Chapter The Owl and the Pussycat
The Owl and the Pussycat
I feel like a toad hopping beside Lace. I wonder if she knows how good-looking she is. Surely, she notices how many people check her out, or perhaps it’s happened her whole life, so she thinks it’s the norm for people to stare.
She seems to be genuinely interested in who I am. She’s asked me questions about my parents and my love for astronomy, and I can tell she’s listening because she asks follow-up questions. I end up telling her about the science contest drama.
‘What’s so inappropriate about the Pill?’ she asks.
‘It’s like . . . sex,’ I say, and feel stupid as I say it.
She lets out a dramatic gasp. ‘Not sex,’ she says and giggles. She moves on to ask me about the arts and quickly finds out I don’t have an arty bone in my body. She names painters, fashion designers and operas, and they all go over my head.
‘What music do you listen to then?’
I hate this question. People usually say a bit of everything, but that’s a cop-out. I certainly won’t listen to death metal, classical, or whatever Woody’s band was playing back there.
‘A bit of Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift. I’m more of a podcast type woman; true crime, space and science and stuff. What do you listen to?’
‘I love the opera. It’s the school of passion,’ Lace says.
‘Mmm,’ I say. I have no idea what she means.
We go into the pub next to her studio, The Owl and the Pussycat, and Lace tells me to save the high table as she goes to the bar.
Young day drinkers are yelling over each other, and at the bar, a frail man sits on a stool.
It looks like he’s been there for a while.
Lace stands on the foot rail and leans over to give the order to the bartender.
He seems very happy to see her. I gaze around and read the verse on the wall next to me.
O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!
Lace comes over with a glass of red in each hand. More red. Great. She sits down and flicks out her thick chocolate hair. I wish my hair flicked about like that. Instead, I have this mousey shoulder-length cut that is flat and forgettable.
‘To the dress,’ she says and clinks my glass.
‘Yes, about that,’ I say. ‘I don’t like diamonds or anything too big, and I hate extra-long veils on people who aren’t royalty.’ She is staring at me like I have something on my face. ‘What is it?’ I say as I rub both cheeks.
‘The sex must be good,’ she says.
‘What?’ I ask quietly. I feel my cheeks warming up. Does she know about Josh and me? How? No, don’t be stupid. That’s impossible.
‘The sex. It must be spectacular for you to want to stay with him for the rest of your life,’ she says. I laugh nervously. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, then resort to old tactics of changing the subject. ‘What wine is this?’ I inspect the glass.
‘Merlot. House. Wait. Please tell me the sex is good?’ She is staring right at me. It’s moments like these that I wish I were a good liar.
‘Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. The sex is great. Top notch.’ I frown. Top notch? Where did that come from?
‘What specifically is so “top notch” about it?’ she asks. She’s on to me.
‘Oh . . .’ My mind goes blank. ‘All of it.’
Lace suddenly leans across the high table with a Cheshire Cat smile.
‘Why are you lying?’
‘I’m not!’
‘Amy! What is it? Are you faking it? Is it too thin? Too small? Is he selfish?’
I go to defend myself again, but then I remember I don’t have to explain my private life to anyone, especially to a stranger. Who the hell does she think she is?
‘I’m not going to tell you.’
‘So, there is something then.’ She smiles proudly at her achievement. A second later, her smile drops. ‘Oh God,’ she whispers.
‘What?’ I whisper back.
‘Now it all makes sense.’ Her eyes widen. ‘You aren’t having sex at all.’
I feel myself go bright red. Busted.
‘No. We have sex. Loads of it.’
‘Why are you not having sex?’ she yells. It’s loud enough to catch everyone’s attention in the pub.
‘What? Shh. What? I am.’
‘You’re a bad liar.’
‘But I am having sex.’
‘Oh, really?’ she says, unconvinced. ‘If that’s the case, then what do you like?’
‘I like?’ I ask, confused. She nods. ‘Erm . . . planets, escape rooms, skiing . . .’
‘No. What do you like in the bedroom?’
In the bedroom. I hate that phrase. It makes it sound like a sport.
I suppose it is in a way. Just as some people can catch a ball and others can’t, some people are good in bed, others are bad in bed.
As someone who is struggling to keep their own fiancé turned on, I am pretty sure I would be in the latter category.
‘In the bedroom, hmm . . .’ I say, pretending I’m mulling over the many options. ‘Oh, you know. Same old. A chair. I like a chair.’ (I haven’t had sex in a chair for about four years.)
She rolls her eyes. ‘More. Come on. How does he turn you on?’ I lean back on the bar stool, disgusted. Does she have to be so graphic? ‘Don’t pull that face. It’s natural.’
‘I don’t want to talk about this stuff. If you don’t mind.’
‘It’s just sex. We can solve this.’
‘I should get going,’ I say, but before I stand, she grabs my wrist.
‘A marriage is a long time, Amy.’
‘Good. I like Josh.’
‘Do you want tips?’
‘Tips?’
‘For better sex?’
‘No, thank you,’ I lie.
‘I’m going to tell you anyway,’ she says.
I groan and twist away so I’m not facing her, but I’m listening.
