Janice Gentle Gets Sexy

by Mavis Cheek

  'Come, come,' he said, 'let's put it all behind us and have a good time while we are away, shall we?' And he kissed her lightly on the head, delighted to smell the freshness of her shampoo. His wife, who found bending difficult (seemed to find everything physical difficult), seldom washed her hair. He wondered if now was an appropriate time to bring out the lace hanky, but decided not. He settled himself closer. How could that ferrety husband of hers refuse her in bed? She was a sweet, dainty, delightful little creature who was crying out for love. As indeed he was himself.. .

  The train sped on. Their rooms were next to each other. Birmingham suddenly held a magic for him and he felt born anew. 'Come along now,' he said cajolingly to the grief-stricken little face, 'I think what you need is a drink.'

  And although she said she almost never did, he insisted.

  As they swayed their way towards the bar, he took her hand to steady her.

  She thought it was such a gentlemanly thing to do, compared with Derek who would probably have fallen over twice by now. As she held on tight, she consoled herself that, for the next few days at least, she was away with a man who knew how to behave properly.

  *

  Rohanne Bulbecker was having dinner with Janice on the following evening, and the day after that - wonderful, wonderful - she was flying home. The other two oddballs had gone to Oxfordshire. Janice was now safely back in her own apartment ready to work. And life was going to be sweet, after all. She had no idea what she would say when she got back to Morgan P. Pfeiffer, but she would think of something. It didn't really matter. The main thing was the book, and that was signed, promised and would - Dermot Poll willing - be delivered. Oddball major and Oddball minor were planning to dragnet Ireland early in the New Year, and even if they didn't find him, there was time after that for some professional detective work; Skibbereen looked very small on the map and someone there was sure to know what had happened to such an apparently talented son.

  Rohanne pitied Janice this abiding dream. It was quite clear she had been duped and dumped, and to reunite her with the Poll man could only end in disappointment. Nevertheless, as she kept telling herself, it was no concern of hers. Deliver Dermot Poll, collect the book, and run. Those were the goals. The only goals. All the same, there was something altogether fascinating, remarkable - moving even - at the idea of enduring love like that. All those virginal years, all that life, just waiting ... All those books that told the story in so many compelling ways. Rohanne's business sense had momentarily become detached (she was sure it would come back) and somehow she felt bound into the tale too.

  *

  Melanie ducked the extended arm on her porch, swivelled to avoid the lips which were puckered into expectancy, and got inside her front door. 'Feel sick,' she said, giving a convincingly bilious groan. 'Must go.' And she closed the door on his questioning, stranger's face. She bent down, gave another solid performance of one who is in visceral extremis through the letter-box, agreed to call him when she was better, and shuffled towards the kitchen. If she didn't really feel unwell, she certainly felt a little squiffy, which was not surprising. That, she decided, as she boiled the kettle for some camomile tea (she had not been sleeping at all well recently) was the very last time she would go out with a dickhead. Two gin-and-tonics, a vegetarian lasagne, half a litre of house Barolo, zabaglione and free mint imperials and he thought he'd bought an all-night ticket? Huh! The kettle boiled. She poured the water into the mug that said Melanie in nursery colours, stirred the bag, removed it, picked up the mug, looked at its inscription, and burst into tears. He had put that in her stocking last Christmas. Bum, bum, bums. . .

  In bed she drank the tea and settled her head on the pillow. Eleven-thirty-three. She closed her eyes. She wondered what he was doing right now.

  Square Jaw drank three glasses of what Jeremy called 'quaffing wine' and left the kitchen. He had every intention of seeking out the most attractive female at the party (the shorter the skirt the better; if she had white boots, double points) and going for it.

  He spotted her at once. Tall, long blonde hair, pretty profile and legs encased in skin-tight leather trousers. Having spotted her, he decided to return to the kitchen and have another glass of wine.

