Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  "Like it," she approved, pulling her robe closer around her. She didn't want to reveal her outfit immediately.

  "Hope there aren't going to be too many Draculas." In the light of the hall Abbey noticed the blood painted on his lips.

  "No false teeth then?"

  "Couldn't get any, had to settle for the blood instead. Hope it works."

  "Looks good. Come in." She led him into the lounge and pointed to the settee. "Have a seat, I won't be a moment."

  "What you're going as, then?"

  "You'll see." Smiling at his contorted grammar she disappeared into the bedroom, gave her hair another slick with the hairspray and brush, slipped off the robe and looked at herself in the mirror.

  A perfect picture of the time she had "met" Des in the past, except then the skirt was white and now it was red. Everything else, from the sweater to the stockings, was the same.

  She took a deep breath and walked back out into the lounge.

  "Here I am."

  "You look -" He broke off, staring wide-eyed, the makeup forgotten, his mouth dropping open. "I do know you," he said eventually. Abbey shook her head, her black hair not moving under the thick layer of lacquer she had put on.

  "No, you don't. You've never seen me before. I just remind you of... something."

  "I'm not with you, Abbey."

  "Don't worry about it." She picked up the plastic handbag. "Shall we go?"

  "Sure. You'll knock their eyes out!"

  Dancing close to Des, a couple of rum and limes stored safely inside where they couldn't be knocked over, Abbey allowed herself to drift just a little in her thoughts. No one else had come as Dracula, fortunately for Des, and no one else had come as a sixties Mary Quant girl either. There was a sprinkling of tarts, one vicar, a milkmaid, a sailor - pretty conventional fancy dress on the whole.

  Abbey kept recalling a magnificent ball, where everyone wore long flowing dresses, doublets, lace and ribbons, that fitted them to perfection, because (the key lay in the because) everyone wore that type of clothing all the time, and they didn't move or look awkward in it. Wise Alfred to insist they wore their costumes at home! Not that Abbey needed to; she felt more at home in that outfit than any other costume she had ever had, and felt herself longing for the midsummer ball, for the smoke and the noise and the ale, for...

  For Lord Danverson to have a hand on the wall beside her, to be talking close into her ear, his Van Dyck beard tickling her face, making her want to reach out and caress it.

  But he was then and this was now, and she had a companion she had to be nice to.

  She wondered, just for a moment, why the music she was dancing to seemed odd, strange, almost raucous; it was only wallpaper music, for heaven's sake! But hadn't they any minstrel music, lute and lyre?

  Come on, she told herself, this is a party, loosen up! But images remained, staying just out of the corner of her eye, the corner of her mind.

  Drink had been knocked over, the purple dress would definitely have been a mistake in such a crowded place. The party was to celebrate the engagement of a couple of Des" friends, doing it in style. Des told Abbey the wedding would be done in style too, elegant Victorian dress for everyone, men and women alike, and a horse-drawn carriage for the bride, all planned for May next year. They looked happy enough, dressed in identical pirate outfits, hardly moving from one another's side.

  The guests, also Des" friends, welcomed Abbey as if they had known her forever. Only one man had become persistent, questioning her at length about the theatre, why the Community Centre should give space over to amateur dramatics.

  "People like the plays, it gives us all an interest, it's a good use for a community centre. And we do it for the love of it. Come and see at the end of October. We're doing a play set in the time of Charles I, For Glory and For Love. You'll like it, I'm sure." No, what I'm sure of is that you're pestering me with questions because you don't want me to leave your side. You don't know where you've seen me before, but I do.

  She finally walked away with her Dracula, who had been giving the man meaningful angry looks all the time.

  "I think he's a reporter of some kind," Des told her as they went into a smoochy dance.

  "No, I know the reporters who come around the theatre. He isn't one of those. I think he just likes the legs."

  "As I do!"

  She didn't tell Des she had seen the man before, in the inn in the City of London when she had walked in here and boldly picked up first Nigel and then Des himself, the barman as he was then, nameless and virile and strong. The man had been sitting by one of the windows, had admired her from a distance, had looked disappointed when Nigel had got to her first, and she had walked off holding Nigel's arm.

  She didn't tell him because, like the outfit itself, none of it would have made sense, and yet somewhere in Des" mind there were tiny bells ringing, and he couldn't quite make sense of why they should be making a noise.

  They left at 11 o'clock. Abbey's feet were aching in the heeled boots and her legs ached from too much dancing. She felt tired and hot and sticky but guessed Des would want to get a lot further than the front door.

  "Can I offer you ..."

  He kissed the back of her neck. "Yes, you can."

  She turned and allowed him to take her into his strong tattooed arms, feeling the iron strength, the large hands cupping her cheeks firmly, pulling her hips close to his.

  "I've wanted you ever since you walked out of the bedroom wearing that outfit." She kissed him, tongues touching, teeth contacting, lips pressed hard against each other, feeling his incipient stubble. Somehow she dropped the bag onto the settee, somehow they made it to the bedroom, kissing and hugging and touching.

