Diivine Comedy

6

Divine Comedy

    The week had gone well, without any further close encounters, and by the Saturday evening Peter and Lalla were quite pleased with themselves and each other. And in a state of blissful ignorance about both the informative fax that had been circulating freely in diplomatic circles since around Wednesday noon their time, and Belinda Fitzherbert’s phone calls home. Though Peter, had he bothered to think about it, could have guessed about the latter.

    They hadn’t yet made it to the stud: that treat was scheduled for the morrow.

    “Don’t forget: early start,” he said with a twinkle as they reached the head of the stairs.

    Lalla yawned. “Yes. If I don’t wake up, come and shout at me. You might have to shake me, too. Goodnight.”

    “Goodnight,” said Peter weakly, tottering off to his hideous brown and black room.

    He woke early and was tempted—very tempted. But in the end he let the yuppie ring her room: better safe than sorry. Words to that effect.

    She came down to breakfast smiling, wearing her jeans with one of Peter’s belts and a white silk shirt that was also his, that he’d given her in self-defence.

    “This shirt is miles too wide across the shoulders."

    “Mm.” It wasn’t too wide across the bust, though.

    “And it comes almost to my knees. I’ve got it all bunched up,” she said, wriggling. “How can you bear to wear them so long?”

    “Eh? Oh. Sorry. Why not cut a foot or so off it, if it’s not comfortable, Lalla?”

    Lalla hesitated. “It’d spoil it, though; it’s such lovely material.”

    Peter had drawersful of them. Drawersful. “Never mind.”

    “Okay!” She vanished, smiling.

    When she returned he didn’t dare to ask, really. She reported sunnily that it was miles more comfortable, and sat down smiling. The yuppie eagerly handed food. Peter just buried his nose in his coffee cup.

    She was all right on the bigger jet to Melbourne but had a panic at Melbourne airport when she saw how small bloody Bruce’s pet vehicle was.

    Peter put his arm round her. “Just calm down, Lalla, you won’t be sick: we’ll get you some Dramamine.”

    “But it’s Sunday!”

    So it was.

    “Never mind. Bruce will send someone to scour the wilds of Melbourne for chemists’ shops.”

    “That’s right, dear,” put in Pegeen comfortably. “Come on, we’ll try the lounge, shall we? It’ll be bloody uncomfortable, mind you, they always are, and I’m warning you now, they’ll be mean as sin with the drinks, so order doubles, dears.” She grabbed Hettie Van Buren’s arm and forged ahead, embarking on a long, complicated, and very probably apocryphal story about the trials experienced by a great-great-aunt of hers when crossing something-or-other by bullock cart—good old Pegeen.

    “Sorry,” said Lalla glumly. “Only I think I might be sick in it.”

    “Mm.” Peter followed with his arm round her, smiling. Poor Hettie Van Buren was looking quite stunned. Not to say hot: she was in terrifically trendy gear that was very obviously designed for a casual country weekend with the horses: skin-tight white drill pants, matching heavy cotton tailored shirt, and white felt cowboy hat. Not to mention the smartly rolled cowboy kerchief round the neck, the broad white webbing watch-strap and belt, or the high-heeled tan cowboy boots that looked as if they were giving her Hell!

    They finally arrived at the stud around one o’clock. Not bad going, considering the proportion of females in the party. Mrs Van Buren was looking more stunned than ever, which could have had something to do with the fact of Bruce’s having warmly invited her to sit by him while he flew the bloody thing, and then having spent most of the trip trying to put his hand on her white cotton-drill thigh.

    The house was a large, lowish, charming two-storeyed affair of natural timbers and heavy stone. Pegeen herself showed them to their room. “I think you’ll be comfortable here, dears. Like it, Lalla? Bruce likes the country look; don’t know that I go for it much, myself. Come down soon as you’re ready, and we’ll have some lunch. You can try out that nice big bed later!” She departed, with an arch giggle.

    Lalla looked at him in despair, her cheeks burning. This was terrible! Why hadn’t she realised that of course Pegeen would expect them to share? And—and why hadn’t he said they couldn’t possibly stay overnight, they had to get back to Canberra, when Pegeen had said Bruce could fly them back on Monday?

    “Personally I think it’s vile,” he said in that cool, detached voice of his. “What makes her imagine that a combination of artistically yellow and brown roses on what I sincerely hope is not a Sanderson linen miraculously turns into a country look when combined with yellow, brown and green tartans?”

    Lalla gulped. “I don’t know. –What are we going to do?” she hissed.

    “I’m going to have a leak,” replied Peter firmly.

    Lalla felt her cheeks go hotter than ever. Men were awful! Even him, she hadn’t thought he’d ever say something like that!

    “Though I’ll let you go first, if you like,” he said politely.

    “N— Y— Um, yes, thanks!” She escaped thankfully into the ensuite, locking the door carefully, with fingers that shook.

    Ooh, help. The ensuite was all country-look, too! Dark green bathroom furniture, including a bidet, she was being followed by the things, and more tartans, dark greens and browns faintly lightened by reds. And lots of polished wood. Wouldn’t it be ruined by the steam? Lalla tottered over to the dark green toilet and found she was so strung up, what with him being just out there and having to share a room and the thought that he might hear her, that she couldn’t do anything, even though she needed to. After a period of desperation she sneakily turned the tap on in the basin and was finally able to pee.

