Frances and Morgan
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Chapter Eleven
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Prove it to yourself. Prove the balance of power to her. Tell her to have sex with Jessica as a birthday gift.” But Frances had intended the champagne for Jessica, nothing more. Possibly a card. Certainly not a person.
Where had she begun to go wrong? Afterwards Frances could not be sure. She’d boasted about Morgan. She’d boasted of Morgan. And this was punishment come to claim her. When she reviewed the conversation she had had with Elise, Frances bit her lip and shut her eyes. Not that either helped her.
*****
“She would do anything I asked of her,” said Frances. She was boasting: in her heart she knew that much.
“Anything at all?” Elise looked amused.
“Within reason.”
“I don’t suggest you ask her to hang off a cliff edge to prove her love. It would need to be something within her remit.”
“What?” Frances spoke the word haltingly. “Like what? Tell her to have sex with you? Is that what you want?”
“No,” said Elise. “She does not attract me. Tell her to have sex with Jessica. You tell me that you are still friends and that she lives here in the city, and that you and she socialise a little. Tell your Morgan to have sex with Jessica. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“I don’t know, Frances. That would be up to you. You are the one who drew up the terms of your agreement; only you would know. Perhaps, otherwise you would consider that she had defaulted on your agreement? How would that sound? She must have sex with your doctor friend or… Or you would never see her again. I think that that would be all the proof needed as to whether or not she really loves you.”
Frances pushed her chair a little way back from the table at which they both sat. But she did not stand and she did not run away. Nor did she throw her drink into Elise’s face. “Why would I want to do that? Why would I want to ask something like that of Morgan?”
“Because unless you do, you will never again feel entirely secure of her affections. You say that she has said she loves you, that she has confessed as much, but she stands to lose nothing by the admission. She can only gain by it. You have – in your heart – already begun to doubt, and the only way that you can feel secure again will be to test her loyalty to you. If she does as you requested, and agrees to go to Jessica, then you will know beyond doubt that she does love you. But if not… If she refused to go, or argued with you, you would know not to trust her, not to believe in the expression of affection she has offered you.”
Frances had not – in her heart or outside of it – begun to doubt Morgan, but Elise’s words, barbed and hooked as they were, had slid into her flesh, and suddenly Frances was doubting Morgan’s admission of affection, and wanting to test it.
*****
“Prove it. You told me that you loved me. I want you to prove as much by doing what I ask of you. If you love me, you’ll do it.”
Morgan stared at Frances, imagining god alone knew what was about to be demanded of her.
“What… What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Seduce Jessica.”
“What? I mean…” Morgan had no idea of what she did mean. Her heart was beating very hard and her mouth was dry. “Seduce Jessica? Why? Why would she want me? Why would you… want…? D’you mean with you? With you and Jessica…? Does Jessica… know about this? Is it what she wants?” Not for the life of her could Morgan imagine Jessica ever making such a request. Not even if there was a gun pointed directly at her head.
“She… Of course not: you’re to be a surprise present. The best birthday present she could have. She’s trodden such a narrow path for so long. She’ll never be able to make the first move. I know her that well. I certainly know that she likes you.” Frances gazed out of the window while she finished up the list of instructions. “You’ll have to seduce her, Morgan. Make use of all your very pertinent… skills.”
The colour drained from Morgan’s face. “And if I don’t… go over there and seduce your… friend, what happens?” Morgan felt as though Frances had hit her – very hard – and that she was only just reacting to the blow. Frankly, she thought, a blow would have been preferable: one blow and she would have left the apartment forever. Try as she might she could not wrap her head around the idea. For one moment she wondered if this was some terrible, unfunny joke, the punch-line of which had been delayed in its arrival. And yet Frances appeared calm and at ease, just incapable of looking at Morgan.
Frances didn’t look at Morgan because it hurt to do so. Frances heard herself speaking the words but could not connect to them. Only the knowledge that Elise was within the apartment, listening to what was being said kept Frances from throwing in the towel. But she was already too committed to the course of action. It was already too late to turn around and say: Joke! Caught you. Bet you were starting to believe me… “What happens if you don’t go? Well, if you don’t go then I suppose I must believe that you didn’t mean what you said before – “
“Oh, I meant it!” It was a cry from the heart and it broke out of Morgan, searing her. “I’m sorry: I know you didn’t like my saying it. I saw straight away that it wasn’t something you wanted from me so I decided never to mention it again. I’d never said it to anyone before…” And, she thought, I never will again. No, fuck you very much.
