Part Ninety-Three
George stood for a long time after John had left, staring at the front door which she'd just slammed in his face. Then, pulling herself together, she went into the lounge, put on some Tori Amos perpetually borrowed from Karen, and lit a cigarette. The haunting words and melodies, served to take away some of the tension of the passed hours. She hadn't had time to come down from the rehearsal, before she and John had started in on each other. She couldn't believe some of the things they'd said to each other. Angel, or whore, that was how he'd talked about her. Angel, or whore, verbally flogging her with the original literary depictions of the female species. She'd always thought he'd enjoyed her occasional liking for experimentation, but perhaps she'd been wrong. There hadn't been much they hadn't tried at least once, but he'd been as eager for it as she had. Perhaps the only fantasy George hadn't shared with him in those days, was the fact that she wanted to sleep with a woman. Angel, or whore, which one was she? She didn't know, and more to the point, which did John think she was. He was right, she had been acting the part of the tempting angel this afternoon, but it was he who'd asked, even begged her to do it. John had persuaded, cajoled, and definitely manipulated her into playing the part of Eve, yet he clearly couldn't handle her enacting the love duets with Neil. Angel, or whore, angel or whore. Yet, when it came to Karen, he obviously thought her the whore she'd once expressed a wish to play. That had only been a fantasy, something said in a slightly drunken moment, when they'd laughingly opened up as to some of the things they'd like to try. John had admitted to finding the idea of sleeping with two women at the same time very appealing, but this still hadn't encouraged George to be entirely honest with him. John had only discovered her attraction to her own sex, on the night following her imposed visit to Larkhall. Even back then, even when she and Jo were barely being civil to each other, John had found the thought of her and Jo together incredible. Then, two weeks ago, John had suggested, with all the casualness of offering her dinner, that they might spend the night together, all three of them. George had felt enormously turned on by the idea, but at the same time immensely confused. She shouldn't be feeling things like that for Jo, only for Karen. That was why she had left, that and thinking that Jo would be horrified if she suspected the level of George's arousal at the idea. But then Jo had calmly told her a week later, that George's all too evident reaction hadn't bothered her. Then had followed that intensely charged Sunday afternoon, the possibility of a foursome just out of her reach. If Jo and Karen had both been up for it, George knew that she wouldn't have thought twice about it. Angel, or whore, angel, or whore. That was what was confusing her, John had poured a certain amount of scorn on her sexual waywardness, when he would have been just as up for a mini orgy as she would. He really hated the fact that she was in love with Karen, and not Jo, entirely ignoring the fact that Jo would never feel that way about any woman, no matter George's own feelings on the subject. Jo might have been excited by the sight of what George and Karen had been doing last weekend, but George was certain that this was as far as Jo would ever stray in to the world of sapphic pleasures. But all this maddeningly logical introspection wasn't getting her anywhere. After they'd flung so many hurtful words at each other, where did that leave their relationship with Jo? John loved Jo, had loved Jo for years, and would always love Jo, George knew that. She also knew that she, George, couldn't possibly stop being friends with Jo. They'd become so close over the last eighteen months, and George wasn't about to let that go, just because she and John didn't know how to bow down in the face of each other's pride. But she couldn't just kiss and make up with John this time, not unless they both did some very straight talking. She laughed mirthlessly to herself at this, straight being the issue that had brought them here in the first place. Angel, or whore, angel, or whore. Should she give up Karen? Could she give up Karen? Right at this moment, George didn't think she could. Karen was wonderful, gave her as much or as little space as she wanted, not giving a damn about the fact that George couldn't go public about their relationship, and was utterly enchanting in bed. What more could she want? But there came the rub. George did need more, she needed John. Even though he was arrogant, utterly self-assured, ruthlessly manipulative, and a devout believer in his own ability to get what he wanted out of a woman, she needed him. She was being torn, she knew that, one way by John and his insecurities, and the other by Karen, and the fact that George needed what Karen could give her. Reaching out a hand to the phone, she found herself wondering just who she could call. Not Karen, because too much of this argument had been about Karen. Not Jo, because in the grand scheme of relationship ethics, it would be highly unprofessional, to discuss a row with one's man, with said man's other lover. Certainly not daddy because he would just tell her he'd told her so. Who did that leave? No one, or at least no one whom George would feel comfortable discussing this with. Her eyes again strayed to the phone, as she remembered the feeling of united strength that had pervaded the group of supporters at Lauren's trial. They had all welcomed her with ease, making her feel a kind of warmth she'd not felt in a group of women before in her life. The only two who might listen to her out of that little circle of women were Helen and Nikki. But even though George felt a pull, something telling her to lift the phone and talk to someone, to anyone, she simply couldn't do it. Angel, or whore, angel, or whore. If John couldn't make his mind up as to which of these depictions of womanhood she represented, why should anyone else.
