The Secret Lemonade Drinker by Guy Bellamy

Author:Guy Bellamy [Bellamy, Guy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2020-11-25T00:00:00+00:00

It had been a day of surprises. Losing at chess came as a fresh surprise every time. The death of Steve Sinclair was a massive shock that had left him groping numbly between relief and guilt. And there was another waiting for him when he escaped from the cold into the centrally heated warmth of his home.

Caroline wanted him to make love. The unspoken message could have been written in blown type across the grey wallpaper of all four walls. She was sitting at the table with her typewriter on one side, as she drafted her replies in pencil to the Susan Smith postbag. But she was smiling and relaxed. More importantly, the jeans had been replaced by a skirt. Thighs and other stimuli – a good two inches of cleavage showing exactly where last year’s sun tan stopped – were on display. She had always made the message clear to him.

“Hallo darling,” she said. “Early home two nights running? Did you have a quick win at the chess club?”

“I had a quick defeat at the chess club.”

He slumped in an armchair and wondered how he felt. It didn’t require a lot of self examination: he felt awful. It would be tomorrow before he was fully recovered from today’s whisky, and Steve Sinclair’s death had affected him most peculiarly. It was the last night he would have chosen to restore sexual activity to the family programme. He lit a cigarette and it burned his throat.

“What’s new?” he said. He meant: Are you going to tell me about Lynn Sinclair’s letter?

“Susan Smith has had a rise of £5 a column.”

“She deserves it. Upholding the puritan ethic, waging war on sin. All on her own, too. Anything else?”

“A woman in Reading wants to know if oral sex is illegal.”

“Jesus.”

He half expected her to ask him whether it was. Oral sex was not her favourite activity and they had only tried it twice in two years. But despite the blank spots in her sexual repertoire, he refused to find it even slightly odd that a girl with Caroline’s limited experience should be delivering advice professionally on the nation’s bedroom problems. She probably thought that zoophilia, coprophilia and urolagnia were the names of newly liberated countries in darkest Africa, but what did it matter? The country had always been badly served by its “experts” and what an old-fashioned magazine with old-fashioned readers needed were old-fashioned ideas.

“Do you want a coffee?” he asked.

While he was making it, he began to feel angry at his wife’s secrecy. It seemed to him that he was entitled to be told about the letter to Susan Smith; it was his business, too. He found a Watney’s beer tray that had obviously started life in one pub or another and put the coffee and a plate of biscuits on it. He put the tray on the table where she was working and sat down opposite her. As usual, he was disarmed by her breasts. He wanted to want her and after a while he did.

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