“Sore?” His eyes glint with amusement. “Babe, we haven’t even started.”
“It’s not funny! It’s painful!” I stare agitatedly at my arm. It’s turned red. Why is it red? Ben moves in on me again, and I try my hardest to moan with appreciation as his lips nuzzle their way down my neck. But, truthfully, they’re moans of pain.
“Stop!” I say at last, in desperation. “Time out! I feel like I’m on fire!”
“So do I,” pants Ben.
“Really! I can’t do this! Look at me!”
At last Ben moves back and surveys me, his eyes cloudy with desire. “You look great,” he says briefly. “You look awesome.”
“No, I don’t! I’m all red.” I survey my arms with mounting alarm. “And I’m swelling up! Look!”
“These are swelling up, all right.” Ben cups one of my breasts appreciatively. Isn’t he listening?
“Ow!” I wrench his arm away. “This is serious. I think I’ve had an allergic reaction. What’s in that oil? Not peanut oil? You know I’m allergic to peanuts.”
“It’s just oil.” Ben seems evasive. “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“You must! You must have looked at the label when you bought it.” There’s a short silence. Ben looks a bit sulky, as though I’ve caught him out.
“I didn’t buy it,” he says at last. “Nico gave it to me, compliments of the hotel. It’s their signature blend or something.”
“Oh.” I can’t help feeling disappointed. “And you didn’t check? Even though you know I’m allergic?”
“I’d forgotten, OK?” Ben sounds thrown. “I can’t remember every tiny little thing!”
“I hardly think your wife’s allergy is ‘every tiny little thing’!” I say furiously, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to hit him. It was all going so brilliantly. Why did he have to slather me with evil peanut oil?
“Look, maybe if we get the right angle it won’t hurt you so much.” Ben looks around desperately and pushes aside the curtains. “Try standing on those rocks.”
“OK.” I’m as eager as he is to make this work. If we minimize actual contact … I clamber onto the rocks, trying not to flinch too much. “Ow—”
“Not like that—”
“Ouch! Stop!”
“Try the other way.…”
“If you could rotate a bit … Oof!”
“Was that your nostril?”
“This isn’t working,” I say, after slipping off the rocks for the third time. “I could try kneeling on the rocks if we had some padding.…”
“Or on the edge of the bed …”
“I’ll go on top.… No! Ow! Sorry,” I wince, “but that’s really painful.”
“Can you put your leg behind your head?”
“No, I can’t,” I say resentfully. “Can you?”
The atmosphere has totally disintegrated, as we try one acrobatic position after another. I keep gasping, and not in a good way. By now my skin is seriously inflamed. I need some soothing aqueous cream, urgently. But I also need to have sex. It’s unbearable. I want to weep with frustration.
“Come on!” I say to myself crossly. “I’ve had root-canal surgery. I can do this.”
“Root-canal surgery?” Ben sounds mortally offended. “Sex with me is like root-canal surgery?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“You’ve been avoiding sex with me all holiday,” he snarls, suddenly losing his temper. “I mean, what kind of a bloody honeymoon is this?”
This is such an unfair accusation that I recoil with shock.
“I haven’t avoided sex!” I cry. “I want it as much as you do, but I … It’s so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”
“Tantric sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.
“Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.
“Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.
“Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift. “Sorry.”
Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.
For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my cheek, then another.
