Frances and Morgan
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Chapter Two
To be bitterly honest, when she’d first seen Morgan sitting at the grey-topped table in the café of the National Film Theater, Frances hadn’t recognized her. She’d just seen a rain-damped stranger whose looks – in general – appealed to her. Then she’d stared. Then she’d recognized Morgan. And then Morgan had glanced up, and Frances had nodded as if they were nothing but the most distant of acquaintances, and had walked on purposefully.
Said purposeful walk nearly took Frances into the wall. Recovering, she found her way into the toilets, where she mechanically checked her make-up, hair and scent, none of which required the slightest assistance. Then she’d asked herself, rather sternly, what on earth the matter was. After all, she and Morgan both lived in the city: sooner or later their paths had been bound to cross. God knew, they’d crossed before. The memory made her heart pound and the smile she gave the mirror was not one Morgan would have ever wanted to see. Then Frances had taken a deep breath and hurried out, telling herself that she didn’t need to hurry, that it wouldn’t matter in the slightest if the kid had already gone.
Fortunately Morgan hadn’t shifted. How could she? On seeing Frances her heart had pounded and her legs became lifeless. And she seemed about to hyperventilate. While Morgan worked to catch her breath, Frances walked over to the table and came to a rest opposite her, and said hallo again.
“Is this seat taken? Are you expecting someone?” Frances sounded infinitely careless; Morgan would never have guessed at the sensations concealed behind the civility. “No?” Frances sat. She eyed Morgan with mild amusement and a kind of curiosity. Morgan maintained a calm exterior, but inside she was spinning. She swallowed a mouthful of tea and pulled a face. Frances put out her fingers to the cup and said, “That’s stone cold. I’ll get you a fresh pot.” She was as good as her word, but when she placed the tray on the table before them there was in addition a half-bottle of wine and two glasses and then she smiled at Morgan. “You alright?” Morgan nodded. “Here, take a glass. You must be frozen. You look soaked.” And she reached out and touched the collar of Morgan’s jacket; Morgan inhaled Frances’ perfume and felt dizzier still. “You are soaked. At least take off your jacket and let it air.”
Strange to be told to take off her clothes in the NFT, but Morgan obliged by shucking off her jacket. Frances was right: it was soaked through, and she hadn’t noticed. Not noticing was bad; not noticing took her back to the days before she left home, when Rebecca was virtually going nuts and life was hardly worth living. She’d been living on autopilot again.
Frances said nothing for a while, drank her own wine, watched Morgan roll up the sleeves of her shirt. Her shirt boasted a breast pocket, and before she’d consulted her inner self, Frances reached across the table a second time. On this occasion she tucked a neat bundle of folded notes into Morgan’s breast pocket. The action made Frances’ heart pound. Her cunt throbbed. All her confidence had returned. Her fear of rejection had evaporated. As she pushed in the envelope she let her fingertips graze a nipple and shivered, too, but from different reasons to Morgan. Now she looked steadily at the girl and said, “It’s against all my personal rules, but once was nice. How about coming back with me tonight?”
Morgan sat in silence for a moment, her nerves quivering from the slight caress, feeling the weight in her pocket, and quite unable to return Frances’ pleasant, amused smile. Coming face to face with the figure of her fantasies had overwhelmed her; Morgan couldn’t have spoken had she wanted to. For over a month she had been re-living her night with Frances, and the cuts had begun to heal. She had thought herself beginning to be over Frances, and now she found that she was not.
She’d fantasized about meeting Frances again. She had worked through a whole range of scenarios: sometimes she imagined them meeting by accident in an art gallery (the National was always good for a bet and she’d already spent several Sundays there), and sometimes at the theater (as if). Sometimes she imagined Frances – driven by Oliver – pause and park outside the café, but that fantasy always fell apart when Frances came to the counter and order raspberry and verbena tea and Morgan burst out laughing at the unlikeliness of it all.
It had been easiest to think of Frances on the rare occasions that Morgan got to the pool. There, active and one of many, she re-lived all their moments together in bed. It was a happy way to remember, and it ate up the boredom of those thirty lengths.
