Part Ninety Three
George was sitting in her home office, at the computer, trying to sort through the day's e-mails, and attempting to put her tour of Larkhall out of her mind. She hated to admit that it had been a good idea of Karen's, but she knew that the threat of a night alongside the likes of Alison McKenzy and Denny Blood would keep her forever polite and subdued in any judge's presence. There were no such things as privacy or dignity where English prisons were concerned, no matter what the age or status of the individual. George liked her home office, it was probably one of her favourite rooms in the house. Opposite the door was an enormous mahogany desk that held a computer, a printer and various other paraphernalia associated with the modern day lawyer. Along the wall between the door and the desk were three filing cabinets reserved for George's either open or most pressing cases. Along the wall behind the door was a floor to ceiling bookcase holding all of her law books plus a number of old cases contained in box files on the upper shelves. Next to the desk under the window and opposite the book shelves, was a very comfortable three seater sofa and along the wall between the sofa and the bookcase was a low table holding a stereo. To George, this room was vaguely reminiscent of her student days and the room she'd had at college. Since finishing her law degree at the London School of Economics, she'd never quite got out of the habit of working to music. The reassuring rhythm of what ever she felt in the mood for always seemed to unfreeze her brain, to release the electrical impulses from their confines to enable them to work in the most effective way possible. Lighting a cigarette, she flicked through various e-mails from people wanting an immediate appointment with her and forwarded them to her secretary at her real office. Having answered two or three that required her urgent attention, she went in to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine. Walking back in to her office, she put the glass down on the desk and moved over to the stereo. She needed something familiar tonight, something that, years ago, had gone some way to defining the person she was. Putting Abba Gold in to the CD-player, she allowed herself a few moments to relive some of her memories from her school and college years. She could vividly remember dancing the night away to some of these old songs, her body clad in as few clothes as possible and her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her. She'd been so sexy in those days. This didn't mean she wasn't now, for her age she looked stunning most of the time, but at the age of nineteen, she'd been able to capture the heart of any man she chose. She remembered fondly the many rows she'd had with her father whenever he saw her about to leave the house for a night out in what he described as two scraps of cloth with the odd button here and there. During the holidays when she had to live at home, she'd listened to many of these records, and they really had been records in those days, whilst getting ready to go out. She'd dance in front of the mirror, totally naked sometimes singing her heart out to these old familiar tunes of her youth. She and her father had clashed on many occasion because he thought her music was far too loud and far too raucous. She smiled when she thought of this. Her music had nothing on some of Charlie's for loud and raucous. Whilst John had still been teaching law, Charlie had lived with him most of the time, which had suited everyone. John had loved every minute he'd spent with Charlie, but George had often found it a strain, especially when Charlie had been younger. They'd had no common ground, nothing on which to base the foundations of a relationship. But once she'd reached her teenaged years, Charlie had begun to live more and more at home. During one of their many numerous arguments, John had told George that the only reason she got on with Charlie was because She'd never grown out of her own adolescent disregard for others. George had hated him for saying that at the time, but in retrospect she supposed he'd been right. As she sat at her desk, thumbing through the latest copy of The Modern Law Review, which in this issue didn't appear to hold anything of major interest to her, she found she was reading the same words over and over again. Flashes of things she'd seen and heard during her little visit to Larkhall kept creeping in on her thoughts. Putting the journal face down so that she wouldn't lose her place, she picked up the remote control to the stereo and flicked through the tracks on the CD, finally settling on one that had been one of her favourites when she'd been at college, and even twenty or so years later still had its charm. As she allowed her throat and lips to fit themselves around the so familiar words, it struck her not for the first time how relevant they'd once been, and perhaps in their own way still were.
When John drew up outside George's house, he was pleased to see that her car was the only one in the drive. They didn't need company for what he had planned. Thinking that after her day's punishment of being shown what a prison would actually be like, he didn't think she'd let him in voluntarily. So, never without a back up plan, he'd driven over to the university to borrow his daughter's door key. George wouldn't thank him for this, and neither would Charlie if she'd known what he really wanted it for, but these were only details. He jabbed his thumb on the doorbell, but not feeling like company, George ignored it. She was in the middle of one of her favourite songs and wasn't stopping for anyone. Knowing she was definitely in because of the presence of her car, John deftly fitted the key in the lock. When he silently pushed the front door open, he was greeted by a sound he hadn't heard for years. For a moment standing transfixed on the doorstep, he just listened. George was singing, something he hadn't heard her do since the happy, early days of their marriage, before everything had been turned upside down. Closing the door with only the tiniest of clicks, he stood in the hall and listened to her. Any amateur singer always sounds so much better when they don't think they're being heard. This is primarily because they have no-one but themselves to impress, no-one but themselves to get it right for. They can let go of all the tension that immediately alters tuning and clarity of tone that is only present when they fear criticism. A soft, warm smile crossed his face as he listened to her. George had only ever not cared about him hearing her sing if she was either happy or drunk, and in both cases it'd enchanted him to know she was capable of letting go some of her reserve. When singing the kind of thing she was now, the plumb disappeared from her mouth, making her sound completely different, and giving her an extra level of intrigue which always rocketed his libido. He knew exactly where she was, sat in her home office, probably at the computer. He crept slowly nearer, but stopped just before the doorway. He didn't want her to become aware of his presence quite yet. Then her words finally began to register with him.
"I was in your arms,
thinking I belonged there.
I figured it made sense, building me a fence.
Building me a home,
thinking I'd be strong there.
But I was a fool, playing by the rules..."
In a few simple lines she'd perfectly described their marriage. At first, she'd clearly felt safe, secure, as though she had belonged somewhere. But then he'd ruined it. He'd met Jo. Sure, she hadn't been the first and George knew that, but Jo had been different, held something that George couldn't hope to give him. He felt a twinge of regret as he listened to her strong, rich tones, hovering somewhere between contralto and mezzo, with the confident, relaxed vibrato that moulded itself to every word. But when she sang,
"Tell me does she kiss,
like I used to kiss you.
Does it feel the same,
when she calls your name.
Somewhere deep inside,
you must know I miss you.
But what can I say,
rules must be obeyed..."
he knew she was talking specifically about Jo. He knew George had always felt compared to Jo, even if he, John, hadn't actually done so. But when she sang,
"The Judges will decide,
the likes of me abide..."
he almost laughed. When had George ever abided by anything he'd said, in or out of court. There was so much bitterness in these few words that it hit him anew how much she resented ever having loved him, and possibly that she resented loving him still. He decided that it was about time he made his presence known. Moving in to the doorway of her office, he was about to speak when, with her back to him, she caught sight of his reflection in the monitor. Whirling round in her swivel chair with a heavy, marble paperweight in her hand, she looked ready to spring in to action.
"Christ all mighty!" She said, realising it was John standing there. "I thought it was Neil."
