‘It’s a Travel Inn, Daan. I think you can imagine.’
‘I wish you’d stay somewhere smarter.’
‘It’s a waste of money.’
‘We have money to waste.’
‘I know, but—’ I don’t finish the sentence. When Daan and I go to a hotel, we only ever go to the very best ones. The ones that feature in colour supplements, that have a media team behind their Instagram account. High-thread-count bed linen and white fluffy robes are a starting point. We go to places where we can sip champagne whilst sharing enormous copper baths, stay in there until our fingers go wrinkly. Daan has introduced me to the sort of hotels that offer a private boat ride to an exclusive island, a clifftop hot tub that offers views of the caves, beaches, crashing waves, where we will be served a plate of fresh oysters. He can’t imagine a mean single bed, a synthetic pillow, a bathroom that doesn’t have Molton Brown toiletries. He would never stay anywhere less than the finest. He doesn’t want me to. I’ve explained that luxury hotels aren’t a part of visiting my mother, they can’t be. I would find it obscene leaving a hospice and then sinking under a goose-down duvet. Even if I could find such a place nearby. ‘You only want me staying somewhere plush so you can imagine me lying in a big bed,’ I say, allowing him to hear the smile in my voice. I need to switch this up. For me, as much as him.
‘No, I’m not so shallow,’ he says. I can hear the amusement and anticipation in his response. He knows where we are going. We have a lot of phone sex, we have to. ‘I can imagine you in a shabby room, if you want.’
‘It’s not shabby,’ I say defensively. ‘It’s just functional. Basic.’ I have never let him visit my mother’s care home in the north-east of England. He has offered to come with me on a number of occasions, of course, but I’ve never allowed it. The best explanation I can offer him is that there is family stuff that I have to do on my own.
‘I don’t care what sort of bed it is; the important thing is you lying in it. What are you wearing?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’ I always say nothing. I wonder if he really thinks that is likely or whether he knows I’m really still in my jeans and jumper, sometimes I’m in cosy pyjamas. It is just a game we both know the rules to.
‘I wish I was with you.’ His voice is low, thick with desire.
‘I wish that too.’
‘Do you know what I’d do if I were?’
‘Tell me.’ I do allow myself to lie back now. I unbutton my jeans.
‘My hands and mouth will be all over you. My tongue in your mouth. Your little pussy, hot and wet, on my face. Your perfect little arse. My cock rock hard in your hand. Your tongue all over it. Then you straddling me and riding it. My hands on your arse, looking up at your beautiful face and perfect tits as you fuck me insanely until I come hard inside you.’
It’s blunt. Honest for that, and as usual I feel waves of lust build between my legs, rush through my body. My tits sit up, perky at the thought of being cupped, nipples harden, begging to be sucked. The only thing that I don’t quite like is the word pussy. Together in bed, he’d use the c-word, but he never does on the phone. A step too far perhaps. I want to tell him that pussy is outdated, somehow dwells in the world of Austin Powers with words such as groovy, that can only be used ironically. But he prides himself on his command of the English language and use of idioms, so I don’t tell him because I don’t want to offend him. He’s been using it for years now. It’s too late.
Instead I respond by telling him precisely what I will lick, suck, fuck. The hard, primitive Anglo-Saxon words work their magic on my gentle, sophisticated Dutch husband. I hear him reach climax. It’s an efficient process, we’ve been here before, but nonetheless an exciting one that we both value.
‘I miss us.’ His tone is forlorn. I shouldn’t have rung him on a Sunday night. Normally I don’t, I encourage him to go to the gym and I just send a WhatsApp message. Tonight, I needed him a little bit more than usual. I listen and hear him walk to the kitchen. I know he is going to pour himself a whisky nightcap. I listen as he opens a cupboard, retrieves a glass, the ice clatters into the glass and then cracks beneath the alcohol. We sometimes do this, just be on the line to one another, in comfortable silence. Especially after phone sex. It makes it seem more normal. If I was with him now, we’d both be having a drink. The preparation of a drink is supposed to be a celebratory sound. If you are drinking with your spouse, friends or family, I guess it is. Alone, the ice sounds like chains clinking. I think of Jacob Marley, dragging around his sins. A wave of sadness swooshes over me. Something telepathic as I sense his loneliness. ‘When you are here with me, I
