The two girls insisted that they were called Marga and Rita, but that wasn’t true. They were the margarita girls, and their names weren’t important; their service was.
Each one wore a cowboy hat, perched saucily askew atop long, black hair, a red neckerchief, a short, mid-riff baring, sleeveless blouse with collar and with the top several buttons undone to reveal a generous cleavage not necessarily supported by a Wonderbra, tight short shorts and cowboy boots. On each hip there was a holster, one with a bottle of Olmeca tequila, the other with a bottle of tequila mix.
The margarita girls’ job was to circulate and to entice all who might be interested into accepting a margarita from their soft hands. The customer sat on a chair, or other suitable seat, leant back into the generous bosom of the young woman, who first poured a generous slug of tequila down their throat and then an equally generous slug of margarita mix. The recipient could do a vigorous reverse motorboat against the bosom to mix up the ingredients. Uh, no, the margarita girl shook your head for you. The booze was free and available as long as the supply lasted.
My friend Meg had invited me to be her “plus one” at the launch party of some new business supporting the advertising industry, on the open, flat roof of their office building in Schotsche Kloof. The theme was Mexican fiesta, hence the margaritas and a free meal of tacos and filling.
The taco meal concept was less than properly thought through. The soggy filling scooped into a crisp taco shell caused the shell to go equally soggy within minutes, and then did the same to the paper plate underneath. It was like trying to eat an ice cream cone before the ice cream melted on a super-hot day. You had to wolf down the crisp taco before the mess landed in your lap or on the floor, and the more margarita you took onboard, the more insurmountable the challenge to eat without mess.
Meg tugged at my elbow.
“Hey, señor,” she said, “come over here. Come check out Patrick’s boots.”
Patrick was our host, a partner in the new venture and an old friend of Meg’s, an advertising creative.
Patrick was standing off to one side, chatting to one Bronwyn, Patrick’s PA and the object of his unrequited love, according to Meg.
“Patrick, show Neels your boots,” Meg said when we stood in front of him. “They’re so stunning. I think Neels must get a pair.”
Patrick smiled bashfully and pulled up one lower leg of his jeans to reveal ta high, powder blue, suede, cowboy boot that was aesthetically pleasing yet impractical for the cowboy life.
“Lovely boots,“ I said. “Makes me want to ride the range and corral some cattle.”
Everybody laughed.
“R700 for the pair,” Patrick said. “Anton and I bought them as gifts to ourselves for starting up the business. it was one of those situations where you’re in the store and see something you must buy immediately, hang the cost, because you’ll probably never see it again.”
I knew how that was, but in my case the principle applied to records and not items of clothing.
“You must get a pair too, Neels,” Meg urged, “they’re so stylish, you’ll make a statement wherever you go. I can already see you flaunting them. Girls will want to fuck you while you’re wearing them.”
That may have been so, but this was January 1993 and I wasn’t earning a huge salary. R700,00 represented a huge chunk of my disposable income. The purchase might mean boots and starvation. Also, it wasn’t as if I had potential girlfriends up the kazoo, never mind anyone who’d be turned on by my blue suede boots
“Sure,” I said drily, “sure, I can see myself striding down the street in those. Probably in shorts to magnify the effect and humming don’t step on my blues suede boots.”
Meg laughed. Patrick smiled. Bronwyn had no expression on her face.
This topic petered out and I returned to the party. Meg stayed behind to chat to Patrick and Bronwyn. From where I stood, about halfway across the roof and at a low concrete wall serving as makeshift seating. Meg seemed so small and fragile compared to the other two who were considerably taller, yet her animated gestures and enthusiastic stance nicely defined her larger-than-life personality. I just sat there, watching them, sucking on a Corona lager, ignoring the swirl of the party around me.
It was a warm and wind free Cape Town night, one of those blissful nights that really made Cape Town a beautiful city regardless of how rare they were.
