Georgia (67 page)

‘Kids?’ she stopped in her tracks. ‘You got married then?’

Was he imagining it, or was that panic in her voice?

‘The kids at school, silly. Do you think I would have shot down here so quickly if I had a wife and children?’

She giggled, that girlish sound he remembered so well.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Maybe they’ll have new respect for boring old Radcliffe,’ he said as he held the door open for her. ‘But the Head won’t be that thrilled to find his English teacher is a man with a past!’

Russell Square was deserted now. Street lights cast yellow light over the railings, highlighting daffodils planted in the grass.

‘Did you ever tell anyone about me?’ Georgia asked. Not once had Peter said anything that related to their relationship. How could she come out and ask if there was another girl?

‘No. I wanted to, especially when you made your first record. I guess I thought no one would believe me.’

Peter stopped by her car, running his hand appreciatively over the sleek red bonnet.

‘That’s some car,’ he grinned round at her.

‘Would you like to drive it?’ She took her keys out of her bag and waved them at him.

‘You mean it’s yours?’ His eyes grew huge with surprise, his lips trembling with schoolboyish wonder.

‘Well, I wouldn’t suggest you drove someone else’s car,’ she laughed. ‘You have got a licence?’

‘Yes. Celia taught me. Can I really?’

As he bent to unlock the door, Georgia had to touch him. She slid her hand under the short denim jacket and ran her fingers down his spine.

He straightened up and turned to her, so close she could feel his breath on her face.

Slowly his hand came up, cupping her face, his eyes looking right into hers.

‘Oh Georgia,’ he groaned.

His lips moved slowly towards hers, just like the dreams she had tormented herself with so often in the early days in Berwick Street. Her heart quickened, hands reaching out to hold him, body aching to touch his.

Such a slow, deep kiss, as if the years since her birthday were just a few hours. Every nerve tingled, yet at the same time the kiss held all the practised skill of a lifetime spent with each other.

‘People will think we’re barmy,’ he said at length, still holding her tightly, but covering her face with little kisses. He wanted to go on kissing her, tell her what was in his heart, but he was still wary of her. ‘We walk out of a perfectly good hotel and stand kissing in the road.’

‘Let them watch,’ she said, lifting her lips to his. ‘I hope they’re green with envy.’

‘I don’t know which is best, kissing you or the thought of driving that car,’ he whispered, holding her so close she could feel every line of his body. ‘But I know we can’t do both at once.’

‘And to think I was frightened of a rival in Manchester,’ she playfully tapped his face. ‘Come on then, drive!’

‘I haven’t told you where I live,’ she said as he took a road down towards Blackfriars.

‘I found that out today,’ he turned to her and half smiled. ‘I was torn between going straight home tomorrow or bearding you in your den.’

‘Which had you decided on then?’

‘I hadn’t,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘My friends back in Manchester would never let me forget it if I didn’t see you. But then I reckoned it would be worse for my ego if you said “thank you and goodnight.”’

‘You didn’t used to care what people thought,’ she said. ‘And I don’t remember you having much ego either.’

‘I’m not the pure, idealistic boy you remember,’ he said, glancing round at her. ‘I’ve done things you wouldn’t like, used people for my own ends. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel so angry with Max Menzies. I can identify a little with him.’

‘That’s daft,’ Georgia said briskly. ‘You’re nothing like him.’

‘Think about it,’ he said quietly. ‘We both wanted to escape our backgrounds. I used books, Max used his looks and wits.’

‘You’d never be as corrupt as him!’ she said in horror. ‘Besides how do you know so much about him?’

‘I made it my business to find out,’ he smiled. ‘He fascinated me. He was obviously in love with you. He’s a millionaire, manipulative, handsome. A legend in his own time. I discovered that one of the reasons he is such a success, is because he does his homework. He checks people out, puts them under a microscope. I can appreciate that, I do it too.’

Georgia just sat there, watching the road ahead. Was Peter trying to tell her something? This wasn’t what she had expected.

‘Don’t look like that,’ he reached across the seats and took her hand. ‘I had to work like a dog to stay at university, building sites in the holidays, behind a bar at night. I’ve seen people who are a darn sight brighter than me end up in some boring job, and people with nothing but sharp wits get out there and make something of themselves. Making a pile of money isn’t my goal. But doing something worthwhile, becoming a big person is. Do you understand?’

