by Roger Curtis
Suddenly Marguerite raised herself up and made to go, as if a door through which she must escape was rapidly closing. ‘I forgot my sun cream,’ she said.
‘You can share mine. If you like I’ll put some on.’
The girl settled back uneasily onto her towel.
Sarah-Jane worked the oil into the girl’s back with long, lazy movements of her forearm and hand. The delicate fingers carried the white liquid over her shoulders and under the shining black hair that parted to reveal the olive-white skin of her neck. Then down from the shoulders to the armpits, which Sarah-Jane noted with pleasure were for once devoid of hair. And on down each side of the body, negotiating the ribs and the small of the back, until the fingertips encountered the hem of the panties. For each woman there was a pause: for Marguerite a faint wiggle of the body, a token protest; for Sarah-Jane a momentary catching of the breath. The tips of Sarah-Jane’s fingers traversed the skin under the hem, separating the rough from the smooth, but no more, before withdrawing.
‘And now the other side.’
Marguerite made no reply but slowly and obediently rolled over onto her back. The sun in her eyes made her blink and Sarah-Jane took off her own sunglasses and put them on the girl’s face. ‘Perhaps it’s better if you don’t see too much.’
‘Miss, I think you should...’
‘Begin at the shoulders like before?’
‘Oh.’
It was the first time Sarah-Jane had sought to give pleasure to another woman. She had once caressed Maia’s small but perfect breasts; but on that momentous occasion she had been the novice and recipient, her involvement responsive, not active. Then, the doors had opened onto a world undreamed of, and, in its context, whole and undefiled. If it could not be so with Marguerite there would be no pleasure, no purpose in continuing.
The oil glistened on the flawless skin. What a pity, Sarah-Jane thought, that it was not real cream, or jam, or yoghurt, or anything that would let her legitimately lick it away. She replenished her palm and the hand descended with slow and deliberate excursions over the ribs and the convexity of the abdomen to dwell in the trimmed black hair below.
‘Does he treat you well, Marguerite? I mean gently.’
‘Yes, he’s kind. But sometimes, well, he’s… he’s…’
It was an excuse to separate the hair and advance her three middle fingers further and further until their tips were able to flex to enter the soft moist vacuity.
An observer from the guest room – had here been one – might have wondered why the two figures, until that point in subtle motion, had suddenly become quite still.
Without warning Marguerite grasped Sarah-Jane’s still-exploring hand and laid it forcibly by her side. In a single continuous movement she jumped up and flicked the towel about her body, then ran crying into the house.
Sarah-Jane found her in her bedroom at the top of the stairs, sobbing into a pillow. She knelt by the bed and tried to turn the girl’s body towards her. But each time she grasped the shoulder it sprang back like a bent sapling.
‘Tell me what I’ve done, for goodness’ sake!’
‘It’s wrong, all wrong!’
Sarah-Jane tried hard to suppress her agitation. ‘Marguerite, it was a new experience. Life is full of new experiences. You have to be able to cope with them, that’s all.’
The girl rolled over to face her, angry now. ‘That’s all it meant to you?’
‘No, since you ask it wasn’t. It gave me pleasure because I thought I was doing the same for you.’
‘That’s the trouble!’
With her forefinger Sarah-Jane raised the girl’s chin, barely touching the flawless skin. ‘You mean it’s something you’ve experienced before?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’
‘Then you’d better tell me.’ Sarah-Jane handed her the edge of the quilt to dry her eyes. Marguerite sat upright and sniffed into it, while Sarah-Jane put her arm around her shoulders.
‘If you want to, that is. Only if you want to.’
‘At home… in Marseille… I had a cousine. My aunt’s girl. All the family lived nearby, you see. It was very large, our family. We saw each other all the time.’
‘And you felt something for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was wrong with that?’
‘She died.’
‘That’s sad. I’m sorry. But how does that affect us?’
Marguerite ignored the question. ‘They found out. Not with me, with another girl. They caught them, my brothers, and my cousins. It was only to be a lesson.’ She began to cry again and the blubbering morphed into a long drawn out wail.
‘They took her to the park… it was dark by then… to the piscine.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Just like down there. Then they threw her in… to teach her.’
‘And she couldn’t swim?’
‘No.’
‘Weren’t they punished?’
‘They took her to the sea. Five days she wasn’t found. An accident, that’s what everyone wanted to believe.’
‘And you’ve had to live with that?’ It was Sarah-Jane’s turn to cry and she turned her head away. ‘I feel so ashamed. It was so selfish. Forgive me.’
‘Miss?’
‘No-one saw us, Marguerite. You must put it from your mind, not think about it anymore.’
‘That will be difficult.’
‘Why, because it was so bad?’
‘Because it was so wonderful till I spoilt it.’
