A Night at the Manor House

Angie and I had been invited to Broadhey Hall. Something to do with her work, she said. I didn't fancy it myself, told her so. But she that it was essential for her to attend.

And so that Saturday, we drove out there in my old MG, to an Elizabethan hall full of paintings and armour. A servant in tails met us at the door. He wanted to take my jacket but I would not give it up.

All the civic worthies were in attendance: people from the council, the Rotary Club, Freemasons — and some thespian-type who was putting on a play at our local in-the-round theatre.

Dressed in a short, party dress, I thought Angie would be out of place, but she moved among the other guests like an exotic tropical fish winding through the coral. Most were middle-aged, married couples. The men all wore tuxedos and bow-ties, the women long evening gowns, their necks and wrists decked in gold and gems.

In my casual jacket and opened-necked shirt, black wrangles and desert boots, I felt misplaced, an oddity.

It was on that night I met Angie's boss, James Lavell, for the first time. Yes, he was charming, yes he made me welcome and showed an interest in me, asked me what I was into, where I worked, etc. etc. etc. But I knew it was all feigned, that my presence was suffered only because of Angie.

During the evening, I learned just how many people Angie had dealings with day-to-day. Men and women would come over to say hello, hug her warmly and kiss her cheek, genuinely pleased to see her. All were strangers to me. Looking back now, I understand how this made me jealous — all that attention she received. Not in a sexual way, more that I was afraid she was leaving me behind, out-growing me, changing from the girl I had married, becoming a grown-up woman.

James's wife, Natasha, saw my discomfort and went out of her way to make me welcome, chatting with me even when Adam had wandered away with Angie to show her off to some influential local toff. When Natasha learned I was a musician, she began asking me about the band I played bass in. What kind of stuff did we perform? Had we cut a disc? The conversation moved on, and she began to tell me about her early days as a model in London in the mid-sixties, justs just sixteen when she left home and headed for London with no idea how her life might unfold.

"I've been so lucky," she said, "I've met everyone who is in anyone: Twiggy, Mick Jagger, George Harrison, John Lennon — and Yoko too. And now I'm with James," she said with a somewhat strained smile.

Such a beautiful and elegant woman, inordinately tall in her four-inch heels. I envied James, his marriage to such an articulate and attractive woman. But even as I chatted with Natasha, I kept one eye on every move Angie made as she circulated among the other guests. Natasha saw my distraction and followed my eyes over to where James was introducing Angie to a distinguished-looking middle-aged man and his wife. The man — in his early fifties, I guessed — took Angie's hand and kissed it in an ostentatiously old-fashioned, gentlemanly sort of way. His wife looked to be in her mid-forties. She still had her figure, but time was just starting to etch its tale on to her face. While her husband charmed Angie, the woman scrutinised her face as if trying to ascertain her suitability as a parlour maid. Angie would turn to look at the man's wife from time to time, and the older woman would give her a polite, tight smile.

I thought the man's florid face looked familiar. Later it came to me who he was: our local Tory member of parliament, the Right Honourable Galen Montague Tonks. His wife was a local J.P., Phillipa Tonks.

I took two drinks from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Natasha, while all the time angling for a better view of what Angie was up to.

Between sipping her drink, Natasha said, "Don't worry about that old lecher Galen. He wouldn't know how what to do with a beautiful young creature like your Angie."

Her words did not reassure me. James had moved away from the group, and now Tonks was getting too close to Angie for my liking. I could see her discomfort at the invasion of her body space, his arm sliding around her waist and his palm coming to rest in the small of her back. He leaned in to speak to her intimately. It was if he were taking her into his confidence, his mouth too close to her ear. His lips looked too lush for an ageing man, and I imagined their hissing a salacious proposition. I tried to read Angie's expression, searching for clues to what he was saying as she nodded so earnestly. As I continued to watch Angie, Tonks's demeanour growing more insistent, I saw a sudden squall of alarm sweep Angie's face as Tonks wife reached out and gently hook a wayward lock of Angie's hair behind her right ear.

I decided it was time for me to rescue my wife. I excused myself to Natasha and started off in their direction. Immediately she grabbed my arm, preventing me from leaving her side.

