Merlin’s shoelaces. My son’s dyspraxia had been explained to me by the doctor as a retardation of his ‘gross motor skills’. Even though that sounds a lot like driving a tacky car, it’s actually an ostentatious term for clumsiness. Lack of coordination meant that Merlin didn’t ever undo a bow. He just knotted another on top of the last one. The end result was a lumpy macramé a foot or so long on each lace. I showed Phoebe a snap of Octavian on my mobile phone, resplendent in mud-splattered joddies and leather knee-length boots.
‘My God,’ Phoebe drooled. ‘If he were a horse, he’d need gelding.’
‘He’s only twenty-six. I had to keep the lights low so he wouldn’t notice that I’m more than ten years older than him. We made love by Braille.’
‘Well, love is blind,’ Phoebe clowned. ‘So are you going to see him again?’
‘I don’t know. Like I told you, I don’t really like casual sex.’
‘So? Wear a tiara,’ my mother’s voice boomed as she sailed into the room in some kind of paisley kaftan and matching turban. ‘Just train Merlin to lower his age, dear,’ she advised.
I put my fingers to my lips to indicate discretion. None of us had noticed that my son was sitting under the table. But a few muttered numbers suddenly alerted me to the fact that he was ensconced there, writing cricket scores in his notebook.
‘
Girls
,’ my mother whispered, glancing at the photo on my phone, ‘the simplest toy, one which even a senile woman can operate, is the toyboy. A toyboy as sexy and handsome as Octavian only comes along three or four times in a woman’s life. Enjoy it, dear.’
My sister and I exchanged bemused glances. Despite feeling a little queasy at the realization that my mother knew how to operate a toyboy, I had to admit she was right. Tempus was fugiting like there was no tomorrow. I would leap into that sexual saddle and ride the man ragged. Yesterday’s orgasmic interlude was so beneficial I felt sure I could claim my himbo as some kind of medical expense.
But all too soon I was thrown from my mount. It was only our second encounter. I had just mixed Octavian a gin and tonic, the preferred tipple of the polo classes, lured him to the couch and begun to feel his penis thickening in my fingers when the back door boinged open. Merlin didn’t ever just enter a room. He spurted into it.
‘I thought you were at Grandma’s tonight,’ I spluttered, gathering my silk kimono more tightly around my breasts. ‘Um … this is my … friend, Octavian.’
I didn’t introduce Merlin in the hope that he would evaporate but, trained by me in social skills, my polite son extended his hand and said formally, ‘So, how is your private life developing? I am Lucy’s exuberant son, Merlin.’
‘You have a son?’ I could see Octavian doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic.
‘Child bride,’ I explained, with mock-lightness, scrambling to my feet.
‘
Am
I actually your son?’ Merlin’s wind-tangled hair blurred wildly around his face. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? … I find it astonishing that I’m your son. Who introduced us? How did we meet? Did we meet at a party? It was back in the nineties, wasn’t it, Mum?’
‘Darling, shouldn’t you run back to Grandma’s?’ I urged.
‘I forgot my Hansard book.’ Merlin, unaware of the nuances and undercurrents of normal conversation, continued brightly, ‘I’m nearly eleven, but Mum wants me to pretend to be younger. She keeps the lights low so you won’t see how old she is.’
‘I will have you know that I am at the pinnacle of my senility,’ I jested in a hearty voice to camouflage my acute embarrassment, wishing, in fact, that I were anywhere else in the world – including Guantanamo naval base. I hugged Merlin to me, glowering at him in the hope that he would understand my body language and shut the hell up. ‘Oh look, Merlin’ – I fingered his soft face – ‘you’re growing a moustache.’
My son gave me
‘My God,’ Phoebe drooled. ‘If he were a horse, he’d need gelding.’
‘He’s only twenty-six. I had to keep the lights low so he wouldn’t notice that I’m more than ten years older than him. We made love by Braille.’
‘Well, love is blind,’ Phoebe clowned. ‘So are you going to see him again?’
‘I don’t know. Like I told you, I don’t really like casual sex.’
‘So? Wear a tiara,’ my mother’s voice boomed as she sailed into the room in some kind of paisley kaftan and matching turban. ‘Just train Merlin to lower his age, dear,’ she advised.
I put my fingers to my lips to indicate discretion. None of us had noticed that my son was sitting under the table. But a few muttered numbers suddenly alerted me to the fact that he was ensconced there, writing cricket scores in his notebook.
‘
Girls
,’ my mother whispered, glancing at the photo on my phone, ‘the simplest toy, one which even a senile woman can operate, is the toyboy. A toyboy as sexy and handsome as Octavian only comes along three or four times in a woman’s life. Enjoy it, dear.’
My sister and I exchanged bemused glances. Despite feeling a little queasy at the realization that my mother knew how to operate a toyboy, I had to admit she was right. Tempus was fugiting like there was no tomorrow. I would leap into that sexual saddle and ride the man ragged. Yesterday’s orgasmic interlude was so beneficial I felt sure I could claim my himbo as some kind of medical expense.
But all too soon I was thrown from my mount. It was only our second encounter. I had just mixed Octavian a gin and tonic, the preferred tipple of the polo classes, lured him to the couch and begun to feel his penis thickening in my fingers when the back door boinged open. Merlin didn’t ever just enter a room. He spurted into it.
‘I thought you were at Grandma’s tonight,’ I spluttered, gathering my silk kimono more tightly around my breasts. ‘Um … this is my … friend, Octavian.’
I didn’t introduce Merlin in the hope that he would evaporate but, trained by me in social skills, my polite son extended his hand and said formally, ‘So, how is your private life developing? I am Lucy’s exuberant son, Merlin.’
‘You have a son?’ I could see Octavian doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic.
‘Child bride,’ I explained, with mock-lightness, scrambling to my feet.
‘
Am
I actually your son?’ Merlin’s wind-tangled hair blurred wildly around his face. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? … I find it astonishing that I’m your son. Who introduced us? How did we meet? Did we meet at a party? It was back in the nineties, wasn’t it, Mum?’
‘Darling, shouldn’t you run back to Grandma’s?’ I urged.
‘I forgot my Hansard book.’ Merlin, unaware of the nuances and undercurrents of normal conversation, continued brightly, ‘I’m nearly eleven, but Mum wants me to pretend to be younger. She keeps the lights low so you won’t see how old she is.’
‘I will have you know that I am at the pinnacle of my senility,’ I jested in a hearty voice to camouflage my acute embarrassment, wishing, in fact, that I were anywhere else in the world – including Guantanamo naval base. I hugged Merlin to me, glowering at him in the hope that he would understand my body language and shut the hell up. ‘Oh look, Merlin’ – I fingered his soft face – ‘you’re growing a moustache.’
My son gave me
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