By teatime the two women had outwardly resumed normal relations. Shielded from the sun under a green striped awning they sipped Cinzano and lemonade on the terrace beside the pool. Each had come independently in a long summer dress, as if to protect from temptations they both knew would never come again. They must have recognised this, for at the same moment they began to laugh.
‘Miss, that’s the first time you’ve done that since your face got…’
For once the reference did not dampen Sarah-Jane’s spirits. ‘And that’s the first time you’ve mentioned it and looked me in the eye at the same time. Or anyone else has for that matter.’
A crunch of gravel beyond the house signalled a vehicle coming up the drive.
‘The men returning,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘See, you should have gone with them.’
‘They wanted to stay near the pool.’
‘That might have been fun, too, but let’s not go there.’
The phone on the nearby wall started to ring. Sarah-Jane answered it and pulled a face, mouthing ‘Alice.’ ‘Funny thing,’ she said, replacing the receiver, ‘she asked if Brian could come round this evening and photograph his – or rather my – painting. What do you make of that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For starters he never asks if he can come round and for another he doesn’t usually trust Alice to do anything.’
‘Then you’ll have to ask him.’
Sarah-Jane told herself not to bother.
The women were still beside the pool an hour later, when Mark appeared. His grin was as broad as the mystery surrounding the black box under his arm. He beckoned and they followed him into the house. Once inside, he closed the doors and windows. With their noses nearly touching they peered into the box.
‘It looks more like a moth, but actually it’s a butterfly. It’s for you, Sarah-Jane, to keep in the conservatory. A sort of companion. They say these big ones actually recognise people and come to them to feed if they’re given time.’
It was no ordinary insect, this. Larger by far than anything they had ever seen, it dwarfed those already in the conservatory. Its wings quivered, as if already it could sense their admiration.
‘Put your hand in.’
‘Ooh, should I?’
�
��It won’t hurt you.’
The insect climbed onto Sarah-Jane’s hand and fluttered its wings, showing no fear.
‘It’s lovely!’
‘It’s unique. Apart from the half-dozen in the Tower there are no others in the world. It was engineered, you see, genetically. In effect it’s a new species.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘For you, Sarah-Jane.’
‘For me? How can that be?’
Mark spelt it out slowly. ‘I mean that one of the friends had it made, for you. Just for you. The others are there only to keep the line going. For no other reason.’
‘That’s lovely. But who would want to do… who did… that?’
‘I could only tell you that on pain of death.’ He sniffed and turned away from them at the apparent unreasonableness of what he had said. ‘Well, almost. Let’s just say you have an admirer.’
‘But you made it possible, let it happen?’
‘I suppose I can take credit for that much.’
Neither Sarah-Jane nor Mark saw Marguerite slip quietly from the room, having no part in this transaction. She did not go with them to the conservatory to release the insect and when Sarah-Jane returned to the pool she found her gazing far into the distance, tears coursing down her face.
‘What’s the matter, Marguerite?’
‘I’m just happy for you, Miss.’ She got up and ran into the hall.
Sarah-Jane assumed she’d gone to her room to hide her embarrassment. And indeed, she thought, things might just have taken a turn for the better.
The telephone rang inside the house. She heard Mark shouting into it. A minute later he emerged onto the terrace, wild-eyed and gesticulating. ‘There’s a fire at the Tower. I have to go back. Fuck!’
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘The police. Sorry, Sarah-Jane, I have to go.’
Seconds later she heard gravel striking the windows and the car tyres scream as they hit the road. It was lucky for Brian he did not drive into the gate a minute sooner.
‘Want a drink, Brian, before you start? Marguerite can get you one.’ Sarah-Jane called up the stairs. There was no answer.
‘It seems very quiet. I would say we’re alone,’ Brian said.
‘She must have gone with Mark, on the spur of the moment. The whole thing was too dramatic for them to have planned it.’
‘Why would they want to?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you do now.’
‘I seem to have touched a nerve.’
‘One has to adjust, that’s all.’ She saw his mouth tighten as he struggled to break the silence. ‘Why do you want to photograph the painting? I thought you’d done that already.’
‘I’m not saying anything about the painting. It didn’t help last time.’
‘Things might have changed.’
He must have thought she was being facetious. Then his face lit up, as if from the crows-nest he’d sighted land after months at sea. She decided to take her chance.
‘Brian, tell me honestly, as a friend, what do you see ahead for me?’
‘Physically, you mean? Let’s be frank, Sarah. The infections were unexpected and they’ve taken their toll. Scar tissue’s still forming and there’ll be a little more distortion, particularly around the mouth. As I said before, until it’s stabilised it would be premature to make a judgement.’
‘But then, assuming the worst scenario?’
‘There’s always hope in medicine. New techniques come along all the time. I’ll advise you when the time comes.’
‘You promise?’
‘Let’s look at the painting.’
