Page 20 of Short Stack 3

Chapter 2

Copenhagen

Mags’s mother, Frida, reels into the dining room carrying two plates before rebounding off the door with a light thud.

“Dinner is served,” she announces with a slight slur to her voice.

I make a sound of distress as she tilts the plate, and half the meal slides off onto the floor.

“What was that noise you just made?” Mags enquires in a low voice.

I smile up at Frida as she deposits my plate in front of me and watch as she staggers back into the kitchen. Then I sigh as I look at the plate. It contains peas. Rather a lot of them, but still just peas.

“Is she vegetarian, or did the meat drop off in the corner of the room?”

He chuckles. “She’s not vegetarian. She just forgot to cook the meat. I’ll probably find it in the oven or a cupboard later on.”

“Now I know why you put up with my forgetfulness.”

He takes a sip of his wine. He’s been drinking since we got here, and this is his fifth glass. I eye him worriedly. He’s so supremely confident that his rare moments of vulnerability make me ferociously protective of him. I’m careful, though, because he shies away from too much sympathy.

“You are forgetful,” he says thoughtfully. “While she just doesn’t care.”

I pat his hand. “Well, peas are okay, I suppose. Don’t they make you see in the dark? I should eat a vat of them if that’s the case.”

“If we stay longer than a weekend, you will eat that many.”

I prod a pea. “Why this vegetable out of all the world’s vegetables?”

He gives me his crooked smile that is laced with far too much charm for one man. “It fulfils a dual purpose — food and a cold bag to press on her head when she has a hangover.”

“Wow! A true multipurpose food. We should have some on hand for when the judge comes for dinner.”

“That sounds far more interesting than the actual snooze fest he induces.”

I shake my head, amused as ever by him. It’s a fact that whatever party my family throws, you’re sure to find the judge and Mags in a corner arguing the finer points of the law. Neither seems to listen to the other’s point of view, but they both seem happy with this state of affairs.

We look up as his mother enters the room again, her ever-present shadow at her heels. Carl is her current partner, or boy toy, as Mags refers to her companions. He’s slim and dark-haired and has a surly air about him — the tortured artist in residence, I think cynically.

They put down more plates, and I look hopefully at their contents, but it’s still just peas. I slump slightly, hearing Mags snort beside me. I foresee us creeping out to the nearest McDonald’s when this evening is over.

The conversation picks up, and I drift as, despite Mags’s best attempts to steer her, his mother persists in talking about mutual acquaintances who I don’t know, and does this in Danish, which I don’t speak, apart from the few rude words and endearments that Mags has taught me. Left to my own devices, I look around. We’re in Copenhagen at Frida’s flat for the weekend. It’s a beautiful place with high ceilings and Frida’s artwork everywhere. Apparently, she’s lived here for years, which is why I find it so startling how few photos of Mags there are.

“Don’t you think, Laurie?”

I jump and return to the conversation at his mum’s query. “Oh, I don’t know,” I murmur, which is my handy standby at times like this.

“You don’t think Samuel Mapler should have won the Bucksbaum?”

I shrug. “Not really. He wouldn’t know human emotion if he’d painted with his own intestines.”

Mags chokes on his drink, and I direct a laughing glance at him.

“What a beautifully vivid image over dinner, Laurie,” he drawls. “Thank you.”

I grimace because we both know there isn’t much that can spoil peas.

Frida pours another glass and makes a sound of distress when she finds the bottle is empty. “Carl, get another,” she orders in a manner I last saw deployed by a sergeant major.

Carl directs a sullen glance at her and slopes off to do her bidding. She says something to Mags in Danish, and I look at her contemplatively. She’s a beautiful woman with long dark hair that’s only lightly flecked with grey. She’s the origin of Mags’s high cheekbones and brown eyes, but unlike my bloke, her full mouth is pulled tight in discontent, and dark circles ring her eyes.

Her fingers are stained with paint, and although it’s a familiar sight to me, I still feel no comradeship with her. They say never meet your idols, and she was mine once. Her paintings are stunning — stark and so brilliant that they take my breath away. I’d once spent hours in the National Gallery looking at one of her landscapes. But that eagerness to meet her has been sullied by the way she treats Mags.

