Prelude (18 page)

And so she did, stoking me until it felt as if there was a furnace raging in the pit of my stomach and until it was now my turn to beg for release. It makes me smile just to think of that. Not quite the dominatrix, but without doubt the mistress of all she surveyed. At that moment, India could have asked me anything in the world and I would have given it her.

We cuddled, we made love, she sipped her homemade lemonade and trickled it from her lips into mine. Finally, we were spent and lay in each other’s arms, staring up at the sky and the Heathrow planes that forever drone over Eton.

“I think I ought to tell you something,” India said with a kiss. “To avoid any embarrassment.”

Instantly my heart was yammering, claxon bells were ringing. Was this it? Was this the bullet? Was she about to reveal some ghastly skeleton from her early life?

But I could relax.

It was none of that.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” she said. “I thought it better to tell you now than to spring it on you on the day.”

“Brilliant!” I said. “What present would you like?”

“Only you,” she said. “Just you and nothing more.”

“That can be arranged.”

I kissed her. My heart was filled with rapturous love. A most devilish idea was forming in my mind.

“How old will you be?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four?” I’d never really thought about her age before. India was just India, my first great love, and her age was an irrelevance. “Maybe I ought to be there to bring it in?”

“Kim, you are mad.”

“I mean it.” I was bubbling with glee at the thought of it.

“I mean it too.”

“It’ll be great,” I said. “Wait till after lights out and I could be with you in five minutes.”

“You’re mad.” She kissed me again, and that dreamy look had come into her eyes that meant she wanted more than just a kiss. Her fingers wandered down my chest. “You’re mad but I love you.”

We talked as we made love. She gasped, she purred, and she asked me, “Are you serious?”

“Of course.” Up until then, I had not thought about the sheer enormity of what I’d promised to do. But love and teenage bravado had given me wings. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Despite my love of the outdoors, a whole night of love with India, with soft sheets and feathered pillows, and that blissful moment when I awoke with her in my arms.

She writhed against me, her fingers deep into my back. “You know I’d love that more than anything.” She panted. “But you will take care?”

We didn’t need to utter another word. We bucked, we churned and braced against each other, our lips locked.

“Trust me,” I said.

And she did.

AS I WALKED back to the Timbralls, my mind ticked over all the various options.

I’d never broken out of the house before and when I came to consider the practicalities, it did seem a most foolhardy venture.

But my love was expecting me and I could not let her down.

My first problem was how to get out of the house. I tried the downstairs lavatory window. At a push, I could have squeezed out. But when I went upstairs, I discovered a far more expedient option: the fire-escape.

I asked Jeremy if I could borrow his bike.

“Jesus.” He shook his head as he handed me the bike lights. “If they catch you, you’re toast.”

As I knew only too well. Just being caught outside the house after dark would have warranted instant expulsion. But I thought that so long as I covered my head, I wouldn’t be recognised. And if it ever came to a chase, I would work my way home on Eton’s hidden paths and shortcuts.

What an idiot, to risk everything for a night with India. I would do it again for only a single kiss.

That evening I was a bundle of nerves, like a sprinter in the run-up to a big race. I did my best to stick to my normal routine, washing and brushing my teeth.

Jeremy was in the washroom too. All he could do was shake his head before pointing his cocked fingers to his temple and pulling the trigger. But nothing he could say was going to stop me.

In the passageway, I chatted to Frankie. I was fortunate that he didn’t come into my room, for his acute antennae couldn’t have missed that something was up.

With the radio low, I started to lay out the things I’d need. Jeans, T-shirt, dark jumper, trainers and a snug hat to pull low over my brow. Some gaffer tape for the fire-door. Fresh batteries for Jeremy’s bike lights. I bit at my thumbnail, wondering if I’d missed anything.

I had.

I had no present.

I scanned the room for anything that might service. A few crinkled novels and some dog-eared books of poetry; some shabby schoolboy clothes; my posters. Useless, all useless.