Meg wore her shoulder length, tawny streaked, blonde hair loose, and was kitted out in a loose, white, short sleeved blouse that was almost off the shoulder and emphasised her full bosom, something she was quite proud of, despite being the mother of a 14-month-old daughter she’d breast fed for a while, and orange-and-red striped pantaloons, with sandals.
She also had a Corona in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Meg liked a drink and a smoke. Her characteristic bubbling enthusiasm enhanced her attractiveness, without being conventionally beautiful.
A margarita girl popped up in front of me, obscuring my view of Meg, and suggested that I have one more drink on her. Would’ve been nice to suck some margarita from her belly button but I guessed she didn’t mean her invitation quite so literally.
“You seem unacceptably sober,” she said sternly, “and that’s no good. Bend your head back and take it from me.”
I took it from her. She was generous enough to allow me two shots. Her breasts were very soft and comforting. When she strode away, I admired her round butt and long legs. I ambled over to the bar and collected another Corona. I’d come with Meg and there was no practical need for me to remain sober.
Although we’d arrived together, Meg and I spent most of the party apart. I’m not a huge socialiser and for Meg schmoozing was a way of life, and she knew many of the guests, whereas I only knew a few, and then only loosely.
Over the duration of the evening, after I’d ingested one soggy taco, not having the courage to face another one, I simply wandered around on the rooftop, joining a group here and a group there, not saying much and drinking quite a bit. Meg did much the same, but with different groups at different times, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. I was a tad miffed that I didn’t get much chance to chat to her.
The party was effectively over by midnight. Many of the guests were gone by eleven and only a few die hards stayed until the very end, including Meg who hated leaving a party early. I remained because I relied on her to give me a lift home. I could have walked but there was no direct road from Schotsche Kloof to my flat, perhaps 15 minutes’ walk distance away in the adjacent ‘hood of Tamboerskloof as the crow flies, and I didn’t fancy taking a lengthy detour on foot, being tipsy and all.
Bronwyn ushered out the stragglers on the roof. She’d switched off the CD player that had been pumping party tunes all night.
“Council bye laws restrict us from making noise after midnight,” she admonished us sternly.
The business premises was on the edge of a residential area.
This was Meg’s cue. She waved me over and told me it was time to go. We staggered down the stairs to the pavement, where her car was conveniently close.
When Meg parked in front of my apartment building, I was not yet ready to say goodbye, as I’d not said much to Meg at all during the evening and the tipsy buzz made me want more time.
“Don’t you want to come in for a bit?” I said with a most hopeful tone of voice and sincere invitation in my eyes.
“It’s very late,” Meg said doubtfully.
“I have half a box of wine and about half a gramme of coke,” I offered as persuasion.
I’d bought a half gramme via Meg some months before, for the benefit of some girl who spurned it after one tiny line, which, she claimed, did nothing for her. She stiffed me for her share of the purchase price and made me take the balance. I hid the little sachet in my flat and never touched it again.
Meg immediately perked up.
“Well, then,” she said brightly, “why are we sitting around in the car?”
I had to scratch my head a bit before I recalled where I’d so prudently hidden the coke. The sachet was in a shoebox of negatives, slipped inside one of the cellophane envelopes.
Not that it had compelled me to get rid of the coke, but I was, probably stupidly, paranoid about being raided by the police and found to be in possession of a highly illegal substance. For no good reason if you think about it, I decided nobody would ever think to search the box of negatives.
“Please get a plate,” Meg said when I handed her the sachet, expecting her to do the manual labour of chopping out lines, “I need a porcelain surface.”
I fetched the plate and two wine glasses and returned to the kitchen for the box of red wine.
We sat at the dining room table in front of the lounge window. I poured two glasses of wine while Meg opened the sachet, dumped the crystals onto the plate and took out her credit card to chop the coke and to make lines.
“Have you got drinking straws?” Meg asked, “Or otherwise a ball point pen?”
I had a pen. Meg removed the nib and ink tube to give us the outer tube for use, narrower end on the coke, wider end at the nostril.
We schnarfed one line of coke each and toasted each other’s good health with the wine. There was a slight burning sensation in my nostril and the first mouthful of red wine was a tad uncultured on the palate.
