NO MORE SEX

It was the last time Derek Clewes had sex. 

He didn’t realise it at the time. In fact, when engaged in the said act, that evening in June, he thought it was just another occasion in a long list of similar ones that he’d enjoyed in the past and would continue to do so for decades to come. Like cutting his toenails or washing the car. Maybe cleaning his teeth, although admittedly less frequent; it was far from a twice daily activity. But sex was one of those pursuits that reared its head, as it were, at regular times and brought a certain level of satisfaction. If he was a Google review he’d give it three stars, sometimes even four. He could only dream what five-star sex might be. 

Now, though, he looked back and realised the truth: it had indeed been his swansong. It was deafeningly, blindingly, palpably obvious. This was his farewell performance and there would be no comeback tour.  He had retired, apparently. 

Not by choice, though. It wasn’t like the time he had to stop playing football because of chronic pain in his knee. Or when he’d lost patience with that low-carb diet and decided to go back on the bread and cakes. It had more in common with losing his hair; he had no say in that either. It was a passive loss, not a proactive process. The crucial difference being: all those other things involved nobody but himself. Whereas sex depended on one other person. (Or theoretically more than one if you were lucky, which Derek wasn’t. A threesome was on his bucket list although, like a bungee jump or visiting Timbuktu, unlikely ever to be crossed off.) For Derek Clewes, that A. N. Other was Janice. She was fundamental to Derek’s waving bye-bye to rumpy-pumpy. 

But to begin at the beginning: Derek’s first time at the rodeo was also with Janice. And since they had progressed their fragile relationship to marriage and, as far as he knew, fidelity, he’d only ever done the deed with one woman.  The first time was after they’d been going out for almost a year. He’d tried to push things in that direction, subtly at first (‘You’re a very attractive girl, Janice’), then more boldly (‘Janice, I’d like to make passionate love to you’) and eventually leaving nothing to the imagination (‘For fuck’s sake, Janice, why can’t we fuck?). Whether more subtle tactics would have produced better results, he’d never know. Was it his forthright manner that persuaded her finally to relent? Or did it bolster her determination to control every aspect of the experience? In truth the loss of his virginity wasn’t a magical moment to treasure but it was enough to make him think, ‘Yeh, I’ll have some more of that’. 

When she did relent, the night of Wally Easton’s twentieth birthday bash at Bouncers, it felt not so much that he’d seduced her with his romantic charm, more that her energy to rebuff him had expired. 

‘Oh, come on then, Derek,’ she said, leading him through the trees to the boating lake, ‘Let’s get this done.’ 

She made him put his coat on the damp grass and lay down, getting in position for him. They’d been drinking vodka and coke and snogging a lot on the dance floor in the marquee so he thought there’d be more of that but she was all for getting on with the main course. She unzipped and unbuttoned as necessary to be able to accommodate him and waited for him to do likewise. He wasn’t sure how much to take off. Both being naked would have been his preferred option but this didn’t feel like the time or place for that. And it was a cool April evening. So he pushed his jeans down his thighs, kneeled alongside her, fondling her splendid breasts with one hand and stroking her pale belly with the other. Generously, he thought, Janice rubbed her hand over the hardening bulge in his M&S boxers. This he took as an invitation to release Mr Dickie. Which he did, hoping she would stay committed. He had no idea how many others she’d seen – or accommodated – before so he trusted his would fit within her parameters of acceptability. She didn’t recoil in horror, disapproval or mirth so he guessed they were still on track. In fact she held it for a moment, pulled on it for a while as if she was familiar with what men liked and then – oh joy! – she propped herself on one elbow and sucked it.  

Derek thought he might lurch to orgasm just from that intimacy. He’d had it done once or twice before. Well, twice, exactly. First when he was ten from a girl called Carmella in the year above him, who joked about eating his sausage and bit it hard. And then at thirteen from a boy in his class known only as Spaz. He had special needs and soon after that incident behind the woodwork shed had been expelled for exposing himself at a parent-teachers evening. Neither time felt as if it quite qualified as a bona fide blowjob. But this was different; it was two adults giving and taking pleasure. And it was a girl he actually cared about.  

It was only for a minute or so and she didn’t exactly devour his cock in a hungry way like he’d seen women do in porn. Janice held his penis as he imagined she would smoke a cigar, with her little finger raised, and slid the end of it into her mouth, keeping her dry lips curled protectively over her teeth. Her expression gave no doubt that she was doing it from duty not desire; as if holding her breath underwater and counting the seconds. Still, it was something. And her obvious distaste helped him not get too carried away. He didn’t want to peak too soon.  

She quickly moved on to what she’d brought him here for. She opened her legs and gave him a nod as if to say, ‘In you get’. Derek knelt between her thighs, positioning himself with precision, pointed stiff Mr Dickie at the target, her no-longer forbidden place, and gave a stab. 

‘Ow,’ not like that,’ she growled. ‘Get me ready first, Derek.’ 

‘Sorry.’ 

He had no idea what she meant. Wasn’t she ready? What kind of preparation did she need? Janice must have seen his confusion because she took his hand and put it there, outside and then inside her, showing him how to coax and caress her as she moaned and pushed back against his fingers. 

Ah, this was more like what he’d seen online. She even bit her lip and arched her neck as if the camera was on her. Quite soon she was reaching for him and helping him to get where he’d been wanting to go for almost a year. 

It was remarkably straightforward really. Not dramatic, painful, thrilling or particularly surprising. Pretty much as he’d imagined it would be, although the grass was unpredicted and the soundtrack of the disco added a certain dimension. For years he would associate Blondie’s Heart of Glass with his first thrusting rhythm of sex. 

The lip-biting and neck-curling were the most erotic moments. Once they were engaged in the actual piston-friction, the push-me-pull-you, toad-in-the-hole part, it became... banal? Was that the word? A touch disappointing, really. Hey, it was great that she’d let him enter her with his fingers and his dick. He’d been wondering if he’d be allowed to use his mouth too but he didn’t like to push it, for fear of triggering outrage and rejection, accusations of being some kind of kinky pervert. What was normal? What was expected? He had no idea. Anyway, he wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not; he’d heard different accounts from some of his mates. And you couldn’t always get the right technique from a video. Next time maybe. 

So Derek humped and pumped away with a certain degree of pleasant contentment, kissing Janice from time to time, feeling her flesh welcoming and holding him, soft and then firm, her hands on his buttocks pulling him in, her face indicating tolerance and mild pleasure.  

‘Don’t slime inside me,’ she said, with the tone of a strict school teacher to a naughty pupil. ‘You should’ve brought a thingy.’ 

Why would I do that, he thought, when you’ve been refusing me this access forever? How was I to know that Wally’s bash was the moment of truth? So when he passed the tipping point (‘Oh, I’m gunna, I’m gunna...!’) he withdrew himself, turned sideways and tugged the few final strokes until he burst, trying to aim away from Janice but making a mess on his own coat. It was new and from Gap; he hoped it wouldn’t leave a mark. Still, a mark of pride. A cumming of age, you might say. 

‘There,’ she said as he wiped himself uselessly with a crusty tissue from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Well done, Derek. How was that?’

‘Wow,’ was all he could manage. Words weren’t his thing. ‘Wow. Thank you. It was... yeh.’

‘Good.’ She was efficient in sorting herself out and rearranging her clothes. Derek noticed it was Le Freak floating on the chilly night air now. He could imagine Wally and Baz and Kev and the rest whirling around and grinning.  He hoped they were missing him and wondering where he was. He couldn’t wait to tell them about this. 

‘And don’t go telling your mates about this,’ Janice said. 

‘No. Yeh, right.’

When they got back to the tent Derek tried to signal his new status as non-virgin, man of the world, with a smirk and a swagger. Nobody commented and he suspected he just looked a bit pissed. But he knew. And he was proud of his achievement. 

