Out Late with Friends and Regrets (46 page)

Fin made her way carefully to the kitchen and fumbled for the light switch.
 
The bulb was low energy, but at least she could see around her; the sitting room was disconcertingly dark. The kitchen was as small and untidy as she had expected.
 
Comfrey’s litter tray would certainly be better moved elsewhere, and his food dish was crusty and in need of a wash.
 
Never mind, not her concern.
 
It was interesting, though, to have the chance of getting to know someone in the music business, even at its least glamorous level.
 
Most of the people she had met in Harford so far were either involved with the university or Social Work Department in some way, or staff and customers at Harfordleisure. But Marie was something else again, and it would be fascinating to touch her world as well.

“Green teabags in the left-hand cupboard – just poke around for everything!” called Marie.

Fin found mugs, and gave them a quick squeak with her fingers under the tap.
 
She put the kettle on, and opened the cupboard.
 
Packets, tins and jars stood shoulder to shoulder, in no kind of order.
 
Sticky rings and a spill of something powdery on the shelves complicated the search.
 
She took out a few things, automatically turning an upside-down packet of wholemeal macaroni the right way up.
 
At once the contents emptied out on to the worktop, causing her an unreasonable flash of irritation.
 
She looked at the other packets.
 
Most were carelessly ripped at one end, and she counted a further three open at the bottom.
 
The green tea was the same brand as she used herself, but the brilliant bit of origami that enabled the box to be closed with a tiny cardboard click had been ignored in favour of a jagged tear across the efficiently-engineered lid.
 
How could Marie
do
that?

“Tea up!” she called, bringing the mugs in.
 
Marie watched silently as her guest moved a low table within reach, and put the tea down.
 
Fin gently lifted the cat and settled him on the footstool, before sitting in the free chair.
 
She smiled to see the fluid single move with which he melted off the footstool and up on to her lap, shapeshifting into his former plump curl without effort.
 
The flattery of his immediate purring had her stroking him before she even realised.

“God, you
are
favoured,” said Marie.
 
You’d best move in, I think.”

“Been here long?”

“Two years, about.”

“Just you, then.
 
You and Comfrey.”

“Yeah.
 
Well, there was someone for a while, but he left.”

“Serious?”

She was getting better at asking personal questions.

“Thought so at the time.
 
But just as well.
 
Sid’s in prison.
 
Drugs.”

“Oh, I
am
sorry.”
 
Not really; the thought of Marie’s heart-shaped face chemically altered into a grey mask of cunning need was disturbing.
 
She stared at it, imagining.

Marie smiled wanly.
 
“No, it’s OK, just a little ganja, now and again,” she said, “when I can afford it.”

They sipped without speaking for a while.

“What sort of music does it for you, then?” asked Marie at last.

“Mostly rock and pop, I’m afraid,” said Fin, “ horribly low-brow, I know, though I do have a soft side.”

“I’m even more flattered, in that case.
 
I’ve never seen you in The Waggoners before, anyhow.
 
Did you just come in off the street?”

“It was you, Marie.
 
I heard you from outside.”
 
She grinned.
 
“You know, it’s a tough act, breaking an old rocker’s heart through a brick wall.”

Marie seemed to deliberate over the compliment, hard to read.
 
By the light of the fire she looked almost beautiful.

“Sounds as if your heart might be a bit on the fragile side, Fin.”

“I haven’t actually surrendered it to anyone to test out that theory,” Fin replied.

There was another silence.
 
Comfy slipped silently off her lap.

“A free bird...” mused Marie.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Silence.

“Do you know, Marie, there were only two happy songs in your set? Has your love life been that bad?”

She held Marie in her gaze, the flicker from the fire and the jumpy candle flames creating a surreal intimacy.
 
Marie stared into the flames.

“Like most women, I’ve been used,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“Not much to tell, Fin.
 
Fancy someone, smile at them, sleep with them, lose them.
 
End of story – yet another bloody story.”

“Is that the way you expect to be treated?”

Marie smiled.

“Don’t come the therapist with me, Fin.
 
Been there, done that.”

“For the record, then, Marie, I really like you, and not just for your talent.”

Marie was very still for a moment.
 
Then she said quietly, “And want me, perhaps?”

Fin caught her breath.
 
Yes, she fancied Marie, but had honestly not meant for the reassurance to be taken in that way.
 
She hadn’t even considered making overtures to this apparently straight woman.
 
However...