Frances knew what was going on inside Morgan’s head as if the process was actually visible. No, she thought. Screw what happens if you do what I tell you to do – that’s for later consideration – but already you’ll never be the same because of me. And you’ll never be quite the same with me. It shouldn’t matter to me – what you feel – but unfortunately it does. I don’t fall in love easily, and I think I’m falling in love with you and because of that I’m doing… this. Bloody hell. Elise once told me that she fell in love very easily. That should have warned me and yet it did not. You won’t ever make such a confession to me; you might not ever say it again to anybody. Because of me. You’re never going to say the words as you did when we were in Whitby, a thousand light-years ago.
Suddenly Frances had to have the whole thing over; she couldn’t cope with much more. She had taken a stick to their relationship and had beaten it to the ground. Now it was so far gone that she almost wanted it to die. Or for Morgan to tell her that this was ridiculous and insane, and what the hell did she mean by even voicing the suggestion. And so the words came bursting out of her: “Oh, Morgan, just do it. We have an agreement. I’ve told you what I want you to do. I’m telling you what I want you to do. That there is no room for discussion, let alone argument. Do this… Do this or get out and don’t bother coming back.”
There was nothing human in Frances’ face that day. Morgan searched in vain for some aspect of the woman she had begun to love. Her heart felt hot and heavy and painful and her mouth had gone dry. It was too much, to have been invited back, and to believe that perhaps things between them might continue, only to be met with… this. “Alright,” said Morgan.
“Jessica’s address is on the envelope. There’s a bottle of champagne for the two of you in the bag over there. And this,” handing over bank notes already folded, “will cover your fare. Take a taxi.” Another indication that Frances was not her usual self, though Morgan did not notice that she had been given far too much money; she had enough for twenty such journeys. Frances felt suddenly sick and cold. At the door Morgan hesitated for an instant, and Frances said, quickly, “I hope you’re not thinking of reneging on our agreement, Morgan.”
“No,” said Morgan, quietly, “That’s not what I intend…” She slipped out of the apartment and made her way to the lift. She wrapped her fingers around the printed address. The notes she stuffed into her jeans’ pocket. But she did not take a taxi: she could not bear the thought of having to make conversation of any kind. She travelled by the Underground instead, where she could be sure of the privacy and solitude that only crowded places afforded. She got a seat, unusually, crossed the city and reemerged in due course into the cool afternoon air. Her fingers came to rest on the bundle of notes. Why had Frances given her so much?
Morgan was sufficiently shocked by all that had taken place that day that she had begun to doubt the reality of her own existence. This was something that usually only happened to her in the days of Rebecca’s fugues. It was not a sensible aspect of her emotional make-up – it was not entirely safe (it was probably not sane) – but it happened all the same. Rebecca would be in the mid-tirade when Morgan would begin to doubt the situation, begin to question whether she was present in the moment or not. And when the moment became too impossibly stressful, or just too grim, Morgan would relinquish her hold, and take herself out of the situation.
Had the whole thing been a fairy tale – a consideration that she had dwelt on in the past – then this would have to represent one of those tests of nerve, when her integrity or her courage were being challenged. She wasn’t sure what point there might be to the newest test, or what story it most closely resembled. What purpose did this chapter serve? Sent by the wicked queen… No. No. Not that. That wasn’t right. The only wicked queen she’d known so far had been Rebecca, and Morgan had escaped from that world. Sent from one life to another, from Frances’ bed to Jessica’s, might she not become lost? Should she employ some fairy- tale special, and leave a trail she could in due course follow home? Oh, yes, as if. What did she have to mark her way? She had no white stones. She had no breadcrumbs. A line of banknotes? A ridiculous idea. They would hardly remain on the ground to shine her home.
Where was home, anyway?
The storm that had been threatening the city struck right then. The sky turned a yellowish-grey and the heavens opened. Morgan was soaked almost immediately: it would only be a relief much later that she hadn’t been wearing her favourite jacket.