Whether her decision to allow him access to her inner parts played a role in the next chapter, he couldn’t be sure. But he began to say ‘I love you’, a phrase he’d been shy of before, wondering if it was allowed. Did he mean it? Did she want to hear it? Did she believe him? Did it matter anyway? But Janice seemed to appreciate it whenever he dared to release those words into the conversation. 

‘Oh, thank you, Derek,’ she’d say with a gentle smile. ‘That’s so nice. I appreciate that.’  Or: ‘Do you really? Aren’t you sweet?’ Sometimes he’d get: ‘And I do too,’ or ‘I’m terribly fond of you as well.’ Her enthusiasm only highlighted her reluctance to use the l-word. 

But he pressed on, taking her out, buying her dinner, drinks or small gifts here and there: flowers from the garage, chocolates from the corner shop,  fluffy animals that she liked from the toy shop in the High Street or perfume from that bloke on the market who had all the top brands at amazing prices. Janice was grateful but not to the point where she would allow him sexual favours again. ‘Not yet, Derek, not yet.’ 

Things were progressing gently and without major expectations when... well, everything shifted. Lives changed. In seconds. It was one night after a few bevvies at the Yorkshire Grey with a bunch of Janice’s girlfriends, Kath and Shona and some others. He didn’t remember all their names. One of them – Mandy was it? - had a boyfriend called Matt. He was really a Mateusz but nobody could pronounce it. Polish, but a decent guy. He was missing a finger on his left hand from some agricultural accident as a kid, he said. Then he said, no it was because he’d chopped it off himself and laughed loudly. He was wired somehow, making snarky comments. 

They’d stayed at the pub until chucking out time. Derek and Janice broke away from the rest of the group and were waiting for the number 91 bus at the stop on Marden Street. Janice allowed Derek a bit of a snog and he copped a feel of her tits. He pushed his knee between her thighs but she wasn’t having any of that. So he shoved his tongue in her mouth for a while, tasting the tannin of her red wine and the salt of her cheese and onion crisps. It wasn’t a bad combo. 

Then, when he withdrew for air, it just slipped out. 

‘Let’s get married!’ 

They were both equally shocked. 

‘What?’ 

‘Um... yeh,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

‘Married? Do you mean it?’

‘Sure,’ he said, wondering if it was possible to say ‘no’. ‘Why not? Let’s do it. We get on great, don’t we? Let’s do the... the decent thing.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Janice, her face a mask of disappointment. 

‘What?’ Derek said, hoping her expression meant she was going to turn him down. 

‘But not like this. At the bus stop, half drunk. On a Thursday night? With no ring. You haven’t got a ring, have you?’

‘Um, no. I didn’t think I was going to... Sorry.’

‘Well, get a ring and then surprise me. But tell me when so I can be ready and film it.’

‘OK. Right.’

‘And the answer will be yes. Oh, daylight is better than night; the camera on my phone’s a bit crap.’

‘How do I get a ring the right size?’

‘You’re hopeless. Any old cheap crap will do for the Insta moment. We go shopping for the real one, the expensive one, later. And don’t let on to anyone. I want to announce it properly on Tik-Tok.’

‘OK.’ His heart was sinking by the second. 

The bus arrived and Janice was about to step up into it. 

‘And, Derek, you have to go down on one knee. That’s crucial, right?’ 

She went ahead of him, going upstairs to the seat at the front that she liked. 

He did as instructed. He got a ring from PoundWorld for the proposal a week later at the boating lake, dropping heavy hints so her phone was at the ready. ‘Hang on, turn the boat round so the sun’s behind me.’ He managed to kneel without capsizing the little craft, popped the question and smiled bravely when she accepted. There followed months of hoo-ha and razzmatazz when various others got involved, planning and arranging and suggesting and persuading. And charging and invoicing; God, it cost a fortune. 

The big day came and the deed was done. There was no going back now. Man and wife. ‘Do you take this woman?’ Looks like it. Hitched for life. 

And so the night of the wedding was the second time Derek Clewes had sex. This felt different, more intimate after the nuptials. She even permitted extra treats and he discovered he wasn’t that keen on putting his mouth on what she called her ‘foo-foo’. But she indulged him by sucking Mr Dickie for longer this time. Over a minute; more like three. Not that he timed it. And it felt wetter, somehow. As if she’d learned new techniques since the night of Wally’s birthday; surely that couldn’t be it? Still, their slightly raunchy half-an-hour in the hotel room bridal suite was a benchmark. They were an item, a couple, a pair. He would be having sex with Janice a lot now, he felt sure of that. And only Janice. Nobody else. Ever. That was quite a thought. 

What was the definition of a lot? Derek had heard of people who  ‘couldn’t keep their hands off’ each other. Or they were ‘at it like rabbits’. Not so Mr and Mrs Clewes. They managed to keep their hands to themselves quite easily, in a most un-rabbity way. It wasn’t a totally barren time. No, Derek’s tentative approaches in the early days were met with tolerant acquiescence. Sometimes even a hint of desire. He’d lay the groundwork with the odd saucy comment after dinner, with the best chance of success at the weekend. Perhaps he’d shower and leave his bathrobe open when he passed her in the hall. She’d see he was up for it, literally, and sometimes give him a look that meant she could be persuaded. But more likely she’d roll her eyes and mutter, ‘Cover yourself up, Derek.’ Or he’d pay her compliments on how attractive she was looking. Maybe stroke her leg while they watched EastEnders. It was all coded and discreet. Never: ‘D’you fancy a shag tonight, love?’ or ‘Any chance of a blowjob?’ 

Derek was horny at any time of the day. He wasn’t much of a morning person, always wanting ‘five more minutes’ whenever the alarm went off, but if he’d ever woken to find his wife playing with his joystick he wouldn’t have pushed her away. Afternoons were hot too, there was something exotically erotic about being sexual when the rest of the world was at work. Post-prandial jiggery-pokery was a rarity, though, and it happened not because of Janice’s inability to control her passion but for more pragmatic reasons, based on her shift times. 

Derek began to notice that Janice would sometimes instigate things. Not in a flirty, fun way with teases and tickles. More like she wanted him to change a plug. They would follow an established routine which, she made clear, did not include dirty talk, role play, biting, slapping and never - Never, Derek! –  anything ‘around the back door’. Not that he was desperate for anal but it might have been nice to explore a bit off the beaten track once in a while. 

She’d suggest doing it on a few consecutive nights and then the closed sign would come down again. After a few weeks the invitation would come again. 

Eventually he got it. She was counting the ovulation days of her menstrual cycle, not to avoid the embarrassment of mess but to work out the peak window for impregnation. Talk about a turn off. Once Derek had realised her game of engineering parenthood without consultation, let alone agreement, he almost went off the whole thing. 

Almost. But he was a man in his twenties and therefore a slave to his libido. Even though as he thrust away there was a voice in his head muttering, ‘You don’t want to be a father... do you?’ he couldn’t resist the carnal pull that drove him to cum inside her, resentful as he was of her tactics. 

And lo, it came to pass that one crisp autumn Sunday as she served the roast chicken with potatoes and two veg  (broccoli and parsnips, he still remembered, both of which he hated), Janice said with a coy smirk, ‘Extra spuds for me. I’m eating for two now.’

‘Oh my,’ said Derek, pouring his gravy. ‘Has it come to that?’ 

He was instantly aware that was not the appropriate response and quickly followed up with what he knew she’d be wanting to hear. 

‘You’re pregnant? Wow, that’s amazing. Fantastic. Great news.’ Etc etc. 

They did have sex a few times during the early days of her pregnancy. He guessed her hormones were dictating her moods so he did as she wanted although he voiced misgivings, saying it felt a bit weird and he was anxious about hurting the baby. 

‘Ha,’ she laughed, ‘With that? Don’t flatter yourself!’

Quite soon she started to get fat and, to be honest, rather unattractive. He still felt affection, but he didn’t fancy her now. Bits of her began to sag and bloat, there was a new network of blue veins, her walk became awkward and she even smelled different. So they left each other alone. The most contact they had was when Janice wanted a back rub. Or she flung a sweaty arm over him in her sleep.  

