The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  This proved not to be the case. Clifford had been a clumsy lover — hesitant, shy, and amazingly ignorant when it came to lovemaking. Here, Mavis came into her own, surprising even herself. Clifford’s shyness gave her a confidence she could never have hitherto imagined, and before long, she was not only taking the initiative, but also discovering and sharing new ways to make love.

  Of course, this delighted Clifford. Mavis was too tactful to enquire about what had been going on in his marriage bed all these years, but it didn’t take long for her to suspect that the answer would almost certainly be, not very much. He had told her that he and Dorothy rarely made love, and she believed him. His hunger for her body, her hands, her mouth — as well as her company — increased as their relationship progressed. Mavis’s looks had never been remarkable, but she had inherited her mother’s clear eyes and soft dark hair. Her breasts were the kind often described as “pert,” and she had good legs. Clifford thought — and frequently told her — that she was beautiful. Mavis herself was totally without vanity, but as she often said to herself, if one man thought she was beautiful and if he was the right man, what did it matter what she, or anyone else, thought? With his endearments, his attention, and his increasing skill at lovemaking, he managed to make her feel beautiful. What more could a woman ask for?

  Mavis knew that when Clifford said that he would eventually leave Dorothy to be with her, he meant it, even after all these years. She also knew that he felt guilty that their relationship had deprived her of the chance to have a family of her own. Often, in the early days, he had asked her whether she shouldn’t leave him to find someone who could give her what he thought all women should have: a home with a husband and babies. But Mavis didn’t need a husband, and she didn’t want babies. She had never been maternal, and when that particular door finally closed with the onset of the menopause, she had no regrets.

  “I would like to have given you children,” Clifford had said again quite recently. “Or perhaps just one child.”

  “You know I never wanted children,” she told him. “We went through all that years ago.”

  And this was true. When Mavis was approaching her fortieth birthday — that final alarm call from the body clock — Clifford had offered to father her child.

  “I would pay for its upbringing, keep in touch, be a proper father to it,” he told her. “We’d manage somehow. And then when I leave Dorothy —”

  “No.” Mavis had smiled. “No. It’s a lovely idea, but it wouldn’t work. I’m fine as I am. And you have your own children. Let’s just carry on as we are.”

  No one knew about Mavis’s involvement with Clifford. While she did have friends, none of them were close, and she suspected that her mother would have been distressed and scandalised if Mavis had chosen to confide in her. Father Lucian at the local Catholic church knew of course, for on the rare occasions when she went to confession, Clifford naturally had to be mentioned, and while she herself no longer felt particularly guilty about him, she also felt that it would be dishonest to leave the confessional without mentioning him.

  “You see, we’re not hurting anyone,” she told Father Lucian when he gently upbraided her for her adultery. “No one need ever know.”

  “God knows,” said Father Lucian (originality was not Father Lucian’s strongest point), “and besides, you’re damaging yourself and your immortal soul.”

  Mavis thought about her immortal soul, and considered that on the whole, it was in fairly good shape.

  “What if we don’t have sex anymore?” she asked, genuinely interested. “Suppose we go on seeing each other, but keep the relationship platonic?”

  There was a long pause while Father Lucian (presumably) took sex out of Mavis’s relationship and considered it anew.

  “Oh no,” he said after a while. “It still wouldn’t do.”

  “Because?” Mavis prompted.

  “Because of your feelings for each other.”

  “We’d still feel the same, even if we never saw each other again,” Mavis told him.

  “That’s different,” said Father Lucian. “That’s quite different.”

  It was Father Lucian who had contacted Mavis about the Basic Theology classes, having himself been approached by the bishop (the bishop was having some difficulty in recruiting enough sinners to make the classes worth his — or more to the point, Father Cuthbert’s — while). Mavis had initially been curious rather than enthusiastic. She knew very well that the agenda would be the return of sheep to the Catholic fold rather than actually helping those sheep to come to terms with their difficulties, but it would be interesting to meet other people in the same position as herself, and she was entertained at the subterfuge of Basic Theology classes. Father Cuthbert’s parish wasn’t far, and she could put Mother to bed early (her mother loved being in bed, and so that was never a problem), and so she agreed. Apart from anything else, she was aware of Father Lucian’s disappointment at being unable to persuade her to see the error of her ways, and she thought that maybe this would go some way towards appeasing him.

  Clifford, on the other hand, was appalled.

  “You’re going to leave me,” he said. “You’re — you’re breaking it off between us!”

  “Of course I’m not,” Mavis said. “Don’t be so ridiculous.”

  “But why, then? Why are you doing this?”

  “I suppose because it would be — it would be nice to talk to someone.”

  “About us?”

  “Yes. About us.”

  “But I don’t talk about us to anyone. I don’t need to talk about us.”

  “Well, I do,” Mavis told him.

  “But why? After all this time, why? Why now?”

  “Because there’s an opportunity, I suppose. And because I’m a woman. Women like to — no, need to — talk about personal things, and I’ve never had anyone before. Now there’s this, and I think it might help.”

