Beneath the Skin(75)

The notion that he was father-like was a blow, an unexpected blow. It wasn’t an unfair suggestion, even if he is only eight years or so older than Antonia. It’s what he intended, absolutely. Yet it hurt. Dreadfully. He drank the glass of wine quickly and made his excuses. Said he’d call for a taxi. ‘What, already?’ she said, her eyes looking forlorn. Then she recovered herself. ‘I’ll drive you. Of course. But before you go, I just wanted to show you …’

He feels his heart pumping in his chest with the effort of running. His pace is faster than usual. He wants to run down by the Mersey river to the water park, to sit on a bench and watch the birds at the lake.

She knelt in front of Mike’s chair and unbuttoned the sleeve of her crisp white blouse. Then she rolled the sleeve up, layer by layer in neat folds until her slim arm was fully exposed. Her eyes were glued to his, expectant. ‘It’s healed,’ he observed, conscious of her body, her exquisite face. ‘I know!’ she replied, beaming. Pleased. Like a child.

He was angry then. ‘What the fuck,’ he wanted to say. ‘What the fuck do you want from me? Do you really not know what you’re doing to me?’

She sat back and looked hurt. ‘You’re cross with me. I thought you’d be pleased that I haven’t …’ Her small voice trailed off.

‘I am. It’s great. It’s just—’

‘What have I done wrong?’ she asked, her eyes still on his.

He wanted to stand, to escape, but if he stood at that moment it would be all too apparent what was wrong.

‘Nothing at all. Really. You probably want some peace,’ he replied.

She leaned forward again, her body between his thighs, her hand reaching up to his face.

‘Your hair.’ She smiled, running smooth fingers through it. ‘It’s going curly.’

‘Perhaps you should trim it—’ he started to reply. But by then the weight of her upper body was firm on his groin. He could smell her skin, feel her breath. Then her lips, her soft lips.

Lifting his hands to her face, he kissed her, deeply kissed, momentarily lost and unable to stop. Then summoning all that remained of his self-control, he pulled away, lifted her smooth hands from around his neck and held them firmly in his. ‘I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. You’re full of grief and confusion and unanswered questions and I’m …’

The drizzle has turned to rain. Mike’s legs feel heavy. He’s had far too little sleep. But his head is determined as he runs against the flow of the river.

‘Coffee for you,’ Barry says.

Sophie opens her eyes and sees her dad clearly. She stretches out a leg from beneath the blanket. Her whole body aches. The wine sent her straight off last night. A good thing, she notes looking down. She’s considerably longer than Barry’s black leather sofa.

He holds out the steaming drink. He met her wine glass for glass during the evening. Yet he looks fresh and alert, scrubbed and dressed in his nurse’s uniform for work.

‘You’ll be gone when I’m back?’

Sophie sits up, pulls out the hair trapped behind her back and takes the mug. ‘Is that a question or a command?’

Barry grins. ‘Come on, Soph. You’re all grown up now. You wouldn’t want to spoil your old dad’s love life.’

Sophie blinks, finally registering what’s wrong. She fell asleep wearing her contact lenses. She’s awoken with sight, which feels particularly ironic today.

‘Why did you marry Mum?’ she asks, looking carefully at his handsome face.

‘We went over this last night.’

‘OK. Then why did you betray her? It wasn’t as though it was just the once.’

He turns his head towards a photograph of Sophie as a child. She’s squeezed between her two smaller brothers, wearing the pink National Health glasses she hated. He shrugs. ‘It’s complicated. I never really analysed it.’

‘Liar.’

He turns away, picks up a canvas bag and some keys. ‘It was lovely to see you, Soph. Pull the door to when you leave. And call me in advance next time.’

Barry plays with the keys for a moment, his back to her. ‘I always felt inadequate and blamed her. I needed the endorsement. Pathetic really, and self-perpetuating.’ He turns and nods with a small smile, then blows Sophie a kiss and leaves.

It’s so hard to judge. It isn’t like the old days when Antonia didn’t care. ‘Take it from me,’ Sophie always said. ‘If you want to do it, they definitely want to.’ She slept around, as did Sophie, if bushes and bus stops and bedsits counted as sleeping. Antonia liked the kissing mostly, the foreplay sometimes, but the intercourse rarely.

It was fine with David. He was always gentle and there were times when she almost came. At least she thought so. But David never seemed to notice. ‘Say please,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me you want me.’ So she said the words and David would orgasm and laugh joyously. He was happy, delighted, which made her happy too.

The mistake, long ago when they were teenagers, was to confide in Sophie. They were lying on Sophie’s bed at her mum’s house. They’d been with some boys drinking pear cider in Wythenshawe Park and she was tipsy, too tipsy.

‘I don’t really like it that much,’ Antonia had confessed. ‘It doesn’t hurt or anything, but I don’t feel … Well, nothing happens.’