Lovers in Their Fashion

by S F Hopkins

  Merrill had heard many times the story of how Irene, newly arrived in America, had met and fallen hopelessly for the young and vigorous New Yorker Brian Abercrombie – and how her brothers, equally fresh off the boat and still imbued with the values of the old country, had sought out the young American and delivered an uncompromising message. “You may marry our sister with our blessing. Or you may sever your connection and never see her again. Those are your choices and your moment of decision is now.”

  Knowing her father as she did, Merrill was still amazed that he had not simply told the two immigrants to get lost. But he had been as utterly besotted with the beautiful young woman as she with him. They had married. She had born him four fine sons and a daughter and they had stayed blissfully together for forty years until his death.

  Brian Abercrombie had followed his heart. His daughter intended to do likewise. She had not yet communicated that decision to Tony, nor explained his role in it, but she was sure that, at some level, he knew.

  There was one thing she could have added to the list of things she loved about Tony and probably would not have done, even to Alice. She really would have blushed to hear herself say, “I love it when he spanks me” and she was not sure she was ready to run that one past her friend. What if Alice failed to understand? After all, Merrill herself would probably have turned up her nose if someone had mentioned that particular indulgence only a week earlier.

  “He spanks you? You mean, on your b-t-m? And you let him?”

  She felt differently now. But it still seemed to her the most private and intimate of activities—far more so even than the sex act itself—and not something she could mention to another person. Not even one as close to her as Alice.

  Even Tony himself had expressed doubts, however slight. ‘We don’t have to start every love-making with a spanking,’ he had said as she prepared to lay across his knee.

  ‘I know,’ she had answered—but she had lain down there anyway. She had sensed he wanted more. ‘I can’t explain it.’ She had said, trying, ‘It’s very hard to be a woman today. We’re supposed to be independent and I am independent and I like being independent. But sometimes it seems like that means we have to take the lead on everything. Sometimes I want to take the lead and sometimes I don’t. Being…you know…having you do that…’ she coloured.

  ‘Being spanked, Merrill. It’s all right to say it.’

  ‘Having that thing,’ she went on, ignoring him, ‘means this time I don’t have to take the lead. I can be led. I’m putting yourself in your hands. Knowing that you love me and you won’t hurt me and it’s really just a game. A wonderful game that gets me right in the mood for stupendous sex. Understand?’

  He shook his head. ‘I understand the bit about games and getting in the mood. Obviously. I don’t understand about leading and being led.’

  ‘Tough.’ She snuggled her face into his side. ‘Get spanking, Mister Soft Hands,’ she murmured. ‘And don’t hurt me.’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you.’

  She lifted her head. ‘You heard me perfectly well. Now get on with it.’

  It had happened, that first time, so easily. Tony, as much the alpha male as John Pagan—in fact, it interested her that two such dominant men should be able to maintain their easy and unquestioning friendship—had turned up his nose when she took out one of the thin cheroots she sometimes affected. ‘You’re not actually going to light that?’

  In fact, Merrill almost never smoked and she had produced this one more for the effect than because she wanted it. The smell and taste of a cigar were something she put up with in order to make the impression she wanted to make. Clearly in this case the impression was unwelcome. Nevertheless, she had started, it was her apartment and she felt the need to make a point by continuing.

  She lit the cheroot.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Tony.

  ‘What, my love? What don’t you believe?’

  ‘I don’t believe you expect to smoke that damn thing in my presence.’

  ‘Whose apartment is this?’

  ‘Whose lungs are these?’

  He had caught her wrist. She could have stubbed it out, wasn’t enjoying the taste at all, but (one) she hadn’t had the forethought to bring a saucer from the kitchen to stand in for the ash tray she did not possess and (two) she did actually object to being caught by the wrist and told what to do. In her own apartment. Even by Tony. So she had resisted.

  And he in his easy strength had marched her into the kitchen, taken the cheroot from her, held it under what, even after these years in England, she still called the faucet and dropped it into the waste disposal.

  She had stamped her foot in anger, he had grinned at her, she had lifted a hand to slap the silly grin off his face and he had caught her wrist. ‘Oh,’ he had said. ‘You want the physical stuff, do you?’

  He had sat on a stool at the chopping island, swung her into the air, deposited her face down across his knee, held her hands behind her in one of his and begun to swat her behind with his hand. She had kicked out furiously. And then a little less furiously. And then she had not kicked out at all. That was about the same time as he found he no longer needed to hold her hands. Just before he undid her jeans and pulled them to her knees. Which itself was not long before he had rolled down her panties and begun to work on her bare bottom.

  An increasingly red bare bottom.

  The noises she made that had started as angry shouts and imprecations had turned into mellow gasps.

  When he let her go she had slid to the floor, remained standing, looking away from him, her hands by her sides. Then she had said, ‘Let’s get this straight, shall we? I do not like and will not put up with being told what to do. I do not like and will not put up with people coming into my home and taking over from me as though they owned the place. And me. I do not like and will not put up with…’

  She had run out of things she did not like in the face of one big thing that she did. She had turned to him, naked below the waist as she was, wrapped her arms round his neck and fastened her open mouth firmly on his.