"Well, you'd have been in a lot of trouble if you'd thrown that thing at him," Replied John moving further in to the room. Ignoring his jibe, she said furiously,
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd come and see how you got on at Larkhall," He said, conveniently forgetting to mention his real reason for turning up.
"Doesn't an unanswered doorbell mean anything to you?" She asked in disgust, finally putting the paperweight back on the desk.
"Not when I borrowed Charlie's key, no," He said holding up the offending object. Scooting across the carpet in the chair, she plucked the key out of his hand.
"Charlie and I will be having words the next time I see her," She said, calming down somewhat.
"Don't be too hard on her," Said John affectionately. "I didn't actually tell her what I wanted it for." Putting the key safely away in a drawer, George said,
"So, what are you really here for?"
"Like I said," He answered, moving closer to her. "I wondered how you got on at Larkhall."
"rubbish," Said George scornfully. "You could have asked me that on the phone." As she took a swig from the glass of Merlot on the desk, he said,
"Am I that transparent?"
"You always were," She said, putting the glass down. He moved further forward and ran a caressing finger down her cheek.
"I thought we might finish what we started the other night," He said softly.
"I thought so," Replied George, having correctly guessed his true motive. She willed her body not to tremble at his lazy, sensual touch but he didn't miss it. "anyway," She said, slightly flustered and attempting to move back from him, "We did finish what I started." Her mixed use of pronouns amused him, it wasn't as if he'd needed much persuasion.
"You didn't if memory serves," he said, a hand resting on her shoulder.
"You didn't need to remind me of that."
"If that was anyone's fault, it was mine," He assured her.
"It's hardly your fault that I'm as tense and tort as your E string, now is it," She said, turning away from him. Thanking the creator of swivel chairs, he turned her back to face him.
"It sounds like you need relaxing," He said, leaning down to kiss her. God, she loved it when he used every trick in the book to pull her. There was nothing more sexy than a man who is prepared to use every word, every touch at his disposal to really make a girl feel not just wanted, but well and truly lusted after.
"this is terribly presumptuous of you," She said mockingly between kisses.
"You can talk," He said on a laugh, remembering her proposition of the other night.
"Ah, but I had consumed an entire bottle of red wine, so I'd say that gives me an excuse." He stopped for a moment and stared at her aghast.
"I knew you'd been drinking but I didn't think it was that much. Get caught driving after that much and you'll be out of a job."
"I was in a mood for taking risks," She said, pulling his face back down to hers.
"I noticed," He replied, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. As they moved over to the sofa, they continued kissing.
They lay with her on the inside lying in the crook of his left arm. He made no move to undo her clothing, but just held and kissed her, thinking that she probably hadn't enjoyed much of this simple pleasure from Neil. George felt warm and tranquil cocooned between the soft back of the sofa and John's hard chest. But remembering the urgency which in the old days had fired her up as much as him, she began to wonder if he would find her too slow to respond after all these years. Hard and furious still had its place for George, but more often these days she found herself totally unable to relax unless whoever she was with took their time in making her feel special and wanted.
"This really isn't a good idea, John," She said a while later.
"Why?" She turned her gaze away from him, not for the first time wondering if he could read minds.
"Because as I discovered the other night, I can't pretend with you."
"I'm not asking you too."
"But..."
"George, the reason you didn't enjoy it the other night was because you weren't relaxed."
"Why do you think I got through a bottle of wine while I was in the bath?"
"Alcohol only relaxes those who are relatively content to start with." George went quiet for a moment.
"Fine," She said, "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"I will consider myself duly forearmed," He said, beginning to kiss her again.
"I need some different music," She said after a while. Reluctantly disentangling himself from her, he moved over to the stereo and removed Abba from the CD-player. Briefly rolling his eyes at the pile of Cd's she had there, he selected Chopin, the only one that positively agreed with him. When he joined her back on the sofa, he said,
"Why are we staying in here?"
"Because I like this room," She replied as if no other explanation were necessary. "Besides," She said with a provocative flutter of her long eyelashes, "This is about the only room in the house we haven't used for nefarious purposes." He laughed.
"I suppose that's as good a reason as any." As Chopin's beautiful notes wandered over her with the feather-light touch of a sprinkler on a drought-parched lawn, the tension gradually began to disappear. As he continued kissing her, and running his fingers through her hair, she briefly thought that she wouldn't mind staying here for ever, but like Jo some weeks before, reminded herself that John wasn't the staying type. When his hand eventually moved to her breast, the friction of the silk of her blouse on her skin made her gasp. He loved watching George's eyes when he was doing things like this to her. Apart from the words she uttered, her eyes were probably the most expressive part of her. They'd widened as he'd coaxed her nipple to a peak where it was pushing at the delicate fabric covering her. She moved her hand to the buttons and began undoing them.
"Now who's eager?" He said softly, his deep, mocking voice making her senses tingle.
"Clothes always seem to get in the way," She replied, wriggling out of her blouse and tossing it carelessly aside. Enchanted to see she wasn't wearing a bra, he ran a finger over her breast, barely making contact, as if she were some priceless artifact with a sign saying "Do not touch."
"You're looking at me as though I'm that priceless strad that you can just about afford but can't quite justify buying."
"ah well," he said conversationally. "Beautiful women and priceless instruments have quite a lot in common. Give them due care and attention, and play them with total dedication and precision, and they usually give out ten times that in return." As she took a breath to admonish him, he dipped his head and ran his tongue over her nipple before enclosing it in the warmest, most agile lips she'd ever had on her. As she'd been about to speak, she couldn't help letting out a deep, throaty moan as the waves of lust began to ripple over her like the incoming tide. She was lying on her back now, with him leaning over her. Every thought, every feeling she had was centered on that one nipple, that one point of extreme pleasure. As he kissed his way over to the other side so as not to leave her other breast unattended, he deftly removed her skirt and underwear almost without her realising. But when she felt his hand on her thigh, she said,
"I swear you just click your fingers to get a woman's clothes off."
"It is something of an art," He replied with a grin.
"Yes," She said knowingly. "One that I'm sure you learnt at a very early age."
"I've never heard you complaining," He said, moving his hand in ever increasing circles until the very tip of his finger grazed her clit.
"Always nice to know someone who is aware of the finer things in life," She said, the word life being forcefully extended in to a sound wholly induced by the skillful manipulation of the most sexually sensitive part of a woman's body. God, she thought, she was loathed to admit it, but she'd never had anyone who could match John for what he was doing now. But then she supposed he'd had a lot of practice. Neil hadn't even come close. In fact, she doubted that Neil even knew the clitoris existed. Foreplay was something to be endured only if he was asked very nicely. George could feel her insides melting, and she was sure John could too as he inched three fingers inside her. As he kissed his way down over her very flat stomach and along her hip bone, she shivered as she knew what was coming. She hadn't had the pleasure of this delicacy for longer than she cared to remember. The one time she'd asked Neil to do this for her, he'd flatly refused, saying that he didn't like it. Even when she'd pointed out that every woman tasted differently and had asked him to at least try it, he'd still said no. John was lying between her legs now, alternately massaging her clit with his tongue and tasting her arousal as if it were the finest wine any French vineyard could produce. Briefly lifting his head to look up at her, he saw the intensity of her expression and her teeth that were clamped down on her lower lip.
