Chapter 9

The return trip came by very soon, but not soon enough for him. He travelled to Gatwick to meet her, she had spent Easter with grandparents, so it seemed obvious to fly from there. Her grandfather had suggested that she be careful “The British will always try and get whatever they can; they are greedy, grasping, ferret-eyed, liars. Be careful! You know what I mean.”

Her grandmother had laughed “He’s still fighting the last war with Britain, seems to have forgotten when they were allies. Anyway,” she poked her granddaughter in the side “I think that warning is too late? Mais oui! My eyesight is not so good, but my perception if fine.”

Peter’s mother thought they should all come to meet Angelique, even against the combined arguments of Helen and Peter, she maintained it was polite to drive up and meet her. Luckily there was a major incident resulting in her having to work a double shift. She apologised over the phone to her son, who was delighted but stayed suitably sombre and said it was fine. He met her off the plane; a fresh faced girl in a light cotton dress with no underskirt, so the sunlight showed her legs to the top. Her hair was braided, she wore minimal makeup (she really didn’t need any makeup, her skin was perfect). How did she do that? How could she project an image of the perfect young girl, and yet also be a sex-fiend in bed? It was a good combination. Peter saw a man turn and watch her as her skirt rose and fell with her body. ‘Yes, you old pervert.’ he thought (the man was probably thirty),’ and she’s mine’. His logical brain told him it wouldn’t last, but whilst it did, he was happy.

There was no doubt he was pleased to see her, or she him. She ran towards him, dropped her bag and leapt into his arms, her legs wrapping round him. Her skirt flapped as she jumped, giving any onlookers who cared to see an excellent view of her bottom encased in pure white pants. She didn’t care, in that she was genuinely innocent, she was just over the moon to see her boyfriend.

He picked up her bag and carried it on one arm and she took his other arm. They headed back to the house. Helen smiled when they arrived. “Mum’s back, she’s pheasanting.” That was their short hand for when their mother started bussling around into overdrive; it meant she would start something (vacuuming Helen’s bedroom floor even though it had been done yesterday) and then stop, remembering to do something else (make cheese scones), then she would look outside and decide the lawn needed mowing.

“Hi Mum, you remember Angelique?”

“Oh, hello dear, of course I remember you. How are you? How was the flight? You are vegetarian? You do eat Quorn though? Peter will show you where you are sleeping.” She was sleeping in Helen’s bedroom; the fourth bedroom did not even have a bed, it was a computer-cum-junk room. Helen and Peter had been told that if Mickey came to stay, he would stay in Peter’s room. Helen had objected, but this time (he was coming tomorrow) not so much. Angelique was sharing with Helen.

It was that evening that the merde hit the fan. “What? How have I missed this?.” Helen’s mother had finally connected her work and home diaries. Helen had known for weeks and was banking on getting Angelique on-site before her mother realised.

“What is it Mrs Walker?” Peter’s parents were mister and missus Walker.

“Oh ... nothing dear. Peter? Helen? Can I have a word?” Out in the hall she explained “Dad is doing that training course,” he wasn’t ‘doing’ it, he was running it. There was no escape, he couldn’t delay. “and I had forgotten about the court case.” At her previous hospital there had been an unusually large number of blood poisonings caused by splinters. She had been called as an expert witness to explain how these things might happen. She had to go to Walsall. She also had no choice. It would be a three day hearing. “You can’t ... I mean ... How?”

“Relax, mum. We’ll be fine. Peter and I are very responsible. I’m sharing with Angelique, and Peter is sharing with Mickey. What’s wrong?”

“Well, I mean ... what will people think?”

“People won’t know. Go and pack. You can’t miss your train tomorrow.”

She looked from Peter to Helen and from Helen to Peter. She had no choice, she couldn’t tell Angelique to go home and Mickey not to come. She couldn’t send them to stay with her mother with no notice, nor to her sister’s – her sister was bit flakey and would probably share spliffs with them. She trusted her children, she did, she DID. She kept telling herself that.