The months passed and all the while Derek was asking himself: ‘Is this what I want?’ He suspected the answer but was afraid to speak it aloud. 

He felt he hadn’t finished being single, experimenting, playing around, having some adventures. These adult changes had crept up on him: a girlfriend, getting married and now having a baby for fuck’s sake. Too soon, too soon. But he couldn’t see a way out. 

If he’d been smarter he wouldn’t have got tied down. At least not so young. And probably not to Janice. His knowledge of the alternatives was limited but he felt sure there would have been other possibilities, girls who might have been more... fun? Who would have laughed, been relaxed and playful. Might even have welcomed Mr Dickie knocking on the back door.  

But this had happened. This was his fate, his life now. He must, in the words of his father, ‘take it like a man’. 

Keith (named after Janice’s grandfather) was born, a healthy 3.3 kilos,  after a ‘long and excruciatingly painful labour’, as Janice would frequently announce for years to come, as if it was the poor lad’s fault. He had the right number of fingers and toes and looked not unlike all the other babies Derek had seen. This one wasn’t just another baby, though; it was uniquely his. He would stand at the foot of the cot and gaze down. ‘That piece of human flesh has my DNA. Fucking yeh.’ 

It was a miracle, there was no denying it. People talked about mothers and babies bonding. But what about fathers? Derek and Keith had a special connection and it never occurred to him that would be interrupted. 

Sex was off the agenda for a long time after Keith’s birth. Both parents seemed to understand that parts of Janice had been damaged by the process and wouldn’t welcome any intrusion for a while. Once in bed all they craved was uninterrupted sleep. Derek backed off and waited for his next call to action.  

It came when Keith was one and sleeping through the night. Summoned to perform, he rose to the occasion for the stipulated three consecutive days and in due course came the ‘eating for two’ phrase again. Damn, she was bloody fertile, that one. 

Derek’s enthusiastic phrases may have rung a little hollow second time around. He didn’t need to ask himself if it was what he wanted; he was certain of the answer. 

No sex during the second pregnancy. He wasn’t disappointed; he wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t even sure if he desired it himself. Of course, if the order had come he’d have done his duty but by now something had slipped away. The fire had died. 

Emily-Jane (named after Janice’s two grandmothers) was born, a healthy 3.1 kilos, after a short and largely pain-free labour, as Janice rarely mentioned, preferring to air the misery of her first delivery. Emily-Jane (or E-J as Derek called her, against Janice’s wishes) had the right number of toes and fingers and every other part of her tiny body conformed to what was expected. Except one. She had a deep pink birthmark around her left eye and over her cheek. 

It wasn’t terrible. But it was visible. The kind of thing that, if you could, you’d wipe away like a splash of blackcurrant juice. It was small, really. But that’s because she was small. It would grow as she did, they were told. 

Derek and Janice drew each other’s attention to her pretty eyes, cute nose and soft hair. Janice brushed those fair locks over the mauve mark and dressed Emily-Jane in a variety of woolly hats that she pulled down on one side, hoping to disguise the mark. 

But however much they ignored it or pretended otherwise, the blemish was there. It was almost worse when friends failed to comment on it, as if it was too hideous to address. At least when Janice’s dad blurted, ‘Oh, she’s got a red blotch, poor mite. What’s that all about?’ they could talk about it. And that helped. But the so-called experts at the hospital and then the dermatology clinic couldn’t offer much comfort. ‘Wait and see; it might fade with age.’ ‘They can do wonders with make up these days.’ And even, from one stupid doctor: ‘Oh, that’s a mere smudge; I’ve seen a lot worse!’ 

Keith was fascinated by his little sister’s stigma and even seemed to be jealous of it, gently stroking the ‘pink flower’ on her face.

E-J was a lovely girl and her discolouring seemed decreasingly important as they all became accustomed to it. Derek grew to quite like it and hoped she’d learn to accept it when she got older, not try to disguise or remove it. It was part of who she was. 

One thing which Derek wouldn’t have admitted aloud but felt certain was true, was that his daughter’s special quality, that mottled complexion, brought more anxiety into the house, an extra tension into Janice’s already uptight manner. Somehow she managed to exude a long-suffering martyrdom that precluded any chance of pleasure, let alone frivolity. The implied lament: ‘How can I engage in that sort of carry-on when my daughter is struggling with the trauma of disfigurement?’ 

Once she tried to fit the blame on him with comments about the viability of his sperm and demanding to know if anyone else in his family was similarly afflicted. 

‘No!’ he snapped, feeling the Velcro of their marriage disengage a little further. 

As far as sex went, Derek didn’t give up. He still hoped Janice might grant him permission for some horizontal fun. So he would pat her arse as she bent over at the fridge or on their usual dry peck goodnight he’d try to slip his tongue into her mouth. He’d snuggle up to her turned back in bed and let her feel his erection pressing into her thigh. Either there would be no reaction or rejection: a silent squirm away or the merest ‘tch’ of disapproval. Sometimes she’d throw in a ‘reason’ such as tiredness, an early start next day or worry that the children weren’t asleep. But they were excuses. And never delivered with an apology for disappointing him. The inference was that he was monstrously selfish to be seeking such gratification. 

Derek was crushed, disappointed and pissed off. He tried being more forceful, asking her explicitly why their sex life had petered out. ‘Really!’ she would snap and say no more. But he pressed her: was there something he could do to reignite it? She tutted and then ignored him. He bought her a saucy bra and panties with fake fur trimming from ‘Temptations’ round the back of the new Morrison’s but she laughed dismissively and the items disappeared to the back of the wardrobe. He even came on all macho one night after a few pints with Vince and the lads, pushed her onto the bed and pulled a button off her blouse as they grappled. But he saw the terror in her eyes and backed off, apologising the next day by text.  

It was on their fifth wedding anniversary that Janice’s mum offered to look after Keith and E-J for the night so they could celebrate and stay out late for once. Derek booked a table at Manzino’s, the classy Italian eatery with live music at the weekend. They started with cocktails (‘Have a slow screw against the wall, Jan, you might like it!’) shared a bottle of cava and he had a brandy with the coffee, which was strong and pungent. It felt like they were carefree and dating again, before it had all closed in. 

Plenty of booze, no kids and it was Sunday tomorrow. Surely, tonight could be the night, would be the night, should be the night? 

It was. 

Derek made sure to say and do all the right things. The compliments, the gentle touch, a CD of the music she liked (Les Misérables) and the lights dimmed to moody. He persuaded her to cuddle on the sofa and snogged her the way she preferred, not too sloppy. He offered whispers of lust, to which she giggled at first and then didn’t. 

So far, so horny. God, it felt an age since they’d last done it. Would she be willing to go all the way? After the smooching came the groping. One hand inside her blouse, then two. He undid the buttons so he could nuzzle and kiss her breasts, then suck on her nipples. As if she was breast-feeding him, he thought, before knocking that image on the head. She giggled and squirmed a bit but he persisted, not letting the mood become light-hearted or teenagery. She didn’t offer to get Mr Dickie out so he did that. He arranged himself so it was obvious what he wanted. 

‘Is it clean, Derek?’

‘I had a shower before we went out, remember?’

With that reassurance she deigned to shift her weight around and give him a blow. It wasn’t exactly top of the range, technique-wise, but he’d settle for whatever she could manage. And hell, it was better than not having one. 

Derek thought they might do it there on the sofa and that would be kinky: as if they couldn’t restrain themselves any longer. But Janice could. 

‘Let’s head up to the bedroom, shall we?’

‘We don’t have to. I want you, Janice.’

‘Thank you, that’s nice of you. But let’s just…’

She pushed him off her, pulled at her clothes, plumped up the cushions, switched off the mood-lighting and Les Miz, went into the kitchen, washed up some mugs, dried them and put them away in the cupboard, checked the back door was locked and only then headed upstairs to the bathroom. By the time she joined Derek, twenty long minutes later, he could have screamed with frustration. She’d brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth, applied some cream to make her face shiny and now she changed coyly into a nightie. 