"Don't stay quiet on my account," he said, all the time moving his fingers over and inside her.
"Why can't I get you out of my bloody system?" She said, clearly cursing herself for giving in so easily.
"Don't fight it," He said with a broad smile. "I'm told it's my endless sensitivity and charm."
"Which tart told you that then?" She asked, always more prone to slip in to unlawyerly language when she was either drunk or aroused.
"I can't remember offhand," He said, ignoring the jibe. Returning his tongue to her clit, he searched for and located her G spot, something Neil had never even attempted. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as he simultaneously nibbled on her clit and moved his hand inside her, grazing that internal pleasure point with every thrust. Knowing she had to be close, he reached up with his left hand and rolled her right nipple between finger and thumb. She cried out as she came, finally letting go of every last shred of self-doubt and reserve, simply allowing her orgasm to take her wherever it chose. As a result of all her pent up anger, frustration and self-loathing, her orgasm was more incredible, more explosive than any she'd had in a very long time, possibly even since she'd been married to John. When she finally seemed to have come down from her peak, he gently withdrew his hand and kissed his way back up her body, pausing to soothe each slightly bruised nipple with his tongue on the way up. When he reached her face, he simply lay there, gazing in to those eyes that for once, weren't clouded by either anger or sadness. She just lay there for a while, her breathing returning to normal.
"You ought to come with a government health warning," She said eventually, in the soft, drowsy voice that was completely devoid of all her bitterness.
"Why?" He asked, smiling at her.
"Because I think I'm utterly incapable of moving."
"No-one says you have to move any time soon," He observed.
"But I really ought to return the favour," She said, smiling at him lasciviously. "It would after all be insufferably rude not too." He leaned forward and kissed her.
"The night is very young, George."
"Oh, really," She drawled, lightly fingering his belt buckle. Then, returning his kiss with a long one of her own, she said, "I'm glad to hear it. I wouldn't want you rushing off anywhere too soon." They simply lay there for a while, George allowing herself a few minutes of twilight time, a short drifting between sleeping and waking. John watched her, knowing that this form of total relaxation was probably what she needed.
"You look ridiculous," She said after a while.
"Why?"
"The distinct presence of clothes just doesn't look right somehow, especially as I don't have a stitch on."
"Whereas thoroughly debauched looks very good on you."
A while later as they lay in the enormous bath in her en suite, drinking wine and eating some strawberries that John had found in the fridge, George felt that she could easily become hooked on this. Everything John seemed to do for her tonight was either erotically charged to the point of flash over, or soft and gentle in the way she'd never had it with Neil. Tonight, he seemed to know everything she was feeling, to be able to interpret every nuance, every alteration in tone of voice or facial expression. She felt like one of The Lotus Eaters from the Tennyson poem. She was indulging every sense, taking gratification from every pleasurable experience while she had the chance. She didn't want to move from this utterly addictive little place in time where she felt cherished, as if he really loved her. Like the men in Tennyson's narrative, she had no desire to tare herself away from her island, the source of her exotic fruit of pure pleasure. He had again brought her to orgasm, just with his hand this time as she'd reclined with her legs draped casually over his and with her head on his firm shoulder. The warm subtly scented water had lapped around them as she'd wantonly spread her legs to give him better access which had made him smile. She could behave like a whore with John, in the certain knowledge that he found it incredibly sexy. He'd kissed her as she came for the second time that evening, and she could taste the crisp, yet easy-going flavour of the Chablis on his lips together with the tang of the strawberries.
"This will probably be the last time we do this, won't it?" She said reaching for the bottle to refill their glasses.
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't know," She mused, "There's something final about it, that's all. It was just a thought."
"don't think, just feel," He replied, bringing the last strawberry to her lips.
"I suppose your therapist taught you that little line," She said after eating the strawberry.
"She might have mentioned it."
When they'd finally emerged from the bath and were ensconced in her extremely opulent king-sized bed, George was sprawled with her perfectly manicured feet resting somewhere near the pillow, and her wavy, blonde hair cascading over his thighs. She was fulfilling her earlier promise to return the favour. She'd always enjoyed doing this for John. It was slightly bad, naughty somehow, and allowed her to play the whore she'd always secretly wanted to be. He was lying utterly still, breathing slowly through his nose and with his eyes shut. He had a hand casually resting on her thigh, but made absolutely no movement as he savoured what she knew she was very skilled at. Briefly wondering if he'd fallen asleep on her, she allowed her teeth to gently graze his skin.
"Don't you dare," He murmured, with the rumble of a threat not far below the surface. She couldn't resist emitting a soft, extremely evil little laugh. In retaliation, he found the spot just behind her knees that could reduce her to giggles in seconds. Her mouth otherwise occupied, she lightly slapped his thigh, but to no avail. Her will to speak being too strong, she freed her mouth from its earlier activity and began to fight back. She wasn't the only one who could be reduced to a gibbering heap of laughter. John soon discovered that the problem in trying to provoke an ex in this manner is that they also have a very good memory of particular weak spots. She begged him to stop what he was doing but he wouldn't let up. He thought it was wonderful to hear her laughing like this. George didn't laugh enough, and he wouldn't liked to have attempted to estimate when she'd last given way to helpless giggles as she was doing now. Eventually, she lay completely still, her hair fanning out across the pillow, quite unable to beat him at his own game.
"It is nice to hear you laugh," He said, leaning over her, his soft gaze not fooling her in the least.
"this is where you've wanted me all night, isn't it," She asked, recovering from his onslaught. "Totally at your mercy." The look on his face turned in to that of a lion who had finally cornered his prey.
"I might have hoped it would be the eventual outcome," He said noncommittally.
"I bet you did," She replied, joining her lips with his, in that searing way that can only result from an evening of continual sexual build up. No initial seducing of the senses was necessary, as they'd both been working up to this point since his arrival. As he slid inside her, she knew this was where she belonged, this was coming home. As they moved as one, they clung to each other, in an almost desperate attempt to prolong the moment indefinitely. Again, the feeling of finality swept over George, making her imprint every sight, every sound, every feeling of this night indelibly on her memory. When nature's age old process pushed them simultaneously over the edge, she cried out his name and he could see in her eyes just how much she still loved and needed him.
As they lay replete, sated, as metaphorically full as the carnivore after an enormous meal, John's gaze shifted to the illustration of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden that hung above the bed.
