Frances and Morgan
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Chapter Nine
“It’s been three weeks, you know.”
Morgan was on her way to work. Having found a seat on the Underground she was letting the rhythm of the train ease the headache she’d woken with. Katie was standing by her side, holding onto the back of Morgan’s seat. She was wearing a baggy sweater and old jeans and her feet were bare. Morgan had closed her eyes against mild nausea: was the headache about to become a migraine? She really didn’t need that. “Morgan, you should get your headaches checked out sometime. When Rebecca hit you that time - ” She let the thought trail away, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Morgan had no desire to think about the long-term side-effects of living with Rebecca. She said only, “Three weeks since?”
“Since you know what. Since Frances brought you back from Whitby and dumped you as soon as you’d hit the station.”
“Oh, that.” Morgan considered. “Not quite: almost three weeks. It was a Sunday, remember.”
“In many ways the worst day of the week. She scarified you. You looked like hell by the time you reached home. And since then she’s been punishing you.”
“Oh, I was such an idiot. I felt so close to her while we were away. Being away from the city seemed to make her a nicer person. Less demanding. Affectionate, almost. I wanted to share something of how good she had made me feel. A mistake I shan’t be making again. I should have found other means of thanking her. I didn’t even know I was going to bloody well say it. I was the happiest I’ve ever been – with her – and now I actually think I might never see her again.” There had been another note waiting for her: not this week, thank you.
“She can’t cope with affection. She meets it with lust, had you noticed?”
“I am beginning to.”
“You should do something, this weekend. Something different. Not the sort of self-destructive shit that you’ve been pulling lately. Fuck Kaye and her amazing travelling pharmacy. Go somewhere. Do something you’ve been putting off for months and months.”
“Like what?”
“Go home.”
“Go home? What do you mean? Oh, hell, you mean all the way home? Are you nuts?”
“I’m serious. Lay a few ghosts. Go back and see if anything has changed. Not back to stay, I’m saying, obviously: we both know you can’t do that. But go back and look around. Get some perspective. Get some bloody closure. You have enough money for the train fare, after all.” Yes, that was strange: Frances might not want her to come round, but she was still paying Morgan. Maybe this was what she’d meant by ‘garden leave’. Maybe she was paying Morgan to stay away. “Just don’t go calling on Rebecca: I think that if she knew you were alive she might have to kill you. Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.” Like hell she would.
And yet, as the day passed, and the prospect of the weekend loomed like a dental appointment, she began to think more and more about following Katie’s suggestion. Why exactly she might want to go back was unknown to her, although she was pretty sure that closure might have some part to play in it. And she could stay somewhere the Saturday night, or come back really, really late, and then she would only have Sunday with which to deal, and Sunday she could spend mostly sleeping. The job still wiped her out, she hardly ever ended the day feeling less than exhausted. She could treat herself to breakfast out on Sunday morning… On and off, all that day she thought about the idea, vacillating from a kind of enthusiasm for the outing to experiencing a frisson of horror when she anticipated once more sharing the same town as Rebecca.
******
She had had Oliver drop off the envelope, containing as it did a repetition of the on-going message: Not this week, thank you, and Morgan’s money. Payment for services not required… Afterwards, the one-way deal complete, Frances regretted her decision. She was aware – the truth had struck her very hard that morning – that she was furiously angry with herself and taking out that anger on Morgan.
The realisation bothered Frances. It bothered her badly that Morgan had overstepped the mark. The girl had broken the rules of the agreement because she had come to care about Frances. Frances didn’t know what to do or what to say: she had fallen back on that old standby, lust, and thrown Morgan back into bed when lustful sex hadn’t been what either of them – just at that moment – had wanted. Morgan had done all that Frances had demanded of her, but there was a look in her eyes that said plainly: I’m doing this under pressure. The look had made Frances angry; had they been back at the apartment she would have reacted very differently, and Morgan might have had the bruises to prove it.
What Frances didn’t want to think about was the growing likelihood of never seeing the girl again, which fear made a complete nonsense of her current behaviour. On a recent trip into the centre of the city she had been so close to Morgan’s café that she had hesitated, taken a step on, two back, and then, embarrassed and confused, had crossed the road, stopped outside and glanced through the café’s glass front.