"Don't make a scene, Paul. She'll be Okay. They're harmless enough. And besides, James is forever singing Angie's praises. She sounds a capable young lady. I'm sure she can look after herself." She took my hand and said, "Come with me. There's someone I want you to meet."

Ignoring my , she took my hand and led me away, walking in the opposite direction to Angie. I gave Angie one last look and saw her smiling easily, now warming to the attention she was receiving, enjoying the interest the couple was lavishing on her.

Natasha was saying something about someone called Maggie. I wasn't really listening, my thoughts were still with my wife and the Tonks couple. What did they want with her? Angie would have nothing in common with either of them.

Natasha was saying, "I saw her only five minutes ago. Where could she have got to?"

Natasha's voice brought me back to reality, and I realised she was still holding my hand. She kept talking about someone called Maggie.

"Ah! There she is. Maggie is in a band too," she said, her voice confident that we would immediately click because of it. "You must meet her. She's a singer. Peterloo, I think their band is called. You might have heard about them. Apparently, they are set for great things . . . Or so people tell me."

Yes, I'd heard of Peterloo, so meeting Maggie Tavener, their lead singer was a memory-making moment. It took my breath away to see her in the flesh, to find her even more attractive in real life than in the black and white photos I had seen over in the New Musical Express. She was wearing a tiny white cotton embroidered waistcoat type top with a matching maxi skirt of red and cream made of the same material. Dressed like that, she looked more out of place than even Angie did in her mini dress. Her mass of sun-bright hair was an explosion of gold which fell about her shoulders, a living tangle of gilded curls. The low cut of her dress revealed nothing at all. She had no cleavage worth mentioning, only pale flesh girlishly daubed with freckles. Although in her early twenties, she had the willowy gracelessness of a self-consciously tall teenage girl. Her entire look was obviously crafted to suit the music her band performed: English psyche-folk; melodiously outré; whimsically ethereal.

"Hi," she said, when Natasha introduced me, her green eyes full of mischief. Then turning to Natasha, "Well, thank you, Natasha. You are such a darling to think of me like this, bringing me such a lovely person to play with. How on earth did you manage to excavate someone so gorgeous from among all these old fossils?"

"Paul is a Musician too," Natasha said. "I thought you two could entertain each other. Paul's wife has been waylaid by Galen and his wife."

"Oh, dear. Poor girl," Maggie said with mock solemnity, putting on a sad little girl's face. "I suppose your wife is outrageously pretty?"

Her words made me look anxiously about the room. Then a moment of panic. I couldn't see Angie. "exceptionally pretty," I said, remembering just how gorgeous Angie actually was.

"I would run off right now and find her before it's too late," Maggie said, going up on tip-toe as if to look over the heads of all the guests in a vain attempt to spot Angie.

"Should I?" I said, readying myself to dash away to her rescue.

But Maggie linked my arm. "I was just teasing you, Paul. Natasha will make sure your lovely wife comes to no harm. And besides, I'm bored with all these geriatrics . . . So you're in a band. What do you play?"

"Bass," I said.

"You any good?"

I'd studied Double Bass at school, and later had auditions for the Halle Youth Orchestra. I told her all this in tedious detail, really bigging myself up. But I didn't mention I abandoned my music studies for the quick cash of continental shifts on the production line of the local tyre factory. Now I only rehearsed bass guitar with our band, once a week in the local community centre.

While Maggie and I chatted about music, I worried about Angie. Maggie kept going on about the guys in her band, how they were so egotistical, so many tensions. She could see a split coming, "And just as we were about to get somewhere," she said, "Such a bummer!"

Then her mood altered, and she said, "Have you seen the house?"

"Have you?" I asked

"Oh. Everyday."

"Oh?"

"Did Natasha not tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"That I live here."

My imagination ran through the scenarios that had brought this strangely beautiful girl to be a resident in a place such as Mere Manor.

"You live here with James and Natasha?"

"When I'm not touring. The rest of the time, I stay with Candy. Her

London flat."

"So what brings you north, Luv?" I said, hamming up the northern accent.

"Just a small thing, really."

"What small thing is that?