However you sliced it, though, it felt good to be there with Meg.
“Patrick has such a huge crush on Bronwyn, and she doesn’t want to know,” Meg said.
“Why?”
“She’s been with Patrick for a long time, and he so desperately wants to fuck her but she’s aloof. She might be a virgin. Catholics. They can be like that, you know?”
“You’re a Catholic?”
“Lapsed Catholic, darling, very much lapsed. Living a life of sin.”
Nothing a death bed confession and last rites couldn’t fix with God.
“Shall we do another line?” Meg asked.
I shrugged.
“Dunno why you even ask,” I said and poured more wine.
Meg chopped out more lines.
We could’ve spaced out the schnarfing over a decent length of time, but it never works that way with coke. Whatever the quantity, once it’s laid out, you want to do all of it asap.
I got up from the table, took the box of wine, placed it on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. The lounge was so compact, the couch and table almost touched.
“Come sit with me, “I said, “Let’s relax properly.”
Meg sat against the armrest at the farthest end of the couch, legs folded under her. I was at the other end. Her blouse was now totally off the shoulder and just about still covered her breasts. I admired them as surreptitiously as I could manage.
The coke rush was quite slow and even. One moment you’re fine and clearheaded, and the next moment you’re high and your mind, seemingly clearheaded, starts spinning those wheels within wheels.
“Some music?” Meg suggested.
I switched on the CD player and popped in A Decade of Steely Dan and kept the volume down to basic background. It was long after midnight and my elderly, female neighbours would not appreciate loud music. Also, in the mood I was in, relatively soft background sounds were the perfect accompaniment to our chat.
“I woudn’t be surprised if Bronwyn is a lesbian,“ Meg said thoughtfully. “A lipstick lesbian. She’s so beautiful and men fawn over her, but she doesn’t seem to date any.”
My mood was full on warm and fuzzy, and my mental state was rampant truth teller. The drugs will do that to you.
“Bronwyn is a Lilf,” I said.
“Lilf?”
“Lesbian I’d liked to fuck,” I said.
Meg chuckled.
“Truth to tell, I’d fuck her. We’ve done some drunken snogging but nothing more.”
I contemplated the scenario of Bronwyn seducing Meg, who was married to a guy and, as far as I knew her history, he’d been, so far, the last on Meg’s list of serial boyfriends. My head felt as if the skull were expanding a little, there was a bit of strain at the outer edges of the skull.
“Would you have sex with a woman?” I asked, intrigued by Meg’s comments about Bronwyn.
“Darling, how fabulous you should ask. Of course, I’ve had sex with women. When I lived in Jo’burg in my early twenties, it was kind of like smorgasbord with lovers. I had on-off girlfriends and slept with boys, including one gay guy I was trying to turn. The girls were just for fun, experimental you might say, nothing serious.”
This was fascinating information. Meg was married, with a kid too, and perhaps she’d settled down to heterosexual domestic bliss.
I had something to share, something only one other person knew, but the subversive powder makes one want to share secrets, to tell truth and to bare the soul. I was ready to confess.
“I’ve sucked cock,” I said. “When I was about 27, I had a sexual thing with a mate.”
“Sexually confused and searching for meaning in male relationships?”
Meg leant over to the coffee table to refill her glass and looked over at the table.
“Let’s do another line and you can tell me all about it,” Meg said.
We did another line. When we sat down on the couch, Meg sat a little closer to me than before. I felt a tightening in the groin and a flutter in the belly.
“It was just this one guy, and only briefly,” I said, feeling that my confession was perhaps not as entertaining as I might have thought. “We were young and horny, and I guess both of us wanted to see how it would be. He’s married now. You’re only the third person that knows about this.”
I’d opened up and given Meg my trust. She reached over and grasped my hand and squeezed it.
“Most men have a gay inclination, I think,” Meg said. “All this rugger bugger, horse play and extreme homophobia of manly men just hides that they’d really love to snog each other, do some penis plaiting and fuck their mates.”