Morgan had just finished giving someone back their change, counting it coin by coin, and her expression was pleasant and mild. But as the customer left, and Morgan was temporarily solitary, the faint smile dropped away, and in its place there was a look of such loss that Frances had uttered a small exclamation before – hurriedly, ashamedly – moving away.
Perhaps she should simply let Morgan go. Perhaps it was time for the two of them to go their separate ways. Frances could get on with the gallery and her life, and Morgan could go on and… Oh, god, what if Morgan found someone else? Fucked somebody else?
“Oh, for the love of god,” said Frances, head in her hands again. She had awoken on Saturday morning from a dream in which she had been – for who knew what reason – watching Morgan and some unknown woman making love. She’d woken up in a cold sweat, hungry for contact and furious with herself. Standing beneath the powerful shower, letting the hot water ease her aching muscles, Frances came to a moment of clarity: no matter how much Morgan had fucked things up with her confession, it was time she herself did something to rescue their relationship before it was too late. Their agreement was already coming unglued (as might she, on receipt of another such dream): another week or so of garden leave and she would be incapable of facing Morgan ever again.
Decision made, she dressed and had Oliver drive her back across the city.
*****
“There have been changes,” said Katie. The two of them had come out of the station and by agreement had travelled on foot past the school, down the town’s main street, and out towards the estate on which Morgan had lived. Katie’s old home was not far from there, but she said she had no desire to revisit. “The pub on the corner… Surely it used to have a different name.”
“Yes.” Morgan stared. “But I can’t remember what it was. And the garage has gone. I can’t honestly believe that this place could handle another fucking restaurant.” As they had walked they had already been past two wine bars and a very odd looking takeaway. (“I bet that went down like a lead balloon.”)
“I can’t believe it: the tobacconist’s has gone. Tindall’s.”
“I saw the notice. He’s relocated is all.”
“Dreadful old fascist that he was.”
“I know. Total bugger. But the place smelled so good! Forty years’ worth of sweets and tobacco… If you could have bottled that smell you could have made a fortune.”
“That really pretentious hairdressers has gone.”
“Good. The museum has a new signpost.”
“They’ve shifted our bus stop.”
“You’re fucking joking. Why would they do that? Surely not.”
“I swear. It’s gone from outside the Heart Foundation shop. Now you have to wait by the chemist’s.”
“I preferred it the way it was before.”
“I expect so did everyone else.”
On the edge of the estate Morgan hesitated. Old fears rose up like angry ghosts. Seeing this, Katie said, “We could go along by the old bridle path. There’s no reason why we should march down the middle of the road.”
“No. This is crazy. I think I’m actually afraid. Either that I’m about to turn to stone or that… I don’t know. Oh, let’s get on with it. Let’s go beard the dragon in its lair.”
As they reached the turning in the road and the house came into view, Katie took Morgan’s hand, and as she did, the world around them changed: for an instant Morgan could see things as they had been, and superimposed over that impression, the changes that had taken place.
There had been four or five or them walking to school in the old days. Morgan had the furthest to walk, so she’d be alone for the first part, then meeting up with Katie. The other two, or three, they picked up along the way. Now she could see that walk starting later (why not, when she and Katie were gone?) Now the two, now three, now four, moving quickly, with not a backward glance ever. It felt to Morgan as though she and Katie had never been. “Katie,” she said, “I think I want to – Oh…”
A For Sale sign had been modified. Now Sold had been fixed at an unlikely angle over the sign stuck on a post in the Maxwell front garden. No longer the Maxwell front garden at all: in another moment a large removal van came down the road and came to a noisy halt outside Number 57. Katie put up a hand to her mouth. Morgan said, “Did you know…?”
“Morgan, I swear to you…”
“No. Ironic, right? Oh, hell, Katie, please let’s go.”
“Okay.” And they spun around and almost ran from the scene.
The other changes to the town no longer appealed to either of them. They made it back onto the platform and then to the coffee bar as they had an hour to wait for the next train. The day had turned cold. Morgan felt heartsick.
