Frances and Morgan
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Chapter One
London: Part 1
Afterward she never could recall to mind any details of that first journey. London had been hot and sticky through out that long summer, so it had probably been a hot and sticky day when she arrived, got a room at the hostel, and more or less passed out on her bed after showering. The first few days were pretty much a blur, but time passed anyhow, and by the beginning of her second week she had a room. Amazingly. And she had a job.
The room had come about through the job, and the job had been more or less landed in her lap. She was sitting in a health-food café in a little street off the Tottenham Court Road, minding her own business and absorbing a pot of raspberry and verbena tea (was that even possible?) not because she liked it, but because the girl behind the counter had recommended it, and Morgan hadn’t wanted to offend. She’d done everything she could to improve the flavour, from the lemon slices she squeezed into the mixture to the artificial sweetener she applied. At last she gave up, and dosed the blend with a mess of brown sugar. (Nothing worked.)
Sitting with an old envelope on which to scribble, she assessed her situation and worked out that financial disaster was literally around the next corner. The money she had taken from the house had been entirely necessary – could she not view it as some kind of warped inheritance? – and it was about to run out. It said something about her situation that while she considered a wide range of possible options, that of returning home never even occurred to her. Nor did snatching someone’s wallet and using the contents to fly out to Italy, to find and take shelter with Cathy. Cathy… Morgan and Cathy had been close enough up to that summer. When her sister announced that she was off to Italy to stay with Sean and his family it was apparent to Rebecca and Morgan both that they were out of the picture. Morgan might envy Cathy, but she didn’t want to be with her. Besides, even if she made it out of the country (and she’d taken her passport with her when she’d left), wouldn’t someone feel an obligation to tell Rebecca where she was? No. Anything but that. Anything but going back because there was nothing to go to, unless it was death. Wasn’t it more likely that one be killed by a family member rather than a stranger? The thought was so grim it gave her the giggles, and the girl behind the counter gave her an embarrassed smile before looking away.
Morgan took her tray back to the counter. “I’m not mental,” she said. “Well, just a bit.” To explain the giggles.
The girl took the tray from her, gasped, slipped and dropped it, and as the crash of china broke into the afternoon, burst into tears. Morgan glanced around, but there was no-one else inside. Puzzled, she went round to the back of the counter and started picking up the broken china.
***** ***** *****
“It’s not much of a wage, I know,” said Victoria. That was an understatement: it was a shit wage. But right then Morgan hardly cared about getting the minimum rate for a job that would just about wipe her out. She had a start, a foothold, or a finger-hold on a new world. That she might find the job exhausting, frustrating, debilitating or just downright boring never even occurred to her. Rebecca would have said that Morgan had no sense of forward-planning, which was true, if a shade harsh. She had a job. She had something. And she started work that day, her first task being to gather up the remaining bits of pottery from the red and white tiled floor.
By the end of that first full week she had something else: a snarl of blisters across the back of her hands (the grill had a mind all its own), a permanent ache in her arms and at the back of her legs (the pain in her feet was something else entirely), and –through the friend of a friend of Victoria’s - a room. She had been so delighted at finding a place to live that it was only after she’d put down the first payment that she realised she had exactly four pounds on which to live until the next week’s payday came around. The discovery of incipient indigence would have knocked her flat, had she had any energy left with which to fall. She ate – more or less – a light lunch at the café (the stuff was so healthy that she was already losing weight), and although that was insufficient to keep her going, she had begun to dose her hourly cups of (regrettably herbal, fortunately gratis) tea with so much sugar that the spoon nearly did stand up straight in the cup. On a diet of herbal tea, tofu, rice cakes and sugar, she went blindly from day to day… Victoria, not the best advertisement for a healthy-eating café, recovering from one cold or virus before being floored by the next never saw how Morgan single-handedly depleted their stock of sugar. The café was not permanently busy, but it had periods of hectic demand, and Morgan was working very hard. At night – for the first few weeks at least –she slept as if pole axed, and her dreams were invariably of taking orders.
And now she had a room, too. A small and minimally-furnished room that was nevertheless as much as she wanted, let alone as much as she could afford. She took possession of a square room with a window onto the street, a narrow bed and a deep rectangular sink, a two-bar gas fire and a small table at which a spindly wooden chair stood. “It’s not the Ritz,” said the owner, “but it is clean.” Cleanish… She spent her first free day there sweeping the floor, the window wide open onto the airless day in the vain hope of airing the place.