That’s an unconventional opinion.
“I’ve never thought I’m gay,” I protested. “It happened between two mates, best friends, who were in a situation where something unexpected happened, the hormones were high, the mood was right, so to speak, and we went for it because we trusted each other. When it was over, I never sought out other men. I did like sucking cock but never met anyone else whose cock I wanted to suck.”
That was true. I had trust issues.
“At least you can say you acted out on a desire, where so many of these men don’t, when they so clearly would love to. Most of the men I know are probably gayer than they’ll admit. I won’t think worse of them if they just came out of the closet.”
“I did kind of wonder about it, but I was pretty sure I actually liked girls. I did and I do. Perhaps I’m bisexual? I like cock and cunt?”
“Don’t we all like a bit of everything, my dear, don’t we all? There’s always a little sexual tension between you and your close chums, if they’re of the opposite sex, and maybe of the same sex too.”
I felt another revelation needed to be aired in this alcohol and coke enhanced atmosphere of intimate friendship sharing. I poured more wine.
“This is plonk, I guess,” I said, “and don’t judge me on it, but it’s getting more quaffable as we go.”
Meg laughed.
“Don’t be boring, keep pouring,” she said.
By this time Meg and I were sitting thigh to thigh. My heart was thumping, and a dormant horniness was slowly escalating. The lighting was dim and almost romantic, and Meg just looked so lovely and her breasts under the thin blouse were indeed magnificent. Better for being closer in view.
“I want to tell you another thing I’ve never told anybody else,” I said. “This is turning out to be a cathartic experience for me.”
“Go on,” Meg urged, “I’m all ears. You know it won’t leave this room.”
“When I was in late primary school, I had these crushes on two very young boys. One was a red head and the other one had black hair, but they were both beautiful and about three years younger than me. I noticed the red head by accident on the first day of the new school year and my mate, the one I had the sex thing with, introduced me to the black-haired boy. They were neighbours and my mate had a thing for the boy’s older sister. She was pretty too, but my eyes were for her brother.”
“Did you do anything with them?”
“Naah. I never spoke to the red-haired kid and never knew his name. The class he was in used a different entrance to the building than my class did and I used to go around before the start of the school day or at breaks, just to find him and longingly gawp at him from a distance. I had an actual yearning for him, but I was never brave or confident enough to go speak to him. I was scared he’d find it weird and tell his teacher or his parents. it was a bit creepy.”
Meg didn’t seem to judge me on creepiness. She was staring intently into my eyes. I tried to read her thoughts about me and failed.
“Yes, and the other one?”
“He often came to hang out with my mate and me during breaks. I used to wrestle with him, just playfully, you know, just messing about, while I was longing to hug him and kiss him and fondle him. Small, dark and beautiful has always been my type. Never saw him outside of school though, and obviously did nothing more than that kind of playing around.”
Sometimes I wonder whether I should’ve been more daring, generally and in some particular situations. Fear of being found out always held me back.
“See, that’s what I mean about men who push and shove each other, wrestle, exchange mock punches and the like,” Meg said. “They probably really want to hug and kiss the other guy. Those rugby players who shower together and check out each other’s packages, they want a taste of cock, or some muscular ass.”
“My theory is that I was a hormonal adolescent and needed an outlet and because I was in a boys’ school, there were only boys to lust after. I just fixated on some pretty boys who looked like girls with short hair.”
I poured more wine. The coke was roaring in our veins now and we’d had quite a bit to drink too, the upper with the downer to level it all out.
“I saw the redheaded boy again when he started high school. I was in standard five when he and the dark-haired kid were in standard one, so I was a lot older. When I saw the redhaired kid. I recognised him, but he was no longer as beautiful and androgynous as he’d been. The rosy cheeks were gone, the skin wasn’t as fair anymore and he looked just like any other 13-year-old boy and no longer did it for me.”
Meg gripped my thigh and smiled. She understood.
