The Reunion

by Gould, R J

  Bridget arrived soon after 7.30. As he greeted then took hold of her, David was hit by a powerful physical force like an electric charge. The effect of that first contact, just a touch against the fabric of her soft purple jumper, was so intense he pulled away.

  Bridget stepped back. “Objective number four tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe we should postpone that and work on my coffee bar plans instead,” he joked as he put his arms around her shoulders. Then they were back in an embrace, kissing passionately.

  Dinner was a success with Bridget complimenting him. He wanted her to think that the meal was one of a range of menu options at his disposal. But he’d forgotten cookery was included in the list of objectives she’d seen.

  “Have you started your cookery course yet?” she inquired.

  “Sort of, just half a day so far. But now I’ve signed up for Simple Italian Cooking.”

  “So is this from that first course?”

  “I’ve refined it quite a bit. Have some more wine,” he added, keen to change the subject.

  They’d already finished a bottle of Vouvray and were on their second. Bridget took a couple of sips from her newly filled glass then stood and walked round to David’s side of the table.

  “Now, where were we up to last time I was here?” she teased as she began undoing his shirt buttons. “This too, I seem to remember,” she added as she leaned forward to kiss his chest as she opened each button.

  He removed her cardigan and bra. “We got this far I believe. Upstairs?” he suggested.

  “Yes, good idea. I know it worked in Lady Chatterley’s Lover and The Postman Always Rings Twice, but having sex on a kitchen table’s never appealed to me. Come on, up we go.”

  David laughed as he followed Bridget up the stairs. The wine had made him rather light headed. He leaned forward in an attempt to caress her naked back but misjudged her stepping speed, stumbled and ended up on his knees stroking a stair.

  Bridget turned and gave him a puzzled look. “You OK?”

  “Yes, fine. I thought I saw a tack poking through the carpet but I was wrong, there isn’t one.”

  “Shall we keep going then?”

  In the bedroom he hastily undid his belt and pulled down his trousers. He struggled to take them off, but they tangled with his shoes and he toppled down onto the bed. Bridget was smiling at him: he was acting like a first-timer.

  “Here, let me help,” she offered as she bent down to untie his laces and remove his shoes. She then yanked off his trousers and took off her own skirt. “You need some space around here too by the looks of things,” she added, looking at his erection. She slid off his boxers, running her hand against his penis as she did so. With David motionless she took off her own knickers. He stood, took hold of her and dropped them both onto the bed.

  “Finally. Alone together,” he exclaimed looking into light blue eyes exuding far more confidence about what was to happen than he felt.

  He adjusted his position until their bodies pressed together. He was all set. At last. He caressed the small of her back and moved his hand downwards.

  “Err, just one thing David.”

  “Mm?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

  “No, what?”

  “Socks.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your socks are still on, I’ve got a bit of a thing about having sex with a man wearing socks.”

  David sat up with a start, his head colliding with Bridget’s. After the initial shock and shot of dizzying pain they both laughed. He took off his socks, noting with horror that his right foot big toe had been poking through a hole. He looked down at his shrivelling penis and then with intense embarrassment up to Bridget. Her smile was wonderful, but was it to share or directed at him?

  “Come here you,” she said as she pulled him close. His erection was restored and they were engaging in blissful foreplay. As he was about to enter her he had one more practical thought and considered it his moral duty to raise it.

  “Bridget”

  “Yes?”

  “No condom.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t put on a condom. They’re in the drawer.”

  “No problem, don’t need it, I’m protected. That is, for contraception, not STDs. But somehow I don’t think you’re a risk.” At last conversation ceased, replaced by heavy breathing and gasps of joy.

  ~

  He woke with a dull ache where Bridget’s head was resting on his upper arm. He looked across at the clock, it was 3.17. The light was still on in the landing so he could see her face, a face that had enchanted him from the instant they’d met at the reunion. The quilt was pulled up high to her neck. He was hungry to see more of her so edged it down to expose her breasts. She giggled in her sleep as he stretched down to kiss a nipple. Turned on, he moved his hand down to her stomach, onwards through her tight curls of hair, to between her legs. She responded, still half asleep, stroking him. This soporific foreplay continued for quite some time until, with Bridget wet and David hard, he entered her with far greater conviction and self-confidence than the first time and they made serene and rhythmic love.

  When they woke late morning Bridget was the first to speak. “That was lovely David, wonderful.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “You’re not bad yourself. I suppose congratulations are due.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ve accomplished objective number four and five, the latter well ahead of schedule. It’s only the café left, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I’ve given myself permission to repeat numbers four and five as much as you want!”

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 32

  “I love it!” David and Bridget were chatting about the café while brunching in his kitchen. She’d produced two perfect cappuccinos using the espresso machine that until then only Jane had mastered. When they’d divided possessions he’d queried her omission of this prize asset, but Jane didn’t need it because Jim had purchased a top of the range machine as a moving in present.

  David waited for the next round of bread to pop out. Jane had taken the previous toaster. As a counter to her ‘top of the range’ jibe, he’d bought the most expensive replacement he could find, an art deco black and silver steel model.