I’d love to wax lyrical here, and say that Mogs went out and bought paint and tidied up the place; did a real interior decorator job on it. I’d love to say that she went out and found all sorts of cute furniture that only required recovering or a spot of polish, or to have some paint removed, but of course, she didn’t. For one thing, she was working every day but one and when she got back at night all she did was wash and crash. Mostly she didn’t even eat back in her room. She got hungry as hell, but she so seldom got to eat when she needed to, that by the time the freedom came along, she was too nauseated or tired to think about food. She lived mostly on milk, weak tea and sandwiches and salad from the café. At least they gave her lunch, which saved a bit. There was a kettle in her room: she could at least boil water for tea. There was the offer of a shelf in the downstairs fridge, but she vetoed that after all her stuff went walkabout.
Her room was a sublet. How else could she ever have found somewhere without a month’s rent to put down, and another month in advance? And the room itself was nothing to boast about. The floor was of plain and splintered wood, and although a small rug did exist, it was good for little better than burning. There was a deep sink, and she could wash looking out of the window. There was an armchair, a veteran of some waged (lost) conflict, and a single bed. Beside the sink was a tiny two-ring cooker,so corroded with rust and wear that she was at first afraid of using it. But the sink was provided with cold water only, and sooner or later she knew she’d have to at least heat water.
The bed possessed a slim mattress and a candlewick bedspread that might once have been a rich red and which the years had moderated to a shade of dirty rust. But at night when she stretched out on the mattress, beneath said bedspread, the door locked securely, she felt almost happy.
Life was hectic if unremarkable, and it was not until September was almost done that Morgan looked up from the traces. It was a Friday night, and the end of their working week, and Victoria had been unbearable all day. Kaye, who shared the afternoon shift with the other two, was finally pushed to breaking point. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she snapped, at a little after six, “will you just fuck right off? We’ll finish up, won’t we, Mogs?” At that Victoria showed some signs of guilt. “Have I been really, really annoying?”she asked. Morgan, who was on the verge of responding with a really inappropriate remark, was saved by the bell. Kaye said: “Totally fucking annoying. You’re doing our heads in. Fuck off out of it.”
Until that moment Morgan had been inclined to prefer Victoria over Kaye,but the moment swung her allegiance. In another hour’s time, when they’d busily and easily attended to everything that needed doing, Kaye went out into the little yard behind the café where she sat down on the step and rolled a joint. She inhaled with deep and satisfactory silence and then handed the joint to Morgan. “Silly fucking cow,” she said. Understanding – correctly – that the description applied to Victoria, Morgan accepted the joint with alacrity,and moments later settled clumsily beside Kaye on the step.
To Morgan the smoke was infinitely better than alcohol. When Kaye handed her back the joint, Morgan inhaled to capacity and then sat peacefully, letting the smoke slide out of her system. When the first joint was finished, Kaye – in silent, serious fashion – rolled another, and handed Morgana third “for the weekend”. Kaye locked up the heavy café doors and the two of them drifted off in their separate directions. Happily stoned, the long walk home didn’t seem such an unhappy encumbrance.
She’d always done so much walking that that evening she shifted from exhaustion into some kind of trance-like state. It was the strangest night, warm and damp together. She missed her turning and ended up not far from where she’d started. There was nothing to do but begin again; if she’d had a key she could have let herself in to the café (now closed until Monday),but she had no key and no money for the Tube. So she kept walking. She went past the café, past theatres, bookshops and restaurants and if the smells of food that drifted out into the air made her hungry, she was not aware of it. She simply kept moving, past the people begging in the doorways, past the stacks of rubbish that stank in the narrow streets. In central Soho she stopped by the tiny locked garden and stroked the black cat that pushed its head through the narrow bars and mewed at her. She walked through the scents of cheap chocolate, of coffee and pasta,salami sausage on hot dough, of human waste, spoiled milk and warm dirt.
The light rain that fell on Morgan and the dusty-grey pigeons working over their evening meals of discarded junk food was as dull and dirty as the pavements beneath her feet. The grass was still easing its way around her skull and for the first time since her arrival, now weeks past, Morgan began to slow down. It came as a surprise to find that the added moisture on her face was a result of tears, not rain. That she should be crying steadily and silently shocked her. Unwillingly to let anyone see the marks she put her hand into her pocket and fumbled for the cheap sunglasses she had left there. There was an instant in which the entire world blurred over, exacerbated by the shock of hitting the pavement’s edge without being aware of it. She stumbled, almost saved herself, and then toppled gently forward onto the road, before the car that was driving –fortunately not fast – along an unusually quiet road.
