OK, I have taken a bit of a liberty in this chapter, in that there was nothing in the TV series to suggest that little Alex Price was into ponies; but I wanted to write about something I could relate to.
Big thanks to RedSky for wise comments and for beta-ing in defiance of food-poisoning; to grainweevil for her extensive knowledge of old films; and to my friend Manda for her detailed description of the shop described herein.
I own no characters or song lyrics contained herein. Hope you enjoy.
On Saturday morning Alex awoke with a clear purpose in her mind. True, there was the Christmas party that evening to worry about, but before that, she had to do some shopping.
On Friday, at lunchtime, Chris had earnestly entreated her to go out to the shops with him and help him choose a present for Shaz, and she'd been happy to oblige, still feeling rather guilty at having landed him in trouble over her visit to Nottingham the previous week. It had concentrated her mind on the subject of presents. She felt desperately sad that she couldn't buy anything for Molly – choosing and wrapping her daughter's gifts had always given her immense pleasure – but after the invitation to Evan's she realised that she would have to get something for him, and, bizarrely, for her younger self.
What did I want most in the world when I was eight? The answer came to her almost instantly, no need to think – the long pored-over advertisements in Pony magazine sprang immediately to mind, with that never-to-be-forgotten tagline, "A riding stable on a table." She had pleaded and begged but neither her parents nor Evan had ever given in. Well, now, she was going to grant her own dearest wish.
The advertisements were so ingrained in her memory that she had no trouble remembering the address, even though she'd never been there. She threw on her jacket and a scarf over her sweater and jeans and set off into the crisp, sunny day. Taking the Tube to Knightsbridge, she pushed through the throngs of Christmas shoppers, jostled this way and that as she passed Harrods, and turned left into the quieter surroundings of Beauchamp Place.
Number 18 was about halfway down on the left; a glass display case of the coveted toys told her she was in the right place, but the shop itself was downstairs in the basement. She followed the stairs down, turned to her left, and at last found herself in the hallowed environs of the Julip shop.
The walls were covered with letters, drawings and blurry photos, all from children writing to say how much they loved their little latex horses. In the space which a kitchen range would have once occupied stood a large cupboard housing the models themselves – large and small, many breeds, all colours, each with hand-painted detail and silky mohair mane and tail. Ranged around the shop were the accessories to go with them: saddle, bridles, riders, rugs, grooming kits and haynets, even stables. It was a horse-loving child's dream come true.
It didn't take Alex long to choose which one to buy – the grey Welsh pony was exactly what she had wanted as a child. The price made her realise for the first time why her parents had never indulged her wish, but in spite of the expense she could not resist also buying tack, a child rider, and a rug and surcingle for the little horse. What the hell, she told herself, it's no more money than I'd spend on Molly if I could. It's not as if I've got hundreds of other people to buy for – hardly anyone, in fact… After that it was easy to justify the grooming kit, haynet and water bucket too. Eventually all her purchases were parcelled up and she left the shop highly satisfied.
Deciding what to get for Evan was more of a problem. She decided that ties, socks, aftershave and so on were too personal – they were the kind of thing a girlfriend might buy, and she didn't want to encourage Evan to take that view of her. She remembered that he liked port, but it seemed a bit of an old man's drink – would he appreciate it now, barely thirty? She tried to think of alternatives; champagne seemed too redolent of a particular event, a celebration. They'd drunk martini at her flat, but the recollection of the 80s style cocktail glasses and Evan's ridiculous hand-dancing made her giggle with embarrassment – no, she didn't want to go there again. Sod it, he could have the port – she knew he'd like it eventually. She made her way to Fortnum and Mason's and bought a bottle of 20-year-old Taylor's tawny, knowing it would become his favourite brand.
After that she found herself rather at a loss. Surrounded by crowds but feeling hugely alone, she wandered down Regent Street, trying to take an interest in the shop windows, but without the imperative of something to buy, she could raise little enthusiasm. Shaz had been putting much effort into choosing a new outfit for the party, but since Alex didn't even want to go to it, she was certain it didn't warrant new clothes. After a while she went back to the flat, wishing, not for the first time, that it had a bath where she could while away the afternoon instead of just a shower. That option denied, she flicked on the TV and with delighted surprise found Bringing Up Baby. After an hour or two of watching Katharine Hepburn pursuing Cary Grant and a missing leopard with equal enthusiasm, she felt sufficiently restored to shower and get ready for the evening. She still didn't know what to wear but in the end she put on the black blouse which she had worn for her 'last supper' with Gene, over two months ago in Luigi's, that evening when she had been so sure that she would be going home… No, don't start thinking about that. She wrenched her thoughts back to the present, did her makeup, flung her jacket on and headed out.
