Part One Hundred And Three
When they arrived at the rehearsal on the Monday afternoon, it being the bank holiday, George had a brief moment of nervousness. This would be the first time she'd seen John since their row, and the first time she'd seen Karen since Jo had talked to her yesterday. She would also be forced to conceal from her father, just how emotionally fragile she still felt. "You do know that the chorus is joining us today?" Jo said, as they drew up outside the church hall. "Oh, that's all I need," George grumbled. "I've smoked far too much as it is this weekend, without having to prove myself in front of a load of new people." "Well, I'm sure that Vera Everard will steal all your thunder, so you'll have nothing to worry about." "Good god," Said George in disgust. "I can't believe she wanted to play Eve. Haydn would turn in his grave at the thought." "I'm looking forward to seeing how your father will handle her," Jo said in amusement. "I wouldn't bother," George replied, a slight smile cracking her air of moroseness. "Daddy's afraid of her, he always has been."
Seeing that they were clearly the last to arrive, George said she would stay outside for a quick cigarette. "I suppose you may as well make a bad situation worse," Said Jo with an affectionate roll of her eyes. As she left George to it and walked inside, she saw John, sitting tuning up his Strad, with a very thoughtful look on his face. When he saw her, he lowered his violin and walked over to her. "Is George with you?" He asked in greeting. "Yes," Jo replied, briefly leaning her cello against the wall. "Is she all right?" He asked almost casually. "Not really," Jo told him, her anger beginning to rise. Then, before he could speak, she held up a hand to forestall him. "Don't, John, don't say whatever it is you're about to say. I could strangle you for what she's gone through this last week, but I have no intention of getting myself a mandatory life sentence." "Jo, I..." He tried to interrupt. "Why, John, why do I always have to pick up the pieces when you start playing with her feelings, as if she really was nothing more to you than your latest conquest?" "I didn't ask you to," He countered back. "No, and neither did George. But somehow, I always end up doing it. It really is about time you learnt to clear up your own mess." As Jo stalked away to take her place, John stared after her, utterly flabbergasted. As Brian Cantwell hadn't yet arrived, Karen leaned across the space to speak to Jo. "How is she?" "Outside having a cigarette, if you want to speak to her." Moving across to sit in Brian's chair, so that they could talk with a little more privacy, Karen said, "I heard what you said to John, and I feel a bit guilty that I didn't do more this weekend." "You shouldn't," Jo told her, calming down a little. "Much as this might hurt you, George wouldn't have wanted you to see her like that. The best thing you could do, is to take her home with you afterwards, and give her what I can't." Seeing the shutters coming down in Jo's face as she said this, Karen silently got up and left her to it. Leaving her viola on her chair, she walked outside, to find that George was the only one taking a last, hopeful drag. "I thought I might find you out here," She said quietly. "Once an addict, always an addict," George said matter-of-factly. "How are you?" "Oh, all right," George replied, not really knowing what to say. "George, I know you probably don't want to hear it," Karen began slowly. "But there's something I need to say." "Don't," George almost pleaded. "Or you'll make me feel even more stupid than I already do." "Just let me say my piece," Karen persuaded gently. "Then I'll shut up, I promise." When George remained quiet, Karen suddenly didn't know how to phrase it. "There isn't anything you can't say to me," She said eventually. "Nothing I don't want to hear. No matter what you feel, no matter how good or bad it is, I want to know. There isn't anything you could say, or feel, that would frighten me off in any way. I know this relationship is unconventional to say the least, but that doesn't mean that I don't care for you a great deal. I... I just wanted you to know that," She finished quietly, thinking that that had possibly been the lamest speech she'd come out with in years. But George was staring at her, a rush of tenderness flooding her heart. What she'd said to Jo yesterday was right, Karen didn't deserve to be hurt, not ever. Reaching up to put her arms round Karen's neck, George gently kissed her. "Thank you," She said softly. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's said to me in a long time." "I know it's difficult," Karen said into George's hair. "But try not to shut me out." "I think we'd better go in," George said, after a while of standing close to each other. "And it's probably a very good job that I'm not conducting today. I would probably take it out on all and sundry."
