Chrissy and Pete

Sometimes the April skies / Will suddenly bring showers

Spring had started slowly. For most of March there were daffodils everywhere, but there was not a lot of sunshine. And there was still an icy-cool breeze. And then, halfway through April, it suddenly changed. The sun came out. The mercury rose. And the streets of London were once again filled with people.

Pete had been to visit The British Museum when, from out of an otherwise blue sky, the first few jumbo-sized raindrops arrived. Pete didn't have an umbrella. He didn't even have a jacket. And the rain was getting heavier.

Pete spotted a canopy over the entrance to an anonymous-looking office building. Time to pick up the pace, he told himself, and by the time he reached shelter he was a contender for the final of the 100 metre dash.

'Boy, where did that come from?' he said to the young woman who was already sheltering under the canopy.

She smiled. 'Sometimes the April skies,' she said.

Pete frowned.

'Pat Boone,' she said. 'He was one of my grandmother's favourites.'

'Pat Boone? The singer?'

'Crooner, my grandfather used to say,' the young woman said. 'But if I remember correctly, the song does have a happy ending.' And she sang: 'Rain to grow the flowers for her first bouquet.'

'So all's well that ends well,' Pete said.

'I guess so,' the young woman said. 'But now I think there has been quite enough to grow a few flowers. Time for the rain to stop.'

Pete laughed. 'Grow a few flowers? Or perhaps drown a few flowers - given the size of these raindrops.'

'Well ... yes,' the young woman said. 'Also, if it doesn't stop soon, I'm going to have to call off my trip to the gallery.'

'Gallery? Oh? Which one?'

'The Hansford.'

'The Jack Merriman show?'

'Yes.'

'I thought that I might have to go and see that. I'm Pete, by the way.'

'Chrissy,' the young woman said.

And that's how they met.

The rain continued long enough for Chrissy to learn that Pete was a design tutor at the Stephenson Institute and for Pete to learn that Chrissy was in her final year of a BA in English Lit. 'And after that?' Pete said.

'Not sure,' Chrissy confessed. 'My original plan was to go back to Wiltshire and do some teaching. But now I'm wondering about journalism.'

'Journalism. That's a tough gig in this day and age,' Pete said.

Chrissy didn't disagree.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, the rain did stop. 'So ... what's the plan now?' Pete asked.

'I think I might flag the exhibition and try again tomorrow.'

'In that case, I might see you there,' Pete said.

'Oh. Then give me a time,' Chrissy said, 'and I'll meet you out the front. It might be fun to see the show with an art expert.'

Pete laughed. 'Three o'clock?' he said. 'And I'm not sure about the expert part.'

'Three o'clock it is.'

The following day dawned bright and sunny, but the forecast was for occasional showers, and when Chrissy and Pete met up outside the Hansford Gallery they were both carrying umbrellas. 'Now that we're prepared, what's the betting we don't see a spot of rain all day?' Pete said.

'Well ... still better to be prepared,' Chrissy said.

The exhibition was not what either of them had expected. The painting shown in all the publicity was typical of Jack Merriman's work. An update on the Scottish Colourists' school. But much of the rest of the exhibition was quite a departure. 'I can't make up my mind,' Chrissy said after they had stood in front of five or six paintings.

'He's definitely taken a step or two away from his usual style,' Pete said.

'Are they good steps?' Chrissy asked.

'Umm ... you know ... I'm not sure. Artists have a right to explore. That's not an issue. But I'm not altogether sure that the products of their explorations should always be foisted upon the public.'

'So it's not just me,' Chrissy said.

Pete laughed.

Chrissy and Pete spent the best part of an hour contemplating and discussing Jack Merriman's works. 'What now?' Pete said when they had had their fill. 'Do you have time for a coffee?'

'Yeah. Why not. Do you know somewhere?'

'There's a little place on the other side of the square,' Pete said. 'Or my flat is just around the corner.'

'You live right here in Bloomsbury? That's pretty cool,' Chrissy said.

'It's just a small flat,' Pete said. 'But I do have an espresso machine.'

Chrissy smiled. 'Sounds good to me,' she said.

Pete's flat was above an antiquarian bookshop. It was small, but it had everything that Pete needed. And it had a rather nice view out over the garden square.

'This is nice,' Chrissy said. 'And so central.'

'How do you like your coffee?' Pete asked. 'Espresso? Latte? Americano?'

'May I have an espresso with sugar?'

'You're the one who will be drinking it,' Pete said.

'I expect that you just have yours straight up, do you?'

'Except in the morning,' Pete said. 'In the morning I tend to start off with a latte.'

Chrissy nodded.

It was strange to think that they had met only 24 hours ago and yet there was already something easy about their relationship. At least, that's what Pete thought.

They sipped their coffee. And they chatted. About the exhibition they had just been to. About other exhibitions they had seen recently. About how Pete seemed really young to be a tutor at a place like the Stephenson Institute. And about the diminishing opportunities for quality print journalism in London. And then Chrissy suddenly looked at her watch. 'Oh, gosh. I should probably be going,' she said.

Pete looked at her with a quizzical expression.