Whether or not the car hit her was something she was never sure about. There was another moment in which she tried to sit up, too quickly, and nearly fainted. There was another shift in senses and she thought that she was going to be sick, but managed not to be. A strong hand beneath her arm helped her to stand upright, her vision shifting violently, and she became aware of the fact that someone was talking to her. Another tiny gap in time and she looked up into the face of a woman. She was too far from herself to register that the woman in question was – in any order – seemingly furious,very frightened and quite beautiful. At last she managed to catch her breath and say, as clearly as she could manage: “Sorry. Really fucking sorry. All my fault.”
The woman began to calm down almost immediately, and Morgan was far too shocked and giddy to notice that anger had been replaced by a rapid and hungry appraisal of her street-soiled persona.
“I’m really sorry,” she said again.
“Are you alright? Can you stand? Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“I’m fine. Fine.” She swayed where she stood on the pavement. Brushed her torn palms against her pants. Winced as raw flesh met raw denim. “I was just on my way home.”
“You live near here?” The woman was clearly surprised at the prospect.
Morgan managed an explosion of laughter. “Christ, no. I couldn’t afford to live here.”
“Oh, there’s another car coming up. Get in the passenger side and I’ll take you home.”
Morgan swayed around to the door and more or less fell in. The woman fastened both seat belts and they moved off. Dizzy at the surge of movement Morgan leaned her head back and closed her eyes. During their wait at the next set of lights, in which time the woman had an even better chance to look her companion over, she said, “Look, I was on my way home: there’s a meal waiting and I hate eating alone. Let me give you supper to make up for nearly running you down. Or is there someone out there waiting for you and worrying?”
As the car moved off Morgan –on the verge of losing consciousness – was aware of voicing a stoned but happy acceptance, combined with the reassurance that no-once would be expecting her,lost her already tenuous hold on the situation. Stress, fright, and a surcease of sensation had all combined in something not unlike a faint. The next time she opened her eyes they had driven into an underground car-park.
Frances was good at looking beyond surfaces, even though the surfaces apparent already appealed to her. Apart from the kid’s nice, soft accent Frances had noted the dark, damp hair, the slight frame, shabby jacket, and oddly sweet smile. She could later add to her list the fine,calloused, sunburned hands and the curious grey eyes. An idea began to stir in her mind. She’d been driving home after another showing, sexual hunger running on a background track, and some other nameless hunger turning within, when suddenly there was this… kid. That nameless hunger had found an outlet, and the wandering, amorphous desire now had an end in sight. Frances grinned to herself as she turned off the engine, and placed one hand gently on Morgan’s thigh to wake her. “Come on,” she said.
As the kid stumbled out of the car, her coordination still shot, a moment of good sense reminded her that although Frances didn’t look like a psychopath (not that she would have recognised one on sight) she might still have some odd fixation (such as human skins pinned to the walls, or human skulls holding scented candles marking out the contours of the rooms) that might make an unsuitable host. “Uh, this is… I should get going. You don’t need to do anything. It was my fault. If you can just tell me which way is west I’ll start walking.”
Frances managed to play down the desire to smile. “And after you so nicely accepted my invitation to dinner? Oh, it won’t be much, but I think you could use to sit down for a while. Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind. While I know that what happened wasn’t my fault, I still feel guilty. You’ve torn your trousers and probably yourself as well. Come on. We’ll catch a bite of supper and get you sorted out.”
Everything in her screamed against the idea, but Morgan had had enough of good sense. She looked at the woman, who was, even in the awful orange light of the subterranean car park, quite stunning, and threw caution to the winds. “Oh, I wasn’t being rude. That sounds really nice. I was just wondering if you collected human scalps or something. She stopped dead and put up a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s alright.” In a moment she was going to choke on the effort of not laughing. She swallowed a smile and said, “I’m not into collecting human scalps.”
“No, of course not…”
“I shrink heads and hang them up as Christmas decorations.” She kept her face free of all expression.
Morgan started and then smiled. “That’s alright then.”
“Enough talking. Come on or supper will be spoiled.”
The woman walked smartly across the car park to the lift. The lift was unexpected, carpeted and spacious and beautifully maintained. “Shit,” said Morgan, impressed. The dope had blunted her usual awkwardness with strangers. “I wonder if I could rent this. It’s a million times nicer than my room. It might even be a bit bigger.”
Frances laughed. “No windows? And only metal doors? Wouldn’t you find it a bit restricting?” It seemed to Morgan that there was an odd emphasis on that last word.
“Space isn’t everything.” Grinning cheerfully.
