chapter nine: Woburn Abbey

Anybody could walk in….…Absolutely anybody. Psycho the Rapist, Jack the Ripper…Dr. Crippen……anybody. But you’re not just anybody, so you walk in to reception and give them her name. Ah yes, you’re told, room 147. Follow the corridor through to your left, down the stair and it’s on your right. No questions asked. The room is already paid for and that’s probably all they care about.
Of course by now you’re in internal turmoil. If ever proof were needed that heart and mind were expressed physiologically you are a walking example, living proof and testament to the fact. The sweaty palms…Check. Increased heart rate...Check. Dry mouth…..Check. For two weeks you’ve lived with this date in mind and now it’s here. Well, at least your cognitive faculties seem in reasonable shape. In an anonymous hotel in Northampton of all places; a city that previously existed only on maps, on motorway signs, on road atlases, but not in actuality. But here you are nevertheless. Well, thanks to the taxi driver who earned his easiest fiver of that or probably any other night. Without his intervention you’d still be driving round in panicky circles looking for the slip road. The corridor is closing in and then the door is to room i47 is there. You slide the key in and turn the handle. You walk in. Panic pounces on you from the wardrobe. Fear leaps out of a bedside drawer. Because, oh shit, she’s here already. You wanted to arrive first and compose yourself, freshen up, as they say, arrange the furniture, scope the room but she’s here…..or at least her suitcase is open on the bed and you can’t help yourself, you pick up the black bra that’s hanging out of the lid and press it to your face, pausing only to check the label, 36B. Oh my. There’s only so much you can tell from a photo and to ask a girl outright how big her tits are is too much, even for you. You risk a quick rummage in the case, looking for what…Evidence of intent? But then a creeping doubt enters your mind. Ok, she’s here, but where? Is she in the shower? Would she like company? You open the bathroom door but the sound of running water is from the room next door. So, where is she then? Just nipped out for condoms? Called up to reception to settle a query over the booking? You check your phone for messages. The last one is still there. Just a few letters but what meaning they have. ‘J29 c u soon X’. It’s that ‘X’ isn’t it? Talk about connotations. Oh my.
Then the phone actually rings in your hand and you nearly drop it. It’s her. Thank fuck, it’s her.
‘Hi honey!’
Oh my, oh my. When she talks like that it’s just heaven. Nobody ever used such ordinary endearments with such ease and grace before. You used to cringe at such greetings but now they are balm. They pour over your imagination and……
‘I’m just parking the car, where are you’?, she asks.
The creeping doubt that was sauntering casually across your consciousness has now gathered pace and though not quite sprinting is accelerating, getting faster, coming closer. Come on brain, work. If she’s in the car park……
You croak a response.
‘Be right there’.
….creeping doubt, for all its pace, is left in the dust as you hit reception at top speed. You tell them there’s obviously been a mistake and sling the keys on the desk, but in a calm and bemused fashion. Ha Ha! The receptionist looks what….surprised? startled? You smile and exit the building, moving somewhere between a relaxed stroll and a mad dash, and out into the car park. You’ve never, ever, met this woman before. You’ve seen two pictures of her. You’ve talked endlessly on the phone. You’ve sent enough emails to fill a book. And now you’re going to meet her. But where is she? Over there? No; just some couple getting out of a taxi. There? Yes; it’s her alright. There’s no mistaking that blonde mop. Oh fuck it’s her. This is it. Taller than you imagined. Tall? You’ve marked centre forwards who weren’t this tall. She’s just closing the car door and holding a bag as you approach. What to say? ‘One giant leap……England expects…..?’
You open your mouth and what comes out. ……..?
‘He said what…..?’
It’s her brother. We laughed. We all laughed. Leith Walk stretched away outside the third storey window. Noble’s Bar a short stroll away. Leith Police Station just across the road and the Links around the corner.
‘So, what did he say to you?’
‘He said, ‘Excuse me, miss…..’
And everybody laughs again; you, her, her brother, her brother’s girlfriend. You laugh because it’s hilarious. It’s also New Year and you’re in Edinburgh; back on your old stomping ground. You’re being introduced to the last of the family members that you didn’t see at Christmas. You’ve already paraded her before your friends, this exotic English trophy girlfriend. No, not just English, because, let’s face it, you could throw a stone into a crowd of people in Princes St. and be very unlucky not to hit and English person (DO NOT TRY THIS). No, more than English, she’s from Surrey. Surrey has cachet. Surrey is posh.
The tree lights wink and blink at the window. It must look cosy from the outside. It’s all warmth and companionship in the large room. Scatter cushions, joss sticks, some Dylan burbling away low on the stereo. It’s her brother’s girlfriend.
‘And then what happened….?’
You look across at her. Wanting her to tell but knowing she won’t. She’s already told her mother on the phone that what happened next would make her blush. But this isn’t her mother. This is her bro’s girlfriend. Will she divulge? She looks across at you. It’s the look of love. It was just ten weeks ago. You can remember every detail, every word, everything.
Back in reception her cool presence alerts the staff that this had better be sorted out and pronto. A mistake has been made and it needs to be righted. It could be the accent. The cut of the clothes perhaps? The imposing click of the high heeled boots? Is she turning up the accent a notch? New keys are found and apologies are made. You make your way to another room. But not alone this time, as a couple. You, the new couple are inside for all of five minutes before you’re tearing at each other’s clothes….…
It’s her brother again.
