Their bodies close, limbs clutching, breast to breast, they loved each other again. The soft clock struck the quarter hour. Afterwards they lay letting themselves cool, not speaking, both staring full of thoughts and sadnesses into the shadows.
They kissed wearily and then she turned and sat her buttocks in his lap. He began to grow against her again. She laughed privately. ‘You really are …’ she said.
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
She turned. The faint light was enough for him to see the sadness of her face. ‘This may be the only time,’ she said.
When Toby tried to replace the telephone his hand shook so much he dropped it and it swung on its cord like a hanged man. He looked guiltily around. He knew there was no one else in the house but he went once more into every room to make sure. These days they did not even have a dog. His stomach refused to stay still. Going into the kitchen he poured himself a large Pepsi-Cola, drinking it hunched on the stool, staring ahead, thinking about what he had done; what he was about to do.
He looked at his watch. Two hours. He would have to get ready for her. God, this was going to be something: the real thing. And no mistakes, no accidents, no disappointments; no lonely walks home and ending up with his unresponsive pillow.
He bathed and cleaned his teeth, then shaved, although he had only done so on the previous Sunday before taking Liz out. Yet another disappointment. Now he was not merely on a promise; he was on a certainty. As certain as the day – and night. At last he would know. What it was like, how it felt, what you had to do.
He put on his blazer and flannels, after rejecting his best suit. There was a tie he had been given at Christmas and now he put it around his neck and knotted it before taking it off and throwing it aside. Casual, that’s how he should look, a man of the world. He opened his shirt collar. That looked as if he were opening the batting. ‘No bloody good,’ he said in anguish surveying himself in the mirror.
He tried his sports jacket; that was worse. Nobody went out to have sex wearing a check sports jacket, for Christ’s sake. Why get all dressed up when the whole idea was to get your clothes off? He kept checking his watch. It was slow, it was fast, it was stopped. It ticked on solidly. Two buses had to be coordinated. He peered out at the early dark evening. There were splashes of rain on the window pane. ‘Oh shit,’ he muttered in despair. Now he would have to wear his anorak.
He left the house in the anorak and blazer with a roll-necked sweater which he had worn at school, a combination, he thought, of the formal and the relaxed. With the rain thickening there was no avoiding the anorak. After giving it a brushing he pulled it on, tugging up the hood before he went out of the door. It would do but he could not let her see him wearing it.
He hurried along the village street, crossing over to avoid the lights from the Swan, pulling the hood of the anorak closer. ‘Good evening, Toby,’ said the vicar coming out of the church gate like some white-collared warning. ‘Not a nice one, wherever you’re off.’
‘J … just going somewhere,’ muttered Toby. The vicar turned in the same direction and put up an umbrella. They walked together, the vicar asking questions about his job and how his parents were. To Toby’s relief he went into the village hall but then Bernard Threadle chuggingly materialised along the street. He stopped. ‘Off somewhere?’ he demanded, like a man not to be denied an answer. ‘Going to see somebody,’ replied Toby miserably. ‘In Maidenhead.’
‘I’ve got friends in Maidenhead,’ said Bernard as though he might ask them to keep an eye on him.
‘Here’s the bus,’ said Toby as he saw the yellow lights splashing through the rain. Thank God for that.
‘Be off with you then,’ said Bernard in his guardian manner. And, as though he knew something: ‘And behave.’
Gratefully Toby climbed on the bus. Already aboard were the odd group of Filipinos he had seen in Bedmansworth. They were talking volubly. ‘Maybe we kill him,’ said the only man without lowering his voice. ‘Like in Robocop. Blow him away. Hah!’
To avoid them Toby went upstairs and, to his consternation, saw that the only other occupants were Randy Turner and Dee, the girl who claimed to have the bearskin rug. They both greeted him. ‘Where you off then?’ asked Randy. ‘Boy Scouts?’
‘Pack it, Randy,’ smirked Dee pulling the youth’s pigtail.
‘I’ve got a date,’ sniffed Toby. ‘In Maidenhead.’
‘Oh,’ said Dee. She looked annoyed. ‘Stretching our wings, are we then.’