  Focusing on the café wasn’t easy. Bridget was wearing the same Simpsons tee shirt that David had provided during her first visit, the family in a line smiling. She was naked underneath and he could see the outline of her nipples through the material. To make matters worse, or better depending on how you looked at it, the garment had ridden up to the top of her thighs.

  Bridget was blissfully unaware of his thoughts and was chatting away about the cost of opening and running the café. “The arts focus is exciting and I accept what you say about needing a unique selling point, but we must sort out the money side before getting carried away with anything else.”

  David agreed but insisted that more research and outside advice would be needed to make any dialogue about costs meaningful. Bridget relented and suggested a consideration of name. Something that stood out. David came up with a title straight away and Bridget declared ‘I love it!’

  A Street Café Named Desire.

  “I’ve got to be honest Bridget, it’s a name I’ve heard before.”

  “How come? Or do you just mean the play?”

  “No, more than that. My uncle was thinking of opening an arts café and he came up with it; well to be exact his business partner did. They were all set to open near Kew Gardens when his friend announced he was off to Russia to meet a woman he’d found on the internet. That’s a story in itself. This guy was a French teacher at my uncle’s school. He’d never been married and according to my uncle had never even been in a relationship. He was in his late fifties and there he was deciding to travel across Europe to meet up with a twenty-something woman. You can bet what she was after. I’ve got no idea what happened, but I can’t
imagine it ending in anything other than disaster. Anyway the café idea had to be scrapped.”

  “But would your uncle mind us pinching the name?”

  “No. I’ve asked him, he’s fine with it.”

  “Great. OK, back to planning then.”

  “There’s a bit more to my uncle’s story. He was desperate to get out of teaching and decided to have a go at writing a novel. You’d expect high brow literary fiction from an English teacher at a girls’ independent school, but he wrote an erotic fantasy. ‘And you thought I was a boring teacher’ it’s called. You might have heard of it, there was quite a bit of publicity.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Henry Derbyshire.”

  “That does ring a bell. I think I saw him interviewed on television.

  David dropped two perfectly bronzed slices of toast into the bread basket and sat down.

  Bridget had a pad of paper in front of her, so far with nothing more than the café name written down.

  “What about location?” She wrote ‘location’. David’s infatuation extended to being in love with her wild, looping writing.

  Wherever they located, with the possible exception of the Outer Hebrides, there would be competition. Our café they decided, (already they were both using ‘our’), would charge premium prices so needed to be in an affluent area, preferably where there was interest in the arts. Bridget reckoned another factor might be to locate where the predominant politics was left of centre to cater for customers who had a resentment of the café chains.

  “That’s Muswell Hill all over,” she suggested. David wasn’t convinced having witnessed the behaviour of local youths on the Saturday night he’d stayed at her house. Nevertheless he agreed that Bridget should investigate vacant premises.

  They were chatting about what events the café might offer when they heard the front door open. Rachel and Sam called out then came into the kitchen. Bridget pulled down the Simpsons tee-shirt. Rather awkward hellos were said before Sam explained that the Somerset House ice skating session had been cancelled because Jim had a headache. A brief chat about the Billy Elliot performance followed before the children, sensing their father’s embarrassment, headed off upstairs.

  “Bridget,” David asked. “Is it fair to say we’re in a relationship?”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption,” she mocked.

  “Then we should let Rachel and Sam know, also your two. It’s not as if there’s anything to hide.”

  “I’m OK with that.”

  “I’ll call them down then.” David stood then paused. “Jane left four months ago, that isn’t much of a gap before starting a new relationship is it? Do you think they, well particularly Rachel, will resent it?”

  “I think they’ll be pleased you’re happy. What was your relationship like in the months before Jane left?”

  “In what way?”

  “Were you sleeping with her?”

  “No. Not for two or three months, even longer.”

  “So that adds up to at least half a year of celibacy, you poor thing.”

  “Yes, but the kids wouldn’t know that would they?”

  “They’re probably more astute than you think.”

  “Maybe. I’ll get them downstairs.”

  Bridget stood. “I’ll get dressed,” she said as she headed out the door.

  David followed her upstairs, providing a pleasant reminder of the previous night. She went into his bedroom while he approached Rachel’s room. Was choice of music a reflection of the listener’s state of mind? He hoped so because the angry blasts of stadium rock that had emanated from her bedroom since Jane had left had been replaced by the mellow chords of Coldplay. He knocked and was told to wait. He heard some scurrying around and when the door was finally opened he was greeted by a blast of cold air. Although the window was open the smell of cigarette smoke hadn’t disappeared. He asked her to come to the lounge in five minutes.

  When he knocked on Sam’s door he got a similar instruction to wait. Sam was sitting at the computer examining the pie charts on screen. A parent’s sixth sense gave David the feeling that the current display had not been what Sam was looking at ahead of his father’s visit. The request to come to the lounge was acknowledged with a grunt.

  David rushed back down, put the kettle on, opened a packet of Jaffa Cakes and took out the mugs. By the time he brought the tea things into the lounge the other three were in there, chatting away comfortably.

