Spin Cycle (12 page)

“Bring your legs up,” he whispered.

She lifted her feet up onto the top of the machine. She couldn’t help thinking she must look as if she were about to give birth. Finally, when the ache between her legs was becoming unbearable, he gently pushed two fingers inside her. Deeper and deeper they went, feeling her, exploring her, but he made no attempt to touch her clitoris. Just as she was about to cry out and beg him to touch her, he bent down and began trailing his tongue over her swollen, aching clitoris.

She arched her back and whimpered.

“Bloody hell, washing machine man,” she said, “I think you may just have found my Hotpoint.”

He looked up briefly and smiled.

Time after time when she thought she was about to come, he reduced the pressure on her clitoris to a featherlight touch. Every so often he stopped completely. Then he would push his fingers back inside her. She felt open, exposed and utterly helpless.

Glorious as his lovemaking was, she eventually became aware that her position on top of the washing machine wasn’t ideal and that her back and legs were beginning to ache. As if reading her mind, he brought her legs back together and lifted her down onto the floor. She looked at him quizzically.

“Turn around,” he said.

She turned and he made her bend over the machine. She was aware of him moving away and looking round for something. Eventually he found it. Once again he pulled up her dress. A few seconds later she cried out in delight as she felt him squirt cold hand lotion onto her buttocks. He began massaging it into her skin, occasionally running his finger between her wet bottom cheeks and over her clitoris. She was just beginning to feel the quivering and shuddering building up in her vagina, when he stopped.

“I want to undress you, properly,” he whispered.

He turned her to face him and reached for her dress.

“No,” she said, brushing his hand aside, “you first.”

She kissed him and began tracing the outline of his erection with her finger. After a few moments she started undoing his belt and fly. He took off his sweater and tossed it onto the floor. His upper body was muscular, a can short of a six-pack, maybe, but she detested overworked male bodies.

She tugged at his khakis. After he’d stepped out of them she did the same to his boxers. His thick erection sprang forward. She cupped his balls in her hand and began to stroke them. She watched his stomach muscles quiver, felt his fingers digging into her shoulders. She knelt on the floor and ran her tongue over his belly and down through his dark hair. A tiny seed pearl of sperm appeared on the tip of his penis. As she rubbed it away with her finger, he gasped. She began licking the top of his erection.

“Christ, that’s good,” he groaned, digging his fingers even harder into her shoulders.

She carried on like this for a couple of minutes until finally she took the entire length of his penis in her mouth. His whole body shuddered as her mouth went back and forth over the shaft.

“I think my legs are about to give out,” he whispered urgently.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed,” she said.

“Now will you let me take off your dress?” he said as they stood by the bed. She nodded.

He pulled her dress up to her belly and held it there with one hand. The other he placed between her legs. A second later his fingers were probing deep inside her again. She lowered her head and let out a long low breath. Eventually he removed them and began spreading her juices over her stomach.

The dress off, he started biting and nipping her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. At the same time he managed to unhook her bra.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, staring at her breasts. He took each nipple in his mouth in turn until it was fully erect.

“Come here,” he said, taking her hand. He led her to the bed, took two pillows and placed them one on top of the other in the middle of the bed. She knew what he wanted her to do. She lay across the pillows, on her front and kneeling—her arse raised. She reached for another to put under her head. She was aware of him on the bed behind her. He stroked her oily buttocks again, occasionally flicking her clitoris, occasionally pushing his fingers inside her. She took a sharp breath.

He began to concentrate on her clitoris, rubbing it with firm circular strokes. She could feel herself beginning to drift away. She had no idea how long this went on. But by the end she was begging him to come inside her. But time and again he ignored her. When he did finally push himself into her it was almost unexpected and she cried out both with surprise and glorious delight. His thrusts were slow and deep. Occasionally they verged on painful, but all the time he kept stroking her clitoris, not leaving off for a second.

