Cold Light (17 page)

She smiled. Oh, what a perfect reply. ‘Is there an expertise to it? I suppose there is. You have to realise, darling one, that I am not a lady who invites such gestures, nor, I would have thought, am I a lady who expects such gestures. I am now, well, a matron. On second thoughts, I don’t know how one invites such a gesture.’

‘You are a very desirable woman.’ His voice then became almost academic. ‘I would imagine that the hand-on-knee business requires – well, audacity for a start – and then, yes, I see that I do not quite know – even at this time of my life – what is involved in the mysteries of the hand-on-knee among men and women. I take it that I am about to learn from you. And pray tell, who is the honourable – or not – gentleman who placed his hand on your sacred knee?’

‘If I tell, will his name go into His Majesty’s secret files for some nefarious use at some later date?’

‘Of course. If I find he is a gentleman to whom I do not wish to give the approval of placing his hand on my consort’s knee, I may well send him to Norfolk Island for life.’

‘I will tell his name in due course. And I wish to say that I am unsure now, at this time of night, whether it ended with the charm that it should have – gallantly, no; discreetly, yes. Whether it ended is not in doubt. From the point of view of this lady’s pride, in the sense of a promise of things to come or of things that might have been in another lifetime, I am unsure.’

A hand dreaming. A leg and a hand dreaming.

‘Even my pride was a little dented. The conclusion of the gesture lacked what one might call “shapely conclusion”. On the whole, I feel at this point of the night, and looking back on it, that it could be described as an imbroglio.’

She could tell that he was enlivened by the account, but perhaps perplexed.

‘Imbroglio? How so?’ he asked.

‘After we rose from table, he made no further approach to me nor further acknowledgement of my presence. Or farewell. Not even a wink. True, his wife was present.’

She put her head on one side. ‘And, of course, so was my wife present.’

‘What did the hand in fact do?’ He was curious, but tentatively curious.

‘The hand went . . . exploring . . . no, not the correct word . . . the fingers of his hand moved . . . once.’

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. ‘Did it, now?’

‘His fingers touched the button of the suspenders of my stockings.’

‘The button.’

‘As you know, I wore my corselet, and, as you also know, I prefer to wear it without underpants, for reasons we have discussed some time back.’

‘I read that the corselet is on its way out. Sad. I feel sometimes that it braces me.’

‘I know precisely what you mean. A girl needs a little stiffening at times, and you, I know, at times, my darling –
at times
– need a little stiffening.’

‘And this hand . . . pushed on up your dress? To a certain degree?’

‘Only in my imaginings while I ate a strawberry.’

‘And all this without being noticed?’

‘As surprising as it sounds. Or I wish to believe.’

She toyed with the idea of elaborating it all for their mutual stimulation. ‘I widened my legs and pulled my skirts ever so slightly up, and his fingers, so encouraged, then moved past the suspender to the soft, warm flesh between my stocking top . . .’

Ambrose looked at her with eyes mock-widened. ‘The labia majora?’

‘Within cooee.’ She decided to stop the erotic tale. ‘His hand appeared to have lost its nerve, or perhaps its way, or perhaps he knew not what to do at that critical, shall we call it, juncture.’

She contemplated it. ‘There may be nothing more a gentleman can do at a dinner table at that
juncture.
’

She watched Ambrose consider, and then nod his head. ‘I think not.’

She looked to his crotch and saw that he had been aroused.

‘Well, well. Well, well. My darling, you do take the cake. A PM’s dinner party – our first invitation to this Lodge, and our most important social appearance in this capital – and you play hanky panky under the table with a stranger? My, my, my.’

‘You are impressed?’

‘I am in thrall to you. You are naughty beyond all my highest expectations. I honour you.’ He raised his port glass, looking up at her and shaking his head. He lowered himself off the chair and settled at her feet. ‘I worship at your feet,’ he said, and kissed her painted toes.

She observed how lithesome he was in the way he moved, the way he slipped to the floor. There was a natural femininity in the grace with which he folded his robe and nightdress under himself as he moved down to the floor and embraced her legs. Such an elegant man. Such a darling nancy-man, in his claret silk robe. ‘You are not piqued with your mistress? Your wife-mistress? Your saucy nancy-girl?’

He took her hand and placed it on his breasts.

His voice was becoming dreamy. ‘Not in the least. And is he the man who offered you the position?’

‘Strangely, no. The man on my left was the hand-on-the-knee man; the man on the right offered me the position. Has this hand-on-the-knee not occurred in your own sordid life – your life of such sordid, carnal miscellany?’

He smiled. ‘In the old days of the Molly Club, I must admit, I did allow more hands than I should have up my skirt. There was decorum in the old Molly Club, but never restraint in those dear days. But with the absence of restrain there were niceties. And even the lewdness was, ultimately, saucily demure.’

‘I found it gave a sensation similar to having a man place a bracelet on one’s wrist or a necklace around your neck. It suggests that one is being . . . well . . .
taken
.’

All that now having been said, she was ready for bed, if not for sleep.

‘We will discuss our fleeing tomorrow,’ she said, rising and pulling him up with her. ‘And more about hands-on-knees.’

‘Yes, more about hands-on-knees,’ he said affectionately, kissing her hand.