“Katie, I don’t know if you remember this, but I used to have a book – a fairy tale or something –where someone put off going home for so long that when they did try to go back they found…”
“The window barred. Yes, I remember that one. Morgan, I’m so sorry.” Morgan had bent her head: no-one could see her eyes behind the shades she wore, but Katie saw the first tears drop into Morgan’s coffee.
“There was something else. Would you believe they’ve taken away our bench?”
“The one you jumped from?” Morgan slapped her own forehead. “Hell. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
“The one we used to sit on…. I didn’t actually jump from it,” said Katie, correct to the last. “I used it as a stepping stone to the bridge rail. Anyway, that bridge. The one we used to sit on. It’s gone.”
“Bloody hell. Who did that?”
“The local council. I went to look. Nothing left there but a few dead leaves.” She had meant to distract Morgan, but the process of diluting coffee with salt water didn’t stop. The tannoy rumbled above them. “That’s your train, Morgan. Better go.”
*****
Morgan found herself alone for the journey, and oddly grateful for the fact. She felt very tired. Her eyes stung from the tears she would rather not have shed. Even their bench gone? Her head throbbed. Wasn’t that strange? She could withstand Frances’s edicts and remain dry-eyed, but this last dismissal of the life she had once led – led and shared with Katie and the others - had overwhelmed her.
A woman with a briefcase and a laptop computer made her way down the coach and sat down opposite Morgan. In another moment she was typing vigorously. She had a paper cup of black coffee by her left hand, a mobile phone by her right. She gave Morgan a momentary once-over and then ignored her entirely. Nothing could have pleased Morgan more.
The train drew her back from the edge of her old world – “Nothing to see here, Madam. Please move along” – quickly and ruthlessly. And it was thankfully late by the time she reached the city, and made her way home alone. But as she stumbled up the stairs and then unlocked and pushed open her door, she could not fail to see the note that waited for her.
*****
The only thing Frances had not taken into consideration when crossing the city was that Morgan might not be in. Standing outside the building, staring up at the window that was the girl’s, Frances wondered if her worst fears had already been fulfilled, with Morgan already warming someone else’s bed. She would have to wait until the following weekend.
No, thought Frances, that’s how not to do it. Painful as the compromise felt she left a note for Morgan. Shoved the note beneath the door, she quickly walked away. Crossing the road towards the apartment Frances noticed that someone – a well-dressed woman – had stopped to stare in her direction. The impression was only vague and yet it served to make her feel uneasy. It was not until she was travelling up in the lift that she understood why: the woman she had noticed had reminded her of Elise. Elise, of all people. Talk about a ghost from the past… Frances shivered, left the lift and went inside.
*****
How profoundly strange to see Frances again and how interesting. The Frances she had known at twenty two had been lovely of course, and she had often wondered how the young woman would turn out, for want of a better phrase. Now she had seen, and was satisfied and pleased. She had always known the potential there for development. She had been furious on the occasion of Frances’s mutiny, quite at a loss for words when she had learned that her lover had left not just the locale but the whole damn country… And without telling her, of course. Well, now she was visiting Frances’s country. She had planned only on spending a week or so in the city, but now that she had seen Frances, Elise was tempted to alter her plans.
*****
Morgan woke late, sprawled in the unusually broad bed. An amazing sense of dislocation assailed her. Had she really gone… south the day before? Coming back after eleven the previous night to find Frances’s note she had had simply spun around and gone straight back out again. The Underground had been crammed with theatre-goers, all of them talking: their myriad voices had made her head throb. She could hardly remember reaching the apartment.
However, she could remember what came after.
Frances had decided that Morgan wouldn’t be coming, after all. She had written “If you get back before midnight” on the second message left, and the girl had made the apartment with only about five minutes to spare. She had been tired before Morgan arrived, and it was a pleasure to find that the sight of the girl was sufficient to revive her. She had come into the hallway, a glass in hand, dressed in a long silk robe. When Morgan walked into the hall Frances went over to her, pinned her up against the wall and kissed her, long and slow. The sweep of a tongue-tip along Morgan’s lower lip and the brief caress Frances applied to her breasts returned the girl to full consciousness. “Well,” said Frances, stepped back. “You look very nice. How much do you cost?”