By now the pleasure was so intense that she was almost praying not to come. For the second time she felt the quivering buildup inside her. At the same time, his thrusts became slower and even deeper. She was aware of him taking long gaps between each breath. Even then he didn’t stop touching her. She came a moment or two after him, as he lay gasping, his head resting on her back.

When it happened, wondrous as it was, she couldn’t help thinking how much it reminded her of a washing machine in the final shuddering throes of its spin cycle.

* * * * *

“You know when I first realized you fancied me?” he said, putting down his knife and fork.

“When?” she asked, trailing her finger over the freckles on his nose.

“Last night, when you called me Rinse Charming.” He started to laugh.

“But you said . . .” She leaned across the table and punched him, not altogether playfully, on the arm.

Just then the phone rang in the hall.

“I’d better get that,” she said, getting up. “There might be something the matter with Sam.”

She tightened the belt on her dressing gown and dashed to the door, closing it behind her.

* * * * *

Shock and black guilt descended the second she heard his voice. “Adam,” she said as quietly as she could. “It’s you. . . . No, don’t be daft, of course I’m pleased to hear from you. No I am, really. You just caught me at a bad moment, that’s all. What was I doing? I was, er . . . I was loading my shoes into that shoe rack you bought me . . . and a sneaker rolled under the bed. I crawled after it and when the phone rang it startled me and I bashed my head. Look, I’ll speak to you tomorrow. OK. Night, bye. . . . Yeah, me too.”

She walked back into the kitchen, head down, hands in her dressing gown pockets. She’d just had the most mind-blowing sex she’d experienced in years. But at the same time, she couldn’t believe what she had just done to Adam.

“Rachel,” Matt said, looking at her quizzically, “what on earth’s up? Is there something the matter with Sam?”

“No, no,” she said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t anything to do with Sam.”

“Something you want to talk about?”

“No. Just my neurotic Jewish mother phoning to see if I’m OK, that’s all. You get used to it.”

“But it’s half eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. “Does she always phone so late?”

“Oh, sometimes she phones at one in the morning—just to check that I’m asleep.”

It was only then that it registered with her that he was up and dressed.

“God, you’re not going, are you?” she said.

“Rachel, please don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, and dinner was fantastic. But it’s late and I have to be up at five.”

“Why so early?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on a design for a cheap washing machine that would cost virtually nothing to run—something I think might be really useful in the Third World. A mate of mine who works in engineering has agreed to help me build the prototype from bits and pieces of old machines. I’ve managed to get the government of Burkina Faso interested and a couple of chaps from their embassy have agreed to come and see it. I promised it would be ready before Christmas, and we haven’t even started assembling the damn thing yet.”

“God, just imagine if it worked out. I mean with an invention like that, you’d be really famous. . . .”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, look, I’m really sorry.”

“That’s all right. I understand.”

He pulled her toward him and kissed her.

“I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he said.

“OK,” she heard herself say.

CHAPTER 11

“So has he?”

“Has he what?” Rachel said vacantly, picking a tiny Mothercare Babygro up off the shelf and holding it in front of Shelley.

“Phoned you.” Shelley looked at the Babygro and screwed up her nose. “Powder blue? Yeah, right. See if they do it in lime.”

Rachel groaned and put it down. Shelley’s ex, Ted, had sent her £500 to buy baby things, and she and Rachel had spent the afternoon trailing up and down Oxford Street in the freezing rain, failing to spend it because of Shelley’s insistence that no baby of hers was about to make its debut in pastels.

“C’mon, you still haven’t answered me,” Shelley persisted. “Has he phoned you?”

“Two or three times,” Rachel said, “but I let the answer machine pick up. I feel like such a coward not speaking to him, but what can I do? I mean, wonderful as the other night was, it was a huge bloody mistake.”

“I’m not surprised you did it though,” Shelley said, grinning.

“You’re not? I bloody am.”

“Just look at the pressure Adam’s been putting you under to give up the comedy, when he knows how important it is to you. Maybe at some level you’re having second thoughts.”