“It strikes me that you look a little too… free-spirited to be taking up residence in a lift.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t be there all the time,” said Morgan. “It would be…more of a weekend lift in the country.” The woman didn’t laugh, but she did smile. “And when I wasn’t here I could… I don’t know. Sublet? If I could find tenants good enough.”
**In her hometown, just across the green, there had been a huge, hollow sculpture. A cross had been cut into it on either side,and as a kid she’d tried to squeeze inside it. There was even an old photograph of her trying stuck into along-forgotten album. It was only when she was fifteen, and walking by it for the thousandth time that she understood what it depicted, or what it was. A huge martial helmet, but without a back. The helmet boasted views to north and south. The top bar of the cross allowed the wearer to see the world outside.
(I don’t know why it seemed appropriate to put that paragraph in there.)
They reached a floor and left the lift for a comfortable, well-carpeted foyer. The apartment’s front door was directly opposite the mouth of the lift. Frances took out a card and swiped it. Morgan was immensely impressed. “Come inside.”
“Right,” said Frances, leading the way inside the apartment. “The bathroom is the second door along the corridor. There’s a first-aid box inside the cabinet. Go wash up and then come through. There’s some first-aid stuff in the cupboard above the sink. Help yourself. I’ll get us both a drink. When you’ve finished, come along and join me. I’m having brandy. I suggest you have the same. It’s good for shock.”
Morgan pushed open the bathroom door and found herself in a kind of scented hothouse, complete with lilies and all done up with black tiles. One shelf was made over entirely to a row of exotic smelling oils. Totally entranced and completely overwhelmed she managed an approximate impression of cleaning up. She forgot about the first-aid box entirely. Then she went in search of further wonders.
Frances was standing in the sitting room, where tall green-papered walls rose high to the ceiling.Cornice-work marked out the overhead light and the edges of the walls. There were paintings everywhere, and bookcases. Frances walked over and presented Morgan with a large glass of brandy. “Drink it slowly,” she ordered. Morgan sipped liquid fire.
Frances took a seat across the fireplace from Morgan. “Alright,” she said, “Dinner in ten minutes. Tell me about yourself while we wait. You’re sure there isn’t anyone you should call? Anyone waiting for you?” Morgan shook her head. Goody, thought Frances. Better and better. “You were very lucky not to get killed, you know. You just stepped out. I don’t know about you, but I saw my whole life flash before me. Well, my driving life. Drink your brandy.” Morgan had forgotten that she was even holding a glass. She took a swallow and had to breathe hard through her nose to stop herself from choking.
There followed a short silence. Then Frances said, “You have the most astonishing eyes. I don’t think I’ve seen that colour before. They’re almost grey.” She had spoken before consulting with her brain and almost blushed. Morgan raised her gaze to meet Frances’ own.
“They are grey,” she said. “Grey eyes run in the family.”
“From whom did you inherit them from?”
“I don’t know,” said Morgan. “I never thought to ask.”
“I take it that you have a room in a flat?”
“No. Just a room.” This time she sipped her brandy. Not a flat, a room. Frances stopped studying the serious face with its untidy short hair and got to her feet. “We should go and eat,” she said. For the shortest possible moment she considered grabbing the short hair, pulling the face into a kiss. Then she was doing so. Morgan, halfway to standing, felt her knees go weak. She dropped back into the chair and Frances pulled her head lightly back so that Morgan leaned against the headrest. Frances leaned forward, her hands framing Morgan’s face. She inhaled Morgan’s own scent and taste, a scent like the sea, a taste like sweet fruit.
Morgan came up out of the chair to meet her. She was no longer clumsy. As Frances slid her hands into the soft, damp hair, Morgan let her own hands rest on Frances’ waist, pulling her in closer. She shut her eyes and let everything else go. She tasted brandy and smelled Frances’ rich perfume.
Frances broke the kiss. “Come and eat,” she said.
They ate in silence for sometime. Morgan was lost. Somewhere inside her gently-doped, sweetly-kissed being she had no idea of what she doing. She accepted the dishes that Frances offered her, but was almost incapable of eating. She stumbled through the deconstruction of a bread roll, and took butter from the curls lying snugly on the cracked ice. Frances had poured her a glass of white wine and she drank that too quickly, suddenly very thirsty.
Frances topped up Morgan’s glass and wondered what the fuck she was doing. She had made a list of rules for would-be lovers: don’t go too fast,don’t fuck anyone within five minutes of having met them, and take your time. Get to know someone before you fall into bed with them. She looked at Morgan and smiled quite kindly. Morgan,who had finally managed to tear into the roll, chose that moment to look up and Frances’ rules went out of the window. She said without thinking at all, “I won’t beat about the bush, I find you attractive and I’d like to go to bed with you. But I don’t do relationships and I don’t like complications.” She produced a envelope and pushed it across the table to Morgan. “I’m sure this isn’t something you’ve done before, but I propose that you stay here for the night, bathe if you’d like to – it might save your bruises – relax a little, and go to bed with me.”