  As soon as David sat down Rachel fired a question. “Bridget, here’s a question for you. What colour are these walls?”

  Bridget played along with the pretence of thinking deeply as she examined them. “I reckon they’re orange,” she finally announced.

  “Nope, you’re wrong. Do you want to try again?”

  “No, I’m happy for you to give me the correct answer.”

  “You tell her, Sam.”

  “No, I’m not playing.”

  “OK, I’ll do it. The answer is burnt umber.”

  “Yes I can see my mistake now. What an idiot for not spotting it.”

  Rachel liked her reply and the conversation drifted into a description of the colours in Bridget’s house and that led to Bridget talking about her background in art and the work she did at the gallery. They were getting on very well while David and Sam sat in silence drinking tea and munching Jaffa Cakes.

  David brought the fringe meeting to an end. “There’s something I need to tell you both,” he announced, surprised by the tremor in his voice. “It’s about Bridget and me. We’ve grown very fond of each other and want to spend lots of time together. So she’ll be staying here and sleeping in the same bedroom as me. I’m sure you realise what I’m saying in terms of what this means as adults, which of course is what we are.”

  David had been looking down. Now he looked up to see three smirking faces.

  “We’re going out,” Bridget summarised.

  “Well that was pretty obvious from this morning,” Rachel said. “Cool, hopefully it’ll make dad a bit more cheerful.”

  They carried on chatting, including brief mention of their idea to open a café. The atmosphere was relaxed and David suggested going out for a meal that evening to celebrate, all six of them. Bridget agreed and set off home to inform Andy and Kay about the new man in her life.

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 33

  The celebratory meal was a success and the children readily accepted the other grown up ‘staying over’ as David referred to it, though he did overhear Rachel describing it to her boyfriend as ‘an OAP fuck fest’. Mornings in bed together were often spent with Bridget questioning David about his past – his childhood, life with Jane, work and friendships. She evaded satisfying his curiosity about her until early one Sunday morning. It was still dark outside. He fired questions at her. What was life like after Roland died? She’d mentioned failed relationships, but who before him? How had she coped at school when she was regarded as such an outsider? What made her come along to the all important reunion?

  She was relaxed and for the first time since telling him about Roland, was willing to chat about her past.

  Turning up at the reunion was as unlikely a coincidence for her as it had been for David. Like him she’d had virtually no contact with her peers of twenty-five years ago and there were no wonderful reminiscences of school life to entice her to come along. She’d been marginalised by the girls and mocked by the boys with the result that by the time she reached young adulthood, she was spending angst-ridden hours fretting about why this had been the case.

  She’d concluded that being a foreigner with an odd accent didn’t help matters, even though in her case foreign only meant Scotland. She’d arrived at secondary school late, at age twelve when her father had got a job as a forensic scientist in Oxfordshire. She was perceived as an outsider, an invader, and a threat to the firm friendships already in place. A forceful culture of uniformity existed at the school, embracing dress sense, po
p music preferences, and indifference at least in public to academic success. Bridget induced hostility because she was an independent thinker who enjoyed study, coupled with an accent from a remote part of the isle.

  Defiantly she played on the others’ antagonism by exaggerating her Scottish brogue to the point of caricature. And she refused to be bullied into concealing her interest in learning and most of all, her passion for art. She received little protection from teachers who accepted the lethargy of her fellow pupils as a worthwhile trade off against the threat of poor behaviour.

  Bridget described occasions when her teachers had joined pupils in taunting her for being so enthusiastic.

  “Perhaps it’s time to give others the opportunity to answer,” she recalled one of them suggesting and then being infuriated by Bridget’s truthful response that no one else was bothered.

  There was a notable exception, Miss Harris. Bridget was fortunate to have the same art teacher for all six years of her time at the school. Josephine, as she was allowed to call her when she reached the sixth form, was by far the fondest memory and greatest inspiration during her time at Henley High.

  Josephine Harris had long since retired. Judging by the Facebook group set up to inform about the reunion, she wouldn’t have been invited even if still working at the school. Some bright spark had named the group Teachers Leave Us Kids Alone. When new signatories enquired whether teachers were invited they were informed ‘no way’. Comments indicated that for some, little growing up had taken place over the past quarter of a century. Ginny, who Bridget remembered with little affection, wrote ‘pity no teachers, would like to take the piss out of poncy Clive Rees like we did way back then.’

  It had been early September when out of the blue Bridget received an email from Pru White. Friend was too strong a description, but Pru had been a girl who Bridget did socialise with all those years ago. They shared a keen interest in art and regularly trekked to galleries on Saturday afternoons and during school holidays. They’d kept in touch through their art college years, Bridget in London and Pru in Manchester. Nothing in particular brought an end to their six monthly or so meetings, nothing more than the general drift that is life. As the meetings waned letters replaced them with enclosed photographs of ‘my wedding day’, ‘Andy aged three’, ‘holiday in Corfu’. Pru’s life became increasingly stable and fulfilling – ‘everyone over for my birthday’, ‘Sebastian’s christening’, ‘celebrating my promotion’ – while Bridget’s was becoming ever more uncomfortable.