Frances and Morgan
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18
Chapter Four
“It was good of you to come over. I’m sorry it was such short notice. Can I get you another drink?”
Jessica hadn’t minded the call-out; it was always good to see Frances, but she was desperately curious about Frances’ new friend (now lightly sedated and sleeping quietly in the guest bedroom). Jessica had had the rest of her weekend thoroughly - if dully - mapped out, but now here she was with Frances, her doctor’s bag at her feet, and a (second) glass of good brandy in her hand. She sipped her drink and made a real effort not to press Frances for more details about the girl.
“Will it be long before she wakes up?”
“No,” said Jessica, smiling. “Maybe just another half hour. I was a worried at first, but her pulse was borderline normal when I came back in here. If life was different I’d offer to stay and be a tame MD but I’ve a mountain of paperwork to do.” Plus of course I know you won’t want me to stick around. “Have you known her long? Morgan, I mean.”
Frances only said, “Thanks for coming over and checking up on her. You’ll think me ridiculous but I was just worried. When she fell over like that… I actually thought for a moment that she was dead. And now I feel like an absolute fool for overreacting.”
“Someone passes out at your feet… If that isn’t the time to worry, I don’t know what is. She might not have been fine, and next time she probably won’t be. She’s playing fast and loose.” Jessica broke off, fixed her gaze on the bland middle distance and asked, “Have you known her long?”
“We met a month or so back. She did a little work for me. I really don’t know her very well.” Jessica’s eyebrows rose. Now Frances was treading water: there was a dangerous current that plucked at her and that wanted to draw her down into its depths. Well, just for your information, I’ve met her twice. And had sex. Both times. And I don’t know her surname. Oh, and I paid her for the privilege. And I suspect that you think there’s something gentle and concerned about my feeling for her, and you’d be totally wrong to believe that much. The simple truth it, she’s a good fuck, and perhaps a relationship on a cash basis is as much as most people can ever hope for... “I think she’s been overworking.”
Jessica smiled. “I can see that she’s been overdoing it. Overdoing a lot of things. And now, much as I hate to say it, I must be off. If anything untoward happens, call me right away.” She glanced into Frances’ unfathomable eyes and added, “But don’t worry. She really ought to be alright now. Oh, please try and get her to stop endangering herself.” She looked at her watch. “Bloody hell: I must get going. See you soon, I hope.”
They hugged, briefly, and kissed alternate cheeks. Had Morgan witnessed the exchange she would have been unable to read their relationship.
“Thank you again,” said Frances, and saw Jessica to the door. Once the door was safely shut and Jessica doubtless in the lift, Frances walked impatiently toward the room in which Morgan lay. She opened the door and stood in the doorway, saying nothing, just looking. She had decided to make the most of this latest meeting, taking nothing for granted. She had been almost enjoying a lazy Saturday, taking her time on her way to the theatre, where she had tickets for the 5pm performance. After Morgan had collapsed she’d phoned first for Oliver and then to her intended guest, lying through her teeth on the second call. Oliver had been there as if by magic, picking Morgan up and carrying her over to the car. There should have been a small crowd - it was the city, and it was a busy afternoon, dizzy with tourists - but they’d managed the whole pick-up without the slightest complication; and then even Jessica had been free, and had come round as soon as she could - which was very soon - and done all that was necessary. Everything had gone smoothly. How odd.
The girl really did have a talent for living dangerously. Perhaps it was just something people did. After all, she knew next to nothing about Morgan. And she did believe in the name. And what had the little fool been taking? Some kind of amphetamine, Jessica had said. And she’d said something too about irregular heartbeats and heart-attacks. Nothing so far about Morgan had been regular - why should her heart be any different?
While Jessica and Frances talked, Katie sat down in the little armchair and put up her feet on the edge of Morgan’s bed. “Try and talk your way out of this one. You must just want to put yourself in this woman’s power.” Katie had on the same shirt and jeans, but her feet were no longer bare; she wore heavy-knit socks.
“What? No, I don’t. Brilliant socks, Katie.”
“They are nice, aren’t they? Oh, come on, enough of the digressions. Can you give me a straight answer?”