Morgan opened her mouth without knowing what she was about to say. What she did manage was: “You don’t have to pay me.”
Frances smiled. “I would rather keep this on a purely financial footing. It’s the way I run my relationships. It’s that or nothing.” She gave Morgan a business-like smile that concealed from them both that she’d never used those words before, except in fantasies, and that when she fantasised she never got any further than seeing someone, and thinking: Yes. You.
Morgan took care to replace her fork on the plate before she dropped it into her lap. “You could get yourself some new trousers,”said Frances. “I think you may have done for those.”
Morgan said, without thought,“I could eat.”
Frances nodded. “Another good use,” she said. “Are you in very dire straits?”
Morgan hesitated. “Come on. I’m hardly going to criticise your money managing. Is it a long time to payday?” Morgan hesitated before nodding. “Then this arrangement suits us both very well.” She stood up, letting her napkin drop to the surface of the table. “Take the money.” Morgan picked up the envelope and shoved it into a pocket. “Good. Business is over with. Now we can get on with the things that matter. Why don’t you go and soak for half an hour? I’ve some papers I need to look over. Take your time and then come along to my bedroom. It’s at the far end of the corridor. And don’t worry about the dishes” – Morgan had automatically begun to clear the table – “Oliver will be through in a moment to deal with them.”
Bemused - Oliver? Who the fuck was Oliver? - Morgan made her way back to the wonderful bathroom, decided that she was dreaming and began to run a bath. Whatever kind of dream it was, she might as well enjoy it. The water ran, hot and soothing, over her fingers, but when she finally slid into the water the scratches and grazes on her hands and knees sang out so that she nearly cried out. Only when she’d gained control of herself again did she risk sliding beneath the surface of the water,her eyes tightly closed. She rested easily on the floor of the bath, cushioned by the soft movement of the water,the rest of the world forgotten.
At last she climbed out of the water and dried herself on one of the enormous towels. She regarded her discarded clothing with doubt: was she meant to get dressed again? That issue was fortunately solved for her: there was a light tap at the bathroom door and a low male voice said, “I’ll leave a bathrobe out here for you. If you’d leave your clothes on thechair in there, I’ll see what I can do with them.”
Oliver, she guessed. She called out “Thank you,” and hoped that he’d heard her. Timidly she waited before peeking round the door. On another chair, left just outside, sat a white towelling robe. Its brilliance suggested to her that it had never been used. Did Frances keep in a supply of them to clothe her various paid guests? Morgan slipped on the robe and tied the belt tightly around her waist. She left her clothes in a neatly-folded stack and made her way toward France’s bedroom. No sound from inside. Morgan took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“I should make this perfectly clear,” Frances said, once Morgan was safely inside the bedroom. “By taking that money you commit yourself entirely to me for the night. In the morning you leave and that’s an end to it. I do find you attractive, but it’s a business proposal, nothing more. Do you understand?”
Morgan nodded, too overwhelmed by the simple beauty of that face and the overwhelming confidence with which Frances’ every move and speech was invested to consider another course of action. She looked about her at the room’s decorations. The walls were papered and each held a painting, one of them extremely erotic. Frances sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed and beckoned Morgan to her. “So we have an agreement?” Morgan nodded. “Good.”
Morgan had a moment of wondering if her extreme lack of experience was going to be noticeable or a problem. Frances had assumed she was gay, something she’d long-since acknowledged but which she’d never had the chance to do anything about. What if Frances asked her to do something weird, or something she knew nothing about?
Frances reached out to free the belt of Morgan’s robe. She looked Morgan up and down. She took in the remains of a summer tan, the small breasts, the bloodied knees. Then very slowly she put out a hand and stroked Morgan from the cheek down to the cunt. Morgan shivered and involuntarily moved away. But Frances caught her by the wrist and tugged her back. “Behave,” she said, in a voice that allowed no room for argument. She took Morgan by the hips and pulled her closer. She ran her tongue over Morgan’s nipples,slid her hand back lower and insinuated it between Morgan’s thighs. “Open,” she instructed. Morgan let her thighs slide open. She felt the touch of alien fingers pressing against her, and then the truly shocking sensation of one finger dipping inside her. She felt the walls of her cunt contract and her breath came quickly. Frances looked her full in the face. Her smile was cold. “Just remember, this is a business arrangement. I pay you, you do as you’re told. OK? Now, I think you’ll do nicely.” She slid two fingers inside. “I am going to fuck you,” she said. Morgan‘s legs were growing more and more unsteady, from a combination of alcohol, lust and fear. Frances was getting off as much on the kid’s anguished expression as on her own pleasure. Should she have the kid go down on her?
