Born of Woman (50 page)

‘How's
Lyn
?' Anne always asked. ‘Do bring him with you next time.'

She had explained away his absence with a score of different stories. He was finishing a painting, checking on a house, recovering from colds, coughs, flu, or lack of sleep. She hated the deception, blushed as she wove the lies. Her own mounting worry made every fable worse. How would Anne and Matthew react if they knew the actual truth—that she hadn't heard a word from Lyn since his last phonecall to Putney, way back at the beginning of September? She tried to discuss it with Susie, share and dilute her fears.

‘Of
course
he's OK, Jen. Just sulking, I expect. You did your nut before, and he rolled up fit and well.'

‘That was only a week, though.'

‘Makes no difference. He's just bloody unreliable—or artistic, or whatever you call it. He's probably working on his masterpiece and the oils need time to dry. Keep away from Putney. It's only Matthew who makes you sweat.'

Susie didn't understand. There was almost a compulsion to maintain her ties with Putney, despite all the deception. She could hardly explain it herself, except that it kept her still a Winterton, joined her to a family. Anyway, she had to collect her letters, check on any phonecalls, keep up to date with the progress of the book.

It was selling without her now—spectacularly in England, solidly abroad—always top of the charts, always in the news. Matthew was cock-a-hoop, wooed by jealous publishers, feted at literary parties. He had taken over the publicity himself, with the loyal support of Jonathan and a second-stage campaign by Hartley Davies. She had longed for it all to end, but once she was out of the spotlight, the stage seemed dim and cramped. She had gone too far the other way, perhaps. Instead of chauffeured Mercedes, there were long wet waits in bus queues, a one-room basement in place of four-star hotels. Yet neither role was real. She felt more and more confused, more torn between extreme and contradictory views.

‘Ta-ta, you girls!' Jo had finished her coffee and was gathering up her things. ‘Must get off sharp today. I've got a woman coming to supper who's very big in the EOC. See you next week.'

Jennifer and Susie left soon after, walking arm in arm towards the Common where they caught a bus to Southwark, then walked north towards the river. The area was a hotch-potch of building styles—once proud Victorian mansions collapsing into glass and concrete tower-blocks, tiny fly-blown caffs dwarfed by huge abandoned factories with half their windows boarded up. Scaffolding was everywhere—old streets half destroyed, new projects semi-finished but already vandalised. It was only five o' clock, but the light was fading and a grey drizzle dirtying the air. The streets were deserted. Only the scrawled graffiti defacing walls and posters proved people still existed.

In this northern stretch of Southwark, there were very few houses left. Most of the ordinary homes which Hester would have known, had been demolished to build banks and offices, warehouses or pubs. People were too puny and unprofitable to be allowed space to simply live. Jennifer thought of Lyn's ancestors pacing their spread of hills. There was no green here but the blight of a weed pushing through a paving-stone or the rash of mould on a damp and cracking wall.

They turned into their own street—one of the few still saved from the bulldozers—a dingy row of ancient terraced houses with flaked and peeling paint. Jennifer walked down the steps to the basement, fumbled for the key, winced as she opened the door. She had done her best on a low budget and with everything against her. The room itself was oddly shaped and facing north. The furniture was a mish-mash—half Jo's, half junk-shop. A tatty brocaded sofa faced two armchairs, one maroon leatherette with a rent in the seat, one poppied chintz with broken springs and all its poppies fading. The sofa was Jennifer's bed. Susie's bed was grander—an old-fashioned brass affair, embellished by an embroidered tasselled counterpane which had belonged to Jo's great-aunt. The ‘kitchen' was a double gas-ring, a moody electric kettle and a shelf of groceries. The bathroom was up two flights, the nearest lavatory a dark and smelly closet in the back yard.

Jennifer lit the gas fire, drew the curtains close, so they could forget the drizzle outside. She had made the curtains herself, added matching cushions, painted the chest of drawers and the battered wardrobe. The place certainly looked more cheerful, but it wasn't home, didn't have a garden, didn't have a Lyn. Lyn's name was like a pain still—the jagged pain of longing, made fiercer by resentment. She dragged her mind away from him, turned to Susie, who was kicking off her shoes.

‘What's for tea? I'm starving.'

