A Woman's Place (15 page)

A bottle of 1982 Louise Pommery champagne appeared ready to refill her glass. Looking up she was startled to see her host's angular face bent solicitously over her. She waved the drink away politely. ‘I've had too much already. I have to drive.'

Was there a flicker in that eye? It was hard to tell. Betty speedily excused herself and headed with her plate towards the still-laden table.

George looked down gravely at Elaine and tried briefly to assess his own emerging feelings. He liked the elegance and stylish simplicity of her blue silk evening suit, and the fact that she forced no one to gaze at acres of flesh. Neither tonight nor on their outings would she flirt with him, and he found that appealing. Yet in this festive environment she seemed much less the efficient Tory MP, the rising star, the lady Minister to whom everyone deferred, and he liked her better. The jewellery was discreet but pretty; her hair was swept up revealing the fine bones of her face. She really was a most attractive woman. He wondered how she'd spent Christmas. Suddenly it seemed especially important that Elaine should relax here, in the comfortable home he had created for himself, and be happy.

‘You can always stay a bit later,' he responded easily. ‘Anyway, it is New Year. You surely can't welcome it in with orange juice…'

All over the country, as midnight approached, families and friends switched on television sets and stood, glasses in hand, to cheer the somewhat artificial jollity of Hogmanay. Kilt-swirling Scotsmen alternated on the screen with the antics of 100,000 young revellers in Trafalgar Square. In the square itself the noise rose to a crescendo as snatches of music blared over loudspeakers, with the songs taken up roughly by the heaving crowds. In one corner a lively conga led by two frantic African drummers snaked its way in and out of the bollards. Lights around the base of Nelson's Column advertised the last trains of the night. Mounted police waited nearby, their expressions studiously friendly but mouths were close to walkie-talkies and eyes wary for drug peddlers and thieves. Few arrests would take place in the busy cockpit of the square itself, except of those whose over-exuberance became dangerous; instead criminals would be followed by officers in plain clothes up St Martin's Lane, then challenged near a hidden police van, out of harm's way and far from the public eye.

Karen grabbed the tail of the conga as it passed her and screamed to Fred to follow. Keeping up and still communicating was difficult. ‘I think…' puff ‘…it's a shame … Whoah! That's my foot … that the fountains are turned off. And boarded over … it'd have been wild to have a midnight paddle, wouldn't it?'

It was impossible for Fred to respond other than with a yell of agreement; hugely excited, he tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the bongos as he kicked his legs first in one direction, then in the other. A big West Indian girl behind him, her hands clutching quantities of his new worsted coat, seemed to have the right idea. A feeling of abandon suffused every nerve of his body and he realised he was singing loudly. For a moment he lost his grasp, lurched forward and regained it only by digging his gloved thumbs firmly into the waistband of Karen's belt. From there on he clung to the girl for dear life, swaying his hips and yodelling tunelessly but with much energy.

The line lurched and broke on the edge of the paved area. Several people fell, laughing wildly. Somebody screamed. Fred found himself losing his foothold and tumbled on top of Karen as the big black girl crashed into him from behind, her soft bosom squashing him. With a struggle he twisted away and for a brief moment his cheek was next to Karen's, his mouth close to hers. In an
instant police were on the spot hauling people upright. Some years earlier one such collapse had got out of hand and two women had died in the crush. No one would take any chances on a repetition. Elaine, George, Betty and the other guests smiled at the giddy predicament of the young people on the ground, until faces swam into focus. ‘Karen!'

Elaine cried out anxiously, and: ‘There's Fred Laidlaw too.' George put a reassuring arm round her shoulder. ‘They're all right – everybody's getting up. They're having a ball. Don't worry about them.'

The picture switched to Big Ben as the minute hand swept jerkily up to 11.59 p.m. In the square, movement slowed. The swaying crowd linked arms and started to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne' in something approaching unison, though few knew the words. Fred awkwardly crossed his arms in front of his body then quickly took his gloves off and stuffed them in his pocket so that he could hold Karen's hand properly, skin to skin. He could not remember when he had had so much fun in one night.