“Lie down on the bed,” she said. “On your back.” The thought of the kid between her legs, that pink tongue pressing inside her would be too much,straight away, and yet… She deliberated. But the kid had been damp, had felt so good that it was ridiculous not to fuck her first. She wondered about getting out a strap-on, but guessed that might send the kid into orbit.
She bent over Morgan and kissed her, running her tongue around the warm mouth again. She let the tips of their tongues touch.
She drew back from Morgan and ran her fingertips from the kid’s throat down to the cunt. Then she reached inside with one finger and then two. She felt the tightness of the kid’s cunt. Morgan was damp enough buts he didn’t want to go too far, too fast. Then she dug in further and the kid gave a short soft moan that went through Frances’ viscera and all Frances’ thoughts about control went out the window. She fell forward, over the kid,her hands moving rapidly, the fingers settling into a rhythm. There was some reluctance: the kid was young and tight,but that could be worked on. She kissed her again and shifted so that she could let her cunt press against the kid’sthigh as she fucked her hard. And when she came, she cried out. She fell back against the pillow, hitting it hard, her fingers sliding free, her heart pounding.
The next day dawned as usual. Morgan made her way to the café entirely unfit for work. But she worked all the same, the shadows under her eyes passing for badly-applied make-up. Victoria was in an odd mood, too tied up with her own worries to notice anything strange or strained in Morgan’s behaviour. Kaye came into work the earlyl unchtime crowd, but it wasn’t until after two that Morgan had the chance of a break. She took her quarter hour sitting on the back step, a mug of coffee by her side. It felt like a million years since she and Kaye had sat out there,getting happily stoned.
She was lost in thought and almost asleep when Victoria came out and sat beside her. That was unexpected, but when Victoria lit up a cigarette and offered the pack to Morgan, she was too surprised to decline. Victoria inhaled deeply, her thin cheeks looking thinner still. She smoked for a few minutes then said: “I bet you’ve been thinking I’ve been a bit of a bitch today.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. Victoria continued: “I did something really fucking stupid last week. Dave and I were at this party and we had this stupid row. I left him to get pissed, got pissed myself and then got fucked by some total stranger up against the wall.” Morgan blinked. Stared. “And of course, I get fucking herpes, don’t I? It’s always the way. I make just one fucking mistake and that’s it… ” Morgan was too rabbit-punched by the idea of Victoria – the soul of health and monogamy – fucking someone in the pub corridor to be capable of a response. The outbreak on Victoria’s lip she had put down as being a really mean cold sore.
“Oh.” That was the best Morgan could come up with. So Victoria had a sex life. Wow. She never assumed that anyone else ever had sex.
Victoria looked at Morgan as if she’d just encountered the missing link. “You think I’m cheap, right?”
Last night someone paid me for sex; I‘m hardly in a position to criticise. Morgan shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don‘t think that at all.”
But Victoria persisted. “You think I’m a slut.”
Morgan shook her head again. “Don’t be daft,” she said, and was saved from further need to comment by Kaye’s appearance. Judging by the scowl on her face Kaye was in a worse temper than usual. “Would one of you lazy cunts mind doing some fucking work? I am just the one fucking woman.”
Morgan stood up. “Of course,” she said, and worked diligently and silently until closing time came around.
As she untied her filthy apron Morgan was almost too tired to move, but her brain was still working. She’d been shaken - not by Victoria’s admission but by the terminology she‘d used. A one-night fuck. That was what she’d had.
Strung out on speed, alcohol, fatigue and simple insanity, the night with Frances had passed by so quickly that the next day Morgan couldn’t put her hand on her heart to swear that what had happened had happened. A one-night fuck. What she had been thinking of as the height of romance (a slightly cockeyed romance at best, but still) suddenly struck her as nothing more or less than a casual fuck. For the first time she wondered what Victoria, or Kaye, who had the broadest mind Morgan had so far encountered , would say if she told them about her night with Frances. A one-night fuck was a one-night fuck, but in her case she’d been… paid. Christ: she hadn’t even told Victoria and Kaye that she was gay, let alone letting on that she’d only just finished shrugging her virginity. How would she best phrase it if she lost all her marbles and blurted out the excursion? I got stoned and then I nearly got run over and then the woman who nearly killed me invites me to dinner and then offers me money for rent to stay over and have sex with her.