I had a nose through my box of trinkets. There were a few collar studs and five cufflinks; nothing remotely worthy for my love.

But as I raked through the little plastic box, I saw the one thing that would be a fitting present for India.

I would give her my watch.

It was the most expensive thing I owned, a classic Heuer, with a thick crocodile skin strap and a handsome face that almost covered my wrist. My father had given it to me for my sixteenth birthday. It was my most treasured possession.

Without a second thought, I decided to give it to India.

But perhaps you can already tell that this Heuer is not just some light detail that I have tossed into the mix? Before my tale is done, we will return to it.

WITH THE LIGHTS off, I dressed and peeled off some strips of gaffer tape, sticking them lightly to my arm. At 11.30, I stole out of my room. Every door pulsated with menace. There were at least fifteen other boys’ rooms on the corridor, with the most dangerous of all, Savage’s, adjacent to the fire-escape.

The passage was lit by the dim pink glow of the night-lights. I tiptoed along, feet next to the walls, testing every step.

Earlier that evening, I had already tried the fire door. It had seemed simple enough. You pressed the horizontal bar down and the two bolts at the top and bottom clunked back. But when I tried it in the still of the night, the crack of the bar seemed to sound like a rifle shot.

I was champing on my lip with nerves. I hung there motionless, my hand on the bar and the door three inches ajar.

Somehow the house stayed fast asleep. I gave it a minute and peeled off some strips of gaffer tape, slapping them on the top and bottom bolts to secure my route back in. Outside, I closed the door behind me, not shut tight, but enough to prevent a casual glance noticing anything amiss.

I felt a huge surge of exhilaration. I was out, out and on the road to my love.

For a while I stood on that black cast-iron balcony, leaning against the wall and staring at the stars.

To schoolboys everywhere, I could not recommend the experience more highly. It was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done.

I crept down the fire-escape stairs, scrabbled onto one of the Timbralls’ bins and jumped over the outer wall. Only as I looked back at the smooth bricks did I realise that breaking back into the house was going to be a teaser. The wall had to be a full ten-feet high.

Still, I’d deal with that when I came to it.

Jeremy’s bike was where I’d hidden it, tucked away behind a van in a corner of New Schools Yard. A last look at the Timbralls, a brooding black block against the starry skyline, and off I rode, slapping the black Sebastopol cannon on the way and whistling a jaunty tune to myself.

I wasn’t heading direct for India’s home, which would have meant riding past any number of beaks’ houses on the High Street. Instead, I made a wide detour that took me past the Music Schools and the lower chapel before heading cross-country over the South Meadow playing fields.

It was one of those times in my life when it felt so good to be alive, with the wind in my face, the air tart on my lips and cold in my throat. I was on a mission and that night I knew I could not possibly fail for the Gods were with me.

On the far side of South Meadow, I turned the bike lights on and rejoined Meadow Lane. In another minute I was by Windsor Bridge.

It would have been too conspicuous to leave the bike outside India’s flat, so instead I locked it up near Rafts, where Eton’s scores of boats were stored, and skipped over to her cul-de-sac. I was grinning every step of the way. I’d done it! We’d bring in her birthday together.

I gave the bell a short ring and in moments she was tripping down the stairs. She wore silk pyjamas, a white cotton dressing-gown, leather slippers on her feet and, as she stood there in the doorway, her hands clasped her cheeks in amazement.

“You made it.” She was still shaking her head.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I’d better make it worth your while,” and with that, she took my hand and we were tearing up the stairs, up through the living room, and up the oak stairs to the heaven of her bedroom. And, of course, she’d been expecting me. The patio window was open, and the table, the walls and the windows were lined with scores of dainty, round, tea-light candles. By the bed, a bottle of Bollinger on ice. For my first introduction to indoor sex, it couldn’t have been any better.

Windsor Castle was a blaze of light above us and a zephyr of wind was seeping in off the river, bubbling at the blinds. We held each other by the window, India’s eyes sparkling bright as she gazed at me. “You came,” she said. “You’re here for my birthday.”

