Read Online The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vina Jackson
Ads: Link
lips had landed.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. I carried bundles and bundles of dresses and basques and men’s thick jackets from Patricia’s studio into a waiting taxi and then
down the theatre’s long corridors and creaking stairs to the dressing rooms where they were carefully hung again on the garment racks. Clarissa showed me how to use the steamer to press out
creases and the location of the sewing kits and explained how everything must be kept precisely in place so that if a button or hem needed stitching between scenes the right tools could be located
in moments to avoid any delays and avert disaster.
By the time I reached home I was exhausted. My arms ached. It was the most satisfying work that I been involved in for a long time though. Something about the combination of physical labour and
the cerebral strain from learning so many new things had made me excited to do more and nourished my soul. It wasn’t until I pushed open the front door and saw Iris waiting that I remembered
the trousers Clarissa had bought for me, wrapped in violet tissue paper and stored safely in a cranny within the dressing room that I used as a makeshift locker. Guilt swept over me.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘You were longer than I expected.’
‘Sorry,’ I said to her. ‘It was busy. Gerry needed me.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
I thought of telling her about Clarissa and Patch but I couldn’t. My tongue froze solid in my mouth. Instinctively I felt that Iris would not understand. The thought threw me. She was my
best friend, and I had lied to her, if only by omission. A seed had been planted.
She cleared her throat. I gazed at her, and noticed the awkwardly formal way that she was sitting, perched on the end of the bed with her feet on the floor, her back straight as a board and just
the edge of her buttocks on the mattress, as though she was about to get up. She was wearing her cream blouse, neatly pressed, a plain navy skirt with her matching kitten heels, and on her hands,
the gloves that Thomas had given her. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and shining as though she has just brushed it.
‘Going out somewhere?’ I asked her. I felt a stab of jealousy. It would surely be with Thomas. She had been seeing more and more of him lately. A movie here, a dinner there. And more
than that, I was sure, at her office. Occasionally she mentioned that he had popped in and they had eaten together, or I smelled or tasted a sour note of white wine on her breath.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘yes. But I want you to come. I need you, Moana.’
Her shoulders were tight and her smile pinched, her face twisted into an expression of fear and worry.
I dropped my bag and rushed to her. I had been standing in the door clutching my purse all that time, like a visitor in my own home. What was happening to us?
‘Of course!’ I said. In truth, I was tired, and looking forward to an evening in, but I would not abandon Iris in an hour of need.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I put my arm around her shoulders.
She pressed the tips of her gloved fingers together, gathering courage.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I want to be with Thomas. I want to . . . I want to fuck him. And I want you to be there too.’
She slumped forward, relieved, as though she had expelled all of the air in her lungs along with the words she had spoken.
I was stunned. She went on.
‘I’m seeing him tonight. I wondered if you would come. I just have to know what it feels like with a man; surely you understand? I need you to be there . . . It’s confusing . .
. to have your blessing, so to speak. That way I won’t feel as if I’m betraying you . . .’
She turned to face me. Her eyes were deep oceans of blue, full of hope and questions.
I couldn’t turn her down.
It began with me seated on an ottoman, clutching a flute of sweet white wine that I had barely taken a sip of.
Iris had telephoned Thomas from
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. I carried bundles and bundles of dresses and basques and men’s thick jackets from Patricia’s studio into a waiting taxi and then
down the theatre’s long corridors and creaking stairs to the dressing rooms where they were carefully hung again on the garment racks. Clarissa showed me how to use the steamer to press out
creases and the location of the sewing kits and explained how everything must be kept precisely in place so that if a button or hem needed stitching between scenes the right tools could be located
in moments to avoid any delays and avert disaster.
By the time I reached home I was exhausted. My arms ached. It was the most satisfying work that I been involved in for a long time though. Something about the combination of physical labour and
the cerebral strain from learning so many new things had made me excited to do more and nourished my soul. It wasn’t until I pushed open the front door and saw Iris waiting that I remembered
the trousers Clarissa had bought for me, wrapped in violet tissue paper and stored safely in a cranny within the dressing room that I used as a makeshift locker. Guilt swept over me.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘You were longer than I expected.’
‘Sorry,’ I said to her. ‘It was busy. Gerry needed me.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
I thought of telling her about Clarissa and Patch but I couldn’t. My tongue froze solid in my mouth. Instinctively I felt that Iris would not understand. The thought threw me. She was my
best friend, and I had lied to her, if only by omission. A seed had been planted.
She cleared her throat. I gazed at her, and noticed the awkwardly formal way that she was sitting, perched on the end of the bed with her feet on the floor, her back straight as a board and just
the edge of her buttocks on the mattress, as though she was about to get up. She was wearing her cream blouse, neatly pressed, a plain navy skirt with her matching kitten heels, and on her hands,
the gloves that Thomas had given her. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and shining as though she has just brushed it.
‘Going out somewhere?’ I asked her. I felt a stab of jealousy. It would surely be with Thomas. She had been seeing more and more of him lately. A movie here, a dinner there. And more
than that, I was sure, at her office. Occasionally she mentioned that he had popped in and they had eaten together, or I smelled or tasted a sour note of white wine on her breath.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘yes. But I want you to come. I need you, Moana.’
Her shoulders were tight and her smile pinched, her face twisted into an expression of fear and worry.
I dropped my bag and rushed to her. I had been standing in the door clutching my purse all that time, like a visitor in my own home. What was happening to us?
‘Of course!’ I said. In truth, I was tired, and looking forward to an evening in, but I would not abandon Iris in an hour of need.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I put my arm around her shoulders.
She pressed the tips of her gloved fingers together, gathering courage.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I want to be with Thomas. I want to . . . I want to fuck him. And I want you to be there too.’
She slumped forward, relieved, as though she had expelled all of the air in her lungs along with the words she had spoken.
I was stunned. She went on.
‘I’m seeing him tonight. I wondered if you would come. I just have to know what it feels like with a man; surely you understand? I need you to be there . . . It’s confusing . .
. to have your blessing, so to speak. That way I won’t feel as if I’m betraying you . . .’
She turned to face me. Her eyes were deep oceans of blue, full of hope and questions.
I couldn’t turn her down.
It began with me seated on an ottoman, clutching a flute of sweet white wine that I had barely taken a sip of.
Iris had telephoned Thomas from
Similar Books