"I thought that used to hang downstairs," He commented.
"It did," Replied George drowsily, "But I needed something to look at if ever Neil's interest turned in my direction, which wasn't all that often."
"Ah, so I do have my uses then."
"You could say so."
"Talking of pictures," Went on John conversationally, "Why did you get those photographs taken of me and Jo?" George was silent for a moment. Then, moving slightly out of his arms, she said,
"Oh, thank you very bloody much."
"What for?"
"I've so far managed not to think about little Miss Oxfam since you arrived. You always have to spoil it, don't you."
"I thought you were getting on better with Jo these days."
"That's the point, you stupid man. do you have any idea just what I've helped you to do to her tonight?"
"Don't even think of going there, George. anyway, she knows I'm thoroughly untrustworthy where women are concerned. She's probably used to it by now."
"You amaze me," Began George, ready to launch in to full prosecution mode but John forestalled her.
"George, what Jo doesn't know won't hurt her."
"You're kidding yourself if you really believe that."
"Why do it then, if it was going to make you feel guilty afterwards?"
"Because I'm clearly as weak and pathetic and utterly worthless as you appear to be."
"I thought you'd left the old self-destructiveness of guilt behind years ago." Knowing what he was really referring to, she said,
"Some things never go completely away, John, no matter how much you think you've buried them." Wanting to return the conversation to safer ground, he asked,
"so, why did you want the photos?"
"Why do you think I wanted them?" She answered in true lawyer fashion. Realising that he'd walked in to that one, he said,
"Well, for all I know, you might have liked the idea of seeing me and Jo together. It was just a shame that all you got was us sleeping." She stared at him for a moment, quite unable to say a word.
"You must be joking! I don't think there's anything I'd rather see less than you taking Miss Oxfam through the finer points of the Kama Sutra." John laughed.
"Aha, the lady doth protest too much, methinks."
"And don't quote Shakespeare at me."
"Why, it's true. Had I known I would be posing for incriminating evidence, I'd have at least given you something worth looking at."
"You're insufferable!" She said, now thoroughly exasperated.
"So, you've never once wondered what she looks like in bed?" He was goading her and she knew it, but to back down would be to go against everything she'd ever believed in where John was concerned.
"No, not in the slightest." Detecting the merest hint of a blush, he said,
"Why don't I believe you?"
"Now I know why I married you, it was so that I wouldn't be forced to appear opposite you in court."
"She's not quite as adventurous as you," He said, still trying to get some semblance of a useful reaction out of her.
"Want me to tell her you said that, do you?"
"Not particularly," He conceded.
"Well, then, drop it."
"Just indulge me for a moment."
"I've learnt by now that indulging you is always a dangerous thing to do."
"Have you ever thought about going to bed with another woman?"
"Not in this life time, no," She said, but the colour had risen to her cheeks to again betray her.
"Never even once?" He cajoled. Knowing she was utterly lost, she hid her blushing face under the duvet. This at last seemed to bring him to his senses. It was a very rare thing for George to be embarrassed by anything sexual. She was broadmindedness personified, and although there had been specific boundaries, there hadn't been much they hadn't tried at least once in those crazy but wonderful early days of their marriage. He lifted the duvet away from her face. Her eyes were bright with brief tears. He gently wiped them away with a finger.
"This isn't like you," He said softly, all the barrage gone.
"It just didn't occur to you, did it," She said, furious with herself for revealing her secret. "That there might be one thing, one little part of me that I would rather you didn't know. My occasional fantasy of another woman is something I will never do anything about. So, before you get any ridiculous ideas about me and Miss Oxfam, forget it." this possibility hadn't yet occurred to him and his eyes widened in surprise. This was quickly followed by the wickedest grin she'd ever seen.
"Wow!" Was all he seemed able to say.
"Yes," Drawled George, "I thought you'd like that idea. But get it in to your head right this minute, that the answer is definitely no way." She put as much emphasis on her last two words as she could muster. She inwardly cursed herself for having inadvertently suggested it to him, but she knew he'd have arrived at the idea soon enough on his own.
"Oh, I don't know," He said, his eyes full of mischief once again. "that thought will keep me quiet for weeks."
"I've no doubt," Replied George dryly. "And don't even contemplate saying a word to Jo about this."
"Why not, she might have had thoughts in the same direction, you never know."
"Jo Mills is as straight as you assumed Karen Betts and Yvonne Atkins to be. Besides, Jo really isn't my type."
"Oh, what is your type?" Her thoughts briefly straying to Karen, George vowed to give him no more information whatsoever.
"You're really loving this, aren't you."
"Discovering something new about you after all these years? Yes, I am."
"Well, I wish you hadn't."
"Why didn't you want to tell me?" He asked. "Let's face it, nothing can be as bad as you wanting me to pick you up like a whore from a street corner in King's Cross and really treat you like one of those women." George couldn't help laughing.
"I was drunk when I said that. Anyway, I'd hoped you'd forgotten." Then she turned serious. "I knew you'd love the idea. I thought you'd be continuously fantasising about me and god knows how many of your other conquests and it isn't something I've ever considered putting in to practice. I find the occasional woman sexually attractive, that's all it is."
"I'm sorry for forcing it out of you," He said, really meaning it for once. She laughed mirthlessly.
"What's new. I'm actually amazed I've kept it from you this long."
"I promise not to talk about it."
"John, I learnt a long time ago to take your promises with a pinch of salt. So please don't make them." They lay quiet for a while, with him gently running her hair through his fingers.
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," He said softly.
"Much as I know I'll regret it in the morning, neither would I."
"Don't feel too bad about Jo. If there's any guilt involved here, it's mine, not yours."
"Just don't take her too much for granted." As they listened to the soft tones of Berlioz coming from the small Cd-player on George's dressing-table, John was forced to wonder why she was pleading Jo's case all of a sudden. Thinking of Jo led him to thinking about court which in turn reminded him of where George had been that day.
"You never told me how you got on at Larkhall," He said, praying that his unorthodox punishment had done the trick.
"You'll have to see next time I'm before you," She replied, a soft smile playing over her lips.
"And talking of badly behaved people, why did you think I was Lover Boy this evening?"
"Because when he moved out, his key was the only thing he conveniently forgot to leave behind."
"Typical," Remarked John, vowing to go and retrieve it at the first opportunity he had. As they gradually drifted to sleep in each other's arms, George could already feel the suffocating weight of guilt beginning to creep over her. Where Jo was concerned, it wasn't a feeling she was used to accommodating. But Jo deserved better than this from her. Jo had offered her an olive branch after the Neil incident. Not in so many words of course, but the gesture had been obvious. George had taken it by agreeing to work with Jo on the Karen Betts case. but it looked like she'd just thrown all that away, and all because she couldn't resist the pull of the only man who'd ever really satisfied her.
