The Pleasure Quartet (4 page)

And so we went.

Iris’s parents were sad to see us off but did not fight the move. Our entire country was made up of immigrants. The urge to roam was strong in our genes and a desire to travel overseas,
therefore, unremarkable. We promised to write, but knew that we probably wouldn’t do so often enough.

When we arrived in London the city seemed to me a thrumming, caterwauling mess, a hotchpotch of traffic roaring and grime that clung to walls like cement and people who stared right through you
as though you weren’t there at all. I fell in love with her immediately. Living in London was like living at the centre of a beating heart. I thought of her as a woman, alive and full of
contradictions, of light and dark corners waiting to be explored, straight rows of red-bricked houses standing in perfect uniformity alongside crumbling squats and derelict warehouses, parks filled
with neat hedgerows and populated by swans or with murky shadows and things unknown lurking in them and best left alone, depending on your postcode.

We had saved enough money between us to put down a bond and the first six week’s rent to secure a ground-floor, semi-furnished bedsit. One room that contained a small double bed we planned
to share, a kitchenette and bathroom. An old sofa that might have once been white ran along one wall. A too-small window above the sink, with a sill that wouldn’t come clean no matter what we
scrubbed it with, overlooking a lemon tree. We pooled the last of our cash to buy a dining table, a stamp-sized, square of a thing that was barely large enough for us both to sit and eat at, a
green glass jug to fill with flowers, a set of new sheets and a bed cover, all in white.

At night we made love. Even though I knew that we were alone and the door was locked, I always waited until we were under the cover of darkness before I reached beneath the sheet and curved my
palm over the silk of Iris’s ankle, or cupped the slight hillock of her breasts. Her nipples jutted out, but I never pinched them, only brushed them lightly with the very tips of my fingers,
or blew on them softly until she shuddered and they turned even harder. Almost invariably, I took the lead role, beginning by her side and arranging her limbs as the mood took me, letting her
chorus of soft sighs and moans be my guide. Sometimes I rode her, grinding my mound against hers and even, once, pressing the C-shape of my thumb and forefinger against her throat until she
gasped.

Yet, I was possessed by the idea that something would go wrong, that by living with Iris I was trying to keep a handful of quicksilver from vanishing between my fingers.

She found a job quickly, temping as a secretary in a law firm in the West End. I knocked on the doors of every theatre that I passed and was rejected from most until finally the Princess Empire
Theatre offered me a week’s trial as an usher, leaving me under no uncertainty that if I was clumsy, slow or loud I would be out of the door as quick as I’d come through it.

The bus pulled into my stop and I leapt off my seat and down the stairs in the nick of time, thankful that another passenger had pulled the cord. There was still a ten-minute
walk to the bedsit, along dimly lit streets, and I huddled into my jacket, seeking protection from the dark as well as the cold. It had rained earlier and my shoes slid along the slippery street. I
concentrated on navigating my way around the puddles that filled the uneven footpath, trying not to notice the similarities between the scene around me and the one that I had witnessed earlier that
night unfolding on the stage. A cloud had covered the moon and what remained of the light filtered over trees and buildings in eerie long fingers of blue and grey, cold and ominous.

When I turned onto our street the light from the kitchen window over the lemon tree shone like a beacon and I hurried towards it.

I turned my key in the lock and heard voices.

A man’s voice, and Iris’s, but hers was full of high notes, tinkling like water running over broken glass. I hadn’t heard her sound so excited since the night of the Ball and
the morning afterwards, when we’d still been drunk on each other.

I pushed open the door.

Iris was wearing my favourite dress, a canary yellow shift adorned with rivers of gold braid that swam and danced over her body as she moved. She wore white high heels on her feet, the only
party shoes she owned, and her left hand was encased in a short ivory glove that closed with a button at her wrist. Her hair was pulled up into a bun at the back and a pink feather perched gaily
behind her hair. It looked suspiciously as though it had recently adorned a feather duster. In her right hand she held a champagne flute, half full of bubbling amber liquid. She threw back her
head, exposing her long, bare throat, and took a sip. Then she saw me.

