Downstairs again, she poured the last of the champagne and looked through the McDowds’ book collection for something to read as she’d forgotten to buy something that afternoon. She found a romance that hopefully wouldn’t tax her rather muggy brain, and began to read, but all of a sudden, quite out of the blue, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of wretched loneliness. All over London people were enjoying themselves and here she was, stuck in a strange house on her own.
She looked at the clock; five past eight. At the theatre, the curtain would have just gone up. Lachlan’s gig would have started. She tried to remember where he was playing tonight and thought it might be Brighton, but
wasn’t sure. She wanted to see him,
desperately
wanted to see him. The awareness of how unsatisfactory their life had become struck her like a blow. He was away so much of the time and although she could have gone with him, a woman would have been out of place in such a male environment. Everyone would have had to watch what they said.
I’ve never been able to compete with rock ’n’ roll, Jeannie thought sadly. It has always come first with Lachlan. She wished he were there to argue that it wasn’t the case, that he’d give it up tomorrow if it would make her happy. ‘Some hope,’ she sighed.
Now he was abusing his body in order to play better, slowly killing himself. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the robe. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening, not a morbid review of the state of her marriage.
The doorbell went – it played the first seven notes of ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’ – and she went to answer it. She hoped it was someone she knew because she quite fancied company, but when she opened the door it was to the last person on earth she wanted to see.
‘I’ll just pay the taxi,’ said Sean McDowd. ‘I asked the driver to wait in case there was no one to let me in.’ He gave her the suggestion of a smile. ‘Hi, Jeannie. I didn’t expect to find you here.’
There was something wrong. Sean could tell straight away, see the hurt in her eyes. Her mouth was downcast. At first he thought she’d dyed her hair, it looked darker, but then he realised it was wet. The ends were beginning to dry with a slight upward curl. He noticed everything about her; her bare feet, the sheen of her creamy legs, a gleam of moisture in the smooth hollow of her throat.
‘Why aren’t you at the theatre with Mam and Dad?’ he asked, setting his bag on the floor and removing the dark glasses that had enabled him to travel from New York to London without being recognised. He scorned minders and bodyguards, who would only have intruded into his solitary life.
She explained she was in London to make an album and was going to the theatre on Saturday with Marcia and Zoe.
‘How’s Lachlan?’
Her blue eyes clouded over. ‘Oh, he’s fine.’
‘Good.’
‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘Sadie wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’
‘I was supposed to go somewhere tonight in New York, a dinner, but it was cancelled.’ The truth was he’d promised to attend a fund-raising event with his actress girlfriend, Melanie, but they’d had a blazing row. He wasn’t committed to the relationship, she’d complained, for a reason he couldn’t remember. Sean had shrugged and walked out, and caught the next plane to Heathrow. He just hoped Melanie would be gone from his apartment when he returned.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, ta. Is that champagne you’re drinking?’
‘Yes, but it’s the last of the bottle.’
‘I’ll open more.’ Champagne seemed an appropriate drink after finding Jeannie Flowers alone in his parents’ house. There were usually a few bottles in the fridge.
He opened the bottle in the kitchen. He wasn’t very good at it. There was a loud ‘pop’ and the cork thudded into the ceiling. ‘More?’ he asked when he went back.
She wrinkled her nose and handed him her glass. ‘Why not!’
Sean filled both their glasses. He contemplated sitting next to her on the settee, but reckoned she’d prefer he kept to an armchair. ‘Cheers!’ He sat down.
‘Cheers! Are you tired after your flight?’ She was trying to make conversation. She’d wait for a while before going up to bed, so it didn’t look rude. Jeannie Flowers would never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings.
‘No, but I resent losing five hours of me life. But then I’ll make them up when I go back, so what’s the difference?’
‘What’s the difference?’ she agreed.
The last time they’d been alone together he’d kissed her. Sean had thought about that kiss many times over the intervening years. How ironic it was, that a single kiss should stick in his mind, yet since then he must have made love to at least a hundred other women. It was just that the other women didn’t hold a candle to Jeannie. She was superior in every possible way. For as long as he could remember, she had been his idea of absolute perfection. He looked at her furtively. She was staring moodily into the glass, her mind elsewhere, not on him.