*****
“Oh, Morgan, love, come in.” She was drawn in out of the rain. She had found Jessica’s house without difficulty. And Jessica was truly glad to see her, real and smiling, and it was impossible not to respond with warmth. Something of her dazedness faded. “I won’t say it’s not a surprise, but it’s a very nice one. Come through and sit down. I’ve just made some coffee. I hope you’ll have some.” As she walked away toward the kitchen she added, “Oh, I forgot: you’ve never been here before, have you? Do please take a look around.”
“Thank you. Coffee also would be lovely.” Or possibly a glass of paraquat. Morgan replied politely and mechanically, but all the same she did glance around, and tried to take in the spare lines of the place, the pictures on the wall, the shelves lined with books. Jessica had called her love. That was nice. Tears formed in Morgan’s eyes and she blinked that away. How the hell was she to seduce someone when even the slightest kindness shown to her was enough to trip her up? Morgan took off her jacket and put it over the back of a chair to dry.
In a moment Jessica was back with coffee and biscuits on a tray. Morgan thought about the adult solemnity of the bottle she was still carrying, and extended the bag to Jessica. “Frances sent this,” she said. “It’s a birthday present. Happy birthday,” she added, stupidly, as an afterthought.
“How… nice,” said Jessica, frowning a little at the bottle. She examined the label. “And how incredibly extravagant. Dear god. I’m sorry: I’m just surprised. I don’t think that Frances has given me a birthday present in years… In fact, I can’t even remember the last time she did. It’s not something we’ve ever really gone in for… Just an exchange of cards, usually… Morgan, are you alright?”
Morgan was struggling to maintain control. All the way across the city she had successfully fought tears. Now her eyes were full of them and she really could not see. “I… It’s nothing. It’s been a funny day. Actually, it’s been a really awful day.” She put up one hand to her face to hide the fact that there were tears she could no longer conceal, but they flowed over her fingers. A horrible, yawning pit of sensation was there for her to fall into. Her eyes stung. Morgan felt as though she had been crying for days.
“Morgan! You’re really not alright, are you? You do look feverish.” Jessica came to sit beside her, pressing the palm of one hand to Morgan’s forehead, and her touch was hard for Morgan to bear.
No, Morgan thought, that’s wrong. Not hard to bear, wonderful to feel, and terminal. I think this might kill me. I can’t take this… And as an afterthought: my heart is actually breaking. The simple contact – that gentle, kindly touch – had done that. It broke down the reserve that Morgan had fought so hard to maintain. There broke from her a howl of pain and loss. Startled, and now very concerned, Jessica had her arms around Morgan, warm and certain. Her voice was full of concern, pitched low and intense, and Morgan had no idea what Jessica was saying.
It took time for Morgan to get the sobbing under control. When she was almost calm, Jessica ditched the coffee, which neither of them had time or opportunity to drink, and instead made a cup of tea for Morgan, strong and sweet, and insisted that she drank it. Morgan did her best, but she ended up spilling a good third of the cup down her shirt. She pulled off her shirt – there was a long-sleeved tee beneath, so it was hardly revealing – and grew gradually calmer. But whenever she had her breathing more or less under control, and thought that the storm was over, she would see Frances’s face in her mind and hear those awful words, and the crying would start up again. At last Morgan took another deep and howling breath and told Jessica what had taken place in Frances’s apartment that day. Ever since Whitby, Morgan had felt her grip loosening, and now it was quite gone.
*****
As sense and clarity bloomed like flowers through Morgan’s jagged and breathless confession, Jessica found it harder and harder even to imagine Frances. The woman who had been her friend since college had gone entirely, and in her place only some strange, heartless conundrum remained. The fact that would surprise her much later – it did not even strike Jessica at the time – was that it never occurred to her, even for an instant, to doubt Morgan. Even if she had doubted, there was evidence at hand in the form of the bottle of champagne, hugely expensive and probably the very last gift that Morgan would have thought to take her, and of course the card and envelope, bearing Jessica’s address in Frances’s cursive script. No, Jessica didn’t doubt, only believed. She only wondered why Frances would have done something so cruel. She wasn’t even angry – right then – with the insult to her. All that Jessica could think of was Morgan telling Frances that she loved her, and having that confession used against her. All that Jessica cared about right then was comforting Morgan. Ironically, Frances got almost what she’d demanded. But Morgan didn’t seduce Jessica, Jessica seduced Morgan.
