Parkview Avenue looking like The Great Gatsby. Besides, she felt
a bit sick.
Still, he had left the kettle on so he must be somewhere. It wasn’t like Henry to go out
and leave the kettle on. She looked in the lounge. It had been the sitting-room until
lunchtime when Sally called her sitting-room a lounge. She looked in the dining-room, now
the diner, and even in the garden but Henry had vanished, taking, with him the car, and
her hopes that nipple-sucking would bring new meaning to their marriage and put an end to
her body contact deprivation. Finally she gave up the search and made herself a nice pot
of tea and sat in the kitchen wondering what on earth had induced her to marry a male
chauvinist pig like Henry Wilt who wouldn’t have known a good fuck if he had been handed
one on a plate and whose idea of a sophisticated evening was a boneless chicken curry at
the New Delhi and a performance of King Lear at the Guildhall. Why couldn’t she have
married someone like Gaskell Pringsheim who entertained Swedish professors at Ma Tante
and who understood the importance of clitoral stimulation as a necessary
con-something-or-other of a truly satisfying interpersonal penetration? Other
people still found her attractive. Patrick Mottram did and so did John Frost who taught her
pottery, and Sally had said she was lovely. Eva sat staring into space, the space between
the washing-up rack and the Kenwood mixer Henry had given her for Christmas, and thought
about Sally and how she had looked at her so strangely when she was changing into her lemon
loungers. Sally had stood, in the doorway of the Pringsheims’ bedroom, smoking a cigar and
watching her movements with a sensual calculation that had made Eva blush.
‘Darling, you have such a lovely body,’ she had said as Eva turned hurriedly and
scrambled into the trousers to avoid revealing the hole in her panties. ‘You mustn’t let it
go to waste.’
‘Do you really think they suit me?’
But Sally had been staring at her breasts intently. ‘Booby baby,’ she murmured. Eva
Wilt’s breasts were prominent and Henry, in one of his many off moments, had once said
something about the dogs of hell going dingalingaling for you but not for me. Sally was
more appreciative, and had insisted that Eva remove her bra and bum it. They had gone
down to the kitchen and had drunk Tequila and had put the bra on a dish with a sprig of holly
on it and Sally had poured brandy over it and had set it alight. They had to carry the dish
out into the garden because it smelt so horrible and smoked so much and they had lain on
the grass laughing as it smouldered. Looking back on the episode Eva regretted her
action. It had been a good bra with double-stretch panels designed to give confidence
where a woman needs it, as the TV adverts put it. Still, Sally had said she owed it to
herself as a free woman and with two drinks inside her Eva was in no mood to argue.
‘You’ve got to feel free,’ Sally had said. ‘Free to be. Free to be.’
‘Free to be what?’ said Eva.
‘Yourself, darling,’ Sally whispered, ‘your secret self,’ and had touched her
tenderly where Eva Wilt, had she been sober and less elated, would staunchly have denied
having a self. They had gone back into the house and had lunch, a mixture of more Tequila,
salad and Ryvita and cottage cheese which Eva, whose appetite for food was almost as
omnivorous as her enthusiasm for new experiences, found unsatisfying. She had
hinted as much but Sally had poohpoohed the idea of three good meals a day.
‘It’s not good caloriewise to have a high starch intake,’ she said, ‘and besides it’s not
how much you put into yourself but what. Sex and food, honey, are much the same. A little a
lot is better than a lot a little. ‘ She had poured Eva another Tequila, insisted she
take a bite of lemon before knocking it back and had helped her upstairs to the
a bit sick.
Still, he had left the kettle on so he must be somewhere. It wasn’t like Henry to go out
and leave the kettle on. She looked in the lounge. It had been the sitting-room until
lunchtime when Sally called her sitting-room a lounge. She looked in the dining-room, now
the diner, and even in the garden but Henry had vanished, taking, with him the car, and
her hopes that nipple-sucking would bring new meaning to their marriage and put an end to
her body contact deprivation. Finally she gave up the search and made herself a nice pot
of tea and sat in the kitchen wondering what on earth had induced her to marry a male
chauvinist pig like Henry Wilt who wouldn’t have known a good fuck if he had been handed
one on a plate and whose idea of a sophisticated evening was a boneless chicken curry at
the New Delhi and a performance of King Lear at the Guildhall. Why couldn’t she have
married someone like Gaskell Pringsheim who entertained Swedish professors at Ma Tante
and who understood the importance of clitoral stimulation as a necessary
con-something-or-other of a truly satisfying interpersonal penetration? Other
people still found her attractive. Patrick Mottram did and so did John Frost who taught her
pottery, and Sally had said she was lovely. Eva sat staring into space, the space between
the washing-up rack and the Kenwood mixer Henry had given her for Christmas, and thought
about Sally and how she had looked at her so strangely when she was changing into her lemon
loungers. Sally had stood, in the doorway of the Pringsheims’ bedroom, smoking a cigar and
watching her movements with a sensual calculation that had made Eva blush.
‘Darling, you have such a lovely body,’ she had said as Eva turned hurriedly and
scrambled into the trousers to avoid revealing the hole in her panties. ‘You mustn’t let it
go to waste.’
‘Do you really think they suit me?’
But Sally had been staring at her breasts intently. ‘Booby baby,’ she murmured. Eva
Wilt’s breasts were prominent and Henry, in one of his many off moments, had once said
something about the dogs of hell going dingalingaling for you but not for me. Sally was
more appreciative, and had insisted that Eva remove her bra and bum it. They had gone
down to the kitchen and had drunk Tequila and had put the bra on a dish with a sprig of holly
on it and Sally had poured brandy over it and had set it alight. They had to carry the dish
out into the garden because it smelt so horrible and smoked so much and they had lain on
the grass laughing as it smouldered. Looking back on the episode Eva regretted her
action. It had been a good bra with double-stretch panels designed to give confidence
where a woman needs it, as the TV adverts put it. Still, Sally had said she owed it to
herself as a free woman and with two drinks inside her Eva was in no mood to argue.
‘You’ve got to feel free,’ Sally had said. ‘Free to be. Free to be.’
‘Free to be what?’ said Eva.
‘Yourself, darling,’ Sally whispered, ‘your secret self,’ and had touched her
tenderly where Eva Wilt, had she been sober and less elated, would staunchly have denied
having a self. They had gone back into the house and had lunch, a mixture of more Tequila,
salad and Ryvita and cottage cheese which Eva, whose appetite for food was almost as
omnivorous as her enthusiasm for new experiences, found unsatisfying. She had
hinted as much but Sally had poohpoohed the idea of three good meals a day.
‘It’s not good caloriewise to have a high starch intake,’ she said, ‘and besides it’s not
how much you put into yourself but what. Sex and food, honey, are much the same. A little a
lot is better than a lot a little. ‘ She had poured Eva another Tequila, insisted she
take a bite of lemon before knocking it back and had helped her upstairs to the
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