The Three Halves of Martyn Manning-Chapter Fourteen: Resolution - Part Two

Back
in her room she sat on the edge of her bed. She went back over the
conversation in her head. He’d seemed a little surprised at the
news but she supposed she’d expected more, maybe a bit more drama,
even some gratitude. After all, she was giving him her body for his
pleasure. But no actually, she had to remind herself, had to keep
telling herself, she wasn’t doing anything of the sort. It was
purely transactional. She wasn’t giving him anything at all. She
was simply allowing him to use her body for his pleasure in exchange
for his cash. To him it was just a paid fuck. She cast around to try
and salvage some dignity from the situation. Had she at least taken
control of the narrative? No, not really. Not at all in fact, or at
least only to a very limited extent. She may have made a slight
alteration to the timeline but in reality all she’d done was bring
forward the moment of her getting fucked for money. She shrugged her
shoulders. What the hell to do now? Jesus, she had at least two hours
to fill.

 

He
couldn’t concentrate. Of course he couldn’t bloody concentrate.
But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even really have anything
pressing to do. He’d only said that he had things to do so as to
get her out and give him some time to think. He reclined in his chair
and put his feet on the desk to reflect. Well, that had certainly
been a turn up for the books. He really hadn’t been expecting that
one. And to think, he’d had a wank about her barely an hour before
and now he was going to get the real thing. Who said irony was dead?
Hmmm. Upon reflection he wished he hadn’t had that wank. He was
getting older, or as he liked to put it, maturing into his prime,
like Miss Jean Brodie, and as one matures into one’s prime it
certainly takes longer to replenish supplies. He hoped he’d have
enough in reserve to make a decent splash. He had no illusions that
this was for her, of course it was for him, but nevertheless he was
an English gentleman, one wouldn’t like to let a girl down,
especially a foreigner. So what should he do between now and bedtime?
Well, nothing he supposed, or at least the same as usual. Watch a
documentary, a bit of idle trolling on right wing websites. The only
thing different about tonight was that when he got into his bed at
the end of it a young girl would join him and they’d have sex,
which hopefully they’d both enjoy. All of that was perfectly
natural, nothing to make a big production about. He supposed the
first time might be a little strange, but what the hell. He’d have
a large slug of whisky about ten-thirty and that should help oil the
wheels. So yes, looked at in overview everything was going exactly to
plan. He should be congratulated for his original thinking. Perfect.
Everybody happy, nobody hurt. Good. He took his feet from the desk
and forced himself to check his diary, deleting the day’s
accomplished tasks then carefully carrying forward the unaccomplished
to a future date. He checked his phone again for mails and messages
but nothing. He briefly considered a wank, he certainly wanted one,
but no, we’ve been through that. His mind returned to thoughts of
whisky. No real point in waiting till ten-thirty. Why bother? Maybe
he’d have just a small one.

 

Elena
was tidying her room and trying to listen to Radio Bukuresti so she
didn’t hear Martyn go downstairs to the kitchen. It was about time
to start getting ready but before she did she needed wine. Surely all
anaesthesia is good anaesthesia, and anyway, any loosening of her
inhibitions may mean she enjoyed it more, or even enjoy it at all,
and if she enjoyed it more then he might also enjoy it more. She’d
be doing him a favour really. He was a lucky man to have such a
solicitous whore. Yes, truly, rationalisation really is the dismal
science. She reached for her drawer where she usually kept a bottle
of red for emergencies but she knew before she opened it that she’d
finished the bottle the night before. She’d have to go downstairs
to where she knew there were a couple of bottles of white in the
fridge. No problem. She went down the stairs and opened the kitchen
door but then her heart dropped as she heard the clink of Martyn’s
whisky bottle coming from the pantry. Shit, if she’d heard him then
he’d almost certainly heard her, it was too late to back out now.
Bollocks. If she’d known he was down here she would have lived
without her wine. This was going to be awkward.

 

Martyn
came into the kitchen with a large tumbler full of whisky and ice, so
much ice it was impossible to determine the volume of whisky.

 

“Hi
Elena.” Quietly, almost offhand.

