Sweet and Sour

APRIL:

Walking in on a partner unannounced only to catch them in the middle of a private act of some kind must be a common experience for couples. Invariably, with trousers shamelessly lowered, it is the man that is caught out. But not this time. This is the way it happened, so it is the way we will tell it.

On an unusually warm and oppressive night late in April, Hooper – not his real name, although everyone called him that – entered the bedroom he shared with his girlfriend. There sat Zola, lounging in her silk dressing gown and little else, pink as a prawn having just showered, with her back to the door and headphones clamped to her ears.

Judging by the way she rocked in the chair, Hooper guessed she was listening to one of her Madonna CDs or something by Moby. He lingered a moment – a split second – then, before his eyes, the full picture came into focus. Madonna might have supplied the audio experience, but the movement from the chair was a result of an altogether different activity. In her left-hand, Zola held a paperback book which she appeared to be reading. Her right hand was between her open thighs, her thumb and forefingers frantically engaged in stimulating her clitoris.

A man more experienced in co-habiting might have made his presence known. Approached his partner, knelt between her thighs and quietly, casually and ardently, used his hands and mouth to help take the process to its heated conclusion. But as far as Hooper was concerned that was risky. They were new to each other. Their relative closets still contained the odd skeleton or two – maybe more. Besides, although accidental, his presence – fleeting though it was – amounted to an intrusion. As a result, he exited as quietly as possible, delicately closing the door behind him.

He and Zola had met at a fashion show, where dressed in a starched shirt and bow tie he was serving wine. He had been struck by how compact and well put together she was. There was a cute touch of the Orient about her – a little Manga girl in thigh-high suede boots with searchlight eyes and a button nose. Very much the subordinate in their interaction, he had topped up her wine. Brought about by his preoccupation with her boots, a dribble had plopped onto her thigh, fizzing in an alluring bead of foam on her pale skin. She smiled at the indiscretion and trained her eyes on his, surprising him by saying he could lick it off later if he was good.

She must have thought he was. After two drinks and a taxi ride they were in his bed. Next thing he knew, the thigh boots and the eyes had temporarily moved in. She was in-between accommodation, and they came to an arrangement – sharing his rented flat directly above the betting shop along the small arcade on the housing estate.

Now late on Saturday afternoon, the city is a distant boom. The shops below them are shut or shutting. The last of the losers are leaving the bookmakers in a ragged line. It is too early for the lunatics in their hoodies and the kids with boom-boxes. Afternoon drinkers – survivors of their self-imposed sessions – are staggering from the pub on the corner.

Hooper and Zola have developed a Saturday night routine. After a week in the city grabbing meals on the hoof, it is the night to eat at home. Neither of them claims to be a cook, so it is never anything grand. Nourishing but simple, it is a decent ready meal from the store at the end of the arcade. That or fish and chips. That is, if the mobile van turns up, and the kids don’t try to rock it over and spill the boiling cooking fat on the pavement. After dinner there is Saturday television, irrespective of the programme, and afterwards, maybe Zola will give Hooper the signal before she slips into her nightdress. Only, on this occasion, he assumes he can forget about the last part of the Saturday schedule for this week.

That’s all right. His head is buzzing. He is still piecing together details of what he had seen, wondering what had started it all: the CD or the book, or maybe neither. On second thoughts, even after a hot shower, not the CD. The culprit had to be the book. The question being: What book?