“First off, I am not trying to put myself in anyone’s power; can you honestly think passing out – which by the way felt totally fucking horrible this time, I thought I was dead – was something I meant to do? In front of her, I mean. How was I to know that she’d be there? Hell: I don’t even know where I ended up.”
“Of course you don’t know. What’s to know? You just take whatever drugs you get offered, knock them down with booze and doze off on park benches in the middle of the city, leaving yourself as open and vulnerable as anyone could be. You might as well have a neon sign over your head: potential victim, please apply here. Rape victim? Murder victim? What would you like? And on the subject of excessive vulnerability, what the hell are you doing back here? Don’t you know that the really significant things come in threes?” Katie ran her hands through her hair in sheer desperation. “Morgan? Can I get you to cast back your mind, such as it is, and direct what brain cells you still have to recall the story of the Three Billygoats Gruff?”
Morgan stared at her. “The what? I’m sorry: I must have missed an episode. Look, forgive me for not giving a fuck right now but I feel like someone ran me over. Again. This isn’t the time for a lecture on the significance of fairytales.”
Katie said, angry and irritated, “Fairy tales usually serve a good purpose: and it is worth paying attention, you bloody idiot. Just for the record, the whole thing about the three… goats… is about the significance of any three-part experience in fairy tales. Here the whole story is about a troll beneath the bridge… Death is the troll beneath the bridge. Oh, look, forget about the fairytale. This isn’t one. Have you got me? Let me just put it as bleakly as I can: I… don’t think that contact with this woman is good for you. I just believe that if you stay with her it’s going to mean something very serious for you, if not now then some way down the line. Oh, what does it matter? I know that look on your face; I’ve seen it before. Oh, do what you want to. Forget about me.”
And Katie was gone. Her disappearance caused Morgan to cry out; it was so violent and so sudden and it felt so final. “Katie?” Her voice was quiet and uncertain. “Katie?”
Silence. Nothing. “Fuck it, Katie! Don’t do this.” Still nothing. “Katie? Please don’t just… go.” Morgan, sitting up, reaching out, could not remember feeling such isolation from the world in which she was situated. “Oh, alright. Leave. Just bear in mind that I wanted you not to go…”
Nothing. Alright. So she was on her own again. Morgan swung her feet down onto the muted blues and greens of the bedside carpet and reached for her clothes. She’d maintained her vest and pants, so that was hardly an issue. She dragged on her shirt and jeans, tugged on her boots. She was shaky and stumbling; she fastened her shirt on the wrong buttons without noticing the shortcoming.
She was talking to herself all the time and ignorant of that, too. “Katie? I’ve never thought this before but what if you’re not really here at all? What if your voice is just a voice in my head? Of course, why I can see you, too, is open to debate…” She drew a deep breath and added: “Okay, I can do this. I can get on with things. I can cope. I’m good at coping,” she concluded, her voice sounding as insubstantial and unlikely as the assertion itself.
Then Frances came in, and Morgan looked up into her face for the second time that day, and read in it such a range of emotions that she was a little in awe. Then the myriad had gone and she could see only surprise, desire and, last of all, incipient anger. The last emotion was the most familiar to Morgan; she had seen it on Rebecca’s face so very often. And then Frances spoke. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Getting dressed and ready to go. I am sorry to have been such a nuisance. Getting your doctor friend to check me over was really kind of you. And she was so nice. I’m sorry.” There had been something in Jessica’s gaze that had been warm and sincere, and Morgan had – momentarily – wondered how things would have turned out if it had been Jessica and not Frances driving the car that first night. No. No useful purpose to be served in thinking along those lines. And she was probably imagining any additional warmth in Jessica’s manner – she was probably like that with all of her patients.
Frances leaned against the doorway, watching Morgan. She glanced at the girl’s shirt and said, “You’ve got that all wrong.” And it was so infinitely easy for her to cross to the bedside and reach for Morgan’s shirt. “If you’re going to get dressed and go, you really should get it right. Here. Let me.” She undid the buttons and then hesitated. She looked at her hands, where they still held the faded linen, and looked at the soft skin revealed at the waist of Morgan’s jeans. She maintained her grip and pulled the girl toward her, inch by inch, until they were very close. “You seem to make a practice of living dangerously.” Great. Another lecture. Jessica first, then Katie, and now Frances was going to speak her bit.
