Making Music

by Ling, Maria

  He did phone the next day, just as Karen was leaving for her evening's work. She gave Jen a conspiratorial wink and a thumbs-up sign, and went on her way.

  "I didn't know you had this number," Jen said teasingly, trying to stop her hands from shaking at the sound of his voice.

  He laughed, a lovely low laugh that sent a shiver along her spine.

  "I got it from Pete. Are you shocked?"

  "No." She was smiling into the receiver. "Should I be?"

  "You should." His answering smile travelled down the line, as clearly as if he had been in the room with her. "Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to come out for a drink this evening."

  "I'd love to."

  "Okay then. I'll pick you up in half an hour."

  Fortunately she was fresh out of the shower, having returned rather more besmirched than usual from her day job in the administrative section of a legal firm. It had been time for one of the periodic clearing-out of the archives, and Jen had spent most of the day carrying boxes of dusty old files from one place to another.

  All that was necessary was to change out of blue jeans and T-shirt into her beloved red slip dress, run a comb through her hair, and put on a pair of tiny diamond earstuds which her mum had given her on her last birthday. She toyed for a moment with the idea of borrowing some of Karen's mascara, but rejected it. She never usually wore make-up, and she was not going to pretend to be somebody she was not.

  As far as Stuart was concerned, she did not need to. She could tell that at once from the flash of approval in his eyes when she opened the door.

  "Very nice," he said, looking her over with the same laid-back appreciation he had given her guitar. Then he grinned at her, a sudden dazzling smile that seized any last fragments of her heart that remained unconquered. "Actually, no."

  "No?" She looked back at him, eyebrows raised, and did a small twirl. "Not nice?"

  "No. Bloody gorgeous."

  "Thank you," she said, a faint blush warming her cheeks.

  On their way down stairs they ran into Mrs Timms. She was standing outside her door, wrapped in a grey shawl, and looked frozen disapproval at Stuart's black leather jacket and jeans. Then she transferred the look to Jen.

  "Miss Hayton," she said sourly, "if you must go out at this time of night I would prefer it if you made a little less noise."

  "Sorry, Mrs Timms," Jen said politely.

  "And don't slam the front door when you come back either."

  "No, Mrs Timms."

  Stuart looked from one to the other, then smiled at the old lady.

  "Well, mind you don't," Mrs Timms said, and retreated to her own flat, slamming the door behind her.

  "Phew!" Stuart said quietly. "Is she always like that?"

  "Worse," Jen said dolefully. "We call her the Ogre."

  "I'm not surprised." He pulled the front door open and held it for her. "Is she going to lock this after us?"

  "Probably," Jen conceded. "It's all right -- I've got my keys with me. Where are we going?"

  "There's a place just around the corner from where we were yesterday, where they put on local bands weekdays. I'm playing there with Peter next week. I thought we could go there and see what's on."

  Jen nodded.

  "That sounds good."

  It was a cosy place, more like an old-fashioned hotel bar than a pub, with a large main room fringed by small ones. Stuart found them a sheltered corner, not too far from the band, and went off to buy the drinks.

  Jen looked around her. There was carpet on the floor, and soft lantern lights on the walls, and a comfortable living-room atmosphere. It was all very different from the previous evening's venue, but equally pleasant.

  "One glass of red wine," Stuart said, reappearing. "Well, what do you think of it?" he went on, nodding his head briefly in the general direction of the room.

  "I like it," Jen said. "I think I've been here once or twice with Karen, but not when there's been a band on."

  "You'll like this one. Good acoustic guitar work, decent singer." He tilted his pint glass at her. "Cheers."

  The band was good, and Jen had a wonderful evening, huddled up at the small table with Stuart, talking about music and guitars and cautious hopes for the future. Like her, he had always known he wanted to be a musician.

  "The best advice I ever had," he said, "was from this old guy who said: ‘Don't do it. It's a hell of a life, and the chances of making it are practically nil. But if it's the only thing in the world you want to do -- then you won't listen to that, will you?' "

  "Not very encouraging," Jen observed, smiling.

