The Promise Pt. 01

That put a bit of a damper on the party. She drained her gin mechanically. Somehow Rob felt as if this was his fault, and looked at his watch thinking about how long he might have to wait for a night bus.

"Oh dear! Look at the time," she said returning to the world. "We shouldn't have gone on so. I wouldn't have ruined that record then. Look... I can put you up here on the couch. Is a sleeping bag liner with a blanket okay?"

"Well I'm a bit like Dracula, I do like to get back to sleep in my own space."

"Well I hope you're not saying that the marital bed is like a coffin. Oh? You don't look too sure... Seriously though, I don't want you wandering the streets at this time of night just because you were kind enough to see Sam and I home." She looked at him, appealing, a look of theatrical sincerity, the red, red lips in the Queen of Hearts face. "Please. I won't be able to get to sleep if you don't."

The look of the unwavering blue eyes held him and the silence started to build.

"Alright then. Just for you." He sank back onto the couch.

She looked at her watch and went over to a wall cupboard and brought out some bedding.

"Thanks. I'll just read a little before I turn in, so you can have the bathroom."

"Do you want another G and T?"

"No. I'm fine."

She grabbed his arm momentarily and said, "I'm so glad we had a chance to get to know each other a bit better, Rob." Then she kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.

**********

He knew he wasn't going to settle after all that. Maybe it had been a mistake not to have insisted on heading for home and his own bed. And he was totally conscious of the presence a few yards away, of another human being with flesh, blood, thoughts and feelings. She wasn't going to sleep either. Of that was sure and he thought it served her right for being so vacuously hospitable. He could hear her bustling in the next room and he was waiting for her to shout out that the bathroom was free.

What would have happened if she hadn't backed into the record player? That was something he'd never know, but it kept going round and round inside his head. The last thing he'd been expecting out of the tedium of the staff social, was to find himself pursued by some by some randy old woman with crow's feet who must have been eyeing him up for a valedictory grope a good long time before showing up tonight like some ageing barmaid. Usually she had the joi de vivre of an icicle.

It was quite an annoying outcome. Because of the excuse of his farewell drinks, he'd been looking forward to a really long lie-in and the luxury of a weekend with no domestic responsibilities—and another crafty escape from the Outlaws, Jane and Cam, Steph's parents, who had been none too keen on him when he came into their lives as the feckless youth who'd got their only daughter up the duff. The loss of that lie-in made him feel quite restless. And on top of that, people like Linda had been pouring drink down him all evening and he was still on an up from that. Thinking about Linda reminded him of Sunday. She and her pals were insisting on dragging him out to a Sunday lunch to celebrate his good fortune, which meant he was going to miss his lie-in on Sunday as well. Of course they meant well, but he really couldn't see why they made such a fuss of him. They should find some proper blokes, instead of behaving like a gang of ageing Brosettes.

If he'd been at home he might have tried to rustle up a few friends for a quiet drink, but he probably wasn't going to get it together. Some of his best friends, people like Spencer and Rod had pretty well drifted out of his life to the point where he didn't even have their addresses. Part of that was that they were single men and he was already a family man, driven into the company of other couples with kids. If he was honest, part of it was that they didn't exactly gel with Steph. Still, after tonight, he might not feel like alcohol anyway...

The noises from next door had stopped. Maybe Christine had gone to bed without telling him the bathroom was free. He decided to wait a while longer to be sure. He felt quite awkward, being in the exiguous space of her flat. Still, he admitted to himself that he was a bit curious now. He wanted to know more about her, more about the times she'd lived through: the sixties, so integral to the mythologies of the modern world. He looked over at her record box and decided to have a look at what was in it. He wasn't sure if that was intrusive, but what the hell, what the eye doesn't see, he thought. He was careful to keep them in order. He'd love to have played a few of these records himself: The Pretty Things, Martha and the Vandellas, Wilson Pickett... What were the Sixties like if you were there, he wondered... He looked at the labels on the records, at the symbolism invested in these pieces of ephemera turned collector's pieces. His thoughts seemed to bounce round the room.

There was a knock.