  They separated for a moment while Abbey took off the high-heeled boots with a sigh of relief, stripped off the clinging top and miniskirt, fell back onto the bed at his touch, and let him remove the rest of her clothing slowly and carefully. She noticed his quick look at the cp magazine on the cabinet, saw him look and then look away, his eyes unreadable. He took time over the suspenders and the fishnet stockings, rolling them sensuously down to her feet, where he touched and caressed and rubbed her high insteps. Then his fingers travelled the length of her legs, finding her silk-soft thighs, her moist opening, her silk-smooth pubis. "Nice."

  She said nothing, just let his fingers walk, closing her eyes, wondering if it would be as good. There were disadvantages in travelling; you always had something to compare.

  Another pause while Des stripped off his Dracula clothes, dropping them in an untidy heap. He was well built, with interesting scars lancing across his chest and stomach; Abbey didn't ask, it wasn't the moment. Instead, she traced the silvery red lines with a long fingernail, making him twitch. He was ready, his cock moved of its own accord, seemed to be guided towards her. He slid into her murmuring, "I've waited long enough," and lay there, letting her experience the fullness, the complete filling of her body. She grasped his shoulders, pulled him close, kissed him. He buried his face in her neck, pretending to bite, scratching the sensitive skin.

  "Go!" she whispered, and he began to move his hips, gently, taking his time, each thrust long drawn out and gentle, yet firm. She thrilled to the timing, the movement, the slow tender build-up towards a more frenetic coupling that suddenly exploded.

  The springs complained and came back into position as they rolled over, smiling at each other, content with what had happened. Not bad, thought Abbey, not bad at all.

  Des picked up the magazine with his left hand, waved it at her.

  "Into this, are you?" He smiled, but his eyes held no knowing look.

  "On and off," admitted Abbey, waiting to see what would happen. He flipped the pages and then put it down.

  "You didn't need that with my loving." She wondered where she'd heard something like that one before. "You're good," he said, running a thumb down the length of her body, finding her wet thighs, tickling her tender spots.

  "You are, too."

&n
bsp; "I hope so, I've had enough practice. Now tell me, you didn't miss a bit of spanking, did you?"

  "No," she lied. "Coffee?"

  "Fine."

  After coffee and more kisses, Abbey finally got him to go, watched him walk away into the darkness, closed the door after him and sank down on the settee.

  It wasn't any good, it was like ham without mustard, chocolate without cream, rum without lime. Oh, it had been fine at the time, when it was happening, after it had happened, but then the feeling wore off and there was nothing left but wetness and a sense of disappointment.

  What had happened? When had it changed?

  From the time she came back from Danverson Castle wearing a hundred red lines that burned and stung and glowed like nothing on earth.

  Because Lord Danverson had fucked her first and thrashed her afterwards.

  And left her wanting.

  Abbey stood up, made her way to the bedroom, found the torn white skirt, looked at it, smiled and then went for her sewing box.

  A courtyard, paved and cobbled, glowing with golden gaslight. Stained-glass windows of a huge bulking church crowded one side, while the steamy windows of a restaurant kitchen - a closed and shuttered sandwich bar - created a second. On the third were the dark walls of offices closed for the night, all commerce and wheeler-dealing done for another 16 hours, shutting out the noise, clamour and people of Gracechurch Street.

  The City of London. At night, when everyone had gone, leaving only the cats, rats and City folk who could afford to stay here, the homeless ragged found doorways and shelters among the stones and porches.

  The gaslight shone on Abigail, stiletto-heeled boots in danger of being trapped in the flagstones and cobbles, fishnet stocking seams straight, short skirt tight, sweater even tighter. Black hair straightened and swept into a smooth face-shaping bob, large chunky plastic earrings and huge bangles, white lips and black-lined eyes.

  The fourth side of the square was part alleyway leading to offices and the outside world, part ancient inn. Through the dim windows, shaded lights lit tables enriched with rum and ale, and worn steps led to richness and seclusion, to scents of spirits strong enough to create a hangover on their own. Red lamps hung over the bar, and a mirror dull and dusty reflected half-empty bottles with unreadable labels. The timbers of the bar were encrusted with centuries of dirt and dust, sweat and fumes. Three or four men brooded over half-empty glasses, men with thoughts that weighed as heavy as the years on the inn itself.

  Abigail walked carefully down the treacherous steps, raising eyebrows and the spirits of the drinkers immediately. She perched - with difficulty - on a bar stool and put the small plastic bag down on the counter.

  "Rum and lime, please." She found a couple of ten shilling notes, not sure how much the drink would be. She had decided to actually take something, just to see what happened. Surely one drink wouldn't damage the fabric of time?

  "On the house." The barman, leering under shaggy eyebrows that seemed strong enough to stop an avalanche, pushed the drink at her. The glass was smeared, the drink strong.