 

For
a few moments Elena didn’t know what to say. Eventually she mumbled
something like “I’ve just come down for a glass of wine” but as
soon as she said it she knew she sounded idiotic. She strode quickly
across the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of white from the fridge.
It was already open, about a third gone. Martyn took a sip of his
whisky.

 

“Did
you think it was a bit chilly today?”

 

“It
was OK.”

 

She
surveyed the wine glasses on the shelf of the dresser, trying to
decide which one would hold the most.

 

“They
said it might rain tomorrow.”

 

She
took down a glass.

 

“I
don’t know.”

 

“Well
I hope it doesn’t, I’ve got someone coming to paint the outside
of our office building.”

 

He
watched her begin to pour her wine. Why wasn’t she making eye
contact? Was she nervous? That would be understandable in most cases,
he understood that, but he thought they’d been through this, he
thought they were cool, mature, adult about it.

 

“Ha-ha!
Wow! That’s a good glass full! I reckon if you’re careful you
might be able to squeeze another half a millilitre in there!”

 

Elena
didn’t say anything, but she raised the embarrassing glass to her
lips and took a mouthful. If the glass wasn’t full now then she
could tell herself it was never full.

 

“Well
if it does rain they’ll just have to come another day.” Yes he
concluded, she must be nervous. A pity, he hadn’t wanted it to be
like this. She was crossing the kitchen now, nearly at the door.

 

“See
you later then!”.

 

But
she was half way up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

Back
in her bathroom she brushed her teeth. She decided she didn’t need
to wash her hair, but while she was showering she reviewed the state
of her pubis and vulva, her “pizda”. The truth was she
hadn’t had any visitors for a while so she hadn’t had to bother,
but she had to admit she was looking a bit raggy. Could she be
bothered? She didn’t even know if he liked them bald or bearded. It
would be bald of course, they all liked bald. It let them think they
were fucking schoolgirls. She realised she wasn’t even sure where
her razor was. With a sigh she rooted around in her toilet bag. She
felt relieved when she found it and began to lather up.

 

She
was out of practice and it was trickier than she expected, especially
the lips which she had to stretch taut with her fingers for the blade
to engage. She took care but she still nicked herself, though only
once and not badly. She reached out for toilet paper to staunch the
flow, then stepped out of the shower and sat on the toilet to do her
legs, rinsing the razor in the wash-basin. She thought she might as
well. People told her she had nice legs, though she didn’t know
why. She thought she had short thighs and fat calves, but an
ex-boyfriend used to tell her she had sexy legs. He’d tell her she
had “long thighs with clear muscular definition” and “slim
calves tapering to slender ankles.” He was good with words. Then
they’d make love briefly until he was slaked and sleepy and she was
still thirsty. He wasn’t good at that. That’s why he was an
ex-boyfriend.

 

She
towelled herself and put on her fluffy white dressing gown. What now?
Maybe she should meditate. She looked at the clock on her phone, she
had time. She found a clip on her YouTube app called “Ten Minute
Guided Meditation for Stress Relief & Relaxation” then lay on
her bed and started it playing. She usually enjoyed meditation but
tonight as she tried to empty her head and be in the present she
couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Should she wear perfume? Did he
like lingerie? How long could she leave it before she went to him?
After four minutes she pressed pause and went to her chest of drawers
pulling open the second one down. She wasn’t exactly spoiled for
choice, in fact she only had two matching sets. One was a white lacy
combo. It was nice enough with pretty embroidery on the cups and
briefs but it had a small brown stain on the side band. She wondered
how that had got there, she hadn’t seen it before. The other set
was a light purple, a shiny satin material with full firm cups. She
took them both out and lay them side by side on the bed to compare.
She thought for a moment then decided to decide later after she’d
put on her make-up.

 

She
went to her dressing table and sat down. Make-up? What make-up? Why
was she even bothering? It wasn’t as if she had to attract a suitor
or even retain a mate. It’s not a date, she didn’t have to make
an effort, it’s a done deal, a foregone conclusion. And anyway, it
would be late, and knowing Martyn he’d have had a drink, he
probably wouldn’t even notice, he might not even keep the light on.
But she knew she was rationalising again. She knew that whatever the
circumstances she still wanted to look her best, look attractive. It
was the human condition.

