Tremble (5 page)

What was she going to do? She couldn’t have a free-ranging six-and-a-half-inch penis flying around the cottage while she was entertaining the potential love of her life. How would she explain it away? Although she wasn’t very experienced with men, she knew enough to realize that it was fatal to advertise the existence of ex-lovers. Or in this case, would it be ex-appendages? Perplexed by her dilemma she switched on the gas fire and, after wrapping the penis in a kitchen towel, left it to thaw out.

She would just have to hide it on Tuesday night. Perhaps in a large biscuit tin in the pantry. Or maybe in the fridge. Its metabolism seemed to slow down when it was cold, a bit like a lizard. It couldn’t be that cruel to sedate a penis, could it? The last thing she wanted was Stanley to be confronted by this aberration, which, for all she knew, could even be a manifestation of her own imagination.

Over the next few days the organ grew increasingly possessive. It was more demanding at night and took to patrolling the front door during the day, as if expecting an attack from an intruder. Dorothy was convinced that it sensed a potential rival.

By the time Tuesday arrived she was in a state of extreme anxiety. She took the day off work and spent the morning plowing through recipes. In the afternoon she shopped for ingredients. She had abandoned her original plan to make roast lamb, deciding to be far more ambitious after discovering a recipe book of sixteenth-century dishes. This was one of Stanley’s favorite eras, so Dorothy had gone for suckling pig with cloves and crab apples, with a quince and walnut tart to follow.

As she stuffed the piglet, the penis watched her from the mantelpiece, bent at an angle that somehow suggested vengefulness. Dorothy
couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, it’s a dispossessed organ. It hasn’t got a brain or a heart. A penis is not a man, just as a man is not a penis. She became so confused by what sounded like some perverse Cartesian debate that she put cherries into the stuffing instead of prunes and then forgot to glaze the piglet with honey before putting it into the oven.

Maybe it can read my mind, or at least sense my mood, she thought. As if to prove her right, the wayward member hopped toward the cake mix, and was just about to plunge into it when Dorothy caught it midflight. “Naughty! Naughty!” She shook it angrily. “That’s not for you, that’s for Stanley.” The penis quivered and Dorothy thought she detected a low growl of discontent, but conceded it might have been the wind in the rafters.

That night Dorothy prepared carefully, putting on the evening dress she hadn’t worn since her fateful last date with her ex-lover. It was a tight-fitting blue velvet with a plunging neckline. Peter was a breast man and had insisted on dictating what Dorothy should wear; something she’d secretly resented. There is a satisfying symmetry in plotting to seduce another man while wearing an ex’s favorite dress, and Dorothy, in front of the mirror, fastening her mother’s pearls around her neck, felt in control of her emotional destiny for the first time. And that, frankly, was as exciting as waiting for Stanley.

He was due in half an hour and she still hadn’t worked out what to do with the penis. It had been behaving very oddly, whizzing around the house like a frenetic windup toy. It had already made a hole in the lace curtains and dive-bombed one of her favorite vases. Dorothy had been forced to tie it to her bedpost, where it now sat, twisted up in ribbon like a macabre birthday gift. There was no doubt in her mind. She would have to lock it up for the night and pray that Stanley wouldn’t discover it.

She sprayed herself with her favorite perfume (Chance by Chanel), slipped on her four-inch heels, and untied the struggling penis. She marched downstairs and found a biscuit tin. She carefully placed the organ inside and, after pacifying it with a few strokes, slammed the lid on and secured it firmly with some old string. She placed the tin in the pantry, shut the door, and waited for a moment. All was silent.

It must have gone to sleep, she concluded and, with a sigh of relief, fortified herself with a small glass of Benedictine. Stanley was due in ten minutes and she was horribly nervous.

Stanley was late. He paused on the threshold, relishing the moment. At last conquest was in his sights. He smiled and flicked a leaf off the shoulder of his cashmere sweater. He had always known she would succumb in the end. They all did, sooner or later. He adjusted his crotch, sniffed his armpit to check whether he had been too lavish with the cologne, patted the condoms in his back pocket, then tapped softly on the wooden door. Dorothy opened it even before Stanley had finished knocking. Just as he imagined: she was waiting, hot and aching for him.

With a flourish that he liked to think of as regal, he presented her with a large bunch of lilies. Dorothy accepted them graciously, quelling her disappointment. She secretly considered lilies a little funereal. Stanley, oblivious to the nuances of the moment, pulled her toward him and thrust his tongue, which tasted faintly of licorice, into her mouth. “Let’s eat first,” she murmured and disentangled herself.

Dorothy was just beginning to relax as they sat down at the kitchen table she’d decorated with her mother’s best linen. Stanley lit the candles. The appetizer—a crab and soba noodle salad—was received with great acclaim and Stanley, genuinely surprised by the sophistication of Dorothy’s cooking, found himself reconsidering the possibility of marriage. In the light of the candles, her pearls glowing against her ivory skin, Dorothy looked more than presentable. His friends might even find her accent romantically rustic. The historian and his Welsh muse—it had a nice ring to it, very Ted Hughes. Stanley was toying with this delightful thought when a sudden loud knocking came from inside the pantry.

Dorothy looked up fearfully. “It’s the plumbing,” she announced loudly, trying to drown out the sound. “It dates back about a century, wretched thing.” She continued to eat as if nothing had happened.

Stanley was just wondering why she found pipes so frightening when the knocking started up again. “Just ignore it, it’ll stop in a minute.” Dorothy glanced desperately at the pantry.