George was sitting in her home office, at the computer, trying to sort through the day's e-mails, and attempting to put her tour of Larkhall out of her mind. She hated to admit that it had been a good idea of Karen's, but she knew that the threat of a night alongside the likes of Alison McKenzy and Denny Blood would keep her forever polite and subdued in any judge's presence. There were no such things as privacy or dignity where English prisons were concerned, no matter what the age or status of the individual. George liked her home office, it was probably one of her favourite rooms in the house. Opposite the door was an enormous mahogany desk that held a computer, a printer and various other paraphernalia associated with the modern day lawyer. Along the wall between the door and the desk were three filing cabinets reserved for George's either open or most pressing cases. Along the wall behind the door was a floor to ceiling bookcase holding all of her law books plus a number of old cases contained in box files on the upper shelves. Next to the desk under the window and opposite the book shelves, was a very comfortable three seater sofa and along the wall between the sofa and the bookcase was a low table holding a stereo. To George, this room was vaguely reminiscent of her student days and the room she'd had at college. Since finishing her law degree at the London School of Economics, she'd never quite got out of the habit of working to music. The reassuring rhythm of what ever she felt in the mood for always seemed to unfreeze her brain, to release the electrical impulses from their confines to enable them to work in the most effective way possible. Lighting a cigarette, she flicked through various e-mails from people wanting an immediate appointment with her and forwarded them to her secretary at her real office. Having answered two or three that required her urgent attention, she went in to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of red wine. Walking back in to her office, she put the glass down on the desk and moved over to the stereo. She needed something familiar tonight, something that, years ago, had gone some way to defining the person she was. Putting Abba Gold in to the CD-player, she allowed herself a few moments to relive some of her memories from her school and college years. She could vividly remember dancing the night away to some of these old songs, her body clad in as few clothes as possible and her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her. She'd been so sexy in those days. This didn't mean she wasn't now, for her age she looked stunning most of the time, but at the age of nineteen, she'd been able to capture the heart of any man she chose. She remembered fondly the many rows she'd had with her father whenever he saw her about to leave the house for a night out in what he described as two scraps of cloth with the odd button here and there. During the holidays when she had to live at home, she'd listened to many of these records, and they really had been records in those days, whilst getting ready to go out. She'd dance in front of the mirror, totally naked sometimes singing her heart out to these old familiar tunes of her youth. She and her father had clashed on many occasion because he thought her music was far too loud and far too raucous. She smiled when she thought of this. Her music had nothing on some of Charlie's for loud and raucous. Whilst John had still been teaching law, Charlie had lived with him most of the time, which had suited everyone. John had loved every minute he'd spent with Charlie, but George had often found it a strain, especially when Charlie had been younger. They'd had no common ground, nothing on which to base the foundations of a relationship. But once she'd reached her teenaged years, Charlie had begun to live more and more at home. During one of their many numerous arguments, John had told George that the only reason she got on with Charlie was because She'd never grown out of her own adolescent disregard for others. George had hated him for saying that at the time, but in retrospect she supposed he'd been right. As she sat at her desk, thumbing through the latest copy of The Modern Law Review, which in this issue didn't appear to hold anything of major interest to her, she found she was reading the same words over and over again. Flashes of things she'd seen and heard during her little visit to Larkhall kept creeping in on her thoughts. Putting the journal face down so that she wouldn't lose her place, she picked up the remote control to the stereo and flicked through the tracks on the CD, finally settling on one that had been one of her favourites when she'd been at college, and even twenty or so years later still had its charm. As she allowed her throat and lips to fit themselves around the so familiar words, it struck her not for the first time how relevant they'd once been, and perhaps in their own way still were.
When John drew up outside George's house, he was pleased to see that her car was the only one in the drive. They didn't need company for what he had planned. Thinking that after her day's punishment of being shown what a prison would actually be like, he didn't think she'd let him in voluntarily. So, never without a back up plan, he'd driven over to the university to borrow his daughter's door key. George wouldn't thank him for this, and neither would Charlie if she'd known what he really wanted it for, but these were only details. He jabbed his thumb on the doorbell, but not feeling like company, George ignored it. She was in the middle of one of her favourite songs and wasn't stopping for anyone. Knowing she was definitely in because of the presence of her car, John deftly fitted the key in the lock. When he silently pushed the front door open, he was greeted by a sound he hadn't heard for years. For a moment standing transfixed on the doorstep, he just listened. George was singing, something he hadn't heard her do since the happy, early days of their marriage, before everything had been turned upside down. Closing the door with only the tiniest of clicks, he stood in the hall and listened to her. Any amateur singer always sounds so much better when they don't think they're being heard. This is primarily because they have no-one but themselves to impress, no-one but themselves to get it right for. They can let go of all the tension that immediately alters tuning and clarity of tone that is only present when they fear criticism. A soft, warm smile crossed his face as he listened to her. George had only ever not cared about him hearing her sing if she was either happy or drunk, and in both cases it'd enchanted him to know she was capable of letting go some of her reserve. When singing the kind of thing she was now, the plumb disappeared from her mouth, making her sound completely different, and giving her an extra level of intrigue which always rocketed his libido. He knew exactly where she was, sat in her home office, probably at the computer. He crept slowly nearer, but stopped just before the doorway. He didn't want her to become aware of his presence quite yet. Then her words finally began to register with him.
"I was in your arms,
thinking I belonged there.
I figured it made sense, building me a fence.
Building me a home,
thinking I'd be strong there.
But I was a fool, playing by the rules..."
In a few simple lines she'd perfectly described their marriage. At first, she'd clearly felt safe, secure, as though she had belonged somewhere. But then he'd ruined it. He'd met Jo. Sure, she hadn't been the first and George knew that, but Jo had been different, held something that George couldn't hope to give him. He felt a twinge of regret as he listened to her strong, rich tones, hovering somewhere between contralto and mezzo, with the confident, relaxed vibrato that moulded itself to every word. But when she sang,
"Tell me does she kiss,
like I used to kiss you.
Does it feel the same,
when she calls your name.
Somewhere deep inside,
you must know I miss you.
But what can I say,
rules must be obeyed..."
he knew she was talking specifically about Jo. He knew George had always felt compared to Jo, even if he, John, hadn't actually done so. But when she sang,
"The Judges will decide,
the likes of me abide..."
he almost laughed. When had George ever abided by anything he'd said, in or out of court. There was so much bitterness in these few words that it hit him anew how much she resented ever having loved him, and possibly that she resented loving him still. He decided that it was about time he made his presence known. Moving in to the doorway of her office, he was about to speak when, with her back to him, she caught sight of his reflection in the monitor. Whirling round in her swivel chair with a heavy, marble paperweight in her hand, she looked ready to spring in to action.
"Christ all mighty!" She said, realising it was John standing there. "I thought it was Neil."