"Come in," he said, then, "Oh" as Christine entered.

She had taken her dress off, revealing the satiny slip she wore underneath it, and she was holding a towel and a sponge bag.

"Is something wrong?" She looked around the room, right over the armchair where he had laid the 45s he'd been looking at. Then down at herself. "Oh. Is it because I'm wandering around in my slip?"

It was. To Rob, a slip counted as underwear, and it placed him in the position of voyeur. But he was embarrassed at his own embarrassment. So he said, "Uh no. You just surprised me that's all."

"Alright. It's the slip. Don't you like it?"

"It's... really nice. I mean I know you wear them. I just wasn't expecting it."

"You mean on its own?"

"It's not a problem."

"Well I started to get undressed, then I remembered I hadn't got you a towel." Her breasts were loose under the burgundy sheen of the garment and he could make out her nipples through it. She waited until he looked up. "I'm quite decent I think. All the controversial areas are covered up, aren't they?"

He couldn't deny that they were, but he still felt as if he was sniffing his way through her laundry basket. Christine was in very good shape, whatever age she was, and it didn't help that the slip was very revealing of it. She had a great bottom that moved to devastating effect when she was walking freely; something the the liquid flow of the garment emphasised.

"Oh I agree. But we humans aren't fully rational. I guess it's down to the popular culture of the fifties and early sixties—the films for example. In those days you couldn't have sexual activity or nudity on the screen. But put someone like Marilyn Monroe in a slip on the screen—or Elizabeth Taylor or—Sophia Loren, and it sends out a signal..."

"What signal?"

"You know..."

He didn't want to have to spell it out, but she was still waiting for his answer.

"Well, that sexual activity may have taken place or may be going to. There is quite a powerful subtext of sexuality that attaches to the garment."

"For men. Women just find them comfortable." She reached down to straighten it, as if asserting the fundamental decency of the slip.

"Absolutely."

Rob should have paid some attention to a thought he had that he might be drifting into another conversation and be thereby encouraging Christine to stay up talking after all, and half undressed.

The problem was that he was someone who could not resist the sound of his own voice.

"So do I look as if sexual activity 'may have or may be going to take place'?" she said with a bitchy smile, and let him stew for a while in his own juice. Then with a rather superior tone, "I'm quite curious now. Is this what you talk about in your lectures?"

Not only was he embarrassed by this, but to make matters worse he could feel himself blushing.

"Well sometimes. Not every day," he joshed, attempting to recover the situation.

"And what other things have a sub-whatsit? A sexual one?"

"Well potentially anything, there's the bright red lipstick thing we discussed down the pub. Of course there's stockings and suspenders, but they almost don't count they're so obvious."

"Why?"

"Well. It's not really a subtext is it? Even kids know they're 'dirty'. Supposedly all straight men get an instant erection at the thought of a woman wearing them."

"And do you?" she said quite smoothly.

Fuckit, he shouldn't have said 'erection'.

"Emm... I'm probably not all men. But no, I don't think I'd get excited on reflex at the sight of someone in a burlesque performer's outfit."

"Talk about not answering a question. You should get into politics. But for getting a word like that 'subtext' in at one thirty in the morning, well, we'll just have to let you off."

"Whew!" he said and flopped onto the couch.

"How did you know I wear a slip?" she murmured as she approached the couch to sit down.

"Oh well... I often noticed it at work—you know..."

"You mean if I was going up those steps to get down one of those lever arch files?"

"Yes, those aggregates that have to be on the top shelf. Something like that."

"So I suppose you couldn't help seeing up my skirt?"

"Well something like that..." His voice trailed away a bit, as if he was losing confidence in how it was coming across. "The lacework, some pretty pattern or other, catching the eye..."

"Yeah the steps... wait a minute, this is just sinking in... you were looking up my skirt when we were at work?"

She stiffened and withdrew abruptly across the couch pulling herself into a defensive posture at the other end with her arms crossed over her breasts as if she was facing a rapist. Her eyes blazed with anger.

"You've been looking up my skirt?" she said in a raised voice "You weren't 'expecting' me to wear a slip in my own home, but you've only been looking up my skirt when I'm at work, like some dirty old man in a raincoat?"

