Chances

‘Do you have your phone?’

‘Yep.’

‘And it has enough battery?’

‘Yes, Dad. Yes.’

‘Have a great time, then.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Enjoy.’

‘You too.’

It had been an unspoken request, initiated a couple of months ago, not to be dropped off outside a friend’s house. So Oliver had pulled up at the end of Mark’s street and though he didn’t wait until Jonty had disappeared from sight, he did turn the car very slowly so he could surreptitiously check his son’s whereabouts in the rear-view mirror. He watched him lope off and turn up the path to Mark’s.

Have fun, he thought quietly. Don’t smoke, kiddo – though a little booze won’t kill you. Have a laugh and party.

Oliver couldn’t listen to the radio. Every station had a presenter who sounded inane and the news was so depressing not even Radio 4 would do. He had a Springsteen CD in the glove compartment and he racked it up loud, singing along badly. He didn’t dwell on what lay ahead but he did want to get there. The road map was open on the passenger seat, his scribbled directions were on a piece of paper. Certain journeys were not for the sat nav. A motorway services neared. He glanced at the clock and decided to stop and buy a sandwich. He hadn’t had lunch. He ate it off his lap in the car. It was disgusting but it filled a hole. He washed it down with a can of Coke which tasted too sweet, the bubbles too large, sharp almost.

He arrived in plenty of time. It was a small market town whose high street was depressingly generic with the token Starbucks and McDonald’s, and discount book-shops, video games stores and cheap clothing emporiums from which incessant music poured out like the teenagers who shopped there. Woolworth’s remained derelict. The letters had been pulled away, but a dirty imprint spelled out the name like a grubby shroud. Oliver felt like turning around and driving away but the hotel itself was a little way further on out of the town. It was an unassuming building, old but with no immediate architectural value. However, it was spruce, freshly painted and the window boxes and pair of bay trees flanking the entrance were well tended. A girl in a white shirt and black blazer smiled from reception as he walked in.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

May I, Oliver corrected her silently. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ he said. ‘I’m a little early.’

‘Very good, sir,’ she said and Oliver thought, This is her Saturday job – she’s probably only a couple of years older than Jonty. And then Oliver thought no more of Jonty or home or of being one of the Bourne Three or that the Bourne Three were down to two and that was why he was here. Nor did he ponder what all this was about. He wiped his mind clean, took a seat in the lounge, chided himself when he saw the very nice sandwich and light snacks menu served all day, ordered a sparkling mineral water, unfolded the Saturday Times. And waited. Every now and then, he glanced around. No one new had arrived. This had happened once before and had been the most soul-destroying thing. He decided to give it perhaps ten more minutes, time enough to finish the water and the paper.

‘Pete?’

It takes Oliver a moment to click, then he looks up, smiles, stands.

‘Hi,’ he says, offering his hand, ‘Pete. You must be Louise?’ The woman nods. ‘A drink?’

‘Cup of tea,’ she says. ‘I’ll order it – don’t worry. Do you want anything else?’

‘No, thanks.’ He watches her go over to the bar. She’s tall, quite masculine really, her hair is thick and blonde and probably looks better tied back. She doesn’t look as though she’s dressed for a Saturday, she looks as though she’s wearing office clothes. And then Oliver thinks this is catty. She probably works somewhere during the week where she has to tie her hair back and wear flat shoes and slacks and thus it feels good for her to slip into court shoes and a tight skirt and wear her hair loose for a change.

She walks back to him and smiles. Very red lipstick. Nice eyes. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It falls back. Long nails. Similar shade to her lips. She matches her description well. God knows if Louise is her real name. It doesn’t matter to him just as no doubt it doesn’t matter to her whether he is Pete or Oliver or Lord Bastard Montague-Caruthers.

As she sips her tea, they talk politely if cautiously about their journeys and the weather and one or two current affairs items. And then there’s no tea left, and the ice has melted in Oliver’s glass and he’s drained that too.

‘Shall we?’ she says.

‘Sure,’ he said.

‘I’ve checked in,’ she says.

‘Please,’ says Oliver, standing and gesturing for Louise to lead the way.

She doesn’t take the lift, she opts for the stairs but Oliver won’t be able to recall that the staircase is rather fine, wide and sweeping with a lovely newel post and a banister of polished mahogany. With Louise walking ahead of him, he is focusing now only on her, on her rear, her tight skirt causing her arse to swing seductively as she climbs. He doesn’t notice the length of the corridor, he’s staring instead at her bra visible beneath her silky shirt. Ankles. Long hair, loose. Shoulders quite broad. She slides the key card into the door, opens it, her hand lingering on it as she walks into the room. Long nails. Red. The type that might grab, scratch, trace patterns over his chest. He closes the door and stares, without reading, at the emergency instructions posted on it. He turns and walks on in. She’s closing the curtains. The bed is between them. A trouser press in the corner, a tray on the desk with kettle, cups, sachets – all are noted subliminally, all will remain untouched.

