Free The Penultimate Chance Saloon by Simon Brett Page B

Maria’s carefully-lit bedroom, he didn’t feel as though he were cuddling a grandmother. Or, to put it another way, cuddling a grandmother didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Even though, after his orgasm, he became more aware of the difference of her body from Andrea’s, the different way her flesh was distributed, the different areas of hardness and softness.
    Gallantly, he disentangled himself from her only to pour them more champagne, which they drank before returning to their cuddle. They didn’t say much. There didn’t seem much to say. But the silence between them was benign.
    They must have dozed. Bill woke blearily to a totally unprecedented sensation – Maria’s hand working with some determination between his legs.
    â€˜Come on,’ she murmured throatily, ‘I’m sure there a little more where that came from.’
    This was uncharted territory for Bill. Uncharted since the very early days of his marriage, when a certain rampancy had ruled. At least thirty years must have passed since he last came twice in the same session.
    Marital sex tends to stop after the orgasm. Certainly after the male orgasm (though hopefully the woman has got something out of it too). A little friendly kiss perhaps, then roll apart to continue worrying about the mortgage.
    With Maria, though, he didn’t even know if she had a mortgage. But he sure as hell knew that he didn’t have a joint one with her. Which was very comforting. As his body came reassuringly back to life, Bill realised that he knew almost nothing about Maria. Their dinner table conversation hadn’t been very revelatory. All he knew about her was that she was manipulating his body with a great deal more enthusiasm than Andrea had ever shown. He let himself go with the flow – or at least go till the flow.
    And the second flow was even more enjoyable than the first. But again, once the expressions of flattery and gratitude had been made, there didn’t seem a lot to say.
    The remains of the champagne were consumed.
    And eventually, Bill Stratton said the inevitable. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be on my way.’
    He wasn’t sure how this was going to be taken. Maria knew he was divorced, so wouldn’t be assuming he had a wife to get back to. Equally, he didn’t feel up to the effort of inventing reasons why he had to get back to Pimlico – fictional dogs to walk, dependent aged relatives, demands of an early start in the morning.
    But Maria took it like a lamb. ‘Yes. All been very nice, but we don’t want the magic to fade, do we?’
    â€˜Well, if you want me to stay ...’ he began, not sure how he could end the sentence.
    Fortunately she didn’t give him time to. ‘No, that’s fine. Keep your illusions. I don’t look so good in daylight.’
    â€˜Nor me,’ he chuckled, as he eased his body off the bed. He did now feel very tired. And the accumulated alcohol was getting to him, as well.
    He also felt awkward. No one looks good getting dressed, and he didn’t know whether to reassume his scattered clothes facing Maria or with his back to her. Facing, she’d see his white chest hair and incipient paunch. Turned away, she’d see his rather creased bottom and the little knot of bluish veins behind his right knee.
    Instinctively, Maria seemed to sense his dilemma. Lifting herself up off the bed, she moved towards the bathroom door. ‘Going to run myself a bath. Don’t know if you fancy one? Or a shower?’ She didn’t make the invitation over-pressing.
    â€˜No, I’ll do that at home. Maybe just a quick wash.’
    She drew aside to let him into the bathroom. He washed a small part of him (a very small part by now). Then they changed rooms and he dressed in private.
    When he was ready he knocked on the bathroom door. Maria opened it, revealing herself dressed in a fluffy dressing gown. She had started to take off her