"Well, you'd have been in a lot of trouble if you'd thrown that thing at him," Replied John moving further in to the room. Ignoring his jibe, she said furiously,
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd come and see how you got on at Larkhall," He said, conveniently forgetting to mention his real reason for turning up.
"Doesn't an unanswered doorbell mean anything to you?" She asked in disgust, finally putting the paperweight back on the desk.
"Not when I borrowed Charlie's key, no," He said holding up the offending object. Scooting across the carpet in the chair, she plucked the key out of his hand.
"Charlie and I will be having words the next time I see her," She said, calming down somewhat.
"Don't be too hard on her," Said John affectionately. "I didn't actually tell her what I wanted it for." Putting the key safely away in a drawer, George said,
"So, what are you really here for?"
"Like I said," He answered, moving closer to her. "I wondered how you got on at Larkhall."
"rubbish," Said George scornfully. "You could have asked me that on the phone." As she took a swig from the glass of Merlot on the desk, he said,
"Am I that transparent?"
"You always were," She said, putting the glass down. He moved further forward and ran a caressing finger down her cheek.
"I thought we might finish what we started the other night," He said softly.
"I thought so," Replied George, having correctly guessed his true motive. She willed her body not to tremble at his lazy, sensual touch but he didn't miss it. "anyway," She said, slightly flustered and attempting to move back from him, "We did finish what I started." Her mixed use of pronouns amused him, it wasn't as if he'd needed much persuasion.
"You didn't if memory serves," he said, a hand resting on her shoulder.
"You didn't need to remind me of that."
"If that was anyone's fault, it was mine," He assured her.
"It's hardly your fault that I'm as tense and tort as your E string, now is it," She said, turning away from him. Thanking the creator of swivel chairs, he turned her back to face him.
"It sounds like you need relaxing," He said, leaning down to kiss her. God, she loved it when he used every trick in the book to pull her. There was nothing more sexy than a man who is prepared to use every word, every touch at his disposal to really make a girl feel not just wanted, but well and truly lusted after.
"this is terribly presumptuous of you," She said mockingly between kisses.
"You can talk," He said on a laugh, remembering her proposition of the other night.
"Ah, but I had consumed an entire bottle of red wine, so I'd say that gives me an excuse." He stopped for a moment and stared at her aghast.
"I knew you'd been drinking but I didn't think it was that much. Get caught driving after that much and you'll be out of a job."
"I was in a mood for taking risks," She said, pulling his face back down to hers.
"I noticed," He replied, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. As they moved over to the sofa, they continued kissing.
They lay with her on the inside lying in the crook of his left arm. He made no move to undo her clothing, but just held and kissed her, thinking that she probably hadn't enjoyed much of this simple pleasure from Neil. George felt warm and tranquil cocooned between the soft back of the sofa and John's hard chest. But remembering the urgency which in the old days had fired her up as much as him, she began to wonder if he would find her too slow to respond after all these years. Hard and furious still had its place for George, but more often these days she found herself totally unable to relax unless whoever she was with took their time in making her feel special and wanted.
"This really isn't a good idea, John," She said a while later.
"Why?" She turned her gaze away from him, not for the first time wondering if he could read minds.
"Because as I discovered the other night, I can't pretend with you."
"I'm not asking you too."
"But..."
"George, the reason you didn't enjoy it the other night was because you weren't relaxed."
"Why do you think I got through a bottle of wine while I was in the bath?"
"Alcohol only relaxes those who are relatively content to start with." George went quiet for a moment.
"Fine," She said, "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"I will consider myself duly forearmed," He said, beginning to kiss her again.
"I need some different music," She said after a while. Reluctantly disentangling himself from her, he moved over to the stereo and removed Abba from the CD-player. Briefly rolling his eyes at the pile of Cd's she had there, he selected Chopin, the only one that positively agreed with him. When he joined her back on the sofa, he said,
"Why are we staying in here?"
"Because I like this room," She replied as if no other explanation were necessary. "Besides," She said with a provocative flutter of her long eyelashes, "This is about the only room in the house we haven't used for nefarious purposes." He laughed.
"I suppose that's as good a reason as any." As Chopin's beautiful notes wandered over her with the feather-light touch of a sprinkler on a drought-parched lawn, the tension gradually began to disappear. As he continued kissing her, and running his fingers through her hair, she briefly thought that she wouldn't mind staying here for ever, but like Jo some weeks before, reminded herself that John wasn't the staying type. When his hand eventually moved to her breast, the friction of the silk of her blouse on her skin made her gasp. He loved watching George's eyes when he was doing things like this to her. Apart from the words she uttered, her eyes were probably the most expressive part of her. They'd widened as he'd coaxed her nipple to a peak where it was pushing at the delicate fabric covering her. She moved her hand to the buttons and began undoing them.
"Now who's eager?" He said softly, his deep, mocking voice making her senses tingle.
"Clothes always seem to get in the way," She replied, wriggling out of her blouse and tossing it carelessly aside. Enchanted to see she wasn't wearing a bra, he ran a finger over her breast, barely making contact, as if she were some priceless artifact with a sign saying "Do not touch."
"You're looking at me as though I'm that priceless strad that you can just about afford but can't quite justify buying."
"ah well," he said conversationally. "Beautiful women and priceless instruments have quite a lot in common. Give them due care and attention, and play them with total dedication and precision, and they usually give out ten times that in return." As she took a breath to admonish him, he dipped his head and ran his tongue over her nipple before enclosing it in the warmest, most agile lips she'd ever had on her. As she'd been about to speak, she couldn't help letting out a deep, throaty moan as the waves of lust began to ripple over her like the incoming tide. She was lying on her back now, with him leaning over her. Every thought, every feeling she had was centered on that one nipple, that one point of extreme pleasure. As he kissed his way over to the other side so as not to leave her other breast unattended, he deftly removed her skirt and underwear almost without her realising. But when she felt his hand on her thigh, she said,
"I swear you just click your fingers to get a woman's clothes off."
"It is something of an art," He replied with a grin.
"Yes," She said knowingly. "One that I'm sure you learnt at a very early age."
"I've never heard you complaining," He said, moving his hand in ever increasing circles until the very tip of his finger grazed her clit.
"Always nice to know someone who is aware of the finer things in life," She said, the word life being forcefully extended in to a sound wholly induced by the skillful manipulation of the most sexually sensitive part of a woman's body. God, she thought, she was loathed to admit it, but she'd never had anyone who could match John for what he was doing now. But then she supposed he'd had a lot of practice. Neil hadn't even come close. In fact, she doubted that Neil even knew the clitoris existed. Foreplay was something to be endured only if he was asked very nicely. George could feel her insides melting, and she was sure John could too as he inched three fingers inside her. As he kissed his way down over her very flat stomach and along her hip bone, she shivered as she knew what was coming. She hadn't had the pleasure of this delicacy for longer than she cared to remember. The one time she'd asked Neil to do this for her, he'd flatly refused, saying that he didn't like it. Even when she'd pointed out that every woman tasted differently and had asked him to at least try it, he'd still said no. John was lying between her legs now, alternately massaging her clit with his tongue and tasting her arousal as if it were the finest wine any French vineyard could produce. Briefly lifting his head to look up at her, he saw the intensity of her expression and her teeth that were clamped down on her lower lip.