He became quite flustered. "I only meant I notice what you wear. Come on, some colleagues get offended if you don't..." His voice trailed away again under the glassy intensity of her stare and her silence. It left him to the thought that he didn't really know who she was, that he was alone with her in this flat. He had to admit to himself that he was fearful of what she might do or say next. But then she exhaled, and he sensed that she might be calming down. He tried to calm himself down as if that would contribute to a change of atmosphere.

"Look. Maybe I should go."

She stood up and moved between him and the door.

"You're not going anywhere, mister. I could report you for that, for sexual harassment in the workplace. That would be a fine start to your university career, Mr I-Support-Women's Rights."

"Are you serious?"

"Sure I am. It's my flat. You're the one who came in and started to make improper remarks about my clothing."

Rob was quite thrown by this and looked pale and worried, breathing heavily but saying nothing.

"You asked if you could come up and use the toilet and you wouldn't leave."

He was sure that wasn't the way it was at all, but he was so shocked by the violence of her manner that he said nothing.

"You've got a bit of a thing about me and it hasn't gone unnoticed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Roy was often teasing me about my 'young admirer' and that pale faced creature Ellen spotted it a few times with horror."

"I didn't mean any harm. You know I've always accepted you as colleague, and not everyone there has."

Presently, she treated him to an acid smile. "Yes. You're right." She paused to let it sink in and leaned back against the door. The silence grew for what seemed like a minute or so before she said, "Well perhaps I'm prepared to come to some arrangement about this."

"Arrangement?"

"We can deal with it privately."

"I-I would really appreciate that. Thanks. What did you have in mind?"

"You know these 'forfeits' of yours. We're going to do one of them."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes. We're going to put you on trial." She paused again to let that sink in. "Now you say that you wouldn't get an erection at the sight of someone in a burlesque performer's outfit. We're going to see whether you've told the truth. But first: Let's start with another snog, a proper one. Now you're not going to worry about a chaperone, are you? You'd better let yourself go this time," she hissed.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. Unless you want me to take out a grievance and speak to your new employers about it. Stand up and come here."

He obeyed and then put his lips on hers.

After half a minute, she pulled away. " I don't think you're trying, Rob."

She moved in again with a superior smile and kissed him very lightly on the mouth; and then again; and then she planted one, fuller and more prolonged. She put her arms firmly round his neck and he felt her breasts bustle against his. Slowly her tongue slid round his lips, then moved between them to push inside. The pink tip probed gently.

"Hold me—with your arms round my waist—properly."

Her hand crept up to take hold of his jaw and drew it downwards with a series of small tugs. Now that his mouth was open, she pushed her tongue forward so that it entered fully. She gave a little squeak of pleasure at this. Then she worked it round, taking possession of him. Where it touched it tingled. There was no resistance. Her hands reached down for him above his hips. Without hurry, she started to pull the shirt out of his jeans so that her hands could roam freely over his flesh.

He became increasingly excited but at the same time he felt trapped as if by some paralysing drug. It seemed like something that was happening to someone else, something he was following only on a screen. She pulled back and she was looking at him, rather pleased with what she was seeing. He looked at her face and saw the predatory look of the ratty little teeth under the fresh lipstick.

He felt quite wary of her after her outburst, but at length he said, "Look, what are we doing here?"

"It's just snogging, Rob. It's just a laugh, a kissing game. We agreed you'd pay a forfeit; well, forfeits."

"What? There's more than one?"

"You'd better start thinking about co-operating," she said, in that tone of pure undiluted bitch that she used to push people around with at work. He'd never been on the receiving end of it till now. It was a good punishment for all the times he'd chuckled watching those less fortunate. She pushed her lips onto his again and drew her tongue around them in exaggerated slobbering. "Otherwise I'll have to go into that next-of-kin list at work: the one I of course maintain as School secretary."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'll be contacting your 'partner' if you don't." As she said this, she brought something up to his face.

"What?"

"No shit. Hmm... now what shall we start with? Feel this—smooth as silk..."