They stare at each other, no awkwardness – not like the first time when he’d said to whatever her name was in that hotel in Manchester that he liked her necklace. Anyway, Louise isn’t wearing a necklace. She’s unbuttoned her shirt, her bra is lacy and semi-transparent and he can see her large dark nipples through it. He pulls his top over his head as she lets her skirt fall away and then she walks to him, in her matching underwear either bought specially for today or else kept specially for such days. She has kept her shoes on. And just then he thinks how he wants her to keep her shoes on and so he tells her so.

She’s in front of him, those red talon nails doing what they ought to do, tracing a lascivious path up and down, from his neck to his stomach to the top of his trousers, up his torso again, up his neck, over his chin to his lips. He sucks her finger into his mouth while she deftly unbuckles his belt, unzips him and slips her hand down his trousers, fast and urgently, locating his cock now bulging awkwardly in his boxers.

She squats, pulling his trousers down as she goes. She’s licking his knee – a first for him and more ticklish than erotic. She doesn’t stay there long, using her mouth and her breath over the surface of his thighs until she’s level with his groin. She pulls down his boxers and his cock springs out as if it had been gasping for air. No preamble, he’s in her mouth, all the way and at this point he is neither Pete nor Oliver, he is simply a forty-six-year-old widower who needs to fuck and doesn’t want any emotion in the way. He just needs to get rid of this basic carnal desire which goads and tortures him, he needs to empty his balls and feel the velvet comfort of a real cunt.

‘Pull my hair.’ She’s standing now, one hand around his cock, the other between her legs. ‘Be rough with me.’

He pushes her onto the bed, fumbles with a condom. Missionary would have been fine for him but she’s up on all fours with her arse bucking at him. Eyes tight shut, he rams into her from behind while she spews out a quite shocking litany of filth. He blocks it out. He might be fulfilling her fantasy – she’s probably snuck here away from some sexless marriage and her husband is probably farting in front of the footie none the wiser – but she isn’t the stuff of any fantasy of Oliver’s. All he wants from her is the consensual go-ahead to shag. Let her holler that he is to take her like the dog-bitch slut she is – he doesn’t listen. It is about his cock, his balls and a fortnight’s cache of spunk.

She’s on her back now with her great tits just begging to be fondled and sucked. She’s looped her arms under her thighs, spreading her legs wide. It’s a great view – it’s all on show, it’s just what he needs to see. He stares and stares, gorging on the sight before plunging right in. She’s bellowing. Five thrusts. Then three. Two. One.

‘Fuck,’ he says, repeating it again and again as he comes. His body feels as though it’s peeled inside out, he feels sucked into the depths of her, he can feel those talons fixed into his buttocks. She’s still writhing and humping and she’s roaring at him to make her come again. But he doesn’t want to, he just wants to go. She’s not letting him. She’s bucking and twisting and screwing herself onto his spent cock and now, thank God, she’s making coming noises. His face is buried in the pillow, turned away from her and he wants her to let go of his ear with her teeth.

‘God, that was good,’ she’s purring, dragging her nails up and down his back, through his hair. ‘I needed that.’

But Oliver can’t reply because actually, he could weep. He could sob and howl. It’s always the same these days – as soon as his balls are empty he is subsumed with an all-encompassing hollowness, a dreadful terrifying emptiness that sex without love causes. It’s a hateful situation – to need to fuck so badly, to need human touch though he knows now the utter wretchedness its aftermath brings.

But Oliver is a good man, a lovely man. He has manners and innate kindness and a sense of decorum. So he won’t run to the bathroom, change and get the hell out of there as soon as he can. He could, but he won’t. He gives himself a moment, a long moment, then he slides out of her, lies on his back, lets her lie on his chest, lets her run her hands in that post-coital languor over his torso. But he can’t feel it. His spent body is numb now, there’s nothing left inside or outside. And he can hear her talking but he’s not really listening.

‘My husband had an accident at work. We don’t have sex. He has depression – impotence. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely man. But I need sex, you know? I’m almost fifty. I love my husband – don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want to leave him and I don’t want to find myself drawn to having an affair. So that’s why I do the websites – because they’re discreet, aren’t they? People like me – like you – good people who have needs. It’s saved my marriage. Do you know that? It’s saved it.’ She pauses for breath. Oliver hopes she’ll start up again with, Well, anyway, I’d better go now. Thanks a lot and good luck!

But no.

‘So Pete – tell me. Shall we meet again? I work part-time. I could be here Wednesday.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Home? Wife?’

‘Something like that,’ he says.

‘You told me your wife isn’t around?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You just don’t want another relationship?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, nor do I. That suits me. I could do this time next week, then, if you can’t do Wednesday.’

‘I’ll check – and I’ll email you.’ He smiles at her. ‘I’ll email you if I can do this time next week.’

And he hates it that her eyes light up. She no longer looks or sounds like the horny vixen who’d screwed him senseless minutes ago. She looks, now, on the plain side of normal but her eyes don’t sparkle, they have a dullness, a sadness. Everything about her expression points to too much hope at the thought of being able to escape home again this time next week. Her make-up has smudged. Oliver wonders if at some point during sex, she’d wept silently too.