She’d greeted him with a vagueness that suggested she wasn’t quite sure who he was. Once his identity had been confirmed, she’d veered between distant affection and sneering at everything he stands for. Apparently, to her, defending peoples’ liberties is similar to the angst felt by Fred West’s parents when they found out about his extracurricular bricklaying.

The rest of the dinner is spent inhaling my peas and listening to her and Carl talk. They’re open about sex in a way that would make my stepfather clutch my mother’s pearls. It doesn’t offend me at all, but after listening to her discuss an orgasm she had last week, I have to wonder what it was like for Mags growing up in this environment. There’s something studied and ultimately false in their desire to shock, which reminds me of being eighteen and attending art college parties.

I sneak a glance at Mags, who is his usual urbane self. As if on cue, his phone alarm sounds.

“What on earth is that for?” Frida says. She tinkles a laugh that has zero humour in it, completely unlike Mags’s warm and contagious amusement. “Do you have some legal treatise to write, darling? Something else that the police can use to keep society under their jackboots?”

“That’s on a Thursday, Mother,” he says, and I can’t conceal my laugh. He reaches into his pocket. “Eye-drop time.”

I smile at him and take the small vial. Then I look around helplessly. He smirks and reaches into his pocket again, this time producing a small tube of hand sanitiser and a flannel. “Thank you, Mary Poppins,” I say affectionately. I look over at his mother. “Do you mind me doing this at the dinner table?”

She waves the hand holding her glass, slopping wine on the tablecloth. “Not at all.” She stares at me as I douse my hands in sanitiser that smells overpoweringly of watermelon, put the eye drops in, and then dab at my cheeks with the flannel.

“Yes. Mags did say you’d had a problem with your eyes. How are you doing?” She shakes her head before I can answer, her face drawn with horror. “I cannot imagine what that must have been like. Your art is extraordinary, Laurie.” Once, I’d have been thrilled to have her sincere admiration, but not now, so I just smile politely. She continues. “To be faced with losing that gift, I would die . I couldn’t exist without my art.”

I take a moment to register her words, struck by the similarities of her sentiment to how I felt when I first had my diagnosis. It feels disorientating, as if I’m standing on a step that is disintegrating beneath my feet. The difference between that Laurie and now is immeasurable. Oh, I would still be devastated if I lost my art. It would be a wound that never heals. But I have more in my life now. So much more.

I smile at her, realising she’s waiting for a reply. Somewhat surprising, because she has main act written all over her, and when people are talking, she seems to be just waiting until she can speak again.

“Yes, it would have been awful, and I’m profoundly glad that I have my sight back now, but painting’s not what I would have missed most if I’d gone blind.” She looks flabbergasted, as if she can’t imagine what could be worse. “I would have lost the sight of your son’s face,” I say gently.

I look sideways at Mags. He’s unsmiling, but his eyes glitter with emotion. Then his face clears quickly, and it’s as though the expression never happened. I watch as he gathers the detritus from my eye meds neatly together, ready to throw it all away.

His mother makes a scoffing sound. “Look at him. When he was a child, it was like having my father in the body of a small boy. Always so provincial and boring . Always looking down on me as if I were an endless disappointment.”

Mags rolls his eyes, and I grit my teeth to stop the retort I want to make. This is still his mother, and he doesn’t seem unduly bothered. But that makes me even angrier because to be this unbothered means the verbal abuse was a constant occurrence.

Carl laughs. “Like an old policeman,” he says, pointing at Mags. “Frida is always bemoaning the fact that she had the most boring child in history. Where is your helmet, Mr Policeman?”

“It’s not my helmet you should be worried about,” Mags says calmly. “It is my truncheon, yes?”

I snort, and Frida stands up and drifts off into the kitchen, maybe to check where the missing pieces of her heart are, and Mags follows, probably to grab another bottle of wine. I take the opportunity to lean forward and address Carl. “Hey,” I say.

He blinks and echoes my position. “Yes?” he says rather warily. It’s good that his instincts are working beneath the haze of dope and wine.

“You have a very nice laugh.”

He preens slightly. “Yes, it has been said.”

I tap my chin. “Has it also been said that if you ever laugh or sneer at Mags again, I will take your tongue, twist it around that corkscrew over there, and pin you to the wall with it?” I sit back in my chair. “I’ve seen your art. It’s pedestrian and trite. You need another job.”

