The White Room (25 page)

‘Didn't you get the letter? Northern Star Properties. And—' he leaned forward ‘—I hope I'm looking at my newest company member. My office manager. The hub of the big wheel.'

He smiled at her. She smiled back, looked deep into his eyes.

And knew what her answer would be.

Dressed, she looked around for her handbag and the phone number of a taxi company. Ben was lying on his side, the covers kicked off. Central heating kept his modern flat warm, temperate. His body was in good condition. Well muscled, which she liked, but more scarred than she had expected.

She sighed. The first man since Jack she had allowed to touch her, to get within her.

Their lovemaking had started in the taxi. Easily, naturally, like the fulfilment of an unacknowledged wish. First eyes, then hands, then mouths. From there, the one-way bridge was crossed, no going back. On the back seat, arms entwined, mouths hungrily began to devour mouths, fingers made covert forays, promising more; the cabby craning his neck to get a good view in his mirror.

Then at Ben's flat: falling on each other as if starved, ripping away each other's clothes, wanting to be wrapped instead in each other's skin. Hardly time to look, to take in the opposite's physiological scenery, as they raced towards their final destination. Lying on the living room floor, Sharon, legs wrapped around Ben's body, heels kicking into the small of his back, pushing him in deeper, hands raking his shoulders, Ben on top of her, chest crushing her breasts, buried as far as he could get inside her, arms locked around her torso, pulling her towards him. Biting and scratching, sweating and sucking, encompassing and devouring, they both came, lying in a pool of wet bodies and crushed clothing.

Afterwards, lying on the living room floor, Sharon's head on Ben's chest. Ben's fingers running through Sharon's hair, Sharon's fingers stroking Ben's chest. A time for shared, post-coital truths.

‘I wanted you the first time I saw you,' said Ben. ‘That night in the Go Go. You looked so beautiful.'

Sharon smiled contentedly.

‘And now you've got me.' She felt Ben's arms hug her tighter. ‘Was it worth the wait?'

Ben gave a deep chuckle. Sharon felt it through his chest.

‘Oh, yes,' he said. ‘Well worth it.'

‘Good,' said Sharon. She returned his hug.

‘So how's your husband?' Ben had said at the table between mouthfuls. ‘How's Jack?'

A cloud had passed over Sharon's face. And she had told him. She looked at this handsome, suave man sitting before her, and she told him.

How she and Jack weren't getting on. About his lack of ambition, his surfeit of morality and idealism. About how tired and old he looked, made her feel. About how boring she found him. About how boring he made her feel.

It all vomited forth, as if the lobster she had just eaten had reacted against her, turned her insides out.

‘I just … don't find him desirable any more,' she said. ‘On any level.'

Sharon looked up. She had been staring at the tablecloth. She smiled.

‘Sorry. I shouldn't burden you with all that. Not your problem.'

Ben snaked his hand across the table, enclosed Sharon's within.

‘But it could be,' he said.

She could feel her heart thumping in her chest as if it was about to break free. She found his eyes with hers.

‘I adore you, Sharon,' Ben said. ‘I think you're one of the most beautiful, amazing people I've ever met in my life.' He tightened his grip on her hands. ‘I desire you.'

Sharon felt herself blush. She couldn't speak.

‘I can't promise you an answer to everything,' he said, ‘but will you come back with me tonight?'

Sharon smiled.

‘Let's get the bill,' she said.

He had made her feel special. That was what meant the most to her. Yes, she had loved what he had done with his mouth, his hands, his cock, especially the second and third times after animalism had been sated and something more refined and pleasing had taken place. But it was what he had given to her emotionally, to her soul, which really touched her. It was a long time since anyone had ever touched her that deeply. She wondered if Jack ever had.

Jack.

She had been so busy with his problems, his needs, over the years that her own hadn't been catered for. That was the picture she painted for herself. Did she feel guilty? Should she?

She looked at the sleeping, naked figure. Her lover. Lying on his bed.

She felt happy. She felt fulfilled.

She felt wanted and desired.

