Chapter 4

The food in the museum café was, indeed, baked potatoes, with various fillings and the ubiquitous salad. Why do cafés insist on dumping a load of green stuff on everything? I always feel obligated to eat it, and in any case on that day I was hungry. As we were still hungry after that we both had slabs of gloriously sticky chocolate fudge cake.

When we gave Petra's parents the news, her father's reaction was...

"Well! It's about time you two got your heads..."

"DEREK!" shouted his wife, "be polite, dear."

He came to me and held out his hand. "I'm pleased, Jim. You have my blessing. I admit I was wondering if the two of you would ever recognise what you've got."

"Thank you, sir," I responded.

"That's enough of the sir," he said, "though I'll accept it this once as it's a formal occasion. But in future, it's going to be Derek, or even, Dad, If you want to stick to 'Mr. Wilson' until the two of you are actually married, I'll put up with that, okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Wilson," I smiled.

Elaine Wilson gave me a hug, before embracing her daughter.

"Congratulations," she said, simply.

I think Elaine Wilson is the only person I know whose cooking rivals my mother's. Supper was absolutely delicious. Of course, the company helped...

Petra ran me home in the Morris.

My parents' reactions were not too dissimilar to Petra's.

"At last!" my father said, kissing Petra on the cheek as Mum hugged me. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. Then she embraced Petra as Dad shook my hand. "Congratulations, son, you've got a good one there."

"I think so," I said, seriously.

Dad, and Mr. Wilson and I knew our place in wedding plans ... seen and not heard. Mr. Wilson was heard to comment that he knew his only functions were to sign cheques and escort his daughter down the aisle ... assuming the womenfolk settled on a church wedding. All I knew about it was it was planned for next Easter.

I got my M.Sc., but was pretty caught up in work for my doctorate.

Came the Autumn, and one day in October, Petra cornered me. "Make sure you're free all Friday and don't make any plans for the weekend. Say, 'yes, dear'."

I did as I was told. Thursday evening, she told me, "pack a bag for the weekend. Comfortable, smart casual. Lap-top and/or a good book."

Mum and Dad were smiling, but not saying anything.

Dad ran us to the station Friday morning for a train to London. I couldn't help remembering the last time I rode a train to London in the company of a girlfriend. We found our seats and looked at each other. Petra smiled, a little sadly, and squeezed my hand. We fired up our laptops and buried ourselves in work as the train left the station. It was about an hour later when I had to take a break from the screen and stretch. I closed my eyes ... and, I don't think I was asleep, but I was in that bright place again. Once more, there were many other people there, but I only had eyes for Susheela. She, however, looked at me and smiled, but then looked past me. I felt another hand slip into mine and looked to see Petra, her face full of wonder.

Susheela took our joined hands in hers. "I'm glad for you," she said. "Between you, you gave me a lifetime's worth of joy in a year. Thank you, Petra; thank you, Jim. We should all meet again, one day, but not like this. Then, our joy will be complete. I love you both."

We were back in our railway carriage, hands still clasped together. Petra turned to me, her cheeks wet with tears.

"You've been there before, haven't you?"

"Yes," I said, "twice."

"I think ... won't you ... I mean..."

"You want to know if I want to go to Su?"

"Well, I suppose, yes."

"Petra, you are my present, and my future. My love for Su was real, but it was like ... a petrol fire. Hot, and fierce, and all-consuming ... but short-lived. It burnt out, and what's left is a sweet memory, and sadness. Our love, our love has to be a charcoal fire. It has to last a lifetime, and be steady. Hot, yes, but not fierce, and we'll need to keep feeding it to keep the coals glowing bright orange."

"It was sort of lovely ... the brightness ... but we didn't belong there, did we?"

We arrived at St. Pancras' station and went straight to the tube (underground, or metro if you're not English) and hied ourselves to Bayswater to the hotel Petra had booked. It only had one star, but was apparently very highly rated by guests; we certainly found it very comfortable and welcoming. Anyway, we checked in and dumped our stuff.

"Jim," began Petra, "when you came before, it was your treat for Susheela, and you did things that she liked. This time, it's my treat for you, and I want us to do things you want to do. So, we've got a few hours this afternoon ... where to? Not the Science Museum — that's for tomorrow, unless you've got a different idea."

I looked at her. I mean, I really looked at her. We'd been close for so long, I hadn't really 'checked her out'. I saw a slightly-above-average height, dark brown-haired, blue-eyed young woman, with a slightly angular face (currently wearing an expression that transitioned from fondly smiling to slightly anxious as I didn't immediately respond), a figure that curved in all the right places without being ... well ... spectacular. I thought she was perfect. Closing the distance between us, I took her in my arms and kissed her gently. As she began to respond, the kiss deepened and our hands roamed. It felt great.

"What's wrong with right where we are?" I asked, breaking away. "The scenery is lovely; much better than the City."

Her eyes dropped and she leaned forward and rested against me.

"Okay," she said, very quietly.

It might seem odd, but despite, or perhaps because of our history, we'd never got 'past third base', or seen each other naked. I hadn't realised — if I'd thought about it at all, I should have — she'd never gone further with anyone else, either.

I kissed her again, and we began to undress each other, fumbling rather as we tried to maintain the kisses as long as possible, and slowing as more skin was exposed and we wanted — needed to stroke and caress it ... but eventually we were both naked.

No-one is perfect, of course, and different people have different ideas of perfection. Physically, objectively, Petra was far from perfect. The scars from her accident and subsequent surgical interventions, while unobtrusive, were there. Some men would complain her breasts were too small, or her hips too wide. To me, at that moment, she was the epitome of perfection. The scars were merely a part of her, of her history ... of our history. I, of course, am even further from physical perfection. It is just as well that women seem to be less interested in male perfection than vice-versa. We stood a little apart for a few moments, and just looked. Then our eyes met. Her eyes were wide; I didn't recognise the emotion there until I realised she was trembling slightly.

"Are you ... are you okay, Pet?"

She closed the gap between us. "I'm okay," she murmured, "just ... a little nervous." Then taking my hand, pulled me to the bed.

Horizontal, we resumed kissing, stroking and caressing one another. It's not just babies that like to explore with their mouths; I kissed her breasts, sucked and nibbled on the nipples. It was delightful ... and Petra seemed to be happy too, judging by the sighs and moans of pleasure. She stiffened as I moved lower. I had to kiss and caress her thighs and hips for several minutes before she relaxed and let me approach her most private place. My first lick produced a groan from her and an 'Oh!' from me; her juices were so sweet. I'd brought her to orgasm with my fingers before, first, way back when, and often enough since and just did similar things with my tongue; sometimes moving away to lick her labia, then her clit; she came, hard, and then again.

I kissed my way back up, her legs opened to accept me and she guided me into position. I penetrated her ... met the obstruction of her hymen ... and stopped.