When everyone had been assembled, including the twenty strong chorus, Joe Channing took his place on the rostrum. "Now, I know that my daughter will have given you all a fairly hectic ride when she stood in for me last week, so I am expecting you all to have improved dramatically." At a sound of disgust from Sir Ian, Joe Channing raised an eyebrow. "Something to say, Rochester?" He demanded silkily, seeing that something had obviously happened that he didn't know about. "No," Sir Ian replied, his feathers a little ruffled by being addressed in such an unaccustomed manner. "Good," Joe replied, vowing to discover what had happened at the earliest opportunity. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if George had offended quite a number of people in her stint as conductor. "As we have the members of the chorus with us for this rehearsal," He continued. "We will be concentrating on those pieces which include them, most of which do not require the participation of our soloists. However, we shall begin with one that does include everyone, and that ought to ease our singers in gently."
As he raised his baton for the opening of 'The Heavens are telling', George became suddenly aware of John's gaze behind her. She could feel his eyes burning into her back, as if the notes of his score were printed on the back of her blouse. As there is no orchestral introduction to this particular piece, the chorus seemed almost surprised that they were expected to sing. "Let's try that again," Joe Channing said patiently. "Without the fluff this time." The second attempt wasn't much better, but by the third, the members of the chorus seemed to realise that at least some of them had to take the plunge. Finally! George thought as they moved into the piece, the fairly simple chords not appearing to pose any immediate problems. When the trio of soloists entered for their few bars, George realised just how many cigarettes she must have smoked this weekend, in other words, far too many. Her voice didn't crack, it didn't even waver, but she was all too aware of just how much she wouldn't be able to sing anything particularly high today. At the same time, a good many of the orchestra, though happy to have Joe back as their conductor, were occasionally missing George's far clearer beat. Her rhythm had been clipped, precise, like a knife driving through butter. Joe's on the other hand was a little less certain. After a few abortive entries, they finally stumbled to the end. "Well, that wasn't exactly an unmitigated success," Joe told them. "But practice is supposed to make perfect, so we'll try this again." They added Monty's few preceding solo tenor lines this time, giving the chorus a little more warning of their entry. After the trio had completed their few lines in the middle, George suddenly became aware of a most unpleasant noise, the sound of an alto who was singing distinctly out of tune. By the end of the second run through of the piece, she had pinpointed the lack of tone, to none other than Vera Everard. But she wasn't the only one to become aware of this. John had noticed it, so had Roisin, and many others. But how to tell her? She was one of the most formidable wives on the legal circuit, causing fear and dread everywhere she went, from the Lord Chief Justice downwards.
When Joe announced that they would then move on to 'the marvelous work behold amazed', Neil glanced over to see a look of horror on George's face. She couldn't believe it. No, not that song, please. The one of her solos that included the chorus, went right up to top C, sixth, octave, C. She knew she couldn't do it. No way on earth could she get up that high today. Knowing that she was about to make an even bigger fool of herself than she had ever done before, George began to tremble. She could feel her throat closing up, a barrier rising to prevent her voice coming out. John could feel her tension from where he sat, and from what Jo had said, this was probably because she'd been smoking far too much this weekend, and didn't think she would be able to do what was required of her. He stretched out a hand to touch her shoulder, to offer some sort of comfort, but retracted it before he could. After the last time they'd spoken, he thought she would probably reject his touch. As George rose to her feet, she had to resist the urge to simply walk out of the hall. She listened to Lawrence James' oboe, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She sang the first few bars adequately enough, but she could feel the constriction that her nervous tension was putting on her throat and breathing muscles. The chorus came in at the right time, their lines interweaving with hers just as they should. But when she reached the second verse, she knew the moment of her downfall was approaching. It was during the word 'Volts', that she had to soar up to the top C, her voice rising above every other sound. But this wasn't to be, not today. As George reached the point of no return, she got so far up the scale, and then stopped. She tried to go on, but her voice just wouldn't come. John was surprised by the sudden ceasing of her voice, and he glanced over at her, to see her standing as stiff and taut as a lamppost. Joe brought the orchestra to a halt. "What happened?" He asked, looking over at his daughter, taking instant note of the look of terror, anger and humiliation in her face. "Nothing," She mumbled, refusing to meet her father's gaze. She was letting him down, and she couldn't bear that. Saying that they would take the piece from a few bars earlier, Joe raised his baton. But the same thing happened again. Try as she might, George could not force her throat to open enough to let out the sound, because she knew that as a result of her drinking and smoking this weekend, the note would crack if she tried to sing it. She would far rather make no sound at all, than make one that bore any resemblance to a tomcat being garroted by knicker elastic. They tried these few bars over and over again, but every time George failed to complete them. It wasn't helping her concentration, that Vera Everard was becoming more and more irritating. After the sixth failed attempt, George finally snapped. "Will someone please get that caterwauling alto out of here!" Everyone knew to whom she was referring by this time, and a few of them laughed. "At least said alto is trying to sing her part, which is more than can be said for you," Sir Ian put in, knowing he was signing his own death warrant, but being utterly unable to resist. Whirling round, George snatched the open score from the music stand in front of John, and hurled it over the heads of the first and second violins. Its pages briefly fluttered, like autumn leaves in a gently blowing breeze. But there was nothing gentle about the way the spine of the score crashed into Sir Ian's face. There was a stunned, awful pause. "Georgina!" Joe Channing roared, whipping round to glare at his daughter for doing such a thing. Knowing she'd definitely gone too far, George picked up her handbag and walked out.
