Friday Afternoon

When I got home, I had a message from Rob. With all the drama at school I had actually forgotten about him and Liz. I rang him back, and he asked how it was going. For some reason it was not easy to answer him. It had been great with Liz on Wednesday night, but knowing how he felt, it was difficult to be effusive so I suppose my reply might have sounded a bit evasive.

"Hey, yer not goin' to screw her around are you?" he asked, with an odd note to his voice. Was he threatening me, or concerned for her, or both?

"No, of course not! You know me better than that. But it's not as straightforward as you think."

"Oh, so not good enough for you is she?"

"Of course she is! She was fantastic, and we had a fantastic time; we ... we went all the way, you know." This was ridiculous. Any minute now I was going to be mortally offending him by not shafting her enough! Or, I realised with more perception, by not being in love with her like he was.

"Great, I knew it 'd work out."

But in his voice, I could hear the hurt. Yes, he wanted her to get her wish of hooking up with me, but at the same time it was killing him that it was not him. That chap was a screwed up as I was. I had to ask. "Rob, are you sure you want me to be doing this? I mean if you..." how could I put this delicately "if you were interested in making a play for her, I would step aside without a murmur." (Would I though? Would I?)

"It ain't about what I want, is it? S'about what she wants."

"Look mate, I am not really sure what she wants, and whatever we do, it is going to be difficult. What do you expect — some sort of marriage or something?" His silence confirmed that he knew what the options were — and what they were not.

"Why don't we just give it a few days and then..." and then what? All my life so far I had muddled along, taking the path of least resistance and throwing a tantrum when it went wrong. This time I needed to make an actual decision about my life, and stick to it. But I could not make it now, not without some serious head time. "I'll speak to you on Sunday. On Sunday afternoon I will let you know exactly what I am going to do. What we are going to do. So, can you wait until then?"

"Alright. Sunday it is. See ya then."

Back in my room, Annie was in the middle of folding up my clothes and putting them away. The place looked fresher, somehow, and the sunlight through the window shone warmly on the carpet and floorboards. Is this what real cleaning does to a place, I wondered?

"Boss, are you all right?" asked Annie, in genuine concern. Hell, I should have known I was not going to hide anything from this one, hanging on the least flicker of every expression.

"I've just had a tough day at school. Nothing to worry about."

"What about if I..."

I interrupted with a grin, in spite of my mood. "And no, I don't want relief right now, although it was sweet of you to think of it."

"No, Boss, I was going to offer a massage. They are supposed to be the thing after a long day. The girls thought I was pretty good when we used to practice on each other."

Well, there was an idea. I stripped off and lay flat on my front as ordered, waiting while she gathered a few bits and pieces together. I thought I knew what I was letting myself in for. I thought that a back rub would be pleasant, and I was vaguely looking forward to the fondling and the sex that I suspected might follow after. If she could get me in the mood, maybe a bit of 'relief' would be a good idea after all.

It started gently enough. Smooth hands and soft fingers lulled me into a false sense of security. Warm scented oil washed over me. I relaxed, let down my guard, and then it all changed.

I did not know I had knots in my shoulders until she attacked the first one. It was searched out and isolated in iron fingers before being kneaded into submission, and then smoothed back into my shoulder. The others followed, each in turn mercilessly subdued until, slowly but certainly, my back and shoulders and neck became as smooth and fluid as the oil she used. Her scope widened. Her hands were everywhere, no, not just her hands, there was warm soft oil-slippery skin on mine in too many places. Someone else might have identified thighs and forearms and breasts but for me there was only the pressure, the folding and smoothing of my back, my arms, and my legs. Her whole self was over me and on me, moving like water, washing over the pebbled streambed of my back. Then my body was the water; I was the stream, being poured from one pool to the next. The pressure lightened; clouds floated over me, or was I floating on a cloud? I was on that margin, the hinterland between waking and sleep where all was calm. Time stopped. She stopped.

To say thank you would have been inadequate. I rolled over slowly, and looked up at her. At some stage she had lost all her clothes, too. I still could not work out which part of the massage was by her hands and which part involved other, softer, parts of her. It did not seem to matter. I was floating: suspended, warm, safe and relaxed. It was like the bliss of lying in on a Sunday morning, not tired but not needing to get up. I held out my arms and wordlessly she lowered herself alongside me and fitted her body to mine. Our legs entwined, her breasts squashed against my chest and her head tucked up in the angle of my chin. We slept.

The nap was only twenty minutes but after it I felt reborn. Murdoch, Liz, my Mother, the Ball, the motorbike — they didn't matter. I just knew that somehow I could pull through.

