that you looked at me and said
a diamond day is dawning,
my love.
In the waking waterside glare
we were going to share
the beauty of a dove.
To seek the joy of light
the sheer ecstasy of flight
every sweet fantasy in sight.
Colours yellow, blue
and red,
Heart mellow, true
and disconnected from the head.
Your eyes were violet
Your lips were velvet
Your touch was sacred.
You too, my love
were like the dove.
If only I had understood
In even the craziest romantic mood
That dreams are as well as
And maybe as much as
But never ever instead.
And even lovers must get out of bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It took around four years for Jennifer Stone to complete her weekly newspaper training, virtually exhaust Dorset’s supply of male sex objects, and graduate to an evening paper, the hours of which were interfering with her sex life. She knew she was more than ready for a move to London. Mark suggested she apply for a job on his newspaper, the Daily Recorder. She was invited for an interview and swiftly hired as a reporter. It had been remarkably smooth and painless. Marcus, for so he had become, smiled benignly. Well, she thought, it couldn’t possibly be anything to do with him. He might be the star foreign man already, but he was still only a reporter.
Together they found her a flat. He had half-heartedly suggested she move in with him.
‘Certainly not,’ she had told him curtly. ‘I do not intend to live with any man unless I marry him.’
He had roared with laughter and asked what on earth had possessed the sexiest creature he had ever come across – more laughter – that she should suddenly display such morality.
‘Nothing to do with morality, just practicality,’ she had replied, mildly offended. ‘If I ever move in with someone, I am going to be absolutely sure I am not going to want to move out the next week. I don’t want my home to depend on my sex life, for Christ’s sake, do I?’
He had agreed, with another outburst of mirth, that she most certainly did not.
‘Look, we need to be free spirits, it works for us,’ she’d said.
He did not really need persuading. She was sure he was secretly relieved. But he did try, very occasionally, to do the right thing, did Mark.
‘One thing you must remember,’ he’d instructed. ‘Marcus, not Mark. When you come to London you must learn to call me Marcus.’
She giggled. She could understand why he wanted to change Piddle to Piddell, but Mark to Marcus? She remembered asking him about that and being told it was a much better byline name. Typical of him; he rarely missed a trick.
He told her she should stop being Jenny – that was a name for schoolgirls and waitresses. Jennifer Stone was a good name, a strong name.
‘A good byline name?’ she had queried with a smile.
‘Damn right,’ he had replied. And so it proved to be.
Jennifer too was successful from the start in Fleet Street. She was a general news reporter for four wild years. Away on stories she occasionally strayed, but back home in London there was only Marcus. She moved to a smart flat in the Barbican at about the same time that she was transferred into the features department as a senior writer. And in the four years after Jennifer had arrived in town, Marcus rose to be deputy editor. His promotion had been swift. He was thirty-two years old. The present editor was due for retirement the following year and Marcus was being groomed to take over. He had bought himself a mews house in Chelsea. He drove a Daimler provided by the Recorder – an editor’s car a year or so in advance of the job becoming vacant, a clear statement of management’s intent. When he became editor, there would be a chauffeur as well. He was Fleet Street’s greatest golden boy, and it all seemed so effortless.
Together they were a much sought-after couple.
They had youth and glamour, that aura of success about them which is inclined to make people so much more attractive than they would otherwise be. They still did not live together, but they were an established item in the media world.
Their sex life was even more extreme than their working life. Every time they made love it seemed to be a little wilder, a little crazier than the last. She told him all her fantasies. He would get her to tell him again and again how she would like to have two men at once, and sometimes, with his tricks and his sexual wizardry, he would almost make her believe that she had.
Some mornings when she woke she found herself wondering how far they would go together. How far would Mark go for a sexual thrill? How far would she go? Occasionally it bothered her, made her anxious. After yet another extraordinary all-night sex session she would not always experience quite the old glow, quite the old joyful fulfilment. Instead she would feel a bit jaded, uneasy. As she lay pondering the night’s escapades, she would invariably hear Marcus cheerfully whistling as he splashed around in the bathroom. No crisis of conscience there. The thought made her grin. Marcus invariably bounced out of bed without a care in the world, as if he had just enjoyed eight hours of deep, uninterrupted slumber. His powers of recovery never ceased to amaze her. Recovery, what was she thinking about? He never seemed to need to recover. His dressing room was entered through the bathroom. When he emerged he was always immaculate in Armani suits and Gucci shoes. The white blonde curls gleamed with well-being. He smelt slightly, never too much, of Paco Rabanne. He was handsome, successful, and on top of the world. He had the body and the stamina of an athlete, the looks of a Hollywood film star, the brain of an academic, the street wisdom of a barrow boy, and no morals to mention.
Often Jennifer could only groan and pull the sheet over her head.
