get through the mountains and the jungle, they’d
have more sense than to harm people like us. They need our rubber. They need me to make it for them. So,’ he smiled at her
reassuringly and patted her pillow, ‘come to bed and stop worrying.’
She walked into her own dressing room and dropped her clothes on the floor, inspecting her naked body in the Cheval looking-glass
with a critical eye.
‘But they don’t need me,’ she murmured. ‘Or Teddy.’
‘I want to make love to you, Connie.’
The words made the lines blur on the page of the book she was reading. Even now, two years later, she recalled it. It was
The Big Sleep
by Raymond Chandler. Sho had brought her high up into the hills, miles away from anyone or any place she knew. The clarity
and the coolness of the air made her giddy with relief. They were seated on a patch of grass in the shade, back to back, reading
their books, propping each other up like bookends.
I want to make love to you, Connie.
She’d put down her book and kissed Sho’s mouth. Slowly she unbuttoned his white shirt and kissed his heart. Her hands caressed
his chest, fingering each muscle, each rib, each rise and fall as his breath came fast. His skin tasted as warm and spicy
as cinnamon toast.
They made love in the open air, something she had never done before, with only a gibbon monkey booming somewhere in the distance
and the sound of crickets all around them. It felt extraordinary. The beat of her own heart thundered in her ears and her
body stretched its limbs and abandoned itself like a cat in the sun. She knew she had jumped off a cliff but instead of falling
to earth, she was flying.
*
It was still dark when she woke, but at least the rain had stopped. She could hear it dripping from the trees outside like
tears. She lay flat on her back, remembering. Once when she and Sho were naked on the bed in a hotel room in KL popping tiny
wild strawberries into each other’s mouths and laughing as he painted one of her nipples with the pink juice, he had asked,
‘When were you last held by your husband like this?’ He wrapped his arms around her, trailing sticky fingers down her shoulder
blades and over her hip bones.
‘Years ago.’
He dipped his head and licked her nipple, and she moaned.
‘And when did you last make love with your husband?’
‘Years and years ago.’
Four years and three months ago, to be exact. Her eyes struggled now to find her husband’s shape in the darkness. In the first
months of their marriage everything had been normal, or as normal as she imagined other newlyweds to be, which meant a kiss
goodnight before Nigel turned out the light every weekday and sex on Saturdays and Sundays. He worked damn hard on the estate,
she told herself. He was too tired during the week. It was normal.
But the way Harriet Court went on about her demure and running-to-fat husband, Henry, pestering her in bed several times a
night – voracious was her word for him – Connie did wonder how
normal
was
normal
? After Teddy was born Nigel didn’t touch her for a year and then only because she instigated it. It was when she suggested
another baby that his interest in her was rekindled, but the sex became perfunctory. No lingering. No licking of nipples.
No mouth-to-mouth kissing. Outwardly she smiled and kissed his cheek, inwardly she screamed.
For whatever reason the second baby didn’t happen, and Nigel looked at her as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach each month
when the first treacherous spots of her period started.
‘I’m sorry,’ she used to say. Because she
was
sorry. Sorry for both of them.
‘That’s all right, old thing. Next time, I expect.’
But his brown eyes looked muddy and his mouth had that tightness to it that Teddy’s had when he was determined not to cry.
Eventually he’d stopped hoping. Stopped trying. He left her alone on her side of the bed and lay alone on his, politely rebuffing
any
have more sense than to harm people like us. They need our rubber. They need me to make it for them. So,’ he smiled at her
reassuringly and patted her pillow, ‘come to bed and stop worrying.’
She walked into her own dressing room and dropped her clothes on the floor, inspecting her naked body in the Cheval looking-glass
with a critical eye.
‘But they don’t need me,’ she murmured. ‘Or Teddy.’
‘I want to make love to you, Connie.’
The words made the lines blur on the page of the book she was reading. Even now, two years later, she recalled it. It was
The Big Sleep
by Raymond Chandler. Sho had brought her high up into the hills, miles away from anyone or any place she knew. The clarity
and the coolness of the air made her giddy with relief. They were seated on a patch of grass in the shade, back to back, reading
their books, propping each other up like bookends.
I want to make love to you, Connie.
She’d put down her book and kissed Sho’s mouth. Slowly she unbuttoned his white shirt and kissed his heart. Her hands caressed
his chest, fingering each muscle, each rib, each rise and fall as his breath came fast. His skin tasted as warm and spicy
as cinnamon toast.
They made love in the open air, something she had never done before, with only a gibbon monkey booming somewhere in the distance
and the sound of crickets all around them. It felt extraordinary. The beat of her own heart thundered in her ears and her
body stretched its limbs and abandoned itself like a cat in the sun. She knew she had jumped off a cliff but instead of falling
to earth, she was flying.
*
It was still dark when she woke, but at least the rain had stopped. She could hear it dripping from the trees outside like
tears. She lay flat on her back, remembering. Once when she and Sho were naked on the bed in a hotel room in KL popping tiny
wild strawberries into each other’s mouths and laughing as he painted one of her nipples with the pink juice, he had asked,
‘When were you last held by your husband like this?’ He wrapped his arms around her, trailing sticky fingers down her shoulder
blades and over her hip bones.
‘Years ago.’
He dipped his head and licked her nipple, and she moaned.
‘And when did you last make love with your husband?’
‘Years and years ago.’
Four years and three months ago, to be exact. Her eyes struggled now to find her husband’s shape in the darkness. In the first
months of their marriage everything had been normal, or as normal as she imagined other newlyweds to be, which meant a kiss
goodnight before Nigel turned out the light every weekday and sex on Saturdays and Sundays. He worked damn hard on the estate,
she told herself. He was too tired during the week. It was normal.
But the way Harriet Court went on about her demure and running-to-fat husband, Henry, pestering her in bed several times a
night – voracious was her word for him – Connie did wonder how
normal
was
normal
? After Teddy was born Nigel didn’t touch her for a year and then only because she instigated it. It was when she suggested
another baby that his interest in her was rekindled, but the sex became perfunctory. No lingering. No licking of nipples.
No mouth-to-mouth kissing. Outwardly she smiled and kissed his cheek, inwardly she screamed.
For whatever reason the second baby didn’t happen, and Nigel looked at her as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach each month
when the first treacherous spots of her period started.
‘I’m sorry,’ she used to say. Because she
was
sorry. Sorry for both of them.
‘That’s all right, old thing. Next time, I expect.’
But his brown eyes looked muddy and his mouth had that tightness to it that Teddy’s had when he was determined not to cry.
Eventually he’d stopped hoping. Stopped trying. He left her alone on her side of the bed and lay alone on his, politely rebuffing
any
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