Morgan was momentarily taken aback. She had become a member of her school’s dramatic society, three or four years previously, never realising that her acting ability would enjoy such use once she’d left school. She interpreted the expression in Frances’s eyes and rose to the occasion. In a tone that was both confident and a little brash Morgan said, “It depends on what you want.”
Frances was pleased. She said, “Come with me.” And led the way into the bedroom. The bed looked welcoming and comfortable, and a tiny part of Morgan’s tired soul would have loved to have done nothing more than to consign her remains to the pleasures of fresh linen, and do nothing more than sleep once she was there.
Frances walked up to Morgan, took off her jacket, the nice leather jacket she had bought the girl in Whitby, Frances was pleased to note, and threw it onto a chair. Then she held Morgan at arm’s length and appraised her. She dropped her hands to Morgan’s waist and undid the top button of her jeans. “You can keep on your shirt. Take off the rest.”
And she waited, watching, as Morgan did so. She went to stand before her then. “How much would it cost me if I wanted you to bend over the bed so that I could fuck you?”
Morgan’s mouth went dry at the same time that her cunt throbbed. She was incapable of an immediate response. “Fifty,” she said, naming the first figure that came to mind. It didn’t really matter, anyway: she’d already been paid.
“Fifty,” said Frances, reflectively. “That seems a little high. On the other hand, if I give you that much, I get to do exactly what I want to do to you afterwards.”
Morgan’s legs weren’t going to support her much longer; she knew that. Exhaustion and appetite and a little apprehension were combining to a severe degree. Perhaps Frances saw that. She led Morgan to the bed, arranging her as she pleased. “Don’t move an inch,” she said. “You hear me? Not once inch. I’ll be back.”
Well, at least she had the cool bed linen against which she could press a face that was now burning with shame and excitement. Morgan waited, anticipatory and uncertain, trying to read from the sounds she heard exactly what Frances had planned. Her heart was beating dreadfully hard, and there was an ache deep inside her cunt. She was concentrating so hard on her new role that she jumped when Frances came back and laid confident hands on her.
“Oh, that’s not very good,” said Frances. “I thought you were going to stay put for me.” Morgan began to speak but Frances wouldn’t let her. “No. Not another word, love.” The endearment was so slight and it came out so simply that neither of them noticed it. “Now. Just how wet are you?” She slid her fingers between Morgan’s legs and smiled.
“Well, I’ll give you a little extra help. I don’t want this to hurt you… more than a little.” There was some kind of cream on Frances’s fingers; she anointed Morgan’s cunt with quick, decisive movements. “Alright. I think that should be enough… You see, I bought this the other day and I haven’t had the chance to try it out. We’ll have to see how you can… cope. Oh, god.” As she spoke the last words she had moved in behind Morgan, pushing her legs a little way apart.
The strap-on Frances was wearing she had bought only a few weeks after she had started seeing Morgan on a regular basis. The harness she had thought too embarrassing even to try on in privacy of her own room was in fact remarkably comfortable, and Morgan was so wet that Frances could slide straight into her. The sight of what she was doing, combined with the pleasure Frances felt lost her – briefly – the power of speech. But after a few moments of fucking Morgan, she found herself speaking steadily, in an undertone. “Oh, it feels so good when I get right inside you. Can you feel that? Am I hurting you? I don’t mind hurting you just a little.” Morgan managed to shake her head no, she was alright – speech was impossible for her – and Frances continued. “Oh, you feel so fucking good. Oh, this feels so bloody wonderful.” She fucked Morgan a few minutes longer until the orgasm she had not even been thinking about more or less knocked her over with its intensity. Another moment and she had pulled gently free of Morgan and had her on the bed itself, kissing her. Then she subsided, gently, onto the bed, her heart pounding harder than it ever had. And she reached out a hand and drew Morgan to lie beside her.
“Are you alright? I’m sorry… I got a bit carried away.” Morgan could still feel the repetition of all Frances’s movements. Their echo warmed her.