What would they ask, if capable of asking anything at all? What did you do? Did you throw the money in her face and get the hell out of there? Don’t you realise how dangerous that was? Hell,she might have been some kind of psycho. She might have had her previous lovers embalmed and stored in the airing cupboard, did you ever think of that?
Well, they might not ask about the embalming. But everything else seemed possible.
It was a patent silence that might have looked like sulking to those close at hand, but the fact was that Morgan never sulked. Rebecca often had sulked, and the propensity had been deleted from Morgan’s own playlist from then on. If Morgan was painfully quiet the next day because she couldn’t think of anything to say, not because she was sulking. She just didn’t want another conversation with Victoria on the subject of casual sex or Morgan’s own lack of experience (not entirely fucking lacking, bitch) or anything else. She wasn’t even willing to discuss tofu or vegetarian bacon or the curative properties of cranberries. She didn’t want to talk about anything at all. She didn’t care about wheat-germ or rice-cakes. It was a relief when Kaye turned up and began emptying the dishwasher prior to filling it afresh. While Victoria made her call to the warehouse, and buggered about in the kitchen sorting out the following day’s menu, Morgan worked behind the counter, taking orders and subjecting the café in its entirety to the blast of the cappuccino machine. The espresso side of things wasn’t a problem but the hot- (and semi-skimmed) milk steamer coming on sounded like a train falling through a valley of crockery. Some days she actually shouted out an apology to the café clientele before switching on the steam.
Now she stopped shouting her apologies, and threw herself into the work with a kind of dumb contemplation. She passed the time of day with Kaye and greeted Victoria pleasantly enough, but she stopped talking to either of them. Each night followed the same pattern: she went home, washed up in the deep sink and collapsed onto her bed. Sometimes she managed to read for an hour or so before sleeping, and sometimes she just lay on her bed in the darkness, or with a single candle lit, wondering just what the fuck she was doing.
Morgan went on to autopilot. It hurt too much to do anything else. Frances had been serious about non-involvement, that was why the money. And she’d taken up Morgan through nothing but an accident. And what had felt so desperately intense to Morgan had doubtless meant nothing more than the night’s pleasure to Frances. The morning after had been a bit of a shock: Frances had woken her up to tell her that there was cup of coffee waiting for her in the kitchen and to see herself out. For Frances’ own part, she was going to take a long soak. And then Frances had walked off without a further word, or gesture.
In a sense – it was only honest – she had felt an instant of relief when Frances had turned away. The night had been a mass of new experiences but the intensity had been cloaked in darkness. What might seem erotic in the dark, warm night might look a little shaming in the morning. But all the same, she had felt dismissed. Oh, fuck it, she’d been dismissed. Accept it. Treat it as Victoria had her up-against-the-wall fuck.
Money was still tight, but she coped. And she walked. When there seemed to be no reason to go back to the little room – fond of it as she was, she had begun to feel too ashamed to spend much time within it – she fell back on old practices, and walked.
She and Katie had saved their best and most complicated conversations for walks on summer evenings. No wonder she hadn’t thought about finding a boyfriend with all her time allocated. And it was an all girls’ school, after all. She could never have imagined Rebecca teaching boys. But she’d liked those talks. Somehow, because they weren’t looking directly at one another, and because they seldom stayed in any one place for long, they achieved a very specific freedom. Now that she was alone, and Katie beyond reach forever, she began to fill in both sides of the debate.
Katie might have understood about Frances. She knew about Rebecca; she knew that life at home was not easy for Morgan. She might even have understood Morgan’s running away. She had always been wary of Rebecca, but Rebecca had behaved toward Katie – as to everyone else on the planet bar Morgan – impeccably.
It wasn’t just that she thought about the night she’d spent with Frances, it was more about the abandon with which she’d acted. Frances had known exactly what she wanted and had been equally crisp about what she wanted from Morgan. Oh, forget it. Move on.
At the café there had been a mild hiatus: Victoria had had a row with the shop owner and taken a holiday. She was long overdue for a break, but it wasn’t entirely convenient. Kaye accepted the extra hours and Morgan worked without stinting. She was very different when Victoria was not around, and she and Kaye ended that week as they had done that time before, out back on the steps – though it was late autumn the nights hadn’t turned too cold – with a joint apiece and a bottle of industrial-strength vodka between them, and which Kaye had shoved into the industrial fridge at the beginning of the day.
