Dance While You Can (11 page)

It was after a concert – The Festival of the Flower Children – that I first met Jessica. A crowd of us had gone back to Henry’s and my rooms at Brackenbury Buildings to listen to more music, but I was bored, only half-stoned, and in need of a new woman. The superior-looking chick who sauntered into the room late in the evening – so strikingly out of place among the spaced-out-flower children with her silent, condescending scrutiny of her surroundings and her obvious awareness of her own sexuality – fitted my bill perfectly.

At first I only watched her, as she stood alone, taking in the scattered bodies through a blue haze of pot and incense. She didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular, nor did she seem to care that she was the only woman in the room who wasn’t in kaftan and plaits. In fact looking at her, petite as she was, was like watching the pages of
Vogue
flutter into animation.

‘Far out,’ Henry muttered in my ear.

‘Who is she?’

He shrugged. ‘Never seen her before. Ask your friend.’ And with a grin he nodded to someone behind me.

I turned to find a girl whose name I had forgotten glaring up at me in doped paranoia. I recognised the look immediately: I had screwed her three times – which, in her book, gave her some sort of territorial rights on me. Clutching my arm, she dragged me outside, and since there were several people on the landing freaking out to Cream, she pulled me down the stairs. ‘Her name’s Jessica Poynter,’ she hissed.

‘Really?’ I drawled, stuffing my hands into my pockets and leaning back against the wall. ‘Wouldn’t care to introduce me, would you?’

She slapped my face, harder than they usually did, and stormed off. I looked after her, rubbing my jaw and grinning, then turned back up the stairs and pressed my way back into the party.

When I found Jessica Poynter she was studying the obscene faces of Ensor’s
Intrigue
, something I had stuck on the wall to brighten the place up.

‘I find it beats looking in the mirror,’ I said.

She gave me an unhurried once-over, then turned back to the painting.

I watched her, amused by her deliberate indifference, and let my eyes wander slowly from the thick pencilled lines that sloped from the inside corners of her eyes towards her temples, to the knee-high white socks that finished at least nine inches below her hemline. Her dress was crocheted, and as far as I could tell she wore nothing underneath.

‘So, it’s the famous, or should I say infamous, Alexander Belmayne.’

I smirked, and lifted my eyes from her barely concealed breasts to rest on her whitened lips.

‘Is it true what they say about you?’ she said, without looking at me.

‘Depends what you’ve heard.’

She took a step back and put her head on one side, still studying the grotesque faces on the wall. At last she lifted her eyes to mine, using her lack of height to perfection. ‘They say you despise women.’

I wasn’t unaware of this popular myth, spread mainly by the rabid feminists who were sprouting up all over Oxford, most of whom had availed themselves of my services on more than one occasion. But this was the first time someone had actually come right out with it – or at least come out with it before I laid them rather than afterwards.

I laughed. ‘And how would you like me to answer that?’ I said.

‘Whichever way you choose.’

‘I choose to get you a drink,’ I said, taking her empty glass.

I was gone for some time, and half expected her to have disappeared by the time I returned, but she was still waiting. Why were they all so predictable?

‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at me as she took the drink, and I couldn’t fail to notice the challenge in her eyes. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Do you despise women?’

I sighed, feeling suddenly bored. ‘I despise women,’ I said, and turned to go.

She caught my arm. ‘I won’t do anything to change that.’

‘You couldn’t.’

‘I couldn’t?’ She laughed softly, and I was arrested by her condescension, or maybe it was aggression.

‘I haven’t seen you before,’. I said.

‘Somerville. I study hard.’ She shrugged when I didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’

‘It could be.’

She smiled slowly. ‘Just as long as we come out with what we want at the end of it.’

‘And what do you want?’

She cast her cool gaze over me again. It was answer enough.

I held the silence between us, keeping my eyes on hers. Then I said: ‘Sleep with me tonight.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you always get what you want?’

‘Usually.’

‘But not always?’

I shook my head. ‘Can I see you again?’

‘I shall be around.’

I laughed, and for a fleeting second she looked unsure of herself. ‘I’ll take you for a drive tomorrow,’ I said.

‘In the famous Mercedes? Not tomorrow. Make it the day after. My parents are coming tomorrow.’