 

 

He
stretched out on his bed, still fully dressed, his hands behind his
head gazing up at the ceiling, then suddenly he sat up and cast his
eye around the room. She’d never been in here, not to his
knowledge, at least not when he was present. It looked OK, clean and
tidy, but he’d better check the en-suite as well. It was a couple
of days since the cleaner had been and he wouldn’t want there to be
any shit stains in the bowl. He went in and flushed the loo, gave it
a quick scrub with the brush then flushed again. He wiped the hand
basin with his flannel then washed his hands. What was that thing
about women and toilet seats that he could never get his head round?
Was it just the seat they wanted down or the lid as well? And why
exactly? He could never remember. He’d asked several women to
explain the logic behind this but had long since given up trying to
understand it. He left both the seat and the lid down.

 

Lighting.
Lighting was important. It needed to be right. He turned on his
bedside lamp and turned off the room light then lay back on the bed
to assess the scene. The bedside lamp was quite bright,
intentionally, perfect for bedtime reading, but perhaps it was a
little too bright for a romantic tryst. It was a difficult one. He
wanted to enjoy the full experience, the visual as well as the
tactile, but if it was too bright she might feel inhibited and if she
did then that might also take away from his enjoyment. But what could
he do? What options did he have? He could take the lamp off the
bedside table and put it on the floor? Yes he could. It would
certainly reduce the intensity of the light on the bed, but it would
also make him feel like a complete cock. He could go downstairs and
root around in the utility room for a less powerful bulb, but then
there was the chance of bumping into Elena again, and anyway, he
couldn’t be arsed. Fuck it. It would have to do as it was. He was
paying. She’d have to take it or leave it. He began to undress.
Pyjamas? No, definitely not. The feel of the crisp-ish, clean-ish
sheets all over his body would enhance the anticipation as he waited.
He felt a little bad that he’d forgotten to change the sheets for
her but at least her side of the bed was clean and new. He got into
bed and lay face down, pressing his groin against the mattress. Why
wasn’t he hard? Oh my God! What if he couldn’t perform? He began
to regret the earlier whisky. He wouldn’t normally expect it to
affect his performance but it had been a very big one and these were
somewhat exceptional circumstances. Did he need some help, you know,
viagra, just to be safe? But no, he was dreaming. He had bought some
a few years ago for, as he said, “both research and recreational
purposes”, but he’d be buggered if he could remember where it was
now, and it was probably past its sell-by date anyway. He’d just
have to hope for the best. It would be fine. He suddenly remembered
an article he’d read in a weekend supplement a few weeks before.
The article was called “21 Tips To Make Your Life Better” and Tip
15 had been “Have Better Sex”. The third paragraph started “It’s
always better with a good dollop of lube!”. He fetched an old tube
from the en-suite cabinet then got back into bed, laying it on the
bedside table within easy reach. He didn’t have any massage oil. He
had some moisturiser which he could use but he dismissed it. It
wasn’t a night for tenderness. Tenderness might come later but not
tonight. OK, he was ready. He picked up his book from beside the bed
and began reading, a novel, “The Light Supper” by H.D Trinken,
recommended by his book club. His target was twenty pages a night.

 

 

 

She
chose the light purple hoping that the glamour and pizazz of the
colour and the shiny satin would somehow transfer itself to her,
magically transforming her reluctant listlessness to perky exuberance
or at least passive acceptance. After all, regardless of the
circumstances, she still had an employer to please and satisfy. No
mascara she thought, she didn’t want to look like a panda in the
morning, but a touch of blusher as she maybe looked a little pale.
Which perfume? She had the choice of two, one had been given to her
several years ago in Timisoara and held great sentimental value, the
other she’d bought at the Duty Free shop in Bucharest airport on
her way to the UK. It was an easy decision. Tonight would hold enough
betrayal already without adding to it. She looked at her phone again.
11.35. He’d said between eleven and midnight. She had a few minutes
to spare if she wanted them but she was only delaying the inevitable.
She drank the last mouthful of her wine then opened her door and
padded softly down the corridor to the front of the house and
Martyn’s bedroom. His door was slightly ajar but she still thought
it best to knock lightly rather than call.

 

“Come
in Elena.”

 

She
only hesitated a moment, then opened the door and stepped inside.