Fire

by Deborah Challinor

  The others nodded in sympathy—hair could be like that, and at the most inopportune times.

  Louise lit a cigarette. ‘Was the film any good?’

  Allie nodded. ‘I didn’t think it would be, but it was more of a love story than a western. Well, not a love story, not like, you know, A Place in the Sun. More of a loyalty story, really.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Irene said.

  ‘No, it was. You should go and see it.’

  But Irene was too busy thinking about her own personal love story. Or whatever it was. She was seeing Vince Reynolds today at lunchtime and had agreed to meet him in the basement. It was a bit tacky, she had to admit, hiding in grubby little storerooms just to get away from prying eyes, but there was no other way they could manage any time alone together. And it added to the excitement, sneaking around like that. She was definitely looking forward to it, but hadn’t decided yet how far she would let him go—just far enough, she thought, to make sure he stayed interested.

  ‘Will you be seeing Sonny again?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘Actually, I’ve invited him to come to the Peter Pan this Friday night,’ Allie said. ‘We’re going, aren’t we?’

  ‘Well, we are,’ Daisy replied. ‘What about you and Rob?’ she asked Louise.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  Allie was pleased. ‘You’ll like him, I know you will.’

  ‘Terry says he’s a good bloke,’ Daisy said. ‘Anyway, at lunchtime I’m picking material for my bridesmaids’ dresses. Who wants to come and help?’

  ‘I will,’ Louise volunteered. ‘What colour have you decided on?’

  ‘I haven’t, yet. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘How are you going to get your dress, and three bridesmaids’ dresses, sewn by the end of January?’ Irene asked, who couldn’t sew a straight line if her life depended on it.

  ‘Mum’s going to help me with mine, and my Aunty Di’s doing the bridesmaids’.’

  ‘Well, I’ll help you pick,’ Allie said.

  Daisy looked at Irene, who said with genuine regret, ‘I’d love to, Daisy, I really would, but I’m busy today. I’ll help you with your shoes and headgear, though.’

  Daisy smiled, relieved. Irene was so very good at clothes, whereas she always felt she never quite got it right. And she very much wanted her wedding day to be perfect.

  ‘The thing is,’ Daisy said, ‘my sister isn’t blonde like me, she’s got more sort of copper in her hair, and I wanted the bridesmaids—and her of course, but she’s the maid of honour because she’s already married—to wear peach. And she won’t. She says she’ll look like a faded carrot.’

  ‘She will, too,’ Louise said bluntly. She’d met Daisy’s sister, whose hair was a lot closer to ginger than it was to copper. ‘What about the other bridesmaids?’

  ‘My cousins? They’ve both got dark hair.’

  ‘Well, what about pale blue? That’ll suit everyone.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said. She looked at Louise. ‘It’s a bit, um, unvirginal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only on the bride. And you’re wearing white, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Allie winked at Daisy. ‘You wore a blue suit when you got married, didn’t you, Lou? I’ve seen the photos. Were you not, well, virginal?’

  Louise tapped the side of her freckled nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  Daisy, who had been assuming that she was one of the very few New Zealand girls to go to the altar without her virginity intact, and was now paying the price for it, stared. ‘Had you already…were you and Rob…’ She didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

  Louise made a production of looking furtively over her shoulder, then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Yes, we were. It’s much more common than you think it is, you know!’

  Daisy looked mildly scandalized, but noticeably relieved.

  ‘But that’s not why I got married in a blue suit,’ Louise went on. ‘It was in 1948 and you just couldn’t get nice fabric then, remember, even though it was after rationing ended. So I had a suit.’

  ‘So blue would work, wouldn’t it, Daisy?’ Allie asked.

  Daisy didn’t look convinced. ‘Blue’s a winter colour and I’m having a summer wedding.’

  ‘Well, what are summer colours, then?’

  Daisy thought for a moment. ‘Yellow?’

  ‘Yellow would work for your cousins, but not for your sister,’ Louise said. ‘She’d look awful.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know then,’ Daisy said, now looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment. ‘What colour did the queen’s bridesmaids wear?’