    Peter had listened to this sequence with some considerable pleasure. He made no remark, however, but went in silently in his turn.

    Lalla went over to the bedroom window and stood staring out unseeingly at a pretty enough stretch of dry Victorian countryside, trying not to listen. She could hear every drop, though: every drop. There must be something wrong with the acoustics of that blimming bathroom, that was what!

    Peter came out whistling. “Nice soap,” he said.

    “What? Oh—yes. I don’t know what that perfume is.”

    “Sandalwood. Lovely.”

    “Oh.”

    There was a short silence. Lalla gave him a desperate look but didn’t dare to broach the subject of the one large bed in case he said something awful.

    “Shall we go down?” he said.

    She nodded mutely.

    “You’d better brush your hair, first.”

    Limply Lalla found her brush and began to brush her hair.

    Peter watched her for a few moments, then came up close behind her. “Let me.”

    “No,” said Lalla hoarsely.

    “There’s no need to be nervous.”

    “No,” she agreed limply.

    Peter took a deep breath. “We’ll work something out about the sleeping arrangements, okay?”

    “Mm,” she replied, nodding miserably.

    He found his fists had clenched. He unclenched them carefully and stepped away from her. “Hurry up: I’m sure Pegeen has already thrown half a horse on the barbie.”

    “What? Oh—yes.”

    It wasn’t half a horse but it was certainly a large portion of a beef animal, and it wasn’t Pegeen in charge of the barbie, it was Bruce. In an apron which said “Big Man”—fair enough. Hettie was still looking stunned and still looking hot, although it was marginally cooler than it had been at Melbourne Airport. Peter could only conclude it served her right.

    Pegeen had made the trip in a frightening leisure suit of very pale blue cotton in a heavy slub weave: tight trousers, impressive on her large, solid thighs, and a short, wide-shouldered jacket covered in silver chains, buckles, clips and zips. That must have been travelling leisure wear, as she had now changed into something almost as frightening but which at least looked as if she was comfortable in it—and, Peter saw with a little smile, she had removed the bra: good old Pegeen. The new leisure suit was very, very, very bright pink in some thin, shiny, slightly creased artificial fabric: the tracksuit thing, the trousers gathered into nylon-knit cuffs and the jacket cuffs similar. Though Peter would have taken his dying oath she’d never jogged a step in it. The bright turquoise stripes down the legs and sleeves were definitely a mistake: the two colours would have been more than enough separately, but in combination they flickered at you. Especially if you weren’t quite looking at them head on. Under the jacket, which she pretty soon removed, since they were eating out in the oppressive midday heat on the—oh, God—patio, was a loose tee-shirt sort of thing, the background bright turquoise, adorned with a bright pink and black sequinned, yes, sequinned, horse’s face. Good old Pegeen.

    Bruce, behind the immense apron, was in immense white slacks and an immense Hawaiian shirt. Predominantly red, purple, and orange, but hot lime green and screaming yellow were also allowed a look-in. Predictable—yes. The red face to the contrary, he did look reasonably cool. Bloody Bernie Carpenter was unashamedly in baggy blue cotton shorts and a short-sleeved, thin cotton shirt in a faded green and white check, open over his large, brown, hairy and to Peter’s somewhat jaundiced eye not particularly attractive chest and stomach. Looking remarkably comfortable in it, sod the bugger. And in fact Lalla on emerging onto the patio had immediately said to him with a shy smile: “You look cool, Bernie.” Well, sod the man!

    Peter himself was wearing loose white cotton slacks which he had been assured by the fool who sold them to him were suitable for all kinds of tropical climes and very popular in (God) Nassau, and a sea-island cotton, dark blue short-sleeved shirt with a small pattern of white lifebuoys. It hadn’t seemed particularly appropriate to a visit to a horse stud, true, but he had chosen it because at least it had short sleeves and was cool. Not admitting to himself that he had also chosen it partly because he had been quite sure that Bruce and Bernie would both be vulgar and flashy and partly because he knew it suited him. It would have been even cooler if, he now realised quite clearly, he hadn’t been so bloody vain as to tuck it into the trousers and belt it tightly with a bloody white cotton-weave belt which was the spitting image of Hettie Van Buren’s. In order, yes, cretin that he was, to impress Lalla with the flatness and leanness of his own stomach as compared to bloody Bernie Carpenter’s. It would also have been cooler if he hadn’t been too bloody vain to admit he was too damned hot and untuck it, letting it hang loose in unsightly crumpled folds. Added to which, though he had felt rather smug at the moment of inserting himself into it in his cool Canberra bedroom very early in the morning, he now felt it was boringly conservative. Added further to which, Lalla had already looked at the bloody thing with an ill-concealed grin and upon being asked had choked: “Lifesavers!”

    There were no servants at Bruce’s stud. Peter had expected this, but he was damn’ sure Hettie hadn’t. Pegeen bustled around finding cutlery and crockery and Lalla began helping her as a matter of course. Hettie appeared to come out of her heat daze with a start and also offered to help. Peter actually felt a moment of pity for the woman.