“How did you know? I hope I haven’t been…”

“No, no, you haven’t, not at all. I just picked up your vibes.”

Fin found to her discomfort that she had become dry of mouth, and was glad of the dark to camouflage her hot cheeks.
 
Marie rose to her feet and took Fin’s hands in hers, drawing her up.
 
“Stay,” she said.

Fin put her arms round Marie’s waist.
 
Just for a fraction of a second the vision of the chaotic kitchen flashed through her mind, together with the unbidden question about the cleanliness of Marie’s bed, and Marie’s body.

But the faint breath of Marie’s perfume, invading her mind with sandalwood and oranges, numbed rational thought; and she realised she didn’t even care.

Fin watched her, as she took her clothes off in the candlelight.
 
The bedroom was tiny, the bed crowded by a chest of drawers and a cumbersome dressing table lined up along one wall.
 
Fin sat side-saddle on the bed, her knees touching the wall nearest; a sideways shuffle would be required to ease herself towards the turned over sheet.
 
Her hand stroked the texture of the crocheted bedspread.
 
It was a complex pattern, the knots hard to the touch.

The denim top dropped to the floor, and then Marie’s bra.
 
Her breasts were very white in the low light, and her nipples like a young girl’s.
 
Then the skirt slid from her hips, and she rolled her tiny pants down her legs and stepped out of them.
 
Fin, aroused, had tried to undress her as they embraced in the living room, but Marie had stopped her, with, “Slow down, Fin.
 
My terms.”
 
So here she sat, savouring the impatient ache of wanting, fingers working the surface of the bedspread, commanded not to shed her own clothes until told.

Marie stood at the bottom of the bed, and Fin tried not to stare at the dark smudge of her pubic hair.

“Stand up, Fin.”

Fin stood, one leg in front of the other in the tight space.
 

“Marie.”
 
Almost imploring.

“OK Fin. Now it’s time for you to take your clothes off.
 
Come here, to the end of the bed, where there’s room. My turn, to watch you.
 
No, slowly, do it slowly... but not a striptease, just take them off as you normally would, but not quickly.”

Fin obeyed, folding each item and making a neat pile of the clothes on the chest.

“Now kiss me.”

Smooth, lovely skin, and that wayward scent infiltrating the chambers of her skull.
 
The gentle pressure of Marie’s breasts.
 
Fin pulled her hard against her own body, and Marie gasped.

“God, Fin, you’re crushing me- wait, wait-”

The frayed sheets had the softness of many boilings, and once between them Fin squirmed sensuously, as Marie slid under the duvet to join her.

Two or three times Marie had to tell her to stop, not to press so hard, to hold on.
 
But she herself was an accomplished lover, and held Fin away from orgasm for a maddening time.

“Tell me your secrets,” Marie whispered.

“Marie...”

“Tell me things.”

“I can’t stop, I can’t...”

“Hold on.
 
Talk to me.”

“No!”

No, just rock me, fill me up with fire, feel my power, sweep me along in a rage of sensation, until...

Much wants more, Granny used to say.
 
By morning, Much was satiated.
 
There had seemed to be no reason to end it, no reason not to go for it again.

Fin got up at seven, went to the loo, rinsed her face in cold water from her cupped hands, and cleaned her teeth with salt on the side of her finger.
 
Marie slept.
 
Her plaited hair had either loosened in the night, or she had released it; it lay in a confusion, a random weave of shining brown threads overlying the whiteness of the pillow.

“Marie? Do you want a cup of tea?”

No response.

“Marie?”

“Mmm, nuh.....”

“I’m going to have to go soon, Marie.”

“Mm.”

“I’ll leave my number.
 
I want to see you again.”

“Mmm, ’kay.”
 
She didn’t open her eyes, or move.
 
A purring breath from the deeps.

Fin kissed her forehead, and looked for something to write on.
 
There was an unused tissue folded in her pocket, and she wrote her mobile number on it.
 
Maybe Marie wouldn’t call.
 
No, no, of course she would, she
must
.
 
Briefly she wondered whether to succumb to the temptation to get back into bed and hold Marie to her until she woke.
 
No, no, it was a shop day, with a large delivery to log and price up; and allowing time to return home for a shower and breakfast she would be later than she had promised Dek anyway.
 
It was important to keep him onside; his goodwill was too valuable an asset to squander.

“Boss?
 
Fin! Er, sorry, do you think you could serve that customer over there?”

“Oh, sorry, I was away there, Dek.
 
Hi, can I help you with anything?”