  Jeremy was drinking hard, too. 'Bloody women,' he said gloomily. 'Work my balls off in HK. Get back ready to celebrate, and all she's done is to ring you all up, leave a sodding mess and bugger off. Nearly cancelled the thing. Saved by the secretary. What a brick.' He refilled their glasses. They were both deeply hurt men. 'And when I asked for an explanation, do you know what she said?'

  Square Jaw shook his head, 'Bloody women,' he said. 'What?' 'She said if I was prepared to go over there and do her hoovering, she'd clean my lavatory. Do you understand it?' Square Jaw shook his head again.

  'Bloody, bloody women,' they both chorused. And had another drink to it.

  He decided to be subtle and stood in the conversational group next to the blonde's. Earnestly he inquired if he might join what was clearly a deep and meaningful debate between a serious young man and woman. He had quaffed enough kitchen wine to feel he would be welcome.

  'Ah,' he said breezily, 'a real conversation.' Fleetingly he thought this might be taken for the remark of a prat, but they were smiling warmly at him, welcomingly. 'That's what it's all about, parties. Meeting people and talking to them, eh?'

  The couple nodded. He felt he was doing rather well. Sod Melanie. Here was life, after all.

  He positioned himself so that he could see the blonde and she could see him, and smiled at his new-found companions. He kept the smile while they told him they were social workers (where did Jeremy, disciple of Adam Smith, get them from?) and listened politely - or appeared to listen politely.

  The blonde wasn't saying much, but she looked great.

  '. . . Don't you agree?' said the female social worker.

  'I'm not sure,' he said cautiously, tearing his eyes away from the stretchy leather. 'Go on.'

  They did.

  He said loudly when they had finished, 'Since I have no wife and no children, why should I pay for all the things a nuclear family requires? Libraries? I never use them. Drugs rehabilitation? I don't need it. School meals? I don't require them . . .'

  'Ever been burgled?' asked the man.

  'Ever had your car stolen?' asked the woman.

  'Yes,' said Square Jaw, sliding his eyes back to the blonde. Their eyes met. She gave a hesitant half-smile. Square Jaw suddenly ached to get inside those leathers.

  '. . . And did you know that a high proportion of burglaries -indeed, all crime - is drug related? What price your dissociation from rehab now?'

  'Ah,' said Square Jaw, 'I see . . .'

  'Everything is woven into everything else. You can't cut loose. If you do, the whole fabric begins to unravel. That's what's happening in our society today. The poorly educated commit more crimes. Do you still say schools aren't relevant to you? Ghettos and inner-city decay create festering pustules that infect the whole . . . You can't say one bit is healthy and the rest is diseased - we're all suffering from the same malady because basically we're all one . . .'

  Square Jaw felt queasy with the talk of pustules. And he felt uncomfortable, because if they had a point - and they might well - it wasn't a point he wanted to grasp. The only thing he wanted to grasp was standing about three feet away.

  'Hmm,' he said, giving suitable pause, and then, 'I see. Yes.' And then, deciding to chance it, he changed the subject. 'And how do you two know Jeremy?' he asked.

  'You might well ask,' said the serious female. 'I'm his sister. This is my boyfriend. And that blonde you're eyeing up is my flat-mate. Shall we leave the ills of society and go on to the more important issue of your getting introduced?'

  Square Jaw winced apologetically.

  'It's all right,' said the sister of Jeremy. 'Eat, drink, copulate and be merry, for tomorrow ... Tomorrow, who knows . . .?'

  Melanie was waiting for tomorrow, for when the dawn ca
me she could legitimately get up and start the day. She lay there reading, which only made her mind wander. The radio played tracks to bring back memories. She turned out the light, turned it on again, twisted and rumpled around the bed for an hour or two and finally gave up. She might as well go downstairs and pace the floor as lie here pretending sleep would come. It was a relief to have given in, and down the stairs she padded, taking some comfort at the still, dark quiet of the house. She made a tray of tea and went into the living-room, noticing for the first time that the answerphone was winking. She crouched in the moonlight and played the message back. It was from him. And it was heartwarming after the pain. He wanted her to go to him.

