He’s lonely.
Of course he is.
His marital bed is empty except when it’s infiltrated by little, grief-stricken girls. It’s the worst of both worlds.
It’s no wonder he’s lonely, and, given the amount of endorphins those orgasms flooded our bodies with the other night, it’s no wonder he felt—you know—affectionate. Or even a little wistful, maybe.
Obviously my own endorphin-bathing was responsible for my body’s inappropriately warm, fuzzy response to his non-proposition. That and evolution.
I mean, neanderthal me would have benefited greatly from having a big, hot man wrapped around me for, like, survival reasons. My homo sapiens hard-wiring explains why my ovaries twerked and my heart simped.
My mother’s voice breaks my musings in her flawless, Instagram-friendly white kitchen.
‘You definitely have a post-orgasmic glow about you,’ she muses. ‘Or is it retinol?’
‘Mum. I’m literally twenty-three. I don’t need retinol.’
Whoops. Looks like I inadvertently answered her question.
‘Your mid-twenties is the optimal time to start,’ she says.
‘Excellent.’ I roll my eyes. ‘You can buy me a prescription in two years.’
Behind me, Belle lets out a snort that’s unladylike and unsupportive in equal measure.
‘The whole point of you being here is to be on my side,’ I tell her.
‘No it’s not,’ Mum says. ‘It’s because I love seeing her.’
‘I love seeing you too, Verity,’ my not-so-best-friend says. Though I know why she adores my mum. It’s because Verity Hudson-Weir is the antithesis of Belle’s mum, Lauren. When it comes to sex stuff, at least.
I just wish my mum wasn’t quite so far in the other direction. She’s a poster-child for the liberated fifty-something who is embracing the menopause and ageing with vitality and shagging her way through her latter years, all happily for my stepdad, Justin.
She’s even admitted—completely unprompted by me—that they’ve tried tantric sex, which not only creeps me out but tells me some people simply have too much time on their hands.
Though it’s not fair to Mum to call her a lady of leisure. She completed her personal revolution after leaving Dad for Justin (remember that musical-beds, hot-tub-hand-job family ski holiday I mentioned?) by training as a nutritionist, and now she has a thriving practice and a horrifyingly large Facebook Group, consisting overwhelmingly of menopausal women, called Vitality with Verity. Forty-five thousand members.
I can’t even.
She’s also expanded her practice to include other practitioners, from OTs to PTs and energy workers. She’s hell-bent on giving women the ride of their lifetime as they ‘step into their own power’ (her words). And she’s a passionate believer in woman recognising and harnessing their own power, whatever their age.
I’ve benefited from her healthy, sensible, and enthusiastic attitude to female sexuality, and Belle has too, I think, though it took her a long time to find the courage to lean into it. When your parents impose their own (totally fucked-up) moral teachings on you day after day, year after year, it’s incredibly hard to accommodate even the most well-meaning voices if they contradict that message.
I’m just relieved Rafe came along and got Belle so hyped up with lust that her out-of-date moral compass got literally pussy-whipped and she threw her layers of religious baggage out of the window.
Anyway, the point is that Belle loves Mum and has always envied me my carefree, cool and sexually liberated mother. I know she’s right and that I’m lucky. Belle and I go for dinner at Mum and Justin’s every couple of months. Mum insists it ‘keeps her young’ to be around young people, especially women, and she genuinely finds it fascinating to hear our goings-on.
I think Mum’s pretty envious that we’ve come of age in this period in time, actually. Being young now would have suited her down to the ground. I know for a fact she wouldn’t have made an unhappy marriage and felt compelled to make a beeline for someone else’s husband’s dick under the bubbles of the hot tub in Megève (believe me, I know far too much detail on how it all went down).
I also suspect she’d have been an enthusiastic member of Alchemy.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?
Sometimes, liberty is a burden. You’re so busy being congratulated on and fêted for being so wonderfully free that you kind of feel you have to act like that day after day. Which usually isn’t a problem.
It’s just that the kind of thoughts I’ve been having these past few days are of the slightly less liberated, and needier, variety.
‘So, the glow,’ Mum insists. The woman is like a dog with a bone. ‘Tell me about all the nice men you’ve been having fun with at Alchemy.’
Oh dear God. I’m grateful Mum doesn’t think sex is a sin like Belle’s parents do. Honestly, I swear they only had sex twice, to conceive her and her brother Dex. They probably fucked through a hole in the sheet. But there’s a happy medium, and I’m pretty sure your mother enquiring about your Playroom playmates is not it.
‘I’m not sure there are that many guys at the moment,’ Belle teases. When I glare at her, she smirks.
‘Thanks,’ I tell her. ‘Thanks a lot.’
Mum sashays over to refill my wineglass. I have to say, she has a killer figure. She’s definitely hashtag-ageing-like-Gwyneth. Her skin is dewy, her hair is a lustrous (if chemically enhanced) chestnut, and her waist is the same size as mine. Justin is a lucky guy. ‘Is there someone special?’ she asks with a coquettish lift of one perfectly sculpted brow. She raises her eyebrows a lot. Like, a lot. I’ve long suspected it’s to prove to everyone that she hasn’t had Botox.
