Appassionata (71 page)
‘It’s a Fanny cycle,’ she shrieked, narrowly avoiding a pillar-box. ‘Oh Gilbert, Gilbert, oh fa la, la, la.’
‘Stop that noise,’ said a ringing voice from above.
‘Oh fuck off,’ said Randy. ‘It’s my turn now, Flora.’
Vaguely Marcus remembered he had been invited to a wassail party in the Close.
Clambering on board, Randy set off guiding the bike with one hand, swinging a Close Encounter lavatory chain with the other. Shooting across the grass in the centre of the square, straight through a bed of sleeping wallflowers, he hit the fountain where Charles I had refreshed himself during the Civil War with an almighty bang.
The bicycle was a crumpled heap, the fountain in intensive care, the imprint of Randy’s huge body lay etched in the snow, but remounting, the intrepid trumpeter shot off down the path, falling off again, so the bike carried on up a ramp, and disappeared through the door of some ecclesiastical building. This was followed by another loud bang to the accompaniment of police sirens.
‘Quick,’ Viking seized Flora’s hand. ‘They segregate the sexes in police cells.’
Very slowly Viking drove back down the middle of the road. Snow on top of hoar frost had fluffed up the trees on either side like cherry orchards in bloom. Huge flakes drifted down soft as butterflies.
‘Your place or mine?’ asked Viking.
‘Oh yours,’ said Flora, remembering the compost heap of her bedroom and that Abby would be home.
Viking kissed one of her hands.
‘So young and soft,’ he said mockingly.
‘Hands that don’t do dishes, I’m afraid. I’m an awful slut.’
‘But the nails are bitten – I noticed that at your audition. You smiled, pretty as a daffodil. You played
In the South
to tear the heartstrings. But I knew you were sad.’
In the South
to tear the heartstrings. But I knew you were sad.’
‘I’m OK,’ squeaked Flora, jumping as the top of the car scraped against some bowed-down branches.
‘Who hurt you?’
‘Oh Christ, a guy called Rannaldini. I was terribly young – I can’t talk about it.’
‘I’ll kill anyone who hurts you.’ Somehow Viking manoeuvred the car into the lane down to the lake, skidding most of the way.
‘I’ll exorcize Carmine, I’ll exorcize Rannaldini,’ he added dismissively.
‘Better buy me an exorcize bicycle,’ said Flora.
Between towering beeches, like ice cliffs, the lake glittered in the moonlight, arctic white along the frozen edges, but with a dark badger stripe of flowing water down the centre.
‘I’ve always wondered what this house looks like inside,’ said Flora, getting out of the car.
The ground floor of The Bordello trebled up as a kitchen, dining-room and drawing-room. Shabby, different coloured armchairs and a dark blue sofa were grouped around an open fireplace with a huge television set on the right. Chucked into a corner were golf clubs, tennis rackets, cricket bats, an old saddle, football and cricket boots. A not-often-scrubbed table by the oven was weighed down with old newspapers,
Racing Posts, Sporting Lifes
, Clare’s
Tatlers
, scores, books, shoulder pads, unopened bills.
Racing Posts, Sporting Lifes
, Clare’s
Tatlers
, scores, books, shoulder pads, unopened bills.
Flora’s eyes, however, were drawn up to an old-fashioned clothes-horse, from which hung white evening shirts and a rainbow riot of clothes, no doubt belonging to the women in Viking’s life.
‘Why are you so bloody promiscuous?’ She was appalled to hear the petulance in her voice.
Viking, who was getting a key out of a blue teapot, smiled sweetly.
‘Like Marlon Brando, I have to have at least three women a day to prove I’m not gay. I’ve only had two this evening, come here.’
But, overwhelmed with shyness and longing, Flora had fled upstairs to the bathroom to find more dripping tights and exotic underwear. She had seen those French knickers on Candy, and the camisole top trimmed with blue ribbon on Clare, but whose was the black lacey 34D cup bra and the black suspender belt and the fishnet stockings.