‘Can’t I meet them?’

She seemed surprised, and this time her eyes were mocking me. ‘OK. Come for tea. Four-thirty.’ She looked across the room, then smiled. ‘If you’re desperate for some company in your bed tonight, it looks as if your friend Henry has finished with Rosalind Purbright. I’m sure she’ll be more than willing, she usually is.’

I raised an eyebrow at that. ‘And if I did take Rosalind Purbright to bed tonight, would you mind?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Maybe because I want you to.’

‘OK, then, I’ll mind. Should I also slap her face tomorrow, or would you prefer me to slap yours?’

‘I’ve already had mine slapped twice this week.’

‘It’s a very slappable face.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘So is yours.’

She laughed and raised her face in invitation. I caught it in my hand, and eased her back against the wall, feeling her skin through the holes in her dress. She looked up at me, her lips slightly parted, and suddenly I wanted to enter her, there, in the middle of the party. From the way she was looking at me, I knew she wanted it too.

As I bent my head to kiss her she slipped her hand between us, and began to caress me through my jeans. I groaned into her open mouth, and caught her hair in my hands. In response she pressed her hand harder against me, and for one horrifying moment I thought I was going to come.

Then, abruptly, she pushed me away. ‘Ciao,’ she said, and dropping her empty glass into my hand, she left.

I didn’t meet Jessica’s parents the following day, as for some reason they couldn’t make it – which was just as well as I had a rugger match I’d forgotten about. I invited Jessica to come along and watch, but she wasn’t interested.

I saw her a few times over the next month or so, but almost always in the company of the arty types she mixed with, and if we did spend any time alone and I raised the subject of sex, she simply sighed, ‘Is that all you ever think about? There’s so much more to life, you know.’ And when she wasn’t dabbling around with the History of Art, she’d take off for Hull or somewhere, to organise the fishermen’s wives or Dagenham to join the sewing-machinists in their strike for equal pay. She was teasing me, I knew, and for the time being it amused me to let her. But before much longer I’d put a stop to it and give her a session she’d never forget – before moving on to someone else . . . . Meanwhile, I concentrated rather more than I was used to on things like lectures and tutorials and put Jessica and her art and feminism, out of my mind. She’d find out soon enough that Alexander Belmayne never went crawling after a woman.

Then Henry told me she was screwing Guy Hibbert, one of our group. I fell straight into the trap, and my fury knew no bounds when she coolly responded to my dinner invitation with a note informing me that she would be otherwise engaged. However, she went on to say that her parents were arriving the next day, and as I had expressed a desire to meet them once before, if I was still of a similar mind they would be arriving around four thirty.

I screwed up the note and hurled it against the wall. And to demonstrate just what I thought of her, I set out in search of Rosalind Purbright and promptly humped seven bells out of her.

Four-thirty the following day found me at Somerville College. I had taken the trouble to root out a pair of my least torn jeans, and I’d got a nurse from the Radcliffe Infirmary, whom I’d been seeing on and off, to iron me up a decent shirt. I was annoyed with myself for making an effort, and even more annoyed by Henry’s amusement.

Jessica and her family were waiting when I arrived. Her mother had planned a picnic, so we piled into her father’s Bentley and set off for the countryside. We stopped somewhere on the road to Stratford and found a ‘nice, shady little spot’, as Mrs Poynter became faint in direct sunlight.

We looked ridiculous, the four of us sitting there on the side of the road, but I was the only one who seemed to feel it. Mr Poynter soon fell into a heated argument with Jessica on whether or not women should be allowed to join the Stock Exchange.

‘Never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life,’ he grunted. ‘Women! On the Floor! What nonsense will you come out with next?’ He stuffed another chicken leg in his mouth. Mrs Poynter took out a little battery-operated fan which hummed a monotonous circle about her face. Jessica looked at her with contempt, but to my relief she dropped the argument with her father and poured me some more wine. I tried not to look at my watch. It could be a reasonably pleasant afternoon, I thought, if only the old man would shut up; and even better if Jessica and I could be alone.

‘So,’ said Mr Poynter, delving into his teeth to remove a piece of chicken, ‘what are you reading, my boy?’

