Brian had found him easily enough. The OBE had been relegated to an MBE without a by-your-leave. His daughter’s seduction still rankled and the father had been happy to confirm the story as long as her name was left out of it.
Sarah rang the journalist when she got in at eleven. There was nothing on the evening news about the Tory party meeting.
‘It’s just broken up,’ Brian told her. ‘They didn’t reach a decision. Word is, Barrett denies sleeping with the girl but the tabloids are having a bidding war over a kiss and tell, so the constituency can’t stand by him until it sees what she says.’
‘But nomination papers have to be in by Friday.’
‘Exactly. So they’re meeting on Thursday night to decide whether to select a new candidate. Central office want to take over the process but John Pike put his foot down. I’ve got to go. Cheers.’
Sarah poured herself a brandy. The flat was cool, but not cool enough to justify turning the heating on. She went upstairs for a sweater, warming the brandy glass in the palm of her hand. She thought about ringing Dan, inviting him over for a drink. It was late enough for him to be pretty sure what she really wanted.
She and Dan had been fine until he moved in with her, upsetting the equilibrium of what had been a casual, low-maintenance relationship. They were not quite in love with each other and didn’t want quite the same things, not in the long run. Dan, for instance, wanted children. She didn’t. Bed was fine, but, after two years, bed wasn’t enough. Tonight, though, bed was all she cared about. They hadn’t even had a farewell fuck. The thing with Ed Clark had put her off that.
Sarah checked her watch. Dan would already be asleep, most likely. If she put in a booty call, there was a distinct possibility that he’d say no, in which case, her pride would never let her call him again. So, instead, she got the vibrator out of her underwear drawer.
For Sarah, masturbation was always about memory. There’d been a big evening party at her grandad’s, the last one he’d had and the first that, not quite sixteen, she’d been invited to. She’d bought a push-up bra and was experimenting with hard contact lenses and hard liquor at the time. There were no boys her age so she’d flirted with a married man. Around midnight, she’d found herself in the bathroom, being felt up by this handsome, inebriated Scot twice her age. She’d gone further with him than she had with the boys who’d taken an interest in her. She might have gone all the way. Only, when he’d said ‘I’ll bet we could find an empty room upstairs’, she replied foolishly, ‘My room’s got a lock on it.’ Her randy Scot swiftly ascertained that he had a hand down the knickers of his host’s granddaughter and hurried back to his wife.
Sarah replayed this scene, as she had many times before, with one crucial dialogue change. In the attic bedroom, her sexual initiation was brief but satisfying. When the fantasy was over, though, she felt emptier than before. In real life, just after this failed seduction, acne set in. The hard contact lenses hurt her eyes. They kept falling out and, in the end, had to be discarded. Male interest shrivelled and, partly in retaliation, Sarah adopted a hard feminist line. Short skirts were out. It was four years until Nick arrived and she found out how good sex could be. Better than it had been since.
‘You want to hang on to that one,’ Grandad said, after meeting Nick, not long before he died. ‘He’ll go a long way.’
12
Y ou’re letting him stay?’
‘The only convictions on his record are so old they don’t count against him. The city council say he can have a license. I’ve said I’ll give him his knowledge test next week.’
‘What about the customers, when they recognise him?’
‘All they’ll remember is that he got off. But you know how it is, most people don’t even look at their taxi driver.’
‘His victims’ kids still
Sarah rang the journalist when she got in at eleven. There was nothing on the evening news about the Tory party meeting.
‘It’s just broken up,’ Brian told her. ‘They didn’t reach a decision. Word is, Barrett denies sleeping with the girl but the tabloids are having a bidding war over a kiss and tell, so the constituency can’t stand by him until it sees what she says.’
‘But nomination papers have to be in by Friday.’
‘Exactly. So they’re meeting on Thursday night to decide whether to select a new candidate. Central office want to take over the process but John Pike put his foot down. I’ve got to go. Cheers.’
Sarah poured herself a brandy. The flat was cool, but not cool enough to justify turning the heating on. She went upstairs for a sweater, warming the brandy glass in the palm of her hand. She thought about ringing Dan, inviting him over for a drink. It was late enough for him to be pretty sure what she really wanted.
She and Dan had been fine until he moved in with her, upsetting the equilibrium of what had been a casual, low-maintenance relationship. They were not quite in love with each other and didn’t want quite the same things, not in the long run. Dan, for instance, wanted children. She didn’t. Bed was fine, but, after two years, bed wasn’t enough. Tonight, though, bed was all she cared about. They hadn’t even had a farewell fuck. The thing with Ed Clark had put her off that.
Sarah checked her watch. Dan would already be asleep, most likely. If she put in a booty call, there was a distinct possibility that he’d say no, in which case, her pride would never let her call him again. So, instead, she got the vibrator out of her underwear drawer.
For Sarah, masturbation was always about memory. There’d been a big evening party at her grandad’s, the last one he’d had and the first that, not quite sixteen, she’d been invited to. She’d bought a push-up bra and was experimenting with hard contact lenses and hard liquor at the time. There were no boys her age so she’d flirted with a married man. Around midnight, she’d found herself in the bathroom, being felt up by this handsome, inebriated Scot twice her age. She’d gone further with him than she had with the boys who’d taken an interest in her. She might have gone all the way. Only, when he’d said ‘I’ll bet we could find an empty room upstairs’, she replied foolishly, ‘My room’s got a lock on it.’ Her randy Scot swiftly ascertained that he had a hand down the knickers of his host’s granddaughter and hurried back to his wife.
Sarah replayed this scene, as she had many times before, with one crucial dialogue change. In the attic bedroom, her sexual initiation was brief but satisfying. When the fantasy was over, though, she felt emptier than before. In real life, just after this failed seduction, acne set in. The hard contact lenses hurt her eyes. They kept falling out and, in the end, had to be discarded. Male interest shrivelled and, partly in retaliation, Sarah adopted a hard feminist line. Short skirts were out. It was four years until Nick arrived and she found out how good sex could be. Better than it had been since.
‘You want to hang on to that one,’ Grandad said, after meeting Nick, not long before he died. ‘He’ll go a long way.’
12
Y ou’re letting him stay?’
‘The only convictions on his record are so old they don’t count against him. The city council say he can have a license. I’ve said I’ll give him his knowledge test next week.’
‘What about the customers, when they recognise him?’
‘All they’ll remember is that he got off. But you know how it is, most people don’t even look at their taxi driver.’
‘His victims’ kids still
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