“I told Jessica that I thought today was a one-off, in terms of drugs, that is, but I don’t know if she believed me. I don’t think you’ve played with anything really dangerous yet, but it’s only a matter of time before you do. So, while you’ve been in here I’ve been thinking.” And she had, too, though the idea was hardly ripe; the bud was scarcely open. “I’ve been thinking that you should come work for me. Oh, not in the gallery. Christ, no. I don’t need another assistant. You continue to do whatever it is that you do most of the week, and then on Friday night you come here to me.” Frances paused, and then slid her hands round under Morgan’s shirt so that they rested around her waist, and the skin felt so warm. “I’ll be honest with you: I didn’t imagine our ever meeting again, not in the natural course of things. However, I have come to see that the natural course of things does not apply to you. You clearly run on some other track to the rest of us. I think that it would be good for you to agree to my proposal. Safer, too, because alone you’re clearly at risk. Mostly from yourself, from the look of it.”
Frances bent her head and kissed Morgan’s throat; she felt the pulse there jump as the contact was made. She pulled the girl closer toward her. She kissed a single light track up from her throat to her mouth and hesitated. She spoke her next words against Morgan’s lips. She spoke with infinite confidence and almost perfect calm: only Jessica might have seen through her pose. “I think that you need some kind of stability in your life and I propose to provide that. Our two encounters were both satisfactory, after all.” She kissed Morgan then, hard and long. Coming up for air she concluded, “And in view of that, I think we will make this a regular arrangement. There’ll be a trial basis, of course.” She kissed her again, pressed her tongue against Morgan’s teeth, shifted so that she held Morgan’s head within her hands, making any withdrawal impossible.
Morgan was lost. From the first kiss she had been stunned into an overwhelming sense of fear and desire. That she was a little afraid of Frances made her response to the kisses almost feverish. Frances felt so wonderful and her touch was so utterly confident that Morgan felt herself slipping. There was a hunger inside her, too, though she wasn’t wholly sure how to express it. She responded to the kisses eagerly, aware that she was fighting desperately hard just to keep up with Frances, who was always one touch, one caress ahead of her. She lacked the experience necessary to meet Frances halfway; when she finally reached out and touched her, the embrace was so hesitant that it might almost have been missed. But Frances felt the warm hands on her body and smiled as she concluded another kiss.
“I want you to believe me when I say that this is, and will remain, a purely financial arrangement. I am not talking about a romance. I’m talking about a sexual relationship with a financial base. Starting next Friday you will finish your work and come here for seven o’clock. You will stay here over the weekend, from Friday to Saturday or Sunday as I decide, and then you will leave. And when you leave, I will pay you what I think is an adequate salary. The rest of the time is yours entirely, except that from this moment on you swear not to take any kind of medication unless it’s legally prescribed for you. Is that clear?”
The dizziness that had overcome Morgan earlier that day had returned in earnest, and without thinking she said, “There’s something I don’t understand. You’re… lovely. Surely you don’t need… I’m sorry: why on earth would you want to pay for sex?”
Frances sighed. “Because I’m bored of the expectations that come hand in hand with the majority of sexual relationships. I don’t want a life-partner and I’m not looking for another one-night stand.” Yet another one-night stand. Been there. Done that. “Like so many people I’m looking for sex without the complication of romantic involvement. You seem to be a reasonably intelligent young woman, and I imagine we won’t have trouble filling the time we spend together. The first time we met I thought you had potential.” Well, that was honest. Morgan frowned. Frances thought back over Morgan’s words and found that she liked the use of the word lovely. It was a term she had not expected. It was almost… touching. “Anyway, potential or not, is it a deal? Shall we give it a try? Purely on a trial basis. You stay here tonight and you leave tomorrow, cash in hand and no hearts broken.”
Why on earth would she ever agree to such a deal? A tiny part of Morgan heard Frances’ words and simply… died. And for the rest of her? Frances’ voice was warm and insinuating. And what did she have to lose, after all? Morgan wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when she heard Katie’s voice inside her skull. Relieved that Katie hadn’t gone for good; annoyed that she was shouting. Loudly.
