Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

              “Then what did you mean by intertwined?” asked Georgia.

              “Well, my wife and I were good friends from uni at Leeds,” said Owen, “She was my first girlfriend.  She was just a good person.  We had a spark.  It wasn’t anything crazy, like when you’re walking down the street and you see someone and you’re like wow.  It was just that we were so comfortable around each other.  So I graduated and did some work as a staffer at Parliament and I wanted to show her I had potential.  Nothing wrong with being a staffer, in fact, my staffers were great, always great.  But I don’t know; I wanted to give her a life she deserved.  I wanted her to have a life where she could actually do some things that so many people don’t get to do.  I found that being an MP was the only way I could think of.  The kind of thing where you can go to parties and people will say oh, you’re the wife of an MP.  It opens doors in London.  So I registered with my parents’ house as my residence and ran from the constituency of Tunbridge Wells.  I got elected and I wanted to make the best career of it that I could.  So I made sure to keep my constituency happy to get re-elected and I avoided scandal, so that nixes the shagging about.”  Owen stopped to think about how he wanted to phrase things for someone who was still a toddler when he began his career.  Not that politics ever changed much but there was a feeling that things were somehow different back when he was getting in the game.

              “The life of a politician is like you can imagine,” said Owen, “It’s like the life of a fish in a bowl.  And I personally was developing something of a golden boy reputation, so I was a goldfish.   The calls started to get more frequent and the Conservatives were pushing me.  They were trying to have my career go to where they thought it could be, so the party could ride on my coattails.  The secret to being a career politician is to be as boring and clichéd as possible. 
Married with a couple kids
. 
House
. 
Suits
.  Make sure all of your sound bytes are naturally neutral.  Stay away from hard answers unless you’ve been pre-fed the answers.  Even with reporters, I was told to always threaten to cut off interviews if they went off script.  The press is free, but answers were and are increasingly expensive.  Karen had trouble dealing with it. We couldn’t be with our friends because we were increasingly obliged to spend time with
party
friends.  We thought at some point it would die down but it just changed.  Once we were first or second couple of the party we started getting invited to social gatherings by prominent business persons and the like and we’d give the same answers.  And she was my first girlfriend and we were married, so we fit a stereotypical idea of sorts.  People liked that about us; politicians, peers and business folk alike.  We were the successful sweethearts.  It just didn’t work for Karen.  For years, she was the only person who knew what I truly thought about anything.  Everything else was scripted.  Even with our so-called real friends, I gave them official answers and told them official tales.  Couldn’t have something leaking out the backdoor.  That was the way we lived.  But she couldn’t stand it.”

“So we agreed we’d divorce.  And it was actually not as big a scandal as it would have seemed because there was no housekeeper in our bed when she came home.  Frankly, our house wasn’t big enough to have a housekeeper but we gave honest answers to straight questions.  When everyone and the press wanted to know why we were divorcing, we said the political life was a strain on our personal life.  That was everything that was in the soup.  There were no breadcrumbs on the soup plate.  She didn’t have a lover, nor did I.  She just tired of that life.  For me it was my career and I couldn’t just let it go.  Let it go to do what?  It was one of those strange things life brings where divorce was actually a great thing to save our relationship.  We still phoned each other after the divorce.  She moved out.  Anytime she would need money there was never the need to pay me back, like we were married.  She had been the keeper of the real me for years, enough for me to be the fake me as MP.  She never asked for much but if she needed me to help install her new refrigerator or something or help put a new coat of paint on the walls, I was there—without question.  And I was fortunate because times were changing.”

“What do you mean ‘times were changing’?” asked Georgia.

“Well,” said Owen, “The party had this idea to marry me off to someone.  They sort of suggested that I be coupled up about a year after the divorce.  They didn’t want to have this image of a broken man, still longing for his wife.  And they didn’t want this idea that political life had somehow ruined my marriage to linger.  I mean this is the Conservative Party we’re talking about, strong arms. They weren’t pushing me to be legally married right away but they wanted me to have a lady in tow, someone on my arm when at public events—someone regular.  They wanted that kind of Barbie and Ken look.  They actually said that.  This was over eight years ago and I didn’t have these gray locks here and there, so I guess I did look like a Ken doll—tall with dark hair and what not.  They actually suggested I try to find a blonde girl because it was photogenic or photo-generic.  It gave people that perfect-couple fixation.  It actually made me realize how smart Karen was to get out.  But the part about times changing was that in the late sixties, after Karen and I divorced, people didn’t seem to mind a bachelor as much as before.  It was more or less ok that I had been married and it didn’t work out.  And I wasn’t rushing to be married again.  It wasn’t dogma.  You know what I mean?  I guess there were more divorced-single blokes running around at the time.  So people got used to it, as an idea.  It didn’t seem to affect me politically.  So after while, the party dropped that line and I got back to being an MP.  And they found a new golden boy, a fellow named James Gladwell-Hastings and his wife.  I felt sorry for them. I did.”

“So you never remarried?” asked Georgia.

              “No,” said Owen, “I took issue with the idea.”

              “Why?” asked Georgia.  Owen paused.  It was a long pause.

              “I always had a feeling,” said Owen, “That because of my choice to pursue a political career I never gave Karen and I a fair shot or just giving Karen a fair shot with me.  I know she wanted a fair shot.  God knows she deserved it.”  The pause came back.  Georgia let the pause stand for a while.  Owen was staring straight ahead.  Georgia grabbed him by the chin and made him look at her.

              “Hey, you deserve a fair shot too,” said Georgia.

              “At what?” asked Owen.