  "No. But then the last thing you need is encouragement. You have to do it because you can't imagine doing anything else -- because nothing else is worthwhile."

  "You have to believe in yourself, though," Jen protested.

  "Sure. Because you know you're good, and you're working hard, and you're getting better. Not because you think it's easy, or a job like any other."

  "It certainly isn't easy." She looked at him, at the unwavering determination in the stunning blue eyes, and thought about his inspired playing of the previous evening, and said: "You'll make it, though. I know you will."

  Prophetic words, as it turned out.

  They had not known that then, of course. They had simply sat looking at each other, a long, intent look, as though they were both aware that the tone of the conversation had shifted.

  Stuart took her hand.

  "I'll walk you home," he said.

  Out in the street, the evening was dark and warm. He put his arm around her, and they sauntered slowly towards home, sides touching, content to be silent together. At her front door, he stopped, and put both arms around her, and bent down to kiss her.

  His lips were warm and firm against hers. She leaned against his chest, and sensed his quickening heartbeat through the fabric that separated them, and she ran her hand gently up under his jacket and rested it against the small of his back.

  Light blazed across them, and a sharp voice sliced into the street.

  "Miss Hayton!"

  Jen muttered a word she had not realised she knew, and felt Stuart quiver with suppressed laughter.

  "Tomorrow?" he murmured into her ear, his breath falling softly on her neck.

  "Yes," she said without hesitation. "Tomorrow."

  It had all happened so fast. It was like being caught up in a whirlwind, or like a distorted image suddenly coming into focus. She had not known Stuart Markham a month before she was convinced he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  "Smitten," Karen told her. "That's what you are. And so is he, for that matter."

  "Yes," Jen agreed blithely, scraping the last of the burnt rice into the bin. "Totally smitten. Do you think he'll settle for another omelette?"

  "I think he'll settle for a glass of water, if that's what you want to give him. I've never seen a man so completely swept off his feet." Karen looked up at the sound of the doorbell. "That'll be him now. Well, I'm off to work. Have fun, you two."

  It was indeed Stuart, a glowing, boisterous Stuart, who caught Karen by the waist on his way in and kissed her on the cheek.

  "Take your hands off me," Karen said pleasantly. "She's in the kitchen. Follow the smell of charcoal."

  "You'll never guess," Stuart said, having released Karen and pounced on Jen instead. "You'll never guess."

  "What?" Jen asked, looking up at him and smiling happily.

  "Pete and I are playing at the Leeds beer festival this summer! Someone dropped out, and a friend of mine who's helping to organise it thought he'd ring us up and see if we could come instead."

  "That's great!" Jen exclaimed delightedly. "Congratulations!"

  "So -- " he glanced towards the kitchen, and breathed in the aroma of burning food -- "if you've screwed up dinner again, we could go out somewhere to celebrate."

  "The Italian," Jen said promptly. It was her venue of choice for all celebrations, being small, clean, and
cheap. Good food, too.

  "Okay." He kissed her gently, and then stood looking at her for a moment, and then kissed her again. "Or," he said quietly, "we could just stay here."

  A thrill ran through her as she looked into his eyes, and saw her own feelings mirrored in them. So far they had stopped at kissing, but always there had been a slow lingering desire in his touch and in his eyes, and she had shared it.

  "If you want to," he said, smiling tenderly at her, his arms strong and warm around her.

  "Yes," she said softly, reaching up to caress his smooth-shaven face and the soft warm skin of his neck. "Yes, I do."

  He bent to kiss her again, and this time it was different, a long slow kiss that deepened gradually, until she relaxed against him, and he coaxed her lips apart, and his tongue slowly entered her mouth. Still holding her, he eased the edge of her light cotton blouse out of its restraint under the waistline of her skirt, and ran his hand underneath it, warm against the skin of her back.

