by Mary Nichols
‘Yes, I believe it is.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘I have no axe to grind, he is entitled to better himself if he can. My main concern is that Melsham should thrive.’
The reporter scribbled away and beckoned a cameraman to come and take pictures. George, seeing his wife standing close by, pulled her towards him. ‘My lady mayoress,’ he said.
Barbara was reluctantly included in the picture and, apparently satisfied, the reporter and cameraman left.
Barbara watched them go. She had gone through the event in a dream, talked to people, accepted their congratulations, listened politely to some of them lobbying on behalf of this or that group, and smiled. Oh, how she had smiled! Only it wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare. She was exhausted by the time it was all over.
Chapter Twelve
Zita was crossing the road by the town hall a week later when George nearly ran her over. She had just been to collect her entry form for the fountain competition and was so deep in a fantasy about winning the five hundred pounds prize money and becoming famous, she hadn’t noticed the car pull out of the side road onto Market Street. It was only a tiny bump, but the hem of her dress caught in the bumper, almost ripping it off her. He stopped to make sure she had not been hurt. ‘Just look what you’ve done,’ she said, angrily displaying a handful of torn skirt. ‘You’ve ruined it and I can’t afford a new dress…’
‘I gather from your concern over your dress that you aren’t hurt.’ She had long, slender legs, he noticed as he bent down to extricate a piece of the gaudy orange and brown cotton from his bumper. The ripped skirt revealed a supple thigh and a glimpse of light underwear. It gave him a sexual buzz. It was crazy. He had been as good as gold ever since Virginia died, so why…? He stood up.
She straightened up, sweeping her dark hair off her face with a movement of her hand and suddenly recognised him. George Kennett, councillor and mayor and member of the Fountain Committee! ‘OK, so it was my fault.’ She grinned at him. ‘But you can run me home, if you like. I don’t fancy walking through the streets half naked. Asking for trouble, that’d be.’
‘My pleasure.’ He opened the passenger door and she settled herself in, noting the leather upholstery and polished-wood dashboard, then turned to look at him as he got in the other side. He had a strong face, with thick, dark brows and a touch of grey in the hair at his temples, a mature man but sexy with it. The vibes he was giving off were decidedly sensual.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
She gave him her address. It was only five minutes away. He drew up outside the large, old house which he had converted into flats just after the war when the housing shortage was at its worst. It was only meant to be a temporary measure, but they were still in use. ‘Coffee?’ she queried, when he switched off the engine. You didn’t do that if you meant to drive straight off again.
He didn’t answer but got out and waited for her before locking the car and walking with her to the entrance. By the time they reached the top floor he was breathless. She unlocked the door and led the way into the flat, laughing at him. ‘You’re out of condition.’
‘I must be.’
‘Don’t mind the mess,’ she said, taking off her short suede jacket and flinging it over a chair. ‘I have to work here as well as live. No room to swing a cat. Find a seat.’
He looked about him while she put the kettle on. The room was so cluttered there was no room to sit down, except on the rumpled bed. Every chair was loaded with books or magazines, the table was covered with drawings. There was a huge half-finished sculpture of a naked man in the middle of the room, standing with his head thrown back and his arms held heavenwards. And everything was covered in a film of white dust. He pulled the bedcovers straight and perched himself on the edge of the bed.
‘How did you get that up here?’ he asked, nodding towards the sculpture.
‘A gang of friends hauled it up on ropes through the middle of the stairwell. They nearly let it go a couple of times.’ She had a deep vibrating laugh, he noticed, which made him want to laugh with her. ‘Goodness knows what it would’ve done to the hall floor.’
‘Made a big hole, I imagine.’
‘Now, I’m trying to design a fountain.’ She came towards him with two mugs of coffee, one of which she held out to him.
‘The one for the market?’ His mind wasn’t really on what she was saying because she was making no attempt to hide the slit in her skirt and her firm young thighs, on a level with his eyes, were turning him on. He took the mug in both hands and gulped the hot coffee to stop himself reaching out to touch her.
‘Yes.’ For lack of anywhere else, she sat down next to him on the bed. ‘I thought I’d use that as a basis.’ She jerked her head towards the sculpture. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s very good, but you haven’t left anything to the imagination, have you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know…’ She laughed and leant back against the headboard, curling her legs up under her, revealing even more of her anatomy. Was she being deliberately provocative? He was almost beside himself with lustful desire. Virginia had been so long ago, and until now, he hadn’t realised how much he had missed the buzz of a clandestine relationship. But this girl was young…
‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly, twisting himself round so that he was facing her.
‘Old enough.’ She put her mug down on the bedside table and stretched out her legs so that the torn skirt fell away and her cream satin knickers were on display. They covered little: he could see dark pubic hair. He looked up at her face. She was smiling and her eyes were inviting.
He put his mug down beside hers. He ought to get up and go. He ought to nip it in the bud right now. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said lamely.
‘Later than you think.’
‘Yes.’
‘Time is precious, you know,’ she said. ‘And so many people waste it, doing nothing at all or doing something they don’t want to do. Now, you don’t strike me as a man who wastes time.’