              “At having the things you want,” said Georgia, “You shouldn’t always have to sacrifice.  You sacrificed your marriage.  It’s been enough.  You’re one person.  The world doesn’t spin round with only one person in it.”

              “But if there were no people on this planet, it wouldn’t stop,” said Owen, “The world won’t stop for any of us.  It just goes round.  Doesn’t matter what we do, especially me.”

              “You seem so sad,” said Georgia.

              “No,” said Owen, “Not really.”

              “Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?” asked Georgia.

              “Cheer me up?” said Owen, “I’m not really feeling down, nowhere to go up from?”

              “You’re sure,” said Georgia, working her right hand up from his kneecap and wedging it between his thighs.  She rubbed her thumb over the thin sheet of skin that sat loose between the stiff stones under it.  She rubbed once round the left and then the right, alternating the sensation using the slack of his soft skin to pinch him, then release.

              “You trying to get me going again?” said Owen.

              “You invite me to this lovely flat that sits right on the water,” said Georgia, “The least I can do is rock your boat; put some wind in your sail.”

              “You already have,” said Owen, “Rocked my boat, so to speak.”

              “That was then,” said Georgia, “This is now.”

              “Hang on a minute,” said Owen.

              “Where are you going?” asked Georgia.

              “To make an espresso,” said Owen, “You want one?”

              “Sure,” said Georgia, “If you’re not planning on sleeping.”

              “It seems we’ve got better things to do,” said Owen, “Some sailing of sorts.”

              “There’s plenty of river in front of us,” said Georgia, “Might as well.”

              “Then I’ll double that espresso,” said Owen.

              “Probably betters,” said Georgia.

              “Probably,” said Owen.  He came back with two frosted crystal espresso cups. 

              “Thank you for coming,” said Owen.

              “You’ve already said that,” said Georgia.

              “I know,” said Owen, “But now I’ve said it twice so you know I mean it.”

              “Show me you mean it,” said Georgia.  Putting her hand on his waste.  Owen took three quick sips of his espresso finishing it.  He put his cup down on the floor next to the bed.  He grabbed Georgia and stood her up on her knees.  He grabbed one bun then the other and pulled her within range.  He kissed her as if thanking her for listening to him.  Georgia felt how thin his lips were.  What they lacked for size, they made up with serene motion.  His kisses were short but deep and he slowly moved over every part of her lips, making up for the size difference.  Georgia’s lips weren’t big but bigger than his.  He accommodated her.  Once she realized what he was doing she didn’t kiss back.  She just held her lips in flexion and let him work.  It wasn’t wild and passionate.  It was slow but unrelenting, meant to go on for a long time.  Georgia took comfort in the fact that her body was pressed against his, hidden from view.  She didn’t like the look of her breasts outside a bra.  They had an obvious sag.  It contrasted the perfect look she was used to presenting when aided by a shrewd-fitting bra.  With her breast squeezed against his chest, there was nowhere for them to sag.  Instead of being conscious of herself, she could be conscious of him. 

His skin was smooth, well-shaven.  It complemented Georgia’s soft skin covering her high cheekbones.  He seemed to prefer the long low-energy intimacy over fast locomotion.  There was the hot sex but that time was over.  He seemed to be trying to communicate it.  It was different this second time, more lakeside tranquility than swinging through a jungle.  He leaned in closer and butted his right cheekbone against hers.  It didn’t so much hurt as it did contrast the gentle feeling that came with his lips.  He gripped her shoulders with both hands and slowly eased her down on her back.  Her knees folded up into the air.  He moved his hands from her shoulders to her knees and pulled them apart.  On her back, her breasts expanded in every direction, flattening.  She could easily see over them and saw Owen was flaccid.  After minutes of kissing, he was excited but not aroused.  He was excited enough to run his hands along the sides of her waist and up to her breasts.  He treated her breasts like he treated her lips.  He was slow caressing, making up for the size difference of his hands being smaller than her breasts.  His hands held a certain authority.  He seemed to know the size of Georgia’s breasts meant little sensation for her.  He focused his fingers around her nipples, made larger while she was on her back.  He was more of a maestro than a masseuse.  The difference was time.  There was no regular session.  He could go as long as he wanted.  And he did.  He went gently left-to-right over her nipples with his knuckles.  The feeling caused Georgia’s breathing to change.  As her breathing became deeper, it became noticeable.  The rise and fall of her chest was something Owen had to compensate for, as he continued with his knuckles.  He found his rhythm and kept going.  Georgia realized what he was waiting for when she felt the subtle dense feeling increasing against the back of her thigh.  It went from dense to stiff to hard.  Her arousal triggered his own. 

After so many minutes, he didn’t have to compensate with caressing; his inherent pride presented itself.  As soon as his erection pulled up, he pushed in.  Georgia was slightly taken aback.  She didn’t understand the sudden hurriedness.   As he thrust, she thought.  His thrusts were short and quick, which affected the rhythm of her thinking.  She realized it was new to her, not the sex but the man.  He was forty-five years old.  Two times in one night was a special request.  It took her time to realize it.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t manage it; it’s just that he had to manage himself differently.  The second time had taken him longer to get up and he wanted to make the most of it.  He was more mechanical than he had been the first time.  It was not quite two hours later but the first time dictated the second time.  His thrusts were more desperate than deliberate.  After all the work to get himself hard, he didn’t want to let it go to waste.  As soon as Georgia realized it, she encouraged him.  Her panting was more elaborate than the first time.  She even called his name. 
Owen
. 
Finish me
.  She tried to change the dynamic from the first time.  It wasn’t about them.  She let it be about him.  He was thrusting desperately.  Her encouragement made the difference, though she wasn’t sure. 
Owen
. 
Finish me
.  She did and He did.