“Ask of me anything you will.”

Her hand slipped underneath my shirt. “Well . . .”

We made love on the bed. We timed it to perfection, tapering our finish to the exact stroke of midnight.

For the last time, I looked at the Heuer on my wrist.

“Happy birthday, India.” I kissed her. “I have another present for you too—not much, but a very small token of my esteem.” And with that, I took off my Heuer and gave it to her.

“You can’t give me that!” She gaped. “It’s your watch! It’s far too expensive!”

“Seriously, I want you to have it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But it’s beautiful.” She examined the Heuer before strapping it to her wrist. It was a perfect fit. In fact, even though it was a man’s watch, the Heuer looked sensational, more than just a watch but a piece of jewellery.

“I love it.” She lifted her arm up and the watch glinted in the candlelight. “And you know what I love about it best of all? That it’s yours, that you used to wear it. Now I’ll always have a part of you next to me.” She kissed me. “Do you really want me to keep it?”

“Of course; that’s why I gave it to you.”

She gazed at the watch one more time before catching sight of my empty wrist. “But what about you? What are you going to wear?”

I shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t have that.” She leaned across me, her breast touching my arm as she stretched to the bedside table. “You must have this.”

She gave me her watch, a silver Cartier with black leather strap, a little larger than your typical petite ladies’ watch, but not as big as the Heuer.

“But it’s your birthday, not mine!”

“I want you to have it.”

I tried it on. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” she said. “Every time you look at it, you can think of me.”

And India was right about that, for as I write these words now, I have that same Cartier watch on my wrist. A little battered, a little knocked at the edges, but every time I look at it, I do indeed think of India.

I popped the champagne and we nestled down to the luxury of a mattress, cotton sheets and soft pillows. The simple pleasures of a bedroom. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate them.

Neither of us slept that night. We made love, we kissed, we caressed.

And we talked.

“What were your other girlfriends like,” India asked.

“Other girlfriends?” I said. “Are you joking?”

“Someone like you, Kim?” India said. “I thought you must have been snapped up long ago.”

I laughed at the thought of it. Me with legions of girlfriends? “You flatter me India.” I poured her more Bollinger. “I was keeping myself chaste for you.”

“Chaste rather than pursued,” she laughed, swirling the champagne as she stared at the rainbow of colours in her cut-crystal glass. “I wish . . . I wish I could say the same.”

And the silence stretched and stretched till it was at breaking point. After asking me about my past loves, India was undoubtedly waiting for me to volley back the same question.

I knew she wanted me to ask her. But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I didn’t want to know. The thought of learning about India’s exes was too awful.

She spoke again, quickly. “There’s something you should . . .”

“I don’t want to know.”

“But—”

“Don’t tell me.” I was too fast for her, far too fast for her. I knew what she was going to start describing and I shut her up by tickling her armpits and her tummy. I’d known that finally she was about to embark on tales of boyfriends past—and I knew too that it was a place I never wished to visit.

To have started unearthing India’s past would have been like spitting on a sublime work of art. My perception of India would never have been the same again.

I tickled her until she was squealing for mercy, red in the face, ribs aching with laughter. And just as I’d hoped, the moment of terrible confession passed by. Everything that India had wanted to say had diffused into that great ether of thoughts that are left unspoken and unheard.

From that night on, I think India sensed my jealousy. She never once brought up the subject of her ex-boyfriends again.

But I was nothing if not contrary.

For although I did not wish to hear a sentence, a single word, of India’s sexual past, another darker side of me was burning to know it all. I wanted to know how many lovers there had been, when she’d lost her virginity and with whom. I wanted to know about the snapshot downstairs of the guy that she’d been holding; and the story behind that picture on her piano when she was looking so beautiful in the surf; and why certain
Well-Tempered
preludes made her cry; and exactly how long she’d been on the pill before she’d met me, and—one other thing besides.

The diamond ring.