“When did you lose your virginity? I was 15. He was this very sweet boy of 16 from my art school and I made him kiss me and fuck me at my parents’ house. He did it but he wasn’t very comfortable with it and a couple of years later he came out of the closet. I had a suspicion. He was very beautiful.”
No 15-year-old girl ever wanted to fuck me, not when I was sixteen, and I would guess not now either.
“I was almost 30. She was 6 years older than me, just recovering from the breakup of a long-term relationship. We had sex twice before she told me she wanted an older guy, some kind of father figure yearning, and that I was very nice but too young for her at that time. She took me to St Elmo’s for supper and broke the news to me. Afterwards, I went to see Mississippi Burning and sat in the theatre without taking in anything. I had to go see the movie again later that week to understand what it was about.”
We had more wine. The coke was buzzing in our systems and every now and then both of us sniffed as discreetly as possible. My scalp tingled at the temples and I almost involuntary kept rubbing my hand over the spot. Meg and I were thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. I put my arm around her shoulder, and she leant into me, head on my shoulder. The side of her full, soft breast gently brushed against my arm.
“I ran with this interesting, out-there crowd in Jo’burg when I lived there,“ Meg said almost dreamily. “The girls were mostly lipstick lesbians, and the boys didn’t know whether they were Artha or Marthur. My main mission was to fuck the boys so they would know what they’d be missing if they inclined towards being bum boys. Even some straight boys. The girls were a free for all, there was no loyalty there. Promiscuous pussy if I ever saw one. The gay guys fucked around anyway, it was the way of life, but the women were supposed to be in solid relationships. Not really, if push came to shove. The girls cheated as much as the boys did. Lots of tears and recriminations when they were found out, lots of tempestuous make up sex. I had no relationship, so I could skip from one guy to the next girl, never feared, never favoured.”
Meg reached for her handbag.
“I want to have a smoke,“ she said. “You probably don’t want to have your flat smell like cigarettes, let’s go out on the balcony.”
I lived in a ground floor, so-called garden, flat. The garden was a grassy knoll with herbaceous borders that I couldn’t really use but it was nice to look at from the balcony, in daylight of course. Now, we just stood there staring out into the darkness.
Meg lit up her Texan plain. She smoked filterless cigarettes in, I thought, a fruitless attempt to reduce the number of cigarettes she smoked, given that Texans were allegedly harsher on the lungs. I didn’t smoke but I didn’t mind second-hand smoke, not then anyway.
Out here we still stood shoulder to shoulder and I allowed my arm to sneak around Meg’s waist and her head again dropped against my shoulder. She was about a head shorter than me.
“So peaceful,” she sighed. “So nice. Brian would never just stand with me like this. He doesn’t like PDA and really only ever touches me when he wants sex. It’s over so quickly too. He’s a premature ejaculator.”
Oversharing much? Well, if I’d dared tell Meg I’d sucked cock, I guess she could spill the beans on her husband’s sexual inadequacies. I was surprised by the information, though. I’d always heard that he was quite the Casanova and was never short of girlfriends before he met Meg.
“Shoots first and avoids questions later?” I said.
“It’s so frustrating. I’m just settling in for a nice fuck, all wet and juicy, tingling in al the right places, not yet ready to cum, and then he’s done. Pulls out and that’s that. if I want to cum I must do it for myself. He doesn’t even cuddle afterward, basically turns over and goes to sleep.”
Geez. Do I want to know this? Well, now I do.
“That’s quite weird,” I said. “I thought he was such a cocksman, had so many chicks. He was notorious for it.”
“I think he had a high turnover because he was so useless in bed. Very charming in his Boere philosopher manner. Quite seductive when he shows you his etchings. But when you’re in bed, he just wants to thrust once, cum and be done. The woman doesn’t have much benefit. My guess is that few women wanted to sleep with him a second time; first time around was bad enough.”
Meg and Brian got married about three months after she fell pregnant from him. He was old-fashioned enough that he wanted to make an honest woman of the mother of his child.
“I thought you were quite passionate when you started dating,” I said. “It looked like the two of you could hardly keep your hands off each other.”
