I’ve done the first of my
run-up-to-Christmas jobs which was spoilt trophy wife in Marlow’s
birthday bash. No indication of which birthday but she had two teenage
sons so she won’t see 45 again, though this hasn’t stopped her dressing
22.
It occurs to me many of you won’t know where Marlow is or
what it stands for. It’s a small town on the Thames between London and
Oxford, stuffed full of that slightly grating ‘charm’ that makes
parking so difficult. It’s the kind of place middle class Londoners
move to when they’ve made a bit of money but don’t feel confident
enough to scale the heights of proper country society. The men commute
to the city, the children get sent away to boarding school and the
women shop for organic artichokes and have their hair done.
Trophy
wife graces a fairly palatial Edwardian pile with a garden that runs
down to the river, some Arts and Crafts half-timbering and really
frightening amounts of chintz. She is not made of chintz. No, she is
armour-plated and orders us around like a sergeant major. Some of the
girls get cross and upset about this but I shrug it off. If she had any
self-confidence she wouldn’t feel the need to behave like this. Her
bossiness is a sign of weakness.
Besides, I’ve spotted her two
teenage sons by this time. Down from Harrow for the event, they dispose
themselves languorously about the place with the negligent beauty of
the boys in Michelangelo paintings. They smile slowly, with warm brown
eyes twinkling as they watch us scurrying about, occasionally holding a
door open for us or reaching for something on a high shelf with an air
of quiet amusement.
I stand in the kitchen, polishing a tray of
glasses with my eyes lowered, aware I’m being stared at. “I like your
uniform,” says the older son. We’re all wearing black waitress uniforms
with long sleeves and starched white collar and cuffs with a white
apron over the top.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “I feel a bit buttoned up in mine.”
“Yes,” he says, looking me up and down, “I think that’s what I like.”
I
go bright red, squeak, “I really must get on” and scurry out of the
room with my tray of glasses (which, incidentally should be in the
kitchen and now I’m going to have to find a reason to bring them back
when he’s not looking).
In the scullery, which is where the food
is being plated up and chill boxes full of canapés are being unloaded,
the other girls are making a pet of younger son, who’s about 15.
“Have you got a girlfriend then?”
“Nice-looking lad like you, I bet the girls all fancy you.”
“Leave him alone (tousles hair) you’re making him blush.”
“You take no notice of them love (hug) they’re very bad women.”
All through this he dimples happily, shyly glancing down and wriggling like a puppy as they hug and pinch him.
There’s
a final salvo of anxious shrieking from the hallway to indicate that
trophy wife is ready and feels personally betrayed by the fact that we
aren’t. Her husband makes his first, slightly weary, appearance, pops
his head round the door and says, “How are you getting on, girls?”
which of course works much better than yelping at us because he has a
nice smile and the same twinkly eyes as his sons so of course for him
we’re ready instantly.
It’s boring work, endlessly circulating
with heavy trays of drinks and canapés, holding them uncomfortably high
and swerving out of the way of braying idiots who can’t hold their
drink. There aren’t even any good conversations to eavesdrop on as it’s
all the state of the economy and who’s going skiing this year. I
daydream about snatching one of the big circular metal trays off one
the other girls, tipping everything off both trays, climbing on the
table and clanging them together like cymbals before announcing to the
stunned and silent guests that the house is surrounded by snipers and
we’re going to execute one of them on the hour every hour until my
demands are met. I’m not sure what my demands are. A boyfriend who
lives in the same city as me and some new gloves would be nice. I laugh
to myself and bow my head to hide it, then look up to see older son
watching me.
Time for my break. I stand outside the kitchen door
smoking and shivering and listening to the river. The door opens behind
me and I jump. It’s trophy wife’s husband and he bums a fag off me,
joking awkwardly about how much he hates this sort of thing and asking
do I do this job all the time and do I enjoy it? Suddenly he says, “I
like your uniform” and I look up, a bit startled to hear the same line
from father as from son and to see really the same face looking down at
me. He reaches out tentatively and takes my starched cuff between his
finger and thumb, rubbing it. We both look down and watch him doing it
and I realise I’m holding my breath. If I look up again, I’ll be saying
yes.
As I look up, he slides his hand against mine, his fingers
wind between mine and then he sets off briskly down a path that winds
between the bins and the compost heap, past the garage block then down
towards the boat house.
Inside the boat house, I lie on my back
on the wooden jetty with a rowing boat bobbing beside me, the only
light the grey winter light that bounces off the river outside, pours
through the windows high up in the riverside doors and shudders against
the raftered ceiling. My scratchy uniform is discarded and tossed in
the boat, my knickers dangle from the end of an oar mounted on the wall
and the straps of my bra are tugged down over my shoulders. I hug
myself, shivering, my teeth gritted together to stop them from
chattering, but not wanting to stop him as he buries his tongue deep in
my cunt, the hard bridge of his nose rubbing against my clit.
Finally
I can’t stand it any more and I drag him on top of me for warmth,
unzipping his cock and moaning into his kiss as he slides into the
sopping folds of my cunt. He fucks me artlessly, grunting as he stabs
his cock into me, the wooden boards beneath us creaking and the rowing
boat banging against the jetty.
Suddenly, with his face red, the tendons in his neck straining, close to cumming, he stops and whispers, “Is it OK?”
Is
what OK, I wonder. Is it OK to fuck the hired help? Is it OK if she’s
young enough to be your daughter? Is it OK to fuck her at your wife’s
birthday party? Is it OK to assume you won’t catch anything off her
(bit late for that as we’re condom-less)? Is it OK because she won’t
get pregnant and come along with a financial claim that takes this
house and wife and party and river off you? I plump for the last one
and tell him to cum in my mouth, which he seems pleased enough with.
In
the mini bus back to town, we swap notes. We seem to all have steered
clear of older son but none of us is sure why. However little
eighteen-year-old Daisy, who’s on only her second job with the agency,
took a shine to younger son and sneaked up to his bedroom to give him
his first ever blow job, so well done her. There’s a general consensus
that trophy wife is having it off with one of the guests. I nod along
in agreement at all the ‘little signs’ that apparently give this away,
even though I didn’t see any of them. “Anyway, where did you get to,
Lucy?”
“Hmm? Oh, nowhere, I just went out for a fag.”