Elsewhere Lady Sommers's party came to its high point as, having taken their cue from Harrison and Marie's display and bets from other party-goers, two couples in a state of
near-nakedness
bounced sweatily in the middle of an expensive Persian rug. In a drunken circle around them the revellers screamed encouragement and counted loudly as the exposed buttocks heaved up and down in time to their chant: Ten! Nine! Eight!…'

Roger and Caroline, George, Betty, Elaine and a million others more decorously raised their glasses as midnight struck.

The copulating couples on the rug reached climax exactly at twelve, eyes popping with the effort, arms outsplayed like winning cyclists, to hoots and jeers and champagne thrown over their flushed and straining flesh.

As the song ended, Fred flung his arms around Karen and planted a firm kiss on her cheek. When she did not resist he took a deep breath and tried again, more deliberately, on the mouth this time, as if he had never kissed a girl before.

‘Happy New Year!'

Once midnight passed the guests began to drift away quite quickly, for many of George's friends, particularly from the regiment, lived some distance away. He was bid goodbye by several women guests with two kisses on the cheek in the French fashion that was rapidly becoming common practice, even in rural England. The men, mostly as tall as he was, shook hands and slapped him in a comradely way on the back. The television was turned off and glasses collected. Betty Horrocks supervised the cutting up of the remaining cheese, leaving some for George and tucking a substantial piece into her handbag. Elaine helped clear plates and cover the remainder of the pies with cling film. The emptiness of Christmas had vanished: she felt elated and not at all tired. In the centre of the littered table the ham still stood proudly, the bare bone gleaming like pearl. She picked up a remaining pink morsel and nibbled.

‘That was some feast, George. Marvellous. How did you do it?'

‘Delighted to have you all. The secret's alcohol – in almost everything, did you notice? They'll go home a lot cheerier than they arrived. That bone'll go in the big fridge, please; I may be able to use it for soup, if I still have the energy.'

He did not ask if she was content to help, but appeared simply to assume it. Betty reappeared in her coat, her bag bulging, hugged them both quickly and left. Elaine's eye was on him; many people seemed to like him – loved him, indeed. He gestured quickly to her at the table. ‘Don't worry about that lot – my cleaner will be in tomorrow afternoon.'

The house was emptying; he went to the door, called goodbye, warned of the bend in the path, waited several minutes, switched off the outside light and returned inside. Suddenly the place went very quiet. As he disappeared decorously into the downstairs cloakroom he called out to her,
seemingly casual.

‘If you're not in a hurry, Elaine, would you please fill my glass? I've hardly had a sip all night. You too.'

She found a fresh bottle of champagne at the back of the fridge. With a struggle she managed to get it open and realised her hands were trembling. Its bubbles made her nose wrinkle in wistful pleasure. What, she wondered, should I be thinking? What doing? Making my excuses and departing, of course. I am the last person left. Yet I feel at ease, and
I don't want to go
. My home is cold and empty. It has known precious little love or even affection for a long time. On my mantelpiece sits a Christmas card from my former lover, the Prime Minister, and his wife, showing them on the stairs at No. 10, personally signed perhaps, but serving only to remind me that there is no man in my life now, and hasn't been for a long time.

The two glasses fizzed gently on the kitchen table as she gazed out of the window at the darkness and the retreating tail lights. She heard George come back into the kitchen, but pretended to be distracted and did not turn.

He stood behind her and reached for the wine with his right hand, lifted it to his lips and watched her face in profile. She picked up her own drink and smiled at him, banishing far-away thoughts and lost dreams. He smelled faintly of food and fresh soap. He was very close. She waited.

Then, as if a decision had been made, George Horrocks put down his glass on the table, removed Elaine's from her hand and placed it alongside, took her firmly but gently in his arms and kissed her.