Marcus was endlessly inventive. There was the time he and Jennifer were invited to a smart media dinner party. In Hampstead. Where else? They were very much on that circuit now, and their opinion about these evenings they sometimes felt obliged to endure was something else they had in common. They both despised them as pretentious pompous occasions. At this one, given by a top TV man, there was the usual careful mix of politicians, journalists and tycoons. The conversation was stilted and contrived and unbearably clever. During the pre-dinner drinks session, Jennifer noticed Marcus in deep conversation with the hostess, really turning on the charm, and she could see the woman responding to his blatant sexuality. She wondered how many women around the table he had had. She never allowed herself any illusions about his ability to be faithful, although, strangely enough, since she had been living in London, sharing his life if not entirely his home, she did not think there had been many other women. And certainly none that mattered. She had also strayed while away on trips – it never seemed important to either of them. She knew that Marcus was obsessed with her and her body. She couldn’t help loving that, and the thought of it turned her on. She decided to think about something else. When the dozen or so guests came to sit down at the long narrow table, she was surprised to find that she and Marcus had been seated opposite each other, unusual at this kind of dinner party for couples to be placed that close together. She felt Marcus staring at her. She glanced at him and saw that he was looking triumphant. She knew the expression well. Could he have been fixing this with the hostess, she wondered, and why on earth would he bother?
A few minutes later she learned the answer. She was wearing a long silk skirt with a slit up the side almost to the top of her legs. She knew Marcus found it sexy. She was chatting with the guest on her left now, and she could hear Marcus talking too, but she knew his eyes were upon her, his gaze boring into her. Then she felt something stroking her leg. Good God, it was his foot. He had his shoe off and the touch was smooth. But then, he always wore silk socks. A second foot found its way inside her skirt and eased her knees apart. This was ridiculous. She felt herself flu
sh. She shot Marcus an imploring glance, but now he wasn’t even looking in her direction. He was deeply in conversation with the politician’s wife on his right who looked as if she would like to take him upstairs immediately. Typical bloody Marcus. He could always do about ten things at once and give nothing away. Nobody in a million years would suspect what he was doing with his feet. The second foot had reached its target now, he was using his toes expertly. On some kind of automatic pilot she felt herself widen her legs. Immediately the second foot joined the first and with much wiggling of toes he eased her flimsy knickers to one side and pushed a big toe inside her, playing with her. Valiantly she tried to compose herself and to carry on listening to the Sunday paper editor sitting next to her pontificate about privacy and the press. Fortunately he barely drew breath, so she didn’t have to speak, and he was so carried away with his own self-importance that he didn’t notice the curious expression on her face. She knew she had gone quite red, and she was having difficulty controlling her breathing.
She was vaguely aware of Marcus making something of a show of dropping his napkin. When he bent down to pick it up he grabbed her right foot, slipped off her shoe, and placed her stockinged foot firmly on his crotch. He was still talking and had completed his task so smoothly she was sure nobody would have noticed a thing. Anyway, who except Marcus would get up to tricks like this in public with his own bloody woman, she thought to herself. Good Lord. Her foot was actually touching his naked cock, she realised with a slight start which she hurriedly tried to disguise as a hiccup. Marginally less embarrassing than revealing that you were involved in a mutual masturbation session at the dinner table. His flies were undone beneath his napkin. How on earth had he managed that? OK you bastard, she thought, now stay cool, Jennifer. She slipped off her other shoe and with her two stockinged feet went to work on him like crazy. By the time dessert had been served she noticed with some satisfaction that his conversation had at last started to falter. His eyes were shining, and he had that tremble in his lip which always happened when he was terribly excited. It will serve the bastard right if I make him come right now, she thought. Then she realised he was speaking to her, and that her own breathing had quickened to short sharp gasps. This was terrible. She was losing control.
‘Darling, I knew we shouldn’t have come,’ she heard him say sympathetically.
She looked at him in horror and realised that only she would be remotely aware of any possible double meaning as he explained to the assembled throng that poor Jennifer had been suffering from an asthma attack that day and it had been a little optimistic to attend this dinner but they had both so wanted to be here. It seemed to be coming on again. He paused and looked at her. She could cheerfully have throttled him. He must take her home, he continued, and so with apologies he was on his feet and around the table and helping her out of her chair. Her knees felt shaky. Asthma indeed! Still, at least it meant nobody expected her to speak. With some concern she looked down at his trousers. His flies were done up. How had he managed that so quickly and without even her noticing? He was a magician. She couldn’t trust herself to attempt to say goodbye.
They left quickly. Marcus walked her down the driveway towards the main road, assuring his hosts that he could pick up a taxi there easily. As soon as the front door was shut he took her by the arm and dragged her into the shrubbery to the side of the house. He flung her against a tree trunk and pushed her skirt up around her waist.
‘You bugger,’ she said.
But she was referring to the sweet torture of the dinner table, not what he was doing now.
‘Yes please,’ he said.