"Don't stay quiet on my account," he said, all the time moving his fingers over and inside her.
"Why can't I get you out of my bloody system?" She said, clearly cursing herself for giving in so easily.
"Don't fight it," He said with a broad smile. "I'm told it's my endless sensitivity and charm."
"Which tart told you that then?" She asked, always more prone to slip in to unlawyerly language when she was either drunk or aroused.
"I can't remember offhand," He said, ignoring the jibe. Returning his tongue to her clit, he searched for and located her G spot, something Neil had never even attempted. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as he simultaneously nibbled on her clit and moved his hand inside her, grazing that internal pleasure point with every thrust. Knowing she had to be close, he reached up with his left hand and rolled her right nipple between finger and thumb. She cried out as she came, finally letting go of every last shred of self-doubt and reserve, simply allowing her orgasm to take her wherever it chose. As a result of all her pent up anger, frustration and self-loathing, her orgasm was more incredible, more explosive than any she'd had in a very long time, possibly even since she'd been married to John. When she finally seemed to have come down from her peak, he gently withdrew his hand and kissed his way back up her body, pausing to soothe each slightly bruised nipple with his tongue on the way up. When he reached her face, he simply lay there, gazing in to those eyes that for once, weren't clouded by either anger or sadness. She just lay there for a while, her breathing returning to normal.
"You ought to come with a government health warning," She said eventually, in the soft, drowsy voice that was completely devoid of all her bitterness.
"Why?" He asked, smiling at her.
"Because I think I'm utterly incapable of moving."
"No-one says you have to move any time soon," He observed.
"But I really ought to return the favour," She said, smiling at him lasciviously. "It would after all be insufferably rude not too." He leaned forward and kissed her.
"The night is very young, George."
"Oh, really," She drawled, lightly fingering his belt buckle. Then, returning his kiss with a long one of her own, she said, "I'm glad to hear it. I wouldn't want you rushing off anywhere too soon." They simply lay there for a while, George allowing herself a few minutes of twilight time, a short drifting between sleeping and waking. John watched her, knowing that this form of total relaxation was probably what she needed.
"You look ridiculous," She said after a while.
"Why?"
"The distinct presence of clothes just doesn't look right somehow, especially as I don't have a stitch on."
"Whereas thoroughly debauched looks very good on you."
A while later as they lay in the enormous bath in her en suite, drinking wine and eating some strawberries that John had found in the fridge, George felt that she could easily become hooked on this. Everything John seemed to do for her tonight was either erotically charged to the point of flash over, or soft and gentle in the way she'd never had it with Neil. Tonight, he seemed to know everything she was feeling, to be able to interpret every nuance, every alteration in tone of voice or facial expression. She felt like one of The Lotus Eaters from the Tennyson poem. She was indulging every sense, taking gratification from every pleasurable experience while she had the chance. She didn't want to move from this utterly addictive little place in time where she felt cherished, as if he really loved her. Like the men in Tennyson's narrative, she had no desire to tare herself away from her island, the source of her exotic fruit of pure pleasure. He had again brought her to orgasm, just with his hand this time as she'd reclined with her legs draped casually over his and with her head on his firm shoulder. The warm subtly scented water had lapped around them as she'd wantonly spread her legs to give him better access which had made him smile. She could behave like a whore with John, in the certain knowledge that he found it incredibly sexy. He'd kissed her as she came for the second time that evening, and she could taste the crisp, yet easy-going flavour of the Chablis on his lips together with the tang of the strawberries.
"This will probably be the last time we do this, won't it?" She said reaching for the bottle to refill their glasses.
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't know," She mused, "There's something final about it, that's all. It was just a thought."
"don't think, just feel," He replied, bringing the last strawberry to her lips.
"I suppose your therapist taught you that little line," She said after eating the strawberry.
"She might have mentioned it."
When they'd finally emerged from the bath and were ensconced in her extremely opulent king-sized bed, George was sprawled with her perfectly manicured feet resting somewhere near the pillow, and her wavy, blonde hair cascading over his thighs. She was fulfilling her earlier promise to return the favour. She'd always enjoyed doing this for John. It was slightly bad, naughty somehow, and allowed her to play the whore she'd always secretly wanted to be. He was lying utterly still, breathing slowly through his nose and with his eyes shut. He had a hand casually resting on her thigh, but made absolutely no movement as he savoured what she knew she was very skilled at. Briefly wondering if he'd fallen asleep on her, she allowed her teeth to gently graze his skin.
"Don't you dare," He murmured, with the rumble of a threat not far below the surface. She couldn't resist emitting a soft, extremely evil little laugh. In retaliation, he found the spot just behind her knees that could reduce her to giggles in seconds. Her mouth otherwise occupied, she lightly slapped his thigh, but to no avail. Her will to speak being too strong, she freed her mouth from its earlier activity and began to fight back. She wasn't the only one who could be reduced to a gibbering heap of laughter. John soon discovered that the problem in trying to provoke an ex in this manner is that they also have a very good memory of particular weak spots. She begged him to stop what he was doing but he wouldn't let up. He thought it was wonderful to hear her laughing like this. George didn't laugh enough, and he wouldn't liked to have attempted to estimate when she'd last given way to helpless giggles as she was doing now. Eventually, she lay completely still, her hair fanning out across the pillow, quite unable to beat him at his own game.
"It is nice to hear you laugh," He said, leaning over her, his soft gaze not fooling her in the least.
"this is where you've wanted me all night, isn't it," She asked, recovering from his onslaught. "Totally at your mercy." The look on his face turned in to that of a lion who had finally cornered his prey.
"I might have hoped it would be the eventual outcome," He said noncommittally.
"I bet you did," She replied, joining her lips with his, in that searing way that can only result from an evening of continual sexual build up. No initial seducing of the senses was necessary, as they'd both been working up to this point since his arrival. As he slid inside her, she knew this was where she belonged, this was coming home. As they moved as one, they clung to each other, in an almost desperate attempt to prolong the moment indefinitely. Again, the feeling of finality swept over George, making her imprint every sight, every sound, every feeling of this night indelibly on her memory. When nature's age old process pushed them simultaneously over the edge, she cried out his name and he could see in her eyes just how much she still loved and needed him.
As they lay replete, sated, as metaphorically full as the carnivore after an enormous meal, John's gaze shifted to the illustration of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden that hung above the bed.
