Unspoken Pleasure

‘Tom, do you want to have a relationship with me? I’m sorry to ask like this after we’ve just made love but that’s one of the perils of getting older, you have fewer illusions and I’m painfully aware that you’re twenty-eight and I’m fifty-three and you’re a young, good-looking lawyer and I’m a sales assistant in a DIY store.’

I took my time answering, not because I didn’t know what to say – words are my business – but because I very much wanted Abigail to believe me.

‘Nobody would bat an eyelid if it were the other way around,’ I began. ‘If I were fifty-three and you were twenty-eight everyone would be congratulating us. The answer is yes,’ I said after a pause, ‘I do want to have a relationship with you and I don’t give a shit what other people think. You’re by far the most interesting and warm person I’ve ever dated and that’s without your obvious physical attributes. And actually, the only people whose approval I might seek are my parents and they won’t judge. They’ll be very happy for us.’

She rolled on her side and laid an arm across my chest. ‘Thank you for saying that.’

‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Do you want a relationship with me?’

There was a tiny pause. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. But…’

‘Freya,’ I guessed.

‘Yes. I haven’t told her how young you are yet.’

‘Does she have a problem with you dating?’

‘Not really,’ replied Abigail, with some hesitancy. ‘I have been asked out a lot, over the years, but it’s not very often that I end up in bed with them. Not for years. But they’ve all been my age, or older. And besides, I don’t always introduce them to my daughter.’

‘So there is a problem?’

‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘it’s just… Look, come over to dinner next Saturday and meet Freya. I want you to meet her.’

There was some subtext here which I couldn’t decipher, but I was thrilled that Abigail was showing commitment by introducing me to her daughter.

Shortly afterwards we got up and had breakfast and Abigail called a taxi – she wouldn’t let me drive her home.

‘What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?’ I asked.

‘Breaking the news to Freya,’ she replied.

We didn’t see each other that next week, although we spoke on the phone most nights, and they were warm and far-ranging conversations as we began the long journey of really getting to know one another. I asked Abigail how her daughter had taken the news of my youth and she said that Freya was surprised, but not totally against the idea. She also said that her daughter was looking forward to meeting me, which sent a little frisson of nervousness through me and I told myself not to be so silly and sensitive; everything would be fine.

Saturday seemed to arrive with indecent haste. Not that I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Abigail, but I was undoubtedly nervous about the daughter.

I shaved and dressed carefully, making sure that my attire was neither too young nor an attempt to cover my youth. In the end I settled for chinos and a polo shirt and tan moccasins.

I parked in the road outside Abigail’s house. Her car was in the drive alongside a little sportscar that I assumed was Freya’s. Abigail opened the door as I approached and we kissed briefly and she led me into the kitchen where I presented her with flowers and wine. She was dressed in the same cocktail dress she’d had on last weekend and it occurred to me that she probably didn’t have a very extensive wardrobe. Behind me was the sound of someone coming down the stairs and I turned to see a young lady come through the kitchen doorway.

Freya was very obviously her mother’s daughter; she had the same facial structure and the same build. The same full lips and slightly hooked nose. But she wasn’t as tall as her mum and her hair was jet black instead of chestnut and hung to the middle of her back in a luxuriant ponytail.

‘You must be Tom,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘Likewise,’ I replied, taking her hand and feeling her grip mine.

Abigail, who’d been standing watching us, picked up a bottle of wine and suggested we go into the lounge at the front of the house.

We drank that first bottle a little too quickly, no doubt we were all a little nervous. I sat on the settee next to Abigail and Freya sat on the single chair. The conversation was a bit stilted but when Abigail excused herself to go and attend to the dinner, Freya seemed to relax and started asking me questions about my work and my family. She was lively and intelligent, with a quick smile and I warmed to her and asked her about herself and her job. She worked in an estate agent’s, she told me, although she had aspirations to go back to college and train as a surveyor.

Dinner was a great success, the food was varied and well prepared and the conversation flowed richly and easily as we delved into the second bottle of red. Afterwards Freya shooed her mum into the lounge saying, ‘Tom and I will do the dishes.’

This, I suspected, was when I would be interrogated as to my intentions regarding her mother and Freya lost no time in getting to the point.

‘It seems funny, mum having a boyfriend who’s only a couple of years older than me. You are her boyfriend, right?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I think that’s how I would describe myself.’

‘She is fifty-three.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know. Are you saying that you don’t approve?’

She leaned back against the kitchen sink and looked at me. She was wearing black trousers and a pale-blue satin blouse. The act of leaning back stretched the material over her bosom, which was full, like her mother’s.

‘No, not at all. I think you’re making her very happy. It’s just a bit weird.’

These words should have comforted me but I was seeing a subtlety different Freya from the one who’d sat with us at dinner. Her self-assurance seemed to have increased. Her body language expressed control, even mild dominance and her questions were delivered in a rather assertive manner. While I hadn’t made an enemy, it was clear that I still had work to do to win Abigail’s daughter over. So I didn’t rise to her unspoken challenge, instead I deflected her manner with answers she couldn’t find fault with and massaged gently what I imagined was her ego.

The dishes washed and dried and put away, Freya disappeared upstairs and I went back into the lounge and sat down beside Abigail, who gave me a funny look, enquiring, nervous perhaps.

I smiled at her. ‘We had a great chat. You have a very lovely daughter.’

Abigail smiled back, seemingly reassured. ‘I’m glad you like her.’Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

‘By the way,’ I said, ‘am I staying over?’ I’d assumed that I was, although we hadn’t discussed it, and I’d got an overnight bag in the back of the car.

Abigail’s face clouded. ‘Would you mind if you didn’t, Tom…’ She hesitated. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

I did understand but I was a bit pissed off that Abigail hadn’t made it clear to me before I arrived, and certainly before I started drinking red wine. Ok, I’d only had about three glasses over two and a half hours, and I’d had a big meal, but I was probably still over the drink-driving limit.

But I was falling in love with Abigail and so I just smiled and said: ‘I’ll walk home. It’s only a couple of miles.’

And so we ended up having another bottle of red and Freya came downstairs and we talked into the small hours and I became rather drunk; I think we all did. And through the alcohol-distorted lens of my eye I saw Freya take centre-stage in Abigail’s little lounge and dominate the conversation, often talking over her mother and sometimes over me. And I heard her put her mother down a few times, which her mother seemed to accept as normal behaviour.

I wanted to say something to Abigail, to ask her why she let her daughter talk to her that way in public, but of course I didn’t and Freya never gave me an opportunity by going to the toilet or the kitchen and leaving us alone. At one point Abigail went to the downstairs bathroom and shortly after that my bladder expressed its dissatisfaction with its contents and I asked Freya where the facilities were upstairs.

‘First left,’ she told me. ‘And mind the hot water, it’s scalding.’

I clumped upstairs, feeling quite intoxicated, and relieved myself and a few minutes later I joined Abigail and her daughter downstairs and shortly after that I said I ought to be going and we stood and went into the hall and I kissed Freya’s cheek, and she kissed mine and I gave Abigail a kiss on the lips while her daughter stood watching us and then I was out in the cool, early morning air and setting a strong and drunken pace for my house in the centre of town.

It was about four am by the time I got to bed and I slept heavily until eleven. Even then it took a long time to fully regain my senses, but a hot shower and a strong coffee helped. I took a second cup into my study and sat at my desk and thought about the previous evening. I felt a mild sense of disquiet. The Abigail I knew wasn’t assertive or anything like that, but she deferred to her daughter in almost everything in an odd mother/daughter role reversal. Then there was the bed situation.