Now that the chance to be with Frances again had landed in Morgan’s lap, so to speak, she found herself experiencing something she hadn’t expected to meet again. She felt fear.
She’d never had the opportunity before to feel sexually extravagant, or to throw herself bodily into embraces she’d never really thought about. Frances knew more about Morgan – in a more intense fashion, certainly – than anyone else in the world. And that knowledge gave Frances power that Morgan wasn’t sure she wanted to increase. She thought: how about I tie you over an anthill and smear honey all over your body? How about I order you to do all the things you’ve ever wanted to do, even some of the things you’d never thought of? How about I turn you out tomorrow morning with nothing more than the promise of a cup of coffee in another room? Made by another person? How about I give you something to fantasise about for over a month?
When the cogs of her brain had finished whizzing, Morgan reached – deliberately and carefully – into her pocket and removed the folded notes. She pushed the fee – her hand palm down on the table, passing by the cold tea and the half-emptied wine bottle – back to Frances. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very… well. Sorry. I really do have to go now. Goodnight.”
She thought she’d dealt pretty well with the situation, all things considered, and maintained this unconvincing belief up until the moment she stood up too quickly and passed out cold.
Afterwards she could not remember much of that evening. She did not recollect the faint itself, though she had recognized - momentarily - the symptoms as they struck: an awful wash of heat, sickness and confusion that she could not control. Logically it had all been very simple: Frances had called Oliver and got him to bring over the car. In the meantime they had sat together, waiting, while the NFT staff had brought over yet more tea. Morgan was almost awash with the stuff.
She came back to herself entirely when they left the NFT for the cool damp of the night outside. The dolphin lights were lit; the Thames moved leadenly and silently beyond the low wall of the Embankment. Oliver had managed to get the car very close; there was only the shortest distance to walk, but Morgan’s legs were still unreliable. So it was pleasant to feel Frances’ arm around her, holding her close, never once letting her slip. Then they were in the slipstream of traffic and then they were back at the apartment.
Most of the faint could be put on the stupid fact that she was having trouble eating, again. More and more, with Victoria back only part-time and short-tempered to boot, Morgan had been doing the cooking for the cafe. By the end of the average day she was sick of the smell and sight of food. And money remained tight; Frances had saved her once, but that was weeks ago.
Frances had suggested a hot shower, rather than a bath, perhaps afraid that Morgan might have actually drowned if not directed. The toweling robe was gone, but someone had left out for her a lightweight sweater and a pair of loose linen trousers that fitted well enough. Oliver had taken away her clothes again to dry. He’d smiled and told her she’d soon have them back.
Frances had disappeared, Morgan was finally forced to go in search of her. She was in the study, with its atmosphere of almost shocking quiet. The rush and breath of London seemed a million miles distant. Frances was working at her desk, but she glanced up when Morgan appeared in the doorway, and smiled, and gestured to the leather sofa. “Oliver is making coffee and sandwiches,” she said. “I just have to finish off a few things here. Choose yourself a book and sit down.” Well, it wasn’t hard to do that: books lined the walls. Morgan was almost spoiled for choice. She selected a book and sat down, curling her feet up under her, and read until Oliver reappeared with a tray.
Sitting there that evening, eating and drinking, Morgan felt so unreal as to be transparent. It was no easy matter to look back over the previous hours to see how she had come to be where she was. The situation was far more like dreaming. Frances was clearly caught up in her work, and Morgan accepted another cup of coffee - Frances had moved on to brandy - and resettled herself. The room was pleasantly warm, and the faint had left her a little light-headed, a not-unpleasant sensation. Even the smell of brandy did not intrude on her reflections. Her attention flickered from the book; it had been a very long day, and full of challenges. Leaning her head back against the nice support of the sofa cushions she closed her eyes and dreamed.
