Free The Pregnant Widow by Martin Amis Page A

terrified figure of Amen. Keith considered. Obsession—positive, negative. From L.
obsidere
“besiege.” Amen, beleaguered by Scheherazade’s breasts.
    “I thought they’d gone to Naples,” said Lily, “to pick up Ruaa. You know. The Blob.”
    Scheherazade said, “You’re not to call her the Blob in front of Whittaker. He thinks it’s disrespectful … What’s wrong with Amen, Whittaker? He looks so haunted.”
    But Whittaker answered her nothing, and just sighed and sat.
    “Sexual disgrace, Whittaker,” said Keith soothingly. “Someone ladylike almost dies of shame.”
    “Oh she’s all right, Gloria,” said Scheherazade. “The thing was, she did these paintings for a sex tycoon. And we—”
    “No, wait,” said Lily. “How do you mean, a sex tycoon?”
    “The one who does sex revues but not
Oh! Calcutta! …
You see, Gloria’s mainly a dancer. Royal Ballet. But she’s also a painter. And she did these little paintings for the sex tycoon. Ballet dancers at it in mid-air.”
    “In mid-air?” said Lily, with some impatience. “In
mid-air?”
    “Ballet dancers at it in mid-air. And the sex tycoon had a big lunch party in Wiltshire, and Gloria was asked, and we were only sixty miles away, so we went. And she disgraced herself. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    Keith sank back. The sun, the cicadas, the breasts, the butterflies, the caustic taste of coffee in his mouth, the fiery treat of his French cigarette, the narrative of sexual disgrace that did not involve his sister … He said,
    “Spin this out, Scheherazade, if you wouldn’t mind. Any chance details. Don’t stint us.”
    “Well. The first thing she did was almost drown in the indoor pool.Wait. Jorquil dropped us off. He said,
You be chaperone. And for God’s sake don’t let her drink anything
. Because she doesn’t. She can’t. But she seemed very flustered. And so of course I went to the loo and when I came back she was finishing a huge flute of champagne. I’ve never seen anything like it. She was unrecognisable.”
    “Is she little?” said Keith. “That can sometimes happen when they’re little.”
    “She’s
quite
little. She’s not
that
little. Afterwards she was violently sick for days and then completely bedridden. We really did. We really did think poor Gloria was going to die of shame.”
    “And I suppose the whole place anyway,” said Lily, “was crawling with slags.”
    “Not really. I mean, there were a good few hunks and pin-ups round the pool. You know. People who look like they’re made of pale chocolate. But there were rules. No toplessness. No sex. And Gloria wasn’t topless. Not topless. Oh no. She was bottomless. She lost her bikini bottoms just before she nearly drowned. She said they got sucked off by the jacuzzi.”
    “… They got sucked off by the jacuzzi,” said Whittaker. “That’s awfully good.”
    “Her exact words.
They got sucked off by the jacuzzi
. So the chap, the polo pro, when he fished her out, he had to hold her upside down by the ankles and give her a good shake. That was a sight. Then the minute we got her clothes back on she was off upstairs. And on the dance floor they were swinging her from man to man and feeling her up. And she looked like someone in a dream. And they were feeling her up. I mean
really
feeling her up.”
    Keith said, “Really feeling her up how?”
    “Well. When I went back in she had her dress round her waist. Not just that—it was tucked into her garter belt. To keep it there. And guess what. The man with his tongue in her ear was stroking her arse with both his hands
inside her pants.”
    There was a pause.
    Whittaker said, “That’s also first-rate. Inside her pants.”
    “These two great hairy mitts inside her pants … And it was so out of character.”
    “In vino veritas,”
said Lily.
    “No,” said Keith. But he said nothing more. Truth in wine? Truth inSpecial Brew and Southern Comfort, truth in Pink Ladies? So Clarissa Harlowe and