It was only five minutes walk around the corner to the police social club. The venue for the party was a large, low-ceilinged, modern room without much character, to which someone had tried to add festive spirit by means of lots of shiny foil Christmas decorations. Most of the room was carpeted and filled with small round tables and chairs; at one end was a bar, at the other a dance-floor where flashing coloured lights announced that the DJ had set up his mobile discotheque. It was already quite crowded and she picked her way slowly in between the chairs, finding the CID crowd clustered around a couple of tables close to the bar. She sat with Shaz, Chris and some of the others, studiously ignoring Gene who was talking to Ray at the other table.
To begin with the party was quite as much of a 1980s nightmare as Alex had imagined. She sat sipping the complimentary drinks – lukewarm Liebfraumilch from plastic cups – while listening to what felt like interminable patronising speeches from the station's top brass, each punctuated by a grudging ripple of polite applause. Then came the buffet, all turkey vol-au-vents, sausage rolls and defrosting black forest gateau, eaten awkwardly from a paper plate whilst trying to make polite conversation with her superiors. Eventually the Superintendent and his cronies retired to a corner, the bar opened, the lights lowered, and Noddy Holder hollering 'It's Christmaaaas!' announced the start of the disco.
Twenty minutes later, Alex was starting to feel better. She had a proper drink inside her and she and Shaz were sitting together, unable to stop themselves giggling at the sight of Chris and Ray, thumbs tucked into their waistbands, enthusiastically doing the Status Quo dance to Rockin' All Over The World. When Quo were replaced by Soft Cell's Tainted Love, it didn't take much effort for Shaz to drag Alex onto the dance-floor, and she whiled away the next hour quite painlessly, knocking back the wine and dancing energetically to a string of her childhood's hits.
Gene meanwhile sat smoking and talking to Ray, who had been driven off the dance-floor by 'that poof record'. While he was occupied, Alex found it reasonably easy to ignore him, but after an hour or so Ray decided it was time to make a determined move on the ladies from the typing pool, and Gene was left sitting alone. She only glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but all at once she was very aware of him watching: black-shirted, pint in hand, wreathed in smoke, scowling like a gargoyle. Suddenly the dancing made her feel self-conscious; she left the floor and headed to the bar for another drink.
Turning away from the bar, drink in hand, she found Shaz and Chris; they and some of the other younger uniform were going on to a night club, and Shaz pressed Alex to go with them. Glad of an excuse to escape, she didn't take much persuading; quickly knocking her drink back, she donned her coat and accompanied them somewhat unsteadily into the night.
Still seated at a table, Gene watched her go. She hadn't looked at him all evening. It was no more than he had expected, but he was surprised at how much it hurt. He stared morosely into his pint, his mind going back unwillingly but inexorably over their altercations during the past week. The past three weeks. That night in Nottingham… oh Christ. Until then, yes, he'd wanted her, but he hadn't ever really believed it would happen. It had just been a fantasy, something to imagine in an idle moment, an impossible dream. Since then - since he'd actually held her, tasted her, felt her need, thought that he had met it - he had only wanted to have her again. But it seemed as though she didn't want him. At all.
The beer wasn't doing much to dull the aching rejection inside him; to touch that, he'd have to move on to whisky. For which, he reflected, he really ought to go somewhere else; he didn't have any desire for the station top brass to see him getting totally pissed. Whilst he was still finishing his pint, the DJ slowed the spinning lights and put on a quieter number; the more energetic dancers left the floor, while couples joined up and started smooching, wrapped around each other. Gene watched with some distaste as the gentle guitar introduction was followed by lyrics: 'Lovestruck Romeo, sang the streets a serenade…'
Bloody romantic crap. Time to get out of here. But as he downed the last of his pint, the words wormed into his consciousness, hauntingly appropriate: 'And I dreamed your dream for you, and now your dream is real / How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?' That was what bloody hurt the most, the way she looked at him nowadays, when she did, which was seldom. For weeks he'd seen nothing in her eyes but dislike, anger or bitterness; or even, sometimes, what looked like resolute indifference. 'Now you just say, "Oh Romeo? Yeah, you know I used to have a scene with him".' That was it, over, finished. No more fantasy, no more hope.
