Peach (36 page)

“Thursday perhaps,” she said, “if I can manage to get free. Call me.”

Thursday was five days away. “What about tomorrow,” he pleaded, “or Monday, or Tuesday?” His tweed jacket was rough against her cheek as he pulled her closer. “Please Peach,” he said, his mouth hovering over hers, “tomorrow?”

His lips were cool as the snowy night and then warm as his mouth forced hers open. Peach’s heart lurched, thudding in her chest so that she thought he might hear it as their mouths clung together. What was he thinking? she wondered frantically as his lips moved over hers. What
did
men think when they kissed like this? Jack’s fingers caressed her
neck and she put a tentative hand to his face and he pulled her closer. Hastily she drew back.

“Don’t go,” he said, “beautiful Peach.”

She was out of the car in a flash, slamming the door behind her, running up the steps to the house.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” cried Jack standing by the car. He looked handsome in the snow, thought Peach, turning back for a last look. Tall, good-looking, all-American. What more could she need to practise on for Harry?

Lying in bed that night she went over the evening step by step … or at least the last part. She blushed at the thought of how she had ignored him and then she went hot all over remembering his kiss. It wasn’t the first time she’d kissed a boy but the others had all been youthful teasing games. Jack Mallory was twenty-one and his kisses were serious. Jack Mallory had
wanted
her! And that strange tingling of the nerve-ends, the sudden sliding lurch in the pit of her stomach, the melting feeling meant that
she had wanted him!
All the girls in the dorm were virgins. No one—absolutely no one—played around, though they talked of it often enough for God’s sake! Peach snuggled farther under the blankets, staring out of the uncurtained window at the snow falling steadily. When he called tomorrow she’d answer the phone, and talk to him for a while. But she would make him wait until Thursday.

On their fifth date Jack took her to the Harvard/Yale game. It was Boston’s turn to host and the crowds were out in force. Sipping whisky from Jack’s silver flask, wrapped in a fur jacket and Jack’s Harvard scarf, Peach crouched shivering in the stands trying to summon up enough warmth to cheer Harvard and laugh at Yale’s bulldog mascot. She didn’t envy the pretty cheerleaders prancing the frozen field one bit and she would have given anything,
anything
to be
lying in a hot bath. Still, she felt pleased to be the girl with Jack Mallory, aware that other girls envied her. But when he touched her breast the way he had last night, Jack Mallory was
dangerous
.

She’d rationed their meetings because she knew she really should stop seeing him, but she dreamed about him even in class. Or rather, she dreamed of him kissing her … and more. Harry was still there waiting in the shadows of her dreams, but Jack was
immediate
. She hadn’t understood about
desire
. When she thought of Harry she wanted to be with him holding his hand, talking to him, being allowed to just admire his beauty and catch the crumbs of his genius. Jack Mallory disturbed her.

When Harvard scored a winning touchdown in the last few seconds, the stands erupted in yells and cheers and Jack flung his arms around her exuberantly. “Great game,” he yelled, “great, just great. Come on,” he added noticing her frozen expression, “we’d better get you inside.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, following him obediently.

“Where? To the parties of course!”

The Men’s Bar at Lock-Obers opened its door to women only on the night of the Harvard/Yale game and its masculine mahogany sanctity had already been invaded by the revellers. Jack seemed to know everyone and Peach watched jealously as a pretty dark-haired girl flung herself into his arms and Jack kissed her firmly on the mouth. Quite a
long
kiss. “It’s been a while,” said the girl dreamily, her arms around his neck. “A long while,” added Jack, his arms around her waist.

Turning away from them Peach stared angrily at the enormous painting of a naked woman over the bar. Jack had told her that when Harvard lost, the nude’s ample charms were draped with a black scarf, but tonight the lady remained
undraped, looking pleased and eager—just like the dark-haired girl.
Merde
, thought Peach. Now that she’d become aware of it, sex seemed to beckon from every angle. In a dark corner of the bar a couple embraced, and she watched them wonderingly.