‘What d'you fancy?'

‘Fillet steak and strawberries.'

‘Coming up. I'll call the chef.'

Susie giggled. ‘Oh, Jen …'

‘What?'

‘I am … you know … grateful and everything. I mean, it can't be much fun for you, cooped up here, waiting for me to pod.'

‘That's all right. How about a nice cheap nutritious egg Mornay, instead of steak?'

‘How about a kiss?' Susie came up behind her, put her arms around her. ‘It's the cook's night off, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘Relax, then. You're all tensed up. You never come near me now. I suppose you don't fancy me with this great lump stuck out front.'

‘Oh Susie, I do. I love your little lump! It's just that …'

‘What?'

‘Well, I feel it's … bad for the baby. Not physically, but … you know—as if we're sort of … perverting it.'

‘Perverting? You do use funny words.'

‘I can't explain, but last time we … er …, I was worried that … Oh, I don't know—forget it.' Jennifer edged away. It was only
later
that she had worried, and even then she could hardly put it rationally. It was as if the baby had been watching their every movement, staring from its cradle in Susie's belly, feeling strange sensations shock against its frame as their three bodies heaved and interwined. She was concerned about the child. It had already had an unequal start in life, daily doses of gin and nicotine, no father, no real home or family. It had sat and listened to militant feminists denouncing the male sex. It would probably grow up neurotic and confused.

She was confused herself about the whole awkward business of what she did with Susie. She accepted now, in theory, that sex between two females was neither wicked nor disgusting, yet part of her was still profoundly shocked that one of those females should actually have been herself. Their first amazing session together had never been repeated. She hardly knew how it had ever even happened, except it was all tied up with Oz, and with the guilt, thrill and terror of her first and only adultery which she had shared and heightened with Susie in a semi-tipsy state.

‘Nothing wrong,' said Susie. ‘Just a bit of fun.'

‘Comfort,' corrected Jennifer. That was all they wanted really—comfort and affection—another body to cuddle up against, block out the anxieties. Better to lie with Susie than fret alone. She glanced across at Susie now. She was sprawling in the chintz armchair, struggling with the nappy-pin which held her jeans together.

‘Christ! I must get out of these. I think I'll put my nightie on. At least it's loose.'

Jennifer yawned, stood up. Perhaps they'd both get into their dressing-gowns, have an early night. She was tired herself, tired of her constant brooding over Lyn, tried of the boring office job which would claim her again in the morning—the crowded in-tray, the endless rows of figures. ‘Good idea. I'll get it for you, shall I?'

‘Thanks. It's under the pillow.'

It wasn't. Jennifer eventually tracked it down in the upstairs bathroom, flung into a corner. When she returned, Susie was lying stretched out on the sofa with her eyes shut, naked except for a skimpy pair of pants. Jennifer stood at the door a moment, awed by her pregnant body—the deep curve of the belly, the majestic swelling breasts. She crept across, placed a hand on the bulge.

Susie jumped. ‘Gosh. You scared me—
and
the baby. Feel it kicking?'

‘Yes—sorry. Here's your nightie.'

‘Ta. It's nice with nothing on, though. The sofa sort of … prickles. Why not take your clothes off too and we'll have a little cuddle.'

‘No. I …'

‘You've gone off me, haven't you, Jen?'

‘I haven't.'

‘Kiss me, then.'

They kissed—a brief and nervous kiss. Jennifer pulled away. It was uncomfortable on the sofa. The upholstery scratched rather than prickled and the cushions smelt of cat's pee.

‘You are a fidget, Jen. You've still got your shoes on, for heaven's sake. No wonder you can't relax.'

Jennifer kicked her sandals off, curled up her bare toes.

Susie grinned. ‘Funny feet!'

‘You're always saying that. What's wrong with them?'

‘I dunno. Just funny. Hey, have you ever had your big toe kissed?'

‘My
what
?'

‘Big toe. I know it sounds alaugh, but it's actually quite fantastic. Here, give me your foot up.'

‘Susie, don't. I …'

‘No, wait. Hang on. You'll love it!' Susie knelt up, placed her lips round Jennifer's big toe and drew it slowly into her mouth, tightened her grip on it. She flicked her tongue over and under and around it, grazed it with her teeth, used her lips to chafe and knead and nip. Her teeth scratched across the toenail, sank into the skin. The tongue followed, soothing and swaddling, cancelling out the pain.

