Dear Beneficiary Read online

  My upbringing did equip me to some extent to follow the patterns of traditional married life, but with no one to ‘keep me in line’ I decided there was no harm in letting loose a little, even if I did have to do it in private. Without the need to be a role model as a mother or wife, I was free to have a clandestine affair with a shiny black management consultant I’d met on an Advanced Driving course. And why not?

  Darius intrigued me with his deep, dark voice that night at the driving class, as he told me he’d been in the UK for just over three months, on secondment from a Nigerian IT company. He added he was working on a special project, something to do with investigating fraud within a large financial corporation. Hotel life was dull, and although he’d been offered the chance of rented accommodation instead, he’d thought it pointless as that would mean he’d have to cook for himself – at least in a hotel everything was provided.

  ‘So why are you doing this course?’ Darius had asked when we first spoke, looking at me as if he was actually interested rather than being polite. The blood coursed through my veins and trampolined on the ventricles of my heart while my stomach flipped up to meet it. I explained that since being on my own I was a nervous driver and wanted to improve my skills. I hoped I hadn’t been too subtle about being single.

  ‘And what about you?’ I’d asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I was mesmerised as he explained he’d been bored with what Surrey had to offer in terms of a night life and opted for continued education as a means to pass the time he was committed to working in the country. He’d said he’d been contracted to work in the UK for up to a year.

  ‘I do a lot of driving in my work and wanted to make it more interesting,’ he’d said, adding that his hotel was only a short walk from the school and he wanted to take part in something local.

  ‘It’s a chance to get to know people,’ added Darius. I sincerely hoped he wanted to get to know me.

  The class went by in a blur. My heart raced and my stomach churned faster than a cheese-maker. I vaguely recognised the feeling, which must have dated back to my early teens when I fell for the gorgeous Kevin Smith who lived three doors up from us and owned his own drop-handled racing bike.

  I adored Kevin, who was two years older than me. Being fifteen he didn’t want to be seen with a thirteen-year-old girl, the sister of one of his school mates, but I would follow him everywhere. I think I must have annoyed him because one Thursday evening when I was on my way to Girl Guides, he called me over to his group of friends as they were standing outside the fish and chip shop. He leaned forward and I thought he was going to kiss me but he didn’t. He just asked me to buy him some chips. I used the money my mum had just given me for my weekly subs to do so. After queuing nearly twelve minutes to buy them, I came to hand them over and he laughed in my face before racing off on his bike, his mates in tow. I tried to catch up with him and nearly caught the back of his shirt as it flapped behind him, but he just pedalled faster, shouting ‘Go away, little girl’. I was heartbroken but still loved him, as one always loves the one who gets away.

  As for Darius, I couldn’t see him behaving so badly. I was smitten. At first I didn’t anticipate he would have any interest in me on a physical level. I was old enough to be his mother, for goodness’ sake – despite retaining excellent bone structure and good skin.

  I hung on to the hope that he’d see in me what the lady at the Boots make-up counter could see. A few weeks after Colin’s death I’d treated myself to a new foundation and, having nothing else to do, took up the offer of a free makeover.

  ‘You have amazing skin, you know,’ she’d said as she dabbed various colours and consistencies onto my face. ‘A lot of women in their forties start to lose structure but you look fab,’ she added, pulling my eyelid down and scribbling black gunk along the edge. I thought I was going to end up looking like a panda after a long night.

  ‘I’m nearly sixty, actually,’ I said, feeling very flattered but trying not to show it.

  The make-up woman screeched so loudly a few passing customers looked at her disapprovingly. I’d have done the same in different circumstances.

  ‘Well, I never would have believed it!’ she said. ‘You’re gorgeous. I hope I look as sexy as you at your age.’

  She hasn’t been the only person to tell me something similar. I’ve been likened to film stars, mistaken for my daughters’ sister (much to their annoyance) and refused entry to an over-fifties Christmas luncheon on the basis I didn’t qualify. So I reckoned physically I could be in with a chance of finding some romantic interests in my later years.

  But being an open-minded and intellectually broad kind of person, I’d been keen to develop our friendship on a deeper level, and offer my skills as a home cook and social entertainer to a man clearly deprived of such comforts. Darius was attentive, and the way I caught him looking at my legs suggested his interest was more than platonic. I’m not a natural flirt, but on the many times our eyes made contact he’d hold my gaze for just slightly longer than I felt comfortable. I’d seen that look before and had a good idea what it meant.

  On the way down the school drive back to the car park on that fateful night, I suggested Darius might like to visit me one evening for a light supper and maybe to listen to some music. Throughout the evening he had intimated he’d very much like some company and was keen to explore more of what British culture had to offer.

