Ring Out The Old...

10

Ring Out The Old…

    “What are you doing here?” said Tom in surprise, encountering Phoebe in the midst of his sister-in-law’s horrible dee-cor.

    Phoebe had a suspicion she’d been invited to the Overdale New Year’s Eve wing-ding for Ralph’s delectation. She didn’t disclose this to Ralph’s brother, however.  “Looking desperately for the Scotch,” she replied drily.

    “Uh—seen plenty of fizz. It is quite good stuff. –No? Should be some over here,” he said, guiding her through the shouting throng of the over-dressed, upwardly mobile middle-aged to the terrifying Thing that stood in a corner. “’Tis a bar, not a Rococo rival to the mausoleum of Mausolus,” he explained kindly, edging behind it. He had to edge, it was blocked off by a giant Christmas tree smothered in blinking lights. Literally blinking, not in the sense of a bowdlerized “bloody.” Well, that, too, he recognised, as they blinked off and Phoebe recoiled, also blinking.

    “Thanks,” she said with a sigh, as he poured.

    Tom leaned on the bar, leering at her. “And what did you do for Christmas?”

    “Stayed home in blissful peace and quiet. With scrambled eggs on toast for Christmas dinner.”

    “Ooh, you poor thing!” he squeaked.

    “Yeah.”

    They grinned.

    After a moment Phoebe said, lowering her voice but not much, it wasn’t necessary because of the general decibel level: “Is it always this bad?”

    “What, Audrey’s dee-cor? Worse, usually, there aren’t usually so many people here to cover it up.”

    “Hah, hah. No: the—uh—”

    “Ambiance? Atmosphere? Setting? General aura? Immediate surroundings? Purlieus?”

    “Some of those, yeah.”

    Tom sniffed slightly. “It’s usually much, much worse. Even more pill-pushers and bone-setters gabbing about their ruddy Mercedes and BMWs and second homes on the good side of Taupo. Dunno what’s come over ’im this year, in fact.”

    “Oh,” said Phoebe, a trifle limply.

    “Tell me, what do the wives talk about, woman-to-woman?”

    “Don’t ask me, I’m not a wife.”

    Twinkling madly through his gold-rimmed specs, Tom replied: “No, but don’t they talk to you, woman-to-woman?”

    Phoebe replied heavily: “No, I just said, I’m not a woman.”

    Tom had a sniggering fit in the middle of his sister-in-law’s dee-cor.

    Meanwhile Ralph had cunningly led his little not-sister-in-law and her potter friend into his study, the excuse being that Michaela might like to see his rock collection, of which Jemima was very fond.

    “The tiger’s eye isn’t bad,” he pointed out, clinging firmly to Jemima’s arm.

    “Ye-es... I’ve got one of those... Mine’s nicer, I think,” decided Michaela.

    “Geologically or aesthetically?” sighed Ralph.

    “Aesthetically.”

    “There’s a lady out there with a dress that’s practically the same colours,” revealed Jemima. “I wish I could wear them.”

    Wincing, Ralph replied: “What a ghastly idea! Pray consider your words, little not-sister-in-law: you are speaking to a man who has consumed four brandy Alexanders and half a bottle of fizz, and intends to consume considerably more before the night is out.”

    Jemima replied simply: “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be sick tomorrow?”

    “Got it in one,” he sighed.

    Michaela choked, but added: “They’re not really your colours, Jemima. But your dress suits you.”

    “Tom chose it,” said Jemima on a dubious note. “The material, I mean.”

    “And then he sewed the material,” murmured Ralph.

    Since Jemima and Michaela both already knew that, neither of them reacted.

    “It’s a bit bright,” Jemima added dubiously.

    Ralph put a serious, critical expression on his face and looked at it narrowly. A glowing orange sarong, scattered with white-edged flowers and leaves in blue, yellow and green. The two corners of the material tied jauntily on one shoulder admittedly kept it up, but did nothing to disguise that what was under it was all Jemima.

    “No, it’s definitely not too bright. –On second thoughts, isn’t it just draped?”

    “No, there’s lots of sewing in it, it was a Vogue pattern. He got awfully cross with it.”

    Ralph was more than close enough to look down the bodice. So he looked down the bodice, stiff as a ramrod, and said hoarsely: “Oh, one of those engineering jobs, was it?” He was aware that this wasn’t too brilliant but at the moment, what with the brandy Alexanders, the champagne and the pair of ’em in the bodice, he didn’t feel exactly at his intellectual peak. …Ooh, Jemima Puddle-Duck and him, alone on a desert island with her in her sarong! Ooh-er. Well, them and a big soft rug and a chillybin of chilled Dom Pérignon, one mustn’t forget the necessities of life...

    “What?” he said, jumping slightly.

    Jemima wondered if they could use the pool. As it wasn’t yet the witching hour and the assembled would-be swingers hadn’t yet drunk enough to be pissed out of their tiny minds, hardly anyone was in it. Ralph agreed they could, assured Michaela nicely they could lend her some togs and, as Jemima knew the house, left them to it. He didn’t then go out to the pool: there was only so much the human psyche, not to say the libido, could take. Instead he went back into the family-room and poured himself a very large Cognac.

    Since Ralph had ordered her to bring her togs, Phoebe had brought them. Not the severe black competition ones she wore at school pour encourager les gels. Nor yet the smart brown affair with the yellow slash across it that she usually wore to the beach. No, her holiday togs.

    “By God, that’s a sight for sore eyes!” said Ralph fervently.

    “And your eyes aren’t even sore. I’ve had this thing for years.”

    “‘Thing’?” said Ralph faintly.

    It was an emerald-green bikini. Somewhat old-fashioned in cut, true. But then there wasn’t that much of it to have any cut.

    “I got it in Hawaii, ages ago.”

    “I can believe the Hawaii bit.”

    “Only as it turned out, I was invited to a private beach. So I didn’t get that much wear out of it,” continued Phoebe smoothly.

    “Look, for Chrissakes let’s get into the water before I burst out of me sharkskin!” replied Ralph hoarsely.