“Funny place for pipes,” Stanley volunteered, then gagged on a piece of crab as the possibility crossed his mind that it could be vermin. “It’s not rats, is it?” he ventured, his face now a couple of shades paler.

“Look, if it makes you feel better I’ll go and bang on them. That usually helps.”

Dorothy got up and walked over to the pantry, let herself inside, and carefully shut the door behind her. The biscuit tin leaped an inch off the shelf as the penis struggled to get out. She eased off the lid.

“Okay, this is it! If you don’t start behaving yourself I’ll lock you away for good,” she whispered to the bulbous tip that was poking out. The penis pulled back and curled sulkily against the waxed paper that lined the tin. Dorothy put it inside a picnic basket, then placed two bags of flour on top of the lid for good measure. Breathing deeply to regain her composure, she returned to the kitchen.

The smell of burning pork skin was detectable. She ran to the oven and pulled out the baking dish. The roast piglet looked magnificent.

“Decidedly feudal,” Stanley announced cheerfully, dismissing the whole rat incident as he helped her carry the dish to the table. He was touched by her culinary efforts; he hadn’t felt so honored in years. At last here was someone who not only had an inherent understanding of his greatness, but was willing to be midwife to it. This is a woman with ambition, he conceded as he watched the succulent meat fall away from the carving knife, a good cook, a great editor, and a meticulous researcher. A woman a man could marry.

He found himself staring at her mouth. It was captivating in crimson, and he wondered what else she might be good at. Good cooks were often good lovers and the pig did look delicious.

Her cleavage bulged up over the velvet; the abundance of her flesh would be a new experience for him. He felt himself stiffening under the table and tried to distract himself by staring at the toasted hair running along the pig’s skin. It was difficult.

The second course went smoothly. Even Dorothy acknowledged that the cherries in the stuffing gave the dish a sophisticated Asian flavor, a subtlety she convinced Stanley was deliberate. More importantly, there was silence from the pantry. Dorothy stopped glancing at the door every three minutes and finally began to relish the triumph of the meal.

They had drunk a bottle of good French wine and all that was left was the dessert. Stanley, conscious of his tightening belt, pushed his chair back from the table and suggested that they pause. He never liked making love on a full belly, and he was determined to give a performance
that matched Dorothy’s culinary skills. They moved to the living room to sit in front of the fire.

Dorothy’s head was spinning from the wine and little shivers of excited anticipation kept running up her thighs. She sat herself primly on the couch. Stanley, brandy in hand, settled his long limbs on the floor in front of the gas fire and contemplated her ankles, which, to his relief, were not that thick.

He began caressing her legs. Dorothy shut her eyes. Stanley’s touch was light and tender. He had the technique of a professional, his strokes achingly delicious. It’s now or never, she thought as the moment stretched and stretched until she was frightened it would snap and evaporate, leaving them with only the possibility of friendship. Ignoring the rising panic that comes with the chance of rejection, Dorothy Owen gathered all the courage of her ancestors and, reaching down, took his face in her hands.

They were in the middle of a lingering kiss when, from the corner of her eye, she saw something dart across the carpet. The trail of flour left no doubt. Luckily Stanley had his eyes shut, for the next thing she saw was the spectacularly white-dusted penis leaping up onto the settee like a flying ghost. With her lips still on Stanley’s mouth, she pushed against him in an attempt to prevent him seeing the maverick organ.

Enraged, the penis hopped onto one of the arms of the couch. It paused, arching toward them with a discernible frown twisting its cleft tip. Then, without warning, it dived under Dorothy’s raised skirt.

Dorothy squirmed and Stanley, taking her discomfort for pleasure, thrust his tongue farther into her mouth. Meanwhile, under her skirt the penis started to probe blindly up between her thighs. Dorothy couldn’t help herself—she jumped.

“Ow!” Stanley grabbed his swollen lip. Dorothy had inadvertently bitten down.

“Sorry, I got carried away.” She tried to sound casual while clamping her legs together in an effort to catch the offending member.

Stanley smiled crookedly. He liked a touch of pain; this woman really did have potential. “Go right ahead, just be careful you don’t draw blood,” he murmured, then moaned dramatically to encourage her further while trying to run his fingers up her legs.

Dorothy pushed his hand away while pulling his face into another
kiss. At the same time she was attempting to keep the infuriated organ trapped between her thighs. It was a feat of extraordinary coordination, requiring a certain twist of the pelvis that Stanley mistook for passion.

Finally, with a wriggle, Dorothy managed discreetly to remove the penis while retaining her composure. “I just have to go to the bathroom,” she said, stepping over the puzzled Stanley, carefully hiding the irate penis in her sleeve. Stanley leaned back. There was mystery to this woman, he surmised, and Lord knows he was ripe for a little mystery.

The mysterious woman stood in the bathroom, flour smeared across her very expensive nylon tights. She had plunged the penis into a sinkful of warm water and it lay there now, luxuriating in her distress. Furious, Dorothy had a sudden impulse to flush it down the toilet—but what would the authorities say? They’d probably trace the organ back to her and accuse her of dismembering a man. She was near to tears. There was only one thing left to do. On her way through the kitchen she stopped by the fridge and threw the errant body part into the freezer.

“Are you okay?” Stanley murmured. He was standing in shadow by the kitchen doorway, his hair disheveled, shirt loosened to display his copious chest hair, hips thrust forward, totally aware that he looked irresistible. Dorothy jumped, then covered her fright with a studied languidness.