‘Then….’ He can hardly talk for laughing. Being drunk and stoned probably have something to do with it.
You can guess what’s coming next.
‘Then we heard about you on the radio……’
This too is so hilarious it’s a full minute before he recovers his breathe sufficiently to conclude the anecdote. And yes it’s true. Two weeks later you called a national radio station in response to a request for listeners’ secrets and/or confessions. You told them that you and Caroline Cross from Surrey were an item. It was broadcast to the nation. Thank you Andrew Collins. Her brother heard it and phoned his mum. His mum phoned the other sister who phoned her and she phoned you. An item. They don’t run that feature anymore.
Lying there in the overheated bedroom you rolled towards each other. You lifted yourself up on one elbow to better appraise the lithe beauty at your side.
‘I’m not natural, you might have noticed’.
Oh yes, you’d noticed alright. Were you bothered? Were you fuck. Afterwards you got out the champagne and the chocolates. The roses that you bought in Tesco on the Chesterfield by-pass are put in the sink in the bathroom and you settle down to some more relaxed shagging. Next morning you shag again. Then you shower, get dressed, breakfast and jump into the car and drive to Woburn Abbey for the day. It’s such a normal thing to do and yet you feel so abnormal. This real live girl is holding your hand and smiling at you. The pair of you look at the Titians but have eyes only for each other. The naked cherubs beam at you and you can’t help but glance at her breasts. You’ve seen bigger. Much bigger. And recently too. But none of that matters. Your hand fits hers. Your arms interlock so casually, so easily. You walk in step with no effort at all. And when you steal a kiss there’s no awkwardness; no bumping noses or teeth. It’s like you’ve been doing this forever.
You walk around the grounds and take pictures of the deer, the swans, the sky, the house and when you’re both weary of the culture you sit, just happy to be together. You sit like this for a while until you return to the hotel room for a quick shag before going out to sample the cultural delights of Northampton (aka Pizza Express).
The first few internet dates were uncomfortable. The conversation was halting, desultory at best. Tonight your pizza is going cold because the conversation is flowing, the wine is flowing, time is flying and the restaurant is closing. You grab a cab and back in the room again the pair of you shag each other goodnight.
Next morning you’re all packed and ready for the James Toff when you end up shagging again. How did that happen? At one stage she rolls over and sticks her arse up in the air so you oblige.
‘No’, she says, ‘not there’.
But if not there then, where? Oh my. She means… no, she can’t.... surely shome mishtake, Shirley…. But no, it’s no mistake. She does indeed mean…….. Oh my. Oh my. You seize her roughly by the hips. You sink into oblivion, several dozen times. And oh my. Oh my, oh my! Oh! Oh! Oh my! Oooooooh!
‘So….?’ says her bro’s girl, impatiently.
But she just looks over and you know exactly what she’s thinking. It’s a secret. You’ll never let this get out in public. Never. No radio broadcast for this piece of data. No. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
‘Well’, she says, ‘we had a lovely time…..we went to a little pub for lunch’.
Oh yes, what was it called? Something really obvious like the ‘Red Lion’. You got there before noon and had to walk round the tiny village waiting for it to open. The locals had clearly spied tourists in their midst but mine host was disappointed to discover that neither of you were drinking much or ordering food. So the pair of you sat there nursing Britvic 55s, sharing a bag of crisps and trying to do the Observer crossword. Of course it had to be some tricky bastard setter that week so you don’t have the chance to show off. Even so things are still peachy and eventually you both decide it’s time to go.
You hug and kiss and promise to get in touch the minute you get home. Suddenly the separation takes on a huge significance. What if you crash the car? What if she crashes her car?
The universe is now populated with dangers and pleasure in almost equal measure. The drive home is a blur, and it’s not just the speeding road that softens the edges of the approaching event horizon. Your mind is now so utterly fogged, soaked, drenched and otherwise saturated with the thought of this woman that normal social discourse has become difficult. Buying milk at the corner shop becomes a serious challenge because the words you want to use are being used in other parts of your brain. So you mumble like a teenager and hurry out of the shop without your change (though you get it back the next day). Then you can’t find your keys to get in the flat even though they’re in your pocket all the time. They say love is an alteration of brain chemistry and your brain chemistry is currently so far out of whack it’s a wonder you can still breathe.
As soon as you get home you phone her and spend the next two hours planning your future together. Everything is different. Time is now divided formally into the immediate present and whatever the future may bring and your previous life, hereafter referred to as life B.C.: before Caroline.
Previously you were both worried that the meeting might not live up to expectations. Then in a flash of prescience you said it was potentially more of a worry if it did. But it did, and how. Now everything is possible. Neither of you want to mention it but Christmas is only a couple of months away. Both of you have birthdays in between. The social possibilities stretch out like……like…..like she stretched out on that bed. Oh my. And really things are just so good. So, so good.
Eventually you have to hang up. You get to bed somehow. You lie there with a grin wider than the room. You take your cock in your hand. Only hours ago she had it in her hand, in her mouth, in her cunt, in her………….and your cock is suddenly huge again at the mere memory. An incoming text momentarily puts you off your stroke but it’s from her. She’s saying goodnight. You text back with one hand and remember her fondly with the other. What a girl. What a weekend. Oh my.