Oh hell, hell, hell.
Furiously she cleaned her teeth again, then ripped off her laddered tights and knickers, washing between her legs, then splashing herself over and over again with cold water, in case, as Rannaldini had once grumbled, she tasted of soap. She was just nicking Clare’s body lotion when Nugent barged in, rounded her up and led her back to Viking’s bedroom, curling up on his bean bag with a long sigh.
Flora looked at the huge brass four-poster hiding in its dark red rose-patterned curtains and shivered. The curtains on either side of the window overlooking the lake were drawn, but Viking had opened the ones overlooking the white wilderness of garden so the moonlight flooded the room.
‘Oh please, Nugent,’ begged Flora, ‘give me a few tips, so I can be more exciting than the others.’
Whipping off her dress, she was about to dive under the dark green duvet, when she was distracted by the squares of moonlight on the bare floorboards.
Unzipping his jeans, as he came through the door, Viking found Flora, silver-white as a unicorn, hair and small breasts flying, as she hopscotched back and forth on the moonlit squares.
Her skin was as cool and satiny as new beech leaves, she tasted so sweet and fresh as he kissed her before gathering her up and laying her out on the clean white sheets. Without any hurry, he began to stroke her. Flora tried to be cool as the leisurely caresses crept down her increasingly excited body, but couldn’t help gasping with pleasure as his fingers slid inside her. Viking gasped too.
‘Jesus, sweetheart, you really want me.’
He was still wearing boxer shorts covered in Golden Retrievers carrying the
Irish Times
.
Irish Times
.
As he peeled them off, his cock shot upwards.
‘Oh wow cubed,’ Flora stretched out a hand, ‘and you truly want me. Now I know why Yeats kept banging on about Irish towers.’
‘Shot op,’ Viking’s big grinning mouth stopped hers, and his infinitely delicate caresses continued until Flora was squirming with ecstasy. She was dying to come, yet some tension, some passionate desire not to bore him, prevented her, so she wriggled out of his grasp, down the bed to go down on him.
Instantly he pulled her back, burying his head between her legs, a blond haystack at the end of her white sweep of belly, his fingers stroking her nipples.
‘Go on, angel,’ he mumbled, ‘go for it – we’ve got for ever. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.’ His tongue rotated languorously.
Flora took several quick breaths and came.
‘God, you sweet little girl,’ Viking bounded up the bed, pressing his mouth on hers.
‘That was bliss,’ sighed Flora. ‘Let me give you pleasure, please.’
‘You are,’ Viking slid his cock inside her and began to move.
‘Aaaaaah,’ moaned Flora, ‘God, that’s wonderful. Clare was quite wrong about
Boléro
being better than the real thing.’
Boléro
being better than the real thing.’
They made love all night, wallowing in pleasure, constantly changing position. Around quarter to five, Flora discovered why Viking had been nervous of her going down on him. As she parted his legs, and bent her head to kiss her way up the inside of one of his wonderfully hard muscular thighs, she discovered in the moonlight a tattoo saying, ‘I love Juno’, and burst out laughing.
‘That’s a bit arbitrary.’
‘I was pissed,’ said Viking sheepishly.
‘What on earth did Juno think?’
‘She was terrified I’d start flashing it around like an engagement ring.’
‘She’s amazingly pretty, but what made you fall in love with her?’
Viking shrugged.
‘She’s small minded, suburban and terribly cross, but when I held that tiny waist between my hands and watched her ride me, I guess a standing cock has no taste.’
‘Yours tastes lovely,’ Flora crouched over him, her tongue was snaking round the rim, searching out pleasure points, probing the top.
Groaning with pleasure, Viking let her continue until he was about to explode. Then he wriggled out from under her, pointing a long finger at the clock beside the bed, whose red numbers said it was five o’clock.
‘That was one of Rodney’s great sayings.’
‘What?’