  She sighed softly, and brought her arms up around his neck, and pushed her fingers into the thick tumbling mass of his hair, and hugged him to her. He moved his hand further up her back, and with a small expert movement of his fingers, which made her smile involuntarily against his mouth, he undid her bra strap, and slid his hand around to her front, and underneath the loosened bra, and over her breast. Very gently he ran his thumb over and around her nipple in a slow circular movement.

  It was as if he had lit a fire inside her. She pressed her body against him, and her tongue eagerly sought his, in a sudden overwhelming wave of passion. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She slid her thigh gently past his, and felt him hardening against her hip.

  He released her mouth, and raised his head so that he could look into her eyes, and her breath caught at the searing desire in his.

  "Bedroom," he said.

  She led him into her room, and he closed the door behind them, and without another word began to undo the buttons of her blouse, and then eased it over her shoulders, and bent to kiss her neck and her chest and her breasts. She shivered at the touch of his lips, and let her blouse fall to the floor, and slid out of her bra and let that go the same way.

  He moved his mouth over her nipples, and let his tongue caress them gently, first one, then the other, and then he stood up, smiling faintly at her, and said:

  "Now your skirt."

  She unzipped her skirt, and let it fall.

  "Go on," he said, scrutinising her body with obvious appreciation.

  "No," she said defiantly, smiling back at him, daring him.

  A twist of his lips, and an assessing look at her face, and then with a sudden deft movement he had forced her arms behind her back and was holding her wrists firmly in one hand.

  "No?" he repeated, watching her eyes for any sign of protest, and sliding his other hand under the elastic of her knickers. "Are you sure?"

  She raised her eyebrows at him challengingly. He let go of her wrists, gently, and used both hands to remove her underwear.

  "Beautiful," he murmured, as she stood naked in front of him. "You are beautiful." He ran his hands over her breasts and shoulders and back, and then held her by the waist and pulled her towards him, his eyes teasing. "Go on, then."

  She reached out and began to unbuckle his belt, and then hesitated, suddenly shy of touching him, of showing how much she wanted him.

  "Go on," he said, and his eyes were no longer teasing, but dark and intent with emotion.

  She unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and then reached carefully and felt him hard and erect under her hands. He shuddered with pleasure at her touch, and then without further ado pulled his T-shirt over his head, and stepped out of his jeans, and pushed her back onto the bed.

  "Lie down," he said.

  She did as she was told, and he eased himself on top of her, and parted her legs with his, and lay still for a moment, looking at her.

  "Are you sure?" he asked softly.

  "Yes," she said intensely, her body trembling with anticipation.

  He entered her slowly and carefully, forcibly controlling his own desire, and then began to thrust rhythmically inside her, his hand slowly moving over her body, stroking her skin, guiding her towards an ever increasing peak of ecstasy.

  As she reached its climax, he lay quite still, his mouth over hers, the hard length of his body over her and inside her, his hands holding her close to him. He did not move until she lay liquid and spent underneath him, and then he began to thrust into her again, relentlessly, until with a gasp she was swept up again by another wave of excitement that brought her crashing to the shore at the same moment he was seized by a final fierce spasm of release.

  They lay panting in each others' arms, their bodies still as one, and she cradled his head in her hands, her fingers knotting in his hair.

  "I love you," she breathed.

  He kissed a bead of fresh sweat from her neck.

  "I love you too," he whispered.

  It was Rhoda who got signed up first. Someone who was someone in the record industry heard her performing in a club one night, and approached her. She insisted on taking Stuart and Jen with her for the guitar work: Jen for the soft folk style she was developing in the small venues she was beginning to be asked to play at; Stuart for his outstanding slide.

  She would have pulled Karen and Peter with her as well if she could, but that was vetoed. Backing vocalists were ten to the pound, however talented, and there were plenty of good session guitarists available at a moment's notice.