  It wasn’t long before our shared isolation became a source of mutual attraction, at which point I allowed him to provide an uncharacteristic injection of carnal pleasure. It had happened naturally and without any guile on my part. Yes, I’d worn stockings and my sexiest little black dress. I’d gone to the hairdresser’s for the first time in six months to have my grey hair, usually tied in a tight bun, delicately coloured and dried into a soft and loose arrangement. I even shaved my legs! I hadn’t done that for years, as the hairs I had left were mostly unnoticeable, having diminished in their strength over the years. It formed part of the process of getting ready to meet a man and I was amazed how quickly those feelings came back to me after decades of dormancy. I felt young again, only with far more knowledge and a total commitment to making the most of what might be on offer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Darius arrived at my house the first time, he smelled divine. It was a heady mixture of cleanliness and a crisp cologne, encased in fresh air from where he’d walked in from the chilly night breeze. I put the rush of blood to my head down to the small glass of Martini I’d drunk to calm my nerves before his arrival. No one had ever regarded me as a passionate woman on any level, and it certainly wasn’t a trait I saw in myself, so I was surprised, but happy, to feel so giddy.

  After a meal of chicken breasts wrapped in ham with a small salad, dressed with a mixture of sesame oil and balsamic vinegar, we sat together on the settee to watch a classical concert on BBC 4.

  I remembered how gentle he was in his approach, and how considerate, even though he liked to take me by surprise. Like the time I was focusing on keeping my balance in the ‘doggy’ position and he whipped me round onto my back like a chop in a frying pan. As much as I’d hoped, I’d never believed he’d find me attractive. I had been prepared for a platonic relationship but when he made it clear he had other ideas I was willing his touch, his closeness, and welcoming the nerve-jangling excitement I’d been deprived of.

  He’d always pick up on my signals quickly. Maybe the dress was a bit too short? He responded by kissing my lips gently, kneeling down in front of me and making me feel incredibly small against his vast build. His sheer size was overwhelming in many ways, so his position was ideal. I watched as his lips, larger than I’d ever seen and pink inside the darkest chocolate coloured frame, met mine. Something deep in the pit of my belly stirred and I started to wonder if I’d cooked the chicken properly.

  When his hands moved up my body from my hips to just under my breasts, I caught my breath and kissed him back. His thumbs barely moved to touch the end of
my nipples, and I jumped. Not with shock, but spontaneous reaction to the effect he was having on my body.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I’d whispered to him, barely able to contain the thought of the possibilities to come. I imagined his naked body sliding against mine, engulfing me with its hugeness and overpowering me with desire, rendering me useless against his demands and heady with pleasure.

  He said nothing, but followed me to my room which still had the hallmarks of marriage; two dressing gowns on the hook behind the door, two sets of wardrobes and bedside tables complete with lamps for each person. Three years on and I still couldn’t quite convert from being part of a couple to being single. By keeping his belongings it was like Colin had just gone away on business and would soon be back. That was easier than coping with the eternal loneliness of widowhood.

  I slipped my clothes off quickly. I’d become suddenly shy about the suspenders, fearing he would think me too forward, so I jumped under the duvet and hid my body beneath the covers. Only the top half of my head was on show – my eyes had to be clear so I could watch this massive man take off first his pale pink shirt and then his jeans, socks and underwear.

  He’d already removed his shoes at the front door on my request.

  I’d never seen boxer shorts so close up before. Colin always wore white Y-fronts with rather too much space at the front. More importantly at that moment, I’d never seen a penis like it. Not only much larger than Colin’s, my only other lover, but so erect it looked like it was going to burst. I noticed its strong upwards angle and considerable girth, and was surprised to see the end of it was pink. Like his lips, a surprising contrast to the blackness of the rest of his skin.

  Darius slid smoothly into the bed beside me and then disappeared below the covers. The soft roundness of his lips moved gently down my stomach until they met the area most demanding his attention. His hands were clasped around the top of my legs, his thumbs pressing at the soft, overly sensitive skin at the top of my inner thighs. I wasn’t sure whether moving around was sexually acceptable, but I’d no choice as the extreme pleasure I felt was coursing through my body, nudging every nerve-ending awake. Every time I lifted my hips from the bed he’d use his strong mouth to push me back, raising the stakes with every lick and nip.

  He was a tease, letting me believe he was going to stop, that it was all over and my release would have to wait. I’d be disappointed and then he’d start again, daring me to think my time, and I, might come.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, Cynthia,’ I could hear him mumble under the duvet cover. I thought to tell him not to speak with his mouth full, but didn’t want to distract him. I was hoping he was on the final run, the Beecher’s Brook of our physical journey – the one offering the most excitement, danger and ultimate satisfaction, if ridden properly.

  He went to work again, faster and with more determination. He put his cupped hands under my buttocks and worked furiously at me until my blood pulsed and my head filled with nothingness, just a swirl of electric anticipation.

  The explosion of physicality was like nothing I’d known before. It was then I thought I’d probably had an orgasm; my first involving someone else.

  Once he had taken me, gently at first but with increasing energy, for the third time, I felt incredibly sore in the genital region. It had been some years since I’d been ‘bothered’ by Colin and certainly not in such a forthright fashion. In fact I could only ever really remember thinking that sex seemed to cause so many problems considering how dull it could be.

  But now I could see what the fuss was about, I looked forward to every occasion with Darius. We did things I didn’t know you could do with another person, and also had a few close shaves, like on my birthday when the entire family decided to let themselves in to the house to cook me a surprise lunch, thinking I was playing golf. Darius only just fitted into the wardrobe and it was unfortunate he had to stay there quite so long.