"James is my Father?"

"Your Father!" I couldn't think of anything apt to say. "But Natasha must be only ten years older than you."

"Eight actually. No, I'm from the previous marriage. Annabelle was my Mother. She died when I was little."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I hardly remember a thing about her. I was only three."

"Sad, all the same," I said.

"Never mind all that. Now follow me." She said, taking my hand and leading me off.

Hand in hand, we snaked thought the other guests like two children fleeing a stuffy room crammed with grown-ups. Outside of the main hall, the house was strangely still as Maggie led me from room to room. The rooms away from the party were quite chilly, even on this July evening. As we traipsed from one space to another, she kept up a running commentary on each one we visited. Her knowledge of the antiques and art that filled the house impressed me, and she seemed delighted to have someone to show off with her expertise to.

"How come you know so much about the house?" I asked

"I was studying art history before the band signed our contract. I've always love beautiful things."

I was becoming increasing enchanted by Maggie's unique beauty, her wistful intelligence.

After half an hour we had just finished our tour of the first floor.

"I've saved the best to last," She said. "Come on. I'm dying to show you. And this is my room," she said while leading me by the hand into a high-ceilinged room that was home to a monstrously large four-poster bed.

The space that was hers was bathed in a darkening light cast by the sun setting through the two eight-foot mullioned windows, set in the far wall. I walked over to look outside and saw that this was the front of the house. Below I could see the guest's cars parked on the gravel drive, and looking further I saw extensive formal gardens laid out, and then pasture land down to the river that swept by in a sharp bend before straightening and continuing to the falls, a half-mile away. In the distance, the sun was setting, about to vanish behind the low rolling hills of the downs.

"Best view in the house," Maggie, said, coming to stand my side. Then she placed her arm about my waist and rested her head against my upper arm.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. I turned and looked into her eyes and saw her sad need. I turned to her fully so that we stood face to face, and she went up on her toes while encircling my neck with both arms, kissing me with a compelling urgency.

No girl had ever kissed me the way Maggie did that first time. Her lips moved in sensuous undulation while she pressed herself against me. The feather-waft of her skirt clung to her when her legs parted wide as she stood on tip-toe. Through the soft fabric, her pubic mound rubbed against my right upper-thigh. In the first moments of that kiss, it was as if she had faded and become a half-substance. Even though she pressed herself against me with passion, it was an almost frictionless contact, as if she were a viscous fluid that ebbed and flowed in my arms, the tide of her flesh ebbing and flowing in moon-like gravity of my lust. I did not open my eyes until the kiss had ended, so afraid she might vanish if I did.

Maggie went down on her knees, undoing my belt and zip, tugging my jeans down. She took my cock in her mouth with practised aplomb and did those things that all good girls know how to do.

When she was satisfied that I was primed, she stood and removed her top, slowly undoing each button while holding my gaze. She wriggled out of her skirt, stepping out of the pooled cotton at her feet. The sun had yet to fully set, and in that declining light Maggie's flesh — in daylight, the hue of ripe pear-flesh — appeared rosy pink, as if illuminated by unseen stage lighting. I stood and gaped at the wonder of her. In her flat sandals, she was four inches shorter than I. About five-eight, I'd say. Her hips looked ripe and softly curved, exaggerated and enhanced by the narrowness of her waist. Her breasts were small, in fact nearly something not at all, her nipples just dark smears printed on her boyish chest.

I kissed her again, and then I let my tongue travel over her neck and on down. Her skin was scented by a sandalwood soap. Her taste and fragrance made my mind spin. Though her upper body was quite boyish, she was utterly female in her manner, her movements so fluid, so graceful. Her voice was a sing-song of girlish charm.

My tongue went to her chest, searching for contours that would never be found. But her nipples responded, became stiff and pliant and I nipped them gently as she cooed with delight. The feather down of hair between her legs was so different than Angie's dark scrub. I let my palm rub over her cunt, let her moisture grease my cupped palm.

I was really getting into her when there was a rap on the door, a woman's voice calling for Maggie, asking if I was with her. The door slowly opened, and I saw Natasha standing, frozen to the spot glaring at us.