"I thought that used to hang downstairs," He commented.
"It did," Replied George drowsily, "But I needed something to look at if ever Neil's interest turned in my direction, which wasn't all that often."
"Ah, so I do have my uses then."
"You could say so."
"Talking of pictures," Went on John conversationally, "Why did you get those photographs taken of me and Jo?" George was silent for a moment. Then, moving slightly out of his arms, she said,
"Oh, thank you very bloody much."
"What for?"
"I've so far managed not to think about little Miss Oxfam since you arrived. You always have to spoil it, don't you."
"I thought you were getting on better with Jo these days."
"That's the point, you stupid man. do you have any idea just what I've helped you to do to her tonight?"
"Don't even think of going there, George. anyway, she knows I'm thoroughly untrustworthy where women are concerned. She's probably used to it by now."
"You amaze me," Began George, ready to launch in to full prosecution mode but John forestalled her.
"George, what Jo doesn't know won't hurt her."
"You're kidding yourself if you really believe that."
"Why do it then, if it was going to make you feel guilty afterwards?"
"Because I'm clearly as weak and pathetic and utterly worthless as you appear to be."
"I thought you'd left the old self-destructiveness of guilt behind years ago." Knowing what he was really referring to, she said,
"Some things never go completely away, John, no matter how much you think you've buried them." Wanting to return the conversation to safer ground, he asked,
"so, why did you want the photos?"
"Why do you think I wanted them?" She answered in true lawyer fashion. Realising that he'd walked in to that one, he said,
"Well, for all I know, you might have liked the idea of seeing me and Jo together. It was just a shame that all you got was us sleeping." She stared at him for a moment, quite unable to say a word.
"You must be joking! I don't think there's anything I'd rather see less than you taking Miss Oxfam through the finer points of the Kama Sutra." John laughed.
"Aha, the lady doth protest too much, methinks."
"And don't quote Shakespeare at me."
"Why, it's true. Had I known I would be posing for incriminating evidence, I'd have at least given you something worth looking at."
"You're insufferable!" She said, now thoroughly exasperated.
"So, you've never once wondered what she looks like in bed?" He was goading her and she knew it, but to back down would be to go against everything she'd ever believed in where John was concerned.
"No, not in the slightest." Detecting the merest hint of a blush, he said,
"Why don't I believe you?"
"Now I know why I married you, it was so that I wouldn't be forced to appear opposite you in court."
"She's not quite as adventurous as you," He said, still trying to get some semblance of a useful reaction out of her.
"Want me to tell her you said that, do you?"
"Not particularly," He conceded.
"Well, then, drop it."
"Just indulge me for a moment."
"I've learnt by now that indulging you is always a dangerous thing to do."
"Have you ever thought about going to bed with another woman?"
"Not in this life time, no," She said, but the colour had risen to her cheeks to again betray her.
"Never even once?" He cajoled. Knowing she was utterly lost, she hid her blushing face under the duvet. This at last seemed to bring him to his senses. It was a very rare thing for George to be embarrassed by anything sexual. She was broadmindedness personified, and although there had been specific boundaries, there hadn't been much they hadn't tried at least once in those crazy but wonderful early days of their marriage. He lifted the duvet away from her face. Her eyes were bright with brief tears. He gently wiped them away with a finger.
"This isn't like you," He said softly, all the barrage gone.
"It just didn't occur to you, did it," She said, furious with herself for revealing her secret. "That there might be one thing, one little part of me that I would rather you didn't know. My occasional fantasy of another woman is something I will never do anything about. So, before you get any ridiculous ideas about me and Miss Oxfam, forget it." this possibility hadn't yet occurred to him and his eyes widened in surprise. This was quickly followed by the wickedest grin she'd ever seen.
"Wow!" Was all he seemed able to say.
"Yes," Drawled George, "I thought you'd like that idea. But get it in to your head right this minute, that the answer is definitely no way." She put as much emphasis on her last two words as she could muster. She inwardly cursed herself for having inadvertently suggested it to him, but she knew he'd have arrived at the idea soon enough on his own.
"Oh, I don't know," He said, his eyes full of mischief once again. "that thought will keep me quiet for weeks."
"I've no doubt," Replied George dryly. "And don't even contemplate saying a word to Jo about this."
"Why not, she might have had thoughts in the same direction, you never know."
"Jo Mills is as straight as you assumed Karen Betts and Yvonne Atkins to be. Besides, Jo really isn't my type."
"Oh, what is your type?" Her thoughts briefly straying to Karen, George vowed to give him no more information whatsoever.
"You're really loving this, aren't you."
"Discovering something new about you after all these years? Yes, I am."
"Well, I wish you hadn't."
"Why didn't you want to tell me?" He asked. "Let's face it, nothing can be as bad as you wanting me to pick you up like a whore from a street corner in King's Cross and really treat you like one of those women." George couldn't help laughing.
"I was drunk when I said that. Anyway, I'd hoped you'd forgotten." Then she turned serious. "I knew you'd love the idea. I thought you'd be continuously fantasising about me and god knows how many of your other conquests and it isn't something I've ever considered putting in to practice. I find the occasional woman sexually attractive, that's all it is."
"I'm sorry for forcing it out of you," He said, really meaning it for once. She laughed mirthlessly.
"What's new. I'm actually amazed I've kept it from you this long."
"I promise not to talk about it."
"John, I learnt a long time ago to take your promises with a pinch of salt. So please don't make them." They lay quiet for a while, with him gently running her hair through his fingers.
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," He said softly.
"Much as I know I'll regret it in the morning, neither would I."
"Don't feel too bad about Jo. If there's any guilt involved here, it's mine, not yours."
"Just don't take her too much for granted." As they listened to the soft tones of Berlioz coming from the small Cd-player on George's dressing-table, John was forced to wonder why she was pleading Jo's case all of a sudden. Thinking of Jo led him to thinking about court which in turn reminded him of where George had been that day.
"You never told me how you got on at Larkhall," He said, praying that his unorthodox punishment had done the trick.
"You'll have to see next time I'm before you," She replied, a soft smile playing over her lips.
"And talking of badly behaved people, why did you think I was Lover Boy this evening?"
"Because when he moved out, his key was the only thing he conveniently forgot to leave behind."
"Typical," Remarked John, vowing to go and retrieve it at the first opportunity he had. As they gradually drifted to sleep in each other's arms, George could already feel the suffocating weight of guilt beginning to creep over her. Where Jo was concerned, it wasn't a feeling she was used to accommodating. But Jo deserved better than this from her. Jo had offered her an olive branch after the Neil incident. Not in so many words of course, but the gesture had been obvious. George had taken it by agreeing to work with Jo on the Karen Betts case. but it looked like she'd just thrown all that away, and all because she couldn't resist the pull of the only man who'd ever really satisfied her.