“I’m okay. That felt… amazing.” And it had; she had never felt quite so caught up in the intensity of sex with Frances before. “My heart… It’s going crazy.” It was, too, and that too was a pleasure.
“Are you sore?” Morgan shook her head. “Good. Because I want to do that again. Here, though, on the bed this time.” She arranged Morgan to her satisfaction and bent forward and kissed her once more before she slid back inside her. “Oh, god,” she sighed. “I think I want to do this to you forever.”
*****
To add to the sense of unreality she had woken alone. Alone in Frances’s nice bed, wearing nothing but a pyjama jacket she did not even recognise. The apartment was as pleasantly warm as ever. Lovely not to feel the cold… She heard the clink of china and Frances came into the room, bearing breakfast on a tray. Morgan stared at her in utter amazement. Frances walked into that expression and was a little thrown by it. “What is it? It’s not as though I’ve never brought you breakfast in bed.” As Morgan tried to think of a response that wouldn’t be seen as rude, Frances added, a little thrown, “I never have brought you breakfast in bed.”
“It’s lovely,” said Morgan, very quickly, before Frances could become embarrassed and perhaps get cross. “Thank you.”
As she drank, Morgan’s stomach growled. Frances laughed. “Are you forgetting to eat? I’m sure you’re losing weight.”
“Oh, no,” said Morgan. “I’m remembering.” Then it struck her that she had not in fact had anything since breakfast the previous day. Was it possible that she had done the whole journey home (and back) on caffeine alone? “Well, mostly remembering.”
For a moment the two of them sat in a comfortable silence, Frances leaning back against the carved footboard, Morgan sitting up against the headboard and a stack of pillows. For an instant Frances thought: this could go on; waking late at the weekends, taking it in turns to make the coffee, making love all night (if we want to), taking in a film in the afternoon (maybe). During the week we do our (very different) jobs. But there would still be the mornings and the evenings, and there are all sorts of things that we could do. So she’s younger than me… I might want out, or Morgan… But if we did go our separate ways we could still do even that as friends (as if that’s ever worked), and she could go back to college (should she want to do so).
Frances sat mute. Her own inner wanderings had stunned her. She had actually been considering a permanent relationship with Morgan.
Stretching a little and revealing her stomach and the underside of her breasts, Morgan said, “Would it be alright if I grabbed a shower or a bath? I got back very late and I didn’t have time for a wash before I came over here.”
“Sure. Of course.” There was nothing new in that. “Did you have a pleasant day?”
“It was… alright.” Frankly, Morgan was having difficulty in remembering, but Frances wondered if that was the only reason for Morgan’s reticence.
“In the city?”
“In the… Oh, no. Miles away.” Morgan was not being intentionally vague: she had never given Frances any part of her history and avoiding the truth had become a part of her weekend persona. The provision of more information simply did not occur to her.
“Alone?”
Then Morgan stared at Frances and blushed to the roots of her hair.
“Oh, not exactly.”
Frances tried to introduce a (somewhat unconvincing) note of teasing into what she would have preferred as a straightforward question and answer session. Teasing had never been her strong suit. “Not exactly?”
How the hell to explain Katie? “I went on a trip with a friend.”
Frances looked hard at Morgan. Dear god, did the girl not understand the questions? God, it was worse than pulling teeth… “Just a friend.”
Like that made things better. For an instant Frances wanted to shake her. But Morgan’s tone was so very gentle that it was impossible to be truly angry. Still, she would not give up. “A friend from the café?”
“Kaye? Hell, no. Not Kaye! She’s usually too busy getting stoned at the weekend. You should see her on a Monday morning: she’s usually still orbiting the planet…” Then she saw the light of battle in Frances’s eyes. With the same candour that already damned her, Morgan said, “I thought… Frances, we have an agreement. While it lasts I assumed that it meant I was… well, faithful. Wasn’t that what you expected of me?”
