Puppies Are For Life. Linda Phillips
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members of the family cavorted around them. That was how she had always thought of him, if she’d thought of him at all: as something of a loner; a bit of an odd-ball whom nobody understood, except maybe herself. Perhaps she took after him, she mused, lifting a black satin party dress from the wardrobe rail.
Of course, black satin was entirely unsuitable for a funeral, even supposing she could still get into the dress, which was doubtful, but it had long been one of her favourites and she couldn’t help holding it against herself, recalling happier days. Days when she had been content with her lot and this madness about wanting fulfilment hadn’t seized her. What had happened to change things? Was Paul right? Should she really see a doctor?
She turned her head from the mirror to listen to a sound outside. As if conjured up by her thoughts, Paul’s car had squeaked to a halt on the drive. And that was him coming into the cottage. Now he’d stopped on his way through the kitchen – no doubt to look at the day’s mail – and silence fell once more.
Susannah pretended absorption in her task, dreading the coming confrontation. Another battle, she thought wearily, because she no longer felt inclined to apologise. And the likelihood of Paul suddenly seeing the light and showing understanding towards her was very remote indeed.
Eventually – after what seemed like decades – Paul creaked up the steep little staircase to their room in search of her. She didn’t have to look round to know that he had come into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed, his jaw tense and truculent as he slowly pulled off his tie.
But suddenly he was behind her, much closer than she had imagined, his hand coming up to knead the back of her neck.
‘Susie,’ he sighed into her hair, ‘I’d forgotten all about your old Uncle Bert. And I’m sorry. No wonder you’ve been so uptight. It must have been a bit much, coming on top of the kids flying the nest and us selling up the old family home.’ He turned her round to face him, his hand still massaging imagined knots at the top of her spine. ‘There’ve been too many changes in a short space of time,’ he told her, smiling down at her indulgently. ‘I think perhaps I should have been surprised if you hadn’t blown your top. Don’t you?’
She swallowed her amazement and gazed back at him; he had actually managed to come up with a solution that let them both off the hook without either of them having to admit they were in the wrong.
Did he really believe his own reasoning, though? His expression revealed nothing, it seldom did, but she thought not. The problem was still obvious to them both, and they really ought to discuss it. But when it came to relationships it was typical of Paul to sweep difficult issues under the carpet.
He couldn’t help being that way: he had been brought up by a single aunt, his parents having been killed in a London air-raid towards the end of the war, and he had had only narrow experience of relationships. His views on parenthood and families were consequently based on ideals, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that they might fall short in any way.
‘Paul, I –’ she began, but he put a finger to her lips.
‘Don’t let’s waste any more time, analysing,’ he said, turning away. ‘It’s all over. Finished. Forget it.’
‘OK.’ She caved in. She hadn’t the energy to pursue the matter right then.
‘Well, what do you think of this for the funeral?’ she asked, snatching at a hanger and swinging a pleated skirt around on it. ‘I’ve a jacket that matches, somewhere.’
‘It’s fine. Perfect. I like it.’ The relief in his voice was obvious: they were back on an even keel. He flashed her his most wicked grin, which prompted her to throw the garment aside in disgust.
‘It looks like my old school uniform,’ she said.
‘I know; I remember it from your old photographs.’ He squeezed her bottom. ‘Perhaps that’s why I like it.’
‘Cradle-snatcher pervert,’ she murmured, knowing he was nothing of the sort. She nestled against his chest. She hated not being friends as much as he did and wondered again why she had rocked the marital boat. Held tight in the circle of his arms, the temptation to forget her crazy ideas was immense; life would be so much easier if she could do that. Could she?
Paul unbuttoned his shirt and drew her closely against him so that she could feel his erection against her navel. For a moment she tensed and almost prevented him from taking things any further, but then she remembered that they could make love when and wherever they fancied without fear of interruption, or the possible embarrassment of their offspring. It had taken them a while to adjust to this new-found freedom, but when they had got used to the idea they had made love joyfully and with abandon in just about every room in the house.
‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?’ Paul asked, unclipping the fastening on her bra. ‘Drive us both up to London?’
‘To the funeral?’ Her head jerked up, leaving the tickly nest of chest hair and the comforting smell of his skin. For Paul to make such an offer was a penance indeed. ‘But why? You hardly even knew my uncle.’
‘Neither did you,’ he tossed back at her, then he quickly compressed his lips. But he was too late; he’d given the game away. Using Uncle Bert as an excuse for his wife’s odd behaviour didn’t wash.
Desire flew out of the window.
‘You’ll hate the funeral, you know you will,’ she said, pulling away from his arms. ‘It’s not your kind of thing. Thanks all the same, Paul, but I’ll go on my own as planned.’
Julia crawled across the mattress to her own side of the bed, her buttocks wobbling invitingly. Leaning out to retrieve her nightdress, she was careful to take her time; Harvey would get a good long – and hopefully stimulating – view. But it was no good and they both knew it, although there was nothing he would have liked more than to oblige her.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sighed, staring helplessly. Oh to feel normal again!
‘It’s OK,’ she said, and collapsed into the pillows.
‘But it’s your birthday …’
‘I said it’s OK. It can’t be helped. Forget it.’
‘But we always do something special on our birthdays.’
‘Well, we’ll have to do something else that’s special, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m getting o-o-old,’ he said, dragging the last word out into a long self-pitying moan. ‘Correction, I am old.’
‘You’re only as old as you feel, Harvey.’
‘Right now I feel a hundred.’
Julia knelt up beside him and began pulling the sparse folds of shiny blue satin over her shaggy, highlighted hair. She wriggled, shaking the bed as she eased the garment over her breasts. Harvey looked on morosely as he watched them bounce, rubber-like, back into place. Nothing.
‘Look,’ she said, sliding under the quilt, ‘this is only a temporary thing. It’s like – well – missing periods, you know? You get a shock in your life, a bit of bad news, and the next thing you know your body’s all up the creek. Women are used to this sort of thing. Well, I am anyway; you know what my cycle’s like.’
Harvey did know. He had had to learn to live with it.
‘It’s this being pensioned off that’s done it,’ Julia went on. ‘But we’ll get over it soon. You’ll see.’
‘Made redundant,’ he corrected through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t make it sound even worse than it already is. And it’s nothing whatever like missed bloody periods! For heaven’s sake, girl –’ he thumped the mattress with his fists – ‘don’t