*****
There were so many arguments against the seduction, in both their minds: Frances and Jessica were friends; Frances and Morgan were lovers; Jessica and Morgan were becoming friends; Morgan trusted Jessica; Jessica had trusted Frances. But there had been warmth and kindness there in the embrace with which Jessica welcomed Morgan, and that was what Morgan needed just then. Morgan didn’t know at what point she felt Jessica’s lips kissing her forehead, then her cheek, and then her mouth, but she responded because it felt like the natural thing to do. Everything in the world seemed to come right down to the two of them inside, in the warmth, while the storm that had soaked Morgan’s jacket enveloped the city.
By the time that sleet was striking the windows of Jessica’s house, they had made it as far as Jessica’s bed. Their clothes came off piecemeal and lay scattered about the floor. And there was something in the wildness of the day outside that made Jessica’s bed even more enticing than it was to begin with: Jessica favoured white sheets and soft throws and the bed itself was blue-dyed wood and solid, and its mattress comfortable. Morgan was amazed to be feeling anything other than simple despair: to feel desire was borderline miraculous.
*****
Jessica’s bedroom had struck Morgan as being a little austere, almost stark, and airy – Jessica liked her personal space spacious – and to Morgan’s eyes it reflected back the character of its owner. Jessica was not exactly skillful when it came to sex, but she was enthusiastic and spontaneous and very fond of Morgan, and the two met on level ground. Morgan had always fancied Jessica, but in a polite, restrained, admire-from-a-distance-and-never-think-to-touch fashion. She had never imagined actually kissing her. It helped that Jessica smelled so nice: Morgan inhaled a perfume that seemed nine tenths fresh bread, one tenth sea salt. Jessica tasted good, too, though Morgan had only gone as far as kissing her inner thighs before enthusiasm overwhelmed Jessica, and she spun their embrace around. That was something Morgan had never even dreamed of (Frances had never once gone down on her), but once the shock had worn off there was only pleasure to be had: she would have happily had Jessica remain where she was all day.
A little later on it felt both erotic and almost frightening to have Jessica begin to fuck her, reaching inside with one finger, and then, very shyly, and with infinite care, two. Morgan moaned, and said, “Oh, god, that feels wonderful.” The combined sensation of Jessica’s fingers inside her, fucking her gently, together with the warm application of Jessica’s tongue, seemed to have brought clarity to Morgan, after a morning of misery. She was in bed with someone who seemed honestly concerned about her, someone who was taking pleasure in making her feel good. One moment of clarity was followed by another, as Morgan thought: Frances, you didn’t really mean for this to happen, did you? You may have sent me over with the instruction, for whatever fuckwitted reason, but you hadn’t really imagined the two of us in bed together. Maybe you thought about us sharing a few shy kisses, something mild, and here we are now with Jessica fucking me. No, you didn’t mean for that to happen. Not that. Then she thought, too, unexpectedly: Damn you, Frances. I’m done with this.
At the same time it was impossible to shake from her thoughts the alien sensation of making love to someone other than Frances. Feeling Jessica’s mouth on her and inside her, her hands on Morgan’s skin, she had been unable to shake the sensation of guilt. Guilt, for the love of god. Making love to someone other than Frances and with the woman’s permission. At the bloody woman’s request! No. An order, not a request. And no room allowed for Morgan to refuse: Frances had sent her to Jessica.
Morgan was feeling more than usually foolish. When she came down to it, the thought was simple enough: after all, there had been no-one else before Frances, and once that relationship had started, Morgan had – rashly, stupidly, blindly, and all other derogatory adjectives she could think of – never thought that there would be anyone else.
*****
Much later on, when Jessica was sleeping, and Morgan teetering on the brink of sleep, she thought, listening to the rain: I’m glad I’m not out there. I’m glad I’m not homeless. So very little separates me from the people I see every day. I was lucky to find a job, I was lucky to find a room. I did a certain amount of lying to get accepted at the café, and I ripped off Rebecca’s bank account to get me here in the first place. I’m glad I’ve got a room to go back to, and not a cardboard box. And I have a job, even if it isn’t the best job in the world, and for the moment I can pay my rent. Whether or not I still have Frances I just… don’t know.
