I love Friday nights. I never used to; it used to be sit-in-the-house-with-a-bottle-of-chardonnay-trying-to-ignore-Keith-enthusing-over-Gardeners'-World night. It used to be Friday night before the children went to their friends' houses for the weekend and I could sit and mull over my Chardonnay and think of all the terrible, dreadful things that could happen to my babies when they were out of my sight. Occasionally, the sight of some particularly wonderful hellebores or a beautifully landscaped garden would excite Keith to the extent that we would go to bed early, and he would fuck me, (lights off, of course) with me still dry and distracted, doing my wifely duties with my nightdress pushed up around my waist.
He's been gone almost two years now. It's been tough on us all, but particularly hard on Emma. She was sixteen, surly and proud the way only know-it-all teenagers can be before they leave home and realise how much they've been cosseted. They'd argued, again. Voices had been raised (was it about her having done her French homework? Or about some outfit Keith didn't approve of her wearing for a night out at Ten Pin Bowling? I can't remember, now), she'd given him some of her usual cheek and slammed the door behind her and marched up the garden path, her long brown hair swinging behind her. At the gate, she turned and caught me peering through the nets of the bedroom window, and triumphantly flicked me the V sign. She was free. Free to enjoy another Friday night. Jamie, thirteen and full of mischief (and still of the age where farting and V signs to concerned parents are considered hilarious), howled with laughter until I punched him playfully on the arm and told him to bugger off back to his room and finish his maths project.
At that moment, everything changed. Forever.
Keith was lying on the kitchen floor. He'd gone without saying goodbye. Gone whilst Jamie laughed, and Emma stalked down St Swithin's Drive without a second glance back at the house.
She would never forgive herself for that. Despite the constant reassurances that Keith's massive heart attack was not her fault; poor Emma was inconsolable. It's been a tough couple of years, really, but together we're getting through it. One way or another.
I am stood in the harsh light of the bedroom in my underwear when my mobile plays that irritating crazy frog song that Jamie thought would be hilarious to upload to my phone and I haven't bothered to remove. A text message. From Steve.
'Hi babe, c u at usual 2nite?'
I groan both at Steve's insistence on calling me -- a forty year old widow -- 'babe', and the use of text speak. He's fifty-two, he can speak in full sentences, but for some reason likes to pretend he's Jamie's age whenever he's texting. Still, I feel a warm glow in the pit of my stomach, a tingle between my legs. If the kids knew where I was going tonight, they'd die.
I briefly consider borrowing something of Emma's to wear; but she's much taller than me and, even though my body is not bad for my age, I'm not sure I'm ready to dress like an eighteen year old; even if I am about to head up to the nature reserve, in the middle of night, to meet Steve and God knows who else. I settle for a compromise -- a short skirt (skirts really are essential) and a loose-fitting, sheer white blouse. I'm getting rather nervous -- I always do before I head up to the reserve -- and I consider knocking back a couple of stiff whiskeys. I abstain, however, on the grounds that I'm driving. I'll save the whiskeys for when Steve and I get back here afterwards. The kids are both out -- Jamie is over at Liam's house for a sleepover (which means zombie movies, pizza and no sleep at all); Emma is out at the cinema with Sasha and Jenny and will probably stay at Sasha's tonight because Sasha's mother, of course, is far cooler and does everything better than me. Fine by me, kiddo, if it means I get the house to myself.
10pm. Grab my handbag, lock up the house. I stash my handbag under the passenger seat, you can never be too careful. I fling my denim jacket into the back - for April it is surprisingly mild, even at this late hour. My stomach is turning somersaults now, and I grin nervously to myself as I turn the key in the ignition of the little battered Micra I bought Emma but she was too embarrassed to drive.
If only you knew what happened in this car, dear Emma. Oh, I love Friday night.
I pull into the reserve, follow the dark road down to the shore-side car park; my heart in my mouth now, so excited and yet petrified. Anything could happen down here, I've heard some stories. They never make the press, so whether they are urban myth or because those involved don't want to be identified, I'm not sure. Still, I'm a grown woman. I've learned a lot these past few months, thanks to Steve.
Aye, look at me now, Keith. No Gardeners' World and lights-off-nighty-up-five-minute-bored-shagging now, eh?
Unusually, the car park is deserted. I check the time, almost 11pm. I kill the lights; roll down the window, light a cigarette with shaking hands. I think about texting Steve, but I figure he might be already here, might have started enjoying his Friday night without me. It doesn't bother me, really. I'd be a bit of a hypocrite to complain about him fucking random strangers, wouldn't I?
He usually walks down here, his car has a private number plate too easy to identify; so I peer out into the darkness, listening intently in case I hear his voice in amongst the trees. I don't turn the radio on -- that's the sign that you're available and approachable, and not just here to innocently walk your dog -- I just sit in the silence and wait. For Steve, and whoever he has picked out for me tonight. It's never just Steve.
Damn, I'm turned on. I find that the expectation of it all, the not knowing who Steve will bring to me, is nine-tenths of the thrill. To be honest, the fucking isn't usually that great. All that fumbling with condoms, those blokes who have had one too many pints as Dutch courage, the stench of sweat and fags and beery-breath as they suck and lick at me, it doesn't do anything for me. I enjoy sucking them off, having them cum on me. I enjoy the knowing that I am cheap, and being used, as I'm fucked over the bonnet of the car. A million miles from Gardeners' World. I enjoy being a slut; that's what gets me off.
I'm starting to get annoyed now, it's getting late and I need a fuck. OK, I need several fucks. I undo a couple of buttons on my blouse, move my knickers to the side and start to play with myself to pass the time. I close my eyes; breathe in the night air mixed with the smell of my cigarette which now smoulders on the ground outside.
The sound of tyres on the gravel. I have company. About bloody time, too.
It's a big car, something smart. A Mercedes, I think. Not the typical car you see here on a Friday night. It pulls into a space in front of me. For some reason, I slide down in my seat. This isn't Steve, and I doubt it's one of his friends from the Royal Oak, not in that car. I'm suddenly nervous; I don't want to be seen. I'm glad I don't have the radio on. Fucking hell, Steve. Where are you?
A man gets out of the car, closes the door gently. Smartly dressed, not the usual jeans and hoodies you see here. Three-Quarter length coat, looks like wool. Dark trousers. Proper shoes, not trainers. I slide further down in my seat, peering over the top of the steering wheel.
He walks round to the passenger side and opens the door. I am charmed by his chivalry, and notice he is wearing dark gloves. Probably leather, he looks the sort.
His passenger is female. Tall, slim, her dark hair loose down her back. She seems to be wearing a floor length evening dress -- I have one similar, I haven't worn it for years, not since I went to one of Keith's boring Christmas work functions. Millions of years ago.
Do they know what this car park is used for? What the Hell are they doing, here, on a Friday night, dressed like that? Who the fuck comes from some fancy night out to a well-known dogging spot? I wonder if I should warn them that this isn't the best place for a moonlit stroll along the banks of the man-made lake.
He speaks. Clearly, but softly.
'You understand what is expected of you?'
The woman nods.