He got to his feet, shrugged on his coat and headed towards the door, striding past the still-entwined couples on the dance floor. As he left the room and started down the stairs, the words of the song drifted after him, still sharply poignant: 'All I do is miss you, and the way we used to be / All I do is keep the beat, and bad company…'
Once outside in the chill air, walking along the street with Shaz and Chris and the rest of the giggling throng, Alex soon realised that she didn't really want to go to a club. She felt eons older than the rest of them and her dark mood was starting to return. Making the excuse that she was tired, she ignored Shaz's pleas of protest, parted from the group and walked the short distance back to her flat. When she reached the street corner, though, she paused, tempted by the warmth and sounds filtering up from Luigi's. She was already pretty drunk, but in her present mood she craved oblivion. A nightcap before bed would help. She headed down the stairs.
Half an hour later, she was already well through a bottle of red wine when she left her corner of the bar to go to the loo and saw Gene, seated by the mural, deeply involved with a large Scotch. He was so preoccupied, staring into its depths, that he didn't see her when she passed. He glanced up when she returned two minutes later, but didn't meet her eyes. She couldn't help but look again at him though, for some reason noticing anew his black shirt. It was the same one he'd worn that night in Nottingham. He'd abandoned his tie now and the open collar revealed his throat, the base of his neck. She swallowed. Suddenly she remembered what his skin smelled like. What the hell. She didn't want to be alone tonight. She retrieved her bottle and glass and made her way over to him.
Lost in his whisky, Gene looked up to find her there, swaying slightly. He raised his eyebrows. "Bolly. I thought you weren't talking to me."
She made no reply, just gave the exaggerated shrug of the very drunk, and sat down next to him. She poured the remainder of the wine into her glass and raised it to him, ironically. He raised his in return and they both drank. After savouring the whisky in his mouth, he swallowed and laconically remarked, "Lousy party."
"Appalling," she agreed, taking another swig of wine, and they sat side by side in a silence that could almost be called companionable, both too drunk and emotionally exhausted to keep up hostilities. After a while she leaned closer to him and looked earnestly into his face. Slurring slightly, she confided, "Gene. I didn't mean for it to all go wrong between us, you know."
He looked intently at her, his eyes searching her face. God, she was drunk. He ought to leave, but, looking into her eyes, slightly unfocused but for once, empty of dislike, he knew he couldn't. She was pissed as a rat but she seemed to be offering him a second chance and he couldn't find it in himself to pass it up. After what seemed a long time he quietly replied, "Me neither."
They both took another drink and then she moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder, sighing softly. He looked down at her, feeling her warmth, inhaling the scent of her hair. This was it. Maybe if he just wrapped his arms round her and kissed her, it would all be all right. Maybe she would yield to him, accept him, kiss away all the rejection and hurt of the last few weeks. He put one arm around her shoulders, drawing her tight to him, and with the other hand gently touched her face, raising it to look at him, smoothing his thumb across her cheek and then down to her mouth. When he touched her lips she responded, softly kissing the tip of his thumb, her eyes gazing into his. At that point he gave up thinking as he replaced his thumb with his mouth, lips gently exploring hers, becoming more insistent as he found the sweet taste of her mouth, half-forgotten in the past weeks. She felt, smelled, tasted so good and he had missed her so much and he didn't want to let go, not tonight, no matter what might happen afterwards. Breaking the kiss he murmured against her mouth "Bolly… Alex…" Hungrily she kissed him again before breathing her reply. "Yes… Gene… yes." There was barely room for the words between kisses. Her hand was on his chest; he breathed in sharply as she moved it down to his thigh. Drawing back slightly he looked searchingly into her eyes again: when he said, "Upstairs," it was part-question, part-statement. She simply said, "Yes," before giving him one last kiss and standing up. She had to grab at the table as she did so, but then steadied herself and walked towards the stairs, Gene following close behind her. He was just conscious enough of the surroundings to be glad that no-one else from CID seemed to be in Luigi's that night.