    Phoebe involuntarily glanced down, saw he wasn’t exaggerating, and replied mildly: “Go on, then.”

    “By God, I’d like to!” Not waiting for a response, he jumped into his big outdoor pool. –Not heated, at this time of year.

    Phoebe dived in neatly beside him.

    They were in a most convenient patch of shade below one of Audrey’s Monsteras. They gave the pool, or such was her claim, a tropical look. Undoubtedly more than one of the things would suffer grievous bodily harm before the night was o’er, but as this happened every time they had a drunken pool party—certainly every New Year’s Eve—she would presumably merely order Ralph to have it replaced. He never raised any objections to doing so: they helped shade the pool, and if one managed things strategically, like now—

     Ralph put his hand in an interesting place.

    “Cut that out!” choked Phoebe.

    “Why?”

    “Look, Ralph— Don’t do that!” she hissed, going very red.

    In order to lend verisimilitude, Ralph splashed a bit with his other hand but as this patch of shade, tropical plants an’ all, was really most convenient, and as it was pretty dark out on the patio anyway, and as he didn’t make the mistake of lighting the pool up like bloody Versailles, probably no-one would have noticed if he hadn’t bothered. Besides, most of them were inside, dancing drunkenly or just drinking drunkenly, and waiting for The Bells. There was a bunch of people down at the other end of the pool but they were shrieking and splashing and tearing one another’s bathing-suits off.

    “Come on,” he muttered, probing a bit. Suddenly his finger slid in, and Phoebe gasped.

    “Ye-es,” purred Ralph, though he was damned nearly coming himself. “Why in God’s name are you wasting your talents on that Weintraub tit?” he asked conversationally.

    Choking, Phoebe croaked: “How the Christ do you know about him?”

    “My spies are everywhere,” he murmured.

    They began to sink; Phoebe grabbed the rail. “Look, Ralph—”

    “You said that. Do I need to reply ‘Why bother with hypocrisies, at our ages?’”

    She swallowed.

    “I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he murmured, smiling.

    “You know damn well I do! But here? What about your wife?”

    “Flat on her back snoring a good forty-five minutes ago. Does it every bloody New Year’s Eve: drinks like a flaming camel that’s just crossed the Sahara on a salt-lick and a Fruju,”—Phoebe choked—“and passes out like a light. Hasn’t seen a New Year in for the last fifteen years, to my certain knowledge.”

    “Whereas you’ve seen a good few.”

    “Mm. Come on, woman, for God’s sake!” He hauled his sharkskin down.

    “What about our reputations, Iago?”

    “I’m not that bloody dim. This lot’s very carefully chosen: they’re all gonna be so busy worrying about their own tomorrow that they’re not gonna even give ours a passing glance. Either that or they won’t remember a thing. And in case you were wondering”—he grabbed her free hand—“I fully intend this to be a free introductory session!” Grinning evilly, he put it on him.

    Phoebe bit her lip, feeling herself flood on his finger. She rubbed him a bit. “There’s a bit more there than I’d expected.”

    Ralph’s hefty chest rose and fell. It was a reasonably hairy chest, though not as hairy as Nat’s; and he also had a considerable expanse of tum, though it wasn’t as expansive as Nat’s. And it was a good deal firmer, must be the golf and the skiing, decided Phoebe, running her hand over it. That down there, however, was about the same, actually. More or less as she liked them, in fact, she decided, grasping it much more strongly this time.

    “Come here,” he said thickly. She looked up at him rather dubiously.

    “Yeah, all right: this is bloody silly,” Ralph agreed.

    “Just so long as we both admit it!”

    “Too right,” he said vaguely. He put his mouth on hers.

    Phoebe knew a fair bit about tongues, one way and another, but this was a very nice tongue indeed: at one moment soft and squashy, filling your mouth so that you could hardly breathe and your ears went red, and at the next moment stiff and pointed, teasing a little, so you teased back a little and felt hot and excited but perhaps not just so urgent—

    Ralph squashed his body to hers. He jiggled his finger in there where she was hot and wet as Hell. She gave a little grunt; he said in her ear: “Next time I’ll bloody drink you: my God, you’ve got a lot going to waste down there, haven’t you?”

    “I’m always like that!” she said breathlessly.

    “For God’s sake do me, I’m crazy for a come,” he muttered.

    Smiling a little, Phoebe began to oblige...

    Suddenly her legs twined round his hips and she was moving urgently on his hand, moaning and grunting. Ralph was conscious of a fleeting prayer that she wasn’t gonna let out a yell that’d wake the dead, she had screamer written all over her. “Yes!” he panted. “Come on, Phoebe!”

    She gave a muffled shriek through her teeth, and clenched— Oh, God! Ralph let go and burst asunder gloriously, oh, Christ!

    … “Hell’s teeth, what are you like when you really let yourself go?” he said very faintly into her shoulder.

    “Very loud,” she murmured. “What about you?”

    “Ooh! –No, don’t let go, I like it. Uh—I don’t confine meself to a few muffled grunts, either.” He smiled and fondled a breast. “Wanna do it properly next time?”

    “Yes. Only isn’t it pretty bloody stupid, considering?”

    “Undoubtedly.”

    “One would have to be very discreet.” She touched his balls gently.

    “Absolutely. –Are you enjoying that?”

    “Yes.”

    “Good. May I come round and see you?”

    “Mm; don’t park that dratted car of yours outside the flat, though, will you?”

    “Not that dumb!”

    She smiled. “No, I didn’t think you were, really.”

    Ralph sighed. After a moment he said in her ear: “What about that bloody Yank you picked up down at Ruapehu?”

    “What about him?”

    “Well, wasn’t he making noises at one stage about settling out here?”

    Heavily Phoebe replied: “Quite possibly. But as I’m not privy to the secret processes of his clean-cut American mind, I can’t give you the good gen. Sorry.”

    Ralph detected a certain acid note. He was far too clever to remark on it, however. He merely smiled over her shoulder and said lightly: “Just so long as we don’t bump into each other on the doorstep, Petal.”