And there it was. Reassurance riding in on the tide in time to save Frances from making a complete fool of herself. How embarrassing to have one’s secret doubts brought into the light of day: Frances nearly flinched, nearly laughed, was stuck for a reply. But Morgan was looking at her with such a kindly smile that Frances didn’t honestly know how to respond. And Frances, because she couldn’t respond in kind said, putting down her cup and moving up the bed, “Your bath is going to have to wait. I think I rather like you… dirty.”
*****
Elise… Frances had been dreaming. In the dream she was in the apartment, though it was massively altered, and she was walking around it, knowing that it was her own but not recognising anything about it. And then there was Elise by the window, looking as classy and polished as ever, as artificial as a silk rose. She turned as Frances crossed the room toward her and smiled. A bright, predatory smile. Oh, god…
Frances woke. The dream still hung about her. Elise. Wasn’t it time that the bloody woman exited her subconscious for ever? And yet, now that she was awake and warm, and fresh from sex and sleep, she could remember everything about Elise. The echo of her voice, close to Frances’s ear, low and rich and utterly confident, utterly inexorable,demanding and exacting and erotic. Hadn’t that been the whole problem? The woman she had seen outside the apartment had done this, sending Frances off into a world of memory that she would have liked to have lost for ever.
Morgan was curled against her, warm and slightly damp in sleep. The clock read a little after six… They had not made it out of bed that day: the coffee cups sat on the bedside table. Morgan had never had her bath, and she smelled lovely, salt and musk together. Frances pressed her body against Morgan’s so that her breasts pressed against Morgan’s back. She looped her arm around Morgan’s waist and pulled her closer still. Morgan murmured and smiled sleepily. “Oh, go have your bath before I lose control of myself,” said Frances, “And when you come back, I’ll take you out for dinner.”
Alone in the bed she rolled into the patch warmed by Morgan’s body and lay there until Morgan re-emerged from the bathroom, smelling of spice and toothpaste.
*****
Dinner had been pleasant. Morgan hadn’t expected to be invited back to the apartment but she willingly accepted. She hadn’t expected Frances to be comparatively gentle, but that too was nice. Frances seemed to have overcome the mood that had assailed her in Whitby, but Morgan was staying clear of any more confessions. Better – at least at present – a balance of some kind, and Frances still there in her life. Something was still a little strange about Frances. Something Morgan could not identify was fuelling Frances’s desire: it was after twelve before she let Morgan sleep.
*****
Dreaming about Elise had come as a shock. Elise creeping into her world like a burglar with a blade clenched between her teeth. Elise had been the reason Frances had left Paris and never looked back. Vague dreams of a permanent – shared – relationship between the two of them had died a death the morning she had called in to see Elise on her way to an interview. She had had an eleven o’clock appointment at a major gallery, interviewing for a job she had dreamed of, and about which, by midday, she no longer even cared.
There had been no long-term relationship with anyone since: Frances’s friendship with Jessica was the closest thing she had to a history. The single, exploratory, unsatisfactory night the two had ever spent in bed had taken place long ago and had never been mentioned, let alone repeated.
It bothered Frances considerably that seeing a stranger with a strong resemblance to Elise was enough to fire up her subconscious and send it running. And why should that be? It wasn’t that the woman was physically stronger than Frances, (a question Frances had never tested) or that she was ineffably skilled in bed (although, god knew, she was). No, what bothered Frances was that Elise had had all the control.
“Don’t I know you better than anyone?” The mouth that spoke the words was so close to Frances’s ear that she felt the warmth of Elise’s breath.
“Don’t I know how to fuck you? Has anyone else… ever made you feel like this? No-one else ever will.” Those fingers deep inside her, setting up a rhythm that demanded her most intense concentration. And then there was nothing but that sensation, and that voice talking on all the time, carrying her along as though she was nothing but driftwood tumbled by the tide, and left on a silent beach to dry and bleach.
She’d been eaten up alive by Elise’s kisses. Frances had never once kissed Morgan as Elise had so often kissed her. Those had been vampire kisses, brutal kisses, kisses that demanded an equal ferocity. Vampire kisses. That was how she had seen them. Ironically, vampire had been the name Jessica gave to Elise, years later, when Frances had finally confided the events that had led her to quit Paris. What other friends might have thought of Elise Frances was safe from knowing: only Jessica had met Elise. The meeting had taken place in Frances’s Paris flat, roughly a month before things fell apart and Frances left Paris for good. The meeting had come about by accident, not design, and it had been strange to see.
