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 big bedroom with the big bed and the big mirror in the ceiling.
‘It’s time for TT,’ she said adjusting the slats of the Venetian blinds.
‘Tea tea,’ Eva mumbled. ‘but we’ve just had din din.’
‘Touch Therapy, darling,’ said Sally and pushed her gently back on to the bed. Eva Wilt stared up at her reflection in the mirror; a large woman, two large women in yellow pyjamas lying on a large bed, a large crimson bed; two large women without yellow pyjamas on a large crimson bed; four women naked on a large crimson bed.
‘Oh Sally, no Sally.’
‘Darling,’ said Sally and silenced her protest oralwise. It had been a startlingly new experience though only partly remembered. Eva had fallen asleep before the Touch Therapy had got well under way and had woken an hour later to find Sally fully dressed standing by the bed with a cup of black coffee.
‘Oh I do feel bad,’ Eva said, referring as much to her moral condition as to her physical.
‘Drink this and you’ll feel better.’
Eva had drunk the coffee and got dressed while Sally explained that post-contact
