The Pleasure Quartet (6 page)

A thought rudely intruded in my mind. Would this be how a man’s penis would similarly enter her, a woman, any woman, me? I closed my eyes to banish the image, but it persisted.

As if telepathically connected to me, Iris opened her lips. ‘More . . . please . . .’

‘I can’t,’ I pleaded.

‘You can,’ she said.

I wasn’t a man. Never would be. Whenever Iris was making love to me, I was content with her tongue, the feel of her breath against my skin, the knowledge electric of her affection. Had no
need for actual penetration. But again I couldn’t banish the image of the hard cocks we had witnessed by the sea at the Ball, and how the recipients of their favours and thrusts had so often
ecstatically responded. I wanted to know how it would feel.

‘It will hurt,’ I said.

‘I know,’ Iris replied. ‘That’s what I want. No pleasure without pain,’ she added, her voice a thin trickle of sound, reaching me in a strangled tone from its point
of origin in the heart of her throat.

I swallowed hard. Reached as discreetly as I could manage for the small tub of Vaseline that I kept on my side, below the bed, in case we ever needed it. Flexed my fingers at the breach of her
lower lips, bunched my hand into a fist as compact as I could manage it, and slowly began to push against her opening. We both had small hands but I still couldn’t believe I could insert mine
inside her, without breaking her, tearing her badly, even with the additional lubricant. There was resistance at first, and I began to hold back, but Iris sensing my hesitation forced her pelvis
forward to meet my hand’s assault.

Micro inch by micro inch, my hand buried itself past her labia, seeking out her heat, the folds of her outer skin merging with the pink irregular waves of her inner walls as I slowly slid in.
Any moment now I was expecting Iris to scream out with pain, but she remained silent, apart that is from the rising rhythm of her moans.

‘Tell me when to stop,’ I asked.

Iris remained silent. Lost in her private nirvana. I felt the outer reaches of her opening almost click. My hand was swallowed whole.

It felt as if I had lowered a part of me into a raging fire.

I was inside her up to my wrist.

What did I do now?

‘Move a little,’ a breathless Iris begged me, aware of my uncertainty.

I thought I had been in charge of the situation, but now Iris was taking over.

I obeyed.

Turned my buried hand one way and then the other. It fitted her like a glove.

Her whole body shuddered in an instant and she came with a terrible cry of joy and relief, and my captive hand felt as if it was washed over by a tide of wet fire while held in the iron vice of
her cunt.

Shattered, I collapsed onto Iris’s delicate body.

We remained in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Iris moved and I gently withdrew my hand, wiped it against the sheet and she took me into her arms.

We kissed.

‘Friends again?’

‘Hmm hmm . . .’

But I knew from the look in her eyes how intense the experience had been, and with an ebb of sadness now taking a hold of my senses had become painfully aware that she would never lose that urge
to be filled, invested, and the fact that others would also be able to do so to her. That I was no longer indispensable. Perhaps I had never been.

As we fell asleep, I resolved to fight them, whoever they were. Keep Iris mine.

On the one hand I was blissfully happy to be living independently under the same roof with Iris, away from all the restrictions that life in New Zealand had imposed on us and I
found London enchanting. On the other, I was painfully aware of dark clouds on the horizon, doubts, questions about where our relationship could go and whether it could survive the thousand
obstacles and potential new encounters the city now scattered in our path. So I lived day by day, holding on to hope, never quite knowing whether I was fooling myself or not.

London was not just a city, but a curious warren of villages and we spent our week-ends exploring. Sometimes we would make plans, while at other times we improvised, walked onto the Tube or
caught a random bus with no destination in mind and progressed thanks to the occasional flip of a coin or deciding whether to turn left or right depending on whether the name of the first pub we
passed appealed or not.

Everyone told us the weather wouldn’t last and to wait until we had survived a London autumn followed by winter before we made up our mind for good about the tentacular city, but we
brushed their negativity away. Few people realised how much rain and what capricious, unwelcoming conditions there had been in Auckland, and the old weatherboard house that I had shared with
Iris’s family had provided no great barrier against the cold wind and frosty mornings.