    “You won’t get as far as the bloody doorstep if you call me that, Twinkletoes!” returned Phoebe in horror.

    “Tha did ought to hear me dae’t in wa fake Geordie accent, Petal,” he returned in his horrible fake Geordie accent.

    “I thought that was ‘Pet’?” replied Phoebe faintly.

    “Na tha talking, wa Pet!”

    In the softly bubbling spa pool Pammy Blaney slapped Hugh’s hand sharply.

    “Ow! What the Hell were you leading me on for if you didn’t want me to—”

    “I was not! Good heavens, Hugh, I’m a respectable married woman! And we’ve all known each other for years, what are you thinking of?”

    “A bit of the other,” replied Hugh grumpily. He didn’t fail to note that Pammy was averting her eyes from that portion of his anatomy which was indicating his words were no mere form. So probably she really didn’t want it. Or him. In fact possibly she didn’t really like it: which would certainly explain certain sour hints of James’s...

    “Well, all right, Pammy, I won’t insist. And I won’t suggest a foursome, because Caroline doesn’t even do twosomes,” he added acidly. “But just be thankful it’s me, that’s all, and not someone that might bloody well insist once you’ve got him this bloody excited!”

    He stood up in the spa pool, thus affording Pammy an even better view, had she cared to look, of how bloody excited he’d got. “And in case no-one’s mentioned it before,” he added nastily: “not only are you putting your stupid self at risk of being raped, you’re also what’s commonly defined as a cock-teaser. Not to say a frigid bitch!”

    He scrambled out and walked away before the empurpled Pammy could respond.

    She sat there pouting for a few minutes. Then she got out and retired to the changing cubicle, where she towelled briskly, still pouting, and reclad herself. Men were horrible, that was all! And fancy saying that about his own wife!

    Then she went into the living-room. There was stacks of food left on the buffet, so she got herself a plate of pâté, ham, and Brie with French bread and a couple of tiny cherry tomatoes, and retired with them to a sofa. On the far side of the room she could see James dancing with a skinny girl who from time to time emitted a very high-pitched giggle. Pammy ignored this pantomime. She knew perfectly well that James wouldn’t do anything silly. Whatever that beast Hugh Morton might be like, James certainly wasn’t like that! ...And poor Caroline, how awful to have a husband like that!

    Pammy ate supper smugly. It never for a moment so much as crossed her mind that some people might well have defined her own recent behaviour as awful, too.

    “Happy New Year, darling,” said Tom softly, raising his glass and looking into Jemima’s eyes.

    “Happy New Year, Tom,” she agreed, raising her glass.

    There was a short silence.

    Tom said with an effort: “Now you’re supposed to drink it.”

    “What? Oh!” Jemima drank her champagne.

    “This is possibly the most boring New Year’s Eve party—saving your presence—I have ever attended,” he noted. “Not even the facts that the hostess passed out about two hours since and the host’s mercifully disappeared have managed to save it.”

    “Well, no!” she agreed, twinkling.

    “The grog’s good,” conceded Tom glumly.

    “Mm. Where is Ralph, anyway?”

    Tom shrugged. “Last seen doing Phoebe in the outside pool.”

    “Help, was he?” said Jemima, eyes very round.

    Tom wasn’t too sure if this reaction was provoked by Ralph’s temerity in doing Phoebe in his own pool with his own wife passed out on their own bed not ten yards away, anybody’s temerity in doing Phoebe Fothergill at all, the thought of two adults doing it in the pool, the thought of two adults doing it in the pool whilst surrounded by gambolling drunken other adults not a few of whom were doing it, working themselves up to it, or, in the majority of cases, fingering forbidden fruit without getting up the nerve to do it, or what. It could well have been or what, come to think of it: Jemima Puddle-Duck had recently within his hearing described Ralph to her friend Pauline Nilsson as “Quite old. Well over fifty.”

    “Mm. We could dance, once that lot’s finished crowing on their dunghills.”

    Jemima replied dubiously: “It’s supposed to be Auld Lang Syne.”

    “Oh, is it?” returned the Early Music Society’s leading counter-tenor innocently.

    “Mm. –Do you think I could learn to play the guitar?”

    “No.”

    “Why not?”

    “Setting aside the fact that you can’t read music? Hands too delicate, nails much too soft and delicate.”

    “Maybe they’d toughen up. Or maybe I could learn the recorder, instead.”

    Tom took a deep breath. “Which gallant, self-sacrificing friend from the E.M.S. has offered to teach you, if isn’t too much to ask?”

    “Well, Joe said he’d teach me the guitar. Andrew and Rewi both said they could teach me the recorder, and Rewi said that’s how lots of kids learn to read music.”

    Jesus! He was gonna have to build a fence round her! God knew half the so-called males at the E.M.S. weren’t, but Joe—if a hundred and two—and Rewi (twenty-three if he was a day) and Andrew (thirty-fiveish, married, and Old Enough to Know Better) certainly were.

    “I thought it could be my New Year’s Resolution: to learn a new skill,” said Jemima sadly.

    “I could teach you to read music. Or are you scared of the complete T.M. Overdale takeover?” said Tom in a much louder voice than he’d intended.

    “Um—well, sometimes I do feel a bit smothered,” admitted Jemima. “You’re so good at everything. But you did know I was hopeless when you took me on.”

    Tom looked at her limply. “I thought it was working out fine.”

    “Not really. You’re too good at things, and—and I can’t live up to it. And I don’t want to live up to it! I wouldn’t mind living in a house like John and Darryl’s, really.”

    “A dump,” replied Tom sourly.

    “Yes, but that’s the point. Or like Alec’s: it was lovely down at Ngaruawahia,” said Jemima with a sigh.

    It had actually dawned—he was demonstrably thick, but not that thick—that Jemima had been more relaxed during their stay at old Alec’s than she had been since she’d moved in with him. Tim gnawed on his lip. “Yep.”