“I’d like another Ward Eight,” she said to Jack, interrupting the brunette’s whispered conversation.

“Another?” he said. “That’s pretty powerful stuff.” Lock-Obers had concocted a Ward Eight cocktail to celebrate the election-eve success of one of Boston’s most famous political wards years ago, mixing grenadine with a whisky sour to give it a pink glow.

“You forget that I’m French,” said Peach haughtily, “I was drinking wine mixed with water when you were still on milk.”

Jack disentangled himself from the girl, laughing. Pushing through the dark, smoky room, he elbowed his way through the crowd at the bar. “Two more Ward Eights,” he called to the barman.

Noel Maddox hurried to fill the order. He must have made hundreds of them tonight. He’d been called in at the last minute to help with the big game crowds and welcomed the extra income. Every dollar helped towards his goal.

With a good degree from the University of Michigan under his belt he’d gained a place at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. MIT was Boston’s most prestigious science and engineering college and the closest place to heaven Noel could imagine. And each week studying in the hallowed halls of MIT brought him closer to his goal—just like each hard-earned dollar. In two years he would have a Master’s Degree in Automotive Engineering. And in two years and one day he’d be back in Detroit calling on the personnel managers of US Autos and the Great Lakes Motor Corporation, as well as Ford and General Motors, selling himself.
Only this time the price would be higher than that of the skinny kid in the stained blue overalls wielding his power drill and hopping in and out of those ever-moving assembly-line car bodies like some crazy ant!

Grimly Noel slammed the drinks on to the glossy mahogany counter and Jack Mallory glanced at him in surprise. “Thank
you!
” he commented, taking the glasses and pushing his way back to their crowded table.

Wiping the counter Noel caught the eye of the woman sitting at the bar. “Great game,” she said, taking a cigarette from a pack of filter Camels and placing it between her lips.

Noel flicked his lighter, holding the flame to her. She was older but
very
attractive, blonde like Jeannie with that same long fall of straight hair and wide eyes. She wore no makeup and looked fresh and outdoorsy in the smoky bar room. A high-class woman up for the game.

“You don’t work here full-time.”

It was a statement not a question and Noel continued serving orders expertly. He’d worked as barman every night for six months at Boston’s smart Copley Plaza Hotel—its grandeur had come as a shock after serving beer and whisky chasers at Nick’s Saloon in downtown Detroit. In the Copley Plaza’s luxurious surroundings he had begun to gain an insight into another world—a world of affluent ease, of self-assured men and elegant women. It was a world he wanted to be part of.

“You’re too good for this,” Hallie Harrison remarked.

Noel looked at her in surprise. Her comment had matched his thoughts exactly. “I’m an engineer,” he said. “I’m at MIT.”

“Another car freak,” she said with a sigh.

Noel raised her eyebrows. “Another?”

“I’m from Detroit,” she explained. “My husband is in advertising and he’s associated with the motor industry. You
might say it rules our lives,” she added with a laugh. “As it will yours too one day, Mr. Engineer.”

“Noel,” he said.

“Noel. I’m Hallie. Up for the big game with my husband. He’s a Yale man and he seems to have disappeared again. It’s not unusual,” she added as Noel looked at her in surprise, “I often end up on my own.”

Her widespaced eyes were greeny-blue with dark pupils and she had a smooth tanned skin—probably from some winter vacation in the Islands. Her breasts were full and round under her white cashmere sweater and she wore discreet pearls at her ears and throat.
Real
pearls, Noel knew. Her un-lipsticked mouth had a full passionate underlip and Noel suddenly longed to touch it. Hallie’s small teeth gleamed prettily as she smiled at him. “Perhaps we could get together later, Noel,” she said, “I’m at the Copley Plaza but it might be a bit too crowded there. Maybe you have an apartment?”

She was picking him up! Desire jolted through Noel and he poured himself a shot of Scotch, tossing it back and catching the warning frown of the head barman. He couldn’t take her to his terrible room. “We could go to a motel,” he said, “I’m free at midnight.”