‘Moana!’ she cried, as though she hadn’t just seen me as recently as that same morning. ‘You must meet Thomas. His father works at my law firm,’ she added, by way
of explanation, and perhaps to mitigate the fact that a man whom I had never met was draped over the double bed that we shared together. ‘And it’s his birthday tomorrow. He’ll be
twenty-two. Twenty-two, can you imagine!’

Since we were both now nineteen, I could easily imagine, but I refrained from pointing out that he was not so much older than we were.

I nodded politely towards Thomas, put my bag down, and walked in the direction of the stove top to turn the kettle on.

‘Oh no,’ Iris cried, grabbing my hand with her gloved one. ‘You must have a drink with us, mustn’t she, Thomas?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘Do forgive me.’ His voice was all plums and honey, as smooth and silky as a hot chocolate with a rich lilt that
sounded like someone from the television. When he sat up I noticed that his clothing was as bright as the dress that Iris had borrowed from me, a look that I wasn’t used to seeing on a man,
although I knew that I was still adjusting to the different fashions here. New Zealanders typically wore sombre tones, black and grey and navy and olive green, colours that would meld into the
native bush that covered the country as easily as a sparrow’s wing disappearing on the backdrop of a tree branch. His trousers were tight and the vivid red of a post box and his collared
shirt was the watery, lake-like blue of a cloudless sky. His top two buttons were opened and revealed just enough of his bare chest to indicate informality. He reached towards the bedside table and
picked up a tan corduroy flat cap, tossing it over the bed to reveal the champagne bottle in a bucket of ice beneath. A flash of gold lining revealed itself as the cap streaked through the air. On
the ice bucket was Iris’s other glove, hanging limply over the side. I imagined Thomas pulling it from her hand, bringing her bare fingertips to his lips.

‘Do you have another glass?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied curtly.

‘Oh, we can share, darling,’ Iris piped in. She never called me that. ‘So how was the play?’ she asked me as an afterthought.

‘’Twas Jack the Ripper that did it.’

I tried to mimic an East End accent but knew I was making a poor job of it. Thomas was too polite to mention the fact, and Iris too tipsy.

‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. It was the first time that either of us had ever been to the theatre, and I realised then how much I had been looking forward to coming home and telling her
about it. All of the exciting things that happened to us always seemed to begin with Iris. It was rare that I had a note of glamour to add and Thomas’s unexpected presence had cast a shadow
of dullness around my night’s adventures.

I tried not to show it, but could feel my lips pinching together into a frown.

Iris threw her arm around my shoulders and pulled me against her side. She pressed her glass to my mouth and I took a sip, coughing as the bubbles tickled my throat.

‘Thomas is having a dinner party,’ she said, ‘and we’ve been invited.’

‘Yes, you must come,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’ He looked at me as he said it. His eyes were blue and his hair dark only just brown, as though he’d been blond as a
child but grown out of it. Long locks hung over his forehead and he occasionally scooped them back. He was slim, in an elegant, nonchalant sort of a way. His smile was wide and his lips so full and
red they almost looked unnatural. He had an easy-going air of sensuality, and was utterly aware of it.

I wasn’t sure whether I liked him or not.

Thomas left shortly after issuing the invitation, offering a need to study for his upcoming university exams as an excuse, but in truth, he looked faintly embarrassed at having been
interrupted.

At the door, he handed me Iris’s glove, as though he’d picked it up without thinking.

‘I could easily fall in love with your friend, you know,’ he said jokingly.

‘I am already, Tom,’ I replied.

‘Never Tom,’ he said, ‘or Tommy. Just Thomas. Please . . .’

He put on his hat, tucked his jacket under his arm, turned and walked into the night.

I heard the downstairs front door slam shut, and turned towards Iris.

‘What was that all about?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This guy, Thomas . . .’

Iris’s cheeks were as pink as the feather that remained in her hair, now at a lopsided rather than jaunty angle that lent a touch of madness to her expression. She was uneasy on her feet.
Her smile was forced.

‘He’s the son of one of the partners. Came to the office, we chatted and he invited me out for a drink. I thought he was amusing . . .’

I interrupted her.

‘But you thought enough of him to pop home first and put on my favourite dress.’