  She looked at the time. Nearly three, but he had said he would be in tonight, that he would be honoured — a nice joke. So why shouldn't she? After all, she still had the key, she could let herself in quietly, slide into bed beside him and - well, there really was no reason in the world why not. . .

  Square Jaw was also awake. He could not move. His leg was twisted under another's and the another slept. Moonlight sent a bright whiteness across her ruffled hair, and her face looked colourless and still. A woman, he thought, a pretty woman -prettiest at the party. He reached out and touched the curve of her breast with his fingertips. But an alien woman, an alien breast. Not Melanie.

  He'd been quite proud of how swiftly he had managed to chat her up. It was like diving - you just did it without thinking or you wouldn't do it at all. The success had made him feel good about himself and he had forgotten about white boots and short skirts in the recklessness of the hunt, wondering all the while he was talking to her, getting drinks for her, exchanging silly conversation, dancing with her, if she would finally go to bed with him. And she had. But now he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt the sleeping thigh across his own and he resented it being there, holding him down. He wanted to wake her up and say, 'Let's be modern about this,' or something similar, but if he did, he knew it would not end there. Women were no good at accepting things at face value. If he woke her up and said, 'That was nice. See you sometime,' it would only be the start. She would go on and on. Women did. He'd seen Fatal Attraction, after all, and while he didn't have a child or a rabbit to stew, he had an ear that could be chewed off half the night. And if during the drawn-out monologue he should fall asleep? Christ, then didn't the shit hit the fan? And yet she knew just as well as he did, surely, that it had all been about bed? Not a tryst for life? If he had pursued her, then she had led him on. She had worn those leather trousers, which certainly did not say leave me alone. Women were hypocritical. They needed everything dressed up in love to justify it. And now here he was. Stuck.

  Just about the only good thing to come out of this whole mess with Melanie was that he had got his freedom back. He thought about motor-racing. Now that he was free he could get into something like that and there wouldn't be anyone to pout disapprovingly. He could do anything, really - anything at all. No Melanie, no restriction on his life. The thigh moved fractionally. He began stroking it absent-mindedly, at the same time imagining himself roaring round the track, winning, spraying champagne, women, women climbing all over him ... And not a Melanie in sight to say no.

  As she drove the familiar route, Melanie thought about that twerp tonight, and all the other twerps that were likely to be on offer. She shuddered. Who knew what other groping aliens might be around the corner? Hundreds. She had already met enough to last a lifetime . . .

  She felt excited, in love again. She parked the car as quiedy as she could and enjoyed the thrumming of her heart. He would be in bed, he would be asleep. She might slide under the covers with him, still with her clothes on, of course, just to talk, maybe just to have a cuddle, or a hand hold - some form of contact, anyway. Anger had melted away to regret. They'd had long enough to think things over, and besides - she had to be rational - men just weren't as good as women at knowing how to behave in emotional situations. They were unformed in that department, and it was no use expecting it to be otherwise. That was like expecting a penguin to fly just because it was a bird - the breed's wings were too small, that was all. Well, she, Melanie, could handle that. A little time on her own had done wonders.

  'I will be good,' she muttered to herself as she hurried up the steps to his door. The surprise would take away some of the awkwardness. She laughed to herself, happy again. Pasta and zabaglione and being courted indeed! There were things worth a lot more than that.

  *

  Janice pondered on the love that would give up a child for its better good. It seemed to her that there could be no love greater. She got out of bed, padded to the kitchen to make a sandwich, and then took it to her desk.

  She began to write. 'He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.' Then she ate, and thought, and wrote again. 'Though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge' - which, after all, she argued, was absolutely true of the writer - 'and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing . . .' Indeed, indeed. 'Love suffereth long, and is kind . ..' So, so — it is so. 'When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became a woman I put away childish things . . .'