‘Law,’ I answered.

‘Yes, of course, law. Met your father once. Can’t remember where now, probably at the House. How is he?’

‘Very well the last time I spoke to him, thank you, sir.’

‘Oh, it’s so hot,’ Mrs Poynter complained. ‘Fetch my parasol from the car, darling, will you?’ She blinked at Jessica. ‘She’s such a good girl,’ she said, when Jessica had gone. ‘Have you known each other long?’

‘Not really,’ I answered. She nodded, and batting away the flies that seemed dementedly attracted to her, she appeared to lose interest in me.

Jessica came back with the parasol, then lay down on the grass beside me. Her bra-less nipples were very evident beneath the thin cotton of her T-shirt, and my jeans became uncomfortably tight as she trailed her fingertips over her breasts before letting her hands fall to the grass.

‘Ever get rid of those blasted gypsies, did he?’ Mr Poynter asked.

I tensed, but before I had to answer Jessica said, ‘Have either of you heard from Lizzie recently? I haven’t had a letter for ages.’

‘She’s somewhere in Turkey,’ her mother answered. ‘Heaven alone knows why she should want to go there. I just hope she doesn’t bring back anything nasty.’

‘Lizzie’s my sister,’ Jessica explained. ‘She dropped out of university and went off round the world to find herself. Two years ago, haven’t seen her since.’

‘Very enterprising of her,’ I remarked.

‘Enterprising, you say,’ Mr Poynter jumped in. ‘Downright irresponsible, I call it.’

‘Yes, that too,’ I said, and heard Jessica giggle.

‘Have you known each other long?’ Mrs Poynter said. She leaned against a tree and closed her eyes, blissfully unaware that she’d already asked once.

‘Not very,’ Jessica answered, stretching and yawning. ‘Alexander wants me to sleep with him. What do you think I should do, Mummy?’

I choked.

‘Oh heavens, I don’t know, dear. Is it necessary?’ Her mother was smiling pleasantly, eyes still closed. Mr Poynter was ripping apart another chicken leg, and looking bored.

Jessica flung herself back in the grass and laughed. ‘I’m not sure really,’ she said. Then abruptly she jumped to her feet and held her hand out to me. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

I got up, and mumbling something to her parents, followed her across the field. ‘Did you have to say that?’ I said, when we were out of earshot.

‘No, I don’t suppose I did. But it was worth it to see your face.’

‘Don’t they mind? I mean, you sleeping with men?’

‘They’ve never seemed to.’

‘Unusual parents. Especially with a daughter.’

‘But it’s all right for a son?’

‘I didn’t make the rules,’ I said, holding up my hands in defence.

She pulled me to a halt and turned me to face her. ‘And I’m changing the rules, Alexander.’

She looked beautiful. Her blonde hair, piled carelessly on top of her head, was curling in wisps around her neck, and her intelligent eyes studied me, waiting for my response. When I didn’t answer she shrugged and started to gaze around her. After a while she lifted her arms to the sky and let her head fall back. When she spoke it was as if she were reciting poetry, and slowly she brought her eyes back to mine. ‘Tell me Alexander, because I need to know. Who do you really think I am? What is my purpose in this world?’

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard her ask these questions, and I knew just how serious she was. I looked at her. She was a mystery to me. Her search for meaning and value to her life took her further from me than any earthly distance could. In a way it made her more desirable – I wanted to possess her and make myself her only purpose.

‘Is purpose just another word for fate?’ I asked. ‘Or are you using it to evaluate your movement through life?’

She stared back at me, surprised and intrigued – surprised because I had never taken her seriously before, and intrigued because I had managed to say something that she considered worthy of thought. ‘I can see your intention is to penetrate my psyche,’ she said, eventually, and then started to walk slowly on across the field.

Relieved that the pondering of life’s little complexities seemed to be over and not a little pleased with my own stimulating but unanswerable contribution, I started after her. It was a sleepy summer’s day, and these lovely Oxfordshire cornfields were wasted as a setting for a discussion on the meaning of life.

When we reached the stile to the next field Jessica climbed over. As I made to follow she stopped me, putting the stile between us. ‘Would there be a purpose to us consummating our relationship?’ she said.