  He said he’d never met anyone quite like me, which I took as a compliment. He added that apart from being good company, he also liked my cooking. So our relationship wasn’t just about sex.

  At first I found his attention difficult to believe. Then he told me I reminded him of a teacher he used to have – the mother of one of his school friends. The family were from north London, and while the father was working for an oil company in Lagos, she’d give English lessons to local children.

  ‘I was thirteen,’ he told me. ‘I thought she was a goddess. Once I saw her changing to use our swimming pool and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She wore this grey pencil skirt with a slit up the back and I’d look at it, wondering where it would lead. When I saw her remove it I was in heaven,’ he’d said.

  He also told me he’d had a number of girlfriends but found them wanting, each in different ways. They were either set on marriage and children or would withdraw emotionally in a passive-aggressive bid to manipulate him into following their lead.

  ‘You are like that teacher. You’re the mistress of unspoken communication and never apologise for who you are,’ he said, hugging me close. ‘You don’t need to be rescued or make cute “womanly” mistakes to make me bend to stereotypes. All I know is I don’t have to be with you long for something magical to happen.’

  My lips made a wavy line for a smile. I’d never been spoken to so gently, so warmly and with so much feeling. Perhaps true love does exist, despite age, class and culture?

  I explained the story of Mrs Robinson from The Graduate and we watched it one rainy Sunday afternoon, sitting on the sofa. He told me he completely understood the young Benjamin’s fascination with Anne Bancroft’s character, adding that she wasn’t nearly as sexy as me. He then proceeded to take my clothes off with his teeth, carefully peeling away the barrier between our bare flesh before he slowly caressed my body with his soft hands, building up my anticipation before he took me on the Persian rug, bartered for with much effort on a family holiday to Turkey.

  The following week I’d made chocolate cupcakes (I found out he had something of a sweet tooth) and he’d brought the soundtrack of The Graduate with him. He made me dance to ‘Mrs Robinson’, singing the words until he got to ‘Jesus loves you more than you will know’, substituting his own name for Jesus, and we both laughed at the line ‘put it in your pantry with your cupcakes’ – it was then I knew our relationship meant more to him than just scratching at a physical itch.

  Having said that he spent a good deal of time investigating nooks and crannies I didn’t know existed. As for the multiple orgasm – I’d spent forty years thinking it was a fantasy.

  It was a good arrangement.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I’ve often found it quite difficult to get out of the driveway without hitting one or the other side posts. I’m sure they are too close together, as they make the angle difficult when reversing.

  Colin used to say I never looked properly and drove like a ‘typical woman’. Well, in my opinion that is hardly a matter for derision as a ‘typical woman’ would read a map, ask directions if they were lost and let people through when they have accidentally got into the wrong lane, all qualities that make superior drivers if you ask me.

  I can’t be that bad. I did start an Advanced Driving course, after all. Even if I was a bit distracted throughout the one and only occasion I attended and didn’t really believe anything that dreadful woman said about using speed on bends. Anyway, my car has more dents in it than a teenager’s stock car, as well as a shaky front bumper from the incident with the next door neighbour’s raised bed. If only I hadn’t decided to go on a late night trip to the supermarket for Maltesers.

  I’d gone in search of chocolate because I always get a taste for it after drinking sherry. I’d only had a couple. Oh, yes, and the Spanish brandy, but it isn’t really brandy so doesn’t count. There was so little to look at on the television and my book had started to bore me, so the distraction of illicit and pointless calories had a certain allure. Nothing was capable of distracting me fr
om the gap Darius had left in my newly awakened life and my growing concern for him. I hadn’t heard any more about his predicament and was at a loss about how I could act without knowing exactly where he was or what I might be able to do to help.

  It was only a little accident but seemed to befuddle all those who eventually became involved. There was an awful lot of pushing and shoving by a lot of people (men) who finally decided they couldn’t use sheer will and fading testosterone to get the car to move. A neighbour called the AA to get it lifted up and off the brickwork. The damage was probably more to my ego than anybody’s property, although many people (apart from the people next door, whose cyclamens were crushed beyond recognition) were very much amused for many months.

  On hearing about the incident, Jonjo castigated me for the potential consequences of being caught drinking and driving, particularly in my position as a local magistrate. It all reminded me slightly of the incident with the skip, at which point I thought how judgemental my son had become.

  ‘It is hardly a great example to society, is it?’ he’d said, rather pompously, I thought. ‘There’s you happily taking away the licences of any hapless driver who happens to tot up twelve points for daring to drive at a decent speed on motorways so they can go about their business, and you’re endangering all and sundry just for the sake of a bag of sweets!’

  The tune of ‘Mrs Robinson’ sprang into my head and the line ‘most of all you’ve got to hide it from your kids’ seemed highly relevant, as if written just for me.

  What he didn’t know was that I was no longer allowed to sit on the bench after telling one of the unemployed defendants he should jolly well get a job and stop relying on the benefits system to pay his court fines. I’d been feeling particularly alone that day and had been reminiscing about my time with Darius and whether my messages had got through to him. The thought of never seeing him again had put me in a particularly bad mood.