Ménage Page 14

  The new year brought the collapse of Bush’s New World Order and Bill Clinton had been elected promising radical change, but I cared little for political ethics. I had gone over to the other side and become an agent of deceit. Not a moment passed without my trying to concoct schemes to have Dot in my arms, behind Saul’s back. They had been fighting regularly and I sensed he was onto us so redoubled my guard.

  Adultery ideally should happen when one’s partner is away, in a hotel room, in a stranger’s apartment, not within the confines of such a tiny flat where all is heard and felt through the thin partitions. Every inch of that stinking flat became a possible trap for me then. I gauged angles of doors and perspectives along the corridor to judge if Saul could see Dot and me together, I estimated how much light seeped into the kitchen and if there was enough darkness in there for us to hide our stolen kisses, which had been many and, although very brief, still intense. The flat was L-shaped and my room was in the middle, their two rooms being at the other extremities, so I was perfectly placed for spying on him to work out when the coast was clear.

  I was washing her panties in the bathroom. No, that’s not entirely true – let us say, I was in the bath with her panties when suddenly there was a tiny knock at the door.

  — Is it you? I whispered.

  — Let me in.

  I hastily threw the wet panties behind the cistern, stood, then did my best to conceal my erection with the tea towel, it being the only towel we had (and gingham if I recall). I thought, surely the time had come for us to move to the next stage, possibly even consummate our love, but I was overcome with shyness as she squeezed her way inside, in her T-shirt and panties.

  — Did you sneak away? Is he sleeping? I asked, anxiously. She giggled and sat on the edge of the bath. I wanted to hold her but was anxious that the tea towel might fall, or worse still, be left free-standing on my erection, as if it were a towel rack.

  — He’ll be so jealous, she said. — Shh, secret. I had thought the secrecy was about the act I hoped we were about to perform, but she was talking about the art she wanted us to both make.

  I sat on the edge of the bath and crossed my legs trying to hide my throbbing affliction while she, surprisingly oblivious to nudity, ranted and raved, her hands drawing pictures in the air. It came to her in a dream she said.

  — I’m going to walk backwards with my eyes closed, like the stage-diving, yeah, like this game I used to play in therapy, you walk backwards, like a hundred yards, and they catch you at the end, you know . . . of the room, but this time, I want to do it on the street, and you’re going to catch me. And I’m going to film my face walking backwards and you can’t let me open my eyes . . . on the street or in the supermarket, like a sleepwalker . . . or . . .

  She described it in great detail and it amazed me that she had paid so little attention to the reality of our location, my condition and the fact that Saul could walk in on us at any moment. I pulled the bath plug out and the water started gurgling, rather too loudly. I said the walking blind thing was a brilliant idea but proposed that maybe we should wait till another day because it was 3 a.m. and the clubs would be coming out and the drunks may not have as great a grasp of aesthetics.

  — You’re so sweet, she said and smiled as she finally came out of her dream state and noticed the tea towel over my crotch. She stroked my cheek and kissed me. I could hear myself moaning as the kiss lingered. She touched my chest, my stomach, my tea towel fell and I gasped. I could not help it. It had no doubt been due to my prepared state of arousal before she’d entered.

  – Quick, quick, Saul’s come . . . coming . . .

  I pushed her swiftly out and tried to hold it in by tightening my muscles. I pinched my foreskin but it was too late. Jism shot all over the Artex wall and gingham as I collapsed with a groan. Thank God, she had not witnessed my weakness, I told myself, and decided that before we could consummate correctly, I’d have to practise solving my duration problem.

  *

  The next morning she ran off in an excited fluster to Goldsmiths, to meet Lucas and Pierce and all her new art chums, to discuss her part in this Bug show. No sooner had Dot left than Saul leapt into my room, looking over his shoulder, then out the window checking she wasn’t coming back.

  — Kitchen! he announced. — I have to speak to you in the strictest confidence. It was absurd, I seemed to be sneaking in and out of rooms with them both, for entirely opposite reasons. As I followed him into the grime and stench, I feared the worst.