‘No sea too rough, no muff too tough, we dive at five.’
She could feel his shoulders shaking with laughter.
‘Please come back and fuck me.’
Viking slid back inside her, gently stroking her face with the back of his fingers. ‘You are so lovely.’
‘And you,’ sighed Flora, ‘are a midwinter night’s dream come true.’
At eight, Flora staggered out of bed.
‘I ought to go home, I’ve got to change and have a bath.’
‘Have one here – I’m not letting you out of my sight.’
As she opened the curtains overlooking the lake, a faint band of orange lay along the horizon. Above, out of a pearly grey sky, shone Venus like a huge glittering snowflake.
‘Oh look, the planet of love is smiling at us. Oh Christ!’
At the crunch of passing car wheels, Flora shut the curtains with a snap. ‘It’s Abby, going to work. She’s not going to be very pleased with us.’
FORTY-THREE
Three hours later George barged into the middle of a rehearsal and bawled his musicians out for behaving like hooligans. His fury was fuelled by the sight of Flora, still in last night’s black dress, cowering behind Fat Isobel.
‘You’re a bluddy disgrace,’ he thundered. ‘And I want everyone who was in Close Encounters last night to write a personal letter of apology to Gilbert Greenford from the Arts Council whose push-bike you totalled last night. Gilbert has had that bike, Clara, since he was at university.’
‘Back in the fifteenth century,’ piped up Cherub.
‘Shut ooop,’ roared George, as various musicians started to laugh. Couldn’t the stupid fuckers realize the influence the Arts Council had on their future, and how near the edge they were?
‘The cost of a new bike and seven toilet chains will be docked off your salaries.’
‘Flora will have to consult her lawyer,’ shouted Randy. ‘Whoops, sorry,’ he added as he received a death-ray scowl from George.
Abby was also furious. Any delight that she’d been vindicated by the rescheduling of
Rachel’s Requiem
was wiped out by her misery and excruciating jealousy that Flora had finally got off with Viking.
Rachel’s Requiem
was wiped out by her misery and excruciating jealousy that Flora had finally got off with Viking.
Refusing to admit this publicly, she later worked off her rage bellyaching about the state of the cottage and Flora’s tip of a room in particular, until even Marcus told her to shut up.
‘Bloody judgemental home,’ grumbled Flora, and promptly moved in with Viking for the weekend, neither emerging from the bedroom except to let Nugent out.
Every time Abby drove into Rutminster she was sent flying by delivery vans from
Oddbins
, the
Pizza House
or the
Star of India
belting the other way.
Oddbins
, the
Pizza House
or the
Star of India
belting the other way.
George just managed to forgive the rest of the RSO in time for the staff Christmas party, which also ushered in Centenary Year.
Miss Priddock supervised the food including a chocolate birthday cake with a hundred candles. The brass players blew up the balloons. Hilary was furious because Randy had taken a photograph of her surreptitiously reading
The Scorpion
and pinned it on the notice-board – life had been very hard since Lionel left – but with a martyred air she joined forces with Juno in decorating the band room.
The Scorpion
and pinned it on the notice-board – life had been very hard since Lionel left – but with a martyred air she joined forces with Juno in decorating the band room.
Romance watchers also were aware that every time Juno put up pale blue paper-chains, George Hungerford seemed to materialize from the fifth floor to hold the ladder and admire her delicate ankles.
Flora, nervous her job might be in jeopardy, as a peace offering bought George a pair of musical socks decorated with santas and reindeers which played Jingle Bells’ whenever you pulled them up. As George made no comment, he obviously thought Flora was sending him up.
Hilary tartly refused her offer of help with the decorations so Flora retreated to the park to make a snow-woman waving a stick with Cherub. She didn’t know why she was feeling depressed, tiredness and post-too-many-coituses probably. Underneath she was miserable about hurting Abby and persuaded Dixie to ask Abby to take part in the Christmas party cabaret.
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