When the door had closed behind her, Joe Channing cleared his throat. "I think we will move onto something that doesn't involve any soloists. Will somebody retrieve that score please?" Getting up from her chair, Barbara picked up the score, and walking passed the first desk of the second violins, handed it to John. When she'd returned to her seat, Joe instructed them all to turn to 'Awake the harp.' John tried to tune out the sound of the music, playing his own part as if on autopilot. He knew George had the potential to fly off the handle sometimes, but that had even been beyond what she was usually capable of. He glanced over at Sir Ian, observing that the blood from his injured nose had splattered down onto his pristine white shirt. She could end up in an awful lot of trouble for this, but John didn't think so. Ian wouldn't dare pull a stunt like that, not after the conversation they'd had last week. This was stupid, he thought to himself, eventually lowering his violin. He was worried about George, and he wanted to make sure she was all right. As he rose to his feet, leaving his violin on his chair, it also occurred to him that now might be a good time to apologise to her.
George was sitting on the bench, on the other side of the carpark. It was a memorial to someone she'd never heard of, and its back was nestling in the arms of the hawthorn hedge that bordered the beech wood behind the church. She couldn't believe she'd done that, actually hurled a score in someone's face, possibly doing what amounted to criminal damage. She felt so up in the air today, unable to keep herself afloat, yet unable to reach back to the firm, safe ground beneath her. She felt cut adrift, tossed asunder, though this didn't make any sense to her. What Karen had said meant a great deal to her, as had Jo's friendship and support over the last weekend, so what was wrong with her? The answer came to her when she saw him. She didn't just want John in her life, she needed him. When he wasn't there, everything seemed to become unraveled. She didn't speak to him as he approached, not having the slightest idea of what she could say to him. As he sat down beside her, all John wanted to do was to hold her, to gather her into his arms, and to soothe away all the hurt. But he still couldn't be sure that his advances would be appreciated. He found his thoughts briefly straying to his conquest of the week before. Yes, she had looked like George, and once in bed she had certainly acted like George, but she hadn't touched his heart like George. Nobody, with the obvious exception of Jo, had ever, could ever, touch his heart in the way George always did. As his resolve weakened, and he gently reached for her, she still didn't speak, but she did allow him to put his arms round her. She knew this was his way of saying he was sorry, and for now, it was good enough for her. She knew she would change her mind, once she felt emotionally stronger, but for now, she just needed him. "Did Daddy send you out here?" She asked eventually, her face resting against his shoulder. "No," He said, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. "That was certainly some aim," He added with a smile. "I couldn't have done it better myself." George didn't smile, she couldn't. "I can't believe he called me Georgina," She said disgustedly. John laughed. "I can't have heard your full name since our wedding day." "Who in their right mind would call their daughter, Georgina Rosalind?" "It's very pretty," He said in defence of his ex-father-in-law. She stayed quiet, not feeling remotely pretty, even if he thought her name was. Tilting her face up towards his, he softly kissed her. "I'm sorry," He said quietly. "About last week." "Yes," She said resignedly. "So am I." "You're very subdued today," He observed. "And you look tired." "Oh, don't you start," She replied, thinking that this must be the understatement of the year. "I've had similar from Jo all weekend." "Ah," He said in realisation. "So, is that why she was shouting at me earlier?" "Probably, though I wish she hadn't." It was perhaps the fact that not even the thought of Jo shouting at him could raise a smile in her, which really got John worried. "I love you," He said, stroking her far too pale cheek. "Do you?" she asked dully, almost as if she didn't care. "Yes," He said sincerely, fixing her with his all too penetrating gaze. He looked as though he meant it, and even sounded as though he meant it, but did he? George wanted to be sure, she really did, but John had said this so many times to her, and on every occasion he'd broken his promise. When he kissed her this time, he could feel the need in her, the need to have his love proved to her in some way. Their kisses became more passionate, the spring sunshine seeming to give their love a renewed vigour. When he gently touched her breast, still through her blouse, she gasped. "John, stop it," She said, as he began caressing her with those addictive fingers of his. "You can't do that here." "Do you want to find somewhere, where I can do that, and other things?" He suggested between kisses, clearly feeling her nipple harden under his fingertips. My god, his offer was tempting. But should she do it? "All right," She said after a moment's thought, deciding that with all the sexual frustration and emotional ups and downs she'd had over the weekend, a very forbidden, utterly animalistic screw might be what she needed.