‘I’m casually sleeping with one of my bosses,’ I say nonchalantly. ‘You know, at the club. We’ve been messing around a bit.’
‘He’s lovely,’ Belle emphasises.
Mum frowns. You know, because she can. Hashtag-Botox-free. ‘It’s not serious, is it?’
Every parent lives vicariously through their kids to some extent. Truth. Whereas Belle’s parents always treated her like this beautiful, intelligent, living doll, a paragon of virtue through whom their own piety supposedly shone, Mum’s own upbringing and her first marriage to Dad have her wanting me to impale myself on every dick in sight, basically.
It feels like that sometimes, anyway.
‘No,’ I tell her between sips of wine. ‘Not serious. He’s a widower, for God’s sake. He’s got two little girls. If that doesn’t say emotionally unavailable, I don’t know what does.’
‘Oh.’ Mum looks positively tantalised. ‘That poor, poor man.’ She places a perfectly manicured hand on her heart or, as she would say, her heart centre. ‘No, it won’t do at all to get involved with a widower. Even though they can be deeply beguiling. You know, all that pathos. One can’t help but feel one’s saviour complex kicking in.’
‘The only way I’m saving him is through really great sex, Mum,’ I say firmly.
Mum ignores me. ‘You just want to keep the boundaries clear, darling. You know? A nice, nubile young girl like you. He’ll snap you up and put a ring on your finger before you know it.’
Belle full-on laughs.
‘Mum!’ I protest. Fuck’s sake. She makes me sound like some lithesome servant girl.
‘Mark my words, darling, you don’t want to be the Maria to his Captain Von Trapp,’ she tells me. ‘He’ll go full you brought music back to my life on you.’
‘Except by music, he’ll be talking about sex,’ Belle interjects unhelpfully.
I give her my best side-eye. ‘I liked you far more when you were repressed and unhappy.’
She beams at me.
‘I’m not planning on marrying him,’ okay?’ I say grumpily. The words have the weirdest sound in my head when I say them out loud. ‘We’re just… scratching each other’s itches.’
‘How romantic,’ Belle says.
Mum pokes her head into the vat of bean chilli simmering on the hob. ‘Why don’t you tell me about him, Belle? Maddy’s energy feels a little off to me this evening.’
I roll my eyes.
‘He’s very handsome,’ Belle says approvingly. ‘Black hair, blue eyes. And he’s also very proper.’
The memory of Zach fucking me slow and deep over the Banquette in front of God knows how many people sears my brain with its heat. It’s all I can do to hold back my smirk.
‘Not your usual type then, darling?’ Mum teases.
‘Totally the opposite,’ I admit. ‘He couldn’t be less Euro playboy if he tried. He’s the FD for Alchemy, and I think for their hedge fund, Cerulean, too?’
‘He is,’ Belle confirms. ‘Rafe tells me he loves his spreadsheets.’
‘What’s that smile for?’ Mum asks.
‘Nothing.’ Just thinking about how Zach’s face must have looked when I told him my safe word was spreadsheet. I wonder if I’ll ever need to use it.
‘Here’s the thing, Verity,’ my very own Judas says. She’s polished off her first generous glass of wine super quickly, and I have a horrible feeling it’s loosened her up. She props her elbows on Mum’s Italian marble island.
I have to admit she looks even more knockout than usual today in her sleek winter white Valentino shift. If I hadn’t seen how adoring, and how caveman-level protective Rafe was of her at her lowest point when it all went tits-up with her dad, I’d probably be sceptical that he wanted her as a trophy girlfriend who looked the part on his arm. But I know he loves Belle’s beautiful heart and soul as much as he worships her looks.
Anyway.
Back to my Judas Iscariot moment.
‘I have a working theory that Maddy really likes Zach,’ she continues. ‘I think he’s got under her skin, precisely because he’s the opposite of her usual type. Mads, you like to go for guys who have zero interest in commitment, just so you never have to feel suffocated or have awkward morning-after conversations.’
‘You know I’ve always raised Madeleine to be a young woman who owns her sexuality and takes what she wants from men on her terms,’ Mum says proudly. She dips a spoon into the chilli, tastes it, and does a dramatic chef’s kiss that has me rolling my eyes.
‘Yes you have,’ Belle says, ‘and I’ve always admired that. And, look, I agree with her that Zach probably has zero intention of trying to find Wife Number Two anytime soon—I think he’s just looking to blow off some steam which, obviously, no one will blame him for.’
‘There’s definitely a lot of blowing off,’ I mutter to myself.
‘But, between you and me, I feel like Mads might be getting attached. He’s a seriously great guy, but obviously his home-life is complicated. I’m a bit worried he’ll hurt her without realising it.’
‘Hello? You realise I’m right here, yes?’ I demand.
Belle rounds the island and slinks her arm around my waist so she can rest her golden head on my shoulder.
‘We know you’re here. And we both love you an obnoxious amount, which is why you need to put up with us being overprotective.’