  Louise sighed. ‘I don’t know. White, probably. Look, your sister doesn’t have to wear the same colour as your cousins, does she? Why don’t you put them in peach and your sister in something darker, something more coffee-coloured, perhaps?’

  ‘Brown? Yuck!’

  ‘No, not brown. I was thinking more of a deep, bronzy caramel, something like that. Something that won’t clash with her hair.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Allie said, and Daisy agreed.

  The peach fabric was easy and they found a pretty nylon straight away. But they spent the next half-hour perusing every bolt of material in the dress fabrics department that was remotely caramel-coloured, until Daisy eventually chose something she was happy with.

  ‘Now all I need are the patterns,’ she said.

  Allie looked at her watch. ‘I have to go back to work now.’

  ‘So do I,’ Louise said.

  ‘Well, what about tomorrow? Can we look tomorrow?’ Daisy suggested.

  Allie caught Louise’s eye briefly. ‘I’ve got something on tomorrow at lunchtime, sorry, Daisy. What about on Monday?’

  ‘I really wanted the patterns by the weekend,’ Daisy grumbled, clearly disappointed. ‘Lou, can you help?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got something on as well. Let’s make it Monday, eh?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Daisy said.

  She looked so dejected that Allie felt quite sorry for her. ‘Look, why don’t you come to the fashion show tonight? I can get you free tickets and you might get some ideas for dresses, especially as we’re having a bridal segment.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Daisy said, perking up.

  ‘Can you get me a ticket?’ Louise asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind a look myself.’

  Allie nodded. ‘Miss Willow’s quite generous with the tickets, even though she’s not supposed to be. I’ll give them to you at afternoon tea.’

  While Allie, Louise and Daisy were in the fabrics department, Irene was standing on the landing of the staff stairs leading down to the basement, looking at her watch. She was five minutes late meeting Vince, and that was exactly how she meant it to be.

  She opened her handbag, took out a small mirror and a tissue, blotted her lips then checked her reflection to make sure there was a hint of colour left. It wouldn’t do to get lipstick on Vince’s clothes and have his wife ask where it had come from. But she didn’t want to meet him with completely bare lips either—that wouldn’t be very sexy at all.

  When she was ready she descended the stairs, her heels clattering on the wooden risers. The lift actually went all the way down to the basement, so the storeroom staff could bring up large and heavy items after hours when there were no customers in the shop, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by using it.

  When she got to the bottom she pushed open the door and left the echoey stairwell. In front of her was a long, whitewashed hallway, its walls made of bricks laid by workmen almost a hundred years ago when Auckland was still a new town. She reached out and ran her fingers across some, feeling how cold they were, yet dry: there was no dampness down here at all. It was in fact the perfect place to store goods of all kinds, and that was exactly its function: in its huge double basement, Dunbar & Jones harboured an absolute Aladdin’s cave of delights.

  The flooring reserves were stored there—carpets, ru
gs and enormous rolls of linoleum—as well as items eventually destined for the furnishings floor, along with rows and rows of muslin-draped bolts of dress fabrics. The remaining area was packed with smaller items such as bales of mercery, wools and manchester linens not yet opened.

  Packing materials, office supplies, old kitchen equipment and the emergency generator lined one wall, and on the back wall, near the delivery ramp descending from the narrow lane running behind the store, were located the store’s cleaning supplies, the gas meter, the Lamson blower and the main switchboard for the electricity. The electricity supply came into the basement from a pole on the corner of Queen and Wyndham Streets, then crossed the ceiling unenclosed to the switchboard, from where it was distributed throughout most areas in the three Dunbar & Jones buildings via a maze of wiring.

  Irene never liked coming down to the basement and, fortunately, rarely needed to. The main storage area was huge with a low ceiling lit only by bare bulbs, and the smaller rooms off to one side, where she was now, were no better. She imagined as she walked down the hallway that there were enormous spiders lurking in dark corners above her, just waiting to abseil down on glistening threads and catch in her hair. Or, even worse, drop down the back of her blouse. It was the most unromantic place she could imagine for a liaison, but then she and Vince didn’t have a lot of choice.