'I'm suppose to be going to a wine tasting,' Chrissy said. 'Giles works for a wine distributor. They hold these tastings from time to time. Encourage their customers to spend up large.'

Giles? Who was Giles? Pete wondered. It hadn't even vaguely occurred to him that Chrissy would be ... well ... spoken for. 'Is Giles ...?'

'Giles? Just a chap I know,' Chrissy said. 'Although ... he probably thinks he's more than that.'

'But ...'

Chrissy smiled. 'This has been fun,' she said. 'I should give you my phone number. Just in case you have any more bright ideas.'

'Oh. Yes. Umm ...' And Pete grabbed his phone and keyed in the number that Chrissy dictated. And then he pressed Call. 'There. And now you have mine.'

'I do,' Chrissy said. And she gave Pete a little kiss and picked up her umbrella.

After seeing Chrissy safely on her way, Pete went back upstairs and poured himself a large glass of wine. If Chrissy was going off to a wine tasting with Giles who probably thought that he was more than just a chap Chrissy knew, Pete would have a wine tasting of his own. The wine that Pete was tasting was a Tesco house brand claret - something that Giles had probably never lowered himself to. Of course, it was possible that Giles was a perfectly nice chap. But, somehow, Pete doubted it. Bastard.

The following day, Pete took a group of students out to Perivale to look at The Hoover Building and talk about how to preserve the best of Art Deco design and make it relevant to contemporary environments. It was likely that some of his group would eventually end up as architects, and there were also many lessons that might be useful to the students who would go into other areas of design. 'There are people who say that it's sacrilege to put a new building inside an existing design-worthy shell,' Pete said. 'I'm not one of them. Buildings have to earn their keep. Or they risk being abandoned.'

'Why can't the Council take them over?' one student asked.

'Councils don't have any money,' Pete said. 'They just spend the local taxpayers' money. Often without even consulting said local taxpayers.'

Pete was just wrapping up when his phone rang. And then, almost immediately, it stopped ringing. It was - or at least had been - Chrissy. Pete wondered if he should call her back. Perhaps when he got back to Bloomsbury. He didn't want to seem overly eager. And, anyway, perhaps she would leave a message. On their way back into Central London, Pete glanced at his phone several times; but there was no message.

'Well, that's it for today, ladies and gentlemen,' Pete said when they arrived back at the Institute. 'We meet again on Friday. In the meantime, I'd like you to think about what we saw today. What worked? What could, perhaps, have been better? And perhaps Sally and Will, you could lead a bit of a discussion. OK?'

And then, as his students dispersed, Pete took his phone out and pressed Chrissy's number. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. He would think of something. But, in the end, he didn't have to. The phone rang a few times and clicked to message. Pete decided not to leave a message. He would try again later.

But later, when Pete did try the number a second time, it again clicked to message. 'Perhaps she and Giles are otherwise engaged,' Pete muttered to himself. 'So much for Giles being just some chap she knows.'

One of the many advantages of Pete's flat was its proximity to the Institute. No buses, no trains. Just a short walk to work in the morning, and a short walk home again at night. Pete was on his short walk home again on Friday evening when he looked up and saw Chrissy walking towards him.

'Oh, hello,' she said. 'If you're looking for Pete, he's not at home.'

'No?'

'No. Or, if he is, he's not answering his door.'

'Hmm ... You've tried, have you?'

'I have.'

'Perhaps he didn't hear you. Perhaps he has the music turned up,' Pete suggested.

'You think so?' Chrissy said.

'It's possible. I've heard that he's a bit of a fan of post-bop jazz. Perhaps if I come with you,' Pete said. 'Perhaps if there are two of us. We could both push the bell at the same time.'

'I suppose it's worth a try,' Chrissy said. And she gave Pete a little kiss on the cheek.

When they reached Pete's front door, Pete turned his head to one side and leaned towards the door.

Chrissy looked at him quizzically. 'What are you doing?' she asked.

'I'm trying to see if I can hear music,' Pete said. 'But I don't think that I can. It seems to be totally quiet. It's just as well I have a key. We can let ourselves in.' And Chrissy laughed.

'Oh, look. I'm here,' Pete said when they got upstairs.

'So you are,' Chrissy said. 'I was rather hoping that you would be.'

'Not only am I here, but I think I'm just about to pour myself a glass of wine. Will you join me. It's probably not of the quality to which you are accustomed, but ...'

'I would love a glass of wine,' Chrissy said.

And that was the start of their second date - if date is not too strong a word.

'So ... how was your wine tasting?' Pete asked.

'It was ...' Chrissy hesitated. 'It was probably interesting. But I think I'm a bit of a philistine. I'm afraid all of the ooh-ing and aah-ing over cigar boxes and hints of farmyards after a light shower of rain was a bit lost on me.'

'But not on Giles. The chap you just happen to know.'

'Not on Giles, no. And he is just a chap I happen to know. Whatever he may think.'

Pete smiled and poured two glasses of Tesco's own-brand Orvieto. 'Cheers,' he said.

'Cheers,' Chrissy echoed.