  “Do you need help?” Clifford asked her. “Because you know I will leave Dorothy. I will. I’ll do it soon if you want me to.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Mavis patted his hand as though she were soothing a small child (it sometimes occurred to her that perhaps Clifford represented the child she’d never had). “You have to stay with Dorothy.”

  “Oh, Mavis. I know I’ve promised and promised, and you’ve been so good. I can leave her, you know. I don’t even think she’d mind all that much now. We’re so — apart. We seem to have been apart for years, since even before I met you.”

  Mavis turned to him and smiled. A lesser woman would have been irritated at the repetition of what might seem by now to be an empty promise, but Mavis knew better. She knew that every time Clifford promised to leave Dorothy, he meant it. Whenever it was going to be — when the children were older, when his younger daughter had left home, when he could afford to run two homes, when Dorothy had had her hip operation — Clifford really intended to leave her and be with Mavis. Often she had wondered how it was that she could see what he could not — that he was deceiving himself, and that for some time, he had managed to deceive her too. But perhaps in a way Clifford needed to believe that she and he would finally be together; he needed to believe that one day he would be able to make this very difficult decision.

  “What will you say?” he asked her. “What will you tell them?”

  “I don’t know.” Mavis had asked herself the same question. “I’ll see what everyone else says.”

  “You won’t tell them about the — you know.”

  “No, I won’t tell them that.” Mavis thought of the discreet cardboard box under her bed and the interesting little device inside, and how surprised people would be if they thought that she knew about, never mind used, such a thing. She smiled again. “No one will ever know about that.”

  Clifford returned her smile. “It’s given us a lot of fun, hasn’t it?”

  “It has. Oh, it certainly has.”

  Later, after she had tucked her mother up in b
ed, Mavis tidied her small sitting room and laid out the snacks, the wine and glasses, and some apple juice. She felt quite excited. It was a long time since she had entertained anyone, and she was looking forward to it. Her mother hadn’t questioned her when she’d said she was having some friends round. With the self-centredness often found in the very old or the very young, she was happy for Mavis to do as she wished, provided her own needs were met first, and this suited them both.

  Arranging a small vase of early daffodils on a side table, Mavis wondered what it would be like for the three of them to meet up without Father Cuthbert’s anxious, solicitous presence. Would they miss his apologetic interruptions, his gentle rebukes, and his awkward fumblings with the coffee and the biscuits?

  On the whole, she thought that they would not.

  Gabs

  Gabs looked at her watch, and then at the half-naked man who was crawling round the room on his hands and knees, barking like a dog.

  “I’m afraid our time’s nearly up,” she told him.

  The dog stopped barking and looked up at her mournfully. “Just five more minutes?” he asked.

  “No. I’m sorry. You’ve got to get dressed, and so have I.” She put down her whip and began easing herself out of her gymslip and tie. “And I have an appointment.”

  “Another — client?” He sounded jealous. It was odd how so many of them were jealous, when they knew very well what the deal was.

  “No, not another client. I’ve got a meeting this evening, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “You don’t look like the sort of person who goes to meetings.”

  “There’s a lot of things I don’t look like,” said Gabs, undoing her pigtails and pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “But I’d like to. Really I would. I’d love to — to get to know you better.”

  “No. Sorry. It’s not in the terms.”

  “Well, then, just one little kiss? Just a tiny one?”

  “That’s not in the terms, either. You know that, Gerald. No kissing. No blow jobs.”

  “Oh, I’d never ask for — for one of those.” He looked shocked.

  “Well, that’s okay, then.”

  “Next week?” Gerald stumbled to his feet and shook himself (he really did look just like a dog). “Shall I see you next week?”

  “Next week,” Gabs agreed.

  “Same place?”

  “Sure. You’re paying.” The hotel was a nice one, and the room service excellent.

  “I’ll see you then.” Gerald fumbled in his wallet and counted out money from a bundle of notes. “Is this all right?”

  Gabs checked the money carefully and picked out a ten-pound note. “You’ve overpaid me,” she said, handing it back to him.

  “No, no, that’s fine. You’re worth it.”

  “Thanks.” Gabs pocketed the money. “Have a good week.”

  As she walked through the hotel foyer, Gabs attracted a certain amount of attention. No doubt the hotel staff were unaccustomed to someone of her appearance (long pink hair, a tiny denim skirt, high-heeled cowboy boots, and multiple piercings of ears and face), but Gabs met their stares with a cool, level gaze.

  “Someone going to open the door for me, then?” she enquired of no one in particular.

  A uniformed flunky moved reluctantly forward.

  “My money,” said Gabs, waving a twenty-pound note at him (but taking care not to let go of it), “is as good as anyone’s.” And she flounced out into the street.

  Gabs was a Catholic and a tart. Not an easy combination, it is true, but as many have found before her, once a Catholic, it is very hard to escape from the Mother Church. And once a tart… well, that remained to be seen.

  Of course, Gabs didn’t normally describe herself as a tart. The few to whom she’d confessed her preferred occupation were informed that she was “a high-class escort,” but in the end, it amounted to much the same thing.