  Stuart followed her quickly enough, his performance at Leeds having electrified the audience, and won him bookings at Cambridge and Glastonbury in quick succession. Whether by negotiation skills or by sheer force of personality, he succeeded where Rhoda had failed, and roped in Karen and Peter for the supporting work.

  Jen had to pass, as she was fully booked by this time, having established a low-key reputation in folk music circles. It seemed to her that she spent almost all her time coughing and spluttering her way between pubs in her newly acquired second-hand Polo. There were times when she wished she were comfortably settled in a quiet studio with Stuart and Karen, but that feeling always vanished as soon as she walked out in front of the audience.

  This, after all, was what she had always dreamed of. If Stuart could have been there with her, it would have been perfection.

  They kept in close touch, phoning each other every day whenever either of them was on the road, and meeting up with the breathless excitement of two children at Christmas. When Jen finally landed her very own recording contract, it was a matter of course that Stuart would join her on guitar. He brought Sue with him, a friend of a friend of Karen's, who was not only a folk music devotee but also specialised in the bodhran or Celtic drum. She and Jen took to each other at once.

  True to Life had done well -- very well indeed, especially for an album firmly in the folk music tradition -- but Stuart's Only had eclipsed it completely. All of a sudden he was the star of the hour. Everyone wanted a piece of him; everyone wanted to see him, hear him, talk to him. How he kept his head at all was a mystery, but somehow he had managed to remain the same old Stuart: cheerful, pleasant, easy-going; indifferent to the rather hysterical interest he created in every female of the species, treating the inevitable starry-eyed schoolgirls with tolerant detachment.

  Or so she had thought.

  She had dropped in at his hotel on her way between gigs, making a two-hour detour just to say hello if he was there, or leave a loving note if he was not. She had walked into the lavish foyer with its plants and carpet and tasteful uplights to see him in person, large as life, standing at the porter's desk with a girl.

  She had stared in dumb amazement for what seemed like an eternity. The girl could not be more than sixteen, ridiculously plastered in make-up, wearing a tiny tube top and a skirt hardly worth the name. She was clinging to his arm like a limpet.

  Stuart had been speaking urgently to the porter, and then disengaged
himself gently from the girl, and turned around -- and then he had seen her.

  She said nothing. There was nothing to say. She simply turned and walked back out through the hotel door, down the steps, and around the corner to where she had parked the car. She got in mechanically, almost without knowing what she was doing, and drove away, staring unseeingly out at the traffic in front of her. It was a miracle she had not caused an accident.

  She went on stage as usual that evening, and apparently performed as well as ever, but everything she did had been in a kind of stupor. The music did not touch her, the applause sounded stilted; her own voice seemed to come from far away. And then a sleepless night, and the next morning a phone call from Stuart.

  "Jen, listen to me."

  "I don't want to talk to you."

  "For God's sake, Jen, don't be like that. Look, she was only -- "

  "I don't want to hear it." She had sounded calm and cold and precise, staring dry-eyed but shaking at the wall in front of her. "I don't want anything more to do with you, Stuart. Not now, not ever. Don't call me again."

  "Jen, listen -- "

  "Goodbye, Stuart."

  She had put the phone down, cutting his voice off in the middle of a sentence, and sat staring into space.

  Then suddenly, and violently, she had burst into tears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Are you all right, Jen?"

  Peter stood hesitantly in front of her, with Sue's bodhran in one hand.

  "Oh." Jen let go of the sofa cushion, wiped her eyes quickly, and gave him a disoriented smile. "Yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking."

  "Bad idea," Peter said grimly, laying the instrument on one of the armchairs. "Don't think, it only causes trouble. I saw Karen a minute ago, she says dinner's nearly ready."

  "Thanks."

  "And by the way," Peter went on, pushing his spectacles back up his nose in a habitual gesture, "what have you done to Stuart? He's walking around the house looking like he's been kicked in the teeth. Sue says she left him in here with you half an hour ago, and he was fine then. Positively cheerful, in fact. What did you say to him?"