‘I didn’t think you would mind. We always borrow each other’s clothes. And I slipped into this afterwards, anyway, just for fun. I’ve barely had it on for two hours . .
.’

I swallowed. I couldn’t help thinking of Iris shedding her plain office attire in front of him and walking around the flat in the chemise she always wore under her blouse as she searched
for a party frock to put on. Jealous as I was, I knew she wouldn’t have been that bold. She’d have taken the outfit into our box of a bathroom, and left Thomas to lie on the bed and
listen to the rustle of her skirt’s modesty lining sliding over her skin, the almost inaudible pop of buttons as she removed her shirt. Sounds that I knew from experience might go unnoticed
by any ordinary casual observer, but to the desirous were like a choir of temptation.

The zip on that yellow dress was impossible to pull right to the top unaided. She would have asked for his help to cover the last few inches and close the hook and eye at the neckline. His
fingertips trailing over the gossamer velvet of her shoulder blades, hesitating at the nape of her neck. Drawing the clasp closed, standing with his chest nearer to her back than was necessary. The
gentle wind of his breath caressing her earlobe. The awkward pause when he’d finished and one of them broke away. Iris of course, she’d have thanked him and laughed gaily, stepped to
the side and spun around like a wind-up toy on a child’s music box.

Was it possible, I wondered, to hate someone and love them at the same time?

‘And those?’ I pointed to her gloved hand and the matching glove Thomas had handed over to me as he left. I knew the pair had not travelled with her all the way from New Zealand. I
knew every single item of clothing that belonged to her.

‘Ah, those . . .’

‘Yes, those.’

‘Thomas gave them to me,’ she said

‘You just meet the guy today and already he’s giving you things?’

‘It just happened,’ she explained. ‘He was holding this cute little Liberty bag and I asked him what was inside, and he’d bought the gloves for his mother but then
suggested I try them on and they happened to fit me perfectly. So he said I could keep them . . .’

‘Just like that?’

‘Oh come on, Moana, he’s just a friend, that’s all. We need to make friends, you know, we can’t stay in this tiny room together every night of the week.’

I could feel myself turning into a rather unpleasant sort of person. And I wasn’t enjoying it.

She was on a roll, and continued to make her point as I stood sullen, with my arms crossed, and listened.

‘He’s a guy, Moana.’

‘So?’

‘So, what I mean is that even if you and I play around, it’s not all there is to life, to sex. It’s nice, I have very tender feelings for you, but I know there must be more.
Us, it shouldn’t be exclusive, you understand. So far, he’s just a nice and funny guy. But one day I want to know what it feels like with a man, you know. Him, someone else, I just want
to know.’

As Iris said this, she also lowered her gaze as if she didn’t want to look me squarely in the eyes. My heart dropped.

‘I don’t.’

Was I being jealous, petulant, spoiled? Somehow the way Iris was explaining things, more articulate than ever before on the subject now that alcohol was flowing through her veins, sounded
unchallenging, normal. She had never been very vocal. Passive, even. We had gravitated towards each other because of our closeness, situations, but we had never actually discussed it. It had just
happened. In fact, it struck me, we never did talk much together, did we?

I decided to drop the subject. For now.

She chose to ignore my reaction to the situation.

My stomach rumbled.

‘Have you eaten?’ I asked her, deliberately not mentioning the possibility that Thomas might have bought her dinner.

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t had time to do any shopping.’

‘It’s okay. I’m sure we can find scraps in the kitchen. Actually, bread and peanut butter would suit me.’

‘We can fry some eggs; there’s some slices of bacon left too, if you want.’

‘Not sure I’m up to bacon. The play was a touch violent, not the sort of thing to trigger much of an appetite . . .’

‘Tell me all,’ Iris demanded.

We trooped over to the kitchen. Reunited for now.

Thomas was never mentioned for the rest of the evening. We fed on leftovers, not that either of us was very hungry. Then settled down on the narrow couch and watched the telly.
Usually, Iris cuddled against my side, or lay down with her head on my lap, but tonight she sat cross-legged next to me, as if an invisible wall had appeared between us despite our earlier apparent
reconciliation. The distance made me glum.