A Married Man Part 26

'That, my dear Lucy, would be an entirely retrograde step, in my opinion,' he drooled. 'I'm a great admirer of the Baroque and think your posterior quite perfect. Who on earth wants to cuddle up to a stick insect with bones you can play the zimmer-frame on?'

Who indeed, I thought, stirring the coffee, and yet his wife, who he must have loved enough to marry, was just like that. Well, at least, that was the impression I'd got in the briefest of glimpses outside their farmhouse. Tall, blonde, and very skinny, lucky thing. I sighed and took the coffee on a tray to the table, setting it between us. I sat down and reached for a pastry.

'Mmmm.' I groaned, biting into one and shutting my eyes as the icing dripped down my chin. 'Delicious.' As I licked the sugar from my fingers, though, I hastily averted my eyes from his, which, as he watched me, were glazing over ominously again.

'So,' I said briskly, brushing crumbs off my lap and sitting up straight. 'What exactly should you be doing today, Charlie, instead of pestering overweight women in antique shops and plying them with calories and flowers?'

'Oh G.o.d,' he sighed, leaning his head back resignedly, 'all sorts of things. I should, for instance, be settling down to write a script for a new sit-corn, the thrust of which - two mixed race divorcees with zillions of children living happily ever after in a cramped flat - would stretch the credulity of a two year old, and require the viewer to suspend his belief from a crane. Yes, even now, I should be busily peopling it with characters that would seem wooden even to the cast of Camberwick Green, tapping away at my computer with alacrity, tongue hanging out.'

'Is that what they asked you to do yesterday then?' I brushed some sugar off my skirt. 'At the BBC?'

'Yes, indeed. That, my dear Lucy, is my brief. My mission, as outlined by the good people of Broadcasting House, should I wish to accept it. And of course,' he sighed, 'I do accept it. Naturally I do. I am, after all, A) a coward, B) short of money, and C) secretly thinking that if I don't accept it, they'll never ask me to do anything again, seeing as how I'm a bit past it,and like all dogs, have probably had my day. But I'm afraid the actual sitting down and writing of it is going to prove a bit more tricky.'

'But, hang on.' I frowned, put my cake down. 'I thought they were going to talk to you about a new series of The Townbirds?'

'Me too, Lucy, me too. Sadly though, it turned out to be something of a ruse to get me up there, and Happy Ethnic Minorities was shoved under my unsuspecting nose before I could say, "How's about another series?" '

'But d'you have to write what they want? Can't you just make it up? Do your own thing?'

'Of course I could, and I'd have a lovely time doing it, but it would never be commissioned. They'd smile politely, even discuss it indulgently, but then wonder - brows puckered, heads c.o.c.ked thoughtfully - if there wasn't something just a teensy bit eighties about it? A bit dated and reactionary?' He took a resigned swig of his coffee. 'Oh no, these days anything with a plausible plotline which takes a while to develop and combines humour, pathos and characters one can empathise with, is right out the window. That is not what the public wants. What the public wants, apparently, is s.e.x, violence, and face-slapping. Not necessarily in that order, but they certainly want all of them - and constantly. I, on the other hand, write about middle-cla.s.s people going about their ordinary, middle-cla.s.s lives. I'm becoming a relic, Lucy. A dinosaur.' He rubbed his face wearily with the palm of his hand.

'Nonsense,' I said, thinking I'd never seen such an attractive relic, sitting opposite me as he was in his battered old khaki linen jacket, dark trousers and pale blue shirt, with that fatal, wistful smile playing about his lips, encircling my heart, and those mesmerising brown eyes gazing dreamily in my direction. I was also thinking that I was really doing awfully well keeping him at arms' length and resisting him.

'Well anyway, I love all the stuff you do,' I said staunchly. 'What was it Rozanna said you wrote ... oh yes, Family Values. I loved that!'

He grimaced. 'Family Values was twelve years ago.'

Was it?' I blinked. Wondered, briefly, how old he was. 'Oh well, something more recent then, um-'

'Girl Power?'

'That was it! G.o.d, did you write that? That was brilliant!' 'Again, eight years ago.' He sighed. 'They're just running repeats, that's all.'

'Oh. Oh well, better than nothing, surely?' I said encouragingly.