As John pulled into the carpark, he decided that all winebars should possess adequate parking space, if only to serve those who had been unceremoniously shown the door. He couldn't believe George had done that to him. Walk out on him, was certainly something she'd done in the past, storming out of the digs like a bat out of hell, their combined fury yapping at her heels. But she had never once thrown him out of her house, verbally or otherwise. That was the difference now, he realised. When they were married, she couldn't kick him out, or at least she wouldn't, not wanting to make their all too frequent rows the substance of public gossip. But that hadn't prevented her from doing it tonight. As he strolled into the bar, and ordered a large glass of red wine, he reflected that this was one of the nastiest rows they'd have in a long time, not having hurled insults as vicious as today's choicest words, at each other since the final, bitter days of their marriage. As he sipped at the heady, earthy wine, he couldn't quite believe what she'd said to him about Fenner. Yes, John was very well aware that he had used his physical strength to take that notebook away from her, but there had undoubtedly been a just cause, to get at the truth of what those imbecilic dolts had been suggesting about his Jo. He had to admit though, that he did understand why George had wanted to keep it from him. John knew he hadn't seen the worst of it, and in one way, he was really rather thankful that he hadn't, but he certainly hadn't deserved what George had said. She had likened him to Fenner of all people, Fenner! How could she have put him in the same category as that vile, odious, evil little cretin, who had made so many people's lives a misery? It was George saying this, which had probably sparked off some of the hurtful things he'd thrown at her later. He knew he'd gone too far, just as she had, but he was no more going to apologise for it than she was, or at least no more than she would have in the old days. He'd known he was going too far, when he'd castigated her for being sexually adventurous, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. He had loved every minute of their sexual experimentation, just as much as she had, the early days of their marriage having been the fondly thought of golden age for him as well as for her. But it still rankled with him that she'd never quite trusted him enough, to tell him about her liking for other women. He supposed it was this that had so inflamed his jealousy when he'd found out about Karen. Yes, he'd known about George's little fantasy before then, but the discovery of Karen as George's new lover, had somehow put all his worst fears into practice. Why couldn't she have fallen for Jo, and Jo for her? Why couldn't his life just be that simple for once. As he handed over the money for a second glass of Burgundy, a woman caught his eye. She was blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and really looked the spitting image of George, or the George he'd first met, at that new year's eve party in her final year of university, when she was just twenty-years-old. God, she'd been beautiful then, not that she wasn't now, but there had been something so striking, so instantly addictive about the way she'd danced, causing every male eye in the room to follow her. He'd sauntered over to her, claiming the next three dances as his, immediately intrigued by her spiky, provocative, and utterly argumentative nature. He'd watched her as she danced with other men, occasionally flashing a smirk at him across the room, as if showing him that she could have any man she wanted. He'd approached her again as she stood at the bar, sipping from a glass of white wine, and when the DJ had played a song especially for all the couples in the room, her hand had slipped into his, and without a word they had moved back onto the dance floor. They'd stood together as Big Ben had chimed, standing under a bunch of mistletoe, that someone had obviously been leaving up until Twelfth Night for maximum advantage. Once begun, they'd kissed on, and on, and on, only eventually coming up for air out of necessity. They'd gone outside, ostensibly so that she could have a cigarette, but with an underlying wish for privacy. They'd sat on an old wooden bench, his arm going round her shoulders to keep her warm. They'd talked for a long time, and kissed for even longer, the crisp, cold air of the early hour of nineteen seventy-seven, not breaking in on their clear attraction to each other. Much later, when John had driven her home, he'd been entirely happy for the first time in his life, to be content with nothing more than a long goodnight kiss from her. He'd taken her out to dinner, less than a week later, and this time he'd made love to her. George had by no means been a virgin, he'd known that the first time he slept with her, but she'd been different somehow, passionately knowing, and enchantingly innocent all at the same time. Where had all that gone, he wondered, looking over at the woman who had caught his attention. Why had all his happiness with George, been replaced with only scorn, bitterness and a deep feeling of regret on both their parts. As he sauntered over to the replica of what his George had once been, it briefly occurred to him that he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be tempting fate, and putting his, or anyone else's, emotional well-being on the wheel like this. But, what the hell. The odds of either Jo or George finding out about this were a hundred to one, so why shouldn't he have just one, little flutter to ease his despair.