“ What ?”

I smile again. “I think you heard me. Unless you are hard of hearing, as well as being an assistant to the head bully and a rather pathetic human being.”

“You can’t say that to me,” he splutters.

“Really? I thought I just did. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.”

His face reddens to a dull, brick red. Cadmium Red, I absently catalogue. “Does Mags know that you’re a complete cunt?”

I roll my eyes. “That was a terrible comeback.” I shrug. “I actually think he sees it as one of my better qualities.”

“I do indeed.”

I jump at the voice and turn to see Mags standing behind me. His face shows its usual wry expression, but his eyes are almost molten with love. I swallow hard, and he holds up the wine.

“Would you like some more?”

“Oh, is that to share?” I make a moue of sadness. “That’s rather mean, Mags. Surely the occasion calls for a bottle each?”

“Ah, Laurie. The occasion calls for a couple of vineyards each, but we must be brave.” He sets the bottle on the table and sits down, looking at Carl enquiringly.

“Weirdos,” Carl opines and scuttles off to the kitchen.

Mags tuts beside me, taking his napkin and arranging it precisely on his lap. Then he takes his fork and stabs a pea, raising it to his mouth. He makes a pleased sound. “Not bad.”

“Has she ever been able to cook?”

“No, it fell to my father.”

“What about when he left?”

“We had a succession of au pairs.”

“Did they leave quickly?”

“Only after she’d slept with them. Close inspection of her vagina tended to send them out of the door as if their lives depended on it.”

I choke on my drink, and his eyes twinkle. I give him a shove, and he chuckles.

“Has it always been like this?” I ask, sobering. “What a shitty environment for a child to grow up in.”

He considers me for long enough to make me shift in my chair, and then I gasp as he grabs my face between his big hands, taking my mouth in a kiss that leaves me hard and wanting. When he pulls away, I gape at him as he sits back in his chair. Then he looks at me and offers me the private smile that only I ever see. It makes him look younger somehow and almost vulnerable.

“Was it always this bad? In the past, maybe, but not anymore, because now I have you with me, Laurie. Min elskede . That makes everything better.”

After we enter the bedroom, I shut the door, turn the lock with a loud and very relieved sigh, and then lean against it for good measure.

Mags’s eyes twinkle. “Are you barring the entry? You look like a valiant knight who is defending my honour.”

“It’s a good job I’m not a knight because I’d have used my mace to ram into my eyes so I couldn’t see your mother taking her top off again.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe she got naked in front of us and then expected us to dance with her.”

“She’s obviously never seen you dance. I’ve seen electrocution victims with more grace.”

“There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to make me do that. Still, at least it energised Carl. Dead people have more verve.”

He crosses to the window to draw the curtains and switch on the lamps. The room is instantly lit with a golden glow. “My mother has always been very proud of her breasts.”

“I feel the same about my testicles, but I don’t get them out in mixed company.”

He smirks. “She’s just very free with her person. Are you a prude, Laurie?”

“Is it prudish to not want to see your mother’s boobs?” I pause in horror. “Oh my god, I am. I sound like the judge. No, this can’t be happening to me. Oh my god .”

He starts to laugh. “You have a way to go. To qualify, you must talk about esoteric laws and make the conversation last long enough for your partner to fall asleep with his eyes open.”

I disappear into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush. As I brush my teeth, I look in the mirror and contemplate the horrific fact that I may have become a prude.

When I come back into the bedroom, I expect to find Mags stripped down and waiting for his turn in the bathroom. Instead, he’s still fully dressed and sitting in the easy chair by the window, his legs crossed and one foot swinging idly.

I come to a stop. “Alright? You look thoughtful, which is never good for my mental health.”

He sends his eyes travelling down my body. I’m still fully dressed in the jeans and black cashmere jumper I wore for dinner, so I’m a little surprised to see the calculation in his eyes. “I thought we could solve your prudish problem,” he says.

“I am not a prude.” He snorts, and I wag my finger at him. “I’m an artist. I’ve slept with many men, I’ve swum naked at parties, and I’ve taken part in loads of orgies. I cannot be prudish.”