‘We’re going to Dee’s place,’ said Randy. Smugly he put his thick arm about the thin girl. ‘She’s got a …’
‘Bearskin rug,’ finished Toby for him.
Randy glanced at Dee as though she were less than he had hoped. Dee said: ‘But you never saw it.’
‘Didn’t get a chance,’ said Toby defensively. He wondered how he could have gone through all he had for her.
‘She’s got a surprise for me, haven’t you darling?’ boasted Randy.
‘Yes, it’s her mother,’ Toby said soberly. ‘She throws the piss-pot over your head.’
He turned and went downstairs again. ‘Thanks!’ bawled Randy after him.
‘My pleasure,’ he called back.
The Filipinos were still plotting. ‘Maybe,’ suggested the old lady, ‘maybe you break one more leg.’
Toby squinted at the conductor. The man sniffed. ‘They’re like that,’ he said like someone with an extensive knowledge of the world. ‘Where they come from life’s cheap.’ Toby sat at the back and peered out at the wet night. ‘What I can’t understand,’ said the conductor as if it were the only thing, ‘is why they let them in in the first place.’ He bent to see if a bus stop was visible through the vacant rural darkness. ‘It’s getting to be like Hong Kong around here.’
Toby left the bus and waited, hunched under the metal shelter, until the next one came. It went west along the main road. He got off at the stop opposite the airport.
He was nearly there. He walked, his stomach churning with excitement and doubt, into the bright lobby of the hotel. There, away from the damp night, was light and warmth and softly broadcast music. Conversing people on leather couches lifted drinks that glistened in their hands. He almost turned and ran away.
But he steadied himself. He looked around. No one was watching him. He began to work to his plan. The first thing was to divest himself of his anorak and to fold it lining side out. He glanced about him cagily but still no one was paying any attention. He patted the inside pocket of the blazer.
There was a sign saying ‘Elevators’ straight ahead. He ambled towards it, his trembling held in iron restraint. A whole airline crew, pilot and co-pilot, stewards and stewardesses, all in pale blue uniforms like the chorus of a musical show, converged on the lifts and he stood, short, ordinary and conspicuous among their glitter and chatter. He let them get into the lift, intending to wait for the next one, but one of the stewardesses smiled with huge sweetness at him and said: ‘Plenty of room for you.’
‘Oh, yes. Thanks,’ he replied unsteadily. She smiled again. He stepped in with them. He was facing her; she was tall and the buttons on her tunic were level with his nose. He was conscious of the perfume and the proximity of the tightly skirted thighs. His chest contracted. The elevator halted and they all left. The girl who had suggested he joined them smiled once more, her bright lips parting to reveal big white teeth. ‘Merci, au revoir,’ she said. Her legs swished along the corridor.
He counted the numbers along the padded passage; the carpet was so thick, the walls so plush and enclosing, that he already felt he had passed into a different, dreamlike, place. There were pictures, London scenes on the walls, the air was warm and deftly perfumed, or it might have been that the stewardesses had passed along there so recently. It was as if he were following a scent. Then he came to the door: ‘Room 608’ it said in curled script. Oh God, he ought to run. He ought to run now.
He began to retreat up the corridor, picking
his way in reverse, his hand against the wall for guidance. He halted, struck his fist silently into his open hand, and walked forward again, now with clenched teeth and slow determination. Room 608. Almost there, his step slowed and once again he retreated, this time almost colliding with a waiter balancing a tray like a tightrope act. ‘Where you off then?’ asked the waiter, waltzing around him.
Toby fearfully spun about, ducking under the large tray as he did so. He said: ‘I’m lost.’
‘What number was it? Odds are on the right, evens on the left.’
‘Ah,’ Toby raised a finger as though some deep revelation had been offered. ‘Evens this side. Yes, I see.’ He started forward again. ‘I’m all right now, thanks.’
There was no turning back now because the waiter, posed at a door, was observing him. He nodded at each door along the silent corridor, like someone greeting a line of people; and when once more he arrived at ‘Room 608’ he raised his knuckles and, turning to grin stiffly at the still-loitering waiter, he knocked. When she opened the door he thought he was going to faint.