Jessica’s arm tightened round Morgan and she was grateful for the fact. In sleep Jessica looked less serious, and very nice. Morgan thought, things can never be the same again now. Things can never be normal. And as an addendum to that: what the hell had normal been, in any case? Surprising Morgan, who had not expected to see her, Katie broke the silence.
“I’m glad this happened. I like Jessica. I think you could handle having someone in your life who treats you kindly.”
Morgan looked up. Katie was standing by the window, looking out into the fading storm.
“Jessica’s nice. And she really cares about you. I know it’s not a long-term prospect... Well, I don’t really know if it is or not. Maybe it should be. I know that there have been things I haven’t understood but this beats them all. I don’t know what’s up with Frances but there must be something wrong. Maybe she’s got a brain tumour. Or aliens have invaded and stolen her brain. Maybe zombies have eaten it. Isn’t that what zombies like to do? Or she’s been possessed. Have you considered the possibility? Bitch.” There was real venom in Katie’s voice. It was the first time Morgan had ever heard Katie use the term.
It was a nice surprise to Morgan to feel like smiling. “You know, this reminds me of the time I had food poisoning.” Katie’s eyebrows did their bounce. “Yeah, I know it sounds odd, but give me a moment. I had really bad food poisoning. I’d spent the whole fucking night being sick, ’til I got to the point when I didn’t have the strength to crawl back to bed. I even slept on the bathroom floor for a while and I woke up so cold… But I felt better all the same because I’d stopped feeling sick. I’d been ill for about twenty four hours straight, and I was so far gone that when I was vomiting, I was crying, too. I couldn’t face it happening again and I couldn’t stop it happening. So when the feeling went, and I knew I wouldn’t be sick again I was so happy. There I was, lying on the floor, not even able to stand, and yet, I was happy. It was so nice just not to be feeling sick that stuff I’d never much valued before became really vital to me. It was fun just to breathe. I thought that once I could stand up again I’d make myself a cup of tea, and I even got excited about that.”
Katie smiled and said, “I think that poor Jessica would have her heart just about broken if she knew how your mind was working. No. Don’t pull faces at me: I know what you mean. I think… I know what you mean. Alright. The day that I died… Well, you and I once talked about the things that would stop either of us from committing suicide, and you said that fear would be enough to stop you. And I think I said something along the same lines. But that wasn’t strictly true: the fear I felt was the fear of trying to kill myself and failing. I was so afraid of the risk of it not working. I was scared about doing something that would fail, something that would leave me alive but maybe ruin my liver, or leave me brain-damaged… Don’t say it. I know… The thing that I’m trying to say is that what finally pushed me over the edge was when it hurt just to be alive, when what scared me most was the thought of waking up again, and knowing that I was still alive. That was when I did it. That was how I felt.”
“And that was when…?”
“That was when, like you, bizarre as it might have seemed, I felt happy. I wasn’t like you, lying on a bathroom floor, I was standing on the bench, waiting to climb onto the railing and… jump. And when I stood there… When I was there I felt so… happy, better than I had done in ages.”
Morgan nodded. After a moment she said, “The thing that I’ve always had trouble accepting – not the fact of your death, but how terrified you must have felt. I mean… How did you feel when you were falling? How did it feel when you hit? That’s what’s kept me awake at nights, wondering. You’d have long enough, surely, to think: oh, god, this is so going to hurt… I want to turn back but…”
“Of course. But it’s like diving in the swimming pool: once you’ve committed yourself, there isn’t enough time to think all the things that have worried you. I suppose it would have made sense for me to have felt scared, but I don’t remember that figuring at all. All I can remember is the feeling of relief once I’d decided what I was going to do. And walking up to the hill that night, climbing up onto the bench… I knew then that I was going in the right direction. D’you remember the John Donne poem they made us dissect in Lit class? I really loved the line: ‘I run to death, and death meets me as fast.’ That was how it felt that night.” Katie gave Morgan a painful smile and said simply. “That’s all. I ran to death, and it came up to meet me.”