“Don’t be daft.” Rachel laughed, utterly unaware of the lack of conviction in her voice. “You know how much I love Adam.”

Shelley didn’t say anything.

They carried on down the aisle, toward the sterilizer units.

“So the sex was good then?” Shelley said eventually.

Rachel reddened.

“Thought so,” her friend grinned.

“I swear,” she continued, “there’s nothing like treating yourself to a bit of rough from time to time.”

“Hang on,” Rachel came back at her. “For your information, Matt is not ‘a bit of rough.’ He’s got a degree in engineering as it happens.”

“Jackpot—a bit of rough with brains.” Shelley picked up a packet of rubber nipple shields, grimaced and put them back. “Did I ever tell you,” she went on, “I used to date this fireman called Terry? Two years I went out with him. God, the hours I spent stroking his helmet.”

She headed off toward the strollers. Rachel followed.

“You know, from what you’ve told me, Matt sounds like a really great bloke.”

“He is, but I’m in love with Adam and I intend to marry him.”

“Oh yeah?” Shelley said provocatively. “When?”

“Soon. In fact I’m going to phone him in Durban tonight to discuss dates. I thought about Valentine’s Day. It would be incredibly romantic.”

Shelley simply raised her eyebrows and began wandering down the line of strollers. “Rache,” she said, stopping to pose beside one, “does this buggy make me look fat?”

“Don’t be daft,” Rachel said. “How can a stroller possibly make you look fat?”

“It’s floral. Florals always make me look heavy.”

“Shelley, it’s a stroller, not a Laura Ashley puffa jacket.”

Shelley moved on up the line, stopping occasionally to scowl at the twee teddy and bunny rabbit motifs.

“Look,” Rachel said eventually, “we’ve been everywhere and you’ve seen absolutely nothing you like. Maybe it’s time to accept that you are not going to find lime Babygros and a Cadillac-pink, rhinestone-encrusted stroller with a detachable zebra skin hood.”

“I don’t want rhinestones, just something a bit more stylish, that’s all. A bit less Croydon.”

“But when it comes to baby stuff,” Rachel said, “people don’t want style. They want Croydon. They feel comfortable with Croydon. They feel safe with Croydon. They do not want to be seen on the streets pushing a vehicle that looks like it was plundered from Elvis’s tomb . . . come on, you’ve been on your feet all afternoon. You know you should be resting. I promised your mum I wouldn’t let you overdo things. How’s about we go and get a cuppa and something to eat? My treat.”

* * * * *

It was dark outside now. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle, brilliantly illuminated by the streetlamps and cheesy Christmas lights. It was like walking through icy gossamer threads of tiny, twinkling beads.

Rachel put a protective arm through Shelley’s and steered her round the puddles, past a crowd that had gathered in front of a bloke flogging foam rubber antlers and Santa hats from a suitcase, and guided her across the road to Selfridges. They headed for the coffee shop on the second floor. Like Oxford Street, it was mobbed with Christmas shoppers.

“They really should,” Shelley said once they’d finally found an empty table, “think about having Christmas when the shops are less crowded.” She broke the seal on her bottle of mineral water and began pouring it into a plastic cup. “Hey, and I still can’t get over your news about the comedy competition. It’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

Rachel blushed and smiled.

She’d called in at the Channel 6 offices the previous day, after she’d finished at Xantia’s, and filled in the registration form for the comedy contest. It was the final day for entries, and they were holding the last of the auditions that afternoon. They squeezed her in at four and told her on the spot she’d qualified. She was still reeling with shock—both at how quickly it had happened and that she was in.

“God,” Shelley squealed, “suppose you win and get your own show on Channel 6?”

“I know. Sometimes I reckon I stand about as much chance of winning the Joke for Europe contest as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking contest. Then at other times I think, what if . . . ?”

Shelley took Rachel’s hand and squeezed it. “You are going to do brilliantly,” she said. “I just know it.”

As Rachel thanked her, she was aware that Shelley wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring into the distance.

“What?” Rachel said, stopping in midchew and frowning. “What is it?”