It was dawning on me that I really really wanted to keep Annie. But it would break my heart to say goodbye to all hopes of that lovely bike. Then there was Liz. I certainly wanted to see more of Liz, and while I was not sure of her long term plans, they probably did not include a collarslut on the side. And finally — Murdoch. My resolve hardened. Whatever happened in this mess, I was going to keep Annie out of his hands. I would start there. There must be something I could do about him.

Penny! She was the undisputed queen of that school. Surely she could help. It was four years since I had last used that number, but amazingly it was still in my fone. I was oddly nervous as I waited for her to pick up, although there was no good reason why.

"James! How nice to hear you." And for some reason not only did I believe her, but it was nice for me to hear her. She had the vision off, and I could not help thinking of the reasons why a girl might have hit the privacy button before picking up. And it drew attention to her voice, which I didn't really notice when she was standing in front of me, but sounded unconsciously sexy, I decided. However, this was not really a social call, and I got down to business without much in the way of chat.

It was disillusioning to discover that there was a limit to the power she had in our school. Boys, she could only get at secondhand, through the girls, and while that influence was not trivial, Murdoch's position as rugby hero and school tough guy was almost unassailable unless she declared an all-out war, and she was not prepared to do that without preparation. She was sympathetic but she couldn't pull his teeth over one weekend.

"Is it really true about young Emily Bradshaw, though?"

"Sure is. I was there, remember."

"Yeah, and I heard you put the Fifth years up to black-balling him. Well done, you."

"Did I? Oh, well I suppose I did. Any chance of doing the same with the Sixth Years?"

"Pretty difficult. I will do my best — I never liked him myself — but he has a lot of status amongst the girls at the school. But let me muster my allies amongst the Prefects and we will see what we can concoct next week."

"I just don't get it! He is a bounder; an untrustworthy bully with an unpleasant taste for hurting people. How can they like him?"

"James, liking is not the same as attraction. Yes, he is a complete cad. But I can tell you, that is part of why someone like Vincent Murdoch can seem attractive. There can be an irresistible whiff of excitement about powerful men, or even dangerous men."

I still didn't get it. I did notice she thought of him as a man, not a boy. How did she think of me, I wondered? "Well, do what you can, if only to keep any sensible girl out of his hands. Anyway, I suppose I will see you tomorrow night."

"Of course, James. I hope you are at least a little excited now. With a bit of luck, it's going to be a night to remember."

One way or another that would certainly be true, I thought to myself as I made my goodbyes.

I glanced back at my fone. It was time for my fitting with Mrs. Haversham, and amazingly, I was quite looking forward to it.

The suit felt like a second skin and looked fantastic. "This is so good," I enthused to Mrs Haversham, but I was surprised to see her frown.

"No no no," she muttered to herself, marching around me, pinching here and pulling there as if I was a shop dummy. "Zis will 'ave to come in, and 'ere," she tugged unmercifully at my elbow, making more marks with tailor's chalk, "a crease, and zere ... Very well, we make ze changes and maybe when you come back tomorrow eet will pass."

To my inexperienced eye, the outfit was perfect, and I had hoped to take it home, but discretion was the better part of valour. I changed without a murmur and stood in front of her in my own clothes again.

"And, what of your young lady? We must see what it is zat she is to wear — we must make sure she is, 'ow you say, compatible."

"Young lady? Oh, you mean my date. Well, I am afraid I don't have one. I was not that keen on this before, although I have to say I am feeling a little more enthusiastic now."

"What! No one on your arm! No flower to set against ze austere perfection of ze creation of Giorgio Armani 'imself? We cannot do zis zing!" I quailed before Mrs Haversham's horror. But who the hell could I get to take to the Ball at this late stage?

Sophie and Jennifer from my dance class were outside possibilities. I was pretty sure that my mother or Mrs Jones would have already invited them, and Sophie in particular had occasionally requested me as her dance partner in school. If I made it really clear that it was only about the dancing, and that there was no implication she would have to go out with me, maybe I could talk her into appearing on my arm. Then I recalled that she was walking out with Jingo, so she would turn up with him. And frankly, the chances of Jennifer being free at this late stage were just as remote.

I paced about, thinking. What about Penny? Although she had already done an enormous favour for me, she had seemed willing to do a pretend date next week. Could I lean on her to play that part? Then I remembered why the whole affair was so important to her. The last thing she wanted was to appear to be already taken. No, it was no good even asking her.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Haversham, I can't think of anyone who isn't taken, and I don't see what I can do at this late stage."

"So, you 'ave no luck with your society trollops. Sacre Bleu! Young men today, zey 'ave no zoom, no zest! Are you l'escargot, ze snail?" She marched round me, gesticulating wildly while I kept my head down.