‘If you want to ejaculate within me,’ she said, ‘you have to use a precaution.’ She got under the duvet. ‘We can’t afford another mouth to feed.’

Obediently, Derek got a condom from a drawer in his bedside table. It was probably past its sell-by date. 

Then they did sex. 

It was the best sex Derek had had all year. It was the only sex Derek had had all year. And it was early June.  

There was no more sucking and no proper kissing. She tolerated him fucking her and managed a few words of mild encouragement. 

‘That’s it, Derek... very nice...  you’re doing fine…’ 

As if judging his technique. Bloody cheek. 

He came inside her too soon, muttering some dirty words at the moment of release (‘Oh shit, yeh, I’m gunna... I’m gunna... Oh, fuck!’) but Janice frowned and said, ‘Sssh’ as if the kids were in the next room.  

There was no thought to her enjoyment; this was to serve him alone. So when he’d achieved orgasm, Derek gave her a brief peck on the cheek, said, ‘Happy anniversary’ and turned away. He removed the condom, tied a knot in it, dropped it into a half-empty mug of tea from that morning and switched off the light. Within five minutes he was snoring. 

In the morning, as they ate their breakfast, Janice, all bright and perky, said a strange thing. 

‘Derek...’ This as she shook cornflakes into a bowl. 

‘Hm?’ He knew that softening-up tone; something big was about to break; something she suspected he wasn’t going to like. 

‘I think it’s great that we don’t have to... to bother with all that sexual business to show that we care for each other.’ She pronounced it ‘sekshull’. 

‘Sorry, love?’ He was buttering his toast. He stopped to replay her words.  

‘We can, if we want to. But it’s not... necessary. Don’t you agree?’

He didn’t reply for a while. He spread marmalade on top of the butter. Never before had he given this mundane activity such attention. He took a bite, then a gulp of his tea. 

‘Right. Yes. Um... No. I see what you mean. I think.’

‘Oh good,’ she said and then began to tell him about Keith’s request for some electronic gadget, as if the matter was agreed, resolved and closed. Which, for her, it was. 

He continued to try. Physically, which got him nowhere. And verbally, which took far more courage but also made no difference. 

‘Do you still find me attractive?’ he asked. 

‘Attractive, Derek? How do you mean?’ She looked genuinely confused. 

‘Like, do you fancy me?’ He refrained from asking if she ever had. 

‘You’re a fine-looking man. Very... well put together.’ Making him sound like a flatpack wardrobe.

‘Sexy?’ he said.

‘Oh, stop fishing for compliments!’

‘I fancy you, you know,’ he said, with only the most minimal mental check-in to see if it were true. 

‘Well, there we are, then,’ said Janice primly, ending the discussion. 

And so that night in June after the anniversary meal of linguine ai frutti di mare, insalata tricolore and zabaglione was, ladies and gentlemen, the last time Derek Clewes had sex.

Unless you count masturbation. Which became his go-to activity from then on. Not easy to squeeze into the day without Janice cottoning on, and he wouldn’t want her to know as he felt sure she’d be deeply insulted. Perhaps disgusted. Silly, really. If she couldn’t help him, why should he worry that  helping himself might give her the pip? Rub her up the wrong way by rubbing himself up the right way. But then, when it came to sex, nothing was logical or straightforward; so much was implication or grey areas, ambiguity and ambivalence. 

It was much simpler with a good old wank. Or ‘jerking off’ if he was in a trans-Atlantic mood. No mixed messages or tiptoeing on eggshells with onanism. If he felt like it, he could do it. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. Easy-squeezy. No taking or giving offence by suggesting or refusing. It could be a slow, teasing pleasure building to climax or a practical quickie, cracking one out. He knew exactly what rhythm was best, how much pressure to apply to Mr Dickie and which fantasies to pursue, either in his head or on his phone. True, he started to go over his monthly data limit and had to change his mobile plan but it was worth it. After all, having this regular outlet was a necessity, not a luxury. And it was so much simpler to arrange when it was a solo effort, not negotiated with someone whose sex drive was stuck in neutral.  

The shower was Derek’s favourite place. The gushing water disguised any noise, either of a video or his own enthusiasm. And it was eminently hygienic, his home-made froth washed away by the soapy suds. Sometimes he’d treat himself with a swift one in the gents at work, although that felt less exciting, more mundane. But they were all good, uncomplicated and mind-fuck-free fun.

He wondered, one day, if Janice was also ‘taking herself in hand’ but found the idea surprisingly sad and mildly disturbing so closed the door on that. 

Once Derek accepted that it was over with Janice, life with her was paradoxically easier. As he no longer expected it, he was not disappointed. Since he now stopped trying for it, he didn’t face the indignity of being rebuffed. At night, he kept to his side of the bed and Janice kept to hers. He never saw her naked and didn’t bother exposing himself ‘casually’ to her in the hope of rekindling her libido. 

And so they lived like friends or siblings. Both polite and cooperative but at a distance, on parallel tracks. Occasionally, from the vestige of affection he felt, Derek would touch Janice’s arm when she was cooking. Or his knee might fall against hers if they were on the sofa together watching Strictly. But Janice developed a technique of disengaging without comment. It was subtly done and unostentatious, so any casual observer would be oblivious of her intention. Derek got it, though. He knew. And so he stopped expressing even that smidgeon of  warmth. Thus the temperature between them dropped a few more degrees. He tried to protect the kids from witnessing their disintegration, hoping they were too young to spot how thin Mummy and Daddy’s conversation was, or notice how they spoke to each other through their children. 

‘Keith, why don’t you see if Mummy’s ready to come to the shops...’ 

‘Emily-Jane, go and tell Daddy to come in for tea now...’ 

He was tempted to suggest: ‘Ask Mummy when she went off Daddy and why.’  But he was worried that a) Keith would really ask and b) Janice would send him back with an honest reply. His lad didn’t deserve that. 

Occasionally, and with increasing frequency, they would sink into a spiral of jousting along familiar, pointless lines. 

‘We’re always pissing each other off these days.’ 

‘That’s not true.’

‘I think it is.’

‘Not always. You exaggerate.’

‘You’re annoyed with me now, for saying that. Aren’t you?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I’m trying to point out how we get on each other’s nerves.’

‘I get on your nerves, is that what you’re saying?’

‘You’re twisting my words.’

‘Well, you’re not listening to what I said.’ 

‘I said we get cross with each other.’ 

‘No, you said always.’

‘Am I pissing you off now?’

‘By asking me that, yes you are.’

‘So I’m right.’

‘Is that what matters most to you, being right?’

‘I wish I was wrong,  we didn’t irritate each other so much.’

‘Well this is the reality of our marriage.’

‘So what are we going to do about that?’

‘What do you want to do about it?’

Round they would go, round and round in concentric circles of blame, sniping and scratching, nagging and niggling until one of the children came in to disturb them.  

‘Janice,’ he asked one day as they passed in the bathroom doorway. ‘What are the things I do that annoy you?’ 

She gave him a sad smile. ‘Derek,’ she sighed, ‘Everything you do annoys me. There’s nothing that doesn’t.’ 

His laugh died as he realised she wasn’t making a joke. 

It was a Wednesday evening at around nine o’clock, half-way through the England match, when Janice announced she was moving out. 

‘This marriage isn’t what I want, Derek. The spark has gone.’

‘Oh,’ he said, shocked but unsurprised. Did it ever have a spark? he thought, without the energy to argue. ‘All right.’

‘All right?’ She gave a snort, the most animated he’d seen her for months. ‘You don’t even have the balls to fight for this, do you?’

‘No,’ he said, noting his own candour. With the added question echoing in his head: ‘How would you know if I have balls? You’ve never shown any interest in going there.’ 