Meg snorted. She took a long pull at her Texan.
“I was obsessed with him. I adored him and his philosophical manner and the fact that he’s an artist. I was uber horny. I don’t know whether he was truly that passionate. He just wanted to fuck a horny younger chick.”
Brian was seven years older than Meg.
“I’m horny,” I said, as I turned towards Meg, pulled her around and hugged her. Meg allowed her hand to brush against the front of my jeans.
“Big horn,” she giggled. “That’s no rocket in your pocket, my dear.”
I ground my pelvis against her.
Meg pulled away from me.
“No, let’s not do this,” she said. “We’re drunk and high. I’m married and I love my husband, difficult as he may be to love. We’ll regret this later if we let go of ourselves. We can be better friends than lovers, you know. I like you but not in that way.”
Damn. The voice of reason must always prevail regardless of how much drug induced recklessness is coursing through my veins. I knew my horniness was more than likely a by-product of being high and being in close proximity to a woman, and I didn’t want to cuckold her husband, really, but still, it’s hard to deny desire when it’s so insistent.
We stepped back inside, returned to the couch and I refilled our glasses. This time we weren’t so close together. Meg must’ve decided that discretion was in order now. She’d met the raging beast and now needed to soothe him from a distance. The moment had gone but its subtle aroma pervaded the air.
“I’ve so many friends that aren’t really friends,” Meg said. “They’re people who sponge, who leech, who’re just there because they want something from me but when I need their support, they’re never available. If they want to cry, they seek my shoulder to cry on and when I just want someone to speak to about something that troubles me, they tell me to get a-hold of myself and not to bring my negativity into their lives. Some of them are really hurtful. Will never let an opportunity go by to say or do something hurtful, when I’ve been nothing but kind and supportive to them.”
Meg was getting a bit sad now. I wondered whether she’d take it the wrong way if I hugged her, after our little exchange on the balcony. Meg might have read my mind. She shuffled closer to me.
“Just hold me,” she said softly, “just hold me for a bit. I’m always the person who hugs and every now and then I need a hug too.”
I held Meg who rested her head on my shoulder, soft hair against my cheek. I could hear her sniffling quietly. We sat like that for a few minutes before she sighed and pulled back from me.
“I had a little cry,” Meg said, “sorry if your shirt is damp now but I feel better. Sometimes it’s good to have a little cry on a friend’s shoulder.”
“I must try it sometime.”
“You should. It’s cathartic, releases all those bad emotions and stresses, if only for a moment or two.”
“I’m not the type who cries. Never have. My one mate told me once that I’m not in touch with my emotions. I suppress it all. Never get very angry, never get very sad. I’m afraid, if I allow myself to get angry, I’ll get so angry I’ll blow up the world. Or just kill the person who made me angry.”
“That’s no good. One should be angry when it’s necessary and when you’re provoked. Let it out and let it go. Apocalyptic anger is self-destructive. You hurt other people and you hurt yourself too, when the situation could’ve been managed and sorted out.”
“I’m a black and white kind of guy. Never manage situations. If you make me angry, I cut you from my life and never speak to you again. That’s why I avoid getting angry.”
We drank some more. Meg went out onto the balcony for another cigarette and this time I remained inside, went for a pee and then made us some coffee. I felt I’d been drinking too much red wine. It wasn’t too much wine, just too much red wine.
Meg was appreciative of the mug of hot, milky, sweet Nescafé.
“How long have we known each other?” Meg asked.
“Three years.” I said. “I still remember very well how we met.”
“Oh?”
“Frankie and I were coming to collect Brian from your house. He’d been housesitting, or was going to housesit, for you and he was there for some reason. We came in through the kitchen and walked to the lounge. When we stepped inside the lounge, you and Brian were standing in front of the fireplace, warming yourselves, at the opposite end of the room, with your backs to us. Neither of you had heard us come in you because you were so engrossed in your conversation. My immediate reaction, just seeing you standing there, long blonde hair, and hearing your mellifluous, pukka voice, and thinking that Brian had made another conquest, was ‘why can’t I have someone like that this woman in my life.’ I was so envious of Brian. He had the charm, the gift of the gab and the self-confidence I don’t have, and I knew I’d never have a girlfriend like you.”