“Oh, bloody hell. Katie, forgive me: I don’t think I can cry any more. I mean, physically, I can’t cry any more. My sinuses are on fire and my eyes feel like they’re about to fall out.
Enough, please. For today, anyway.”
Jessica, still sleeping, but somehow aware, tightened her arms around Morgan, and suddenly all that Morgan wanted was sleep, and that was there for the taking. Her whole body suddenly aching and heavy, she closed her eyes and was gone. She began to wonder how Frances was doing, but she was unconscious before she finished the thought.
*****
At some point, late afternoon, early evening, they shared a bath. And from the bathroom they only just made it back to the bedroom. And later still, Morgan accepted the idea of going out for dinner. “To be honest, I hadn’t got anything planned,” Jessica said. “But now… Well, I’d love to take you out if that would please you, too.” This was something Morgan wanted to do, something that was only a pleasure, and a surprising one at that. The restaurant was small and quiet, and a far cry from the places Frances liked. An Indian restaurant, hidden away, amazingly, not far from the city’s centre.
Towards the end of the meal, finishing off a delicate milk dessert flavoured with saffron, Morgan said, “Whatever happens next with Frances, I want you to know that today I had the nicest time. And, I don’t know if she ever told you how we met, but… I’ve sometimes wished that it had been your car, not Frances’s, that I stepped out in front of. This afternoon I wished that very much.”
Jessica stared at her. “She ran you down?”
Morgan grinned. “More or less. Less. It was all my fault. She was just nice.”
Jessica managed a smile. She was hiding an element of shock: Frances had done what?
“Morgan, I’m a little out of my depth. Today was… amazing. I don’t even know how else to say it. And now I don’t honestly know what to say or do. Part of me wants never to let you go, and part of me believes you’ve already gone.” Morgan blinked. “I loved today, and I love you. And now we need to pay up and go.” As they put on their jackets, Jessica helping Morgan into hers, she said, “I know that tomorrow we’ve both got to work, but tonight… will you come home with me?”
It took her no time to decide, and then she felt the wanted warmth of Jessica’s arm around her as they made their way back to Jessica’s home. But when she woke in the early hours, from a nightmare already half forgotten, snug in Jessica’s embrace, she was astonished – and a little frightened – to find herself feeling lonely. Of all the strange things: where was the sense in that?
******
Frances was not doing well. Nor was the household china. Oliver would have a fit when he next came in. Realisation had come to her too late in the day: it had all been a mind-fuck, another one of Elise’s games. A mind-fuck of almost biblical proportion. And Frances had been fooled. Frances had fallen. And to add insult to injury, Elise had left Frances that morning only an hour or so after Morgan had left. Elise had stuck around long enough – so Frances later figured – to have allowed Morgan time enough to reach her destination. Time enough for the damage to have been done. And what could she have done, anyway, to turn back the clock or to rescue the situation? Flown across the city and pried Morgan free of Jessica’s willing arms?
If Morgan had wanted to be freed. If Jessica had been willing. Oh, god.
Elise had used her time well: a brief visit, an enjoyable go at punishing Frances for that one moment of rebellion years ago, and Elise had been on her way. Frances had not understood. Elise was so good at what she did that she did not need to witness the devastation she’d wrought: utterly confident that events would pan out as she intended.
Frances had broken quite a lot of crockery. Not the best stuff, but there were pieces she had quite liked that now lay about the kitchen floor in pieces. Thank heavens for thick walls and floors: no-one could have heard the banshee wail or the sound of china smashing. And after all that, the damage done had not proved cathartic. She had not achieved the slightest degree of cathartic exorcism. She sighed deeply and broke a last plate.