Janice had arranged everything already; she must have been planning it for weeks. She would take the children and they’d stay at her mum’s place as she had two spare rooms, until the Council found somewhere for them. 

‘Obviously we can sort out the details later: when you see Keith and Emily-Jane and so on. I want to be fair, Derek. I don’t hate you. You have some good qualities and one day someone will be the perfect fit for you.’

‘Yeh. Maybe.’

‘What about one of the girls at work?’ she offered brightly.

‘Jesus! Don’t start matchmaking in the same sentence you say you’re dumping me! Fucking hell, Janice!’ 

‘And there you go.’ She pursed her lips. ‘That’s just the sort of thing which has led me to conclude we’re not compatible. Language of that nature would never soil my mouth, ever. So…’ 

‘So?’

‘So, that’s it, really. The end of the road. No hard feelings. I’m going to make a coffee; would you like one? Oh, wait. I think there’s some of that liqueur Maureen and Clive brought us back from their honeymoon in Greece. Santorini, was it? We could sort of, you know, celebrate.’

‘Celebrate? You think this is - ?’

‘No, obviously, not celebrate ‘celebrate’. But to... well, mark the occasion. Our unofficial...’ And she made a gesture with her hands parting as if she was doing the breaststroke. 

She made the coffee, he found the liqueur, put the football on mute and they sat for a long while at opposite ends of the sofa in silence. Even at this decisive moment they had nothing more to say. In fact Derek had about a thousand thoughts bursting in his mind like popcorn in the microwave. He wanted to and shout, ‘You’re kidnapping my children!’ But he was stunned and remained mute. 

‘Mm, this is rather nice, isn’t it?’ Janice said and he thought at first she meant the silence. ‘Sweet and fruity. I must thank Maureen. Oh, one thing, Derek... One other thing...’ 

She was hesitant, cautious. Why? He felt anxious; what further damage could she do? 

‘Well,’ she put her glass down. ‘In order to get things... at the Housing... Look, I’ll be a single mother with two little ones. I should be top of the waiting list. But you never know. So I was thinking...’

Derek turned his head to observe her. Three feet had never felt such a chasm. ‘Yeh?’ He was no good at guessing games. 

‘Well, I might tell them there were... circumstances... that caused me to leave the family home.’

‘O.K.’

‘No, I mean... circumstances.’ She did that bunny-ears thing around the word. Derek considered it almost as irritating as a heart-shape with fingers and thumbs. 

‘Circumstances. Right.’ He couldn’t be bothered with her wittering. He felt exhausted, drained of all energy. He was trying to get his mind around the stark horror of his marriage falling apart. Kidnapping... stealing them...

‘To speed things up, I might have to say... of course only if it’s absolutely... Don’t get triggered. It might not come to it but I just wanted to let you know...’ 

‘What, for Christ’s sake?’ he snapped and registered her flinch. 

‘That there were times when you... when you...’ 

‘Shit. No!’ 

‘Only if totally  necessary,’ she rushed on, trying  and failing, to make it all right. ‘Maybe just imply it. Hint at it. To hurry things along, that’s all. The thing is, we can’t live at my mum’s forever.’

‘That I hit you? Is that it?’ He was appalled and yet still registered the irony of wanting, in that moment, to slap her for the callous cruelty of her words.  

‘Well, it will help my application, apparently. Kaylee’s mum works there and said – ’

‘I hit you? You’d tell them that?’

‘No, Derek, no. Not unless I – ’ 

‘Have you - ?’ He looked at Janice and felt he’d never seen this person before. ‘Have you no respect for me? No respect at all?’

She looked perplexed, knocked off her stride. This wasn’t part of her plan. 

‘Derek...’ She arranged her features into an unconvincing imitation of compassion. ‘Derek, this isn’t about you.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he muttered.  

She carried on talking but he’d lost the capacity to listen. His brain had closed down. He stood up and trudged from the room. Upstairs he looked at the children asleep and innocent. They’d be shocked but resilient. They would adapt, learn to live without him around, see him at weekends for football or the zoo. He’d spoil them and be wracked with remorse if their time together wasn’t perfect. One day, they would start to call someone else Dad and his heart would break. God, it would be hell.

Who would he tell? When? How to phrase it? Not sounding desperate, nor vindictive. Pretend it was mutual?

In the bedroom he undressed to boxer shorts and t-shirt, fearing being naked next to Janice now. It wouldn’t be right. He curled up to the edge of the mattress and wanted to cry but no tears came. 

He heard Janice’s voice downstairs on the phone. It was a long call. Perhaps with her mum. But then came the sudden question: is there another man already? He couldn’t find the energy to care. 

She came to bed a lot later and he felt the bed dip as she got in. He had decided he would ignore her when she spoke or touched him. But she did neither. He listened to the sound of her breathing and the occasional car outside on the Crescent. It was light by the time he fell asleep. 

The next few days were the loneliest Derek had ever known. Their lives carried on at two levels: the surface pretence for the children that things were just the same as before with a ‘stay at Nanny’s’ offered as a treat. And, under that, the reality of wretched desolation that they didn’t express. The wrapping of fake brightness intended to disguise the misery made it so much worse. Derek felt as if he could sit in the dark and howl like a dog. But what did he do? He carried on. When people at work said, ‘Morning Del. Y’OK?’ he nodded and gave a thumbs up. How else to respond? Spill his guts all over them, weep and rage at the injustice? Vent his gnawing panic about the chasm of misery ahead? 

‘Yeh, fine, Andy. Tickety-boo.’ 

The final days were grotesquely slow but upsettingly fast. The brave part of him was thinking, ‘I’ll be fine, I will.’ But the frightened part wanted to scream, ‘Don’t go! I haven’t loved you as I should’ve done but we can do better. Give us another chance. Don’t leave me, please!’ 

On the Saturday, as promised, Janice moved out. Her dad, Stu, brought the car to help. He had a shifty look as if he was participating in some nefarious activity for which he might be arrested. As he passed Derek on the landing carrying suitcases he muttered, ‘Sorry about this, Del. She’s not the easiest. Maybe you’ll work it out and get back – ’ But Janice emerged from the bathroom with a bag of her potions and lotions. Stu cut himself off, sharing a tiny look of contrition with her for speaking to the enemy. 

‘Kiss Daddy bye-bye,’ she instructed Keith and Emily-Jane and they did, with an air of solemnity that hinted they knew what the number of bags meant.  Derek made a point of pressing his lips onto E-J’s pink flower mark on her left cheek. For some reason that mattered. 

‘Have a nice... break,’ he said. ‘Be good and I’ll see you in a few...’

‘Let’s be off, Dad,’ Janice ordered, ‘Before the traffic gets bad.’ Or Derek starts sobbing on the carpet. ‘Bye then.’ 

And they went. As if it were the most unremarkable thing. Like setting off to work or making a trip to Asda. They went. ‘Bye then.’ As if it wasn’t a family disintegrating, a world crumbling. Two words were all she had to offer. No comfort, no explanation, no apology, no hope. ‘Bye then.’ And they were gone.

The front door closed. He heard car doors slam, an engine start, rev and then fade as Stu drove Janice, Keith and Emily-Jane out of his life. 

Derek stood for a long time staring at the closed door, unable to take everything in, unwilling to block anything out. It was only the realisation that he needed the toilet that forced him to move. In the bathroom he relaxed and his bowels opened; liquid shit poured from him as if he was puking up from the wrong end. A bizarre realisation dawned: he would never have the weird pleasure of sitting on a warm toilet seat in his own house, never smell the sweet, pungent odours of one of the others when following them. It wasn’t the worst aspect of this separation but right now it felt like a small, cruel extra twist. 

Derek retreated into a fog of oblivion. It was safer there. He needed to feel cocooned, not risk bumping up against reality. If the world could deliver that blow, what other horrors might ensue? 

And so he went through the motions of living a life, but all was hollow and without meaning. He was a zombie; he looked to outsiders like Derek but was a mere avatar mimicking Derek’s gestures and voice. 

‘You OK?’

