“Members of the Board, I would like to start the discussion of the story we heard before the recess. It is a distasteful task because the acts described are so vile and degrading. Trehearne has written a story that involves his taking advantage of a black servant girl. He indulged in his desires for perverse practices, and finally left her with a baby which he declined to acknowledge.”
Trehearne was on his feet and had caught Valerie's attention. “Madam Chairperson, I'm sure it was just a slip of the tongue on the Investigator's part, but she just accused me of being the hero of this story.”
Priscilla felt her anger rise. “Well? Wasn't it you? When did you work in East Africa?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Investigator. I've never worked in Africa south of the Sahara, East or West.”
“Right. I'll withdraw that implication. But the bulk of the charge remains. A helpless black servant girl forced into perverse practices and left with a baby. What can you possibly say to that?” Priscilla sat down. So much for slowing things down. Perhaps Trehearne was right. She was taking it too personally and letting her temper get in the way of orderly thinking.
Trehearne showed no signs of temper. “Excuse me, Miss Investigator, but your points are not altogether clear. They are not as self-evident as you seem to think. But let me try to address them one by one.
“Let me start with the fact that Vicky is black. So what? Most people in Africa are. If the story had been set in, say, Bulgaria, she would have been white. Her colour is irrelevant, as I am sure has been argued before the Authority on many occasions in the past. Why is the Investigator making such a point of it? One of the things that I find interesting about the story is the colourful setting. How much more attractive than England on a February day!” As he spoke, Trehearne had turned to face the audience. Light from the stage showed the first rows of people concentrating on every word.
“Let me move on to what I believe the Investigator is trying to say to us. Her next point seems to be the nature of what Vicky likes to do in bed. It is clear from the Investigator's comments that she prefers not to enjoy Vicky's particular speciality. But why should we be concerned with what the Investigator likes to do in private? I submit that it is none of our business. Look around at all the people in the cinema. What do they do in bed with their partners? And who cares? Vicky would not dream of checking what you do in bed, Miss Investigator, and she would probably laugh if you tried to tell her how to enjoy herself.” Trehearne gave his audience a moment to chuckle and continued with his oratory.
“The next point: Vicky had a baby, presumably an unplanned baby. Do you have any idea of the attitude to such accidental children in most African societies? We are discussing different cultures here. An event that might have been seen as deeply shameful in, say, Islington, could be seen in a very different light in, say, Nairobi. In general, babies are welcomed in African societies however they come. And, incidentally, I should not have to tell the Investigator that there is no justifiable reason for looking down on single mothers either in Islington or Nairobi.
“No—I submit the investigator is missing the whole point of the story. The question that it poses, the question for which the reader must find his or her own answer, is this. Is it possible for a richer person to hire a servant purely for sex on anything other than a casual, one-off basis? This is a question that the Investigator either ignored or perhaps did not notice.
“Vicky starts out by giving sex for money, sex that otherwise would have little interest for her. Peter is happy with the arrangement principally because he feels that by paying for sex, he is released from any responsibility. But life turns out not to be so simple. An inevitable further dimension is added to the story as time goes on. Read it again, Miss Investigator, and what do you see growing up between Peter and Vicky. Or did you notice it immediately?”
Priscilla bit her lip. Trehearne was backing her into a corner again. “You're not answering, Miss Investigator. The word you're looking for is love, of course. They started out having sex, but before long they were making love. Now we all know that you are not interested in sex, but surely you won't be so hard on love? Please?”
“If it was love, why didn't they get married?”
“Vicky was married already, of course. But quite apart from that, there are many people who love each other but don't get married. Ask the audience. I'm sure you'll find some of them right here.” He turned to the crowd. “Am I right?”
The reply was a roar of approval. Valerie hammered her gavel on its block. “Trehearne! Trehearne! I warn you that if you do that again I will not permit you to speak. You are bringing the Board into disrepute. That's enough. Move on to the next story.”
Priscilla tried to stop her. “Chairperson, the next story is relatively harmless compared to some of the others in the book. I have no substantive objection to it, and I suggest we skip this one.”
Valerie looked to Trehearne. “Madam Chairperson, the Investigator is trying to avoid stories that do not fit in with her rather restrictive theories. Her problem with the next one is that it is wildly romantic, and I fear she is not of a romantic frame of mind. But I feel it should be heard, if only for her benefit.”
Valerie nodded her assent.
Dreaming
“Oh God—I hate flying.” Debbie had just wrestled her bags onto the platform at Paddington Station, first stop on her way to Houston. Commuters surged past her, rushing into the workday greyness of London. As usual, there were no trolleys. She slung her handbag around her neck, picked up her small overnight bag in one hand and, dragging her suitcase behind her like a reluctant puppy, started off down the interminable platform.
Getting to Heathrow had been made a lot easier now that the underground reached that far, but the underground itself did not like suitcases. Just reaching her platform took a major effort, and changing to the Piccadilly Line at Earl's Court was murderous. But as her train emerged from its city tunnels into London's western suburbs, she knew the worst of her journey lay behind her. Her heart lifted in the sunlight, and she felt an unreasonable love for the budding spring greenery that found refuge along the railway line. The modern station at Heathrow had been built with airline passengers in mind, and as she emerged into the busy departure hall of Terminal 3, she already felt she had reached a higher level of travelling.