Morgan still didn’t care much for drinking. Alcohol went straight to her head. She explained as much to Kaye that evening as she accepted one glass alone. Kaye said,“My folks don’t drink much but my kid brother Shane went straight from tit to bottle.” She grinned, and Morgan laughed out loud. Then Kaye added, “You got any brothers or sisters?”
It was the ideal time for confidences but Morgan didn’t know where to start. At last she compromised with,“I’ve got an older sister. She lives in Rome.”
Kaye looked impressed. “She lives there with her boyfriend.”
“What does she do?” Morgan cast around for ideas. “She… works in a restaurant,” she said at length.
“Spaghetti and all that shit?”
“Exactly.” She could lie convincingly if she had a little truth to build upon. Her own café work would provide the background if needed.
Morgan finished off the joint and they made their way out onto the street. Kaye said, “Shit! Is that the time? I’ve got to meet Steve at eight.”
Eight? How had the time gone by so quickly? It seemed half an hour at most since they’d slung up the closed sign and done the victory dance.* “Is it really that late?”
“It certainly fucking is. We’re going to see a movie in Leicester Square. You wanna come?”
It was a nice offer, and she was tempted to accept, but she’d had her fill of making conversation: she wasn’t any good at it, after all. But she thanked Kaye, told her she’d love to come to the movies with them next time,and proved her social worth by walking Kaye down the Charing Cross Road. Kaye hugged her hard as they parted at Leicester Square and Morgan tried to respond with the right degree of sisterliness. She was beginning to hope that if she avoided her own sexuality on a permanent basis she might one day find herself merrily celibate. The night with Frances had done all sorts of things: she no longer had the slightest doubt about her own sexuality, and she was entirely sure that she was never again going to sleep with anyone. Ever. The feeling of hunger, of lust, had a funny effect on her, no jokes intended. When she thought about Frances she experienced a frisson that was part lust, part fear, and part shame. The sensation bothered her badly. She had read enough, and heard enough, but she’d never before had to deal with the dynamics of a sexual relationship. Better that it had been the one time only, and with a stranger. Imagine if she’d fucked up that badly with someone she knew.
While she considered the question the night changed. As Morgan passed by the National Portrait Gallery the rain began. She zipped up her jacket, hunched up her shoulders and walked more briskly, but before she’d reached the bridge over the Embankment she was pretty well soaked.
She came to a halt outside the NFT and went inside. In the ladies’ cloakroom she did her best to blot her hair dry, then made her way through to the café and bought a pot of tea. It was as well she wasn’t that hungry - there was little left in her pockets. Besides, with Victoria absent Morgan had been pressed into cooking all day, and the smell of food was beginning to nauseate her. Dope never made her feel hungry, it only shifted her perceptions a little. She poured herself a cup of tea, added milk and - without thinking - two packets of sugar, leaning back in her seat to look out onto the Embankment.
The dolphin lamp-posts caused her enormous satisfaction. Their shape was so perfect. And now that the sky was dark and the pavements slick with rain the lamps received back their own reflection. Across the river she looked toward St Paul’s. Morgan drank her tea in silence and some satisfaction. It was nearly nine and by the time she’d walked to the underground station and travelled back home it would be late, and with luck she’d be tired enough to sleep without dreaming.
She dug a book out of her pocket; it was damp but not too badly damaged, and began to read. From time to time she remembered her tea, and took a sip, but it was little more than an excuse to sit out the worst of the weather. When the rain had begun to slow she glanced up, past a poster advertising yet another film she’d have liked to see, and saw Frances. Frances was –amazingly – presentable despite the rain. Her gaze was fixed on Morgan, and had been for some time. When she saw Morgan looking back at her she flushed and gave the kid the slightest nod of acknowledgment before walking on toward the cloakroom.
Morgan’s heart literally skipped a beat. Her pulse rushed and her head seemed very light and empty. Frances. Fuck. And then she was alright again and calm. Mechanically she reached out for her cup and drank off the remainder of the cold tea without even tasting it. Well, she’d done it. She had seen Frances again – and lived – in that fact was surely a cause for celebration or something. And a good time, too, to cut and run, not that Frances was likely to be visiting the café if she’d arrived for the half-nine performance. Morgan sat up. Then she slumped back into her chair: she seemed to have lost the ability to walk. She shook her head, took several deep breaths and then the grass she’d smoked came back to haunt her with avengence: her heart pounded, cold sweat beaded her forehead and the palms of her hands turned clammy. She shut her eyes and counted to a silent hundred. She was only part-way through when Frances said, “Hallo.”