"Bribe your sister! Hire an escort! Try ze next school, ze next town! Zere are beautiful women on every street corner if you know where to look. 'Ave you no imagination?"

For a few wild seconds I toyed with the image of Liz, dressed in an over-the-top version of the "Wedding Cake" swirling across the wooden floor of the Assembly Rooms. It was promptly squashed by the thought of what she would actually say if I asked. She despised high society even more than I did.

Even if by some extraordinary dint of persuasion I got her to agree, did I have the balls to face them all down with a prole on my arm? And what were the chances of preventing Liz from clocking one of them in the eye once they launched into her, as I knew they would?

Imagination. She was right. I needed to think laterally. I watched, unseeing, as Annie wistfully circled around that vision in green silk, still on its dummy. Not knowing I was watching, she reached out daringly to touch the floating hem.

Surely not. And yet ... I smiled. "What are we looking for in this partner, Madame? Tall? Slender?"

"Mais oui!"

"Pretty face?"

"Hmmm. Perhaps not necessary. She can sport a mask — it is all ze rage in Paris. More important is ze posture. She must be elegant; she must walk like a dancer and dance like a zephyr."

A mask! Of course, then no risk of her being recognised as a collar! "What about big breasts?" I was painfully aware that my collar would not shine in the current fashion for cantilever bosoms to display maximum cleavage.

"Ah, non! Zey get in ze way! We do not want crude sex. We want elegant, we want slim. Fashion is not to attract ze boys — it is for making ze other girls to die with envy." Her bright eyes fastened on me like a bird on a worm. "So, now you are thinking, perhaps? You 'ave someone in mind?"

She saw where I was looking, and her sudden cackle frightened the life out of me. "Merde! Of course! You surprise even me. You 'ave ze cajouns for zis zing?" I nodded, now certain.

Annie stood frozen in surprise while Mrs Haversham stalked around her, twitching at her clothes and body. "Tall, yes, good back, hmmm ze arse is so important. Good, good. Lift ze arms girl! Excellent, we can do something with zis. Now, 'ow to dress it. Mais ouis! What else!" The little French lady took a fold of the green silk dress and held it up against Annie's face. "Ze colour. Ze eyes, ze 'air. Parfait!"

Wow. I realised what she was thinking. That dress was as different from the standard ball gown as my suit was from a gentleman's dress uniform. She was right — what else could we have used?

"Annie, how would you like to actually wear that dress you have been lusting after?"

"Oh, Boss, I wouldn't dream of it! I was only admiring it, the fabric is so beautiful."

"Ah, ze beautiful fabric is nothing without ze beautiful woman under it. But put zem together — and ze world melts!"

Decision made. "Annie, I am going to take you to the Ball, wearing that dress."

"Boss! I couldn't!"

But it did not take all that long to talk her into it. I was not going to give her the choice anyway, but in fact I could see that somewhere deep inside, the fantasy of swirling across a ballroom floor with all eyes on her, had her in its grip. Now all we had to do was pull it off.

The next hour was both frantic and boring. Annie in just her panties standing on a stool. Mrs H. stalking around her muttering darkly and pecking at her like a starling at a particularly obstinate bread crust. Tape measure and chalk marks on her skin. The dress draped over her. Cutting and sewing. More tape measure and chalk marks. Back in the dress, this time walking around.

"No underwear," declared Mrs. H. "We cannot 'ave zat unfortunate line on ze 'ips." Annie naked. (God, I loved her sweet little bottom.) The dress again. Annie dancing, arms raised. (She danced surprisingly well.) More chalk marks, and more adjustments, although if the dress had changed a fraction of an inch I couldn't see it.

And then, at last — "Yes. Eet will do."

It was skin tight, but pulled nowhere. It supported her sweet breasts but somehow left them free to shift enticingly with every movement. (I could see that Mrs. H. was right — any bigger here would have been a disaster.) Her nipples were almost hidden — but not quite. Christ knows what would happen if she got aroused. The sheen of the silk made the lines and curves of her body, already heart grabbing, seem even rounder; somehow more three-dimensional. The shifting grey-green colour turned her eyes to jade and her hair now had the gloss of chestnut conkers.

For the first time I saw why a woman might pay a fortune for a dress.

But then Mrs. H. hissed and pointed to Annie's groin. "Ha! Look, ze shadow. It must go!" I stared after her, puzzled, and I could make out a disturbance in the surface of the cloth; yes, a faint shadow, just where Annie's pubic hair must be. Well, maybe it was less than perfect, but who would see it, and what could we about it anyway?

"'ORTENSE! Drat the girl, where is she!" The dressmaker's collar appeared as if out of a hat. "So slow — where 'ave you been, lazy girl! Now, take zis young lady, and give 'er ze shave — every corner, full works."