‘No, I don’t. And I am prepared to swear that you don’t either. In fact, you might be called an opportunist.’
She laughed and leant forward so that her face was only inches from his. ‘So, what’s wrong with that? You are too, aren’t you?’ She began undoing his tie. ‘Being in the right place at the right time, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’
He took his jacket off and flung it behind him. ‘Yes. But who was in the right place at the right time tonight?’
‘We both were. Fate, that’s what it was. Fate.’
He laughed. ‘Is this your usual tactic? It’s very direct, if it is. It might put some men off.’
‘But not you.’ One by one she was undoing his shirt buttons. He was as stiff as a poker and she knew it. She kept glancing down at his trousers and smiling.
He picked up a handful of her skirt. ‘Well, since this is already ruined, we might as well finish it off.’ He ripped it off her.
It was too late to stop, much too late. He fell on her, kissing her neck, her breasts, running his hands all over her body, pulling aside the leg of her knickers to get at her. She fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table and brought out a sheath. ‘Try this for size.’ She unbuttoned his flies and pushed his trousers and underpants down, waiting for him to slip it on before opening her thighs to let him in. If he was shocked that she had such a thing, he did not show it. In fact he was grateful.
It was not until they lay side by side panting for breath, that he asked himself why. Who was she? If he looked at the design which lay on the table, her name might be on it. But he was too exhausted to move.
‘George Kennett,’ she said and laughed. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
It was then he began to worry about what he’d done. There was no doubt in his mind that she had deliberately seduced him. And he had fallen for it. Now came the pay out. ‘What do you want from me?’
She laughed. ‘More of the same, Ge
orge. Anytime you like.’
‘So that you can take your story to the papers, is that it?’
‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t risk my reputation for a cheap trick like that.’ She turned to the drawer in the bedside table and took out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. ‘I’ve no more wish for publicity than you have, not that kind anyway. This is our secret.’ She offered him a cigarette, and though he hadn’t smoked anything but cigars for years, he took one and she lit it for him.
‘What then?’
‘Nothing. Don’t look so worried. Unless you want to buy me a new dress.’
‘Of course.’ He reached for his jacket and took his wallet out of the inner pocket. ‘How much?’
‘My dear man, I don’t have a scale of charges. I’m not a whore. I’ll leave it to your generosity.’
He handed her all the notes he had, just over fifty pounds. ‘Thanks.’ She put them in the drawer beside the condom packet and the cigarettes, then she got up and padded over to put the kettle on. ‘Want a bath while I make more coffee? It’s over there.’ She nodded towards a door. He picked up his trousers and shirt and went into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
When he came out again, fully dressed except for his jacket and tie, she had put on a flowing dress of some thin cotton material and was sitting over the drawing at the table, pencil in hand. He went to stand beside her and looked down at what she was doing. ‘Zita Younger,’ he read aloud.
‘That’s me.’ She looked up from what she was doing to smile at him, her dark eyes glowing.
He was horrified. What in heaven’s name had he done? What was she after? He began to feel very worried. ‘I’d better be going.’
She saw his consternation and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, George, I don’t have any more time for my father than you have. I dislike him intensely. I left home as soon as I could.’
‘And your mother?’
‘My mother’s all right. She always did her best for me. But there are some things I wouldn’t tell her, know what I mean?’ Her mother had adopted some of her grandmother’s easy-going approach to life but on her it didn’t seem to fit. Underneath, Mum longed for respectability, to be someone people looked up to, not the bastard daughter of the town whore. But because she loved her mother, Rita would never admit it. Zita recognised herself in some of her grandmother’s character, the back-to-front pride, the independence, the barriers she put up which prevented personal relationships from flourishing but allowed casual ones free rein. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
He relaxed a little. ‘Saves hurt, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. Now drink your coffee.’
He sat and drank and they talked about the fountain project and her ideas for it, and her ambition to make a name for herself as a sculptress. Ambition was something he understood and could admire. It had been the driving force in his life. It was another hour before he stood up to go.
‘Come again, won’t you?’ she said, helping him on with his jacket. ‘You’ll want to see what I’ve bought with the money you gave me. I’ll give you a little fashion show. And George,’ she added, as he reached the door. ‘When you come to look at the fountain designs, remember my name, won’t you?’
As he left the flat he peered over the banisters. It was a long way down; several hundredweight of stone would do an immense amount of damage dropped from that height. ‘What would happen if your friends dropped your finished sculpture getting it down?’ he asked.
‘I’d have their guts for garters.’
‘You’ve got your father’s temper?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘Someone might get hurt. Wouldn’t you be better working on the ground floor?’
‘Can’t find anywhere I can afford,’ she said. ‘But if you should hear of anything, think of me.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He went down the winding stairs, got in his car and drove home, in a state bordering on hypnotic.