Any other emotions she would cope with as and when they occurred. For now she felt full: of life, of hope, of optimism.

Of love.

There was a discreet rapping at the front door. Her cab.

She put on her coat, picked up her handbag, checked her watch.

Two forty a.m.

Not too bad. Not as bad as it could have been. At least she was going home.

Home. Was that still with Jack and Isaac? Or would that be here with Ben? Something else to cope with. As and when it occurred.

She blew her sleeping lover a kiss and smiled at him. She let herself out of his flat, closing the door as softly as she could.

She climbed into the cab, gave the driver her address. In gear and off they went.

Smiling all the way home.

Ben Marshall heard the door close, the cab drive off. Waiting until he was sure he was alone, he rolled over and stretched out, pleased to have his bed all to himself again.

As work went, he thought, tonight had been enjoyable. And he should have won an Oscar for his performance at the restaurant.

But everything was falling into place.

He rolled over, closed his eyes. He could smell Sharon's perfume on his pillow. He liked that. He could smell her body, her sex, on his sheets. He liked that too.

She had been a tiger. Up for anything, willing and wanting to give as much pleasure as she could take. And she could take a lot.

Hardly work, he thought, and began to replay some of the evening's entertainment for himself.

Between imagining Sharon and smelling her, he found himself becoming aroused.

Only one thing for it, he thought, grasping his erect penis in his hand. At least it'll send me off to sleep.

His mind turning recent pleasures into porno films, he played them again on his closed inner eyelids.

He smiled.

Everything was falling into place.

December 1964:

Point of Contact

Jack Smeaton stood on the pavement, pulled his overcoat more tightly around him, stomped his booted feet, kept out the cold. He studied the piece of paper in his hand again, matching the address on it to the one in front of him. Hoping there was a mistake, knowing there wasn't.

A nondescript street in Fenham. Stone and brick Edwardian houses mostly turned into flats for multiple occupation. The heart of studentland.

He stamped his feet again, putting off what he had to do. Sharon would have told him not to do it, had he asked her. Although Sharon would more likely have said nothing.

Communication had virtually ceased between them. No contact, emotional, mental or physical. Now exchanging only the merest pleasantries, a façade of normality for Isaac. He knew what was happening with Ben Marshall, knew it was more than just work, but he couldn't stop her, couldn't confront her with it. Because if he did that, his whole carefully built life would come crashing down like a flimsy house of cards. And he couldn't take that. So he said nothing. Impotent.

He checked his watch. Nearly six o'clock. The dark, early-winter night made it appear later. The snow struggling to fall was turning to city slush in the gutters.

Jack pocketed the paper, walked reluctantly up the short path, rang the bell. He waited, hoping there would be no answer, but the door was soon opened. The girl was blonde and surprised looking. He obviously wasn't whom she was expecting.

‘Hello,' he said, feeling old and bashful in her presence, ‘is Joanne at home?'

Chambers seemed to click and something seemed to open in the blonde girl's mind. She smiled at him.

‘She might be,' she said. ‘Who shall I say is calling?'

‘Jack Smeaton. I'm a friend of hers. Well, friend of the family, really.'

‘Come in.'

Jack followed her inside. She closed the door and went upstairs to look for her, leaving Jack alone in the hall. He looked around. The house appeared to have been colonized. Older, heavier wall coverings and furnishings had been covered over with posters of art exhibitions and concerts plus rock and pop groups. Mick Jagger's insouciant sneer sat opposite a cheeky-faced Paul McCartney down from a severe-looking Steve Winwood and Spencer Davis.

‘Hello, Jack.'

Jack looked up. Joanne was coming down the stairs smiling, yet slightly puzzled. He didn't blame her. Jack returned the greeting.

‘Didn't expect to see you here,' she said.

‘No,' said Jack, ‘I bet you didn't.'

He looked behind her, saw the blonde girl hovering on the stairs, curious.

‘I need to have a word with you,' he said, ‘quiet, like. Is there anywhere we could go?'

Joanne glanced to her side, saw her flatmate, took his hint.

‘There's my room. Follow me.'