“Like Cinderella,” laughed Hallie. “Tell me where, Noel, and I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll make a call,” promised Noel, slipping out from behind the crowded bar to the staff phone. Noel prayed she had a car, he couldn’t afford cabs
and
a motel.

Hallie was still sitting at the bar but there was a man with her. Noel stared at her companion with a shock of recognition.

Scott Harrison hadn’t changed much, just a few extra pounds distributed here and there. The recognition was mutual.
“So,” Scott said, “the young runaway. We meet again. Noel, wasn’t it?”

“Yes sir.” Noel mixed a dry Martini and placed it in front of Scott, meeting his eyes. “This is on me,” he said, “with thanks.” He had remembered that dry Martini was Scott’s drink because the one Scott had given him was the first liquor he had ever tasted in the first smart apartment he had ever seen—and he had slept in Scott’s bed. Alone. He could tell Scott remembered too, by the wry smile that crossed his face.

“Did you ever make it to the assembly line?” asked Scott.

“Still do—in vacations. I’m at MIT—automotive engineering.”

Scott whistled. “I had a feeling you had what it takes,” he said, toasting him with his glass.

Hallie Harrison watched them quietly. “Any luck,” she whispered as Scott turned away. “With the phone call?”

“Sorry,” Noel said, avoiding her eyes, “no good.”

Hallie gathered up her purse and her mink jacket. “I see,” she said bitterly, “that’s the way it is. I didn’t understand.”

“Wait,” cried Scott, “hey, just a minute Hallie.” Setting down his glass he elbowed his way through the crowds after his wife.

Removing their glasses Noel wiped the counter clean. Scott Harrison had helped him when he needed it most and he wasn’t going to repay him by seducing his wife. Beautiful though she was.

Someone had turned out the lights and the room was dark and crowded and too smoky. Couples were wrapped around each other dancing smoochily to records and Peach had a hazy memory of being introduced to their host, but he had disappeared earlier in the evening with a big-breasted brunette he’d picked up at some other party. They had run out of whisky and people were drinking beer but no one actually seemed drunk.

She was wrapped in Jack’s arms and they were dancing cheek to cheek barely moving and Peach wanted the night to go on for ever. Her breasts were pressed against Jack’s chest and every now and then his mouth fastened on hers hungrily. Closing her eyes Peach clung to him. Radcliffe seemed light years away, and Harry was forgotten. Without speaking, Jack took her hand and led her out of the room.

Peach’s legs suddenly didn’t seem strong enough to support her and her head was whirling. He opened a bedroom door and they peered into the darkness. They could hear mysterious rustlings and giggles, and she drew back, pulling at Jack’s hand. “We’ll try another,” he whispered, guiding her along the corridor, his arm around her waist, stopping every now and then to kiss her again. Peach leaned against the wall while Jack opened a door and looked in, closing it again quickly.

“No good,” he whispered. “Tell you what, let’s go to my place.”

Peach’s fuzzy head rang with shock at the idea. Then
Jack’s mouth closed on hers again. She sagged against him and Jack pressed his body closer. His hand was on her breast and he was kissing her. “Let’s go,” he whispered. Outside Peach gasped from the cold. She had forgotten her fur jacket. “I’ll get it,” said Jack diving back into the shadowy hall. Left alone Peach shivered in the icy night air, but it wasn’t just the cold she was feeling, it was fear—fear of her own sexuality.

Peach could hear music and voices from other parties along the street and a couple ran past skipping over the rain puddles with whoops of joy. They looked young and carefree. The way she had been a few weeks ago—before Jack. But she didn’t want to feel like this. She wanted to be young and silly and carefree too! If she went with Jack Mallory there would be no going back. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she began to run. She was eighteen years old, she was Peach, and she belonged to no one but herself.

“You all right, Miss?” the cab-driver said, screeching to a halt at her frantic signal.