Taking her hand, he led her towards the trees at the edge of the wood, the path leading away from the churchyard, and away from where all the cars were parked. He seemed so sure of where he was going, that George would have wondered if he'd been here before if she hadn't known better. They'd gone a good way down the woodland path before they reached the clearing, a sprawl of fresh, springy grass, surrounded by trees and bushes of hawthorn and flowering currant. When they moved away from the path, they were entirely hidden from anyone who might come looking for them. They collapsed onto the grass, continuing where they'd left off, their mouths in a perpetual dance, and their hands feverishly undoing clothes. As she reached for his belt, he stayed her hand. "You first," He said, pushing her back on the grass, raising her skirt and swiftly removing her knickers. As he gently parted her legs and lay on the grass between them, it briefly occurred to George that this would surely make a far more compromising photograph than the one of John and Jo in bed asleep together. She half gasped, half cried out when John's tongue inched its way inside her, reclaiming her taste as part of his raison d'être. She knew it wouldn't take much for her to come, her extreme tension making every nerve ending aware of each sensation. "John, please," She almost begged, aching to feel his tongue on her clitoris, desperate to have the rush of feelings overwhelm her. He gave her what she wanted, down to every last swipe of his tongue, every last, gentle nibble. She almost screamed as she came, her cry of abandon frightening away some of the nesting birds in the trees above her head. Whilst her internal muscles were still throbbing from her orgasm, John swiftly unzipped his fly and plunged himself inside her. She could tell how much he wanted her, the enormity of him filling her to capacity. She clung to him as he thrust into her again and again, needing the hard and vigorous treatment as proof that he still loved and needed her. But when John in turn reached his own climax, the words, "I love you," were torn from his mouth. That was when it hit her. He didn't love her, really, she was just kidding herself. He loved fucking her, but that was it. His words left her cold, flat, emotionally numb. They didn't mean anything to her, because she didn't know what he wanted them to mean, especially when they spewed forth at the point of orgasm, just as the seed did from his body. When he withdrew from her and lay down beside her, she stayed still for a moment, allowing the May sun and the spring breeze to play lightly over her debauched flesh.
They were silent as they put on their clothes, both aware that all they'd really done was to make the situation between them worse. They'd taken their physical gratification at a moment's notice, but nothing between them had been resolved. George didn't believe he loved her, and John didn't know how to convince her. He tried to take her hand as they walked back along the path, but she moved it away from him, knowing that if she touched him again, she would yet again give into his protestations. She held back as he moved to go inside, wanting a minute or two to marshal her thoughts.