    “I know you can’t help it, Tom: I mean, it’s your nature to be busy and fix things up, and—and make things nice. I know you can’t fundamentally change. But I don't think I can, either.”

    Tom now felt very sick. “Do you want to break it off?” he croaked.

    “I don’t think so,” replied Jemima honestly. “I just want you to, um, slow down a bit. If you can. Sometimes it’d be nice just to do nothing. In the evenings, for instance. I mean, instead of holding screws or thingies for you while you do stuff, it’d be nice if we could just sit down and—and read, maybe. Or listen to some nice music.”

    “Right,” he said, swallowing. “Slow down, eh? –This’ll be what Bill was hinting at, at one point,” he realised, making a face.

    “Was he? He does know you very well.”

    “Mm. Um, yeah, I’ll try to slow down. Um, well, work on the house, say, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and— What?”

     “No! You don’t understand, Tom! You make everything too—too structured!”

    “Uh—oh. I’ll take that fucking timetable off the fridge then, shall I?”

    “No, I mean, yes, it’s last year’s now, isn’t it? Um, no, it helps to be able to see if it’s a day you’ve got to stay late at school for Detention or something, and, um, which days I’ve got lectures or tutorials.”

     Well, quite! He goggled at her. “So?”

    “Just—just try not to timetable us,” said Jemima in a small voice.

    Tom licked his lips nervously. He removed his specs and polished them nervously. “I think I geddit.”

    “Mm. –I’m sorry.”

    “No, don’t be: we’d better start off by being honest.”

    “Mm.”

    “Okay, I’ll try to take it easier. But look, don’t just follow my lead, for Chrissakes! If you don’t want to hold screws or some such, say so! Or if you’d rather have a quiet evening, tell me! I can’t read your mind, you know!”

    “No. Okay, that sounds reasonable.”

    Reasonable. Yeah.

    “I think,” said Jemima slowly, “that the recorder would be best. I could have my lesson after an afternoon lecture, and then come home on the bus.”

    “I could drive in and fetch—”

    “No, I don't think that’d work.”

    “All right, I’m trying to take you over again!” he cried angrily.

    “It was you that used the expression. But I think you are, really. But I like the bus, I can look out the window or just think, or read. It’s restful.”

    Gee, and being with him wasn’t. Thanks, he got that!

    “I tell you what: if it looks like rain I’ll ring you up before I leave and you could meet me at the bus stop!” she said, suddenly beaming at him.

    For Chrissakes, he could meet her at the bus stop anyway, it was a Helluva walk to Waikaukau Junction from the main roa— Oh.

    “Uh—yes: the gentle art of compromise, eh?” he said limply. “Right. Good plan.”

    “Good!” she beamed. “Um, it is partly my older-male-authority-figure hang-up, I’m afraid.”

    Tom’s ears rang. Yes, literally. Finally he managed to say: “The takeover thing, you mean?”

    “Mm. I am fighting against it.”

    “Yeah. I’ll drop one or two years or fifteen, shall I? Or would it help if I went the other way entirely and wore a skirt and an earring?” he simpered.

    “No,” said Jemima with a little smile. “It’d probably help if you suddenly became as inept as me—only I know that’s too much to hope for!”

    “Yeah,” acknowledged Tom weakly. “It probably is.”

    “I love you in spite of your perfection!” decided Jemima, suddenly hugging him right in the middle of the strain’s of Ralph’s irreplaceable first edition of Pretty Woman.

    “Great! Let’s go home and celebrate the fact!” he said immediately.

    “Righto.”

    Tom swallowed. He refrained from asking her if she was sure, or if she really wanted to, or if she thought he was sober enough to drive, or— In short, he refrained. He simply took her hand, and they went.

    In the living-room a small pack of drunks was giggling and swaying out of step to some loud music. A lot of other drunks were collapsed on chairs and sofas. Some of them were snoring but a few of them were groping: Michaela hadn’t actually seen that sort of thing since the parties of her Art School days and she looked at these very old gropers in a sort of dazed distaste.

    Her host swayed up to her. He was very drunk, you could see this not only because of the swaying but also because of what he was wearing: a pair of black trousers held up with white braces, bare feet, and a lot of pink paper streamers. And a very, very small pointed shiny paper hat. Red and green, it clashed hideously with the streamers.

    He blew a small yellow plastic trumpet in her face and said: “Wanna fuck?”

    “No,” said Michaela.

    Ralph winked very carefully. “Thash goob, becosh I coul’n’t, shee?” Giggling loudly, he swayed away.

    Michaela had come with Tom and Jemima, squashed into the passenger’s seat of the M.G. with Jemima, the seat-belt done up very tightly across the two of them. She’d had to put her arm along the back of the seats before they could both fit into the seat-belt. Now she couldn’t see them anywhere: had they gone? Or maybe they’d gone to bed, Ralph and Audrey had said they could all stay the night. Only Audrey hadn’t told her which bedroom she could have...

    The study, she knew already, was occupied by two couples. One couple on the buttoned leather sofa, the other on the big Chinese rug. So she couldn’t go in there and have another look at the rock collection. Well, she could, she didn’t think the two couples would notice her, only…  Michaela collected a hunk of Brie from the buffet and wandered away.

    There were a few people out by the big pool: not nearly as many as before, so probably some had gone home. Most of them were asleep on the long chairs. Polly had some of those; Michaela had forgotten what you called them. In the pool a man was asleep on a floating li-lo. Would he fall off during the night—well, the morning—and drown? Michaela looked at him dubiously and decided that it was a big li-lo and he seemed to be lying quite still on his back, so he’d probably be okay. He didn’t have any clothes on and he looked very silly, because the white bit of skin where he would usually wear his togs sort of glimmered in the dim light of the patio.

    She wandered along the poolside, looking for an empty chair. The only one that didn’t have bodies or clothes on it contained puddles of red wine in the depressions of its buttoned green and white striped upholstery, and a pair of very wet socks. A group of three people was sitting by the edge of the pool on cushions, smoking. Two men, but one had a dress on, and one lady who had a man’s waistcoat on over her panties, suspender belt and blue stockings. They all wore silly paper hats and streamers. Michaela knew it was pot they were smoking by the smell, loads of people at Art School had smoked it. One of the men, not the one in the dress, the other one, had grey hair with a bald spot. The other man and the lady were about the same age, she could now see. The lady was giggling like anything. Michaela wandered away.