Funny to think that it was only a matter of months since she’d run away from home. And it had been exactly that; the end had been preceded by no discussions or plans, she had known suddenly that she had to go, and she had gone. Had Rebecca even noticed that she was gone? Of course she had done. But did she ever go to the door of Morgan’s old room and look inside, as if hoping Morgan might be there? Morgan very much doubted that she did.
Things had become difficult after Rebecca’s promotion to head of the English department. Morgan had sometimes thought that it was only the rule of no teacher teaching their own offspring that had kept her alive. Bad enough that Cathy should have been both so confident and so careless. Smart enough, bright enough, and almost entirely without ambition, Cathy might have been put on the planet for no reason other than to drive Rebecca insane. The rows that had gone on over subject choices for examinations must have taken place in other homes, but Morgan doubted that any had been as ruthless and grim as they were at number 47.
Cathy had started dating when she was fourteen, and that too had been the subject of a dozen fights. As tall as her mother, and profoundly confident, Cathy had never stood for the infliction of any rules, and it seemed to Morgan that Rebecca’s anger, wasted on Cathy, came to land more and more on her. Rebecca had wanted the promotion, Morgan honestly believed that, but she saw that the demands made on her mother were more than she could stand. Of course, it might have been a different matter if Rebecca had drunk less.
Not brandy, thank god, so she could watch Frances sip from her glass without any sense of repugnance or, crazy as it seemed, despair. Despair had become woven into the fabric of life, that last bad summer. Cathy had gone to Italy with Ben and his family. They would be in Rome until late September at the very least. The night before she was due to leave, packing her bags, Cathy said to Morgan, “I wish I could take you with me.” Morgan laughed, but she wished the same thing. “Ma’ll be alright, I know, but I wish the two of you weren’t going to be here alone.” Then please don’t go, thought Morgan, trying desperately not to say the words aloud. Please don’t leave the two of us here alone. She forced a smile and told Cathy not to worry. The next morning she and Rebecca waved Cathy off, and as the Jefferson’s taxi left the Avenue for the airport, Morgan felt desolation descend upon her. Rebecca pushed shut the front door and walked off to her study. Morgan stood alone in the hall, listening to dust settle. Then she picked up her jacket and key and went out.
“How are you feeling?” Frances’ voice broke into Morgan’s memories. It was necessary to shake her head to free her of the thought of Rebecca. It was a moment before she could think her back to the city.
“Good,” she said. “Better. Loads better. Look, I’m really sorry about what happened.”
Frances shook her head. “It was hardly your fault. I should have seen that you weren’t entirely well. You’re thinner. Are you still eating?”
“Of course.” Lying was second nature. She was getting good at it. Or so she thought.
Frances laughed with real amusement. “Oh, you are transparent. I’d have to be blind not to see the changes in you.” Then she left her desk and came over to the sofa, put out a hand to stroke back the dark hair from Morgan’s forehead. Her touch made Morgan shiver, and Frances laughed again. “I rescued these,” she said, producing those same notes. “Oliver nearly washed them.” She handed them to Morgan. “I did enjoy our time together, and it would be nice to repeat the experience. Would you like to stay?”
Of course she wanted to stay. “Yes,” she said, restricting her tone. “Yes, I would like to.”
This time was different. Frances took her hand and led her into the big bedroom. Nothing there had changed, except that the sheets were now cream, not white, and now there were lilies, not peonies, in the big glass vase that stood on the table at the foot of the bed. The bed looked huge. Morgan felt a momentarily disquietude; the dizziness was trying to make a return. Frances had seated herself at the dressing table and was loosing her hair. “Take off your clothes,” she said, “and come over here.”
That took hardly a moment. Self-conscious and horribly shy, Morgan went over and stood beside Frances, who suddenly stood. She wasn’t so much taller than Morgan, but she still cut an imposing figure. “Stop looking so worried,” she said. Then she bent and kissed Morgan. Morgan had forgotten that Frances tasted of strawberries. “Now,” she said, breaking free, “the last time we were here I wasn’t sure what I wanted first, but on reflection, I think I know.” She seated herself beside the bed, with just the silk blouse on, and told Morgan to kneel between her legs. “Kiss me properly,” she said.