Thank goodness the buses and Tube ran late. The party seemed to be continuing as thousands of young people poured away from the city centre and headed down the stairs into the Underground. That would take them to Waterloo and thence home. Fred and Karen had to link arms, indeed cling to each other, if they were not to be swept apart.

The excitement and singing continued the whole way, though as journey's end neared and weariness took over the two slumped together, hands still tightly clasped, like small children. Karen let her head rest on Fred's shoulder and her beret slipped sideways. Her dark silky hair brushed his face and he smelled shampoo, clean and sweet, and such youth and vitality and beauty it made him catch his breath. He became all at once very nervous.

Was he supposed to say ‘I love you'? He wasn't entirely sure that he did love her, though to have announced, even in a hoarse whisper, how he really felt – that he
fancied
her, and had done so right through the evening, ever since that first throwaway remark in front of the mirror – seemed gross and impossible.

Fred had been so overtaken by his new life and the business of setting up in London that thoughts of girls had barely crossed his mind. The strange Commons hours, which required him as an unpaired newcomer to be present for nearly every late-evening vote, had not left much time for a social life or an awareness of its lack. The exhilaration of politics filled his brain to the exclusion of all else. The dearth had caused him no grief. Indeed he had hardly noticed. Until now.

Karen was leaning on him, humming happily. He was going numb. He pushed her upright, then shook away the pins and needles from his fingers before putting his arm protectively around her shoulders.

The tube train arrived with a lurch at their station. Sleepily they got out and mounted the stairs, murmuring ‘Goo' night' and ‘Happy New Year' to other travellers.

As they approached the house Fred began to walk more slowly. He realised that his heart was thumping with more than the exertion of the short distance from the station; for he was running out of reasons why he should not take Karen to bed.

The house was empty: Anthony was with his parents and Lachlan had returned briefly to the
States. What had always inhibited him to date had been fear of being caught, or heard, or interrupted. Of course he knew what to do, and indeed had done it. He recalled with a twinge of embarrassment quick fumbles in a borrowed car after a college disco; once in the sand dunes on a summer holiday he had managed to go the whole way several times, but the gritty sand got into every crevice and had left his privates sore for days, an experience he had not been tempted to repeat. Never once had he found himself entirely alone with a highly presentable young woman, with comfortable beds at his disposal and all the time in the world. He began to panic.

No such worries troubled Karen as she found the key and turned it in the lock. Instead she reflected hazily what a wonderful evening it had been; and so much better for a proper companion, who had looked after her so well. Perhaps she ought to revise her opinion of Fred. There was more to him than she had realised – he was much more adult than she had believed. He was taller than she was, which was a joy, and he didn't mind that she wasn't dressed up. In fact throughout the long hours he had been quite the best escort a girl could have had.

She took off her coat and hung it up. ‘I'm bushed,' she announced sleepily. ‘Night, Fred. See you in the morning.'

His jaw dropped in surprise. Did she not want … expect…?

‘Karen,' he protested. ‘Don't go yet. I wondered … I mean, would you like to…?'

She was looking at him, puzzled. ‘Umm?'

He couldn't just say it, could he? Out loud? He could see the shape of her breasts under that sweater. The thought brought the blood rushing to his head and he could sense himself stirring. It was now or never.

‘It's New Year. Special. We're alone. We've been out and I – I kissed you, and it was very …
nice
, Karen.'

She giggled. She was beginning to get an inkling of what might be on his mind. How sweet he was, standing there, stuttering. Well, why not? It was a special night, and he was a decent bloke. She might even be able to teach him a thing or two, and it had to be admitted that being a nun was a bore. If she were to bring this barren patch to an end she could do worse than here and now. Maybe this was the best way to make a real friend out of Fred. Correction: maybe this was the way to make a man out of him. The best
man
in the house was still Anthony, but he wasn't around, and he need never know.

‘Sure. Pleasure,' she said, and pulled off her sweater, shaking her hair loose and smiling at him. Then with an easy, almost impatient gesture, she reached behind and unhooked her bra. Fred was trembling. He stood rooted to the spot before the half-naked girl, still in his overcoat.