  Gabs herself would have disagreed, since she had strict guidelines and firm boundaries, and woe betide the gentleman who overstepped the mark. Besides this, she expected to be taken to respectable houses or (even better) posh hotels such as this for her liaisons; she had expensive tastes in food and wine (champagne and lobster were high on the list) and was happy to accompany clients on the occasional trip abroad. Her standards were high, it is true (if she can be said to have had such things), but she was rarely disappointed. For once a man had had a taste of Gabs (so to speak), he was usually enslaved, and he almost invariably came back for more.

  Of course, not every man favoured the facial piercings and the pink hair, but both could be removed if the occasion required it. Her own hair was short and spiky and usually blond, but she tended to favour wigs for work, depending on her client’s taste. She could scrub up to look divine in a ball dress, or dumb down to resemble, well, a tart. Gabs was nothing if not flexible. She charged a lot for her services, but her clients got their money’s worth, and she received few complaints.

  Gabs’ day job was a part-time care worker for a private agency — an odd type of work for someone of her calling, one might have thought, but Gabs was very soft-hearted and adored (and was adored by) the elderly people with whom she worked. The kisses that she refused her clients were generously bestowed upon her patients, and the former would have been astonished (not to say disappointed) to see the tenderness and empathy with which she carried out her duties. Many a time Gabs was urged to take up a full-time post, and even offered promotion, but her need to be free at short notice in case she was required by her clients precluded any kind of permanent commitment. This suited Gabs perfectly.

  Now Gabs tap-tapped her way down the high street in her very high heels, ignoring the admiring glances and the whistles. She barely noticed the attention she attracted, for she was used to it. Gabs wasn’t beautiful — you couldn’t even have described her as pretty — but with her petite figure, her generous breasts, her huge green eyes, and her air of feminine vulnerability (in fact, there was nothing vulnerable about Gabs, but no one was to know that), she had the kind of sex appeal that men found totally irresistible. They wanted to gather her up and take her away with them; to protect her and look after her; and while there were few things Gabs needed less, she was happy to go along with the idea if it increased her clients’ delusions of masculine strength and dependability.

  Gabs wasn’t vain. She liked the way she looked, and she made the most of it — apart from anything else, it paid the bills — but otherwise she took it for granted. She had never understood women who agonised over their faces or their figures. She realised that she was probably fortunate, but had always thought that had she been favoured with a different appearance, she could have coped quite happily. She would just have had to find a different job.

  An hour later, she arrived back at her flat.

  “Hi! I’m back.” She eased off her boots and threw her wig into a corner of the living room. “Steph? Are you in?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  Gabs followed the voice and found her sister sitting on the bed, trying to do something with her hair.

  “Going out?” Gabs asked.

  “Yes. But my hair…” Steph wailed. “It goes all frizzy in this weather.”

  “Borrow one of my wigs,” Gabs said, sitting down beside her. “Much less trouble than trying to sort out your own. I’ve got this great auburn one —”

  “But everyone knows I haven’t got auburn hair!”

  “Of course they do. And they’ll know you’ve borrowed mine. Does it matter? It would suit you.”

  “Gabs, you don’t understand. I like to look real.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “No — yes — oh, you know what I mean. You don’t mind.”

  “That’s true.” Gabs looked at her sister critically. “That top doesn’t suit you. It’s too — black.”

  “How can anything be too black?”

  “Quite easily. I’ve got
this turquoise one — it’s quite new — it would look great with those jeans.”

  Steph turned to face her. “Gabs, will you stop trying to make me look like you? I’ll never have your figure, and I’ll never be as — sexy as you are, but I like to choose what I do to make the best of what I’ve got. I don’t need your clothes or your wigs or —”

  “Okay, okay. Keep your hair on.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “No. But it was quite funny.” Gabs laughed. “Lighten up, Steph, for goodness’ sake. Tell you what. Let me straighten your hair for you, and then I’ll do your make-up, shall I?”

  “Oh, would you?”

  “Course. And before you say anything, I’ll do nice conventional make-up. Less is more and all that.”

  “No funny colours?”

  “Absolutely no funny colours.”

  Half an hour later, Steph was transformed. The frizzy hair had been straightened and lay obediently on her shoulders, and her face had been made up in tasteful shades of soft browns and corals, with just a hint of shimmer on the cheeks.

  “There,” said Gabs. “How’s that?”

  “Wow! That looks great. Thanks.” Steph turned to her. “You know, you could do this for a living. You’re brilliant at it.”

  “No, thanks,” said Gabs. “I prefer the job I’ve got.”

  “Jobs, you mean.”

  “Okay. Jobs, then.”

  “You know, Dad still has no idea what you do.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

  “Gabs —” Steph took Gabs’s hand — “it’s not — it’s not good for you, you know.”

  “It’s very good for me.” Gabs pulled a handful of banknotes out of her pocket. “Look. Can’t be bad for a day’s work, can it?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. But give it a rest, Steph, will you, and stop doing the older sister thing? You and I will never agree. And I accept what you do, don’t I?”

  “But I’m an estate agent!”