Morgan rested her hands, sunburned from the summer and lightly calloused by the café work, firmly on Frances’ thighs. Her fingers stroked the skin in warm circles. Frances slid forward in her chair and she shivered when Morgan’s warm breath first touched her. After a moment it was not enough to be sitting, she pulled Morgan over to bed and arranged herself back against a volley of pillows, another pillow beneath her hips.
Morgan was shaking so badly that she hardly knew what to do. She was hesitant at first, but in another moment it seemed only logical to slide her hands under Frances’ thighs and to pull Frances toward her. She contented herself at first with simply kissing the skin, moving closer by degrees to Frances’ cunt. And Frances, at first restless and demanding, wanted more, but Morgan‘s touch was steady and patient, and she would not be rushed. So Frances finally relaxed, lay back, and felt as intimacy became more and more intimate. As she worked Morgan began to tease her fingers around Frances’ cunt, kissing the outer lips while she slid fingers just inside. Frances was so wet she was almost embarrassed by the fact. She had never intended on having Morgan inside her, but the sensation was too good to deny, and she began straining toward Morgan, so that the girl’s fingers pressed further in. “Oh, God,” said Frances, trying to delay the sensations and failing, and coming as Morgan gently sucked on the outer lips and slid her fingers once more inside.
Frances lay back on the pillows and Morgan stretched out beside her, her fingers still working, still circling and entering, teasing and withdrawing. Frances had been sufficiently thrown by the first orgasm, and for an instant resented the continued pressure, but that resentment subsided as her body began to respond - again - to Morgan’s touch. This time Morgan kept her mouth on Frances as she came, and pressed her fingers deeper inside. Frances moaned. She reached out for Morgan, pulling her up the bed so that she might kiss, so that she might taste herself. Morgan withdrew enough to kiss her way down Frances’ throat and to her breasts. She pressed the nipples with fingertips and tongue until Frances was almost too aroused to come. It took her longer to come, this time, and as she did she grabbed Morgan’s wrists so that she had no choice but to collapse against Frances’ side. She put an arm around Morgan and held her tightly for an instant, then she eased back onto the pillows and, before she could do any of the things she’d been planning on, fell into a sleep that was nearly as profound as Morgan’s earlier faint.
Morgan lay back, heart pounding so hard it almost hurt, and pulled the covers up over them both. She was aware of relief and frustration both: she had been afraid that Frances would want to fuck her again, and that first time had hurt. She hadn’t anticipated that, or the blood she’d later noticed. She didn’t think that Frances had known about that. But now that there was no chance of Frances doing anything Morgan was aware of her own sense of frustration. She had never been very good at touching herself; a mixture of embarrassment and a sense of being somewhat inept always came between her and pleasure, but now she found herself so wet that some contact was demanded. But it would be only second best at best to touch herself, so she waited out her own body’s demands until they dulled into acceptance and sleep. But even if her body was both exhausted and so aroused she could hardly bear it, her brain was running as fast as ever. She could pull down a veil over most things; it just took time. Sometimes it took hours. It would be hours before she slept, so Morgan settled herself more comfortably, and allowed her mind to shift onto whatever tracks it chose to run down.
The day that the examination results came out was the day that had ended everything at home. Rebecca had missed the arrival of the post, coming out of her study to find Morgan studying the unfolded notification. She snatched the envelope from Morgan and surveyed the news. After a moment she said, grudgingly, “I suppose that’s better than it might have been. Take today off. Tomorrow you can start working again.”
That was how it had been every rotten day of the vacation since the day after Cathy had left, and Morgan was sick of the arrangement. She hadn’t thought about what she might say and the words were out of her mouth before she had consulted her brain. “No,” she said, simply. “It all ends here.” She remembered hearing those words before and the intensity with which they had been spoken had remained with her. “This has to stop. I… I can’t do all this any more. I won’t. My head feels like it’s nothing but sheets of paper; you won’t even let me work in my own room, in which case at least I’d get to miss the sight of you drinking yourself into your standard daily stupor.” The words once out she had a micro-second of beginning the thought that would have been: what the fuck are you doing? Do you want her to kill you? before Rebecca flipped. The glass she had been holding she smashed against Morgan’s forehead. It was as well for Morgan that the glass didn’t break. It was as well for her, too, that she crashed to the ground; another second within reach and Rebecca might have strangled her. The glass rolled away into a safe corner of the hall where it resided while Rebecca beat the shit out of her daughter.