The bundle in her hand flared into a chiffon scarf which she trailed, brushing it against his face. She started to pulled it over his eyes.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Are you... is that a blindfold?"

"No, it's a bloody airship. What do you think it is?"

"No you can't. You can't do that. It's private."

"So's my underwear," she said curtly.

She paused to remind him that she was in charge.

"So it's private?" she said eventually. "Why's that? Are you afraid you might like it more with someone else?"

"You're trying to make me betray a trust, Christine."

"Well you shouldn't have told me about it then, should you? Because you did that the minute you opened your mouth to boast about your sex life—"

"You're doing this because you know I used to play blindfold with Steph—"

"'Used to play', eh? Now there's an interesting turn of phrase. So you've got a vacancy in that department now, have you? You do tend to broadcast things don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"So you tell me you want to come in from the rear, tell me that she doesn't, and then you ask me if I do. I'd say that asking a single lady alone in a flat if she does it doggy style at one in the morning—I'd say that's pretty well a proposition."

"No it is not. It wasn't like that at all. You interrogated me and now you're putting words into my mouth and you know it. God I should never have told you—"

"There's all sorts of things you shouldn't have done, starting with you shouldn't have hung around the School office every morning."

He shook his head hopelessly, then he sighed. "Don't do this. Please."

"Okay, we won't. But only because I need you to see. You'll come round... in the end..."

"What d'you mean?"

"Next time, you won't refuse," she hissed, with semi-audible menace as she swept the scarf away. "Smooth as silk..."

Next time? He had to get out of there. He tried to get a grip on himself to consider whether leaving was still a possibility and looked around to see where his coat and other belongings were.

If he could get away from this crazy woman, then he could examine her threats rationally. He might even consider ringing Steph up once he'd got away... but it was way past one o'clock now...

He felt Christine's breath against his neck as she leant in to whisper in his ear.

"Rob, I hope you're going to stay and do your forfeits like a man. It could be good for you. Seriously. But if you try to go—well you've been warned."

"Right," she said at length. "Let's go over your claim. Have you ever actually been around someone putting on a show like that? A burlesque performer?"

"Of course not," he said coming to himself. He resolved to ring Steph first thing in the morning, by nine o'clock at the latest.

"Or been with someone who's wearing them?"

"Come on. I work in the education sector. The women I meet don't dress like sex maniacs."

"Well, they certainly talk like them, but are you sure?"

"Sure of what?"

"Sure they don't dress like sex maniacs?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"So in that case, you're a liar as well as a perv."

"Why am I a liar?

"Because you say you're too high minded to get off on a woman in stockings and suspenders but you haven't put it to the test."

"Let it go, Christine. I'm not Pavlov's dog."

"Pav...? I'm sure you know what you mean, being a university lecturer and that. But you're the one on trial here, and I'll not be talked down to."

"I just know. I'm not like that. What makes you think I'm that predictable?"

"Indeed. Lord knows, I'd never have had you down as a peeping tom."

"Is that it?"

"Nope. You lied. Now it's your turn to see what it's like to be ogled. We're going to do a test. Stand up. Let's stand where I can see your package... oh dear, Robert. Are we going back to the I raise a grievance thing? No? Then get your arse over there."

A flush came into Rob's face, as he walked away from the furniture.

"Now turn a bit. So I can see," she ordered.

She then she put the cushions of the couch into an orderly pile on it, and placed one of the dining chairs near Rob "You know how you don't meet women who dress like sex maniacs?"

Rob's flushed again.

"Well... Are you sure?"

"Sure what?"

"Sure you don't meet women who dress like sex maniacs?" she said sitting down on the chair.

She put her hands onto her knees and gripped the hem of her slip and started to pull it up slowly so that the smooth fabric rode up her legs and her thighs came into view, with dark stocking tops and silvery clasps of the suspender straps glittering in the shadowy space she was revealing.

He gave an audible gasp.

He felt himself flush, but his eyes stayed there. Presently she extended a leg in the cinematic set-piece of having to straighten wrinkled stockings and the toes of her foot pushed into his leg insistently.