“Right,” Shelley whispered, leaning across the table. “I’m about to tell you something and after I’ve told you, I don’t want you to move. OK?”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll see you.”

“Who?”

“Your mother. She’s sitting at a table by the exit. And she’s with a bloke.”

Despite her best efforts to play down her mother’s flirting on the phone with Simon the upholsterer, Rachel couldn’t help having her doubts about it being nothing more than a bit of harmless fun. She’d mentioned it to Shelley last night. Her view had been that although it was impossible to rule out the possibility of an affair, it was highly unlikely, bearing in mind Faye was in her sixties and, as far as anybody knew, happily married.

It had put Rachel’s mind to rest, but only temporarily. This morning when her father phoned to ask her if Sam would like a camera for Christmas, she hadn’t been able to resist dropping Tiggy Bristol into the conversation.

“Who?” Jack had said, chortling at the daft-sounding name. “Never heard of her.”

By the time she got off the phone, Rachel had been feeling distinctly troubled.

* * * * *

“You absolutely sure it’s my mum?” she said, now twisting round in her seat.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Where is she? I can’t see her.” By now Rachel was almost on her feet. “God, is she with Simon the upholsterer?”

“Well, he’s not actually tacking chintz to his chair, but I suppose it could be him. Rache, for heaven’s sake sit down or she’ll see you.”

Rachel sat down and turned back toward Shelley. “What day is it?” she asked.

“Friday. Why?”

“That’s the day they arranged to meet. Friday, at five thirty.” She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes after.

“OK,” Shelley said, “just take it easy. Now then, let’s try again. She’s at the table to the left of the exit sign. On my signal turn round very, very slowly. . . . Right, go.”

Rachel turned. “Oh my God,” she said, in a whispered screech, “he can’t be more than thirty. Christ, you were right. My mum’s got a boy toy.”

“You don’t know that for certain. This could be completely innocent.” Shelley paused. “Mind you,” she continued dreamily, “he is gorgeous. If that’s Simon, he can strip off my upholstery any night of the week.”

“Shelley,” Rachel said, starting to get worked up now, “this is no laughing matter. That is the man my mother could be about to leave my father for. I mean just look at her. I swear that coat’s brand new. And see the way he’s gazing at her? Christ, you could pour that sickly sweet look on a waffle.”

Rachel swung back round to face Shelley. “OK, what’s he doing now?” she demanded.

“He’s not doing anything. They’re just talking. I have to say though, he looks nothing like an upholsterer to me. For a start his clothes are far too trendy.”

“What do you expect?” Rachel said. “A brocade suit with fringes and tassels?”

“Not exactly. He just looks a bit too—I dunno—Soho House, I suppose. Look at that black rubbery mac thing he’s wearing. . . . Ooh, and that’s a Paul Smith shoulder bag he’s opening. I got the same one for my dad last Christmas.”

“What? You bought your dad a Paul Smith shoulder bag? But he’s even older than my dad.”

“Yeah, well, I got my mum a Vivienne Westwood bustier top and I didn’t want him to feel left out. . . .”

“Jeez, no wonder you’re always hard up. So what do you think he is, if he isn’t an upholsterer?”

“Something media-ish, I’d say. Probably TV.”

“Maybe he’s a TV upholsterer,” Rachel said, giggling despite herself, “with his own show. ‘. . . and tonight, on
Loose Covers,
Simon the shagging sofa supremo stuffs Faye Katz from Chingford.’ ”

Laughing, Shelley started pouring more Evian into her cup, but stopped. “They seem to be leaving.”

Rachel swung round again. “OK. So am I,” she said, scraping her chair back and getting up. “I’m going to follow them. My mother is either having an affair or is about to and I’m not going to sit back and let her chuck away forty years of marriage.” She began putting on her coat.

“Right, I’m coming too,” Shelley announced. “But I’m telling you, Rache, this could all be perfectly innocent. If you’ve got it wrong, you’re going to look like such a twonk.”