We enjoyed picnics in a variety of public parks, known and hitherto unknown, concealed behind rows of houses, oases of greenery and shrubs, secret refuges we hardily explored; we roamed from
area to area, from Epping Forest and its forlorn ponds to Golders Hill Park and its children’s animal enclosure with pretentions to being a zoo and so far off the mark, frisbees in the breeze
flying up the hill as we gallivanted without a care in the world. The Princess Empire suffered from a rapid turnover of staff so I never managed to make many friends there, but Iris, who was anyway
much more of an introvert than me, despite her often passive attitudes in private, found it easy to strike up friendships with her colleagues at the law firm where she worked and quickly had a
thriving network of acquaintances ranging from young to old, from legal backroom staff to court and chambers personnel. I happily tagged on.

Summer passed all too rapidly.

Autumn came.

By now I was almost a veteran at the theatre. Maybe it was because, unlike the others who had come and gone, I actually had no major ambition or wishes for a career in the arts, or for that
matter anywhere else. I was just happy to be, to live in London and be with Iris.

I was enjoying a few days off from work. Iris was at her office job and I was sitting at home sewing, catching up on some ironing and repair work on some of Iris’s and my clothes and
stockings. The phone rang. It was Gerry, the theatre’s Assistant Manager. Two of the small backstage team had the flu and he was short of staff and was wondering whether I was willing to come
in and help out despite the fact that I was on a break, but he was aware I was still in London and had not gone away. He was offering double my normal pay, and the money would certainly come in
useful. I agreed. And I was about to hang up the receiver when he cleared his throat, and added: ‘The new Art Director has requested you specifically.’ His tone indicated that he had
some misgivings about this fact. I didn’t pay much attention to the goings-on among the other staff, particularly those in the higher echelons, since I had no ambitions towards promotion, but
I was aware that the Princess Empire had called in a freelance Art Director to assist with their latest productions, since the last permanent person in the post had retired some weeks ago and a
long-term replacement had not yet been found.

Such an event would not usually have roused any feathers, were it not for the fact that the freelancer was a woman, and a relatively young one to boot. Her appointment had been announced at a
rare staff meeting, and I had heard the whispers afterwards – that she had studied fine art, and not theatre, that her father must have connections, that her recent success elsewhere was a
fluke, that she would inevitably fail. Adam, another usher with pockmarked skin and hands that shook when he worked, had hissed ‘
lezzie
’ under his breath, and I had walked away
from him, feeling as though someone had punched me in the chest. I sought out the Art Director’s photograph in the next batch of programmes, but it was hard to assume much from the small
black-and-white thumbnail. Her face was thin and her chin pointed. Her dark hair was either cropped short, or pulled fiercely back from her face. She had thick brows and a sharp look about her. Her
name was Clarissa. Clarissa Beauchamp.

Weeks passed, the new show was well reviewed. Nothing had apparently changed, besides Gerry being in a slight huff since he had apparently had his sights on the job and been passed over.

And now this. I wasn’t even sure how Clarissa Beauchamp knew who I was, but I supposed she might have picked my name from a list of available ushers, based on the fact that I was by now
one of the longest serving. That must be it.

Still, as I hurriedly dressed and ran for the bus, I couldn’t help but invent scenarios that might have attracted her to me, and picture the parts of her that the photo had not revealed.
From her sharp features, I guessed she must be slim. Would she be tall, or short? Large breasted or small? An image popped into my mind, Clarissa naked, her thick pubic hair a dense, gleaming
triangle practically glowing between her thighs, her breasts small, pointed triangles, her nipples large and pink and hard. By the time I arrived at work, I was nervous and flustered and assaulted
by pinpricks of guilt that I was thinking of someone besides Iris in that way.

But all of my worry was in vain, as Clarissa didn’t even come out to meet me when I arrived, sending instead another assistant to instruct me in her place. I felt simultaneously relieved
and deflated.