He smiled. Didn't answer.

'And um,' I said quickly, 'what does your wife think of all your programmes?' Oh very smooth, Lucy, yes. Moving smartly on from a subject he clearly found depressing, and subtly introducing the wife, to discover more.

'She doesn't really watch that sort of thing. Not serious enough' He scratched his head ruefully.

'Ah no. No, of course not.' I nodded sagely. 'More Songs of Praise and Thora Hirdy-type things, I suppose?'

'Well.' He hesitated. 'I'm not sure she'd go that far.'

Golly, perhaps she didn't watch TV at all, I thought with a jolt. Regarded it as the evil eye in the corner, the demonic lantern. I, on the other hand, couldn't imagine life without thetelly, curled up in my dressing gown, gla.s.s of wine, box of Celebrations...

'OK, so,' I struggled to think what she might like to do of an evening, 'she what goes to prayer meetings and things? Bible reading, that kind of thing?'

He looked uncomfortable. 'Sometimes,' he admitted.

'Or is she more into, I don't know,' I went on boldly, waving my hands about casually, 'putrefacation of the flesh?'

'Sorry?' He looked startled, but then he wouldn't have any idea I was so knowledgeable, would he? Wouldn't know I'd read up quite a bit recently, on religious zealots. The library at Netherby had yielded an absolutely fascinating book admittedly on sixteenth-century zealots but I was sure it was pretty much the same thing, without the hair shirts and the birch whipping, of course.

'Putrefacation?' he blinked. 'Don't you mean mortification?'

'That's the one'

'Um, well, no. Not really. Although I suppose there's a bit of self-denial. You know, fasting. At Lent'

'G.o.d, it must be ghastly for you, Charlie. How on earth do you cope?'

'Well, with difficulty. But you know,' he said, looking strained, 'if it helps her, Lucy...'

'Oh quite!' I agreed. Gosh, I didn't want to sound like a cow. 'Oh G.o.d yes, if it helps her I'm all for it. But wouldn't she be more comfortable with you know like-minded people?'

He gave a shout of laughter. 'What you mean in a nunnery?'

I flushed. 'Well no, of course not,' I said, secretly thinking, well yes, absolutely, because in my dreams ... Well, let's face it, in my dreams, I'd created an entire screenplay. Had his wife packed off long ago, to exactly that. A convent. Oh yes, Charlie and Ellen had driven her to the convent gates one morning, to be met by the Mother Superior, arms open, ready to embrace her new charge. In she'd drifted, Wifey, I mean, all kitted out in her new habit, eagerly clutching a crucifix, a beatific smile on her face, turning to say goodbye to her husband and child except, no. No wait, perhaps Ellen wouldn't be there, that might be too harrowing. Just Charlie then, who'd wave her off with a tear in his eye, but knowing full well that it was for the best, and that she'd finally be happy. Then he'd beetle back to his car, rev up the engine like n.o.body's business, and roar over to my place.

Naturally I'd be waiting for him, looking terribly s.e.xy and unreligious and, oh thin, having lost two stone and wearing size eight jeans and a skimpy cardigan with nothing on underneath. He'd take me in his arms, stride manfully upstairs, treat me to a fantastically s.e.xy afternoon, and then we'd all live happily ever after. One big, happy family. Me, Charlie, the boys, and oh yes, Ellen. G.o.d, yes, the rather scholarly-looking child with the animal fixation. I wasn't entirely sure she'd be Ben's cup of tea, but golly, we'd all learn to love her, and maybe when she was older some contact lenses would help. And perhaps we could get her a gerbil, or something. Or were they smelly? And would I have to muck it out, deal with its you know gerbil business? Blimey. I boggled at the carpet. How on earth had I got onto gerbil business when I hadn't even slept with the man?

I glanced up guiltily. My eyes snagged on his like barbed wire. He'd been watching me intently.

'What were you thinking?' he breathed.

'I . ' I flushed again. 'Well, I . .

I stopped. His eyes were heavy with something that looked like love, but could just as easily have been l.u.s.t. As he feasted on me, refusing to let me off the hook, the room seemed full of the scent of lilies, and the smell of danger. He held out his hands. I impulsively stretched out mine and he took them, covered as they were in sugar. He raised them, and licked each finger, one by one, slowly, sensually. I had no idea that sort of thing happened in real life. I almost pa.s.sed out.