‘I think so,’ she smiled weakly. ‘But you teach. How does that fit in?’

‘Maybe it was Celia who put the germ of the idea in my head,’ he said. ‘Africa, India. All those people crying out for education. Right now it’s Branscombe Road Secondary Modern, but the world doesn’t end there.’

Peter’s face was a picture as they entered her flat. It was just the way it had been the first time she took him home to tea at Blackheath. Back then, he had stood wiping his feet on the doormat, staring around the hall with its thick carpets, the grandfather clock, the pictures on the wall, sniffing the smell of fresh-baked scones as if he’d entered a new world. Almost like a stray dog being taken into a real home.

‘This is the business!’ His voice was husky with reverence. He looked up at the Italian lights, the vast expanse of apple-green carpet leading down the long hall. ‘Can I be nosy?’

She took his hand in hers and led him first into the lounge, giggling as she put on all the lights.

He was so much bigger than he’d been that day over six years earlier in her parents’ home. The child-like wonder was still there, but mixed now with maturity. He stood silently, feet apart, his eyes sweeping over the white settees, the stereo equipment, the antique writing desk and her collection of mementoes from every country she’d sung in.

‘It’s best by day,’ she said, clutching at his arm and taking him over to the window. She pulled on a cord and the long curtains drew back to reveal the small balcony and view over the Thames. To their left was Albert Bridge lit up like a glittering spider’s web, to the right Chelsea, the river joining them like a slick of black tar, reflecting back silver lights on the far bank. ‘The sun comes in here all day. At night in the summer I sit out there and watch boats going past.’

‘How long did it take to put me aside?’ he said softly, switching the lights off and joining her at the window.

‘I didn’t,’ she said turning to him, putting one hand on his cheek and stroking it. ‘Maybe the pain stopped after joining the band. But you were always there. I used to scan audiences when we did university gigs, hoping against hope you’d be amongst the crowd. Each record I made, I imagined you listening.’

‘It was the same for me,’ he said softly, running one hand down her back. ‘Every time I spotted a dark slender girl in a bar or club I’d rush over to check her out. But then when “No time” reached the charts your face was everywhere. I read everything, kept a box full of reviews, interviews and press pictures. Yet the more famous you became, somehow the more distant you seemed.’

‘And now?’ she whispered.

‘I feel just like I did that night on the heath,’ he said, running one finger down her cheek-bone. ‘Wanting you so much, but afraid.’

Nothing compared with that moment. Not singing, applause or driving her Mercedes for the first time. His hands held her face, his lips came down on hers and it was as if Battersea fun fair with all its lights and music were turned on in her head.

All the pent up emotion of the day, all the years of missing one another vanished at his touch. They were back on that landing outside her playroom, the sounds of the Everly Brothers wafting out to them, two bodies and minds as one.

But this time there was no hesitation, no question of holding back. Peter’s fingers were already under her sweater, reaching greedily for her small breasts.

Clothes torn off and tossed heedlessly away. Each touch electric. No time for careful foreplay. Just two bodies devouring each other, out of control, possession more important than subtlety.

Not the settee or even the bedroom. Peter lowered her to the floor right there under the window, covering her naked body with his. Georgia wound her legs around him, clawing at his back, demanding his lips. It was animalistic, brutal, yet perfect. She arched her back to draw him into her, tears streaming down her face.

‘Georgia,’ she heard him shout as he came, and although it had been over too soon, it was enough for the moment.

Above her head Georgia could see the moon shining in on them. Peter’s body on hers was hot and sticky with sweat, his face buried in her shoulder and she knew he was crying too.

‘I love you Peter,’ she said drawing his lips back to hers. ‘Nothing’s changed has it?’

‘I didn’t dare even dream this,’ his cheek against hers was damp. ‘Just to see you was enough. Don’t ever go out of my life again.’

They had a bath together later. Lying each end of the big tub. The room was once a bedroom, and the interior designer had pulled out all the stops to make it memorable. A mural of a jungle went right round the walls, and over a shower cubicle. Exotic birds, flowers, even a monkey grinned down at them. Real potted palms and a dark green carpet added to the illusion.