    He had expected—though he knew Bernie Carpenter fairly well—that there would be the usual pathetic display of male rivalry over the bloody barbecue, but in fact Bernie merely stood by to give Bruce a hand when needed. Or when shouted at: Bruce’s cooking was definitely of the “Shit, the bloody things are burning!” school, as he turned back to his sixteen-foot array of smoking ironmongery with his third Black Label in his fist.

    The beer flowed like water, the Black Label also flowed like water, chiefly in the direction of Bruce, the rum-and-pineapples attempted to flow like water but Peter managed to keep them away from Lalla, and eventually, after they’d gnawed their way through half a bullock and consumed vast mounds of fruit salad in which fresh papaya and cantaloupe jostled uncomfortably against tinned peaches, strings of dried coconut and chopped marshmallows, both white and pink, a combination which no-one but Peter seemed to find extraordinary—well, Hettie might be from the upper echelons but she was still a Yank—they were at last allowed to stroll down to the actual stud and get a glimpse of the actual horses.

    Lalla was enchanted by the whole bit. Peter was less enchanted but as the purgatorial afternoon seemed to be getting exponentially hotter with every passing minute he felt he had some excuse. Mrs Van Buren also seemed enchanted, or at least professed herself so to be, leaning rather heavily on Bernie Carpenter’s arm as she did so. Bernie did not seem impressed, either by the horses or by Hettie, unfortunately.

    About seventeen hours later they were allowed to escape from the heat and take a shower and have a rest before dinner in the air conditioning which bloody Bruce had, with a jolly Black-Labellian laugh, at last remembered to switch on. Jesus.

    Dinner wouldn’t be until eight. Pegeen had archly promised them crayfish (God), and archly seen them into their country-style bedroom. And departed, waggling her fat fingers in arch good-bye.

    “I’m having a shower. And bugger manners, you’re not going first."

    “I don’t want to go first,” said Lalla mildly. “It is hot, isn’t it? Only I suppose I’m used to a warmer climate than you. But I thought rich European people always went to really hot places for the summer? Um...”

    “Yes?” he said nastily.

    “Um, well, the Caribbean?”

    Peter looked down at his trousers with disfavour. “Bloody Nassau.”

    “What?”

    “Never mind. Whatever rich European people might, in myth or actuality, I personally don’t favour frying myself for seventeen hours on end after a heavy lunch in thirty-five-degree heat.”

    “Bruce says it’s about thirty-two.”

    “Bruce is used to living in this purgatorial climate. In fact, to continue the theme, Bruce can go to Hell, and his bloody horses can go with him.” He went into the bathroom but not in time to miss hearing her say mildly: “At least you had the sense to wear a hat.” Was that a hit at his Englishness, his ignorance of Antipodean customs, his advancing age, or what? Christ!

    When he came back in one of the twin dark green terry robes which must be there for the porpoise—just like a bloody hotel, except that they didn’t usually go so far as to inscribe, ye Gods, “Stallion” in flowing scarlet script on the breast-pocket of the one and “Filly” on that of the other—she wasn’t there. Peter had been feeling both cooler and calmer, and somewhat sheepish. Now he felt distinctly alarmed and also quite immensely let-down. He sat down limply on the side of the bed. Shit. And, just by the by, what in God’s name was she telling Pegeen?

    He had had time to start feeling both sick and angry when she came in, smiling, carrying a tray. “It’s spring water with real lime juice. Pegeen says it’s the most refreshing drink she knows.”

    “Blessings on the pair of you,” said Peter limply, accepting a tall, rapidly frosting tumbler.

    Lalla perched beside him, looking nervous. “Shall I have a shower now?”

    “Mm.” Peter drained his glass with a sigh. “Yes, have a shower, Lalla. There’s another robe in there, if you fancy yourself as a dark green filly.”

    Lalla’s jaw dropped.

    “Mm, truly,” he said, nodding.

    She leapt up and rushed into the bathroom. He waited.

    “Yikes!” Then there was a gale of giggles.

    Smiling, Peter settled himself comfortably on the bed against the piled tartan pillows.

    Someone had thoughtfully provided a bottle of Gilbey’s with the spring water and lime. He had just awarded himself one, having cooled down to a state where he felt his metabolism could take it, when she came back from her shower.

    “Come and sit here,” he said, patting the place beside him, “and have a cool drink, and—uh—we’ll sort things out."

    Lalla pinkened, but nodded, and got onto the bed beside him, being very careful not to let her robe gap.

    Peter bit his lip slightly but merely handed her a drink. “Want gin in it?”

    “Is it nice?”

    “Mm.”

    “Okay,” she said trustingly.

    He poured rather more than half an inch of gin into her tall tumbler. Lalla drank half of it off thirstily before he could tell her not to gulp it. “Can you hear horrid music?” she said.

    Somewhere in the background tinny music which certainly qualified as “horrid” could be discerned, yes. “Yes; your ears haven’t gone funny. I imagine that’s Pegeen and Bruce being tactful while they have an afternoon f—” Peter broke off abruptly.

    Lalla had gone bright red. “I see,” she said in a strangled voice.