Jennifer shut her eyes. It
was
fantastic. It was as if her toe were a tiny phallus erect in Susie's mouth, sending strange wild sensations along her legs and right up through her body to her own mouth. She tried to stop the feelings, or at least to blank them out. They weren't allowed—besides the fact she must look quite ridiculous, gasping and jiggling with one leg cocked up and her toe in Susie's mouth. ‘Susie, please, you mustn't …'

Susie was gagged—couldn't speak, didn't appear to have heard. The long sweep of her hair hung down each side of Jennifer's leg, tickling and caressing it as her tongue was doing higher up. She had sucked the toe deep inside her mouth. That was how a
man
must feel when a woman tongued him—swallowed his prick right up to the hilt—the hot wet wild barbed softness, the padlock of teeth tightening and closing around him.

‘Wonderful!'
Jennifer was shouting under her breath. ‘Incredible. Fantastic.' ‘That's enough' she said aloud. ‘We really shouldn't …'

‘Hush up and take your clothes off.
I
‘ll do it if you won't. That's better—kick ' em off. Christ, Jen!' Susie froze. ‘What's that?'

They jumped apart—sat up. The door-bell had shrilled like a siren. No one called at Southwark. They had gone underground with no public address.

‘Quick! Get up. It's Matthew.' Jennifer was already on her feet.

Susie pulled her back again. ‘Don't be stupid. Matthew doesn't even know we're here. I'm in Great Yarmouth and you're living up with …'

‘
No
one knows we're here. Well, only Jo, and she's busy cooking supper for her Queen Bee.'

‘Don't go, then. It's probably only someone selling flags, or a boy scout or …'

Jennifer lay flat. ‘Sshh. If we both stay quiet, they'll probably go away.'

The bell pealed again, and longer.

‘Are you sure it's our bell and not the one upstairs?'

‘Oh, yes. We'd never hear that down here.'

Susie swore, hid her face in the cushions.

‘Susie, listen—I've just had a thought. Supposing it's Lyn. It could be.
He
knows our address. I must go and check. If it is him and he goes away, I'll never forgive myself.'

Jennifer grabbed her skirt and draped it round her like a towel. She peered up through the window bars. ‘I can't see a thing. This window's set too low.'

‘Come back to bed, then. They've probably gone away now.'

The door-bell contradicted her. Boy scouts and flag-sellers were never that insistent.

‘I'm sure it's Lyn. I'll have to go and see.' Jennifer was dragging on the skirt now, zipping it up. She dashed along the passage. ‘Let it be Lyn,' she prayed. ‘Let him have found a house and …' He could have changed his mind, come to tell her that they could all move in together, Susie too. They could pack their cases and leave that very evening, start a new existence. ‘Let it be all right,' she whispered. ‘Let there be no rows or …'

She opened the door. It wasn't Lyn. It wasn't a boy scout. It was a tall brawny man she had never seen before, with dark short-cropped curly hair and eyes too baby-blue to match the rest of him. He had an opera singer's chest, a weight-lifter's muscles, the build and bearing of an ox. He wore no coat or jacket despite the rain. His shirt was open almost to the waist, revealing little whorls of tangled body hair. His forearms were tattooed with electric-blue snakes writhing between scarlet hearts and flowers. He placed one foot on the step, wedged one massive shoulder in the door.

‘Susie Grant live here?'

‘Er … no. She's … er …'

‘She told me 32B. B for basement. That's here, innit?'

‘Y … yes, it is, but … May I ask who
you
are?'

‘The name's Bartlett. Sam Bartlett.'

Bartlett? Susie had never mentioned a Sam Bartlett in her life. Supposing Matthew had sent him? Or he was someone from the social services, an official come to snoop or spy. No. Social workers didn't sport tattoos. The man looked dangerous. She shouldn't have opened the door to him at all. Supposing he pulled a knife on her or …

‘Just tell her it's Sparrow, will yer?'

‘
Sparrow
. Oh, I see.' She noticed the Kawasaki now, gleaming on the kerb. ‘I'm … sorry. I didn't realise who …'