  She looked at the long row of books on the shelf before her, every one bearing her own name. Baby slopes, mere baby slopes. And through the long night, with spontaneous visits to the bread bin, Janice wrote.

  *

  He had won two Grand Prix, which was very exciting, and made up in part for his not being able, quite, to get off to sleep. Despite needing the bathroom, feeling thirsty, having pins and needles and a whole series of discomforts, he felt it was easier to he there than risk waking her again. He might, eventually, get off to sleep and - who knew? - perhaps when he woke up, she would be the first to say, 'Now let's be modern about this.' Pigs might fly, but it was a comforting possibility. She moved her body fractionally, but not the leg. He began breathing regularly just in case she should be listening. He wanted to be a free man. He did, he did . ..

  He looked down again. Her face was no more than a glimmer on the pillow, her breathing was even, she smelled of scent and sex and female - and she could, he thought with detachment, be anybody. He went back to Le Mans, but this time the racing itself evaded him. All he could tune in to was the afterwards, the women smiling — big teeth, big smiles, big everything. And the champagne - enormous — the neck of the bottle quite distended as he opened it and sprayed them, wetting the fronts of their ‘I-shirts, revealing that they wore nothing - absolutely nothing -underneath . . .

  Square Jaw shifted his position very slightly and felt her reciprocal shifting to accommodate him. She was soft against him; her breathing had changed, become shallower. He held his breath. Don't wake, he pleaded, but yet, oh yet . . . He began stroking her thigh again. Another part of him, quite separate from his brain but not his imagination, did want her to waken, was already sdrring at the very idea of it, and she was stirring too as he pressed himself against her. Somewhere a voice was telling him Don't do it, but the another just urged him on. What he found himself thinking as he nuzzled her ear and stroked between her thighs was that it was unfair: they could just lie there, asleep, and still turn a man on, and then, as often as not, assume no responsibility for it, so that the poor sod with a stiffy had the choice of suffering it, dealing with it himself, or waking her up and being rejected nine times out of ten . . . All the same - he stroked on, losing care, getting caught up in the moment as she stirred and sighed and pressed her warmth against him - all the

  same, this one was not going to do any of those things, this one would be responsive, this was early days. He murmured her name. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He thought briefly of Melanie, wondering if her boots had done the trick, and then he put all thoughts of her from his mind and began to concentrate. . .

  Somewhere beyond the usual noises of the bed - the creaks, the sighs, the rustlings - he though
t he heard another noise. Like a door, perhaps? Like a latch clicking gently? But he was being kissed and kissing back, which left no time for further conjecture.

  Chapter Twenty

  'I was thinking,' said Janice to Rohanne, 'of the Pardoner.' 'Who?' said Rohanne caudously.

  'Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrim. It sounds such a lovely thing to be, a Pardoner. But, if you remember, the tale is mere crudity, vulgarized allegory, tasteless decadence. The Pardoner himself had no gift of pardon, he was a bogus, a flatterer, a fool.'

  'Very apt,' said Rohanne, 'in the case of Sylvia Perth.'

  Janice smiled, folding her serviette neatly. She had eaten a goat's cheese souffle, sauteed monkfish, roast guinea-fowl, crime brulee with spiced pears - and she was feeling quite benign. It was the first time she had ever been in a restaurant, and it was not, for all her fears, an unpleasant experience. On the contrary, the people who ran it and who hovered about her positively wanted her to eat well and enjoy the experience. Indeed, when she ordered her pudding, they had practically cheered, and the chef had come out to congratulate her personally. Stilton had been promised but was still on its way. Janice could wait.

  'But even the Pardoner had the opportunity of redemption. If he so chose. If he had faith. People were closer to faith in those days. He was on the way to Canterbury, after all. He might not only have been going there with a view to making money en route. Part of him might have been hoping for forgiveness, for the lifting of his burden of sin. I expect Sylvia was a bit like that, too. Curate's egg, not all bad, but totally infected all the same.'