    “Appearances to the contrary—or perhaps not to the contrary,” he said thoughtfully, “old Bruce darl’ isn’t past it yet.”

    “I know. She told me.”

    Peter choked.

    “She said she’d never be able to stand being married to a man that couldn’t—um—you know,” explained Lalla, pink but earnest.

    He nodded, coughing slightly, and banging himself on the chest.

    “She said she knew she was awful, but it was no use trying to pretend to yourself you were something you couldn’t be,” said Lalla, frowning thoughtfully over it.

    “Yes. Er, Lalla,” said Peter hoarsely, “did she—did she by any glorious chance say all this to you over your lunch with Hettie?”

    “Yes,” said Lalla simply.

    Peter couldn’t even laugh. He just looked at her limply.

    “And if you want to know, me and Hettie both agreed, and I like her!” she said loudly.

    “Which?” he croaked.

    “Pegeen, of course, but I like Hettie too, and if you just want to sit there getting at them because they’re not blimmin’ English people, then I’m going downstairs!”

    “Don’t do that,” said Peter feebly, putting his hand on her dark green terry knee.

    Lalla looked at his hand, which was rather sinewy, and lightly tanned, with long fingers and not, thank goodness, hairy at all: Matt had had horrid hair on his fingers. And went all trembly and was incapable of either speech or movement.

    Peter found he was shaking slightly. He didn’t dare to say anything, but after a moment he slid his hand under the flap of the terry robe and onto her thigh.

    “Don’t,” she whispered,

    He swallowed hard. “Please don’t say don’t.”

    Lalla looked at him doubtfully. He was biting his lip and not looking at her. His cheeks were rather flushed. She didn’t think it was entirely because he’d caught the sun this afternoon.

    Peter had felt his eyes fill with tears like a fool. He didn’t dare to look her in the face, just sat there helplessly, feeling as if his entire fate was in her neat nail-varnishless hands. Absurd. At his age? And—and an obscure little thing from a half a world away? It would hardly be fair on her…

    “Don’t cry,” said Lalla, licking her lips.

    “I’m not,” he said tightly.

    “Yes, you are, a bit.”

    “I—” Peter gave in, turned swiftly and buried his face in her green terry-cloth bosom.

    After quite some time of mixed Paradise and agony, during which he was incapable of anything approaching rational thought, he said huskily: “Couldn’t we?”

    Lalla didn’t reply but he felt her swallow.

    “Couldn’t we waive that part of the bloody contract?” said Peter into her bosom.

    “All right,” she said faintly.

    He raised his head and kissed her hungrily before she could object or change her mind or—whatever.

    When he stopped Lalla said very faintly: “Don’t do it without a condom.”

    Peter went very red. He tried to smile insouciantly, but failed utterly. “Don’t you want to, after all?”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding,

    “Is that a yes or a no?” he croaked.

    “Yes!” gulped Lalla.

    “Jesus,” he said limply, collapsing against her shoulder.

    Lalla could feel his heart hammering against her. His body felt very warm. “I do want to,” she said uncertainly into his ear.

    “Mm,” he agreed, very muffled."

    There was a short pause.

    “You’ve got nice ears,” said Lalla shyly. Not because she felt it might cheer him up, though she did feel he needed cheering up, but because he had nice ears and it just sort of came out.

    “Thank you,” said Peter into her shoulder. He waited but she didn’t nibble one of his nice ears.

    “A bit pixyish,” said Lalla faintly.

    Pixyish. The mind boggled. At least, it certainly did when it was used to considering its owner a rather sophisticated fellow whose various assets, not to say whose varied techniques, had been greatly appreciated by not a few rather sophisticated wom— Never mind. The bloody techniques certainly weren’t in evidence at the moment, were they? Not that she’d recognise them if she fell over them. …Pixyish? After quite some time Peter found the strength to look up and meet her eye and say: “I see. A bit pixyish, eh? Then you don’t see me as the macho man to end all macho men? This year’s—er—Schwarzenegger?"

    She looked blank. “No-o.... What I mean is, I don’t know who he is, but I don’t see you as, um, exactly macho.”

    Peter put a hand under her chin. “Oh, dear, and I thought I’d impressed you with my masterful ways and my—er—not leaping tall buildings, but at least with my—”

    “Overseas faxes!” said Lalla with a sudden loud laugh.

    “Of course. Them and me gold Rolex watch,” he said meekly.

    “Is that a rich brand?”

    He nodded meekly.

    Lalla eyed him suspiciously. “Is it? Yours, I mean.”

    It was, rather, and he was pretty sure she could feel it was: he was lying half on top of her.

    He coughed. “No.”

    Lalla smiled slowly.

    Peter put his face into her neck. “It’s a Reverso. My grandfather had it during the War.”

    “Oh,” she said blankly. “I’ve never heard of that brand.”

    “No. I’ll show you later,” he murmured.

    “Thank you,” she said, blank but mannerly.

    “But may I just show you a few other things first?” he said politely into her neck.

    “Ye-es. Oh! Um—yes,” said Lalla, getting terribly flustered. "Do you mean you do still want to?”