“Goodness, it is like talking to Charlie Sheen, yes?”

“Did he see your mother naked?”

“Most of the Western world seemed to do that during the seventies.”

I put my hands on my hips. “What are you up to?”

He waves his hand at me. “Strip.”

“I’m about to do that. I want my bed.”

He shakes his head, his eyes twinkling. “No, I mean strip, Laurie.” He sits back in his chair in a rather lordly fashion. “Make it interesting.” He winks. “And not prudish.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you making me strip just to prove my point?”

“Is it working?”

“Completely. Throw me my phone.”

He starts to laugh and hands it to me. “Why?”

“If I’m stripping like the wild man I am, I need the right soundtrack.”

“And what would that be?”

I choose the song I need and connect to the speaker on the bedside table. “Watch and learn,” I instruct, throwing my phone on the bed.

Mags cocks his head as the first bars come on. “Is this… Is this?—?”

“‘Alors on danse’? Yes, it is.”

He starts to laugh, and it’s wonderful — hearty and full of all the life that zings through this dynamic man. I watch him, captivated for a second and then remember my task.

I start moving my hips, overexaggerating the sway to make him laugh more. He watches me, his face alight with amusement.

“I feel I should have some money for you, yes?”

I raise my hands in the air, doing a nifty spin. “Save it,” I advise him. “You’re about to see just how unprudish I am.”

“Is that an actual word?”

“If it wasn’t, it should be, and my picture would be beside it in the dictionary.”

He waves a hand. “You appear to have been spinning for a while. Are you getting dizzy?”

I come to a stop and sway. “A bit,” I confess, the wine I had over dinner making me feel sleepy and happy. His grin gets wider, so I raise my jumper and show him my abs. His smile dips slightly as I whip the jumper off. I hold it over my chest and give him a sultry glance. “Prudish, moi?”

“Multilingual too, I see.”

“Yep. I even know the words to this song.”

“That is not exactly difficult. He appears to be singing the same words over and over again.”

“So we dance,” I say knowledgeably and wink at him before chucking my jumper at him. It lands on his face, which has the benefit of covering his piss-taking grin for a second. By the time he takes it off, my jeans are unzipped, and I’ve kicked off my shoes. I play with the zip, pulling it up and down, and then flinch. “ Fuck , I got a pube,” I mutter, and a choked sound emits from my beloved.

I toss my head in a sultry fashion. “Who needs pubes anyway?” I shout over the noise of the song starting again . Who put it on repeat? “What is their function in life?”

“Maintaining optimal genital temperature.”

I stop dancing, and I have to say it’s a bit of a relief to take a breath. “Never. Really ?” He nods, and I shrug. “And they’re still more useful than Carl.”

I shove my jeans off and dance around him, singing along to the song.

He licks his lips. “I do not think those are the lyrics, Laurie.”

“Who cares? I am one with the music.”

“That is not the good thing you’re hoping for.”

I throw my jeans away and cringe when there’s a crash and something breaks. I hope it isn’t anything expensive or handmade. I decide to ignore it because it’s interfering with my interpretative dance. Even knowing I’ve been manoeuvred into this by Mags, my competitive spirit is egging me on. Well, that, and all the wine from dinner.

I dance around in front of him before stopping to look down and leer in an exaggerated manner. Then I spin and bend down, thrusting my bum in his face. I feel him shift, and then his hands come down on my hips, and he spins me round to face him. I blink when I see his lowered lids and the flush on his cheekbones. “You’re kidding me,” I say in amazement. “ This is what does it for you.”

“I think we will tell no one of this, Laurie.”

“It will be your shameful secret.”

“Do we not share everything?”

“Not this. You’re on your own, mate.”

I start to laugh, and then it dies away as he leans in and nuzzles my dick. His breath is hot and moist through the cotton of my underwear. “Yes,” I say, hearing how breathy my voice has gone. I love these moments between us. I’ve had a lot of sex over the years, but sex with him is freeing in a way I never experienced before. I’m more me with him than I’ve ever been with anyone, and I know it’s the same for him.

He mouths my cock, which is now rigid and tenting my boxers. Then he presses his nose into my groin and inhales. “I love the way you smell,” he says, his Danish accent more pronounced.