She pulled his face towards her and clamped her mouth on his, forcing his lips apart with her tongue. Eagerly he sucked her tongue inward and their mouths became fused together. His hands tore at her and he crumpled her skirt carelessly with his urgent embrace. That would never be the same again. He clawed at her tights, reducing them to shreds as he ripped them apart. She fumbled urgently with his flies, she wanted to get at him every bit as much as he wanted to get at her. With one strong arm he lifted her slightly off the ground, her back wedged against the tree, and she wrapped her legs around him. He forced her pants to one side and thrust himself straight into her. He knew he wasn’t going to last, he adored this kind of sex. Within a couple of minutes he exploded inside her and he was far too quick for her. He came out of her and she stood there before him with her legs apart, still gasping for it.
‘Do you remember by the dustbins all those years ago?’ she asked, her voice dry with desire. ‘It was like that again, wasn’t it?’
When he could speak he agreed that it was and said to her: ‘Come on, let’s go back to my place, and then I’ll make it happen for you again and again, I promise.’
She could still barely breath. The itch inside her was driving her mad and she told him she couldn’t wait, he had to make her come where they were, he had to. Obediently he dropped to his knees, his fine dinner suit probably ruined for ever in the mulch of leaf mould on the ground, and sucked her into a climax. She shouted in triumph and it lasted a long time. When he raised his head for air he said he hoped nobody inside the house had heard and she told him graphically how little she cared about that.
‘You started it, you sex-crazed beast.’
Laughing together, they adjusted their clothing as best they could, walked out into the road and hailed a taxi.
By the time they reached Marcus’s house he was ready again, and they made love for hours on the big bed. He never seemed to tire of her. In the middle of the night when he was deep inside her he asked her to marry him. She was shocked; she had not expected that. She had never given a thought to marrying Marcus, and they had never before discussed marriage. To her surprise she heard herself say that she would, she cried that she would. When they had finished he reached under the bed and handed her a small package. It contained a beautiful diamond engagement ring.
‘Good God, did you really mean it then?’ she inquired.
‘Would I joke about marriage?’ he replied with another question.
She reached out and touched him casually. ‘Are you sure it’s not just that?’ she asked. He looked down.
‘I want to marry you in spite of that,’ he grinned.
‘You’re not built for monogamy, Marcus,’ she told him.
‘The only time I have been with another woman since you came to London is when you have been away for weeks on end,’ he said.
She knew it was the truth. He had not lied. She would not have believed him if he had said that there had been no one else at all.
He went on: ‘You’re not away so much now and I believe I can control myself … if you can.’
He grinned at her. He had no illusions either.
‘Touché,’ she said.
He lightly kissed one of her breasts. The touch of his lips never failed to make her flesh tingle.
‘When I can have you there is nothing and no one else. We have the best sex in the world.’
‘Anything else?’
‘What else is there?’
She wasn’t even sure he was joking.
‘Well, for example, do you love me?’
She looked inquiringly into his eyes. They were sparkling. They almost always were.
‘To distraction,’ he said.
In the morning he was ecstatic. Even more like Marcus than usual. Later in the office, a delivery boy arrived laden down with great boxes of lily of the valley. She had once told him they were her favourite flowers. It was only years afterwards that she discovered that lily of the valley are lethally poisonous.
There was a note asking her to join him for lunch at Langans. She did so joyfully. The next couple of weeks were wonderful. They partied with their friends and they partied without them. They planned their future together. They started house-hunting.
They both wanted a big town house somewhere very central; they wanted children, too, but not yet. Marcus had convinced himself that he deep
ly desired a normal family life, and that he could have that in spite of all the things about him which might seem to conspire against it.
Jennifer and Marcus were the couple the whole of London envied. Years later, Jennifer could never remember whether she had had any suspicions about Marcus at that time. Had she really taken him so much at face value? Had she never suspected that he had an under-life? She wasn’t sure. One occasion did stick in her head, however. Shortly after agreeing to marry him, she had decided to confront him again with some of her lurking doubts. Marcus often took phone calls behind closed doors, sometimes in the dead of night. He was always vague about his movements, going missing without explanation for hours on end, occasionally overnight.
She had blurted out her anxieties to him about his behaviour, the anxieties that had been with her ever since the early days in Pelham Bay, the way she often wondered how he could have made so much money in such a short time, how he seemed able to fix anything and everything so effortlessly, and how she still fretted about Irene and her disappearance and what it continued to mean to both of them.
‘Nothing,’ Marcus had replied shortly. ‘Irene’s disappearance means nothing to either of us any more. If I could ever have done anything about it, I would have done, but I am not going to let it ruin my life – or yours. And as for being successful, have you ever noticed how hard I work?’
It was true. He did work hard, and he was clever, but was there more to it than that?
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But there is something going on in your life that’s a secret and you won’t let me know about and there always has been.’
She paused. Typically he said nothing to fill the pause.
‘I want to know once and for all if it’s another woman,’ she said.
He chuckled then and told her not to be ridiculous, but she persisted in cross-examining him.
‘All I can think of is that you have been having an affair all these years with someone who is unavailable, a married woman, and if it’s not that, what the hell is it?’ she asked.
The Cruelty of Morning Page 13