Dislike had risen up between the two of them like cold flames. Frances saw with surprise the cool doubt with which Jessica (Jessica, who was usually so pleasant to everyone) appraised her new friend, and the icy distrust with which Elise observed Jessica. Physically speaking there had been similarities between Elise and Jessica, but in terms of personality, and in spirituality, they might have been the inhabitants of two different worlds.
The confession of that affair remained hidden until one night, when Frances had had quite a lot to drink (and Jessica still more). She had told Jessica about the day that had sent her running first from Elise, then from the country... At the time of the confidence Frances had hoped – perhaps – that Jessica would be too drunk to recall the details. But (shrewdly and correctly, as it turned out) Jessica had remembered every word. “What an awful woman. What a vampire.” Frances had not disputed the appropriateness of the term. Frances had confided in Jessica – of all people – because Jessica refrained from judging her friends. The confession had done something to modify the mortification that Frances experienced when she thought about the past.
From which source did the shame she felt about her time with Elise come forth, a good decade past? They had both been adults, and theirs had been in no way a clandestine relationship: both were free of any commitments at the time of their first meeting. Both had knocked around the world a little: Frances had had two affairs before Elise, passionate but short-lived relationships. She had been hungry for experience, yearning for some kind of fulfilment she had not found in the narrow beds at the university. What Elise might have done before meeting Frances was anyone’s guess: most things with most people, probably.
Elise kept as quiet about her past as she did about her age…
It bothered Frances profoundly that she had only to imagine Elise to feel an almost immediate wash of lust and shame combined. It bothered her still further that she had awoken in bed with Morgan from dreams of Elise.
When she had met Elise, Frances had been impressed by the woman’s confidence, and made a little hungry by Elise’s opulence. Elise had more poise than anyone Frances had ever known; she was elegant, beautiful in an unapproachable fashion, and utterly in control. Even in bed, even in mid-orgasm, Elise could maintain a kind of reserve that drove Frances a little crazy.
There had been a certain pleasure in making love with someone who was not prepared to meet her halfway. There were other aspects to the sex they shared that contained less pleasure. Once Elise was satisfied (after a single orgasm or half a dozen), she would withdraw from Frances, careless of Frances’s own desire. There were nights (quite a few of them) when Frances would be left hungry and unsatisfied and far from able to sleep, restless for Elise’s touch. Frances, her blood still singing, would not dare to touch herself. At that time it was Elise or nothing, much as that fact annoyed Frances.
Elise’s kisses were of two kinds: ravenous and superficial. There were times when it seemed to Frances that Elise would have liked to have eaten her whole. And as their relationship intensified, Elise became cruel. There had been one occasion that Frances could not – even years later – remember without the colour rising in her face, she had been importunate. She had been in Elise’s apartment, Elise had been standing by the window, a paper in her hands, and Frances had walked up behind her and run her hands up under Elise’s jacket to her breasts. She had let her palms just skim the nipples, and she had felt them harden, and pressed more firmly. But when she moved round in order to kiss Elise, the woman had literally batted her away, catching her lightly across the face with the palm of her hand. “I am not in the mood,” Elise had snapped, and Frances had felt like a fool. The blow she had received had been light, it had only stung the skin, but Frances had been shocked and furious and aroused all at once. And Elise had seen that, and had smiled. “Alright, my impatient, inopportune Frances. Go into the bedroom. Take off your clothes. Get into the bed.” And Frances had obeyed.
And the first time she had gone down on Elise? “That is too hard and too fast, Frances. You are not even in the right place.” Frances had nearly bitten her then. Too bad that she had not…
And Jessica had called Elise a vampire. Well, that wasn’t so unfair a title: Elise was pale and dark at once, and her gaze could pretty much hypnotise. Why would Jessica have called her that? “Because when you were with her you looked as though she’d been drinking your blood.”
Well, quite.