His musings are interrupted by Zola. We are all adept at disguising the aftermath of self-masturbation. Having partaken in this most private of indulgences, in jeans and flip-flops and a white linen overshirt, smelling of soap, shampoo and a wisp of perfume, she breezes into the room without giving off the slightest inkling of what she has just done. If anything, of the two of them, it is Hooper that looks abashed. He can’t say why. Guilt at bursting in on her during an intimate moment? Surely not! On realising he had stumbled upon something so personal, rather than gawp at the sight before him, he had withdrawn. No, rather than guilt – it was relief. Relief at not being detected; relief there wasn’t to be a scene; that Zola (not so far identified as a screamer) wouldn’t get all defensive and throw a vase his way whilst telling him not to spy on her. Relief at managing to keep the episode to himself – that only he knows what he saw …

Rather than join him on the sofa, she tucks herself into the one easy chair in the room. It’s an outsized chair built for a basketball player or the heavyweight champion of the world. He loves how she sinks into it as if she is a goblin, the contours of her body utilising every corner and cushion. He loves to watch as she folds her legs neatly beneath her, clutching her white ankles and trickling her thumb and fingers over her toes. Loves the way she winds her hair around her fingers, making a moustache of it whilst she fixes him with those eyes as wide as pebbles.

His thoughts return to the book. On a pretext, he excuses himself. Once in the target area of the bedroom, he sets about finding it in the limited time available. Zola has moved a few of her clothes in. That means cardboard boxes are stacked on the floor. Dresses and tops are carelessly strewn on hangers outside the wardrobe. It could be anywhere; but in her haste, presumably intending to secrete it later, she has obligingly put the book – yes, that must be it – face down on a shelf in her bedside cabinet.

Hooper picks it up cautiously and turns it over. There is no time to do anything but identify the book’s name and scan through the pages. Both actions make him feel like a thief in his own bedroom. They also result in a triple shock.

First, there is the cover. A lot to take in: a delectable, slightly stern woman with a haunting look, piercing eyes, moist and unsmiling lips, hair slightly tussled, white blouse beneath a formal business suit, sits at a desk looking mildly irritated and flexing a leather strap. And judging by the look on her face, it is not an ornament.

Second, and to accompany such a dramatic image, conjuring up discipline of a delightful variety from the woman on the cover, is the title crawling along the bottom of the picture: Under Her Heel.

Third and last, there are the contents – the pages detailing the story of a slapdash but talented musician caught in the clutches of his lady agent, who is exasperated by his failure to attend bookings. Many segments include graphic depictions:

A young man with glitzy polka dot boxers pulled taut around his bottom is bent over with hands straining to touch his toes … The lady on the cover slowly removes her belt from the loops of her skirt … She gives the man a heartless thrashing across her desk with a leather paddle … There is the graduation to what she classifies as extreme measures from a whip which she cracks with precision and without mercy … The necessity for the man to signify his surrender under the heel of the title … The requirement he should kneel and offer his neck to a spiky collar and leash, used to lead him to a room in the basement and to servitude at the woman’s feet ...

With the clock ticking down to his exposure (he has already taken too long, but finds the contents riveting), Hooper carefully replaces the book. He knows it will soon be out of sight. That Zola will stash it away with the rest of whatever keepsakes she has travelled with. The things that are none of his business – that even a significant other should never uncover: a lock of someone’s hair, letters from past boyfriends, an old photograph, a token of love from a Russian sailor.

Grateful his foray has gone undetected – he really has pushed his luck – Hooper returns to the living-room. Zola doesn’t look up from the magazine she is reading in front of the flicker of the television. He has the book’s title, but what part of it had she been reading to trigger such excitement? It was intriguing. What had created the spark that set Zola’s senses alight? If he could uncover that, it could put a different complexion on their sex life, which so far had been pleasant but unremarkable. Hooper needed a clue.

Then, when he thinks about it, he has one. Zola has an annoying habit of bending her books back by the cover. Annoying because it makes a mess of the book, abuses it even, leaving it dog-eared and wrinkled. But in this instance, it could be informative. He thinks back. The way she held the book indicated the passage being read was halfway in. At a rough guess, in a slim volume, say, between pages sixty and seventy. That narrowed it down. All he needed to do was to have another look at Under Her Heel. Not Zola’s copy – he wouldn’t see that again. But there was an alternative. He knew where he could get hold of a copy of the book, and where he could peruse it at leisure.