“Believe me,” Rachel declared, “I have not got it wrong.”

* * * * *

It was getting close to six o’clock and the crowds of shoppers had thinned considerably. Although this made it easy for the two women to follow their quarry through Selfridges, it also meant they stood a greater chance of being spotted.

They’d gone no more than a few yards when Faye and Simon stopped.

“Oh no,” Rachel squealed in panic. “They’re coming back this way. Quick. Freeze.”

“What d’you mean, freeze?”

“Pretend to be a mannequin.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shelley hissed. “Your mother’ll recognize us. Duck behind one of the garment rails.”

“No, look. Even better. The wig counter over there. We can make out we’re trying on wigs.”

Rachel made a dash for the counter. Shelley trotted slowly behind her, supporting the underside of her bump with her hands. They each grabbed a wig, pulled it on and stood facing the mirror with their backs to the main thoroughfare.

Faye and Simon passed within feet of them.

“That was close,” Rachel whispered, aware that her heart was thumping.

“Tell me about it,” Shelley said breathlessly.

“You OK?”

“Rachel, stop fussing. I’m fine.”

As Shelley pulled off the bubble-cut wig she’d been wearing, she eyed Rachel’s blond bob, which she’d managed to put on backward so that her face was completely obscured.

“Oh my God,” Shelley hooted, “it’s Cousin Itt. Not many people could carry off that look. But, you know, Rache, I think it’s very you.” She parted the hair hanging down over Rachel’s face and pushed it behind her ears.

“Funnee,” Rachel said, looking round urgently. “Oh God, we’ve lost them.”

“No we haven’t,” Shelley said calmly. “There they are, heading toward lingerie.”

“Why does that not amaze me?” Rachel said, shaking her head slowly.

They watched from behind a seven-foot-high Christmas tree decorated in scarlet and green sequined bras and suspender belts, as Simon and Faye wandered leisurely around the stands. Occasionally one of them would stop to finger a pair of lace panties or a bra. At one point Simon held up a black lace G-string and grinned at Faye. Then Faye picked up a red Wonderbra. Simon grinned again and Faye burst into fits of giggles.

“Well,” Rachel muttered sarcastically, “I’d say this all looks perfectly innocent, wouldn’t you?”

Shelley looked at her a bit shamefaced and said nothing.

In the end Faye and Simon appeared to decide on a La Perla bra and panty set in cream satin and lace. The two women watched as Simon took out his credit card and paid while Faye looked on, all coquettish smiles.

They followed the pair down to the ground floor, out through the revolving doors and into the freezing, damp evening. A second later Simon was hailing a cab.

“Oh no,” Rachel cried. “We’re going to lose them.”

She ran to the edge of the pavement, praying for a yellow light. Three or four taxis passed in quick succession, each with its lights off. By now Shelley had caught up with her.

“They’ve gone, Rache,” she said softly. “Look.”

Rachel watched as the cab carrying Simon and her mother did a U-turn and sped westward toward Marble Arch.

Rachel had just finished slamming her foot into a large puddle when she turned round to see a woman in a trench coat and too much foundation standing next to her. Ramrod straight, she towered over Rachel.

“Excuse me, madam,” the woman said, adjusting her tan leather shoulder bag. “Would you mind accompanying me back into the store?”

She reached out and took Rachel’s arm.

“Sorry?” Rachel stammered, utterly taken aback. She turned to Shelley as if to say “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I think you may have some merchandise you haven’t paid for,” the woman said.

“Omigod, Rache,” Shelley exclaimed, “the Cousin Itt wig. You forgot to take it off.”

* * * * *

The store detective stood leaning against her desk, arms folded, listening patiently to the women’s breathless, disjointed and rambling story about Faye’s bush waxing, her lunches with the nonexistent Tiggy Bristol, her affair with Simon the maybe TV upholsterer and the chase through the lingerie department that had called for urgent disguises. Five minutes in, her eyebrows were arched so high in disbelief, they looked like they were about to disappear under her hairline.