“No! What are you doing? What are you thinking? The woman’s hiring you! You really like her and she is going to break your heart! You want a proper relationship, not someone who puts a price on your time and who kicks you out when they’ve had eno - ”
Morgan said, “Alright. Yes.”
“Yes?” Frances had to fight to maintain a pleasant facial expression, at all costs to keep off her face the broad grin threatening to erupt there. “You agree?”
“I accept your terms.” Katie groaned loudly and left. Morgan thought she heard a distant door slam but that might have been imaginary.
Frances was eager to make assurance doubly sure, as if by doing so she would circumvent all potential disasters. “I want you to be clear on this from the start. I can’t see us socialising. You won’t be meeting my friends.” Well, maybe she could: once better dressed Morgan might be presentable enough to… Stop. Enough. “Apart of course from Jessica, whom you’ve already met. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Morgan, quietly. “A purely business basis and no meeting your friends. Apart from Jessica.” And you won’t be meeting mine, either, she thought, not that I can imagine you would want to, though god knows it would be interesting to watch you and Kaye together. “I understand.”
“Good.” Frances smiled. Then she put her hands back on Morgan and began to pull off her shirt. “Oh, wait. This room is nice enough but I’d rather have you in my bedroom.” She took Morgan’s hand and led her out and into the hallway and then back into the large, square room that Morgan was coming to know. She was not to know that her words cut the girl’s feet from beneath her, and that she couldn’t have pulled free of that hand had she wanted to. Frances shut the door behind them with a particular emphasis and then turned to look at Morgan. “I imagine you’re still a little the worse for wear. Go and have a shower, or a soak if that’s what you want, and then come back here.” She gave Morgan one further kiss before letting her go. As Morgan moved away Frances added, “Remember, you’re entirely in my hands now. This is my agreement, and these are my rules.”
Morgan nodded. “I remember.”
Beneath the shower she closed her eyes and dreamed. Everything about the bathroom was a pleasure. She managed to clean herself very adequately at the deep sink in her room, but there was something utterly sensual about the bathroom in Frances’ apartment. Not only the cleanliness and warmth the room offered, but the myriad of scented oils ranged along one shelf, the towels that she lifted hot from their rail. Maybe this was what paradise looked like; smelled like. The tiled floor was warm to her feet. How was that possible? Now that she was stepping from the shower, the room smelled of cedar wood and roses. She pulled back on her jeans and shirt. She had left her jacket in the spare room.
Now that she was clean and dressed again, Morgan found herself reluctant to leave the security of the bathroom. She might tell herself that the sensation was ridiculous but she could not shake the sudden fear that had descended upon her. Rules. For the love of god, rules again. Hadn’t she thought that old world gone for good? She had just given herself over to a woman who was in so many ways a stranger to her. What did she know about Frances? What if the woman murdered her lovers and set up their bodies in some horrible locked and bloody chamber? No. If Frances was a monster, and she didn’t look like one (monsters being of course immediately identifiable by the “monster” arrow pointing at them from overhead), then she wasn’t a monster of that kind.
Morgan’s heart, which had settled back into its usual pace, was again beating with erratic fervour, and her mouth had gone dry. Her back to the bathroom door, her legs gently gave way on her and she slid down until she was sitting L-shaped, with the door at her back, and her legs stretched out straight before her. Oh, god, she thought. I can’t do this. I really can’t. But what was the alternative? Step out into the open and tell this woman that she’d made an awful mistake and that she had to be getting home, that someone would be waiting for her, expecting her back? Except that she had explained to Frances just how quiet and unconnected was her life in the city, and how private and solitary the room in which she lived.
I can’t tell her that I’ve changed my mind. I can’t just cut and run… This last thought ran through her mind and then caught, snagged on a vestige of good sense. I can cut and run. I’ll have to grab my jacket back from the spare room ‘cos everything’s in it; money and my key. I haven’t taken any more money from her, not this time at least. I can grab my jacket and make it to the apartment door. She won’t come after me; she wouldn’t want to come after me. She can’t stop me… “Morgan?” Frances’s voice sounded very close indeed, only a few inches of wood away from her. “Are you alright in there?”