    The little place that held the spa-pool was deserted. She looked dubiously at the bubbling water. Weren’t those things supposed to be filtered or something? After all those bodies—but the water looked clean... She’d long since got out of the borrowed togs she’d used for the big pool and back into her faded jeans and tee-shirt. She hesitated. She wasn’t in the least afraid of being assaulted in the spa pool if she got in it naked, for a start none of Ralph’s middle-aged friends looked capable of it, for a second they were too drunk to be capable of it, and for a third she could have thrown any two of them simultaneously right across the little... pavilion, or whatever it was. And she certainly wasn’t in the least shy about taking her clothes off. The only question was, how filthy was the water? Michaela squatted, and peered. It did look all right. And there was nothing floating in it. So she stood up, removed her garments, laid them carefully on a nearby chair, and got in.

    Some people seemed to manage to get pissed quite successfully without a partner in crime egging them on, but Hugh wasn’t one of them. He’d felt quite merry at one stage—round about just before Pammy had given him the chop—but it had long since worn off. He’d since had a swim, a couple of dances with very tiddled ladies who he knew from long experience were even less likely to let him do anything than Pammy, another swim, a shower after the swim, a second supper and a bit more champagne. He’d also had a doze in the dining-room, but had been interrupted by a noisy party of half-a-dozen who’d decided that the room was ideal for leap-frog. The leap-froggers had gone home and the living-room was now occupied only by three snoring bodies. There were two more snoring bodies out by the pool and one in it on a li-lo, and that seemed to be it.

    Thanks to his doze, not to say to some black coffee he’d ingested at some stage thereafter, Hugh wasn’t at all tired. He was, however, rather hungry and rather disgruntled. He didn’t feel like going home; on the other hand, he didn’t feel much like staying. So he got himself a large plate of food and wandered off to the spa pool: if there was nobody there he’d get in it and eat his late supper; if there was... Maybe he’d go home, take the food with him.

    The wide-shouldered female form in the pool had a skin like a pink pearl. Hugh goggled; the more so since the ladies of Ralph’s and Audrey’s circle—and, indeed, his own—favoured the “expensively kippered within a micro-millimetre of the bikini-line” look. Pammy Blaney was definitely an exception. So was her figure. So was this lady’s figure.

    “Hullo,” he said hoarsely.

    The female form turned her head. “Oh, hullo, Hugh,” she said without interest.

    Hugh swallowed. “Are you drunk?” he croaked inanely.

    “No; are you?” replied Michaela simply.

    “No,” he said glumly. “I don’t seem to manage it too well, these days.”

    “I don’t like getting drunk,” she agreed.

    “No. Um—do you mind if I share the pool?”

    “No, that’s okay.”

    Hugh laid his plate down carefully and unbuttoned his shirt. His hands went to his belt. He hesitated. “I haven’t got any bathing-togs with me,” he said in a strangled voice.

    “Nor have I,” replied Michaela composedly.

    Hugh rather thought that to say any more would make him look the world’s greatest clot. He undressed silently. He was half-stiff and he didn’t know whether what he wanted was for her to notice it or for her not to notice it. In any case she didn’t bother to look at him. On the other hand it would not have been true to say that she was deliberately not looking, either: she was just sitting there as she had been when he’d arrived, splashing a bit.

    He got into the spa and sat down facing her, excruciatingly aware that he was now pointing right at her. She still didn’t react in any way whatsoever. No modest blushes, no avoidance of his glance; and no bold looks, no meaning looks... Total indifference just about summed it up, in fact. This should have had a salutary effect but perversely he was stiffer than ever. God, that skin! And she had fabulous tits, much fuller and firmer than Pammy’s... You couldn’t see the bush very well, what with the bubbles and the way she was sitting, but he’d have taken his oath it was about three shades darker than the deep auburn thatch. And how dare those upper-arms that heaved huge pots around with careless ease look so pale, and rounded, and soft and beckoning in repose? Hugh swallowed.

    “Here,” he said, reaching for the plate: “Are you hungry?”

    Michaela eyed the food greedily. “I wouldn’t mind that bit of chicken.”

    “Tuck in,” said Hugh.

    He held the plate while Michaela ate most of his late, late supper. He couldn’t have said what he ate himself.

    Finally she said with a sigh: “That was good.”

    “Mm.” He grabbed a towel that someone had discarded near the pool and scrubbed his hands. “Here.”

    Michaela scrubbed hers obediently.

    “Didn’t you have any dinner?” he said idly.

    “No. Or lunch. Tom told me there’d be a great spread.”

    “Mm.”

    There was a short silence.

    “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said, moving her legs in the bubbling water.

    “Yes,” croaked Hugh.

    Michaela smiled at him. Hugh went very red.

    “Polly’s got one of these pools,” she said. “We went in it once.”

    “Did you?”

    “Yes. Have you got one?”

    “Yeah. I don’t use it much.”

    “What a waste,” she said, beaming at him. “I’d be in it all the time, if I had one!”

    “I’d be in it all the time, if I had you in mine, too,” he agreed glumly.

    Michaela’s wide brow furrowed.

    “I’m sorry,” said Hugh feebly. “But, Christ, it must be pretty obvious that you’ve turned me on!”

    “I thought it was the grog.”

    “That tends to have the opposite effect,” he replied drily.

    “Only if you drink too much.”

    Hugh sighed heavily. “You’re not as bloody naïve as you like people to think, are you?”

    She frowned again. “I think I am, probably. But I’m not dumb. And I’m not inexperienced.”

    “No,” he said, grimacing. Bob Butler had let out quite a lot, over the past few months, on the subject of “The Pig.” Hugh liked Bob very much but he didn’t kid himself that Bob liked him much: it was more that he was marginally more compatible than the extremely callow Dickon Fothergill.