‘Fine.’ What a useful word that was, sounding consoling but meaning nothing and curtailing further inquiry.  

All Derek’s food now came out of tins and packets. The microwave was his best friend. Plates were piled high, spattered with sauce. Foil takeaway containers were left where he’d eaten from them: on the sofa, by the bed, in the bathroom. There was no pride, no dignity. Beer cans were drained and dropped on the carpet. Curtains stayed closed during the day. Milk didn’t make it back to the fridge and curdled in its carton. He drank it anyway. 

Clothes, too, were discarded where he undressed. Sometimes he managed to drop socks or shirts into the laundry basket on the landing. Normally they’d have been washed, dried, ironed, folded and placed in his space in the wardrobe. Magic. Not any more. The items remained just as he’d left them: stinking and crumpled.  He would pull a pair of boxer shorts or a shirt from the pile, sniff it and wear it again. There was no reason to be clean, or smart or healthy. He accepted his slide into a trough of self-neglect. He deserved this. 

Derek stopped shaving. Stubble appeared around his jawline and he took a few seconds in the morning to give himself a brief appraisal. Sure, he looked a wreck, but the pirate image matched his mood of  ‘who-gives-a-shit?’

The days elongated into a week. Then two, three. After that came the month’s anniversary. Two months. That’s when he stopped counting. A few colleagues at the factory must have found out why Derek was so defeated from their girlfriend, who knew someone who knew someone who worked with Janice. 

‘Have you and the missus... you know?’ said Terry. 

‘Yeh. Apparently. Not my choice.’

‘That’s tough shit, mate.’ Spoken with sincerity. But then, in an incongruously upbeat tone: ‘You should give Tinder a go. My mate said it got him back on track when his wife walked. Give it a whirl.’ 

‘No, no. That’s not for me, Tez. I’m not... It’s not...’

‘Sure. Too soon? But you’ve got to get back in the saddle, Del. Don’t let her win. Start living the way you want to; do the things you couldn’t when you were hitched. You’ve got to find the positive in all this.’ 

People who’d never had their wife walk out and steal their kids were full of advice. Things he ‘had’ to do, attitudes it was ‘vital’ to develop, activities he ‘absolutely needed’ to avoid. So many shoulds. In his dazed state Derek had no energy to resist these well-meaning meddlers. He listened, nodded, thanked them and ignored everything they said. Whatever it was; he didn’t listen. Their words floated past his head, so many empty bubbles. 

Routine-less was Derek’s new normal. He was resigned to the grim void, a shallow melancholy. He woke, worked, ate, watched TV, slept. Day after dull day. Janice brought the children to see him every couple of weekends, waiting at a distance until he opened the door. She’d call, ‘Are you all right?’ but not wait for his answer. Why bother? She didn’t care. He’d spend the day with Keith and Emily-Jane, trying to find special things they’d like. But invariably they would bicker, he’d fail in some way and one of them would ask, ‘Can we go home now?’ That hurt. 

It was six months after Janice left that Derek remembered what Terry had said. ‘Give Tinder a go.’ He was sitting in the snug at the Bell and Crown, nursing a pint to avoid returning to his cold house. Most of the other punters were in the front bar half-watching some talent show on the big screen.  

An old couple were sitting a few tables away with their drinks. He had a bottle of lager; she had a glass of red wine. There wasn’t much conversation; an occasional comment and monosyllabic response. Their familiarity with each other was obvious; whether that was a comfort or a burden Derek couldn’t tell. He was studying a tabloid paper; she sat quietly, as if waiting for a train. How long had they been together? Was it a long and happy marriage? Or just long? Were they resigned to being together or still appreciating what the other brought to the relationship? Did they love each other? Did they still have sex? He didn’t want to know.

There were three youngish lads up at the bar, larking and joshing about. The sort Derek had been not many years earlier. He had a fleeting memory of Wally Easton’s 20th birthday bash at Bouncers with Baz and Kev and that first time on the damp grass with Janice when anything seemed possible. A lifetime ago.

And there was a single woman in the far corner with a gin and tonic, maybe vodka. She had her phone out and was gazing at it, dabbing at the screen with her thumbs. 

Perhaps it was her presence and the suspicion that she was on some dating app that reminded him of Terry’s words. ‘Start living the way you want to, mate... Find the positive.’

If Janice hadn’t left, would he have put up with such a dreary co-existence? Was it, in fact, a positive that she’d left? Might other possibilities open up now that he was single again? 

That’s when the woman lifted her head and looked his way. Not with any expression. No smile of recognition or challenge; nothing. She just took him in, as if he were an object. Even so, Derek felt something. Like a car battery responding to jump leads. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was but there really was a feeling, a mixture of feelings. He gradually arrived at it: he was curious (who might she be exactly?) but also pissed off (how dare she treat him like a bloody painting?). 

Derek was the first to break eye contact. Now the sensation was embarrassment. He studied his pint and slugged some more. It was warm, the way he liked it, not cold how it came from the tap. It struck him this was his only pleasure now. A pint – or two – at the Bell & Crown before walking home via Burgermart, some crap on Netflix and bed. How had it spiralled so swiftly, so tragically, to this? Once he’d been young, optimistic about his future. Once he’d had a future. Now he saw only endless days similar to this. Weeks, months, years. No prospect of change. 

God, Derek, he reprimanded himself. Catch yourself on, as his Auntie Edith would say in her sing-song Ulster tones. And she’d be right. This way madness lay; madness and misery. He needed to give himself a kick up the arse and get a bloody grip. 

He looked up from the thin spit of froth in his glass and saw that the woman had her enigmatic gaze on him again. Or still. Or just happened to be glancing in his direction. He was flattering himself that he held any interest for her at all. 

Then she nodded. Or rather, lifted her head in a gesture of acknowledgement. A kind of ‘hello, stranger.’ 

After the briefest pause and rapid calculation that this was probably OK, Derek lifted his head back in response. ‘Hello to you too.’ 

Still neither of them smiled. It felt like a cagey encounter between two gunslingers, not a friendly greeting. Derek was fine with that. Cagey was how he felt.  

She stood up; Derek thought she was about to leave. Yes, there was a tiny hint of disappointment. But when she picked up her glass it wasn’t to drain it and leave it on the table, she carried it over to where he was sitting. 

‘Hi,’ she said, looking down at him. ‘You right?’

‘Um, yeh,’ he said. 

‘Right.’ 

She waited but he was silent, out of the loop of whatever etiquette was appropriate. She pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. 

‘OK if I join you?’ 

He shrugged; she already had. 

She was studying him more closely now, checking out his hair, face, clothes, hands. 

‘Seriously, though. Are you? All right?’ 

He chose not to answer. When she realised this she said, ‘Manda.’ 

‘Oh, right, hi,’ he said. ‘Derek.’ 

She – Manda – said, ‘Yeh’ as if she knew that anyway. 

They both took a gulp of their drinks. She placed her forearms on the shiny varnished surface and leaned forward an inch or two, ready, it seemed, to interview him. 

‘You’re having a hard time.’ 

‘Um...’ 

‘Well, you look like it.’ 

She had a pleasing voice, he thought, calm and gentle. Even if her manner was forthright to the point of pushy. Still, he didn’t mind a new kind of conversation with a new kind of person. Isn’t this what he’d decided to try?

‘Oh, right. Yeh.’ 

‘You want to tell me?’

‘About..?’

‘What’s going on. You look a mess. Something’s not right. Bereavement?’

He thought about it. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘You’ve lost someone. Sorry to hear that. It happened to me a while ago too. Shit, isn’t it?’

Derek nodded. ‘Yeh. Shit.’

A silence of a few seconds honoured the similarity of their twin sadness. 

‘Bitter?’ 

Derek was trying to formulate an honest answer to her question when she added, ‘Fancy another? Pint?’ She was on her feet and heading to the bar. She didn’t need a response. 