Sean knew that Lachlan wasn’t fine. He’d become a junkie, not yet a hopeless case, but he would be soon if he didn’t lay off the dope. Perhaps that was why Jeannie looked so miserable, why there was hurt in her eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms and make her better, stroke her soft cheeks, kiss her ears, her eyes, and feel her lashes flutter against his lips. He wondered if she was wearing anything underneath the pink robe and imagined sliding his hand inside and cupping her breast, squeezing it, gently, rubbing her nipple with his thumb. The nipple would be like the centre of a flower, a rose.
He thought of something to say that would grab her attention and hoped she wouldn’t be annoyed. ‘What
happened to the kids you were going to have?’ he asked. She’d wanted them soon, he remembered her saying. That had been eight years ago and she would be thirty in December. ‘A boy and a girl, I think you said.’
She gave him a look of such anguish, he felt ashamed. ‘Things don’t always go according to plan,’ she said dully. He could have sworn she stifled a sob.
There was silence for a long while, but it was probably only seconds. During the silence, Sean could feel the tension in the air. He could actually hear it, a dull, repetitive throbbing. Perhaps it was his heart. Or Jeannie’s heart. Or both their hearts beating together.
Sean stood and put the champagne carefully on the hearth, hardly touched. He could no longer help himself. He sat beside Jeannie and slipped the robe off her shoulders, then buried his head in the creamy flesh, sliding his lips along its smoothness. She was wearing nothing underneath. The robe fell back further, exposing her breasts, like two flowers, as he’d thought. He bent his head and sucked greedily. Jeannie groaned, made to push him away, but instead collapsed against the back of the settee. Sean undid the robe and still she made no protest. He touched her naked body reverently until, to his intense joy, she began to respond, arching against him, gasping with delight when he slid the flat of his hand down her stomach and between her soft thighs.
While he removed his clothes, she lay, watching him, her blue eyes hazy with desire as she waited for him to take her.
At long last Jeannie Flowers was his.
Sadie found Jeannie’s note when she came down very late next morning. It was by the kettle, her first port of call.
Dear Sadie and Kevin
,
I apologise for being rude, but didn’t want to wake you. I had a phone call last night from my mother. She’s not very well and Alex has had to go away. As soon as I finish in the studio, I shall race up to Liverpool to make sure she’s all right, then return to London on Saturday to see
The King and I.
I’ll buy the papers to read the reviews, but I don’t doubt Rita gave a fantastic performance
.
Thanks for having me
.
Jeannie
.
When Sean heard, he was disappointed, but not terribly surprised.
Lachlan came back to Noah’s Ark the week after Jeannie’s stay in London, the Survivors’ tour over. There wouldn’t be another till the New Year, though they had a few gigs before Christmas. They were going to Eastern Europe next summer, he announced. He’d hardly been back an hour, after having had a shower and allowed Jeannie to tug a comb through his long tangle of hair, before disappearing into the studio wearing old jeans and his favourite blue sweater that she’d given up trying to repair. ‘To start on some new material, babe,’ he said.
Jeannie detested being called ‘babe’. It had started at the same time as he’d got the earring and the tattoo. She waited a further hour, then grabbed a coat, left the house, and walked down to the shore. The tide was coming in and she watched the River Mersey lap busily to and fro at her feet, leaving behind a scum of froth that sank slowly into the sand. There wasn’t another person in sight, not surprising on such a dismal October afternoon that was rapidly growing dark. The sky was a
dirty grey and clouds were banked like a row of black, sinister hills on the horizon. She shuddered, pulled up her collar, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and wished she’d brought a scarf and gloves.
What were they to do, she and Lachlan? More to the point, what was
she
to do? Lachlan seemed perfectly happy to continue as he was, on the road for most of the time, buried in the basement when he was home, whereas her own career amounted to very little – a few engagements a year, the occasional record.
She hadn’t realised quite how unhappy she was until last week. A happily married woman would never have allowed another man to make love to her and enjoyed it quite so much. She still felt guilty – she always would – remembering how willingly she’d surrendered herself to Sean McDowd. She’d been hypnotised by his dark eyes, the touch of his long slender fingers. Oh, Lord! She’d been so
easy
! She preferred not to think what would happen if Lachlan ever found out what she’d done.