Georgina was wearing a pale blue nightdress with a lace-trimmed negligée draped beautifully across it, tied at the neck with a silken bow. Her face was fine, hair piled blonde and thick. Unbelievingly she stared at the boy. ‘Yes?’ she inquired.
‘Candy?’ It was half a whisper, half a groan. He heard the door down the corridor open and the waiter’s diminishing voice.
Georgina felt herself pale under her make-up. ‘You …?’ she inquired.
Relieved that she was as shocked as he was nervous, he ventured further. ‘I made an appointment.’ He swallowed violently. ‘Mr Arbuthnot.’
Turning pink, she said: ‘Please … come in … Mr Arbuthnot.’ Her face relaxed and she began to giggle, putting her hand to her mouth. The boy stepped into the hotel room. He had never been in a room like that before. The excitement was overwhelming him. She was shaped and silken, her face lovely, her perfume made him catch his breath.
As he stood inside the door trying to still his nerves, she closed it without fuss and turned to scan him. ‘Mr Arbuthnot,’ she asked coolly, ‘… how old are you?’
‘Old enough,’ he replied amazing himself. He tried to smile patiently as if the mistake was common.
‘Over sixteen?’ she inquired.
‘Well over.’
She whirled in a small circle, her hands to her face as though she did not know what to do. ‘And … Mr Arbuthnot … Please, what is your first name?’
‘Spike,’ he said blatantly. ‘Well, I wasn’t christened Spike obviously, but everybody calls me Spike. All my friends.’
‘Spike Arbuthnot,’ she repeated. ‘It certainly has something. Spike … please sit down.’
Toby went backwards, with small stuttering steps, towards the chair she indicated. He sat down and inclined so far backwards that it almost swallowed him. With a struggle he sat upright. ‘Candy,’ he said bravely, ‘I know what I’m doing. Honestly I do.’
She sat on the edge of the coffee table like a shy angel. Her legs slid from her nightdress. He tore his eyes up to her face.
‘You know what it’s all about, then?’ she asked.
‘Well, not everything,’ he admitted glancing away from those eyes. ‘That’s why I came. To find out.’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘But the arrangements … how much it costs and that sort of thing.’
‘The man on the telephone said it was from a hundred pounds up, depending …’
She nodded. She had instructed the Indian to under-quote. ‘So, you know that’s what it costs?’
‘For an hour,’ he agreed like someone who had studied a contract. For a moment he feared she was going to send him away but as he gazed at her he saw that it was all right. ‘Fine,’ she said standing up. ‘If you’re quite sure.’
‘Quite sure,’ he said. ‘You look great, you really do.’ He fumbled in his back pocket. ‘And here’s the money. One hundred in twenties.’
Georgina had never accepted money so slowly. Her face flushed. ‘I don’t know what to say. I haven’t had this situation before.’
‘Neither have I,’ he told her simply. There was a new certainty in his expression. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
She held out her fingers, her arm emerging from the silk garment. She asked him slowly: ‘You haven’t … done it? Ever?’
It was his turn to colour. ‘No, never,’ he said. His voice strengthened. ‘I’m getting fed up waiting.’
She was pouring out two glasses of white wine. ‘But … you’re a nice-looking young man. Don’t you have girlfriends?’
‘On and off. But they mess you around. I want to know what it’s really like. How it feels.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she said looking at the ceiling as though hoping for help. She handed the glass to him. ‘You … you do drink, I take it?’
‘Like a fish,’ he boasted. He drained the glass and choked. She patted his back in a motherly way. ‘Well,’ she said when he had apologised and recovered. ‘Let’s make a start, shall we.’
‘Please,’ he said.
‘Let’s go into the bedroom, if it’s your first time …’
‘It is. Honestly.’
‘Then you should never forget it. In fact both of us should remember it.’ She took his hand and led him through the door. He stared at the bed, its coverlet suggesting a reflection from the lamp at one side. The other lamp was unlit. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘About me. Did somebody tell you?’