    Michaela looked him up and down. Hugh’s heart raced frantically. He found his fists had clenched. “You’ve got a nice body,” she said.

    “Thank you,” he croaked. “So have you—wonderful, I never dreamed—” He swallowed. “I’ve never seen anything like your skin, it’s the most beautiful— Jesus, if I say it’s like a pink pearl, will I sound the world’s greatest tit?”

    “No; that’s what Tom said, too.”

     After a minute Hugh said in a very tight voice: “What?”

    Michaela flushed a little. “That came out wrong; I’m a clot with words, you know that, Hugh.”

    “What other interpretation is there, for God’s sake?” he croaked.

    “Um—well, I had my togs on.” She stopped.

    “Good,” he said faintly.

    “So he was only looking at—um, my legs, really.”

    “Your thighs,” he corrected, unable to stop himself gawping at the wide expanses of them.

    “Um—yes. I suppose. And he said that my skin was the same colour as Polly’s little girl’s. It must be because we’ve both got red hair. And then he said that; you know, that it was like a pink pearl.”

    “Where was Jemima at this precise moment?” asked Hugh acidly before he could stop himself.

    “Getting changed.”

    “Oh, really?” said Hugh in a very high voice before he could stop himself.

    “He probably wouldn’t have said it if she’d been there,” agreed Michaela tranquilly. “Men don’t, do they?”

     Hugh’s mouth tightened. “Oh, your experience stretches that far, does it?”

    “You can’t help noticing,” she murmured.

    “Jesus,” he muttered, passing his hand over his face.

    Michaela didn’t say anything.

    Hugh licked his lips nervously, glaring at the side of the pool.

    After some time she offered dubiously: “I thought it was Jemima you were keen on,”

    “I— Well, I do find her attractive, yeah.” Michaela didn’t reply; Hugh glanced at her and glanced quickly away again. “It’s what the two of them have got that I—that I wish I had. Not her specifically, so much. Well, I wouldn’t say ‘no’ if she was offered to me on a plate, I have to admit!” He gave an uneasy and unamused laugh.

    “No; she’s very sweet,” she murmured.

    “And they’re very young: don’t say it!”

    “He’s not that young: he’s older than me. But they are just starting out: that’s what you mean, isn’t it?” she said, looking into his face.

    “Yeah.”

    “You must have had that, once,” she said thoughtfully.

    Sneering, Hugh replied: “‘Once upon a time.’ No, actually, I didn’t.”

    Michaela frowned. “But you’ve got kids, and everything.”

    “This proves it had to be true love, does it?”

    “No. Only I thought a man couldn’t do it unless he was attracted to the woman.”

    Hugh’s mouth opened slightly. Finally he managed to say: “Physically attracted, yeah. Caroline wasn’t such a bitch in those days, you know. –And not nearly so damned skinny,” he added, grimacing.

    She was focussing on him with that steady gaze. Hugh began to wish he was dead, but at the same time his blood pounded and he knew that if she’d move those terrific pale thighs just a fraction he’d be in there like a ferret up a—

    “I can’t understand why you’d want to marry someone you didn’t love. But then I’m hopeless at understanding why people do things.”

    He shrugged. “Ambition. Greed. A craving for professional and social success. Some of those.”

    “Mm.”

    “You note I don’t even say ‘simple lust’. Because in spite of the kids there was never really very much of that. But when there’s a woman in your bed that the law says you can do whenever you’ve a mind to, ninety-nine point-nine-repeating percent of us chemically-driven males do tend to, you know!”

    “Don’t,” murmured Michaela.

    Hugh found his fists had clenched again. “Can I kiss you?” he croaked.

    “All right.”

    He bobbed over to her and put his hands gently on the solid shoulders. She looked at him uncertainly but he was too far gone—though he was aware he was too far gone—to care whether she really wanted the kiss or not. He put his mouth on her wide, soft one and probed very gently.

    Hugh’s mouth tasted of garlic from the pâté he’d just eaten. Michaela wasn’t sure... She responded hesitantly, thinking that it was really the grog, he couldn’t really fancy her, because he hadn’t given the slightest sign of it all these months, not even when he’d fallen in the creek and she’d helped him off with his clothes. And she knew he did fancy Jemima.

    He put his hand on her right breast and squeezed it. No-one had done that to Michaela for a long time and it felt rather odd. She looked uncertainly into his eyes.

    Hugh stopped kissing her. He steadied himself on the ledge beside her, then put his free hand under her wide chin. “Don’t you like it?”

    “I’m not sure.”

    “Oh.”

    “I haven’t thought about sex for ages,” she explained.

    “And specifically, never about sex with me?” said Hugh with a wry twist of the lips.

    “Well... You have got a nice body.”

    That was the second time she’d said that. The world’s greatest clot replied slowly: “Did you want it, that time I fell in the bloody creek?”

    “Yes.”

    He grimaced. “I was so bloody cold, I thought it was gonna fall off. I’ve never been so cold in my life: I couldn’t have got it up to save me soul!”

    “No,” said Michaela seriously: “it was a terribly cold day, wasn’t it?”

    “Mm. And—and since then, though: you haven’t—er—thought about sex? Or me?”

    “I’ve thought about your body a bit. But not really about sex, I’ve got out of the habit of it.”

    “I see.” He put his lips on hers again.

    “Better?” he said, after a few moments during which his senses whirled and his blood raced and the erection, which what with one thing and another had gone a bit soft, reached to the height and heat of your average towering inferno.

    Michaela was panting a little. “Yes! You’re a good kisser, Hugh!”

    As she said his name he was swept by a shattering wave of lust; he grabbed her hand and put it on him and then just fell against the broad expanses of her, gasping: “Hold me tight!”

    Michaela held him tight against her with one arm; with the other she held his member tight. Hugh nibbled her neck. He got his hand down and pushed urgently at her thighs. “Please!” he muttered into her shoulder.

    Michaela said in a low voice: “Don’t do anything silly.”