Morgan thought, the next day, that she honestly couldn’t move. When she began to lift herself up from her bed - she seemed to have slept upon it fully-dressed - her entire body screamed, and she had to bite her lip. Easing herself by stages into a sitting position she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and the shock of that sighting took her, stumbling, across the room to see the truth of Rebecca’s fury. She could not recognize herself; one eye was bloodshot and the bruising beneath it was purple and black. There was a bloody patch on the eye itself that seemed to leech into the iris, and this made her feel sick as well as frightened. Touching fingertips to the area made her wince. She undid her shirt and saw the marks across her shoulders and upper arms. She only just reached the bathroom before the vomiting started, and then that wouldn’t seem to stop. Eventually there was nothing left to come out, and her head ached so badly she thought it might split. The headaches that began that day would come back, over and over. And all of that day Rebecca would not even look at her; would not even share a room with her. When she‘d finished she’d left Morgan where she lay, and simply walked off. She‘d even gone out, but perhaps that had been for the best. Morgan had gotten to her feet in slow stages, feeling sick and dizzy through them all. A part of her wanted to call Cathy in Rome, to shout for help, to ask for something… But in her heart she knew she would take no such step. She never had talked to Cathy, even when it might have helped. If Cathy had known, she would never have left, but how could she know? And the pattern was always the same, with Rebecca going back onto autopilot without the slighted acknowledgment of what she’d done. The first time that had happened Morgan had hardly believed it. And in two day’s time when Rebecca did appear to notice the bruising - now already fading - she had asked her - in all honesty - when she’d fallen down the stairs, Morgan couldn’t even begin to reply.
Then something strange happened.
She’d gone out, unwilling to be out anywhere even remotely public because she didn’t want anyone to see the damage, taking the path from the rear of the house past the other gardens, past the allotments, and up toward the narrow bridge that provided a walkway over the three-months-old bypass. There, on the wooden bench that they had never seen anyone else use, they’d sat talking that Friday night, a half-bottle of Scotch between them, the Friday night before the following Sunday when, in the early hours when there were virtually no cars, Katie had swan-dived onto the road sixty feet below.
Morgan sat on that bench and looked through the railings. It hadn’t been hard for Katie to climb up onto the ledge, and there was no way it could ever have been an accident. Katie had been - unbalanced was the word used by the GP, used by the coroner. She had taken her life when the balance of her mind was… Morgan knew all the terminology and didn’t care about any of it. Katie had had mood swings, and periods of grim depression when she seemed about to go a little crazy, but she’d never been mad, and she’d never been unbalanced, and she was the only person to whom Morgan had ever confided anything about Rebecca. And now that Rebecca seemed about to go right out of her mind, Katie was the only person she wanted to talk to. Obviously Katie was dead, but if Morgan closed her eyes, and concentrated hard enough, bit by bit the sound of the road faded out, and there was nothing but the sound of wind blowing across the surrounding fields. The bridge breached as it returned, into farmland.
Morgan lay down on the bench. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes and let the breath escape by degrees. Repeated the exercise over and over again, until she could almost see the place she always dreamed about Katie inhabiting. The sun shone warmly on her, and the fears and frustrations of the day were suddenly forgotten: she was asleep.
She dreamed that she was in an enormous building, with corridors that went on forever. The walls were high and white-washed. There were windows at regular intervals, tall and narrow. No blinds or curtains. She saw Katie sitting on a chair outside one of the rooms and nervously took a seat beside her. Katie turned to her and smiled. Her face was a little distorted, almost swollen, as if she‘d been stung by bees. It occurred to Morgan that even in a dream she knew she wasn’t seeing Katie’s proper face.