  Irene and Vince. She tried it out a couple of times in her head, quite liking the sound of it. Mrs Vince Reynolds. No, she’d be Mrs Irene Reynolds, because she was a modern woman. It sounded a lot classier than Irene Baxter. Not that it mattered, because she didn’t want to marry Vince, and there was the small matter of her already being married. And accountants probably made a lot more money than floor-walkers, even in posh shops like Dunbar & Jones.

  Something touched her shoulder and she nearly screamed.

  ‘Vince, you sod!’

  Vince was genuinely apologetic this time. ‘Sorry, honey, but you went straight past. We’re in here.’

  He turned her into a small room stacked almost to the ceiling with cardboard boxes, folded trestle tables and a five-foot high, pale pink papier mâché egg left over from that year’s Easter window displays. The single bulb was quite bright in here, casting a harsh yellow light everywhere except in the corners.

  ‘Nice,’ Irene remarked, looking around.

  ‘Best I could do,’ Vince said. ‘Should I have brought a mattress in?’

  ‘A mattress? What for?’ Irene had already made up her mind that she wasn’t going to be doing anything requiring a mattress.

  Vince said, ‘Well, you know, to lie on.’ He added quickly, ‘Not that I’m assuming anything, of course. It was just if we wanted a bit of a cuddle.’

  Irene lowered her head slightly, tilted it and looked up at him through her thick, black eyelashes. ‘Mr Reynolds, I was hoping that if we were to have…a cuddle, it would be in a much more salubrious place than this. I think I’m worth that.’

  ‘Oh, you are, darling, you most certainly are,’ Vince agreed fervently, though his hopes for something more than just a kiss and a cuddle had just been severely dented. But he loved it when Irene used clever words—she was such an intoxicating mixture of brains and sex appeal. And he especially loved it when she called him Mr Reynolds; it made him feel so in command and, well, virile.

  ‘And we’ve only got half an hour,’ Irene pointed out. ‘I have to be back at work at one.’

  Vince thought they could achieve quite a lot in half an hour, but didn’t say so. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we? Are you cold?’

  Irene wasn’t; it was cool down here but it certainly wasn’t cold. She was shivering, though, from excitement. ‘A little,’ she said.

  ‘Then come and sit by me,’ Vince invited. He sat down on a cardboard box, which immediately collapsed beneath him, sending him lurching sideways.

  Irene laughed, a loud peal that sounded harsh in the small room.

  ‘Shit,’ Vince said, getting up and dusting off his smart trousers. He tested another box and sat down again, but cautiously this time. ‘Come here, Irene, come and sit with me.’

  Irene stepped over and sat down next to him, perching her bottom on the very edge of the box. He tucked his arm around her, moved over slightly to give her more room, and started kissing her.

  Irene responded enthusiastically, enjoying his obvious ardour and the strength she could feel in his arms. He might have a fairly sedentary job at Dunbar & Jones, but he obviously kept himself in shape, which was a pleasant surprise.

  After several long minutes, Vince pulled back and looked at her. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with the sexual longing Irene found intoxicating.

  ‘You’re a gorgeous woman, Irene,’ he murmured huskily. ‘You remind me so much of Veronica Lake with that long sweep of hair falling across your face. Except that you’re a brunette, of course.’

  ‘Ted thinks I look like Hedy Lamarr,’ Irene said. ‘He calls me that every morning when I come in.’

  ‘Ted Horrocks? What would he know?’

  ‘Is that a note of jealousy I hear in your voice, Vince?’ Irene asked playfully.

  ‘Hardly. Ted’s seventy if he’s a day, silly old bugger.’

  ‘He’s sixty-four and I like him.’

  Vince said, ‘Well, I like you and we’re wasting time, so bugger Ted.’

  He leaned in again for another kiss, and this time his free hand settled on Irene’s waist. A few moments later it had crept up to her left breast and lingered there, lightly rubbing over the rayon of her summer blouse. Irene felt her nipples rise, and arched her back slightly to push her breast into Vince’s cupped hand. He groaned and moved his mouth from her lips to her neck, nuzzling the white skin beneath her ear.