    “No,” he promised shakily. “I just want to touch you.”

    Her thighs parted: he touched the bush.

     Michaela shuddered and clutched him to her. Hugh kissed her urgently, stroking gently, up and down the insides of the silky thighs, just touching the bush lightly in passing... He was aware that the thighs were right apart and she’d drawn her knees up a little, tilting the wide hips for him. The urge to get in there was almost overpowering. Trembling slightly, he probed with his finger, then— Michaela groaned, and pulled him strongly to her with her left arm; the other hand tightened on him and rubbed urgently—

    Gasping, he pushed her hand away from him.

    “What’s the matter?” she said dazedly.

    Hugh gave a shaken laugh. “I’m just about coming—it’s too good, that’s all!”

    “Oh. Don’t you want to?”

    Grimacing, he said: “I’d prefer to do it in you.”

    “I’d get pregnant,” she replied seriously.

    Hugh swallowed. “There are ways of preventing that.” Michaela looked doubtful. “Look, Michaela, come home with me,” he said urgently. “I’m only ten minutes away in the car, we’d have the house to ourselves, the family’s down at Taupo—” He broke off, heart pounding furiously. “Please,” he croaked, not looking at her.

    There was a short pause. “Have you got some condoms at home?” the deep serious voice said.

    Hugh didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, at this, but he felt perilously near to both. “Yes. Will you come?”

    “What about your neighbours?”

    “What? Oh. I see what you mean... Well,” he said, now feeling more than slightly hysterical: “we could wait until dead of night this evening, then I could creep out and drive you home.”

    “That might be sensible.”

    He passed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Well, one lot’s away, but—yeah.”

    “All right,” said Michaela simply, standing up.

    Hugh just sat there for a moment and gazed up at her, worshipping. It was deep auburn, all right! And from this angle the tits were nothing short of miraculous.

    Michaela got out. “Come on,” she said.

    Hugh swallowed. He hauled himself out.

    “Help,” said Michaela faintly, about ten minutes later.

    “I can’t help you, I’m drowning, too,” he replied drily.

    “She really likes blue, doesn’t she?”

    “Mm. Also functionless trellises and walls of industrial glass tiles,” he agreed drily as Michaela stared open-mouthed at Caroline’s décor. It was much more fashionable and up-market than Audrey Overdale’s, but in its way, just as horrible.

    “Come into my room, she keeps out of it.” He led her through the maze of pastel armchairs with seats that were too shallow or too deep, arms that were far too low, and backs that were too low or too sloping or both, into the pale lilac horrors of the passage, up the tubular steel apple-green staircase, and into his own room.

    “Are you sure she won’t notice anything?” said Michaela, blushing.

    “No, I told you: she never comes in here.”—Michaela looked doubtful.—”Note the absence of industrial glass tiling, not to mention blue!” he urged.

    “Yes. It’s a nice room.”

    “I like it. I spend most of my evenings in here. And before you ask, absolutely all of my nights.”

    She looked at the double bed with its fitted cover of oatmeal wool. “Oh.”

    “Caroline’s own room features much pale blue satin with mirrors and chrome—I’ll show you, if you like.”

    “No, thanks.”

    Hugh smiled. He went over to the bed and switched the bedside lamp on. Then he returned to the door and switched the main light off.

    Michaela was looking at him. Smiling a little, he shed his garments. “Come on, Pink Pearl, let me undress you,” he suggested, twinkling.

    “Where are the condoms?” she replied.

    “You don’t trust me, do you?” Hugh discovered in astonishment.

    “No. I don’t trust anybody, much. Well, Bob and June, of course. –It’s nothing personal.”

    It felt bloody personal from where he was standing! From where they were standing. He looked down at it sadly and hoped all this mistrust wouldn’t chase it away, but it didn’t seem to have done so as yet. “They’re in my bathroom. Don’t get undressed, I want to do it,” he said. He went into the bathroom very quickly, so as not to see her reaction and get really discouraged.

    When he came back she was still standing there obediently. Hugh came up to her, smiling, but aware that he was trembling slightly. “Here.”

    “Good.” She watched as he set the packet on the bedside table.

    He straightened and turned slowly. “Touch me,” he said, coming up to her.

     Michaela touched him gently. Hugh closed his eyes and pressed his hand hard on top of hers. “God!” he said after a moment, or maybe an eternity.

    “Are you going to take my clothes off now?”

    “Yes,” he said weakly. “I am.” He kissed her lips softly, slid his hands under the tee-shirt, and hauled it off. Michaela fastened her mouth to his and kissed him greedily. Breathing very heavily through his nose, Hugh undid her jeans and pushed them down a little. He got closer. “Let go,” he murmured, and pressed his genitals to her wide, firm belly. “This is very nearly Paradise,” he said into her neck.

    “Yes,” replied Michaela, holding his back tightly with both hands. “It’s nice.”

    He kissed her very eagerly: she responded just as eagerly. Then, wondering for a second how much The Pig had actually taught her, he grabbed jeans and panties, and pulled. He eased them to her ankles. Then he knelt. Leaning his cheek against the bush he said in a voice that he didn’t recognise: “Shall I? Do you like this?”

    “Um—I think so.”

    Hugh gulped. “Didn’t that bloke of yours do it much?”

    “No.” She hesitated, then said in a small, shy voice: “Only if I’d been good.”

    Hugh’s ears rang. “What?” he said faintly, looking up at her in utter incredulity.

    Very red, Michaela said: “He said I liked it too much. So he only used to do it for a reward.”

    “By God!” he choked. When he thought of bloody Caroline all those years: leading him all round the houses and back—not just your ordinary headaches, oh, no: migraines, backaches, he hadn’t shaved closely enough, he was too rough last time, he’d been eating garlic again, he’d been drinking, she’d just set her hair, she’d just creamed her face— He’d only got to do anything as a reward, when you came right down to it! And here was poor Michaela, who actually wanted it, at the mercy of this—this Pig, he couldn’t have been better named if the Butlers had actually known the sordid details— Christ Almighty!