I nod, cupping his face, feeling the sharp bones and noticing the way his eyes are a warmer brown than usual. I cry out as he pulls off my underwear and takes the head of my cock into his mouth. He suckles, and I lean into his hands. His mouth is hot and wet, and the suction is perfect. He knows exactly what I like and never fails to give it to me.

I screw my eyes shut and moan as he pulls away and trails kisses down my shaft, licking the veins before kissing the root of my cock. He nuzzles it, his stubble abrading my skin so the pleasure is sharp and almost painful. “God, that’s so good,” I whisper.

He sits back, his face flushed and his lips full. “Feed it to me,” he orders, and the command is so hot that I hasten to obey. I tap my cock on his mouth, and he opens it, his hand falling to press on his own cock, which is tenting his jeans in an obscene way that makes my mouth water.

Then I remember that I never like to do what he tells me immediately — it sets a bad precedent. So instead of pushing into his mouth, I tap my cock on his cheek.

“When have I ever done what you tell me?” I say huskily.

He gives me a feral grin. “When I am going to blow you. You’re usually rather more obedient then.”

“True.” I slide my cock along his lip, painting the surface with my precome, groaning when his tongue appears to lap it up.

“You taste wonderful,” he murmurs.

I give in and slide my dick into his mouth. He takes it all, and there’s something about him obeying and me being naked while he’s still fully dressed that increases the eroticism of the moment.

I throw my head back, panting loudly as he takes me down the back of his throat and swallows. When I look back at him, I nearly come. His lips are shiny and wet, stretched tight around my length. Watching me, he cups my arse and pulls me forward and then pushes me back. He makes the suction tight and incredible, and soon, I’m moaning and groaning far too loudly for being in his mother’s spare room.

One hand grips me and pulls my cheeks open. He raises the other hand to me. In it is a packet of lube. “Get me ready,” he orders. My cock thumps, and I take his fingers in my mouth, fellating them until they’re sloppy and we’re both breathing heavily. Then, leaning over him, I unzip his jeans and pull out his cock. It’s hard, and I trace the vein on it before need overtakes me, and I lube it until it gleams in the low light. Then I squeeze the rest onto his outstretched hand.

“You know what to do,” I say hoarsely. His eyes are lowered to half mast, and he nods, immediately finding my hole. I tap my cock on his lips, and he sucks me back in before tracing his fingers over my opening. I grunt, shoving into his mouth so hard that he chokes. I don’t let up and shove in again because it’s so hot, and I know he doesn’t want me to stop. As if on cue, he moans around my cock, his eyes lowered.

His finger taps my hole, and then he gently slides the tip in. It makes electric sparks tingle along my spine. “More,” I say hoarsely, and his eyes fly open. For a few seconds, we watch each other until the erotic sight is too much, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing into his mouth and back onto his fingers.

Soon, the room is full of the sound of my choked whines and moans as he moves my hips, making me fuck his face.

“I’m close,” I whisper, and he sucks harder.

With a groan, I pull out of his mouth and scramble into his lap, my need making me clumsy. He grabs my hips hard, his fingers hurting and adding to the pleasure. We move easily into position, and I ease down on him. The slide is easy, and when I bottom out, I rest there for a second, relishing the delicious stretch inside me as we look at each other. “Hey,” I say rather stupidly.

His lip quirks in a smile. “ Min elskede .” He taps my hips. “Move.”

I nod, and soon, I’m bouncing on his cock, my head thrown back and my hands resting on his thighs. The position makes me arch, and he takes advantage of it, fisting my dick in his slick palm and mouthing stinging kisses into my throat. I can feel the rasp of his stubble, and that, mixed with the sublime feeling inside me, sends me over the edge before I know it.

“Fuck,” I gasp. Clenching my arse, I unload spunk down his expensive shirt. It looks gloriously smutty, and I continue to ride him as he runs his fingers through the mess. I watch avidly as he sucks it off his fingertips and then arches up off the chair, thrusting into me as he comes.

Eventually, I lever off him, feeling his come leak from me. For a few moments, I can’t speak as I pant and wait for the sparks behind my eyes to vanish. “I think you fucked out my brains,” I finally say, looking down at him.