‘No,’ he said stoutly. ‘I haven’t said a word to anyone.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I wouldn’t give you away, or anything.’ She had sat on the side of the bed and patted the coverlet in invitation. He sat, as though on a garden seat, beside her. ‘I work in a shop … an antique shop not an ordinary shop. I did a good deal, that’s how I got the money.’
‘I’m glad it’s not your savings.’
‘It’s not. Don’t worry about that. I made a lot on a picture in a sale.’
‘That’s very clever.’ She regarded him anxiously, close to, and he saw for the first time the small lines under her eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth. Her lipstick looked less smooth. She added professionally, checking her tiny watch, ‘We won’t count this towards your time. I’m just asking you because I’m interested. So how did you know about me?’
‘Well, I was wrapping up some stuff in the shop, in newspaper, and I saw your name and your number in one of those small advertisements. That’s when I made up my mind.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘When can we start?’
‘Now,’ she promised firmly. ‘We won’t waste another moment.’
Sitting on the bed with her had been so normal, so natural, like his mother had once done, but now she leaned towards him, he felt the sheen of her cheek and her lips, firm, almost brutal, as she kissed him. She picked up his hand and laid its palm against her breast, half skin, half silk. He felt his penis rise as if it wanted to leave the room.
Next he placed his hand on her thigh. ‘That’s right,’ she encouraged, then confidingly: ‘Listen, why don’t you take your clothes off and get into this bed. Get in that side. And wait for me.’
‘Where are you going?’ He looked anxious.
Georgina laughed again. ‘Only to the bathroom.’ She nodded: ‘In there.’
‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s all right.’
She leaned towards him again, overwhelming him, kissing him luxuriously. His hand found her breast again and he began to stroke her. ‘Now you’re turning me on,’ she said. ‘That’s not supposed to happen. Haven’t you ever kissed like that before?’
‘Only girls,’ he grimaced. ‘And they struggle. You know, play hard to get. None of them have any …’
His hand went to her breast again.
She chastened him with a pat. ‘I won’t be a tick,’ she said. She stood up and went into the bathroom. Left alone, Toby rolled in the ecstasy of anticipation against the
smooth coverlet. Glancing towards the bathroom door, he hurried around the other side of the bed, tugging off his clothes as he went. He flung the garments on the floor, and almost leaped under the cover. Then after peeping out at his pile of disarranged clothes, he got out again, folded up his trousers and put them and his other things on a chair. She was moving in the bathroom. The flush gushed. Oh Christ, this was going to be magic. He held onto his penis.
Eventually the door opened and she extinguished the light. His head was eagerly projecting from the bed-cover like a boy hoping to see Father Christmas. He rolled his eyes towards her. He could barely breathe. Now, oh God, she was wearing only the nightdress, slim and rippling, showing the skin of her arms and shoulders and the shapes of her slightly lolling breasts. ‘Would you like another drink, Spike?’ she asked.
He had forgotten he was called Spike and for an awful moment he glanced around in case someone else had appeared. Then he realised: ‘Oh no, no thanks, Candy. I’m not thirsty.’
She giggled openly as she came to the bedside. ‘This is different,’ she said as though to herself, looking at his head poking from the bed. ‘Very different.’
Georgina eased below the sleek counterpane. He began to shake and she put her hand on his stomach to calm him. They were both lying on their backs but she turned onto her hip, towards him, and he followed. ‘What would you like to do first?’ she asked.
Tentatively Toby put his hands on her waist. ‘I don’t know,’ he croaked. ‘How do you usually start?’
Georgina grinned. ‘You really are something,’ she said. Her fingers went to his hoping face. She sighed. ‘Spike Arbuthnot. That’s a lovely name.’
‘It’s not really my name,’ he confessed uncomfortably. ‘I thought I would have to lie to you.’
‘Lots do,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re Spike Arbuthnot to me.’
‘Can I … Can I … see you?’
‘Why not? That’s why we’re here.’ She guided him to the straps of her nightdress. ‘You do it.’
His breath seemed to have congealed. His very fingers vibrated as he eased away the delicate straps over her shoulders and rolled down the silk. First one breast then the other bounced out; they seemed to return his gaze. ‘Oh, they’re … very good,’ he said.
Arrivals & Departures Page 31