By now, it was completely dark and the only sound was the busy rustle of the black water. The streetlights made the sky over Liverpool appear a dull orange and in Noah’s Ark the brightly lit windows glowed a warm welcome. Jeannie went through the back gate and trudged up the garden, past the swimming pool, and into the house. She didn’t feel particularly welcome. When they’d first looked over the house – it must be at least ten years ago – she’d thought it was a place that needed lots of people, a family. It was too big for just the two of them. She wondered if Lachlan would agree to them getting rid of it, buying something smaller, cosier, like Magnolia Cottage or the McDowds’ mews house.
She went into the kitchen and was surprised to find
him there, about to put the kettle on, and felt a rush of love that almost made her choke.
‘I was just coming to look for you, babe,’ he said. ‘I think it’s about time we had a talk.’
It had only just struck him that they hadn’t seen each other for a fortnight, yet he’d done a disappearing act as soon as he got home. He was sorry. It was thoughtless of him. It was just that he’d had stuff in his head, music, lyrics, that he was worried he’d forget.
They both agreed that her life was very unsatisfactory. He spent so much time away and she was lonely on her own in the big, isolated house that her mother had once called a mausoleum. Jeannie waited for him to suggest they move to a smaller place and eventually he did.
‘But what about the studio?’ she felt bound to remind him.
‘I’m the only one who uses it these days. All I do is fiddle about.’ The other Survivors, Fly and Cobb, both lived in London and the final recordings were made in a studio there. ‘We could buy a flat in London, as well as a house here,’ Lachlan went on. ‘I could hire a studio to do my fiddling about.’
Jeannie said she loved the idea of living in London for a few months of the year. ‘It would be wonderful.’ She could see Zoe, Rita, and Marcia when she came to town, the McDowds. ‘But Lachlan,’ she said, ‘will it ever stop? Will the Survivors still be playing when they’re old, old men?’
For a moment, he looked flummoxed, as if he hadn’t understood the question. ‘I reckon so, babe,’ he said slowly and there was a hint of fear in his voice. ‘I can’t think of anything else I’d want to do. I’d die if I wasn’t involved in music.’
‘I see.’ Jeannie sighed.
Neither of them mentioned children. Over the years, he’d said a few times how much he would like a family, but he didn’t
need
one, not like her. With Lachlan, if he thought about it at all, it was a question of pride. His brothers, the terrible trio, were all grown men, all married with children. For her, it was a never-ending ache, a feeling of loss for the babies that hadn’t been born.
They went to bed early, but didn’t make love, falling asleep in each other’s arms. When Jeannie woke, it was just gone midnight and Lachlan wasn’t there. She went down to the studio and found him lying on the floor wearing only a pair of shorts. His body felt cold, but his heart was beating normally and his breathing steady. The drawer where he kept his stash of drugs was open. He must have been unable to sleep and had come to get a tablet.
Jeannie fetched a duvet, lay down beside him, and pulled it over them both. She put her arm around his waist and felt his body gradually getting warmer. Then she fell asleep herself.
Lachlan woke first and began to touch her. They made love very slowly, leisurely, neither saying a word. It was a strange, satisfying, almost mystical experience. Afterwards, they slept for hours, until it was broad daylight, and the weak suggestion of a sun glittered over the River Mersey.
Later, he was to claim that that was the night Jeannie had conceived. ‘When we were both totally relaxed, babe, not really thinking of anything but each other.’
But Jeannie knew differently.
Antony Peter Bailey, weighing 7 pounds, 11 ounces,
made his first appearance on the world’s stage in the middle of June, 1976. He was a perfect baby in every way apart from a complete lack of hair. Jeannie had had a trouble-free pregnancy followed by a straightforward birth. Antony slept when he was supposed to, rarely cried, and took to his mother’s breast like a dream.
The Baileys declared him to be the image of his father, but the Flowers claimed he had his mother’s looks. Only Jeannie could see a distinct resemblance to Sean McDowd in the neat features of her son though, naturally, she didn’t mention it to a soul.