  Then she had stood back. ‘Fuck it. You started the fire, Mister. You take me to bed and put it out.’

  Brighton defies definition. Some call it the Gay Capital of Britain, or even San Francisco in Sussex, and there’s no question that people who prefer to love their own sex are well catered for—so much so that some of the staider and older inhabitants try to avoid the Kemptown area, and in particular the streets around St James’s Street and the Old Steine. Oscar Wilde and Radclyffe Hall are said to have loved the place.

  But Brighton is also the capital of what used to be called (with a wink) the Dirty Weekend in the days when unmarried men and women needed to be altogether more clandestine about their doings, and heterosexual couples still descend on it every weekend in huge numbers.

  And some people, married or single, gay or straight, just love to live there. John Pagan was one of those. He loved the raffish, bohemian atmosphere of the place, he loved the proliferation of small bars and restaurants with their own eclectic approach to putting together a menu (you can have altogether too much of huge international hotels and their globalized menus), he loved the way people took you as you were and let you be and he loved the intimate scale of the place, which meant that only by walking could you properly take it in.

  King George IV, who first came here in 1783 as Prince Regent, built a fairytale Royal Pavilion that still stands. What the English call Regency architecture started at that time and Brighton has some of the best. And it has a pier. John’s attitude to the pier was ambivalent at best. He loved what it had once been. He hated what it now was.

  His walk took him past it and into a bar. He ordered a sparkling water and a coffee and took them to a table by the window, from which he could watch the passing multitude.

  ‘You don’t look like a sparkling water man.’ Her accent was Australian.

  ‘I don’t?’

  She sat a
t his table. Surprised, he gave her the briefest of glances before looking through the window again. ‘Not a hard liquor kind of guy, either, I’d say,’ she added.

  ‘Is that right?’

  She placed a finger to her lower lip as if miming judicious thought. ‘Wine,’ she said decisively. ‘Red wine. Expensive red wine. That’s what I’d expect to see you with.’

  John put down his glass with a sigh. ‘Look, Miss…’

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He looked at her properly now. ‘Is there a more terrible sentence in the whole of the English language?’

  ‘Depends whether you think you have an obligation to be sociable.’ She laughed. ‘You thought I was on the game, didn’t you?’

  John liked to think he was the master of any social occasion and never blushed. He was almost right on the first count, but hopelessly wrong on the second. It was the tips of his ears that game him away—they burned bright red.

  ‘It did cross my mind,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘That’s Brighton for you.’ She held out her hand. ‘Fran Nolan. We met at Tony Frejus’s place. He threw a party a couple of years ago and you came.’

  John took the proffered hand. ‘Of course we did. I’m sorry. John Pagan.’

  ‘No worries. And I know who you are.’ She gestured at his drink. ‘You still don’t look like a sparkling water man to me.’

  ‘Only when I’m on my own.’

  ‘Don’t want to risk being a solitary drinker, eh? Well, John Pagan, you’re not on your own now, are you? So what’ll it be?’

  He smiled. ‘You’re a fast worker.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so? I’ve had my eye on you since that party. Which was two years ago, John Pagan. But you had someone with you that night.’

  Carly Warr. John remembered her. A short term fling, neither of them serious or so he’d thought, and when she showed signs that that might not be the case for her, he’d dropped her. Painlessly, as he was only here for a short spell of home leave before heading back to…where had it been before Rio? Cape Town. That was it.

  ‘And since then you were almost never here.’

  ‘I’ve been working abroad.’

  ‘I know where you’ve been. Do you imagine I never made enquiries? Tony was heartily sick of hearing questions about his friend with the film star’s looks and the rugby player’s body. But you’re here now, and this time I don’t see anyone with you. So. I’ll ask you again. Can I buy you a drink?’

  John laughed. ‘No, Fran, I don’t think so. Not on an empty stomach. But you can let me buy you dinner, if you haven’t already eaten?’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘If I had, I’d lie. But, no, I haven’t. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘You know Brighton better than I do. Where do you suggest?’

  ‘I can’t take my eyes off you,’ Fran said when she had made her suggestion and they had gone there. ‘When I saw you walking along the front, I couldn’t believe it. And then you went in that bar.’

  ‘You followed me?’

  ‘You bet your life I did. Ever since I met you, I’ve dreamed of seeing you again. Don’t you know you have that effect on a girl?’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘I’m making a fool of myself. You are free, aren’t you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be freer.’

  ‘And looking for someone?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think you can say I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I? Let’s change the pace. So. How long are you home for this time?’

  ‘I’m back to stay.’

  ‘Permanently? Really?’

  He laughed. ‘Nothing’s for ever, Fran. But, yes, I’ve accepted a new job. It means I’ll still have to travel, but I’ll be based here.’

  ‘And you’ll stay in Brighton?’

  ‘Can’t think of any reason to move. London’s no distance by train. When I have to fly I can get to Gatwick or Heathrow. I like it here.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Enough of me. Tell me about Fran Nolan. What do you do?’