Derek took in more details as he watched her. On the short side, neat, dark hair cut in a masculine style. Denim jeans and a quirky jacket over a pale blue sweater. The shoes looked as if they were classy but a bit beaten up. 

When she came back with their drinks she smiled at last and Derek saw what good teeth she had. One slightly wonky one but nice. 

‘Cheers. To better futures.’   

‘Seconded,’ he added and they took their first swigs without breaking eye contact. 

‘So...’ she said.

‘So?’

‘Our losses. You want to go first?’ 

‘Ah, well...’ And he found that he did. He wanted very much to go first, to tell his story to this stranger. To share details, the myriad tiny moments that he half thought he’d imagined. How much he missed having his children around and the familiar family jokes. Keith’s boisterousness; E-J’s pretty face. But also the slights he’d experienced, the put-downs and sharp digs that Janice had stung him with. Apparently casual remarks but delivered with devastating precision. And the hurting. So much of that. Sometimes the phrases were lobbed into the conversation as if they were jokes but always at his expense, pointing out yet another of his shortcomings or a further reason for her to be disappointed, irritated or saddened by something he’d done or not done, said or not said. Or, the harshest blow of all, something he was or wasn’t. It seemed that any aspect of his physical or mental makeup could diminish Janice’s life. The way he ate his food, cleared his throat, crossed his legs, folded his clothes or even pronounced a word could cause her to sigh and purse her pretty lips. Her pretty, unkissable lips. 

Because of course the physical relationship was key to everything. Whether it had been a symptom of the underlying problem or was the cause of the disintegration, Derek couldn’t tell. But it was right there in the centre of the mess. No sex. And the sex they’d had before it stopped was nothing but a frosty disappointment.  

Hesitantly at first, and then increasingly freely, Derek began to sketch in some of these memories. The woman – Manda – listened and said little. She nodded as he told her about himself and his previous life. She sipped her drink and sucked her finger. She asked him to clarify when she didn’t understand. She smiled at some of his anecdotes and winced at others; she challenged him if she thought he was being disingenuous. And the whole time she sent quick darting glances to take in his hair, his clothes and the way he squeezed his fingers around the glass, as if she was assessing him. 

Which, of course, she was.

He realised she was in sync with him. In step, attuned to his rhythm. Was this what they meant by empathy? It was such a novelty after so long being in a state of permanent tension with Janice and then the numb despair that he struggled to identify it, but there was no denying the reality. And he felt - he had to check - calm. Relaxed, relieved and refreshed. Stimulated by her company, her simplicity, directness and open attitude. He liked her jacket, her neat features and the slightly peppermint odour of her. 

‘When d’you last get a haircut?’ she said into a small pause in his monologue, throwing him off balance. 

‘Get a..? Um...’

‘’Cos it looks a right mess.’

‘What?’ He hadn’t been expecting criticism; her silence had suggested acceptance. Self-consciously, Derek pushed lank locks behind his ears. 

‘Well, I...’

‘What was it, six months ago you went? You’ve really lost the plot, eh?’

Derek didn’t reply. He was blindsided. ‘Yes,’ would have been the truth but it was too brutal to state, it would have left him exposed.  

‘Yes.’ She said it for him. Softly, in a way that he was unused to. So unused that he had no defence against it. Her understanding floored him and he had to look away towards the old couple across the room. But he knew she’d witnessed his features crumbling like a landslip and the hint of moisture welling in his eye. 

She left the moment long enough for Derek to recover his poise but not so long that it became the past. 

‘Come on,’ she said, leaning forward to rest a hand momentarily on his arm, a gentle gesture which in itself might have caused him to blub. 

‘What?’ he managed. 

‘That haircut. For a start.’

‘But...’ He was trying to think of a barber open at this hour. It was almost chucking-out time, after all. 

That wasn’t her plan. 

‘My place is five minutes up the road, just past the fire station.’ She must have seen his doubt. ‘It’s OK, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.’ She took a final gulp from her glass and left almost half of it. Nobody did that. ‘It’s my job; I work at Hair Today in the Arndale.’ He still wasn’t sure what was happening. ‘I’m offering you a haircut, Dumbo. And maybe...’ She considered something. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘I was going to get a takeout on the way back.’

‘I’ve got stuff in the fridge. I’ll sort us something tasty. Let’s go.’ 

Derek did as he was told. It was easier than having to make decisions. Manda led them out of the pub, round the corner, along the road and as they passed the fire station she slipped her arm through his without comment. She shuffled to be in step with him and it felt the most natural and welcome thing in the world. If he paused to think it made no sense at all, so he chose not to. There was a fine drizzle falling and it felt refreshing.

She told him a few bits and pieces about herself but not much. That was fine with him; he didn’t need a biography. Being listened to and not sniped at was enough; the physical contact was a bonus. 

‘My boyfriend, he... left too,’ she said. ‘The anniversary was last week.’ 

‘He left you?’

‘He left us all. Left this world.’

‘He died?’

‘Yeh.’ 

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

They walked on. Derek’s trainers made a squelching noise on the wet pavement. He wasn’t sure if she pressed herself a fraction more tightly to him or if he’d imagined it. Maybe he was willing it to happen. 

‘He killed himself.’

‘Oh, Jesus. I’m so...’ Sorry didn’t seem anywhere near enough to offer her. 

They crossed the road at the corner by the war memorial and she led them into an estate of low-rise flats with external walkways. 

‘Aren’t you going to ask how? Everyone does.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll tell me if you want to.’

She nodded. 

They went up the concrete stairs to the first floor where she opened a door into her flat. It was, like her, small and neat. And very appealing. 

‘Haircut first, then dinner.’ 

Manda took control. She sat him backwards to the bathroom basin for a wash, then led him to an upright chair opposite a mirror in the living room. She threw a blue sheet around his neck and tucked it with professional technique. Then took comb and scissors and began to snip and trim around his skull, leaning back to check the effect before returning to the task. She took clippers that hummed intimately up his neck and over his ears. Apart from that buzz and a bass thud of music from the flat next door, there was silence in the room. A comfortable silence that was easy to be in. 

‘That’s more like it,’ Manda said after a while. ‘Look at you, handsome devil.’ She removed the towel. ‘Come.’

Derek followed her back to the bathroom where he saw the result of her work. He smiled.  

‘Yeh,’ he said. ‘That looks like me.’ 

‘Now, shower while I make dinner.’ 

‘What? No, I...’ 

‘Shower. Frankly, you need it.’

‘Oh, sorry. Yeh, I expect... Sorry.’

‘Mouthwash there. Clean towels are...’ She pointed to a cupboard and backed out of the room, leaving him in a state of pleasing uncertainty. 

His doubt increased ten minutes later as he stood under the flow of hot water, soaping his chest. The door opened and Manda was there, her outline vague through the steamed Perspex panel. He paused, unsure of the expected response. To cover up or not? Speak or stay silent? Be serious or joke? He did nothing. Manda shrugged off and peeled away her clothes. All of them. Then she stepped into the shower. 

Was this inevitable? Had everything from that first raised-head look been heading to this point? Or had some dynamic shifted that he’d missed? It didn’t matter; he wanted this and she did too. 

She pushed herself against him and they kissed voraciously. With eyes and hands and mouths they explored each other’s flesh, creatures tentatively testing for permission and discovering it. Mutual lust. Derek marvelled at the ease of it all, the uncomplicated straightforwardness of two bodies connecting in erotic desire. She was rubbing his nipple and biting his earlobe with just the right amount of pressure to cause a frisson close to pain. She muttered some words he didn’t catch. 

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Dinner’ll be twenty minutes. Crack on.’ 

Manda dropped to her knees and took his hard cock in her mouth. It didn’t quite feel like Mr Dickie now. The water splashed down, as if anointing her at prayer. She pulled on his thighs, bobbing and moaning and blowing him with expertise. 

Derek didn’t resist, didn’t try to match her selfless gift. Nor did he question the experience. It was happening; he was loving it. That was enough. 