Frances brushed bits of china from a kitchen stool and sat down with an intact glass and a bottle of wine. Wine was the only thing she could face right then, and at the best of times wine and brandy were the only kinds of alcohol she could abuse. She had never been very good with spirits, and she had Elise to thank for that, too. That day…
The last time Elise had fucked with her head Frances had drunk the best part of a good bottle of vodka, and since then had been unable to face the stuff. Jessica had once told her that she had met with a similar experience after the death (at home, from cancer) of her father). Stuck with the responsibility of doing things, she had downed one bourbon after another as she struggled through the list of necessary activities that Jessica suddenly understood followed in the wake of a death. She began by calling out the family doctor, which led on to her phoning for the undertaker so that he and his crew could come out before midnight, before going back upstairs to re-dress her father so that when his body was taken away (in what looked like a long black plastic bag), he was wearing at least clean clothes. The undertakers hadn’t minded: Jessica’s father could have been taken out bare-ass naked in their body-bag as far as they were concerned. Hung-over before Jessica had even gone to bed, it had been another ten years before she could even envisage a glass of bourbon, let alone drink the bloody stuff.
Oh, the wine went down well enough, and it was about the right temperature, but then she had chosen a bottle of brutal, chilled vodka to drown her sorrows and pickle her bruised sensibilities. In Paris, she’d been. She had begun by feeling so adult and responsible at the beginning of the day, and so like shit at the end of it.
Elise. Bloody hell, what a dreadful woman. What had she ever seen in her? Frances suspected that she was not the first to have wondered that. She had been bowled over by Elise, impressed because the woman had been – after all – so very impressive. She’d also been impassive, precocious, attractive, occasionally brutal, often flirtatious and never ever nice. Kindness and niceness were not qualities valued by Elise. She had disliked Jessica from the time of their first meeting, and Jessica had detested Elise from pretty much the same date.
Oh, enough about Elise. What about Morgan? What about Jessica? What about the day she was having, a day in which she had tried (fleetingly) to immerse herself in gallery work? Impossible to work. Impossible to do anything but imagine Morgan and Jessica together. Frances had not imagined (foolishly - she was beginning to believe that she had more than enough foolishness for the planet) that Elise would leave after Morgan had gone. Elise had watched from the window as Morgan made her dizzy exit from the building, never once looking back, and had left that one hour later.
The actions Frances had performed that day seemed beyond her, and unthinkable. Yet she had told Morgan to seduce Jessica. Frances groaned, and buried her face in her hands. Now she thought about Jessica. Their relationship had been on occasions rocky, but over the years they had come to know one another well enough to withstand most excesses. She liked Jessica, respected her views, even fancied her, in a lightweight, never-again-to-be-acted-upon fashion. Should the single night they had shared at college have mattered more than it did? She had never told Morgan that she had had sex with Jessica. Why would she? What possible motive would she have? Now she’d take that one to her grave. Would Jessica? Was that likely to be an instance of pillow-talk, in the unlikely event of Jessica and Morgan needing pillows…? “Oh, you silly fucking cow,” she whispered to the silent apartment.
In the early days of their relationship Frances had craved Elise in exactly the same way that she craved - right then – wine enough to drown in. Knowing that she shouldn’t have another drink, knowing the beginning of the sharp, stinging, clear headache that would not shift until she gave up and went to bed with a pill and a glass of water, she finished her first glass and poured another. But she didn’t want to be sleeping while Morgan and Jessica were… Oh, fuck it. She looked at her watch and wondered how her friend and her lover were getting on.
Because she wanted, badly, to attach to her feelings for Elise another word than lust, Frances had, in the early days of that relationship, convinced herself that she was in love with Elise. For almost three weeks she was in love. Then she was as suddenly out of it. Arriving at Elise’s apartment to find her new lover in bed with one of the hotel maids it was impossible not to feel fury, chagrin, horror, embarrassment. It was not until years later that she knew she had also felt relief.
*****
It had taken time for Frances to achieve a kind of perspective regarding her relationship with Elise. She had spent a number of years hating that sense of disgust that always came to mind when she remembered the time she and Elise had shared. She had been a virgin before Elise, and with her Frances had done everything she had ever imagined doing. But Elise’s tastes were far-ranging and her soul remarkably corrupt. Sometimes being with Elise had felt like sinking into hell. There had been one shared afternoon that Frances was still working hard to forget.
