There were no words available to her, and besides, she loathed talking about sex. It made her think of her mother, and strangely enough, of Erika. All that ‘open’ talk in the car about contraception and self-respect.
She knew part of the problem was that the girls were such unsettled sleepers. It meant that both she and Sam were on edge the whole time listening for that inevitable cry that could break the spell at any moment. With limited time you couldn’t linger. They had to get down to business, to the old tried-and-tested moves and positions, because otherwise it would be yet another case of ‘mission abort’. It meant there was always a certain ‘move it along’ tension to the proceedings. (Sometimes she even caught herself thinking, Hurry, hurry!) It also meant they never stopped being ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ and there was something so frumpy and ordinary and unglamorous about Mummy and Daddy having quick, furtive sex while their children slept. These days, Sam wasn’t suggesting sex that often, which made Clementine feel kind of hurt: She assumed he still found her attractive; it would be all too easy to let herself fall into the body-loathing abyss – the world was so eager to give her a shove – but she was standing firm for now. At the same time she’d often feel relieved when they both rolled over to face different directions, because honestly, who could be bothered? She suspected that he felt exactly the same mixture of hurt and relief, and the thought of him feeling relief about not having to have sex with her hurt her further, even though she felt the same way. And so it went on.
But now there was a spark, and she felt a great sense of exhilaration and relief. So this was all they needed! A barbeque with a friendly ex-stripper and a music-appreciating electrician who looked like Tony Soprano. She’d always fancied Tony Soprano.
‘Why are you laughing, Mummy?’ said Holly.
‘I’m not laughing,’ said Clementine. ‘I’m smiling. I’m just happy.’
She caught Dakota giving her a dubious look and she tried to pull herself together.
‘Daddy is all red too,’ said Holly.
‘Pink.’ Ruby removed her thumb from her mouth to comment. ‘Daddy is pink.’
‘Pink,’ agreed Holly.
‘I expect he’s a bit hot and bothered,’ said Clementine.
‘Why?’ said Holly.
‘Maybe I need a cold shower,’ said Sam, discreetly pinching the flesh of Clementine’s upper arm. ‘I should stand in the fountain, eh?’
‘Silly Daddy,’ said Ruby.
chapter thirty-eight
The day of the barbeque
‘You okay?’ said Oliver quietly, his hand on Erika’s arm.
Erika felt a surge of irritability. ‘Yes. Why? Do I not look okay?’
Was she squinting? It wasn’t her fault. The hazy afternoon light was making everything blur. The lack of visibility was affecting her balance too. She kept finding herself tipping forward or backward and having to anchor herself by grabbing the side of the table.
The music in the cabana was up quite loud now, making her head thump. Tiffany was playing ‘November Rain’, which was significant in some way, something to do with her sordid past; Erika didn’t want to know.
‘You just seem like you’re drinking more than usual,’ said Oliver, and for a moment Erika felt outraged, because she was always, always, the most sober person at any party. Often she didn’t bother to drink at all – she didn’t like the taste of it that much – although the wine tonight seemed very good, very smooth and delicious, probably prohibitively expensive.
‘Well, I’m not!’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ said Oliver.
Her outrage melted away, because it wasn’t Oliver’s fault that his parents were alcoholics.