Dirty Tricks

being a woman. Not that I’d blame anyone for that. Let’s face it, would you want the job? Lynn Carter had put in her time down there on the sexual shop floor — there were two teenage sons to prove it — but now she’d taken early retirement. Fair enough, but where did that leave her husband, so full of vim and vigour? Where did Thomas go to get retooled these days? Who was mucking him out and hosing him down? It had to be Karen, I reckoned. I wasn’t vain enough to think that the way she had come on to me that first night was solely down to my resistless charms. Like the Carters’, the Parsons’ marriage was in turn-around, only there it was Dennis who was the sleeping partner. Karen had admitted as much the day she came to the school. Which left her as Thomas’s vis-a-vis.

On another occasion, this suspicion might have been calculated to cripple me with a sense of my own worthlessness. Who was I to be taking on a contender like Thomas Carter, a management consultant and the owner-occupier of a?500,000 property set in the accessible Arcadia of Boars Hill? My Early Intermediates had unwittingly pointed out the parallels between Karen’s refusal to ‘go behind Dennis’s back’ and the recorded conversation about money and shopping I had played them. In other words, the reason for my coy mistress’s quaint sense of honour was nothing more nor less than financial prudence. Whatever Dennis’s other shortcomings, he footed the bill. My salary was barely enough to keep me in sliced white and undies, never mind maintain Mrs Dennis Parsons in the style to which she had become accustomed.

As if to make this quite clear, the other charity guest that night was Vicky, a career spinster with beefy-jerky skin and a mouth as tensely muscled as an anus. During one of her absences from the room everyone shook their heads and agreed that Vicky was ‘a very sad case’. The implied judgement on me, Vicky’s notional partner, should have been enough to send me into a screaming spiral of paranoid depression. But that evening nothing could touch me. The only effect of these humiliations and challenges was to make me even more determined to overcome Karen’s scruples.

Dinner itself was a relatively painless affair. Karen wasn’t trying to impress anyone, so we ate promptly and quite well. She seated me on her right, and I made my first direct pass as soon as we sat down. The first course was avocado with prawn cocktail dressing. No problem there. While my right hand spooned up the sweet pulp and hefted my glass of Alsace riesling, my left explored the contours of my neighbour’s inner calf and the hollow behind her knee. I’d expected some token reluctance, a bit of chair-shuffling and so on. There wasn’t much else she could do without attracting attention, but I definitely expected a bit of the old argy-bargy before she let me get down to business. I mean, it’s traditional, isn’t it?

But Karen didn’t have much use for tradition. She stiffened when I touched her, just for an instant, the way you do when you feel something on your leg and aren’t sure what it is. After that the only clue was her heightened responses to everything else that happened, a too-eager agreement, an over-emphatic laugh. Like she was high, not on booze or pills but some of that good mellow shit that used to go the rounds at the first dinner parties I ever went to, at Liza’s place, when the world was young and lovable.

I’d like to comment briefly on two aspects of Karen’s response to my attentions, both of which are fundamental to a correct understanding of later events. The first was what I might call her physical candour. To an amazing — even an alarming — extent, Karen Parsons was totally straightforward about what she wanted to do with her body and what she liked having done to it. The quality I’m referring to was something common enough here in Latin America, but very rare in the land of booze and animal fats, where the women seem to have taken to heart mad Hamlet’s advice to let their honesty admit no discourse to their beauty. Even in bed, they’re hypocrites. Karen wasn’t. If you put your finger up her bum while she was coming, she didn’t pretend to object just to stop you running away with the idea that she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t object if you put your finger up her bum while she was coming. On the other hand, she wasn’t a Manuela either. There were limits to what Karen would let you do. It was just that she didn’t lie, to herself or others, about what they were.

My second observation demonstrates the absurdity of the idea that our relationship was, to borrow the elegant formula adopted by one news comic, ‘the perverted passion of two sex junkies who would do anything — even kill — for their fix’. In fact what the same tabloid, in a characteristic retreat into prudery, terms ‘the sexual act’ was never more than a terminus ad quem for us. This is evident from Karen’s ecstatic reaction to my attentions that evening. It may be mildly titillating to feel a hand on your knee during dinner, but in itself it’s not going to bring you off, is it? ‘The hurricane of their all-consuming lust for each other,’ continues our over-titillated hack, ‘swept away every obstacle that stood in its path.’ The author of these words clearly had his pen in one hand and his dick in the other, and had forgotten which was which.

The truth is exactly the opposite. Karen and I went out of our way to place obstacles in our path. We became connoisseurs of obstacles. We collected them like rare orchids, gleefully sharing our latest acquisitions and discoveries. That was the secret of Karen’s empressement. It wasn’t what I was doing that was turning her on but the fact that I was doing it there, doing it then, in front of her husband and her husband’s partner and her husband’s partner’s wife and one of her own colleagues. Karen wouldn’t commit adultery behind Dennis’s back, but there was nothing that excited her more than doing it under his nose. Feeling my hand on her leg, the fingers fanning out, stroking to give pleasure, squeezing to show need, a little dumbshow of love being played out on her skin. And meanwhile, above-board …

‘Jane Grigson says to sweat them lightly in butter.’

‘Perspire, surely?’

‘I still swear by Delia.’

‘Did you know you can chambrer wine in the microwave?’

While Lynn and Thomas and Vicky and Dennis chattered, I sat back and let my fingers do the talking. Nevertheless, after ten minutes or so my hand on Karen’s knee was starting to feel like one lump of meat resting on another. It was time to sign off before familiarity bred contempt, and just in case it already had I decided to hurt her.

A gentleman may be defined as someone who never inflicts pain unintentionally, and where women are concerned I’ve always prided myself on being a perfect gent. Apart from Manuela — we really must find time for a word or two about Manuela soon — I’ve never got any mileage out of hurting women. This is a cultural difference, I think. Here in Latin America there’s traditionally been a lot of pain involved in relations of all kinds, from the family to the state that is modelled on it. There are complex historical reasons for this, just as there are for differences in the amount of seasoning used in cooking. People here are used to a fairly high level of pain, just as they’re used to a lot of chilli in their food. Life would be bland without it. I was astonished by the amount of pain that Manuela seemed to thrive on. It was only when I stopped hurting her that she got worried. She thought I was cheating on her, you see, hurting another woman behind her back.

Anyway, before taking my hand away I reached over and pinched the tender flesh on the inside of Karen’s leg until she moaned. Conversation stopped and everyone became frightfully solicitous. Karen brushed them off with talk of a ‘little twinge’ that she got from time to time and rose briskly to clear the table. I muttered something about helping and followed her out. I found her standing by the sink, which she was filling with hot water.

‘Have you seen the furry liquid?’ she asked without looking round.

The last thing I had expected from Karen was an imaginative feel for language, but this was almost poetic: the soap foam as fur on the skin of the water. With a sudden rush of tender emotion I hugged her.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, and kneed me in the groin.

‘Anything I can do?’ ventured Vicky, appearing in the doorway. ‘What are you doing down there?’

I smiled at her over gritted teeth.

‘Banged my funny bone.’

‘Ah, there it is!’ cried Karen, seizing a plastic bottle with green lettering. ‘Furry liquid’, I realized belatedly, was simply her Merseyside pronunciation of the well-known brand of washing-up liquid which the Parsons favoured.

‘God it’s big.’

‘Enormous.’

‘Impressive feel in the mouth. Tremendous length.’

Dennis glanced at his tasting notes.

‘ “The aroma leaps out of the glass and assaults you while your senses wallow in big good fruit and a long, long finish.” ’