In the next few weeks the entries for the fountain design began to flood into the town hall, hundreds of them, some conventional, some boring: there was a fish spewing water from its mouth; a mermaid with a spear that gushed water; two naked bodies entwined in what could only be described as a suggestive pose, with the water rippling over them; a kind of bell tower with water cascading over the bell; a watermill complete with wheel; a golf ball on a tee peg, someone’s idea of a joke; and a pile of twisted metal that looked like nothing so much as a conglomeration of old bicycle parts. Some were well drawn, showing a lot of thought had gone into them, others were scribbled on any piece of paper that came to hand. George and the selection committee spent hours poring over them, but finally whittled them down to a shortlist of eight, whose designers would be asked to make scale models. One of them was Zita Younger.
He hadn’t had to push hard for Zita to be included: her design was professionally done and the presentation was good. She had passed the first stage on merit. He’d go and tell her so; she needn’t have gone to the lengths she had to be on the shortlist, but he was glad she had. She had given his life a new zest.
She laughed when he told her. ‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said, giving him a mug of half-cold tea which tasted vile, but he hardly noticed. ‘I knew it was good enough.’
‘Then why?’
She knew what he meant. ‘I don’t know. Why do people do things? I fancied you and I could see the feeling was mutual.’ She laughed, watching his face. ‘Does it have to be more than that?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll show you the dress I bought, shall I?’
He sat on the bed and watched as she stripped off the multicoloured cotton skirt and white peasant blouse she was wearing and stood in front of him in knickers and brassiere. She was slim, almost thin, with small pointed breasts and long legs. Her face was alive, her dark eyes glowing and she was laughing. It made him smile, made him feel young again, as young as he had been when he first went to bed with Virginia. Zita wasn’t Virginia because Virginia had been the passion of his life, but she had youth and vibrancy and she excited him. He reached out to grab her wrist before she could put the dress over her head. ‘Come here.’
She went dutifully. He never did see her in the new dress.
The market scheme was causing a great deal of controversy in the town; the letters page in the Melsham Gazette was full of it. ‘It is a gross misuse of public money,’ one wrote. ‘Why do we need a fountain at all? The pool is nothing but a receptacle for refuse.’
‘It’s no use taking notice of adverse publicity,’ George pointed out at the next council meeting. ‘Only those against the scheme bother to write to the papers, those who like the idea do nothing. It is precisely because the existing fountain is in disrepair that something new is needed. We must make Melsham not only a good place to live, but an interesting place to visit. Tourists bring money with them. And Miss Younger’s design is far and away the best.’
‘It’s disgusting,’ Mrs Greaves said. ‘Nudity has no place in Melsham’s public places. There’ll be a public outcry if we use that design.’
‘Then I suggest we ask her to modify it and resubmit it,’ he said.
Maggie Doughty, in one of the seats reserved for the press, leant forward to study George Kennett’s face. What had he got up his sleeve? Why was he so keen on giving work to Zita Younger? Who was she? She abandoned the meeting and went down to the foyer, where the designs were on display. Beside each was a short biography of the designer. So, Zita Younger was a local woman, educated at the local school and had a qualification in horticulture which she had obtained while working for Melsham Nurseries. Supposing she had some connection with George Kennett…oh, wouldn’t that put the fat in the fire? She abandoned the council meeting in favour of digging around in the back numbers of the Gazette.
‘Modify it!’ Zita cried, eyes blazing. ‘No, I can’t. It would spoil it completely.’
George had come straight from the council meeting and w
as sitting at her dining table. In front of him was a plate on which were the remains of a pork chop. There was a bowl containing what was left of a lettuce, condiments, an empty wine bottle, two glasses half full of red wine and, spread over the remainder of the space, her fountain design. He had been pointing out the source of the council’s unease. ‘Oh, come on, Zita. They’re too big, dominant almost.’
‘That’s the whole idea, the male ego centred in his sexual organs.’
‘Oh, is that what it means?’ He was faintly amused: she took full advantage of his sexuality and he wondered if that was how she saw him. He wasn’t sure whether he was flattered or not. ‘You’ll win the competition hands down, if you get rid of them.’
She laughed. ‘An emasculated man, wouldn’t that cause more comment?’
‘OK, make them small and less significant. I went out on a limb for you, you know.’
‘So? I’m worth it, aren’t I?’ She was wearing a long, flowing, cotton robe in a swirling design of orange, brown, red and black, which was almost transparent. She wore no underwear except flimsy knickers.
He smiled. ‘Of course you are. Don’t you want to go down in history as the designer of Melsham’s famous fountain? It would be a great boost to your career. There’d be plenty of publicity…’
He hadn’t lost his knack of manipulating people; she was almost won over. ‘I know, but it seems like prostituting my art…’
He laughed. ‘Is that worse than prostituting your body?’
‘I don’t do that!’ she flared. ‘And if you can’t think of anything better to do than hurl insults…’
‘Oh, but I can, something infinitely better.’ He stood up and reached for her hand. ‘Come on.’
She allowed him to lead her to the bed.
‘Mmm,’ she said later, nuzzling up to his bare chest. ‘You know how to get me going, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He grinned to himself over her head. ‘It’s a pity I have to go home.’
‘Are you like this with your wife? Do you…you know…’