Meg laughed.
“Appearances can be deceptive, hey? I remember now. Brian and I weren’t dating then. He was going to house sit for me while I was overseas. Things changed when I came back. You were envious of Brian? No need to be. You just haven’t met the right woman yet. Brian does have the charm when he’s trying to get into your pants, but that charm gets old quickly. Sometimes I think it’s fake, just something he’s learnt as a trick to get girls. On the other hand, I think he probably believes some of the shit he talks.”
The way Meg was talking about Brian made it difficult for me to believe she could still love him. She sounded disillusioned; starry eyed no more.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I said, ”but that was how I felt at that time, and now I’m thinking he doesn’t deserve you, from what you’re telling me.”
“No, no, I’m a little wiser to Brian now, after so many years, but I still love him. You know chicks always moan about their boyfriends or husbands who aren’t perfect, or who seem to regress after the honeymoon period. Doesn’t mean you want to dump the chump, just that you have a realistic view of your lover.”
I also have a realistic view of Brian, who I will no longer envy though I’m still pissed off that he can have a girlfriend, now wife, like Meg, and I can’t.
“Too serious, “ Meg said. “Are you a Tintin or Asterix fan?”
“Tintin. I like Asterix but I discovered Tintin first, so there’s that, but I also prefer the drawing style and the adventure stories more than the Asterix style or type of story. When I was in high school the guys who took the Latin course were Asterix fans, partly because one of their readers was an Asterix book in Latin. They always went on about the clever multilingual puns, and all that, as if Asterix were an intellectual publication for the very clever.”
“Oh, true, true, I also prefer Tintin but I must confess that Asterix is an equal favourite. You can’t say that one is better than the other, just different. What was the first Tintin book you read?”
“Flight 714.”
“Bingo! It was the first I read too! Now, that’s what I call a bonding moment. Who would’ve thought?”
“Amazing,” I said. “Tintin was very popular at the municipal library and the books were always out and it was kind of luck of the draw to find one. So, I started with Flight 714, later realised that it was a late period book, looking at the technology and fashions, and then worked my way through the catalogue but not chronologically. The earliest books were just about the last ones I read. Particularly like The Secret of the Black Island and The Calculus Affair, and the two books where Tintin, the captain and the Thompson twins go to the moon.”
Meg hugged me again, pulled away, hugged me, pulled away, and gave a final hug before pulling away. She was smiling from ear to ear.
“That’s my boy,” she said. “Brian would never admit to reading, much less enjoying, Tintin. Or maybe he’ll admire the drawing style for art’s sake, but not the content. It’s too frivolous for him.”
Brian was an artist, with a university qualification in art but graphic art, not fine art. He didn’t want to pursue a graphic art career because it was too commercial and yet he was also not a very successful fine artist.
“Brian does nothing but smoke joints all day and complains he can’t work because he must look after the kid, but I’ve employed a woman to do just that, and clean house too, so he really has no excuse.”
“I’ve seen his work,” I said, “the watercolour landscapes that are almost abstract. Nice for decoration but they don’t blow me away. For me, art must bother one, must be disturbing, must make one think. Those landscapes aren’t challenging.”
“I’ve told him that but he once sold some of them and now thinks that’s what the public wants, something safe to match the curtains. He’s often very moody, very miserable, and I’ve told him to draw or paint when he’s in that mood, to express what he’s feeling at the time. He refuses. He only wants to paint lively images and work when he’s in a good mood. Art isn’t about expressing unhappy emotions, he says. Problem is, when he smokes dope and is happy, he’s not in a mood to do anything. So, he hardly ever works.”
Brian was a very talented draughtsman, from what I’d seen, and it was a serious waste of talent and education if he wasn’t working hard at his art career.