‘This is wonderful,’ Peter rubbed soap over her breasts. ‘The bath where I live you wouldn’t take your dog, let alone your girl.’

‘I had a dose of places like that,’ she said softly and bit by bit the past came out.

Helen. The abortion. Her hopes with the band, the disappointments, Ian, Rod and Max, the men she’d dated, the places she’d seen.

Peter told her about girls. Working on a building site, a summer on a Kibbutz in Israel, hitchhiking over Europe. Brief, vividly-painted sketches of six years packed with experiences so different to hers, yet enabling them to come together now as equals.

The water was getting cold. They climbed out and wrapped themselves in warm towels, moving on to the bedroom.

‘No one’s ever been here,’ she said as she sank down on to the big bed, covered in the Nottingham lace bedspread Max had bought her. ‘This is all ours.’

It was a beautiful room, decorated in a very soft pink with cream. Totally feminine, from the soft pink lamps to the ruffled lace at the windows.

Peter stood just looking at her. Dressed only in the white towel round his middle he looked like a Christian slave. His peachy skin, his legs and arms covered with fine blond hair, yet his broad chest as smooth and silky as a child’s.

‘I think you are the most beautiful man I ever saw,’ she said softly, getting up to move towards him. Her heart was racing again. She had that churning in her stomach the way she did when she first met him.

He came towards her slowly, reaching out and taking the band from her hair, then teasing it with his fingers till it fell over her naked shoulders.

‘You aren’t just beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘You’re exquisite. Can you possibly imagine how much I love you? For six years I’ve studied your pictures, listened to other men’s fantasies about you and all the time I remembered the touch of your lips, the curve of your breasts and kept it to myself. I’ve told other women I loved them, but until now I didn’t know what it meant.’

‘Oh Peter,’ she stroked his chest lightly. ‘I feel so happy.’

‘I used to try and imagine your breasts, when we were in the choir,’ he said huskily, his fingers tugging at the towel covering them. ‘I wondered what colour your nipples were, and whether I’d ever get to touch them.’ The towel fell away, and he put one hand on each small pointed breast, running his fingers over her erect nipples. ‘So they were dark, like chocolate buttons.’ He knelt down on the floor in front of her, burying his head in them.

Georgia couldn’t speak. She felt as if she could burst with tenderness and longing. The warmth of his body, gentle sensuous fingers, lips and tongue were driving her wild with desire.

‘Let me look at you,’ she whispered, unwrapping his towel from round his waist. ‘I want to watch it grow big.’

‘Men are so ugly next to women,’ he said with a hint of embarrassment, but he stood up and let her take his towel away.

‘Not you,’ she said softly, her hand going down to his penis. ‘I used to wonder about this too in choir, it’s a wonder we ever sang a note.’

There was no headlong rush now. His tongue and lips crept down her body, teasing and probing. He knelt in front of her just looking at her, touching, stroking and exploring. Time and time again she pulled him back to her, reaching for his lips, winding her legs around him. But still he made no attempt to enter her. He turned her on to her stomach licking her spine and massaging her back, then more kisses and stroking till she felt she would burst with longing.

He was heavier and stronger than Rod and Ian had been. He had Ian’s sensitivity, Rod’s passion and understanding of women, yet just enough of the brute in him to eclipse everything that had gone before. One moment so gentle she felt herself slipping away into a dream world. The next he crushed her into his arms as if he wanted to devour her.

Never before had she taken the initiative in love-making, hers had always been the passive role. But now she wanted to please him and she moved down the bed to take him in her mouth.

She watched him as her tongue slid over his penis, his hands just touching her head, his mouth open, breathing heavily, a look of exquisite bliss in his eyes.

‘No more,’ he groaned, ‘It’s too much.’

Georgia moved to climb on to him, but he grabbed her, rolling her onto her back and kneeling between her legs, pushing himself into her and enfolding her in his arms.

A roller-coaster of pleasure, a feeling that any moment she would explode like a volcano. Moments of tenderness, more of savagery. Rolling together as if they were one person.