He thought it must be the guest that Debbie Pink had been waiting for. A tall, younger man, in jeans and a faded denim shirt. He managed a surreptitious look at his watch, not even ten, Christ… " O h, Freddie, someone for you to meet…"
"Hello, I'm Frederick Bissett."
"This is Colin T u c k. "
The young man smiled. " I ' m usually called Colt," he said.
Bissett tried to grin, " Y o u want to be called Colt, you can be called Colt."
The introduction had eased him out of the conversation group, and Debbie had moved away, more glasses to find and fill.
Colt said quietly, "This sort of crowd makes me want to throw u p . "
About the best thing he could have said to inch his way to Frederick Bissett's affection.
It was Debbie's bedroom. He held the picture in front of her.
The picture was of herself, sitting in front of the fire, in the dining room downstairs. The drawing had been framed in a simple black border. He held it for her to see herself. He put the picture down on the arms of a chair, where it faced the bed. She could have walked away. She could have pushed him away.
Slowly, he began to unbutton the front of her blouse. He slipped the blouse from her shoulders and reached behind her to unfasten the brassiere. She could have walked out through the door, slammed it on him. He pulled the zip on her skirt, and the skirt fell. She kissed him. His hands on her hips, and pushing down on her pants, and her stepping out of them. Her tongue in his mouth. Sara pulled the shirt off him, she had his belt open, she drove down at the waist of his trousers. She crouched. She pulled off his trousers and threw his shoes aside and peeled at his socks and underpants. She stripped him. Still not a word was said.
He led her to the bed, Debbie's bed. There was the photograph of Debbie beside the bed on the small table. Beside her own bed, Sara's bed, was the photograph of Frederick with Adam and Frank. She looked away from the photograph of Debbie. She lay on the bed and she threw out her thighs and she lifted her knees.
" O h, you're there, are you? Must be fascinating work."
"It has its moments."
"Well, that's the best brains in the country."
"Some of them."
"Well, m y privilege… "
"Thank you."
The food was in the dining room, and there was a slow movement towards it. Colt had manoeuvred Bissett towards the corner of the room away from the dining room door.
"What I heard, people work in that place for peanuts, lifetime of sacrifice on the altar of science."
"Well… "
" I f true, it's scandalous."
"I wouldn't say that we're… "
" L o o k at this crowd… Does any one of them do anything that is remotely valuable? Yet the drive outside looks like this year's Motor Show. This country's got its values upside down."
"I wouldn't disagree."
Colt reached for a bottle. A splash for himself, a fill for Bissett.
The man didn't look like a successful drinker.
"All the rewards go to the tax dodgers, the system buckers, the free enterprise merchants. And the best brains in the country?
Ground into the dust."
"We're not paid well, it's true."
"Understatement of the year, Frederick. You're very loyal, but you're paid awful money. One wonders if it will ever get any better."
" I ' m afraid we've missed out. World's upside down and Frederick Bissett's on the bottom."
"It's like a trap, really, isn't it? And it's difficult to know how to break free."
Her back arched, her thigh muscles taut. Reaching for him, rising to him. Him deep in her.
Oh, the fucking goodness of it, of him. When was it last as fucking good? Was it ever as fucking good with Frederick fucking Bissett?
Grinding her slowly away, breaking her will to compete with him. He was marvellous. Taking her with him. Best ever… better than the Ceramics tutor, and that was forever ago. Don't match him. Let him do it all, because that's what he was telling her.
Kissing him, holding him, running her fingers on his back. She was falling, she was letting her legs slide from against his hips. She was his. Slow, so slow… Taking her as she had not been taken.
Slow, slow, till she'd scream. Oh, oh, fucking good… H e r head thrashing on the pillow, Debbie's pillow. Hearing her own voice.
Recognising Sara Bissett's voice. Little shouts, slight calls. She moaned. He came inside her, deep inside her. She cried out.
He rolled away. Bloody hell, and the light was still on, the door was still open, and she could hear the shouting and the laughter shimmer up the stairs, and the rattle of plates, and the thump of the music. Didn't care, didn't give a damn. She played patterns with her fingernail in the hair on his chest.
Her husband was downstairs with the voices and the food and the music, and she didn't give a damn.
They were still in the corner, left to themselves. To Colt, he was just a target. He felt no emotion towards the man, no pity and no contempt. The time was right. The timing was the gamble.
It was his alone to choose.
He said, "There is another way."
"I don't know it. God knows, I've looked elsewhere. Too high-powered, too specialised, that's the trap."
"Go abroad."
Bissett said, "It's against the rules."
" Y o u go abroad and you don't tell them you're going."
"That's… "
"That's looking after yourself, Frederick. You go abroad where your work is accorded the respect it deserves, and where it is paid what it deserves."
"What you mean… "
"I mean, where you are a top man, head of a department. I mean where you are paid a hundred grand a year, no tax."
"I beg your pardon…"
"A team working for you, superb working and living conditions."
"I really don't know… "
Colt said, " D r Bissett, you can leave here tonight, you can go to your security people, you can report this conversation. I'll be in shit, and you'll be a hero and poor. On the other hand, you can agree to meet some people, you can discuss a work offer, a meeting without strings. Which, Dr Bissett?"
He recognised the wife. She came across to them. She said nothing. A beautiful woman. She looked as though she had had one too many.
Colt wrote a telephone number on a sheet of a notepad from his shirt pocket. He looked into Bissett's face, he saw the trust brimming in his eyes. He handed the paper to Bissett.
Bissett said, "I think it's time we went home, Sara, don't you?"
12
He had had the same fierce throbbing ache – and the same sense of shame the morning after his "stag night", just him and the junior physics lecturer who had agreed, after having his arm twisted, to be his best Man. And, once before, when he graduated. Breakfast this morning was absolutely out ol the question.
Sara had followed him round the house when they were back inside. "Had he enjoyed himself? Just a little? It hadn't been too frightful, had it?'' He wasn't sure it hadn't, And she hadn't worn her nightdress when they went to bed and she had clung to his back, and all he had wanted was to keep the room from rocking.