  — I cannot tolerate this situation a moment longer, he whispered.

  I waited for his judgement on my betrayal.

  He looked over his shoulder again at the front door.

  — OK, if she comes back just pretend we’re washing the dishes or something.

  At which point he turned on the tap. It blasted back at him, splashing his Victorian cravat and Blonde Ambition T-shirt. He made a play-act of pretending to wash the dishes, even going so far as to pull on the yellow rubber gloves.

  — Alone at last, he said finally. – She’s incorrigible, like a bitch on heat! You know I can’t bear these psychological exertions . . . she’s becoming more than a little unhinged . . . N’est-ce pas?

  I stared at the sight of him repeatedly tapping his temple with the yellow washing glove.

  — Well, no, I mean, as you say she’s probably just a bit overexcited by your books.

  — Dammit, you’re right! I should never have told her about the Duchess. God knows, she might be out there tying people up and pissing in their eye sockets.

  He stared at the soap bubbles then turned to me.

  — I know it’s been hard for you to endure, old chum, but I can assure you the game’s over, so you needn’t be planning on leaving . . . You weren’t, were you? I mean, you’re not? I couldn’t bear to be left alone with her.

  I couldn’t believe he’d got everything so wrong.

  — No, no, I’m going nowhere.

  — Nowhere, fantastic! Best place to be, been trying to get there all my life.

  And, quite remarkably, he hugged me, splashing bubbles everywhere.

  — By the way, I am awfully sorry about all the . . .

  I was dumbfounded. He was apologising for the first time and still holding me.

  — Sorry, you’re sorry about the . . .?

  He quickly withdrew and resumed his pretend washing.

  — Look, you have to promise me one thing, OK? You’re not to leave me alone with her. OK?

  — OK, I suppose.

  — Christ Almighty, look lively! he shrieked. — I think she’s coming.

  As the door creaked open and Dot’s smiling face appeared, she must have witnessed a scene of surreal domesticity. Two tramps in the kitchen doing a whistle-while-you work routine.

  — Don’t worry about us, my dear, Saul said, — just doing a spot of ethnic cleansing.

  The coming night, at Saul’s behest, I was sat directly between him and Dot on his fungal sofa (‘To keep the heated bitch at bay’) while we rewatched The Rizla Game on telly. After a while he winked at me, as if to say, Shh, don’t let her know, we’re best off without her. Then within minutes Dot secretly touched my knee and winked, as if to say, Hi, lover boy. I was literally trapped in the middle.

  ‘An excessive tendency towards mediocrity and diplomacy is your failing,’ Saul had often said of me, so I decided I had to be decisive and stretched my arm round the back of the sofa to reach for Dot. Our fingers met, her thumb circled mine. Saul jumped up suddenly.

  — Ye gads! How now, a rat!

  We both jumped, hands separating.

  — The bastard, back there!

  I pretended to search for the beast behind the sofa. My hands running over dust balls, an old sock, some long-fossilised pasta, many fag ends and what might have been one of Dot’s fake moustaches.

  — Nothing back here!

  — Let me see, Dot said, and soon we were behind the sofa stealing another kiss, tongues circling
.

  How do you feel towards the one you are betraying? I had started to pity him. If only he knew, every one of his sniping little put-downs over these years was now overruled by the greater truth – ‘I have her now and you are a fool, my master.’

  But also some small hatred grew. He could not see the anxiety my minute-by-minute performance was causing me. I was lying right to his face and getting away with it, and the world looked none too friendly from that perspective. The cost of getting caught was living in constant fear over the tiniest slip. It was impossible to keep going at that intensity, that degree of attention to detail. That was why people broke down and confessed – not because of guilt or morals – it was simply too exhausting to commit adultery.

  That night, Dot waited by my bedroom door. Car headlights outside my window threw her shadow across me. Lit up her eyes.

  — Can I come in?

  I shook my head. — He’s going to find out. We have to pretend like maybe you should give me less attention, spend more time with him, you know, just to throw him off the scent.

  She stepped away, her head to the floor and would not turn as I whispered after her.