When John returned to his seat in the front desk of the first violins, it could certainly be said that he did so with a swagger. This wasn't intentional, but simply a result of his very recent sexual satisfaction. The male barrister sitting next to him gave him a conspiratorial wink, but Joe Channing simply glared. When George returned a few minutes later, Neil beckoned her over to him, using the cover of the singing from the chorus to tell her that the top two buttons of her blouse were undone. Blushing furiously and fastening them, she moved to take her seat. When the orchestra and chorus reached the end of the piece they were going through, Joe turned round and gave his daughter an assessing look without saying a word. George barely noticed as they waded their way through the final piece of the work, using up the talents of orchestra, chorus and soloists alike. She knew it backwards, and hardly needed to think about her entries. It seemed no time at all before they were putting away the chairs and collecting instruments and handbags together in preparation for leaving. George found that she simply wanted to escape as quickly as possible. But before she could, her father approached her. "Daddy, I've got to go," She said, trying to make her get away before he started. "I've no doubt," He said sternly but quietly, guiding her into a corner with his familiar, heavy hand on her shoulder. When they were out of earshot of everyone else, he said, "I am well aware of your relationship with Deed, and much as you know I disapprove, I realise that I cannot run your life for you. But what I will not have, is the pair of you flaunting your relationship so blatantly, right under my very nose. I neither want nor need to know about what exists between you and Deed, though after today's performance it has become blindingly obvious to everyone here. I will not have my daughter behaving like a common slut in public. Is that understood?" George was speechless. "Yes, I see that it is," He finished a little more gently, seeing that his words had perhaps hit home a little too forcefully. "I'm sorry," She said, feeling utterly disgusted with herself. "Good," He replied curtly, the worry for his daughter's welfare evident in his face.
When George emerged into the late afternoon air, she saw Karen and Jo waiting for her, sitting on the bench where her little detour with John had begun. "No prizes for guessing where you went during that rehearsal," Karen said with a wry smile as George sat down between them. "Don't," George said tightly. "Just don't make me feel cheaper than I already do. Daddy's just told me that he won't have his daughter acting like a common slut in public." "Ouch," Said Jo in sympathy. "I'm sorry, to both of you," George said, feeling a sudden urge to put an arm round each of them. "I shouldn't have done that." "Sweetheart," Karen said fondly. "It doesn't matter. I couldn't be more aware of you and John than I already am, so it really doesn't bother me." "And think about it this way," Jo said matter-of-factly. "At least it'll stop the likes of Ian Rochester thinking that John's sleeping with me." "Why are you both so nice to me?" George asked wonderingly. Unbeknown to the other, Jo and Karen both opened their mouths to say, "Because we love you," And thankfully thought better of it in time. "Because you're fabulous in bed," Karen said with a completely straight face. "Why else?" This seemed to break the ice, making George laugh and Jo smile. "Well, as I clearly can't testify to that particular quality, I shall have to defer that answer to another time," Jo told her, giving George a look that said she would certainly like to be able to. When they saw John emerge with his Strad, Karen said to George, "Do you want to come home with me?" "Now that really is an offer I can't refuse," George said, as she got to her feet.
John watched George and Karen leave in Karen's car, and he wondered what they'd all three been talking about. Jo was still sat on the bench waiting for him, and John found himself unsure as to what to say to her. When he sat down beside her, she asked nonchalantly, "Nice afternoon, was it?" "Yes," He replied quietly, seeing the glimmer of laughter in her eyes. "You do realise that you have well and truly confused all the usual gossips, don't you." "Oh, that's good," He said with a smile. "At least they'll really have something to think about for a change." "Can I see you this evening?" She asked, because they needed to talk about George, and the flippant way John appeared to have apologised to her yet again. "Is that so you can finish what you started earlier?" He asked, knowing her too well. "Partly," She conceded. "But I'll try not to shout at you, I promise." As they stood to leave, he tenderly put his arms round her, never feeling quite right if he parted from Jo without a kiss. But when Jo's lips connected with his, she immediately knew that something was different. The taste on him had altered, it having become a muskier, slightly sweeter flavour that was vaguely familiar. Then it struck her, and she reeled back from him in shock. "What?" He asked, wondering what had made her blush quite so beautifully. "You... You... You even taste of her!" She said, her voice higher with embarrassment but quiet because of her need for propriety. "Oh, dear, do I?" He said, beginning to laugh. "I'm sorry," He added, seeing that it had made her feel extremely uncomfortable. "Go home, have a shower, and then come and see me, but not before," She told him firmly, the taste of George's sexual secretion on him having thoroughly confused her. When John had showed her what she, herself, tasted like, on that Sunday of a fortnight ago, it had been very similar to what she'd tasted on him today. She could feel the beginnings of her own arousal at the thought, and she desperately wanted to get rid of him before he could suspect anything of the sort. But as she drove home, she wondered just what it would be like to do that to a woman, to do that to George, and if she, Jo, could ever be any good at it.