  And then he bit.

  Irene jumped, the sensation sending shockwaves of lust through her body, and terror into her heart. ‘For God’s sake, Vince, don’t make a mark!’

  ‘I won’t,’ he mumbled, his mouth still pressed against her skin. ‘I’ll be gentle.’

  Irene didn’t actually want him to be gentle, but she did want him to be discreet: explaining to Martin how she’d managed to get a love bite on her neck would be very tricky.

  ‘I’ll do it to you,’ she threatened.

  ‘God, would you?’ Vince said, raising his head and exposing his own throat. The skin there was pale, and Irene could see the blue of that night’s stubble already beginning to show through.

  She bent her head and bit, tasting the tang of light sweat and cologne. Vince groaned and grasped her hand, pushing it into his lap where she could feel his straining erection.

  ‘Irene,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘let me make love to you. Please!’

  Thrilled though she was, she still had the presence of mind to remove her hand. ‘No, not here. I don’t want to do it here.’

  Vince groaned again, this time in obvious frustration.

  Worried that she might have overdone it—or rather, underdone it—Irene said, ‘But we can still have fun, can’t we?’ and began to slowly unbutton her blouse.

  Vince sat mesmerized as the fabric fell open to reveal the twin cones of her satin bra, pointing directly at him. He reached out with both hands, like a child about to receive an eagerly anticipated treat. But then he detoured and his fingers eased her blouse off her pale shoulders and let it slide down her arms, where it rested at her elbows like a shawl.

  She trembled as he began to kiss her shoulders and then her décolletage, his tongue travelling ever closer to her cleavage. When his thumbs hooked under the straps of her bra and slid them off her shoulders, releasing her heavy white breasts with their erect, dusky pink nipples, she gasped.

  ‘Oh my God, Irene, they’re magnificent!’ Vince marvelled, running his fingertips over the firm flesh. He cupped his hands under her breasts and lifted them slightly. ‘You’re an absolute cracker of a girl, you really are.’

  Irene closed her eyes, bathing in the warmth of his ad
oration. When he began to lick her nipples she slid her hands through his hair and dug her fingers into his skull, her sense of satisfaction turning to excitement. She squirmed, and felt heat coursing through her body and her face and neck reddening.

  Vince tugged her blouse out of her waistband and slid it off completely, then reached behind her to unhook her bra. When she was naked from the waist up, he grasped both of her wrists in one hand and held them up, pinning them against the boxes stacked behind them.

  ‘God give me strength,’ he said, gazing lasciviously at her.

  He slid his free hand up her thigh until his fingers met flesh above stocking. Then, letting her wrists go, he pushed up her skirt until the white triangle of her pants was visible.

  As he lifted the lacy edge of the flimsy fabric, Irene stopped his hand, even though she was very much ready for him to do anything he liked. ‘No, Vince, I’d love to, I really would, but it’s the wrong time and place. Couldn’t we find somewhere, well, nicer?’

  Extracting his hand from beneath her skirt and sighing heavily, Vince sat back. His was sweating freely now, the bulge in his trousers still very evident.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  ‘Eden Terrace.’

  ‘Does your husband ever go out by himself? At night, I mean?’

  ‘Hardly ever. He doesn’t even go out with me, let alone without me. And, well, I don’t think I’d want to do it in my house, Vince.’

  ‘Christ, I’d do it in mine, but my wife sticks to me like shit to a blanket. We only go out when we’re both invited, and even then Cynthia watches me like a bloody hawk.’

  ‘Why? Have you done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘No,’ he said, rather too quickly. ‘She’s just a very possessive sort of woman.’

  ‘So we can’t go to your house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even at lunchtime?’ Irene suggested.

  Vince shook his head. ‘Cynthia doesn’t go out to work.’

  Irene felt her heart sink. Was it possible that they actually couldn’t find an opportunity to be together? Was it going to be that difficult? And would he lose interest if it was?

  Vince leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.