He came in her mouth. She swallowed. Blimey, all his dreams were coming true. She even looked up at him with an expression of total pleasure. Not duty but desire. She wanted this. She was a horny little beast and she wanted him. 

Dinner was a casserole with chicken and vegetables and she’d made a salad with tomatoes and mozzarella cheese with nuts and bits of apple. So exotic. She had one can of lager which they shared but she poured more than half for him. There was a sliced banana and a dollop of vanilla ice cream afterwards and then coffee. Not instant but from a pot with a lid she pressed down. 

They each wore a bathrobe. Hers was pale green, the one she got for him was dark blue. And it fitted. Which made him wonder: was it his? Or did she keep one for lots of similar casual encounters? Either way, it didn’t matter enough to seek clarification. 

As they finished their cups of coffee a question seemed to hang in the air, all answers possible. Manda leaned back and linked her fingers, with the air of someone arriving at a decision. 

‘You met him once. Met me too.’ 

‘Me? You? When?’ Derek looked at her face. It was vaguely familiar but not enough to know why. 

‘We had a drink together at the Yorkshire Grey. My best mate Shona was there and the two of us tagged along, me and Matt.’ 

‘Right... From... Germany? Had a bit of his finger missing. I think I remember. Sort of. He was in a weird mood. Jumpy.’

‘That was Matt. Always jumpy. It was like talking to three people at once. Not a bad guy but...’ She tailed off. 

‘That was the night I asked Janice to marry me.’

‘How romantic.’

‘Or bloody stupid. Too much booze.’ 

‘A momentous evening all round, then,’ Manda said, looking up at the ceiling.  

‘How do you mean?’ Derek said and waited for her to lower her gaze to meet his. There was a gentleness in the air and he realised how much he’d missed that. 

She told him more about Matt. Mateusz. He played the guitar and worked in a bike shop. He always had a tortured mind, she told him, and never slept more than a few hours at night. He wrote poetry and carved things in wood. She pointed to some ornaments on a shelf; small, beautiful pieces twisted and stained. Metaphors for his mental turmoil, she said.  

‘That night, after the drinks in the Yorkshire Grey, he wouldn’t come to bed. He went out, walked around in the rain. Came back, came to bed for an hour. Got up and went out again. He’d done it before. I didn’t panic. When it was light I got up, called him. No reply. Whenever he did this I’d wonder if he was safe. Had he done something stupid, as people say. But of course to him it wasn’t stupid; ending his life was the most sensible thing in the world. I still struggle. It was six years ago. I try to accept that it was his choice but...’ 

She shrugged. 

‘I found him hanging at his workshop,’ she said without emotion.

Derek had no idea what words might be suitable. He said nothing. That felt about right. Finally he said, ‘Thank you for… you know.’ 

‘Yeh,’ she said. 

For a while they sat on the sofa in their bathrobes like... well, like a couple, Derek thought. At ease with each other, talking and touching and slowly moving from friendly to flirty. Derek was aroused again and didn’t attempt to disguise it. Manda said, ‘Let’s fuck,’ and headed into the bedroom, turning to make sure he followed. 

So they did fuck. They fucked for longer than he’d ever done it before. With more pleasure given and taken than on any previous fucking occasion. The repertoire of positions and the fine tuning of activity was greater than Derek had ever known. He felt as if anything from his past was a mere hint of the full possibilities, a pathetic doodle next to a canvas rich in colour and texture. He knew so little about her but what he did know was her trauma and loss. He wanted to honour her for that, to fuck her in the spirit of celebration for her survival. Manda was not only active and committed to each lick and nibble, every thrust and throb, she was explicit and - hallelujah! – verbal about what she wanted from Derek. Do this, don’t do that; more here, less there; deeper, harder, slower, faster. It was as if he’d only ever been in first gear since passing his driving test and now here was someone who took the hand brake off and said, ‘Go! Put your foot down! See what she can really do!’ 

And he did. Nothing was out of bounds. He played with her breasts, suckling like a baby and biting until she winced, although she didn’t say to stop. He buried his face in her crotch and ate like a starving man, tingling more on hearing her guttural moans and puppyish yelps. She lifted her legs onto his shoulder and said, ‘Fuck me in the butt.’ So he obliged. Ah, so that’s what it felt like. Nice. In turn she bit his toes, swallowed his cock, sucked his balls, chewed on his nipples and she even – oh my god! – rimmed him. Which, it’s true, caused a moment of alarm. What did that mean? Was it allowed, OK to enjoy it? Yes and oh yes. 

‘Are you into pegging?’ she demanded and saw his blank incomprehension. ‘Wait. I’ll show you.’ 

From a drawer by the bed she pulled a dildo bigger than his own cock and a sort of harness with a Velcro strap. He’d seen this once in a movie he’d watched on his phone so he suspected what was about to happen. Apprehensive he certainly was but curious too and surprised how open he felt to anything. Manda arranged the contraption around her so she looked like a girl with a dick and then positioned Derek on his back. ‘Well, look at me,’ he thought. ‘Is this what Terry meant?’ Then he wondered, ‘What would Janice say?’ But the questions didn’t warrant an answer or another second of his attention. He needed all his concentration for the task in hand, in which Manda seemed to be quite the expert. She got him to lift his hips and slipped a pillow under him, sorted out his limbs and her own until the angle was just right and then, with patience and some silky gunge pumped from a bottle, began to fuck him. 

Derek thought he’d die with the thrill of it all. It wasn’t only everything he’d ever dreamed of, it was more, so much more. He had not just permission to touch, taste, grapple and grope as he pleased, he was being encouraged to. Ordered even. ‘Bite harder!’ she would growl. Or, ‘Give me your cock, you fucker!’ as if he wasn’t already doing exactly that. 

And they laughed. Derek had no idea that was allowed, or even possible. But she threw her head back and giggled with filthy pleasure, whooped like a cowboy as she pushed her toy into him, and chuckled as she saw his features flush with the disbelief. 

He came three times, once inside her, once over his own chest from the hand-job she gave as she fucked him and once over her face as she instructed. He would cheerfully have tried for an unprecedented fourth advent but she brought things to a close with a prosaic, ‘You have to go now, Eric.’ 

He was disappointed about the ending and the misnomer. But gift horses, mouths... And hey, she could call him Doreen if she liked. 

‘Really?’ He was ready to snuggle up and fall asleep with her. ‘Couldn’t I just - ?’

‘No,’ she cut him off. ‘This was fun. Really. You’re a hot guy. But don’t go getting mushy on me. It was a fuck and a great fuck but that’s all. I’ve got things to do and I’m working in the morning so...’

She got up from the bed and stood naked and unembarrassed, looking down at him. He tried an expression that was intended to be sexy and persuasive but it cut no ice with her. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. 

‘Can we..? Can we at least... do this again?’

She was on the point of leaving the room and she paused to look over her shoulder. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ 

‘Oh. OK.’

He got dressed slowly in a daze of amazed delight, gave Manda a hug at the door, which she stiffly permitted. 

‘Can I have your number?’ Derek said. 

Manda smiled. ‘I’ll see you around.’

He left the flat.  

Derek Clewes knew that whatever had just happened between them could not be called sex. That was so mundane, too drab a word for such a high-octane feat. Making love? No, she’d made it clear it wasn’t that. A shag, a bonk, a screw, a bang, a mucky fuck? Well, he thought, as he walked home in the now-heavy rain replaying the highlights of the last few hours in his head, perhaps the label didn’t matter. But he knew he’d never again settle for less than that extraordinary experience. The last time with Janice, on their wedding anniversary, had indeed been the final time Derek Clewes had what he would call sex. From now on he would be wanting to have... whatever his time with Manda was called. Ideally with some pegging too. 

It was about a week after the experience with Manda that Derek got a WhatsApp from Janice.  

Hiya how r you. I miss you - so do the children - big time. Listen I think I made a mistake leaving. can we talk??

Derek stared at the screen for a long time before he pressed ‘reply’ and began to compose his message.