Morgan said, “I saw your mum the other day.” Katie nodded. Morgan wondered where to take the conversation. It seemed impolite to remark on Katie’s being dead. Morgan compromised. “She seemed well. She offered me a coffee but I… I just couldn’t face going back with her.” Couldn’t face going back to the house that you used to be a part of.
A voice came over the tannoy. Morgan couldn’t distinguish the words but it seemed that Katie could, because she rose to her feet and told Morgan she had to go. “Sorry,” she said. “You know how it is.” Morgan, not knowing, not even guessing, simply nodded. Katie began to walk into the distance, but she stopped suddenly and turned to Morgan. “You know, I always meant to tell you: you really shouldn't be here. Of course it’s great to see you but you shouldn’t be here. If you don't get your act together, you will be." And then Katie was moving rapidly away, as if the floor had become a walkway, and an walkway moving almost too fast to see. Morgan woke up, bathed in perspiration, and scrambled upright. She started walking home.
Frustratingly, over the next few days, as Morgan convalesced, Rebecca was almost always in the house, and it wasn’t until almost a week after the results debacle that Rebecca was called in to a pre-term meeting at the school. The meeting was at short notice: Rebecca hadn’t even taken her bag with her. Morgan waited until she had heard the car’s engine die away, and then ransacked the house. Rebecca’s purse she simply upended. The emergency jar that Rebecca kept in a corner of the study went the same way. It was useful that Rebecca had kept a note of her PIN number in the top drawer of her desk. She had already telephoned for a taxi; she had already packed the clothes that she would need. She took her passport. Since the day of the results, a bag had been sitting packed and ready beneath her bed.
She’d raided Cathy’s room, too, and the bathroom cabinet, and Rebecca’s bedroom. The proofs of her searches would be the only note she’d leave behind. She took Rebecca’s entire supply of Valium, her sleeping tablets, pain-killers (Rebecca had a notoriously bad back, and Cathy had once fallen off a horse at the local stables), even a bottle of aspirin. She took no personal effects: the only thing she wanted from the house was to be free of it. For good. What Rebecca would say or do when she got back, Morgan neither knew nor cared. Ditto what Rebecca would have to say to Cathy when she made her return in mid-September. The ring of the doorbell nearly sent her through the ceiling, but it was only the taxi. She left the house without looking back, without even checking to see she’d locked the door. On the way to the station she asked the driver to stop at the cash point, where she used Rebecca’s PIN to take out the maximum before pocketing the cash and dropping the card down the nearest drain.
This time there was a breakfast the next morning. Frances was light-headed and languid, Morgan was pale and tired: it had been almost dawn before she’d slept, and when she had slept, none of her dreams had been good. She drank coffee and ate one of the rolls brought warm from the oven. Frances had her post to look at so she passed Morgan a newspaper. The mood of the morning was quiet, calm, even restful. It proved a contrast to the night before. Morgan finished eating and simply sat, waiting, for dismissal.
Frances, her brain a flood of erotic memories, could concentrate on nothing that morning. The only issue left unsettled in her mind was what to do about Morgan. She’d paid her, certainly, and in no way owed her anything, but it would be hard to see her go. On the other hand, she had had enough of love affairs. The only alternative open to her was, surely, a continuance of the previous night. It wasn’t the money that bothered her; she had plenty of that, but still she hesitated. She was still hesitating when Morgan announced she had to be going. “I thought the café didn’t open at the weekend,” said Frances.
It didn’t, but Morgan preferred the idea of leaving over being left. “I’m sure you have a whole load of things to do,” she said. “And I said I might meet up with Kaye and some of the others this evening.” This evening was a long time away, and there was opportunity there, had Frances wanted to make use of it. Morgan had no such plans in any case, but she had to get out somehow. Frances looked, if not disappointed than at least dissatisfied. She simply kissed Morgan once on the cheek, and said goodbye.
CHAPTER THREE