“I… I’m good.”
“Hurry up. I want you in my bed.”
Oh, man... “Two minutes.”
“I think I can wait that long. Of course, you’d better make it worth my while.” Morgan heard Frances’s footsteps going in the direction of her bedroom. Just when Katie’s advice might have been useful, the inside of Morgan’s head was both quiet and empty. She thought, carefully, as she scrambled to her feet and reached for the door handle, I must be out of my fucking mind.
The walk to Frances’s room was too long and over too quickly; Morgan was aware of herself as from a great distance. The door was just ajar; she tapped gently on the wood and then pushed it open.
Frances was sitting in an armchair to the side of the bed. She had a book in one hand. When Morgan entered the room Frances stopped pretending to read and appraised her visitor. Morgan had dressed hurriedly; the fabric of her shirt had stuck to her skin in patches, outlining her breasts. Frances shivered, and managed to hide that, too, and the various entirely involuntary reactions she felt on seeing Morgan looking so desirable. Her mouth went dry, her pulse thundered and her cunt throbbed. From where did renewal of desire originate? Morgan wasn’t stunning; striking, to be sure, but not conventionally attractive. The dark grey eyes were in some way her best attributes but they weren’t what drew Frances’ attention. She wondered if she could persuade Morgan to wear a damp shirt on a permanent basis.
“Come here,” she said, when it became evident to Frances that Morgan had simply frozen. “Come close to me.” When the girl was within reach she took hold of Morgan’s wrists again and drew her in. With confident, careless movements she undid Morgan’s belt and pulled it free of her jeans. She briskly undid the buttons on Morgan’s jeans and began to slide them down. When Morgan was wearing nothing but her shirt Frances reached for Morgan’s belt, folded it in two and said, “Something I think I should reiterate is this; if you ever again take any kind of drugs I will take this and beat you with it. Do you understand?”
Morgan stared at her, shocked. Frances was amused. The idea had only just occurred, but it had pleased her. Now she could see that Morgan was both embarrassed and a little… what? Fearful? The idea of Morgan being a little afraid of her was very appealing, and Frances began to think more seriously about something she had hardly meant. She amused herself by adding, “Oh, don’t think that I’m joking. I’m… deadly serious.” Morgan stood still within the confines of Frances’ thighs. “I mean exactly what I say.”
Morgan tried to step back. Unable to break free she said, “I have to go.”
Frances stared at her. “No. You go home tomorrow. There’s no question of your leaving now. What’s the matter? Did I frighten you? I hope I did, because, believe me, I won’t be gentle with you. I won’t be kind.”
Frances was having fun; the expression on Morgan’s face was a picture. She could feel the pulse in Morgan’s wrists throb. She felt herself grow damp. “Do you think I’m joking? Do you want a taste of what I’ll do if I ever find out that you’ve been taking drugs again?” She moved so quickly, and was so determined, that Morgan had no time in which to struggle or resist. One moment she was standing before Frances, unexpectedly and sincerely scared, the next she was face-down on the cool sheets, her face burning, and Frances was bringing down Morgan’s own belt against her naked skin. That Frances had used Morgan’s own belt on her made the event even more shaming.
It lasted only moments: half a dozen of the slightest blows later Frances threw the belt aside, turned Morgan onto her back and kissed her. She lay over Morgan, her hands in the girl’s hair so that she could not escape, and ravished her mouth. Then she slid one hand down so that her fingers could dip inside Morgan’s cunt. She had not expected to find Morgan so wet, or so accommodating. She stretched out beside the girl, one arm supporting Morgan’s head. She kissed Morgan’s mouth and throat and felt her shiver. She let her free hand trace a path up to the girl’s breasts and then she moved so that her right leg pinned down Morgan’s legs. She pressed herself against Morgan’s right leg and bent to kiss her again, and her kisses were demanding. She stroked the inside of Morgan’s thighs and pushed them gently apart. She felt dampness on the skin and smiled: the girl was almost as wet as she was.