Beneath the Skin(30)
Yet as he presses his foot on the accelerator of his car and listens to the throb of the engine, his mind’s with her, with him and her, her touch, her breath and her skin, so unbelievably soft. His body is tingling, alert. He wants her now as much as he ever has.
‘Fuck,’ he says as the road opens out. Fuck, fuck. It isn’t supposed to be this way.
Charlie sits opposite David in his office, talking. His face is puce and he’s gesticulating far more than usual, so perhaps ranting would be a more accurate description. But David isn’t listening. He’s thinking about God. The God he doesn’t believe in, if anyone asks. Not just thinking, but talking. He finds it helps when his heart starts to race, the chat slows it down and helps him breathe. He isn’t sure whether he actually talks to God, or just to himself. He doesn’t go to church, he hasn’t been to church since belting out the words to ‘Jerusalem’ at school every Sunday morning, but he finds it helpful to say, ‘Dear God’ or ‘Dear Lord God’, when he’s talking to himself. When he’s hoping and praying and trying to stay calm.
‘I mean who pays the blasted school fees?’ David eventually hears.
He tries to focus on Charlie and for a moment he watches the animation of Charlie’s mouth. Small bubbles of saliva are accumulating at one corner.
‘That’s what I said to the bloody headmaster. I’ve probably paid for a whole new tennis court with the charitable donations alone,’ Charlie rants.
David was brought up by his parents to say his prayers at night, tucked up in bed before sleep. Eyes closed and palms together, the Lord’s Prayer voiced in unison. It was the one moment of demonstrative affection between father and son.
His parents weren’t churchgoers. ‘It would be strange, listening to sermons in all those different languages,’ David’s father had explained.
‘Different but interesting,’ his mother had retorted.
‘So you do believe in God?’ young David had asked, with surprise.
‘Only the God of love,’ his mother had laughed, dismissing his father’s frown with a wave of her elegant hand.
When he was sent away to school, his prayers were like a mantra. To God, or to the God of love, so long as he said his prayers every night and at chapel every day, his parents would be safe, he would see them soon.
‘So now we’ve got Rupert at home sleeping in until lunch and then disappearing off to God knows where until he needs to be fed. He’s meant to be bloody revising, not acting like a domestic pet. Could you have a word with him, David? He’s always loved you. He might listen.’
David nods. Charlie looks exhausted, old. ‘Course I will, though I doubt he’ll listen to me.’ Insurance, Antonia, his parents and money. Prayers work, he thinks, but only to a point.
Sami sits at his desk, thinking. He’s held back from texting. Waiting for her to text him, which she hasn’t, which does his head in. He isn’t used to this. Since being a tiny, asthmatic child, what Sami Richards wants, Sami gets.
‘Baby of the family and the only boy. Well, that explains it. You are unbelievably spoilt. You do know that, don’t you?’ Sophie stated on their first proper date.
‘No I’m not! Why do you say that?’ He was genuinely surprised. He didn’t feel spoilt. He used his charm to good effect, he knew, but spoilt? Spoilt wasn’t a pleasant word.
‘Your sisters do your supermarket shopping, your mum travels from Yorkshire to clean your flat. Leaves little love notes “from Momma”.’
The spoilt list went on. Charm, he insisted. Spoilt, she retorted. They agreed to disagree, eventually.
Sami drums his fingers on the desk and then pulls out his iPhone. Tomorrow? What time? he types, ponders for a moment, then adds, Thinking wicked thoughts. Can’t wait to see you. He presses send.
His private line rings almost instantaneously. ‘Ha!’ his ego sings.
Still sitting at Olivia’s kitchen table, Antonia looks at her watch, surprised at the time. As she lay in bed fretting about the visit here last night, she expected to stay for an hour at most. She expected to be tense and shy, to feel inadequate and stupid. Olivia has always been friendly, but she’s clever, she’s educated, reads the Guardian and has opinions. But time has flown by, the coffee interrupted by telephone calls, the window cleaner, a crying neighbour with her crying baby and the insistent beep of the washing machine. There has been no time to feel tense.
When they finally sit down on the long sofa in the lounge, Antonia studies Olivia’s face. Perhaps there’s a hint of tiredness around her eyes, smudges of pale grey on her fair skin. ‘So you were up at five with Hannah, you made breakfast and lunch boxes, walked the girls to different schools, had a word with Rachel’s teacher, visited a new mum and her baby on the way home, changed the bedding …’ Antonia laughs as she counts the chores on her fingers, marvelling at how much Olivia manages to fit in to a weekday morning. By eleven she’d made David a bacon sandwich, had tea in bed and got dressed.
‘The bedding wasn’t until you came. But you’ve forgotten Tesco local for bread and milk on the way back from school.’
‘Tesco, of course!’
Antonia smiles, but her mind is on the white bap bacon sandwich which she found untouched on the kitchen island when she came down from the shower. It looked forlorn, abandoned. She should’ve said goodbye to David before he left, she should’ve given him a kiss.