  ‘T E F L. I’m one of Brighton’s many teflons.’

  ‘What on earth is a teflon?’

  ‘I teach English as a foreign language. There are hundreds of us. This place is full of language schools. Foreign students love coming here.’

  She caught John’s ironic smile. ‘You don’t think an Aussie should teach English?’

  ‘Of course I…’

  ‘No need to be defensive. I did it back home, too. Australia’s full of immigrants who don’t speak the language when they arrive. When my granddad arrived from Croydon, we still had the White Australia policy. And white was very strangely defined. We only wanted Brits. Now it’s wide open. If you’ve got talent and a positive attitude, you can make it in Oz. We get ‘em from the Balkans, Russia, Poland. People from Hong Kong, escaping while they can still get out with their money. India. Escapees from Africa. I don’t like them so much.’

  ‘Why not? I’d have thought you’d have a lot in common.’

  ‘Oh, wow! Scratch a Brit, find a colonialist. We were all colonies so we should be like each other, right?’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m used to it. I’ll tell you what I don’t like. It seems to me the whites in South Africa and Zimbabwe treated the locals like shit. Then, when power passed to the other side, they didn’t like it and they wanted to run away. I don’t think we should give them a home. It’s importing racism.’

  ‘They made their bed and now they can lie on it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I lived in Cape Town for a while. You might be amazed how many young mixed race couples you see there.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean they’re all like that.’ She forked another mouthful of lamb into her mouth. ‘Every time there’s a riot in Indonesia Australia gets another wave of Chinese from there. And they have a lot of riots in Indonesia.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I landed in Jakarta one May Day. I said, What the hell’s going on here? They said, Don’t worry about it. It’s just a riot. A small riot, as it turned out. Only seven or eight people killed. All of them Chinese, of course. Hardly worth a paragraph in the paper. How did we get onto this?’

  ‘It’s me showing you my serious side. It’s like I’m fanning a deck of cards, holding them out. Lots of Fran Nolans. Which one do you want? ‘Cos that’s the one I’ll be for you.’

  ‘I see. And which is the real Fran Nolan?’

  She studied him coolly. ‘The real Fran Nolan has a wet spot in her panties and it’s getting bigger by the minute.’

  He was so taken aback he laughed out loud. He dropped his napkin on the table. ‘That was good. The meal, I mean. Coffee?’

  ‘You can get good coffee back at my place. You want to try?’

  Decision time. She caught the look of uncertainty on his face. ‘This hasn’t been a success, has it?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it. We had a nice meal. I liked talking to you.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Who says there’s a but?’

  ‘Your face says it. You’re not certain you want to come back to my place. And if you’re not certain that really means you don’t want to. You’re the real thing. An alpha male. There aren’t too many like you, you know that? Lots of wannabes, but not many who mean it. Do it. Live it. If you wanted to come back to mine, you wouldn’t have to weigh it up. You’d know. You’re looking for something and you don’t see it here. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fran. I really have enjoyed myself.’

  ‘I’ll settle for crumbs from the table. Come back, have coffee. We’ll take our clothes off and you can show me how an alpha male treats his woman. No commitments. No afterwards. Just bed. For one night.’ She studied his face. ‘But that’s not how you are, is it? Not what you do. You’re one of those all or nothing guys. If you don’t want a gir
l completely, you don’t want her.’

  He thought of Cathy, romping in his Hemsley bedroom overlooking Central Park. Was it really true? Was he an all or nothing guy? He couldn’t be, could he? He had not in the last ten years taken his pleasure only where he felt committed. Quite the opposite, in fact. If he’d thought there was the slightest chance he’d end up feeling involved, he’d walked away. He’d only been an all or nothing, one woman guy once in his whole life – and look how that had ended.

  What was it Cathy had said? “We’re two grown-up people who’ve lost someone, and we’re giving each other a helping hand. This isn’t a long term thing. Not for me, and I hope not for you.” That’s how he’d chosen his bed partners—because bed partners was all they wanted to be. Which was what Fran said she was offering. And Heaven knew, if he’d thought he was lost before it was nothing to how he felt now.

  ‘I’m not that awful to look at, am I?’ she asked.

  He made up his mind. ‘You’re quite lovely to look at.’ He called for the bill. ‘Let me settle up here and you can show me where you keep your coffee.’

  When they got to Fran’s apartment they decided coffee could wait. They had stopped on the way at a late-opening convenience store and he’d bought a bottle of champagne from the chiller cabinet and a bottle of blackcurrant cordial. Fran showed him where she kept her glasses and John prepared kirs—champagne colored pale lilac by the blackcurrant—while she slipped away for the traditional “change into something more comfortable.”

  John was stunned when he carried the drinks into the sitting room. If he’d thought about it at all, he supposed he’d expected red satin, black silk, something like that. Even a garter belt and fishnets. In fact, Fran entered the room entirely in simple white cotton. Her breasts were softly rounded beneath a short chemise in broderie anglaise that fell only to her waist. Below it, the feminine curves of her exquisite derriere were encased in matching panties.