The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

iron vice of
her cunt.
    Shattered, I collapsed onto Iris’s delicate body.
    We remained in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
    Finally, Iris moved and I gently withdrew my hand, wiped it against the sheet and she took me into her arms.
    We kissed.
    ‘Friends again?’
    ‘Hmm hmm . . .’
    But I knew from the look in her eyes how intense the experience had been, and with an ebb of sadness now taking a hold of my senses had become painfully aware that she would never lose that urge
to be filled, invested, and the fact that others would also be able to do so to her. That I was no longer indispensable. Perhaps I had never been.
    As we fell asleep, I resolved to fight them, whoever they were. Keep Iris mine.
    On the one hand I was blissfully happy to be living independently under the same roof with Iris, away from all the restrictions that life in New Zealand had imposed on us and I
found London enchanting. On the other, I was painfully aware of dark clouds on the horizon, doubts, questions about where our relationship could go and whether it could survive the thousand
obstacles and potential new encounters the city now scattered in our path. So I lived day by day, holding on to hope, never quite knowing whether I was fooling myself or not.
    London was not just a city, but a curious warren of villages and we spent our week-ends exploring. Sometimes we would make plans, while at other times we improvised, walked onto the Tube or
caught a random bus with no destination in mind and progressed thanks to the occasional flip of a coin or deciding whether to turn left or right depending on whether the name of the first pub we
passed appealed or not.
    Everyone told us the weather wouldn’t last and to wait until we had survived a London autumn followed by winter before we made up our mind for good about the tentacular city, but we
brushed their negativity away. Few people realised how much rain and what capricious, unwelcoming conditions there had been in Auckland, and the old weatherboard house that I had shared with
Iris’s family had provided no great barrier against the cold wind and frosty mornings.
    We enjoyed picnics in a variety of public parks, known and hitherto unknown, concealed behind rows of houses, oases of greenery and shrubs, secret refuges we hardily explored; we roamed from
area to area, from Epping Forest and its forlorn ponds to Golders Hill Park and its children’s animal enclosure with pretentions to being a zoo and so far off the mark, frisbees in the breeze
flying up the hill as we gallivanted without a care in the world. The Princess Empire suffered from a rapid turnover of staff so I never managed to make many friends there, but Iris, who was anyway
much more of an introvert than me, despite her often passive attitudes in private, found it easy to strike up friendships with her colleagues at the law firm where she worked and quickly had a
thriving network of acquaintances ranging from young to old, from legal backroom staff to court and chambers personnel. I happily tagged on.
    Summer passed all too rapidly.
    Autumn came.
    By now I was almost a veteran at the theatre. Maybe it was because, unlike the others who had come and gone, I actually had no major ambition or wishes for a career in the arts, or for that
matter anywhere else. I was just happy to be, to live in London and be with Iris.
    I was enjoying a few days off from work. Iris was at her office job and I was sitting at home sewing, catching up on some ironing and repair work on some of Iris’s and my clothes and
stockings. The phone rang. It was Gerry, the theatre’s Assistant Manager. Two of the small backstage team had the flu and he was short of staff and was wondering whether I was willing to come
in and help out despite the fact that I was on a break, but he was aware I was still in London and had not gone away. He was offering double my normal pay, and the money would certainly come in
useful. I agreed. And I was