She ran a hand inside his robe and his nightdress to the aroused nipples, which rose to her caress. ‘Should we then to bed, my sweet princess? You have permission to finish what the stranger’s fingers began – or suggested – before they, too, took flight. In fact, I command that you finish what this stranger’s fingers began.’

‘My pleasure.’ His voice had huskiness to it.

‘And I, too, shall steal my hand up your silky dress. You are, I suspect, overdue for a hand up your dress. Shall I fetch Jennifer?’

He nodded, and she went to her bathroom satchel and took out the rubber dildo that they’d had now since Vienna. It had springs in it and made both of them happy on occasions.

And there in the bed, as they played their caressings and writhing, nancy-boy and nancy-girl, she heard coming from inside her those jungle-like whimperings that she had not heard for many months.

It had been long months since she had heard those innermost deep sounds, and as she heard them utter from her, she was ringingly glad that they were still there and that the girl who made them was there; that the girl was still capable of coming surprisingly alive within her, causing her to make such profound sounds, which joined so companionably with his moaning. So, so very glad for those gaspings of relief; the relief that flowed through her, changing into a deep, deep, relaxation. Their bodies wrapped together and she sighed soulfully for herself and for Ambrose, the sighs rising from their inseparable selves.

They had stolen the lasciviousness from the man on her left.

Lying there in the afterwards – one of Ambrose’s hands now locked in hers, the fingers of his other hand mostly inside her, but now still – she thought that truly the sounds of their sex play were the sounds of their usually hidden, primitive selves. Where did that person inside her, who could make such soulful noises, go for so long? Where inside her did she crouch? What did she do for all that time she was uncalled?

Before drifting to sleep, she reminded herself to send a bread-and-butter letter to the Prime Minister and to begin calculation of her finances for another move – a move to another life in another land, well away from this bungle.

O
ver a late breakfast in the dining room at the hotel – late service being a dispensation won from the grumpy kitchen by sheer English ingratiation by Ambrose, and one of their few earned privileges as long-term guests – they reviewed their boozy decision to flee Canberra and agreed that it was best. She was feeling the effects of the nightcaps and hoped the lamb’s fry and bacon would restore her. Ambrose ordered the same.

It was clear enough now that she was not going to be offered a position in External Affairs. She was not going to be the first woman ambassador, and that was that. If Watt had any leanings towards that idea, he would have broached it at the afternoon tea. Or hinted. Watt knew it was foremost in her mind and she had certainly planted it in his.

She had talked with Dobson, who had managed to get somewhat into External Affairs, by back doors, but she was not optimistic about Edith or about herself. She worried about Edith’s age and, of course, her married status. And worse, that she was married to a British diplomat. The marriage to Ambrose had been a stupid and un-thought-out move, but inescapable if he were to come with her to Australia and take up the Canberra position at the HC. They hadn’t thought it through. It was her blithe, wilful arrogance, and the notion of being ‘snapped up’ – that every obstruction would be overlooked or waved away – which she had let fool her.

Dobson said that the objections made to women in the diplomatic corps were that they could not contain their emotions, their voices became shrill in discussion, and their clothing would be
disturbing
to men.

Edith said that in her time at the League she had heard some very shrill men who could not contain their emotions.

Dobson argued that women, when they reached the top, would have to dress more like men. ‘The more you looked like your opponent the less unnerved he was.’

‘Maybe there are times to unnerve one’s opponent.’

Over breakfast, the planning became serious. They discussed returning to London; Ambrose seeking an FO appointment in a European country; Ambrose going back to practising medicine, which he thought was risky – he was too out of touch, would probably have do some sort of additional study; her becoming a ‘doctor’s wife’; them adopting a child; farming an orchard in an English village; going to the Shetlands; her returning to university to read law, if any university would let her in; anything but staying here.

They had finally decided to live on her dividend money for a time, and to visit New York once more, where they again would try for positions for both Ambrose and her at the UNO.

Ambrose seemed to be passive in the face of the accepted failure of their Canberra experiment. She guessed that, deep down, he had never had high hopes.

‘I may have to stay on here for a bit,’ he said.

This surprised her. She had seen them just upping and leaving.

‘Why so?’ Did he have something keeping him here?

‘To tidy up. Wait for a replacement to arrive. That sort of thing.’

She nodded. Yes, she supposed that was right.

Her mind was wandering – over the packing and whether they should take an airliner, but she had heard that because cabins were unpressurised the flights were bumpy and noisy, so perhaps they should have their larger possessions sent on by sea – when a concierge came to the table and told Edith that she had a call on the telephone in the lobby. She asked that her lamb’s fry be taken to the kitchen and kept warm. A forlorn expectation.

It was Bruce calling from the Lodge, where he was staying, inquiring how she had enjoyed the dinner party at the Lodge.

She suggested that he join them for a late breakfast, but he declined because he needed to return to Melbourne on the afternoon train.

She thanked him for getting her on the Lodge invitation list and told him how stimulating it had been, smiling to herself about her escapade and her successful conversion of it into a second libidinous escapade with Ambrose. Would she again meet up with Richard, the man with the wandering hands? And did she want to? Why had he not given her his business card? Why not a wink?