‘I know,’ I say ungraciously.
‘A few months ago, you helped me pick up the pieces when Dad went nuclear, and you used the B-word on me.’ She nudges me with her elbow. ‘You know you did.’
I sigh. ‘Yes, I did. Should I be regretting that right about now?”
Boundaries.
One of the biggest life lessons Mum taught me and the most important building block for healthy relationships. They’re also something Belle’s parents never put in place with her. They (and therefore she) never got the memo that she was allowed to choose her own belief system and lifestyle, so she’s had to build boundaries from scratch. She’s had help from me and Rafe, but boy has it been painful for her.
I pride myself on having sky-high, rock-hard boundaries, but I have a feeling Belle and Mum are about to offer me another perspective. I mean, they’ve both already dropped B-bombs in the past thirty seconds.
‘Babes,’ Belle says, peeling herself off me. ‘I just want to make sure Zach doesn’t either break your heart, or drain you of all your energy, or both. I know you’ve done all the work and you’re a super strong person, but you also have a very big heart. You’re a giver. Just don’t give him so much that you’ve got nothing left.’
Now this is utter, utter bullshit. Where the hell is she getting this crap from?
‘We’re fucking,’ I tell her, brandishing a chickpea crisp at her for effect. ’That’s it. I’m having fun, he’s having fun. End of story.’
Mum and Belle exchange a glance. ‘Okay,’ Belle says in that patient, humouring voice a teacher might use on a small child. ‘But you’ve told me things have been getting a bit more intense recently. Like him coming over, and you babysitting for the girls, and him having that wobble on you the other day?’
‘He had a bad day!’ I say. ‘That’s what happens when your wife dies and leaves you with two fucked-up kids to raise. And when you have a bad day, you share it with your person. That’s what relationships are for.’
Oh, fuck.
They both stare at me, and with good reason, because I called myself his person, and I used the R-word. Dear God, have I lost all self-respect?
I glare at them both and tip the remainder of my wine down my throat before holding out my glass. ‘Refill. Please.’
Belle edges towards me with the bottle, concern written all over her face. Neither of them needs to score a cheap shot right now, because I’ve just scored the most epic own-goal ever.
Fuck.
‘We’re not in a relationship,’ I say, backtracking. ‘It’s just… there’s an intimacy there, you know? And we work together—so forced proximity and all that crap. We’re colleagues. And friends. I’d be a sociopath if I noticed he was upset and didn’t step in.’
‘Of course you would,’ Mum says soothingly. ‘And, darling, there’s nothing wrong with being in a relationship. Relationships are terrific! And he sounds like a wonderful guy. We just want to make sure you remember that a healthy relationship is one where both parties are also healthy, that their wells are full enough for them to give their partner what they need.
‘And we know your well is overflowing, my love, but’—she grimaces—‘it sounds like it’ll take time for his to fill up.’
‘I know that.’ I sound churlish, and I can’t help it. Nor can I help the tiniest pinpricks of moisture that appear in my eyes. It’s not my fault—I’m feeling attacked here. ‘You both seem to have forgotten that I actually have no interest in an old-man boyfriend—sorry Belle—with two kids. Uh-uh. No interest at all.’
‘That’s good,’ Belle says in the most unconvincing tone ever.
‘As long as you are getting what you need out of this, er, non-relationship,’ Mum says. ‘And not giving more of yourself than you can afford.’ She comes towards me and engulfs me in a huge hug that has my eyes stinging even more badly.
‘Look, darling,’ she says over my shoulder. ‘There are people in this life who are takers by nature, and that makes them drains, and those are the ones we avoid, hmm? But there are also truly good, wonderful people who have so much to give when they’re in a good place, but who may end up draining us all the same when they’re struggling, without either party being remotely aware of it.’
She rubs my back in large, comforting circles. ‘And those kinds of relationships can be the least healthy of all because no one’s actually to blame. I mean, no one would begrudge this guy—Jack?’
‘Zach,’ I mumble into her hair as, over her shoulder, Belle makes a heart shape with her fingers and holds it out towards me.
‘Zach. Of course. No one would begrudge him anything that makes him feel better. But if he’s just looking for a… palate cleanser, then make sure you’re happy with just being that for him. All I’m saying is, try to maintain a little perspective, darling, and check in with yourself regularly. Okay? And make sure you are both communicating.’ She pulls away so she can make eye contact. ‘If I’ve taught you anything, it’s that communication is the key to all healthy relationships. Communication and boundaries. Yes?’
She releases me and pinches my cheeks.
‘Yes,’ I sigh. Zach and I do communicate. A lot. But I suspect the type of communication Mum means isn’t good girl, or fuck me harder, or you’re so wet for me.
Zach opened up to me on that bed at work the other day. But aside from insidiously dangerous comments like I wish I could spend the night curled around you, neither of us has set any verbal boundaries since we started using each other’s bodies for the basest and purest form of pleasure.
I have a horrible feeling Mum’s right and we need to redraw some lines.
The problem is I have no idea what the fuck we have or how to draw lines around it.