The wine was surprisingly pleasant. Clean. Crisp. With just a vague suggestion of ripe peaches. But Pete knew better than to mention such things. 'And are there other chaps that you just happen to know?' he asked.

'A few,' Chrissy said. 'But that's all they are. If that's what you're asking. And you?'

'I do happen to know a few chaps,' Pete admitted.

'And women?' Chrissy asked.

'Umm ... yes. I suppose so. But that's all they are. Just women I happen to know.'

Chrissy nodded. 'Well, I'm pleased that we've got that out of the way,' she said.

'And what brings you to Bloomsbury on this fine spring day?' Pete said. 'And if it's none of my business, then please feel free to say so.'

Chrissy laughed. 'I've spent the afternoon at The British Library,' she said. 'Reading some of the notebooks of William Somerset Maugham. And, since I was in the area, I thought I'd see if you were in residence.'

'And I wasn't.'

'You weren't. I suppose I should have phoned first. But it all worked out in the end.'

'It did.'

'Oh, and speaking of phones, you might have had a missed call from me earlier in the week. I think I may have pressed you when I meant to press Paul. You're next to each other. In my directory.'

'Paul? Is Paul another chap you just happen to know?'

Chrissy laughed. 'My brother.'

'Oh.'

'This wine's very nice,' Chrissy said. 'It tastes a little bit like ripe peaches. Or is that just my imagination?'

'No. That's exactly what it tastes like.'

'So, not a total philistine then?'

'Not in my book,' Pete said.

After they had each had a second glass of the slightly peach-tasting Orvieto, Pete suggested that they should go and get something to eat. 'Do you like Chinese?' he asked.

'Yes. I do,' Chrissy said.

'I hoped that you might. Let's go down to Chinatown. My treat.'

'OK. Why not?'

'We can walk over if you like. Get up a bit of an appetite.'

They walked over to Charlotte Street (which was humming), then down to Oxford Street and across to Soho (which was also humming), and then down to Chinatown. There were a few people in Chinatown, but it wasn't as busy as it might have been, and they had no problem in getting a table at Pete's favourite restaurant. 'I take it from the greeting that this is not your first visit,' Chrissy said.

'Umm ... I may have been here once or twice before,' Pete admitted. 'Now ... is there anything that you particularly like or dislike?'

'I'm not fond of chicken feet. I know they are supposed to be a delicacy, but ...'

Pete laughed. 'OK, no chicken feet then. So ... may I suggest ... some barbeque pork, some lemon chicken, and some yeung chow fried rice?'

'Perfect.'

'And what would you like to drink? I personally like Jasmine tea. But we could have a beer or some wine ...'

'Jasmine tea? Yes. That sounds perfect,' Chrissy said. And the waitress, who had been hovering to one side, with her note pad at the ready, went off and returned almost immediately with a pot of Jasmine tea.

The meal was just about perfect. And, afterwards, they wandered, hand in hand (Pete wasn't quite sure how that happened), back up through Soho, past Tottenham Court Road Tube station, and all the way back to Pete's flat above the antiquarian bookshop. 'We probably should have got a cab,' Pete said.

Chrissy gave him another little kiss. 'No. It was a perfect night for a stroll.' And then she kissed him again.

'What would you like now?' Pete asked. 'We still have some of that white wine left.'

'The wine that tastes of ripe peaches?'

'Apparently,' Pete said. 'Not that I'm an expert of course.'

Chrissy laughed. 'But I've heard that you are an expert on post-bop jazz,' she said.

'I'd probably say fan rather than expert. Should I see if I can find some?'

'That might be fun,' Chrissy said.

And that's how Pete and Chrissy came to be sitting side by side on Pete's couch, sipping wine that tasted of ripe peaches, and listening to the piano music of McCoy Tyner. 'He's very good, isn't he?' Chrissy said.

'One of the best. In my opinion.'

Chrissy was sitting on Pete's left and, when she turned to kiss him, her right knee moved towards him and her skirt rode up her thigh. Pete reached out to draw her closer and his hand fell on her inner thigh. 'Mmm. Yes. That's nice,' Chrissy muttered between kisses. And Pete's hand moved higher. When Pete's hand reached her camel toe, the smooth silky fabric beneath his fingers was already warm and just slightly damp. 'You took your time,' Chrissy said.

Pete laughed. 'I wasn't quite sure where we were up to,' he said.

'We seem to be up to the good bit,' Chrissy said. And she spread her knees still further.

Pete pushed the silky gusset of Chrissy's knickers to one side and let his fingers explore the source of the warmth and dampness: her slick, slippery cunt lips, her soft springy bush. 'Oh, yes,' Chrissy said. But then she pulled away.

'No?' Pete said.

'I just think we can make this easier.'

Chrissy got to her feet, unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the floor. And then she lowered her knickers and resumed her position on the couch. 'There. That might be easier,' she said. 'Now ... where were we?'

It was easier. And, within minutes, Pete had Chrissy squirming and mewing and giggling. 'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said. 'Yes, yes, yes!' And then, when she had quietened down a bit, she said: 'Now ... let's get your trousers off.'

Pete did not need to be asked twice.