She turned, made her way back upstairs. Jack followed. As he passed the blonde girl, she gave him a smile he could have interpreted several ways. He chose to ignore it.

Joanne reached the landing, opened a door.

‘Here it is,' she said. ‘Sorry about the mess. Make yourself at home and I'll get us some tea. Milk? Sugar? If we have any.'

Jack smiled. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.'

Joanne returned his smile. ‘I'll not be a minute.'

He heard her footsteps descend the stairs. He looked around. The student décor continued. Pictures of pop stars, posters for art exhibitions. Joanne seemed to favour the Beatles. Sheets and blankets were all over the bed, a heavy textbook open on top. Reading in bed. He sat down on the unmade bed. It still held an imprint of her warmth. Jack felt a strange thrill course through him. It was the first time he had been in another woman's bedroom since he had been married.

He looked at the floor. A portable Dansette record player held three singles. The Beatles, the Animals, Otis Redding. On a dressing table was the usual assortment of jars, sprays, powders, by the far wall paints, sketchbooks and frames. Something drew his attention. Propped against the wall was a canvas with an abstract design on it. The colours were bold at the sides and edges, fading towards the centre. From the blocks of colour came appendages, some fluid, some more cubic, all seemingly trying to cross the white divide in the centre of the canvas, link up with those on the opposite side. They were all failing to do so: their colours faded, their shapes lost definition. Caught static and still, never to connect.

Jack crossed to the painting, studied it. It was either very good or very bad, he thought, because it gave him some kind of
frisson.
He thought he understood it, felt it touch him.

The door opened. Joanne entered, carrying two mugs of tea.

‘Here you go,' she said, handing one to him.

He took it. ‘Thanks.'

She set hers down on the dressing table, drew a cigarette from a packet. Something French, Jack noted.

‘D'you want one?'

‘No, thanks. I don't smoke.'

She lit it up with a lighter, smiled.

‘Don't tell Mam and Dad.'

Jack returned her smile. ‘I won't.'

He looked at her. Jeans and a baggy jumper couldn't hide her maturing figure. Her hair was long and tousled, partially tied back by a length of silk. Barefoot, she sat on the bed with her legs curled under her. She wasn't a little girl any more.

‘Sorry,' said Jack. ‘It's Friday night. You're probably getting ready to go out.'

She shrugged, smiled. ‘Don't worry about it.'

He looked away from her, trying to find the right words to say what he had to. She studied his expression, mistook the direction of his gaze for art criticism.

‘What d'you think?'

He looked up, slightly startled. ‘Sorry?'

‘The painting. You can tell me. I'm a big girl now. I can take it.'

‘You did it?'

Joanne laughed. ‘Don't sound so surprised. I
am
studying art. They expect us to paint, you know.'

Jack turned back to look at it. ‘I like it. A lot.'

Joanne uncurled her legs, crossed to his side, exhaled cigarette smoke.

‘It's called
Communication. Points of Communication
originally, but I shortened it. Obviously.'

Jack nodded. ‘That makes sense.'

Joanne looked at him and smiled. The years of education and sophistication seemed to fall away, and she was an eager little girl again, happy to receive a compliment.

‘You get it?' she said.

‘Course,' said Jack. He pointed towards it. ‘At least I think so. These bits here, and here, are trying to reach across and touch each other. But this … this void … is that right? This void … they just fall in there and fade away.'

Joanne looked at him as if seeing him properly for the first time.

‘Is that right?' he said.

‘Spot on,' she said.

‘You look surprised.'

‘I'm amazed. At college they told me it was derivative. Just aping Victor Pasmore's style without any of his inspiration. Even the title,
Points of Communication,
just a rip-off of his
Points of Contact
series, yeah?'

Jack looked blank. Joanne continued.

‘They said it had no originality or spark, or anything.'

‘Then they're wrong. I like it.'

Joanne laughed. ‘You're welcome here any time you like.'

Jack took a deep breath. ‘Not when you hear what I've got to say.'

The smile froze on Joanne's face. A look of puzzlement replaced it.