“I’ve noticed that Brian hardly ever says anything nice to you when he talks to you, at least when other people are around,” I said. “He’s always short with you, always critical. it’s not the way to talk to your wife in front of other people.”
“You’re right,” Meg said. “He doesn’t speak nicely to me, as if everything I do irritates him. When we’re alone, it’s not so bad but then he usually does his own thing. Funny, you’d think a person who smokes as many joints as he does would be more mellow and laid back.”
“It can’t be good for you. All I ever hear is him sniping at you, all these cutting little comments and remarks, if not outright rudeness.”
“If I ever divorce him, it will be for mental cruelty. Brian can be a mean, mean man.”
“So much for being the philosopher king,” I said.
“Many people are like that. They can never say anything about you unless it’s mean and spiteful. They’re only happy when they can criticize in a hurtful way. I’ve known too many people like that, who pretend to be my friends and are never happy for me, never appreciate me, never accept me for who I am.”
By this time Meg had moved close to me again and took my hands in hers and pulled me towards her. It almost seemed as if she were hoping I’d kiss her, but that might have been my fantasy. She didn’t close her eyes and half open her lips for a kiss, I didn’t see the horny brightness in her eyes that I’d seen in a few women before and she made no move to embrace me. She just held my hands tightly.
“I want us to make a pact, Neels,“ she said, “I want us to make a pact to be true friends, that we’ll never hurt each other, never say or do anything to the other one to hurt them but just be supportive and positive. We’ll accept each other as we are, with our strange little secrets and all, our eccentricities, and we’ll just be good, trusted, supportive friends who can always count on each other. Let’s make that promise to each other. Friends don’t hurt friends.”
Meg’s eyes were fixed on mine. It was intense and it was deeply heart-warming. This was a moment. A moment I’d never had with anyone before and wasn’t likely to share again. Meg and I had shared some personal secrets and some personal information, we’d opened up to each other, kind of bared our souls, and after this early morning exchange each of knew something of the other that not many, if any, people knew and if that was not a measure of unequivocal trust, I don’t know what is.
“It’s a pact,” I said. “We’ll be only good to each other.”
I’d’ve liked to be very good to Meg in various ways but this was not the occasion. We hugged, at last, and I crushed her to me, feeling her thin torso and prominent ribs, and the generous breasts pressed against me. I lightly kissed the side of her head. She sighed deeply and went limp against me. We sat like that for a minute or two before she drew back out of my arms. Her eyes were shiny and bright and she was smiling.
“I do love Brian, you know,“ she said. “I do love him dearly despite his meanness to me. We could seal this pact with a kiss but it wouldn’t be right. I’ve got to go home to my husband and child.”
Sure. It would be most awkward facing Brian again, given how often I visited them, if Meg and I had sex now, even if it were only for the joy of the moment and without love. Meg was another man’s woman, and I was no woman’s man.
“A pee and then I must be off,” Meg said, got up and went to the bathroom.
I accompanied Meg to her car. It was very quiet in the street, with no traffic and no pedestrians. It was eerie, not so much for the quietness but because I was standing there with a woman I’d just done drugs with and had become a boon companion to by way of a life-long pact and lusted over deep in my heart yet was about to let her leave to return to an unloving husband on whom I wasn’t actually prepared to make the cuckold.
“Drive safely,“ I said. “You could stay, I have a spare bed. Brian would understand that you didn’t want to drive home now.”
“It’s time to go home, my dear,” Meg said. “We must not let duty fail in favour of indulgence. We will always remember this night but it’s time to say farewell and adios.”
Meg was seated behind the steering wheel, window down. I leant in and kissed her on the cheek. She turned to me and her eyes invited me to kiss her properly. I did. No tongue, just on the lips, she didn’t open, but a lingering kiss, nonetheless. My eyes were closed.
“Sealed with a schnarf,” I said. “Signed, sealed, delivered, baby, I’m yours.”
“Oh, Stevie, you’re wonderful,” Meg laughed, winked, switched on the engine and drove off.
I watched the car until it turned a corner. Our interpersonal relationship had turned a corner.