  — Dot? No, I didn’t mean that. Dot. Dot! Shit!

  The very next day I had to endure the hell of my own making as she ignored me almost completely. They were in the kitchen together and she was tickling him as she cooked Heinz Spaghetti. I was livid with jealousy and furious that both he and she could be so fickle in their allegiances. We all sat in his darkened room listening to Nirvana while I had to endure the humiliation of witnessing her pick the spaghetti that dropped from his drunken lips and feed them to his reluctant mouth – like he was a child refusing food, spoiled brat.

  He threw spaghetti at her, she threw it back; within seconds the thing had escalated to both of them grabbing handfuls and slinging them.

  — Stop it, I screamed, — this will end in tears.

  And so it did, with the entire two plates up-ended on the floor and Saul demanding that Dot clean it up and she him. And I was the one who got the pan and brush, while she slammed his door and went back to her room.

  — You see, Saul whispered to me, — she’s a bloody loony, total liability. Do us a favour and keep her the fuck out of here, would you, there’s a chum, I’ll roll you a spliff if you do.

  When I went to Dot’s room she was staring at her floor, streaks of tomato sauce on her hair and cheeks.

  — What was that all about? I asked in whisper.

  — You . . . ignored . . . me . . . all . . . day.

  — Me? You think I . . . Look, we can’t do this here, come outside with me.

  — Who cares if he hears us? Dot shouted. — Why do we have to sneak about at all?

  — Please.

  — OK, she said. — Meet me on the stairwell in half an hour.

  I paced around anxiously. I did not know if this would be our moment but that day I had bought a packet of condoms especially, with Sensareeze lubrication – to prolong ejaculation. I heard Dot slip out, put the pack of three in my front pocket, waited a few minutes, then called out to Saul.

  — Just popping out for some fresh air! You coming, Dorothy? No? OK then, well, I’ll see you later, I suppose. I sounded very am-dram.

  I stepped out and the bare walls and piss-smelling linoleum stared back at me. She was nowhere to be seen.

  — Psssst!

  I looked up and there she was – up the steps by the door of the boarded-up first-floor flat. I climbed up and she kissed me. We were not well enough concealed behind the metal banister so I tried to work out where we could go to be alone: the library – no, closed – the subway – no, too public. The roof of the flat – if there was a ladder – the disabled public toilets on Old Street, the park, in a bush – no, not at night, too many gays in there doing their thing already – our empty warehouse, the back of Dario’s Pizzeria, behind the Portakabin by the jobcentre.

  She ran her hand up my inner thigh, felt the bulge in my jeans, laughed.

  — Sorry, I said. It’s not what you think, and took the packet out. She giggled.

  — Silly, I’m on the pill.

  — Really? But what about . . . well, you know, the dreaded . . .

  There had been that horrific advert at the time with the iceberg with ‘Aids’ written on it. The tip of the iceberg must have been the metaphor.

  — You ever had unprotected anal sex or shared a needle?

  I shrugged.

  — There’s worse things, she said. — My other pill – it makes babies come out with two heads and no arms and . . . My dad slammed me on the pill even before I knew what a cock was, just so I wouldn’t make mutants. Bodies are disgusting really. I’ve always been a bit erratic on the boyfriend front. You know – binge and purge.

  — Sorry, binge and . . .?

  — Don’t worry, I’ve taken my pill today already. Anyway after my bulimia I think my ovaries gave up. I don’t even get proper periods. You can probably spunk gallons into me and nothing’d happen.

  Somewhat shocked, I asked if it was OK if we just cuddled.

  — Oh, just kiss me, you silly sausage!

  She grabbed my face and smothered me in her lips.

  At that moment, I heard a noise below. I pulled Dot back from the banister and pushed her down. — Shh! I peered over, trying not to be seen, and watched as below Saul stepped out and looked round furtively. I feared he was searching for us. Dot tried to stand but I held her firmly back. I counted the seconds. In my mind he would climb the stairs and catch us hiding. I glanced over again and Saul was releasing an arc of urine against the steps. Looking around, he tucked himself back in and snuck back into the house.