“Travelling alone today, Miss?” The bright young man at the check-in desk seemed genuinely helpful. She smiled encouragingly at him.
“Yes. Is the plane full?”
“Fairly busy, I'm afraid. Were you hoping to stretch out? I don't think you'll manage that today. But I'll tell you what I might be able to do, I'll try and keep the seat next to you empty. That should help. You'll be boarding in ninety minutes.”
Debbie wandered off with a grin on her face. Women faced many disadvantages in this world, and so she did not hesitate to use any advantages she had. It always amused her to think just how much a smile from a pretty girl could be worth when used on a susceptible man.
Unchained from her suitcase, she was free to browse in the outrageously expensive airport shops, to buy a magazine and sit down for a coffee. Even the coffee was over-priced, but she kept the till receipt. If she took the contract they would be discussing, she might be able to claim it as expenses.
Time dragged by, and she moved on to the embarkation lounge for a change of scenery. She was far too early really, but one never knew just when a train might be delayed. She always arrived far too early and then spent time sitting around, waiting to spend even more time sitting on the plane.
On this side of passport control there were more shops, duty free here but not noticeably cheaper. Who actually bought these expensive gifts, she wondered. Who had room in their hand baggage? Hers was already stuffed with things she might need if her suitcase got lost or delayed. A clean blouse, washing things, stockings, spare knickers—no room at all for random shopping.
The lounge was full with waiting travellers bound for all parts of the wor
ld. She played the game of guessing who would be on her plane. Fortunately, there were not too many children in sight. Children could be adorable, but they were not made for long air journeys. It would take a junior saint to sit still for that long and nothing was more unpleasant than being cooped up with someone else's whining children. In the past, when there were smoking sections on planes, she sometimes used to travel in them just to get away from kids. No one around her seemed a particularly obvious candidate for a trip to Houston. No tobacco-chewing, Stetson-wearing cowboys sat beside her.
She made a visit to the toilet to pass away a little more time. She looked terrible in the mirror. The fluorescent lights seemed to wash away her make-up and made her naturally pale complexion turn a dead grey. Even her red hair seemed lifeless. For all that, she felt content with what she saw. For comfort's sake, she travelled in casual clothes, blouse and a loose cotton skirt. She smoothed the blouse around her waist and full breasts. Not bad. The effects of Christmas had disappeared and her waist curved in tightly above the swell of her hips. Perhaps the waistband of her skirt was a little too ambitious. She might have to loosen it surreptitiously after dinner. Still, the overall effect looked good, and if she would be negotiating with men, she did not want to give them an inch.
Outside, the little green boarding lights had at last begun to flash, and she moved to the gate. Minutes later she was in her seat and finally starting to relax. She was on her way. No mistakes could stop her now. For the next twelve hours she had only to sit back and be taken care of.
She had an aisle seat, and the two inside seats were empty. What luck! It looked as if the check-in clerk had managed to give her some room. If I'd known that, she thought, never mind the smile, I'd have kissed him. The prospect of spending at least some of the endless hours asleep was very welcome and she settled in her place.
A twinge of business unfinished hit her, and she sat upright. If this narrow crowded space was to whisk her over the ocean, dependent on no more than man's power and arrogance, she had better take care for herself. Mother Nature was a far more reliable guardian. Orienting herself by the sun shadow at the window, she turned to the four points of the compass, mentally reciting requests for protection and a safe journey. Then she added one especially suited for the beginning of a business project. The ritual lifted her spirits and, while she was about it, she slipped in a little love spell too, just for fun. She sat back with a grin.
The business of stowing baggage in the overhead lockers around her had just about finished, and her neighbours had settled in when she found that she would not be unaccompanied after all. For that reason alone, she was prepared to dislike him. This man was definitely bound for Texas. He wore straight blue jeans, tight fitting shirt and, believe it or not, pointed cowboy boots complete with fancy stitching.
“Excuse me, Ma'am.” He slipped past her knees and sat by the window. He had an ageless face. Deeply lined from the effects of too much sun and weather, he looked any age between thirty and fifty. His short hair was either ash blonde or greying—with the sun behind him, she could not distinguish which—and that too gave no hint to his age. He looked up and caught her staring. Smiling, he reached out his hand. “Hi, I'm Ross Goodnight.”
“My name's Debbie.” She struggled in sudden confusion to give her best ice-maiden impression.
“Debbie. That's nice.” He was slow to release her hand. “Well, guess we'll be companions for the next few thousand miles. Here's to a good trip.” He smiled at her again, and she found herself automatically returning it.
“You have an unusual name,” she ventured.
“Oh, not so unusual. It's a famous Texas name, you know. It's the name of a Civil War soldier who moved south and set up one of the first cattle ranches. There's still a town named for him. So the Goodnights can be pretty proud of themselves. And when you consider how proud ordinary Texans are anyway, well, that's saying something!”