I’m listening very closely. ‘Okay, phones need to be far, far away from your pillow. Those things are the devil when it comes to sex. That’s point one.
Point two, men are visual creatures. The beauty industry is worth billions because we all subconsciously want to get laid.
You don’t have to do much, a little goes a long way.
’ She puts her hands near my face and adjusts my fringe.
I feel marginally offended by this comment.
‘An easy fix is lingerie. Red or black never fails. The more obvious the better, but make sure you are comfortable in it. A shy woman is a dry woman. And then, are you listening?’ She grabs my wrist again, and I nod.
‘This is important. You need to make him feel like the man. He’s not going to be the man, of course.
At the end of the day, he’s a geography teacher who can’t satisfy his fiancé, so you’re just going to have to pretend he’s the man.
Or you can do what the masses do . . .’ She gives me a look as if I should know the answer. I don’t.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Close your eyes and think of someone else.’ She closes her eyes and smiles to herself as if she’s thinking of that someone.
‘Isn’t that cheating?’ I ask.
‘No. It’s what you do so you don’t cheat. Go on, who would you think of?’
‘I’m not telling you that.’
‘Go on, we’re friends.’
‘We are?’
‘Go on.’
‘Fine!’ I huff. ‘There’s a man called Graham.’
‘Ooooh, Graham.’ She leans in with her head in her hands. ‘Who’s Graham?’
‘Ummm. He’s this astrophysics guy who does a podcast, Graham’s Universe,’ I say. She looks confused, so I carry on explaining. ‘He’s from Texas and has this Southern accent. He talks about the planets so passionately . . . I don’t know, it does things.’
Lace blinks and then says slowly. ‘That’s your sex life? Masturbating to some science podcast?’
I cross my arms. Mortified. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, you should. It just makes me sad, that’s all.’
‘Could we make this dress and not talk about the sex thing, please?’
‘I want to help, though.’
‘Please drop it,’ I say firmly.
‘Final tiny word.’
I sigh. ‘Go on.’
‘At the very least, Josh should be making you feel like the sexiest woman that ever lived. It’s a big reason why you’re willing to commit to him for the rest of your life.’
‘Well, that’s terrifying,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the advice and the wine, but I do need to go now. Next week?’
Lace gives me a half smile. ‘You deserve the best, Amy Elman.’
I laugh. ‘I could be skinning cats or trolling teenagers on the internet.’
‘Are you?’
‘No, but . . .’ I shrug. ‘Could be. See you next Saturday, Lace.’
I leave her at the high table with her empty glass of wine and her perfect hair, face and body. Lace can give all the advice she wants, but at the end of the day, she never has to worry about getting laid.
The Tubes are severely delayed, so I go to the H bus stop on Old Street. When the bus arrives, I sit near the back and lean my head against the window.
Josh and I used to have lots of sex. Okay, it wasn’t the crazy, animal passionate sex that some claim to have, but I felt really good and so did he. Naturally, we fell into a routine and the sex became less frequent, but it has been 10 years, so what can you do?
The last time we had sex was at the beginning of summer, 192 nights ago.
I was enjoying an early night, reading Brian Cox’s Human Universe.
At around nine, Josh stumbled into the bedroom and crawled onto the bed with his dimples.
He had been drinking at The Ship in Wandsworth with his gym friends.
I pretended to be too into the book to notice the drunk man straddling my legs.
He started tapping the back of my book. I told him to stop.
He fidgeted like a schoolboy on a carpet, and then his fingers pulled on my pyjamas.
I wasn’t in the mood, but it had been a few months since he had come onto me that way.
So, I shut my book. He gave a childish cheer before pulling down his boxers and getting on his back.
I lathered some strawberry lube on and climbed on top.
Even though I wasn’t feeling it, I gave it my all, with the right moans, groans and occasional weary ‘Josh’.
I moved up and down, up and down, up and down, and felt my bloated body jiggle as I did.
(I had treated myself to a delicious chicken pesto pasta with lots of cheese only hours before.) I caught him eyeing my jiggling belly .
. . and that’s when his face changed. Suddenly, there was space where there wasn’t before.
And I realised he had gone soft . . . again.
It’s not a big deal for men to lose their mojo during sex; we are just bags of chemicals after all, but this was the fourth time in a row he had gone soft on me.
He blamed the drink on this occasion. It wasn’t the drink though – it was me.
So, after that, I didn’t want to be the one to initiate, in case I was right, and my body had turned him off.
I waited a month, and that’s when I started doing tally marks.
Now we’re at 192 nights. Waiting for him is clearly not working.
Lace was right to look at me like I’m insane; this is insanity.
Here I am, worrying about invitations, cake and dresses, when what I need to be doing is getting my fiancé to have sex with me again before we say, ‘’Til death do us part. ’
First things first, I text Lace.
What were those tips again?
Thanks. Amy.
A moment later, she replied.
1. No phones in the bedroom.
2. Make him feel like the man
(even when he’s not).
3. Lingerie. THAT YOU FEEL GOOD IN!
If all else fails, close your eyes and think of Dennis.
See you next week doll!
Xxxxxx