The day that the relationship had ground to a halt had come about quite casually. Frances had had no idea when she woke that morning what lay in store. She had finished her second art history post-graduate course with flying colours. She had an interview lined up with a really prestigious gallery, and everything in her life seemed to be coming together. Jessica was back in England, qualifying as a doctor. From time to time she wrote to Frances, but now that way of life seemed far away and very tame in comparison with the life Frances was now leading. She had an excellent future waiting for her, and an amazing and talented lover with whom to share it. Frances knew exactly what she wanted. What Elise wanted was something she had not considered in depth. Prepared for the most important interview of her life, and feeling ready for anything, Frances knocked impulsively at the door to Elise’s apartment with an hour to spare before her interview.
Frances had been wearing a sea-green suit. She had never worn it again. Her hair hung loosely down across her shoulders. She knew how good she looked, having regarded her reflection in the lift mirrors, but Elise, when she opened the door to greet her, seemed unimpressed.
“Frances,” she said, without enthusiasm. “I had not… anticipated you. You are supposed to be attending an interview.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be here.” Frances didn’t know how true that was. “I know you told me to phone, but …” She broke off and looked at Elise, a horrid realization suddenly touching her heart. “You’re not alone.”
Unimpressed, entirely impassive, Elise threw back the door. The door to the bedroom was open and through the door, in the bed, Frances saw the young woman who’d served at their table, the last time they ate out. Elise said nothing. Elise only waited. She looked a little bored, a little careless, and a little flushed from her activities. Whatever she felt, she clearly couldn’t give a toss for Frances’s feelings. She wore a silk robe that emphasized the nakedness beneath. She watched as Frances’s expression changed from pleasure to disbelief. Elise’s expression of boredom did not shift. She sighed and combed back her hair with long, unforgivable fingers. “No. As you see, I am not alone. And you… You are not supposed to be here. Run along to your interview, my dear. I will see you later.” Frances stared stupidly at her. She could neither move nor speak. “Well?” There was an edge to Elise’s voice that Frances had not heard before. “What is it? I told you that I was busy today and you interrupt me all the same. What is it that you want?”
“I thought...” Frances no longer knew what she wanted to say. “The interview I’m going to...” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She tried again to make sense of the moment. “I thought we were going to be together. You and I sharing a life.”
Elise’s eyebrows rose. “It is pleasant enough to have you in my bed, Frances, but I do not recall a single conversation in which I suggested for a moment that you and I had a future together. Is this a plan you were intending to discuss with me, or had you simply imagined that I would love you, honour you and then follow you about the globe? Rather selfish thinking. If you had asked me what it was that I wanted, I would have told you that I do not care to have my life appropriated.”
Frances said nothing. Everything that Elise said was in fact true. She had considered a shared future because that had to follow on from the oddly dispassionate, wholly visceral and occasionally humiliating affair that they had had. If it did not, then what was the meaning of their time together? It did not strike her as strange until much later that she said nothing about the girl currently in Elise’s bed. Elise had simply brought the matter to a close by saying, “Run along. I cannot see you tonight. I am otherwise engaged. Tomorrow I may be free to see you. Call me in the morning and I will let you know if it is convenient.”
Frances had gone to her interview and had done her best with the material she had to hand. She had left Paris for London by the end of the week, and had not looked back.
What inner demon had persuaded her to let Elise into her apartment, her life (however briefly) and her bed? Perhaps she truly had lost her mind. Had she only thought to show Elise how skilled she was in bed, how talented she had become, how very over their relationship? The thought of being in bed with Elise washed over Frances then like an attack of food poisoning: she had to run for the bathroom, stumbling as she went, ending up in a mess, on the floor by the toilet, vomiting until she thought she would die. What streak of masochism had remained in her to respond subserviently to Elise’s ministrations? And apart from the betrayal of her own body, pressed against Elise’s cool skin, what had she done to Morgan and Jessica? Halfway back to the kitchen a too-vivid image of herself with Elise smashed through her developing recovery, and she had to spin around and rush back to the bathroom.
That evening she had waited, expecting to hear something. Anything. She had anticipated that at the very least Jessica would telephone, even if only to scream and shout. But that wasn’t Jessica’s way. Frances watched the clock as it moved from seven to eight, and then to nine and ten. She decided that she could not put off the moment any longer, and rang Jessica. She heard the phone ring on and on, until the electronic voice sounded in her ear, telling her that the recipient of her call was unavailable. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know!” Frances screamed, before smashing down the receiver.