on, but it's OK to forget the kids really. Because, you see, they don't actually exist. I made them up one time and Jeremy went along with it. He’s got his fantasies and I’ve got mine. To tell the truth, we are not married either. Oh come on, you'd picked up on that hadn't you? There was something that didn't quite ring true. For a start you don't really have sex like that on a weekday with your husband, do you? Or maybe you do? If so, I don’t want to know, as this is what I tell myself to make sense of Jeremy’s absence: that it’s more fun this way and that we like it like this. But ask me again next week, when he’s gone.
I lean out of the bath and pick up Lula’s favourite doll from the floor. She’s blond and curly haired, like I was when I was little.