  Dot stood up and started laughing.

  — Holy shit, so it’s him! I wonder why.

  She started walking back down, tiptoeing round the puddle.

  — Come on. Why are we hiding anyway? She laughed. — What’s the big deal? You think he cares how you feel?

  — It’s not that simple. Look, if you hadn’t started sleeping with him in the first place then –

  — You think me and him have been –

  I asked her to please, at least, continue this conversation outside. She let me march her through the front door. Round the corner by the jobcentre she was walking ahead of me laughing to herself.

  — He hates it when I run off to talk to you or when I get excited and forget him for just a minute. She squeezed my hand. — He gets horribly jealous.

  I really couldn’t believe it.

  — Him – the king of indifference?

  — Oh all that – a bloody sham! He’s as insecure as a child, always pawing at me, trying to get his little kisses, God knows why. He has a humungous cock but won’t let me touch it. And those noises he makes.

  I pretended not to know.

  — God, you must hear us, all that screaming and groaning for ages.

  — Well, maybe once or twice.

  — It’s not what you’d think. It’s me trying to wrestle him off, and him scratching me, we do this silly play-fighting wrestling stuff, it goes on for half an hour sometimes. He’s never really touched me, you know, not in that way. I mean, he just sort of wanks off beneath his kimono as he stares at me and I do the same . . . well, without the kimono of course . . . it’s utterly bizarre.

  — Really?

  — Then he feels guilty and wants his snuggles and then I fight him off, it’s this silly game, if I hurt him for real or scratch him too much he goes off in a huff. She pulled up her sleeves, showing scratch marks. Laughing.

  — And he’s horribly possessive, did you know that? He talks to me all the time in baby language . . . seriously . . . Snooky, he calls me, Snooky-bum, things like that.

  — No way, God . . .

  — May He rest in peace.

  — God, but I thought you two were . . .?

  — God, no, I kind of thought he was like some kind of, I don’t know, paternal figure sort of, but no, he’s just, we�
�re kind of like twins or something. It’s rather sick actually.

  — So really . . . I ventured, — do you think he’d mind if we told him we were . . .?

  — That we’re . . .?

  I wanted to say ‘in love’ or ‘having sex’, but the latter was certainly not true and the former increasingly doubtful.

  — You’re too, sweet, it’s no big deal, and we’ve done nothing really anyway. Anyway, right now I have to focus on the important thing, she said, — my art.

  She walked away, back towards the flat, but then I saw her flash me a smile.

  So we tried to focus on art. But beneath that respectable pursuit and behind the back of Saul, stranger perversions grew with art as their alibi. Whether or not Saul suspected our secret couplings at that point, I do not know for sure, but the threat of being caught by him aroused us incredibly.

  So it was on a certain day, in Saul’s bedroom, that he was reading aloud a chapter from his little book on the Duchess, about an orgy in Manhattan in the twenties, with Duchamp and Man Ray present if I recall, while Dot stood resting her elbows on his desk, so as to support her camera, as she filmed him. I had been sitting on the floor behind her, sorting through records, listening to Saul’s voice, amused at how the frigid man loved his naughty book.

  — ‘She was before me then, whipping the two naked girls beneath her with strings of pearls, while Johnstone smeared her anus in pâté de foie gras. The only thing I could hope to do was to try to exhaust her every urge. Bring her slaves to piss on, money to burn. Anything to save her from herself.’

  Perhaps it had been the words, for I had become aroused. From where I was sitting I could look up and see directly up Dot’s skirt. I checked round the edge of the desk and Saul could not see me. Just then Dot must have realised that another little game was starting as she readjusted her camera position and put her feet wider apart, thus presenting me with ample opportunity to feast my gaze on her freshly shaven cunt. I lay gazing up at the tight panties pulled between the labia lips, under the tent of her skirt, as she kept on filming. I slowly moved my hand up her inner thigh, feeling her tremble as Saul read on, oblivious to our antics, his voice sounding surreally from the other side of the fabric.