Janice Gentle Gets Sexy by Mavis Cheek Page A

Pavlov's dogs? See Melanie, think giftwrap? When he bought her things, he liked to do it spontaneously. It wasn't his fault that the spontaneity was rare — she'd wiped a lot of it out by being too demanding — but it was real when it came.
    He walks very fast in the drizzle, his legs swiping viciously at the air, his shoes banging into the pavement angrily. One of his feet, which should have made contact with hard stone, plunges into a dip full of water. He is merely splashed, but a female leg is drenched. He looks up. A pretty girl, and pretty angry, under an umbrella. He apologizes, she glowers.
    'I should bloody well think so,' she says.
    Hmm. Very pretty. He smiles. 'Won't happen again.'
    She smiles, too. Girlish. Knowing. Establishing her sex. And then she moves off.
    He is cheered. He is fed up with Melanie and her miseries. And there are plenty more fish in the sea. After all, he is not unattractive - that girl's smile said so. He thinks he might turn around and rush after her, thrusting flowers into her hands like they do in that silly advert that Melanie thinks is so sweet. Might well have done, had not, had not - he stops, and then continues on his way - had not, he thought, the memory of the girl's first outburst come back to him. There was something altogether Melanieesque about her. 'I should bloody well think so.'
    Ah, no. Stay safe with what you've got. At least the sex wasn't bad. And regular, got to give her that. He'd go over to Melanie's that night and offer to get a take-away. That was the sort of thing he did and never got praised for. He went out in the pouring rain to collect the stuff, he paid for it and quite often refused to let her go halves. Well, tonight that's what he would do, and pick up the bill for it. That'd show her he was making the effort. Bugger the flowers.
    Square Jaw's Melanie has finally got out of bed, bathed and put on her make-up. She surveys the puffiness of her eyes unhappily. Then she cheers up. He must have seen how much she would love him to give her a token now and then, a little romantic something just to say he had been thinking of her - even a tiny bunch of violets would be so touching. Of course he would now, now that he had seen her unnecessary misery, added it to all the other times of unnecessary misery. Such a token would reverse it all. He must understand . . . Anyway, she hops out of the bathroom feeling quite happy again. Anyway, the sex had been very good indeed last night. He couldn't forget that, could he? Good sex is a positive asset, a definite asset, but not - surely - something to take for granted? She gives sex ('Freely, freely,' she tells herself) in return for love, and he gives love in return for sex. Simple as that. Only she would like to see or hold some tangible evidence of it sometimes. That's all. Not much to ask, after all ...
    By the time she is dressed, she is absolutely positive that it will be all right. She will ask him over to her place this evening and cook something really nice — not one of those dreary take-aways again. She hums as she pulls his duvet straight, hangs up his jacket that lies crumpled on the floor, rinses out the mugs and wipes the ring from the bath. She leaves with the door of the flat making a familiar click behind her. She runs down the stairs and out into the morning street feeling much happier. This time, she decides, this time, it is all going to be just fine . . .
    *
    The vicar's wife from Cockermouth is in London for a conference on rural poverty. The vicar was told by the bishop that somebody had to attend, and the vicar thought that Alice might like the change. She was a grand helpmate, unwavering of sacrifice, and he just could not go, could not be in two places at once, though he did not really like the idea of her going back to London alone. She had never revisited it after their marriage and had never suggested that she wanted to, though when they first met there, Alice had loved the place, told him so,