10pm
Well, guess what? Phil’s just been round again. I’d thought after what I told him on Monday that he’d have got the message. But it seems that he hasn’t.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said. ‘That sex was so mind-blowing last week.’
I was practically biting my knuckle at this point. But he really did seem upset. If he’s that upset, why did he dump me in the first place? It seems churlish to ask him, though.
‘Did you call me, by the way, after you left that night?’
He looked surprised. ‘No. Did someone call? Bit late, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought. There was no-one there when I picked up.’
‘Probably just a wrong number then.’
I nodded, although I couldn’t help thinking about the dark shape I saw moving behind the car. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling low, Phil,’ I said.
He bent down to kiss me but I moved my head away, and his lips connected with my ear. I felt a faint twinge of lust, but told myself to get a grip. I tried to be nice, to say again that I’d moved on – I even trotted out his own excuse and told him that we both wanted different things (a decent shag being top of my list). But he didn’t seem to be hearing me. Eventually I had to put it to him straight.
‘Phil. You’re a lovely guy and a great friend, but I really feel that we aren’t sexually compatible.’
His jaw dropped and he blinked at me in amazement.
‘You never complained before,’ he said suspiciously.
I made some excuse about not realizing it until last week – I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings that much – but Phil does have extraordinarily thin skin. He jerked away from me, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. I followed him into the street.
‘Don’t go like this, Phil, please,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so as not to give the neighbours a free show. This wasn’t Sex and the bloody City, after all. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t want to go back to where we were before. Please let’s stay friends. I don’t want to spoil that.’
He looked at me, and I could see humiliation in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you around then,’ he said, without a trace of his habitual smugness.
Men and their pride! Especially where it concerns their sexual prowess.
Still, I don’t suppose I’d be overly happy if some ex announced that I was rubbish in the sack. Poor Phil. But I guess he’s really got the message now. And I really do feel OK about it.
Wednesday
Something very weird happened this morning. I’ve had this card, and it’s anonymous. It’s – well, it’s weird. I don’t know what to make of it.
The post came, just as I was leaving to meet Dennis Tennis. I scooped it all up off the mat and stuck it in my tennis bag. I got to the courts on time, but Dennis was late, as usual. I tried to warm up by practicing my serve, but I’d only brought four balls with me, and after a few goes I got tired of having to run down the other end of the court to retrieve the balls and try again.
Nobody else was around except a lone jogger doing circuits of the park, and a man in bright green dungarees digging up a flowerbed about a hundred feet away. He was listening to REM ‘Losing My Religion’, which was coming out of a flatbed truck parked next to him. I was quite glad Dennis wasn’t there – I was enjoying the feeling of being almost alone in a wide open space, the trees around me starting to change colour, squirrels bouncing along branches over my head, fresh air in my lungs.
I went and sat down on the court, leaning against the net post, and pulled out the mail. Two bills, a postcard from Paula in Phuket, and this interesting-looking letter with my name and address typed on the front. A good, thick envelope.
There was a postcard inside it, of a Gustav Klimt painting: Water Snakes I (Girlfriends). It’s one of his beautiful golden erotic ones, a woman on her back with that frowny, closed-eyed expression which is more likely to be orgasm than sleep. One naked breast is showing, and her arm is around another woman, who looks as though she’s sucking the other breast. The two look like one. It’s weird how he so often painted his women with their heads at ninety degree angles to their bodies.
When I turned it over it had a few lines printed on it, by hand. It said -
I don’t think I can even write it. I’m not a prude or anything, but it makes me feel embarrassed because of the way it describes what somebody wants to do to me. It wasn’t signed. I’ll stick it in here when I find my sellotape – it’s not something I’d want to leave around for Mum to find.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but Phil knows I like Klimt. And it figures that he’d be trying to dispel his bad rap in bed – although it’s not like him to go in for soft porn. I thought I knew him well enough to know that it’s just not his style.
I was really shocked, actually. I didn’t realize how shocked until Dennis Tennis turned up, lolloping across the park like a daddy long legs, and when I stood up to meet him I sort of almost lost my balance. Dennis looked really concerned.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, in his funny Wiltshire accent. ‘You look a bit pale’.
Normally I’d never confide in Dennis Tennis; the 6’5” religious tennis-playing plumber. He carries his tennis racket and his Bible around with his toilet plunger and his spanners. Ours is a strictly tennis relationship, I have no idea where he even lives – but suddenly I just wanted to talk to someone, so I blurted it out. Not what the card said, of course, just that I was a bit taken aback by its content. And that I’d sort of finished with an old boyfriend, and was worried that he’d taken it badly. Dennis looked utterly mortified, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like he’d pray for me if I liked. I felt like saying, ‘No, that’s OK, just let me win at tennis for once.’
Then I suddenly thought; what if the card’s from him? The quiet ones are often the worst.
I dismissed this idea instantly. But then I thought, it can’t be Phil, either. I know Phil well enough to know that he's not that imaginative – I lived with the man for eight months. Not Phil, not Dennis, then.
What about Poor Brian, gutted that I knocked him back? But no, how would he know where I live? And the same goes for Alex, too, my other potential admirer. It’s a picture of two women… couldn’t be from Kathy, could it? No - a woman wouldn't be anatomically capable of doing some of the things described on the card. I can’t think of any other ex-boyfriends who would suddenly come out of the woodwork. Why is it anonymous, if they did? It must be Phil.
Needless to say, tennis was a disaster. I played atrociously, and Dennis thrashed me 6-1, 6-0, which irritated me beyond measure, even though I deserved to lose that badly. I couldn’t concentrate at all. My mind was like the ball, flying all over the place, everywhere except where I wanted it to go. I just kept thinking of those words, and seeing the rapture on the face of that Klimt woman with her long hair streaming down over her shoulders and mingling with the other woman’s hair.
When I got home, I looked at the envelope again. It’s postmarked Kentish Town, so whoever it’s from is not far away. My hands were clammy as I took out the card and re-read it, holding it between finger and thumb like it was going to contaminate me.
On second reading, I thought, maybe it’s not that obscene. It’s quite, well, erotic. It’s just the fact that it’s not signed that makes it so creepy. If I got that card from someone I was madly in love with, I’d actually be rather flattered. And turned on.
Who fancies me enough to fantasize these things, and to let me know – albeit anonymously – that they do?