Sarah-Jane followed him meekly into the dining room. ‘It’s a travesty, isn’t it? An image so beautiful pretending to represent something so… hideous.’ She stopped herself short, recognising that such self-denigration was new. She could not guess where it had come from; nor why now, when only an hour before Marguerite was telling her how well she was rallying. It reminded her of how a paper aeroplane rises precipitously, only to stall to a much lower level, and again until…
Brian was watching her through half-closed eyes, as if reading her thoughts. Perhaps his destiny for her, generating that self-satisfied smile, at last accorded with her own dream for the restoration of her face.
‘Stand by it Sarah. Good side towards me and smile.’
The flash of the gun hurt her eyes. It annoyed her because of the fatuity of it all. ‘Oh, for God’s sake Brian.’ She sat on the end of the table, despair taking possession. Brian had moved around her and suddenly the flash illuminated her bad side.
‘What are you doing?’ she screamed. ‘Are you a bloody sadist?’
Suddenly his arms were about her shoulders, with his mouth pressed against her neck and his head buried between her jaw and shoulder. ‘Sarah, Sarah, nothing changed for me. You still hold the key in your hands. You just…’
She pushed him away just in time. Neither of them had heard Mark return. He stood in the doorway glowering at them. ‘What are you two doing?’
‘I’m afraid I upset Sarah with my photography. I think it brought back memories of happier times. It was thoughtless of me.’
‘Never mind that now.’
‘Was there much damage?’ Sarah-Jane asked, regaining her composure.
‘There was no damage. No fire, nothing. It was a hoax. No-one knew anything. The police knew nothing.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that.’
‘I looked a complete fool, Sarah-Jane, and someone’s going to answer for it. My guess is that it was that little rat I caught in here the other day.’
‘Tom Sharp? No, that’s not his style.’
‘We’ll see!’ Mark thundered down the corridor to his study and slammed the door. They heard the chink of glass.
Sarah-Jane lowered herself into a chair and sat brooding with her chin in cupped hands. Then she spoke, more brightly than Brian was expecting. ‘Let me show you my new friend.’ She held out her hand for him to take.
Even in the sepulchral gloom of the unlit conservatory the luminosity of the creature was impossible to miss. The wings, with their reticulate patterns, were miniature stained glass windows on the most sunlit of days. High against the dark vegetation it shifted its position with measured deliberation.
‘Don’t put the light on, Sarah. It’s exquisite. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. May I photograph it?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘With you?’
Sarah-Jane laughed. ‘If you wish!’ She stood beneath the overhanging leaves, her good side towards him. Suddenly she stopped laughing. ‘Brian, did you see Marguerite come back?’
‘No.’
In desperation she brushed past him and ran into the house. She banged on Mark’s door and went in uninvited. But he had not taken Marguerite with him to the Tower, or seen her since they had looked into the black box. She followed her thoughts up the stairs to the girl’s room. The family photograph and the enamel alarm clock with the little brass bells had gone from the bedside table. The wash-basin was stripped of the usual myriad toiletries. Gone too was the jumble of clothes that always littered the floor. Worst of all, the bed had been made. She had left.
Sarah-Jane looked everywhere for a note or message of some kind, but there was none.
For all his dynamism in business and play there was a streak of introversion in Mark that was hidden from all but his nearest acquaintances. Not friends, because he didn’t have any real friends, Brian apart, at least to Sarah-Jane’s knowledge. Rather the sort of people – business people usually – who would stay at the house for one night, get drunk and never be seen again. Those were the people who might g
et a glimpse of that side of him.
Once in a while, in the early hours of the morning when there was nothing next to her to offer satisfaction, Sarah-Jane would find him sitting downstairs with the hi-fi playing something low and melancholy, a scotch in his hand, staring into a burnt out fire. In these instances she had always left him quietly alone to become his usual self the following day. Now she was beginning to see that her reluctance to intrude into his personal thoughts was one of the reasons he, in turn, could not relate to her present predicament. He might have recognised it, though perhaps not consciously, as a failed trade-off, something akin to one of his less successful business deals.
This time he didn’t ignore her.
‘Your boyfriend gone?’
‘Brian? Two hours ago. Anyway, he’s your friend, not mine.’
Mark grimaced, but said nothing.
‘Mark, Marguerite’s gone.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘Because she left a note.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Mark, I want to see it. Please, where is it?’
‘It’s about somewhere. Tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Now!’
He turned in his seat and looked her up and down, contemptuously, she thought, letting his eyes dwell on her face; then he continued staring into the fireplace. He took a large swig from his glass.
She decided that only by making a concession could she break through. She said seductively, ‘If you show me perhaps I can help find her.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because by now she’ll be on the Paris train.’
Only then did she realise that the loss to her husband, whatever its nature, was as keen as her own. Perhaps their positions were not so different. Was this not, therefore, a reason for them to come together, to commiserate? ‘Mark,’ she said, ‘I know how you must feel.’
‘You can’t know that, Sarah-Jane. You thought it was all physical, didn’t you.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I can assure you it wasn’t.’