    “Christ, yes!” he said, looking up at her in amazement. “Can’t you feel that I do?”

    Lalla pinkened. “I thought I could. Only then you, um, sort of stopped.”

    He hadn’t sort of stopped at all, in fact he feel didn’t as if he was ever going to sort of— “Mm, came over all uncertain,” he said, making a face.

    Lalla nodded seriously. “I never knew that men got nervous, too.”

    Peter bit his lip. “Mm. Especially when— Never mind.”

    “Aren’t I doing the right things?” she said anxiously.

    Unexpectedly his eyes filled again. He put his face back into her neck. “Yes,” he said in a muffled voice. “You’re doing the right things, darling.” He nibbled her neck very gently. After a few seconds she squeaked and grabbed his back.

    Thank—Christ, thought Peter, rather shattered to feel how immensely relieved he was.

    He went on nibbling for a little, then very gently pushed his face down a bit and very gently undid the robe and— Oh, God! He mumbled his face between her breasts, kissing hungrily.

    Lalla’s heart hammered and she held him so tight that her fingernails dug into him and she thought to herself it was just as well she didn’t have long claws like all those ladies: she wouldn’t want to scratch him— He sat up suddenly and put his long, perfect mouth on hers and Lalla stopped thinking and kissed him back until they were both breathless and had to stop, and catch their breaths.

    Peter untied his robe and slipped it off his shoulders. She was blushing and trying not to look down; he grinned, and put his mouth very gently on hers, kissed her softly, and murmured against her cheek: “It’ll get better before it gets worserer, you know.”

    “Mm!” she squeaked.

    “If you put your legs apart just a bit,” said Peter with a smile in his voice, sliding one hand over her warm belly, “I could lie right between them: wouldn’t that be nice?”'

    “Um, yes.” She moved a little, looking up at him uncertainly.

    He wriggled between her thighs immediately, whether or not it had been an invitation. She was still looking at him uncertainly, propped against the tartan pillows.

    “What is it?” he murmured.

    “You are going to use a condom, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, for God’s sake!” He took another look at her face. “Yes. Trust me.”

    “I—I don’t think I can,” said Lalla in a voice that shook.

    “Do you want me to stop, is that it?” he said grimly.

    “No,” she whispered.

    “Then what— Oh. Look, I’ll get one now, will that make you feel better?”

    “Yes. Only have you got any?”

    “Er— Ugh.” He knelt up between her knees, chewing his lip. “Damn. That is a point.”

    “Mm,” said Lalla, not looking at it.

    Suddenly Peter laughed. “Yes, ’tis, isn’t it? –Don’t worry, darling, we don’t have to do it that way. But I’ll take a look in the bathroom: Pegeen strikes me as the sort of thoughtful hostess—” He clambered off the bed.

    Sure enough. Bloody Hell, in fact: what did she think they were? –Well, probably nothing personal was meant: they must just be the regular guest supply. After looking round wildly he hid some of the ruder thingies right at the back of the cupboard under the dark green hand-basin and went back into the bedroom with some of the rather more ordinary thingies.

    “Rude thingies,” he said, grinning.

    She nodded, looking anxious.

    He got back on the bed. Her legs were jammed together but he was neither surprised nor offended. Probably nothing personal was meant. “See?”

    She inspected his handful carefully. “Yes. Good.”

    “Do you mind awfully if I don’t put one on yet? We haven’t, though possibly you haven’t noticed it, even had any simple skin contact, yet.”

    “No,” said Lalla, blushing and looking away. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

    “For God’s sake! My feelings are not—” Peter found he’d got rather loud. He broke off, flushing.

    “It isn’t personal. I can’t help it if I don’t trust you,” said Lalla in a small voice.

    Actually, it had begun to feel bloody per— Oh. Hold on, hold on… “This fellow of yours, the one who didn’t teach you about French wines: what was his attitude to the French letter, may I enquire?”

    “What?”

    “Condom: an earlier generation referred to them as French letters,” he said, grinning.

    “Oh. Um… he hated them,” said Lalla in a low voice,

    Understandable, thought Peter fairly, having the sense not to say so. “Mm-hm.”

    Lalla’s mouth trembled. “He made me go on the Pill.”

    “Yes?” he said foggily.

    “It was all right for a bit, only then I felt sick a lot and I nuh-never really felt like duh-doing it and Matt was wuh-wild.”

    There was quite a long silence.

    “Just let me get a couple of things straight,” said Peter, sitting back against the tartan pillows and gently taking her hand—though he could feel the resistance in her: “this fellow did not then suggest you stop taking the bloody things?”

    “No,” she said, looking bewildered. “Because he wouldn’t do it with a condom, you see.”

    That had been going to be his next question, actually. “I see. And at the same time he was insisting you be responsible for the precautions, he was—er—slagging you off, I feel is probably the indicated phrase,” he said, nostrils flaring, “because the damned pills lowered your libido and made you feel generally rotten?”

    “Um… yes,” said Lalla, looking at him in a puzzled way. “Lowered my libido: yes. I couldn’t remember how to say it.”

    Peter shut his eyes for a moment, wincing. “Jesus.”