'Lock the door,' he whispered, holding my eyes.

'No Charlie,' I croaked feebly, 'I can't possibly. I work here. What if Kit-'

'Kit won't. He's in Cheltenham, won't be back for hours. OK, I'll lock the door.'

He got up, went across, and turned the key. Then he turned the Open sign around to Closed, and came back to me, with the naughtiest of smiles.

'Charlie,' I protested desperately, 'this is absolutely not what I had in mind. I mean, on my first day at work, in my new job, my new employer and mmmmmm!!!'

Suddenly the breath was being squeezed out of me and he was on his knees before me, kissing my mouth, my throat, back up to my mouth to quell my protests. I tried to resist but oh h.e.l.l, it was so delicious, I appeared to be joining in. The next moment I found myself being scooped off the sofa as, with a silken tackle worthy of a Harlequin Blue, he slipped his hands under my thighs and hoisted me up into his arms.

'No!' I squealed in horror. 'No, you can't possibly carry me, I weigh a ton!'

I was more concerned about my colossal weight than anything else, and s.h.i.t! The fact that I had no pants on! This terrifying detail momentarily paralysed me. I went rigid in his arms, horribly aware that a struggle at this point could prove deeply embarra.s.sing. Galvanised by my lack of resistance, he strode on, and before I knew it, I was being carried upstairs, up the grand, sweeping staircase, across the landing, and into a bedroom, as he kicked open the first door we came to. It was the blue room, with the peac.o.c.k silk wallpaper, and the vast, four-poster bed.

'But this is the Tudor Suite!' I squeaked. 'Mary Queen of somewhere-or-other was the last person to sleep in this!'

'So it hasn't seen much action since,' he murmured, stopping my mouth with another flow of kisses. "Bout time it did. Let's treat it to a little Renaissance period, shall we?'

And the problem was, that although my head resisted on absolutely every single level, my heart, my blood, my arteries, in fact my whole body, shimmered and collaborated with this powerful man, this force of nature, who physically and emotionally was overpowering me, and making himself all I'd ever wanted.

The room whirled as he deposited me on the bed and lay down on top of me; everything whirled, in fact, my senses, the tapestries, the Old Masters on the walls, the plush violet canopy overhead, spinning round like a Catherine Wheel, blurring madly as he enveloped me in his arms, closer than my own blood, and just as heated. Articles of clothing were tugged and investigated as an attack was launched on my tophalf thankfully, under the circ.u.mstances but I'd chosen to wear a sort of cross-over top, with ties that poked through holes at the sides and knotted at the back, an arrangement with which Charlie clearly was not au fait. He struggled gamely with it, albeit with a few m.u.f.fled 'b.u.g.g.e.rs' and 'Christs' and, 'What have you got on here, Lucy?', and was just about getting to grips with it, when somebody snored.

We froze, mid-caress. Stared at each other.

'What was that?' I gasped.

'I don't know!'

I pulled away. 'Listen.'

We did. And it came again. A deep, sonorous, long-drawn-out snore, which was surely much too proximate.

'There's someone in the bed!' I shrieked, sitting up in horror, pulling my top around me.

Charlie sat up too. We glanced about frantically. It was a huge bed, to be sure, and we'd only, in our haste, occupied one small corner of it, but still, there were no ominous lumps to be seen. No Queen Mary, flat on her back in her wimple, hands clasped in prayer, kipping deadly after all these years. And then it came again.

'Hrrroooumph ...'

I leapt off the bed.

'It's coming from underneath!' Charlie hissed, scrambling off, too.

'Christ! Who is it?' I tied my top frantically around me and backed away in terror.

Charlie bent down, cautiously lifting up the bed-skirt. He peered. There was a horrible hush. Then: 'Blasted dog!' he roared.

'Oh! Oh G.o.d, Rococo!' I gasped with relief. 'Is that all? I thought-'

'Rococo! OUT!' Charlie yelled. 'Come on OUT!' I waited for her to appear.

'She's not waking up,' Charlie reported, peering under again. 'And she's right in the middle. Seems dead to the world. D'you have any real objections to having her there, or-'

'Yes, I b.l.o.o.d.y do!' I spluttered. I'm not convinced we should be up here at all, Charlie, let alone with a sleeping dog under the- mmmm... mmmm ... well maybe just a little kiss and ... mmmm . .