If he was proud, she reflected, at least it had not cost him his sense of humour.
“Where are you from, Debbie?”
“I live near Bristol, in the country. I'm going to Houston on business.”
They were interrupted by the stewardess bringing newspapers. He surprised her by asking for the Financial Times. “Don't you want anything, Miss?” The stewardess gave her a pert and knowing smile. “No? Well, you people have a pleasant flight.” Debbie felt vaguely annoyed at her implication of togetherness between herself and Ross.
He resumed his questioning. “You're in Houston on business?”
“Yes. I'm a technical writer.”
He looked at her with some surprise. “A lady technical writer. Well, ain't that something? I guess time's running out for us poor old men. It looks like you sharp women have seen right through us, and you ain't going to rest before you put us in our place.”
“And where is your place?”
“Damned if I know anymore,” he reflected slowly. “We used to make out we were stronger and smarter than you, and got to be top dogs that way. But now, all strength is good for is the dumb-ass jobs. All of a sudden, we can't make out we're smarter than women either. So we're head to head for the smart jobs while keeping the dumb-ass ones all for ourselves. I tell you, if women in general really get out of the house and take their careers seriously, us men are going to find ourselves right down at the bottom of the pile. Thank God for motherhood.”
“It doesn't seem to worry you.”
“Hell, no. It ain't about to happen this week. And besides, we might just be better off if you did start throwing your weight around.”
Debbie could not believe it. The man was a dyed-in-the-wool male chauvinist who had been found out by events and, instead of becoming blustering and defensive, he could laugh at his own upbringing and wait to see what the future would bring. His self-confidence must be monumental. What was it based on? He seemed to be tucking into his Financial Times, so he was obviously no dummy. In spite of his clothes, she suspected that he must have a “serious” profession.
They joined in the routine of the flight. Dinner was served during the unnaturally long twilight, and they chattered and chewed their way over the Western Approaches. For once, Debbie found herself enjoying an in-flight meal, and they ordered more wine. They were by far the last to finish, and the movie was already getting under way. It was a pedestrian comedy, not worth the effort of unwrapping the headphones.
She went to wash her teeth. In the confines of the toilet, she brushed out her hair and inspected her make-up. It needed just a little freshening up, and she reached for her bag. She had just opened her green eye-shadow when the ridiculousness of her actions struck her. I'm just going to sit back and doze for hours, she told herself. I don't need to be all tarted up. I hope I don't sleep with my mouth open. She started to put the eye-shadow away but then, on impulse, took it out again and got to work.
Ross looked admiringly at her when she returned. “You know, I don't believe they've ever sat me next to a pretty girl before. It's usually other business men or old couples.”
She ought to have put him down, but somehow she found herself acknowledging the compliment with a smile. The blankets had been put out and she tried to make herself comfortable enough to doze off.
She could never sleep properly sitting up, and she did not expect to do more than cat-nap, but for once, even a disturbed doze seemed impossible. There was no way she could fit comfortably in her seat. Eventually, she found herself wedged half sideways, looking straight at Ross.
“You're not doing too well there, are you? If you'd like to put the armrests up, I don't mind if you stretch out. You can reach either end out over here. It don't trouble me.” He was looking at her with steady blue eyes.
How could she refuse without being impolite? After all, she told herself, he does seem like a gentleman. “What about you? How will you sleep?”
“Don't you worry about that. I've slept in worse places than this without too much damage. Just go ahead and get yourself comfo
rtable.” He moved his armrest back and reached over to do the same to hers. Well, why not? My eyes are getting heavy enough. I'll kick my shoes off and put my feet in his lap. Or should I try the other way round? There was no question really. She just could not bring herself to impersonally present him with her feet. Instead, she curled up on her side and laid her head on his thigh. His jeans were soft from many washings, and he smelled clean and male. His muscles felt warm and firm under her ear. She let him tuck the blanket in around her and then rest with his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you comfortable down there? That's a whole lot better, ain't it? Go ahead and dream. I know what I'll be dreaming about tonight.”
“Oh yes? Tell me.” I can't believe I just said that! Oh God, I just invited him in!
“I guess I'll be dreaming about a tall English girl with long red hair who went dancing with me in Houston one night.”
He can't do this to me, and I'm definitely not going to encourage him. But I suppose I'll never see him again anyway and a little flirting isn't going to do any harm. “Sounds interesting. Did she enjoy it, this redhead of yours?”
“Well now, it seemed to me that she did.”
“Where did you go?”
“First off, I took her to a Mexican restaurant downtown to get some real Tex-Mex food inside her.”
Drifting towards sleep, she played along with him. “What was the restaurant called? It's important to know.”
“It's a little place not far from the Galleria on Westheimer. Name of ‘On the Border.’“
“And what did you give her to eat?”
“Well, she didn't know too much about real Mexican cooking, so she let me order for her. She said she would lay off being a vegetarian for the night, and that made it easier.”
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