    “I’ve gone off them now, so I—I feel all right, but—but I cuh-can’t do it without a condom,” she said in a high, nervous voice.

    “No,” said Peter, hurriedly opening his eyes: “of course you can’t, darling. And Christ, it is the AIDS era, I wouldn’t dream of asking it of you! Don’t worry, I promise I’ll wear one before I put it into you.”

    “Ye-es... Sometimes they get carried away,” said Lalla, going very red.

    Peter took a deep breath. “This one will not get carried away to the extent of behaving a like a bloody brute, I promise you.”

    “No,” she agreed obediently.

    He put his free hand gently under her chin. “I am old enough to know what I’m doing,” he said softly.

    “Yes, but so was he. More than.”

    Oh, ho, thought Peter. “Mm,” he said, putting his mouth against hers. “Mmm.”

    Lalla closed her eyes and opened her mouth to say she trusted him but before she could even breathe he was kissing her and she felt terribly dizzy and kissed him back and thought maybe it would be all right, and if he didn’t use one and she got pregnant she supposed she could have an abortion, and—

    Peter rolled on top of her and got both arms round her and said into her ear: “For God’s sake come down in the bed a bit and let me get between your legs. I’m just about bloody coming, here, out of sheer frustration!”

    Oh, dear, thought Lalla. “Yes—um—you’re squashing me!” she said breathlessly.

    He laughed. “Yes: nice, isn’t it? Come on, then, move down.”

    He moved down himself and Lalla obediently wriggled down until just her head was on the pillows.

    Her arms were still in the dark green towelling robe: Peter smiled a little, and didn’t tell her to take it right off, but just kissed her knee and said softly: “Put ’em apart.”

    She moved her legs a little and he rolled on top of her and kissed her breasts hungrily and rapidly moved his face down over the belly—mmm, soft—and shoved it between her thighs before she could object. God—Paradise.

    “Don’t!” she gasped.

    Peter raised his head muzzily. “Eh?” She was as wet as Hell: she must bloody well want it!

    Lalla was very red. “I might come if you—you know!” she gasped.

    “Y— Uh—ye-es... That would be very nice for both of us,” he said foggily. Some strange Antipodean taboo, was it? A quirk of her own? Or— No, wait.

    “Wait,” he said grimly. “This is some bloody fatuous order from that bloody fatuous fellow you were involved with, is it?”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding. “Matt.”

    “I don’t want to hear his bloody name!” said Peter loudly. And not in quite the form he’d intended, either: “I don’t need to know his name” was really what he’d meant. Uh—wasn’t it? “Sorry, didn’t mean to shout: think I’m jealous,” he said shortly.

    Lalla goggled at him.

    “Yes, me; we’ve already agreed I’m not the macho man of the year. –Look, darling,” he said more gently: “what in God’s name did the bloody man say to you?”

    “He—he suh-said,” said Lalla, her eyes filling with tears, “that I had to wuh-wait for him. And—and I druh-drove him mad when I cuh-couldn’t, when he was—you know.”

    God: what with the circumlocutions and the muzziness, not to say the towering prick that was just about preventing cogitation at all—

    “Ye— Um—I’m sorry, darling, I don’t quite get it.”

    “When he was doing it,” said Lalla miserably. “He got wild if I couldn’t come too.”

    Peter gaped at her.

    “You know.”

    “I’m glad to say I don’t,” he said faintly. “Are you saying the silly fellow demanded—er—let me get it right—vaginal and simultaneous orgasms from you as a—a matter of course?”

    Lalla’s lips moved silently. Very evidently she had never phrased it to herself in precisely those terms. He just waited.

    “Yes, that was it. He got really annoyed when I couldn’t. And when he—you know,” she said, nodding at him, “like you were doing, and I—I couldn’t stop myself, he usually got really wild. And said why couldn’t I wait. And I don’t know why!” said Lalla in a very high voice with tears in her eyes.

    Peter smiled a little. “Partly physiology, could be partly your age, and lack of practice.”

    “We did it lots of times.”

    “Yes, with him giving orders and generally haranguing you.”

    She nodded, looking at him dubiously.

    “Forget all about him. Forget every last bloody thing he said. And—uh—this may be difficult, but for God’s sake don’t assume that all men are like him. Well, I don’t much care about the others, but for God’s sake don’t assume I am!” He wriggled down a bit and kissed her toes. “Mmm, what nice toes.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla in a bewildered voice. “Do you mean you don’t mind?"

    He lay on top of her and said into her ear: “No, I don’t mind. I’ll just be bloody grateful to have you come any way you like for me, Lalla.”

    “Oh,” she said in a puzzled voice.

    “Don’t hold back,” said Peter into her ear.

    “No.”

    “Kiss me—and do you think you could possibly put your hand on my cock?” he said with a laugh in his voice. “That does tend to encourage a chap.”

    “Mm.” Lalla held her face up obediently. Peter kissed her: he could feel she was groping for him— Jesus!

    “Jesus!” he gasped, putting all his weight on her and kissing her hungrily with his eyes tight shut.

    Lalla rubbed him obediently and kissed him back and tried not to wonder, not to say hope, if he was going to kiss her—like that—again. And if he’d really meant what he’d said.