He licks his swollen lips. “That wouldn’t take a lot of effort,” he observes. He kisses me, and there’s a sweetness there that stands in contrast to what we just did. He taps my hips in mute command, and I climb off him as he rises to his feet. It’s extraordinarily erotic to be naked in front of him while he’s still dressed in his expensive clothing. “So, what conclusion have you come to, Laurie?” he asks, his eyes dancing as he fastens his jeans.

I ponder the question for a moment. “I’m extremely vulnerable to peer pressure from you when we’re drunk, and I’m not prudish. I just don’t want to see your mother’s boobs.”

“Ah, and so say many men to no avail.” I eye him calculatingly, and he shifts. “What?”

“Say I’m not prudish.”

He starts to laugh. “I will not.” He adopts a prim expression. “I cannot tell a lie.”

“Oh my god, that’s the biggest whopper tonight.” I shove him gently, and he falls back onto the bed. Instead of jumping up, he puts his hands behind his head rather insouciantly and watches me.

“Now what?”

I edge onto the bed, crawling over to him, and his eyes watch me, the amusement and love in them very clear.

“I think we should do something,” I say in a conversational tone.

He raises an eyebrow. “And what is that?”

“I think I should tickle you until you admit I’m not a prude.”

His eyes flare with horror. “No,” he says quickly, but it’s too late, and I fall on him, pinning him down as I twist my fingers in his armpits, tickling him. “My god,” he says in horror, squirming. “No, get off. Laurie, stop this.” He’s trying to sound authoritative, but it’s hard to manage that when you’re curled up like a hedgehog and laughing helplessly. Finally, he gasps, “I give in. You are not prudish, Laurie.”

“And?”

“And what? My god , you are demanding.”

“Tell me how wild I am?”

“You are wilder than Endof, which is an accomplishment considering that last week he did more damage to our flat than Viking invaders would have managed.”

Satisfied, I sit back. “I miss him. Did you tell Flora that we’d pick him up tomorrow?”

Flora is our neighbour in France. She’s in her seventies and could outdrink and out-curse a ship full of sailors. Needless to say, she and Mags get on like a house on fire.

I curl up next to him, and we lie in companionable silence, with him stroking my hair. I can hear his mother’s voice raised in the next room, and an idea occurs to me. Sitting up, I grab the headboard and rattle it against the wall, giving a few loud moans.

“What are you doing?” Mags enquires. There’s no alarm in his eyes, just an unholy glee.

“We were a bit too quiet during the actual sex, so I’m pretending and giving you a wild-man image to prove your mother and Carl wrong.”

“You do not need to bother with that.” He grins. “I am not bothered by their opinion of me. I resigned myself long ago to being the stick in the soil.”

“Mud.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“The saying is stick in the mud.”

“Pah! That is still just wet soil, yes?”

“It’s very difficult to argue with you.”

“And yet you are to be commended for doing your very best.”

“Everyone loves a trier.”

“So why the headboard rattling and shouting?”

I bounce on the bed, which makes a satisfying rhythmic creaking. “I don’t want her to have that boring image of you anymore. It’s not true, and it offends me.”

“And?”

I shrug apologetically. “Also, because I do not ever want to watch your mother strip again. If she’s convinced you’re throwing society’s mores away like a wanton little strumpet, she’ll leave you alone and, by extension, me too.”

“What if she tries to persuade me to join one of her parties? They had many orgies here when I was a teenager.”

I blink. “I hadn’t thought of that.” I cock my head. “It’s hard to imagine your father in his sweater vest having an orgy.”

“Ah, Laurie, a vest is no cure for morals shakier than a building in an earthquake. It was rather disconcerting to leave my room, looking for a late-night snack, to find my mother riding the local publican on the sofa while wearing only a sunhat and my father naked amongst a group of women proclaiming poetry.” He pauses. “As I remember, it wasn’t even his best work.”

I snort. “I can’t even begin to imagine your upbringing.”

“At least it wasn’t shared with five siblings whose names all sound confusingly similar.”

“True, but at least they were company.” I smile at him. “Now you’ve got me.”

He gives a mock, dramatic sigh. “Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

“You should be turning cartwheels.”

He grabs me close, entwining our legs and kissing my hand. “Inside, I am, Laurie. Inside, I am turning many cartwheels.”