  "Thank you. What have I done to deserve that?" Abigail fluttered mascara-heavy false eyelashes at him and sipped the drink.

  "Trade's bad this evening - you've brightened the place up a bit." The bar was wiped with cloth as dirty as the bar, by hands as large as mooring posts, arms thick as cables. A strong bulky man, ex-sailor? Tattoos shouted he might well be. Face carved from the same wood figureheads were carved from, unreadable eyes topped large nose. "Waiting for someone?"

  "Not really." Every ear was turned her way, every man lusting after long long legs that ended somewhere around her shoulders, shiny boots catching the soft light from the bar lamps and the thoughts of the men. "Just not in a hurry to go home. No one to go home for!"

  "Shame, nice girl like you." A well-dressed businessman, slim, with groomed blond hair and groomed smooth face, monogrammed briefcase and silk tie, rose from a dark corner where he had been out of her sight. "Could I buy you another drink?"

  Abigail didn't hesitate.

  Only two men were close, the others ogled from a distance. So, she had to choose between these two.

  But there was no choice, was there? Not with knowledge.

  The barman wore a belt strong enough to anchor the Queen Elizabeth, and she knew he would use it.

  The businessman had no visible sign about him to shout "I'm the one!" and of course he wasn't.

  Abigail shook her head.

  "Thank you, but I have a drink already."

  The magazine slipped from her fingers and unrolled on the counter. She had carried it so carefully concealed as people hurried home, lemmings heading to the station, blindly following their feet and seeing nothing - or did they? A hand swinging nonchalantly at a side would sometimes connect - oh so briefly - with a sensitive area, and then the man pass on as if nothing had happened, leaving her tingling. And him? She would never know. Another would brush a breast and smile apologetically, but with lustful eyes.

  Everywhere the eyes. Eyes on miniskirts, on what is revealed by miniskirts, on legs and thighs and twinkling knickers here and there, where someone had refused to go into tights, the all-concealing and all-protecting garment.

  Carried the magazine, read it over coffee at a stall while pretending to be homeward-bound, entering Fenchurch Street Station with its smell of trains of steam and grit, of oil and steel, working men and passengers, of pigeons and people; pretending to queue for the phone, impatiently looking at her watch and rushing away when she was third from the phone box. (Who would she call? Her earlier self?)

  Carried the magazine until the right moment when it unrolled itself on the bar top. Knowing what would happen, knowing who would stiffen, who would leer, who would go wide-eyed with lust.

  And she didn't have to take a chance on the mirror. It was waiting for her upstairs. Along with pleasure through pain.

  She smiled at the businessman, because of shared memories. He looked puzzled, knew something was wrong but didn't know what. He went back to his table, staring into his drink.

  Outside, silent streets touched by moonlight and lamplight, carrying the echoes of feet and bodies of the day, the hustle of cars, shouting for taxis, calls of news vendors.

  "News 'n' Stand'd"

  As time went on, the darkness pressed down. Streets sounded even emptier than they did before; even the echoes had boarded trains and left for the suburbs. The moon had hidden its face behind a tumble of curls that masqueraded as clouds. And the inn's light shone warm and inviting on the worn stones that paved the square.

  The barman looked at her and grinned. He leaned over the scarred bar top and whispered: "You made the right choice, girlie."

  She smiled back. "I know."

  "Another drink?"

  "Thank you!" Abigail took it, glanced around the inn and found it empty (when had Nigel and the other solitary drinkers gone?) except for memories. She looked at the man again.

  "Come back for what you really wanted?" he asked, touching his belt oh so casually. She shivered, and felt herself melt just a little, anticipation surging through her cheeks and into her spine. Why did it do that?

  "Yes." (How did he know I'd come back?) She spoke in the tiniest of voices, unwilling to admit it was what she had come back for, in every sense of the expression.

  But she had.

  "I could've told you he'd be no good. These white-handed namby-pamby men don't understand what a woman really wants, do they?" (But in another time and another place it's you that is no good!)

  "You're an expert, are you?" She smiled, shifting on the bar stool, feeling the seams of the short tight skirt almost creak under the strain. She felt completely at home, knowing the mirror was there. Knowing what was on offer. This, then, had been the preview she felt last time.

  "I'm an expert. Mind you, I don't often find women coming in blatantly asking like you did. Bit of a surprise that, but I like boldness in a woman, saves a lot of time and troub
le." He glanced at a huge watch almost hidden in the hairs of his wrist. "No one's gonna come by now. I'll lock up and we can go."

  "I don't... want to deprive you of trade."

  Hesitating, delaying, anticipation building. Delaying for the pleasure of feeling the anticipation build.

  She knew it would be wonderful.

  "To hell with it, it's my pub, I'll do as I damn well wish, and it ain't every day a woman comes parading in here, half her arse on display, asking for it to be tanned. Come on."

  She stood by the bar, waiting while the huge old door was locked and bolted, lights were flipped off, keys hung from a large hook and her arm taken to guide her up the stairs.

  More memories.