    He must have meant it because after a while he pushed her hand away and said—his face was very red but she wasn’t quite sure exactly why: “Stop, it’s too good. I’ll get down there again, if I may?”

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly.

    He smiled and kissed her very gently.

    “Peter—” said Lalla in a high voice.

    “What, darling?” he murmured, nibbling her ear.

    “Nothing.”

    “Nothing?”

    “Um—I’m glad you’re you!” she gasped, unable to say that she loved him.

    Peter didn’t reply, just got down there and pushed his face between her thighs again.

    She came about ten seconds later. He didn’t know if he was more flattered or relieved, really. Then, after the nails had relaxed on his shoulders and she was merely gasping for breath instead of shrieking as well, he didn’t know if he could bloody—

    He sat up, grabbed a condom, ripped the bloody packet apart wishing he did have the strength of a Schwarzenegger, Jesus Christ, why did they make ’em out of tempered st— Dragged the bloody thing on, fell on top of her and got it up there in Paradise, managed to kiss her once and went off like the bloody Challenger. Like the bloody Challenger yelling its head off.

    She must have noticed because approximately an aeon later she said: “You yelled a lot."

    “Mm,” replied Peter into her tangled hair with his eyes shut.

    “Are you all right?” said Lalla timidly. His heart was still thudding like mad.

    “Mm. –Mm.” He kissed her muzzily with his eyes shut, rolled onto his back and pulled her against him. “Mmm.”

    “Funny, isn’t it?” said Pegeen dreamily, gazing up at their tartan ceiling.

    “Funny? I’da said it was pretty bloody good, for a bloke of my age!” retorted Bruce.

    “No. –Clot. –No: him.”

    “Eh?”

    “Didn’t you hear?”—Bruce looked at her groggily.—“Just then: yelling his head off.”

    “Uh—oh. Was ’e? S’pose ’e was, yeah. So what?”

    “Oh… I wouldn’t have said he was the type, really.”

    Bruce peered blearily at her. “Thought you said that was the object of the exercise, old girl?”

    “Eh? Aw: yeah!” Pegeen gave a fruity chuckle. “Well, yeah, get the pair of them away to the country. –Well, I dunno what was wrong, but something was, they were both strung up like I dunno what. Violin strings or something. You know: edgy as all get out.”

    “So ya reckoned,” he said, yawning.

    “Mm, but even so, I wouldn’t have said… Well, I’m glad for her sake!” she decided.

    “Yeah.” Bruce yawned. “Well, ’e might be a Pom but ’e isn’t unnatural, darl’. Dare say she turns him on like nobody’s biz.”

    “Oh, ya dare say, do ya?"

    “Yeah. Great tits. –And legs,” he added by the by. “Ya know what makes it really good?” he added dreamily.

    “No, and I dunno that I want to!” replied Pegeen with considerable energy, especially for one that had been yelling her own head off about twenty minutes earlier.

    “That waist,” said Bruce with relish.

    “Eh?”

    Bruce closed one eye and described an exaggerated hour-glass shape in the air with his hands.

    “I see,” said Pegeen feebly, trying not to laugh. “Really good, eh?”

    Bruce yawned. “Yeah. –Lucky bloke,” he noted by the by. “Get us a drink, wouldja, darl’?”

    “You’ve had enough. Well, just a little one.” Grunting, Pegeen got off the bed and went over to the little fridge. “We’ve got gin and rum,” she reported. “Gin and ginger?”

    “Thadd’ll do. Make it a long one, not as young as I was.”

    “You!”

    Bruce smirked.

    Grinning to herself, Pegeen poured him what in her terms was a very weak gin and ginger ale. Her own rum and ginger she made rather stronger on the score of she needed it. Not that she hadn’t fully intended Peter and Lalla to get it together this weekend, of course. But— Well!

    “Musta been good,” rumbled Bruce ruminatively as she handed him his drink and got back onto the big bed. “If ya could hear ’im all the way down the passage with the radio on.”

    “Well, yeah. –She is a lovely girl, Brucey.”

    “Yeah. Funny bloke, eh?” he said ruminatively.

    “Um—well, he is a Pom, darl’,” she said cautiously.

    “Yeah. Only—well, I dunno.” Bruce rubbed his bulbous nose.

    “What?”

    “Dunno.”

    Pegeen waited, looking at him dubiously.

    “Feel sorry for her, in a way,” he offered.

    “Bruce Verrell! Why, in God’s name?"

    “Um—well, woulda said ’e’s a cold fish, only we’ve just found out ’e isn’t,” he said with a dirty grin. “But ya see what I mean?”

    Pegeen was about to shout at him, but thought better of it. “Oh.”

    Bruce eyed her uneasily. “Don’t go getting yourself all upset over it. Uh—well, I could be wrong. You know: dare say he isn’t like that with her.”

    Pegeen shuddered slightly. “No,” she said faintly.

    “Drink up, old girl,” said Bruce uneasily.

    Pegeen drank up silently.

    “Not sorry we brought ’em down here?”

    She thought it over. “No. There was something wrong, and they seem to have sorted it out.”

    “Yeah. Can’t be bad, eh?” he agreed in relief.