That night, Helen and Angelique got to know each other, they talked about their hopes and dreams, they discussed their relative body shapes – both complimenting the other and assuring each other that the parts they thought were disappointing were in fact wonderful. Angelique had never liked her arm pits, she shaved them, she buffed them, she applied talcum powder, antiperspirant, depillatory creams; she was convinced they were too hairy. Helen told her (truthfully) that she could be a hairy forest and Peter would love her armpits, she was perfect for him, and he for her, she said. Helen told Angelique that her feet were ugly, her little toe curved under, her big toe was stumpy. “They are perfectly lovely.” laughed Angelique and playfully kissed Helen’s feet. They got into one bed together and shared confidences about boys “What? My brother did that? Is he really a good lover?” Yes, Angelique confirmed, he really was, because he cared. Helen told Angelique how Mickey had waited and waited until Helen was willing. “He’s good for me. He’s patient, I’m not. He’s calm, I overreact. I take after my mother. I think ... I think he’s the one. What about Peter?” Angelique admitted that she just didn’t know. “Well, you are both young. Take it easy.”

In the other bedroom, Mickey and Peter talked about football. Relationships didn’t come up.

Sarah left early the next day, she had to drive up instead of getting the train; she had said she would collect Nurse Radcliffe, another independent witness, on the way. They mustn’t talk about the case, they had been told, which was fine as they had something else to gossip about – Doctor MacFinlay had been on television. They both agreed that he was the most self-opinionated, self-obsessed, egotistical shit either had ever met. “Mind you, he comes at the head of a long list.” laughed Sarah Walker. They both chortled at that.

Back at the house, Helen made tea for herself and Peter, coffee for Angelique and Mickey. She carried four mugs upstairs, went into her bedroom and announced: “Right, out you get, time to swap. Here, take this coffee with you. I’ll bring Peter’s tea.” She didn’t even knock; she went in with Angelique behind. “Morning you two. Mickey, you and Angelique are swapping rooms.”

Peter looked up, slightly blearily. “What? Oh, Ohhh. Excellent idea.” It was Mickey who was slightly doubtful.

“Are you sure? I mean Angelique might not want to...” Angelique kissed him on the cheek and walked past his bed and got into Peter’s “Okay, debate over.” He followed Helen out. Less than five minutes later there was a soft, rhythmical thumping from Helen’s room.

“Wow! He doesn’t waste time.” Peter said.

“Oh, you are not a feminist.” He had claimed, vociferously the previous night that he was totally into equality. “I think it is Helen that has got that ball rolling. She was definitely quite desperate. Now, hang on.” She sat up and pulled off her nightdress; she was wearing those purple pants. “You can take these off when you’ve got me excited enough.” He let his hand stroke the material; thin, smooth cotton encasing her own smooth skin, and that delicate slit that promised such delights. He took his time, he had learnt that; never rush a seduction. He was still winding her up when Helen let out a short but loud squeak next door.

“Oh, was that...?” Angelique asked

“Yes, that was Helen’s cum noise. I’ve heard it before, when she was alone. She’s funny. Still, let me see if they can hear yours.”

He was rubbing between her legs slightly harder now, he hadn’t even tried to go under her pants, against her skin. Slightly harder, and slightly faster. He was really trying to focus on her breathing; he was trying to gauge her and keep pace with her – not too fast, not too slow. Her breathing was getting heavier and quicker. She had done this herself before; rubbing through her pants was slightly vaguer, less targetted. She knew that if he could keep his hands out of her knickers, it would take longer, and be stronger and longer when the climax came. She kept telling herself that she would not make a noise, but she knew she was losing control.

Finally she whispered. “Harder, oh, harder! Oh HARDER! HARDER!” her last noise was high pitched and yelpy. That was the only way to describe it: like a small dog having a coughing fit. She had kept it all in too long; both by not playing with herself since he had left her in Paris, and by letting him take his time with her. She realised that her resolution to stay silent had been a failure, as she and he lay in each other’s arms, they both could hear laughter. The cheek! After Helen’s cum noise, now she felt she could laugh at Angelique’s.