Read Online INCARNATION by Daniel Easterman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Easterman
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doses of HRT, silicone in bucketfuls, plastic surgery as and when, yoga with Vimla and Jerry at the Harbour, and five years’ supply of the funny little yellow pills Dr Ramesh had given Sarah. And she’d stay off the booze. No problem. She took another sip.
‘Admiring yourself again?’
Anthony’s lazy voice pulled her back to the room and the afternoon. A scarf of sunlight had worked its way through the blinds and across her breasts. She didn’t move. If he wanted her again, he could bloody well get off the bed and come over. The curtains lent the sunlight their weave. The scarf lay on her like real silk, so warm she could believe she felt it lie against her skin. She would not move, not even an inch.
'That’s the third drink you’ve had since lunch,’ he murmured. Not interfering, not even concerned. Just stating a bald fact.
She took another sip and rotated the glass so that the ice chinked gently inside.
‘I feel like it. Sex and gin go very well together.’
‘Do they?’
‘Sex gets me worked up, gin calms me down. Don’t know where I’d be without it.’
He said nothing, knowing that any remark, however carefully put, would lead to a massive over-reaction. She was defensive about her drinking. And what did he care anyway? He hadn’t started his affair with her for love, after all. He looked round the vast hotel room. It was soulless and dreary, just a tired room that held too many secrets. They’d been coming here for years, furtively at first, and openly since she left David. There wasn’t much need for it any more, but it was convenient when he wanted sex in the afternoon. The hotel was just a ten-minute walk from the office. Outside the window, a heavy boat made its way doggedly up the Thames. She still kept her back to him.
‘Your ex-husband’s been trying to get me all afternoon,’ he said.
‘Don’t call him my ex-husband. That won’t be official for absolutely ages, if it ever is.’
‘You aren’t thinking of going back to him, are you?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anthony. Don’t be so bloody bourgeois.’
He looked at her naked back, at the sunlight inching over it like silk, and felt the beginnings of another erection. It had been the same with Penelope at first. They’d been married for almost twenty years, had two lovely daughters, pursued separate careers, but sex had never been the problem for them it became for most people.
He wondered why on earth it was that thoughts of his beloved Penelope always seemed to come at the most inappropriate moments, as though he harboured guilty thoughts. And yet, he mused, guilty thoughts of what, exactly? He’d loved Penelope, more than it’s given to most people to love someone. He hadn’t had so much as a whiff of an affair while they lived together. And even afterwards, well, there’d been a long gap before he’d started his relationship with Elizabeth.
Was it easier if you split up first? he wondered. With Penelope there hadn’t been the slightest lessening of affection. It had made it seem all the more unfair at the time.
They’d owned a place in France, and flew out there several times a year. There was enough money to mean they didn’t have to rent it, which meant in turn that any of them could go over at a moment’s notice for a weekend or a week or longer.
One weekend in spring, when the girls had a little time before school restarted, Penelope had made a last-minute reservation with a small airline operating out of Gatwick.
They’d taken off in high winds - ‘well within the limits of operating safety’, according to the subsequent inquiry -and flown up into a storm much too violent for such a tiny plane. The pilot had done his best to get back down again, but he’d lost control at two thousand feet, and the craft, a Shorts 360, had gone into a long nosedive that ended in the face of a cliff. No one on board had survived. The girls had been called Emma and Suzie. They’d been sixteen and
‘Admiring yourself again?’
Anthony’s lazy voice pulled her back to the room and the afternoon. A scarf of sunlight had worked its way through the blinds and across her breasts. She didn’t move. If he wanted her again, he could bloody well get off the bed and come over. The curtains lent the sunlight their weave. The scarf lay on her like real silk, so warm she could believe she felt it lie against her skin. She would not move, not even an inch.
'That’s the third drink you’ve had since lunch,’ he murmured. Not interfering, not even concerned. Just stating a bald fact.
She took another sip and rotated the glass so that the ice chinked gently inside.
‘I feel like it. Sex and gin go very well together.’
‘Do they?’
‘Sex gets me worked up, gin calms me down. Don’t know where I’d be without it.’
He said nothing, knowing that any remark, however carefully put, would lead to a massive over-reaction. She was defensive about her drinking. And what did he care anyway? He hadn’t started his affair with her for love, after all. He looked round the vast hotel room. It was soulless and dreary, just a tired room that held too many secrets. They’d been coming here for years, furtively at first, and openly since she left David. There wasn’t much need for it any more, but it was convenient when he wanted sex in the afternoon. The hotel was just a ten-minute walk from the office. Outside the window, a heavy boat made its way doggedly up the Thames. She still kept her back to him.
‘Your ex-husband’s been trying to get me all afternoon,’ he said.
‘Don’t call him my ex-husband. That won’t be official for absolutely ages, if it ever is.’
‘You aren’t thinking of going back to him, are you?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anthony. Don’t be so bloody bourgeois.’
He looked at her naked back, at the sunlight inching over it like silk, and felt the beginnings of another erection. It had been the same with Penelope at first. They’d been married for almost twenty years, had two lovely daughters, pursued separate careers, but sex had never been the problem for them it became for most people.
He wondered why on earth it was that thoughts of his beloved Penelope always seemed to come at the most inappropriate moments, as though he harboured guilty thoughts. And yet, he mused, guilty thoughts of what, exactly? He’d loved Penelope, more than it’s given to most people to love someone. He hadn’t had so much as a whiff of an affair while they lived together. And even afterwards, well, there’d been a long gap before he’d started his relationship with Elizabeth.
Was it easier if you split up first? he wondered. With Penelope there hadn’t been the slightest lessening of affection. It had made it seem all the more unfair at the time.
They’d owned a place in France, and flew out there several times a year. There was enough money to mean they didn’t have to rent it, which meant in turn that any of them could go over at a moment’s notice for a weekend or a week or longer.
One weekend in spring, when the girls had a little time before school restarted, Penelope had made a last-minute reservation with a small airline operating out of Gatwick.
They’d taken off in high winds - ‘well within the limits of operating safety’, according to the subsequent inquiry -and flown up into a storm much too violent for such a tiny plane. The pilot had done his best to get back down again, but he’d lost control at two thousand feet, and the craft, a Shorts 360, had gone into a long nosedive that ended in the face of a cliff. No one on board had survived. The girls had been called Emma and Suzie. They’d been sixteen and
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