    Pegeen thought it could, actually. Not the sorting out, of course, but— Oh, well. Wait and see. And Lalla had genuinely loved the horses, the trip hadn’t been entirely wasted.

    An indefinable period passed, and then Peter opened his eyes with a start. Good Christ, what a jerk, had he—? He had, yeah. She was awake, lying silently beside him staring at the ceiling. Bloody Hell, the ceiling was tartan!

    “It’s tartan,” said Lalla composedly.

    Thank you, darling, the earth moved for me, too! “Yes, isn’t it?” he croaked.

    “Look: round the edges it’s got—”

    “A red tartan ribbon effect: mm. Ah… Stewart, I think. The ceiling itself is possibly Hunting Stewart.”

    “Is it?”

    “Mm. –Look, Lalla: I humbly apologise.”

    Lalla turned her head. The big luminous eyes that were the colour of a good Amontillado stared into his. “What for?”

    Peter cleared his throat. “For getting into you without a word, going off like the bloody Challenger and falling asleep like a bloody jerk.”

    “That’s all right.”

    “No, it bloody isn’t!” said Peter loudly, raising himself on an elbow.

    “You were... worked up. And tired,” said Lalla shyly.

    “N— Um, yes. Well, I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

    “I said: you don’t have to be.”

    “Mm.” Peter looked grimly at the tartan ceiling. “I meant to— Never mind. Well, put it like this: I meant to bloody stay awake and— Shit.”

    “I was quite flattered, really,” said Lalla, blushing.

    “Flattered? ...Oh, I think I see.”

    There was a short silence. He still felt like a jerk but possibly not like an utter jerk. “I see. You don’t mind if a gent gets himself so worked up by the mere thought of doing it with you, that when it comes to the point and he—er—actually gets the point in, he comes like a rocket without a by-your-leave and falls into a stupor of mental and physical exhaustion?”

    “No,” she agreed, smiling.

    “I’m very glad you see it that way.”

    “Mm.”

    There was another silence.

    “You were, weren’t you?” she said shyly.

    “Mm?”'

    “Um—worked up.”

    “What? Christ, yes!” He raised himself on one elbow and peered into her face. “Christ, yes. I was terrified you wouldn’t want to, and I suppose I was terrified I’d make a bloody tit of myself— Well, put it like this: living in the same bloody house with you this past week has been sheer bloody agony.”

    Lalla looked at him doubtfully.

    “Knowing you were just down the damned white shag-pile hall from me, sleeping amongst the bloody pink cabbages and— Well. That night you came rushing into my room with my book, I bloody nearly— Never mind,” he said, swallowing, and essaying a smile. “I couldn’t get to sleep for hours afterwards, I was as stiff as a damned ramrod.”

    Lalla was very red. After a few moments, during which Peter watched her with his heart hammering painfully, she said: “I cried.”

    “What?”

    She took a deep breath. “I wanted to do it, too, and I thought you didn’t, so I—I cried.”

    “Come here,” he said hoarsely, turning and hugging her to him. Lalla hugged him back strongly.

    After quite some time, during most of which he tried not to bawl into her shoulder like a complete tit, Peter said shakily: “When we get back to the bloody house, which would you fancy? Sex with me amongst the pink cabbages, sex with me in the brown and black masculine murk of my bloody suite, or—or no sex at all?”

    Lalla thought about it. “Your room is awful.”

    “Mm.” Not merely awful. Awfully lonely.

    “I’d quite like you to be in my room,” she said shyly, “if—if you’d like to.”

    “Like to? Jesus, Lalla, I—”

    “Don’t,” said Lalla uncertainly, hugging him.

    “I’m not,” said Peter, sniffing a bit. “I’m just so bloody relieved, I— Never mind. Love amongst the pink cabbages it’ll be, then!” He looked down at her, smiled and said: “Kiss me.”

    Lalla kissed him and held him very tight. She didn’t think he’d really meant to say “love” like that, it had just slipped out. Never mind, just a week’s sex with him amongst the pink cabbages would be better than years of any other man on earth.

    “Mm?” he said.

    “Yes, it’ll be lovely!” said Lalla breathlessly.

    Peter laughed and kissed her again, very slowly, and said, squeezing one: “These are the best pair I’ve seen for a very long time, did I ever mention that?”

    “No,” said Lalla, blushing madly and thinking it was just sex, then, but never mind. And she would be very careful not to make any demands on him, or make him feel that—that he owed her anything, or anything silly like that. Because he didn’t.

    “I suppose that lime juice has warmed up nicely,” he said.

    “What? Oh—probably,” she agreed groggily.

    Peter sat up, smiling. “Never mind, let’s drink it anyway. I’ll just go and dispose of this— God, I’m positively encrusted. Must have had a fair few gallons saved up there, mm?”

    “Mm.”

    He could see she was very pink, and not quite looking at his genitals. He laughed, and got up and went into the bathroom.

    Lalla lay back and looked up at the tartan ceiling. “I love you, Peter,” she said in her head. She’d never be able to say it aloud, though. Added to which, she didn’t for a moment imagine that Peter Sale would want her to.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/paradise-interrupted.html

 

No comments:

Post a Comment