Already he was stopping my mouth, keeping my objections at bay, sensing I might balk. But balking didn't seem to be on the cards, because already I could feel appet.i.te getting the better of discretion: could hear Aphrodite whispering in my ear, telling me to b.u.t.ton it, to let sleeping dogs lie.

He lay me down on the bed again and golly, where were we? Oh yes, exactly ... mmmm ... lovely, except G.o.d. b.u.g.g.e.r. There it was again. Only louder, this time, and the thing was, I couldn't really concentrate, because it didn't even sound like a proper snore. It was too harsh, too sort of disjointed.

'Hang on.' I sat up, pushed him off.

'What?' he murmured, sitting up and nibbling my ear.

'Charlie, why didn't she wake up? I mean, you called her, and she just didn't move, did she? Suppose she's ill?'

'Don't be silly,' he told me, lifting up my hair and attending to the back of my neck. 'She's not ill, just asleep.'

'No, but she has been ill, you see. Recently, Kit said so, and listen.'

He sighed, but obediently paused for a moment, abandoning his ministrations.

It came again. Long, drawn out, and actually, now, with a slight whimper at the end.

'That's not a snore, that's a death rattle,' I said. 'Oh Charlie, she's dying!'

I leapt off the bed and peered underneath, where Rococo was indeed flat out, eyes worryingly half-open, the whites showing.

'Jesus! She's probably in the final throes! Charlie, get her out!'

Swearing, Charlie dutifully rolled off the bed, reached underneath, and grabbed Rococo by her back legs. I crawled under too and grabbed the front, and together, we slid her out across the wooden floor. I regarded the huge, hairy beast anxiously. Her breath was coming in tiny, sharp gasps, her mouth was wide open, her tummy going up and down quickly, almost in spasms.

'Oh G.o.d, Charlie, I know what this is,' I said, trembling suddenly. 'It's a diabetic coma. My uncle was diabetic, and this is exactly what happens. They just sort of collapse suddenly; it's a reaction to the insulin.'

'Really?' He scratched his head. 'So, what do we do?' 'Sugar! We need sugar,' I said urgently. 'Quick, Charlie, run! And bring a bowl of water to mix it in!'

'Righto,' he said wearily, straightening up. He frowned down at Rococo, scratched his head again, then off he shuffled. I kept watch anxiously, and a few minutes later, he was back with the wherewithal.

'Right. Now, we mix it all up,' I demonstrated, sloshing sugar and water about, 'and pour some in her mouth, like this.' I watched in despair as it all dribbled out again, onto the floor.

'No, no, that's hopeless! She has to be sitting up or we'll never get it down her. Charlie, you sit back against the bed, that's it, and then open your legs, and sit her . .

Between us we dragged her up until she was propped between Charlie's legs, her back to his chest, hairy, palpitating tummy to the fore, face lolling against his cheek.

'Hold her, cuddle her to you like a child that's it.' He gripped her round the middle.

Now,' I instructed. 'I'll open her mouth and try to pour... grip her, Charlie, grip her! She's oh, b.u.g.g.e.r! It's going all over you, you're not holding her tightly enough!'

'I'm trying!' gasped Charlie, 'but she's huge, Lucy. G.o.d, she weighs a ton more than you, I should think.'

'Oh, thanks! And you need to ma.s.sage her throat, while I pour.' I tried again, but still Rococo lolled in Charlie's arms, mouth open, eyes staring.

'She's dying!' I cried. 'Oh Charlie, do something,' I wailed, wringing my hands. 'Breathe into her or something, you know!'

'What?' He looked aghast.

'You know, the kiss of life!'

'Yes, I know what it is, but I'm not b.l.o.o.d.y doing it!'

'Oh, Charlie please, she'll die if you don't, and it'll be all my fault!' Tears sprang. Charlie stared at me for a moment.

'Oh s.h.i.t!' He bent his head and put his mouth to the dog's, breathing hard.

'Anything?' I asked anxiously, when he came up for air.

'Well I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know,' he choked, grimacing and spitting on the floor. He retched. 'Feel her pulse!'