The first job I was given was to travel to the Petticoat Lane area to pick up some costumes and fabric from the workshop of a designer who was working on the company’s next production. It
was urgent enough – the lead actress they were for was only available for fittings that afternoon – that I was given the money to take a cab there and back, a luxury that I was still
unfamiliar with in a place like London.

The building was an old East End warehouse which had once been a shoe factory and had recently been converted.

There was a strong smell of curry in the air, as the building was flanked by two almost identical Indian restaurants. It made my mouth water in a trice as I alighted from the black cab and
studiously asked for a receipt.

The designer I had been expedited to visit had her studio on the top floor and a rickety goods lift was the only way of reaching it. I called up and she explained how I should operate it. Her
voice had a friendly, musical tone.

‘Welcome, welcome.’ She pulled the sliding latticed fence-like door open as the industrial and unsteady lift clicked to a halt and into place.

She was striking.

Her eyes were dark ebony pits that shone like coal against her olive-toned skin. She was almost bald, her perfect oval of a head covered with just a millimetre of grey hair. Long chandelier
earrings dangled from her earlobes.

I was so taken by her features that I forgot my errand and my manners, and just stood frozen and silent on the spot as though I had been struck dumb.

‘Come on in.’ She offered me her hand, and led the way into the large open space she used as a studio. Daylight streamed in through the wide open windows and the glass roof divided
into even square panes, stained slightly green by the past onslaught of the wet London weather.

The surroundings of her studio did nothing to make me feel more at home.

Her imperiousness. The sheer size of the space in which she worked, which must have been four times the size of our bedsit. The fragrant, aggressive, almost animalistic notes of the perfume she
was wearing – banishing the earlier smell of curry away by a technical knock-out.

‘So you’re Clarabelle’s new girl?’

I nodded, confused by the nickname but presuming she was referring to Clarissa.

‘You can call me Patch.’ She said it as though she was bestowing a gift.

‘I’m Moana,’ I told her.

She smiled, revealing a wide mouth and a set of perfectly straight teeth. A dimple puckered just below her right cheek. She didn’t have one on the left to match, which gave her grin a
lopsided look that was at once endearing and mischievous.

‘I can see why Clara chose you,’ she replied. ‘You can come closer, I won’t bite.’

I stepped forward. The original wooden floor of the cavernous room had been waxed and shone like a skating rink.

‘Very pretty,’ she said, her gaze still locked on me. She cast her eyes over me from the tip of my head to my toes. ‘Maybe a bit butch, but there’s no harm to that, is
there?’ she added. ‘You could dress better, but we could fix that and happily turn you into a butterfly, couldn’t we? First, though, we need to work out what sort of butterfly you
want to be.’

Her words broke through the spell that she had cast over me like a tennis ball shattering a window. Who did I want to be? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t even worked out who I was, never
mind who I wanted to be. Looking around at the racks of clothes that lined the walls of her studio and the mountains of fabric that covered two trestle tables set up alongside a large,
industrial-looking sewing machine, it occurred to me that my identity didn’t need to be fixed. I could change the way others saw me, maybe even change myself, with just a new outer layer. I
briefly took hold of a heavy pair of satin, tuxedo-style trousers hanging on a rack near me, my mind overflowing with possibilities. A thick white tag dangled from the bottom of one leg.
‘Patricia McLaughlin designs,’ it read, without a corresponding price tag. I set the garment back on the rack as I realised I would never be able to afford such an item. I probably
couldn’t even afford a length of the cotton that stitched them together. I put my hands behind my back and twisted my fingers together, suddenly worried that Patricia – Patch –
would think me impertinent.

‘You would look wonderful in those. Try them on if you like,’ she said.

‘Oh no, I shouldn’t have. Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling a flush of red rush up my cheeks in embarrassment.

‘Yes, you should. It won’t take long,’ she said. ‘You’ll still be back in plenty of time, and you can tell the theatre that I kept you waiting. Anyway, Clarissa
will be arriving soon.’

‘She’s coming here?’

‘Yes – she didn’t mention it? She’s very particular, you know, wants the final say over every last detail. Oh, she won’t be giving you or me carte blanche over the
costumes any time soon, believe me . . .’