At the top of the stairs, he stood waiting somewhat awkwardly as she fumbled about in her bag for her keys. When she found them it took her several attempts to insert the key in the lock and eventually he put his hand over hers to guide it. They crashed through the door together, hands still touching, mouths reaching for each other again, dropping bags and coats in the hall as they kicked the door shut and moved quickly towards the bedroom. Once there Alex darted away to turn on the bedside lamp before returning to Gene to kiss him once more and pull at the buttons on his shirt, running her hands over his chest. Craving him she nipped and kissed at his neck, his throat, moaning with pleasure as she felt his hands roaming her body, disposing of her blouse, exploring her breasts. She wanted him so much, wanted him now, no matter what might go wrong tomorrow. Please, just one more night. She arched her back, pushing her breast into his hand, nipples already aching for him, and he growled at her eagerness, pulling at her bra to get to her flesh. As she started to undo the belt of his trousers he kissed down her neck, making her squeal as he rolled her exposed nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth found the swell of her breast, he moved lower, closed his lips on her nipple, sucking greedily, but even as she cried out in appreciation, the memory of last time and its consequences wormed its way into her mind and she pulled back, managing to gasp, "Gene – have you got a condom?"
He stopped as if frozen, looking bewildered, as though he barely understood the question.
"Wot?"
"A condom! Have you got one?" She was wide-eyed, wanton-looking but also wary now. The significance of the question began to sink in and he replied, incredulous and with the beginnings of anger, "You are joking me!"
"I'm not joking." It was a statement, flat, serious. "So you haven't got one?" She sounded almost accusatory.
"No!" How could she accuse him? He frowned. "Aren't you on the Pill?"
"No, I'm not on the bloody Pill!" she snapped back, her mood lurching drunkenly into sudden annoyance. How could he make assumptions like that?
"Why not?" He looked genuinely bewildered, not to mention furious as he saw the longed-for coupling slipping away out of his grasp.
"What do you mean, why not?" Her voice was shrill, indignant. "Have you any idea of the health implications? High blood pressure, increased risk of cancer…Not to mention the environmental impact! Why should you think I was?"
"I just thought you would be!" It was simple enough, wasn't it? "For Christ's sake, what's the point of the Pill being invented if women don't bloody use it?" He wanted this so much, and now she was going to cry off because of some poxy health scruples?
"So you just assumed that it's the woman's responsibility?" She was irate now, incredulous that he could be so old-fashioned.
"Yes!" Well, it was, wasn't it? It wasn't him that was going to end up pregnant…
"How dare you assume that?" she screamed at him. Her bra was still hanging off, flesh exposed, hair wild; she looked like an Amazon. "That is just such an irresponsible, chauvinist, archaic attitude -"
"It didn't seem to bother you last time!" he hissed, his voice harsh now, wounded by her rantings.
"I got carried away!" she yelled. "And do you know how long I spent worried sick that I might be pregnant afterwards? No, of course you don't, because you never gave it another thought -"
"But -"
"Get out!" She was in full flow now, ranting, beside herself. "Out! God, how could I even think of sleeping with an out-dated, selfish, sexist fossil like you?"
That was it. His self-control finally snapped, goaded beyond bearing by her insults. "I'm going!" he roared, pulling his shirt back around himself and grabbing his jacket, "I came up here for a shag, not to be called names!" He turned on his heel and left the room, seizing his coat as he swept through the hall. Alex heard the door slam as she stood in the bedroom, half-naked, starting to feel sober, shaking with cold and fury.
That was bloody stupid, Hunt, thought Gene to himself as he crawled into his own bed half an hour later, starting to sober. We could have managed without a condom. She could have sucked you off like she did before… His cock began to stiffen at the memory of that morning in the hotel… the way she'd touched him, stroked his balls and the top of his thighs… oh yes… His hand moved down and he slowly began to work himself as he thought about it. The feel of her hot breath…her hot mouth, licking, teasing… his hand worked faster… the amazing things she'd done with her tongue… with her lips…ohhh… faster… he ran his thumb over the head of his cock, breathing quickly, clenching his teeth as he thought about the way she had licked him, just… ahh…just there… one more stroke… two… and he came into his cupped hand, groaning with longing for her, craving the intimacy as much as the sex.
That was bloody stupid, thought Alex as she lay in bed, bewildered, angry and alone. We didn't need a condom – hell, I know that – lots of things you can do without one… Why had she got angry, why had they had that stupid row? When all she really wanted was him, warm, strong, holding her, enveloping her, caressing her. Giving pleasure… she remembered the way he had explored her, before, hands and mouth expertly playing her, driving her slowly but inexorably towards climax. Her own fingers worked herself as she thought about his mouth on her, his warm tongue sliding over her, into her, tantalising the very centre of her until she convulsed, crying out, sating her need but not her loneliness. When she was still she lay awake for a long time, sobbing quietly, tears running into her hair, until at last she cried herself to sleep.