    He didn’t dare to ask her what she’d had to do to get the reward. He stroked the thighs gently and said: “I’ll do it whenever you want me to, Michaela. And it isn’t possible to like it too much, don’t worry about that.”

    “Um—thank you,” she said uncertainly.

    “Just put your legs apart a bit.”

    “Oh—yes.”

    Hugh applied his tongue. She gave a great yell and grabbed his shoulders. “Oh, Hugh! Oh, Hugh!” she gasped.

    He did it for as long as he could, then stood up, held her very tight, and said in her ear: “That was lovely. Listen, Michaela, let me just—just touch you with my tip, will you? I promise I won’t try to—to get in there.”

    “All right,” she said dubiously.

    Trembling, Hugh guided his member to her. “Jesus!” he gasped into her neck. “Oh God, oh, God,” he groaned.

    “Don’t put it in,” said Michaela faintly.

    “I won’t,” he panted. “Oh—God!”

    Shuddering, he stepped back. “I think—we’d better—get on the bed,” he said hoarsely.

    “Yes. Did you—did you like that?”

    Hugh nodded, chest heaving.

    “Oh.” She got on the bed.

    “Lie down,” he said. “Lie down with your legs apart, Michaela, and just—just—yes, like that.”

    Michaela looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

    Hugh smiled a little. “You’re lovely,” he explained.

    “So are you,” she said seriously. “I don’t really like fat men. You’re a nice shape.”

    “Good,” he said weakly. “Let’s celebrate the fact.” He got quickly onto the bed and lay on top of her. Michaela held him strongly.

    “Hell’s teeth,” he said feebly. “This is so good I’m damned nearly coming just like this!”

    He began kissing her gently. Then he got very excited and kissed her harder. Then he kissed her neck. Then he bit it. Michaela tossed her head and moaned.

    Abruptly Hugh sat up and grabbed the packet of condoms. “I’m sorry, I can’t hold back. I’ll have to—to do it.”

    “Yes,” she murmured.

    He wrestled with the plastic packet. He was aware that she was watching him and he was aware that those terrifically strong hands of hers could probably have wrenched the thing apart with no effort. Condom and all, probably. Finally he got the damned thing on. He lay on top of her again, this time shaking all over.

    “I’m just going to get in there and explode, you know,” he muttered. “I— Look, to tell you the truth, it’s been a couple of years since I—uh—did it.”

    “That’s all right.”

    “Caroline doesn’t let me any more.”

    “No,” she replied simply.

    “Can I?” he croaked.

    “Yes,” said Michaela.

     Hugh covered her mouth with his. He probed, trying to be gentle. It was damned difficult not to just— He slid in, and Michaela’s strong hands pulled him fiercely to her and her strong thighs rose around his thinner ones, and she said on a sob: “Oh, Hugh! It’s nice!”

    Hugh gasped, pumped into her wildly, and yelled—in the way he used to, way, way back, he’d forgotten until he heard his own voice do it: “Oh, YES!” and shrieked, and was gone…

    “You made a lot of noise,” she said quite some time later as he lay limply on her, the sweat cooling along his back.

    “Mm. Didn’t you like it?” he said with some difficulty.

    “Yes, it was nice. I didn’t know men did that.”

    “I think it’s quite common,” he said weakly.

    “Mm.”

    “Just—hold me. I’ll do you in a minute.”

    “You don’t have to,” she said politely.

     Hugh’s ears rang again. “What? Don’t you want to come?”

    “Yes,” said Michaela in a strangled voice.

    He was overtaken by a furious impulse not unknown to Bob and June Butler, not to mention Pris, Michaela’s former flatmate: which was, to seize an axe, go out and find The Pig, clobber him very hard with it but not so hard that he lost consciousness, and then start hacking bits off him.

    “Good. Then I can guarantee you will,” he said grimly.

    “Um—thanks,” said Michaela in dazed surprize.

    He finally gathered his forces sufficiently to stagger out to the bathroom. When he came back he was aware that she was looking at his genitals but this, oddity enough, didn’t make him feel in the least like the world’s greatest clot. About as far removed from that as you could imagine, in fact. Smiling, he sat on the bed beside her and stroked her satin skin gently. “Kiss me, Pink Pearl.” He bent and kissed her. “Shall I give you a come now, Pink Pearl?” he said in her ear.

    “Do you really want to?”

    “I really want to. In fact I’d be most unhappy if you didn’t want me to.”

    “All right, then.”

    Promising himself that it would be a damn sight better than all right, Hugh knelt between her ankles. He didn’t ask her which way she wanted it: for one thing he wasn’t too sure that she would or could say, and for another thing he was pretty bloody sure—

    He wasn’t far wrong.

    “Oh, Hugh, oh Hugh!” she cried.

    Highly gratified, Hugh continued with the demonstration. Pretty soon the strong hands were mauling his shoulders; and then she was shrieking and clenching and thrusting herself at him for more—

    “Phew!” he said at last with a laugh, pulling her against his shoulder.

    Michaela just clutched him and panted.

     After a long time she said: “I never knew men did it to you that way afterwards!”

    “This would be because you haven’t done it with any decent men, only with a Pig,” noted Hugh grimly.

    “Who told you about him?” asked Michaela uncertainly.

    “Bob, mostly. Not that he knew any of the details, of course. But I should have guessed, from what he did impart.”

    “Mm.” After a while she said: “You do it all quite differently, Hugh.”

    Hugh didn’t think he did any of it quite differently from the way any decent bloke would do it. But he was damn glad to hear he did it quite differently from a Pig. He cupped her face and kissed her gently. “I should hope so. And I’m glad you liked it, Pink Pearl. And if we have a little nap now, I might be able to do it—” He peered blearily at his little alarm clock. “Crikey. Well, some time later this morning.”

    He was almost asleep when he heard her say: “You’re nice all over.”

    “So are you. Inside and out.”

    “Mm, you too.” Although he was almost asleep Hugh smirked at what she then added. Which was: “Especially inside.”

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/ring-in-new.html