Title: Till April
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: FF?,lesbian

---

Till April

by oosh@gmx.net

12-20 May 2000; rev. February 2002

[This story is dedicated to Mary, without whose encouragement and help it
would not have seen the light of day.]

===

"Sorry I'm late, everyone," the smartly-dressed woman says, taking the last
remaining place at the dinner-table.

The others are already starting on the soup.

"Glad you could make it, Joyce," says the neighbour on her right.

"Oh, you remember me? That's nice. And you're..." she closes her eyes and
clenches a small, neat fist. "Wait a minute... Linda Egerton!"

"Haha!"

"It had to be you. Actually you haven't changed all that much."

"Nor have you, apart perhaps from..."

"I know, why don't I dye it? - There, you would have been the first today,
but I spared you. Sorry!"

They both laugh, just a little awkwardly.

"No, not at all, actually I quite like a little silvery streak, it's nice,
sort of distinguished."

"Ha! Me distinguished! What a laugh! Appearances can be deceptive, you know!"

Linda does laugh.

They eat their soup for a little while. Joyce does not look up; nor does she
make any attempt to speak to her other neighbour, who is already deep in
conversation with two others on her left.

"Actually, Joyce, it's not Egerton any longer. It's Barker. Nearly twenty
years now."

"Oh! Yes! I suppose I should have realized you'd be... Children?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Joyce notes Linda's silent head-shake.

"Couldn't, I'm afraid. I went into teaching."

Joyce laughs a short, dry laugh. "You've got quite enough on your hands
there, then."

"Yes. Head of a South London Comprehensive now. As of last year."

"Not bad. Congratulations!"

"Well thank you! And what about you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm in marketing. Bloody boring. Can't wait for retirement."

"Oh, that's sad."

"Yeah. Still, I have plenty of other interests, and being fairly senior,
I've managed to wangle plenty of holiday allowance."

"Mm, I must say, you do look quite... well-travelled."

But it is more than that:  Linda looks briefly at the others, and it
confirms her impression. Several have taken pains to look attractive; some
clearly have not.  But everything about Joyce bespeaks unostentatious
quality, habitual good taste. It is as if she would have dressed like this,
done her hair like this, no matter what the occasion. It is her look, it is
who she is.  Her slim, smooth hands are unadorned but beautifully manicured;
the discreet sheen of her bottle-green open-necked blouse entices the eye,
as does her elegantly-sculpted brick-red jacket with its stylish lapels,
edged with fine black brocade; it is definitely not English. And the pearls
are real.

"Yes, we try to spend at least three months a year in the south of France."

"Three months! You _must_ be senior."

"Director, actually. But I think I'd rather be a wine buff. I'm taking the
exams in the summer, you know."

"What, are you becoming a... what do they call it?"

"Master of Wine. Yes, practically half of them are women, but of course they
don't change the title. Not this century." Joyce lets out another dry laugh.
"So I suppose you're allowed to call yourself 'Headmistress'?"

"Well I would have been, but now we're all supposed to be called
'Headteacher'."

A third dry laugh. "You know, I think we're all bloody mad," says Joyce with
finality. She raises her head for a moment and takes her glass. She puts it
to her nose and sets it down again.

"Not so good, huh?"

"Even worse than I expected, I'm afraid. These hotels try to get away with
whatever they can."

There is a longer silence while they finish off their soup.

Sitting back, Joyce does not allow her eyes to stray very far.

Linda, on the other hand, has been scanning the other faces, trying to
remember names. "Of course that's Elaine Melton - she's Fingal now. She was
here last time."

"Three years ago?"

"Three years ago. You haven't been before, have you?"

"No. This is my first."

There is a pause.

"Ah." Linda has spotted someone. "Now _she_ hasn't been before either."

Joyce senses Linda's quiet excitement. "Someone special?"

"Annette Richards!"

Joyce takes a deep breath and looks, finally, at the blonde in the yellow
dress.

Though Annette's face shows signs of long emotional struggle, she is still 
beautiful. Her body, heavier now and on the verge of decline, still bears 
witness to its former glory.

Annette is talking loudly, her third glass nearly empty. Her companions are
wearing polite expressions. She has been explaining some of her complicated
past, but breaks off, aware of Joyce's glance. For a brief moment, she
returns it.

Joyce's face is a mask, her ruby lips tight, her mascara perfect, her green
eyes beautiful and cold.

Annette looks away at once. She gulps from her glass and resumes her
awkwardly interrupted narrative, her eyes darting anxiously from one
listening face to another.

Linda nudges her companion. "Come on, Joyce, you must remember Annette
Richards!"

For the first time, Joyce turns to face Linda. "Must I?"

Aware that Joyce is scrutinizing her, Linda becomes a little flustered. "Yes,
she was..." She gestures with her knife. "I mean, she still is! Look at her!"

Joyce doesn't. "I just did."

"She was an absolute knock-out, Joyce. You must remember. All the men were
after her."

"Ah; perhaps." Joyce takes her wine-glass again, sniffs, and again puts it
down without drinking.

Linda drinks.

Joyce glances at Linda again. "You know, Linda, the years have been kinder
to you."

Linda cannot conceal her blush of pleasure. "You think so?" She is not used to
compliments.

"Far kinder." Joyce is matter-of-fact.

The steak arrives, and everyone's train of thought is broken for the moment.

"You know, I hear she's on to husband number three." Linda makes it sound
like a question.

Joyce looks up, a little perplexed. "Who?"

"Why, Annette. I can't even remember what her surname is these days."

There is a gust of laughter from further down the table.

"Well, she certainly seems to be the life and soul of the party."

Oblivious to Joyce's ironic tone, Linda murmurs wistfully, as if to herself:
"She's a fun girl, isn't she?"

"She certainly was." Joyce busies herself with her steak, then sniffs the
red. It is just passable. She sips. Something heftily Antipodean, but with
more bonhomie than depth of character.

Noticing that Joyce is drinking at last, Linda follows suit.
"Mmm, jolly good, isn't it? This wine?"

"It's very nice." Joyce feels a quiver of panic. She does not want to have to
say what she really thinks of it. "So: where do you go on your holidays?"

"Oh, Brian is completely wedded to his garden. We haven't been on holiday
for ages. I don't really mind, I suppose. It's nice to catch up with those
little jobs that mount up around the house."

"Mm."

They eat some more. Linda enjoys a second draught of the full-bodied, oaky
wine. Joyce has set her thinking.

"...But I'd really love to go to France again. Visit some of those southern
vineyards. I mean, practically everyone I know has been. I'd just like the
chance, once in my life."

"Yes, well I don't blame you. It's a nice part of the world. Have you asked
him?"

"Yes. And he says yes, but..."

"Nothing happens."

"No. That's right. I'd love to go."

"Maybe I can help. When are you next free?"

"Oh... the last half of April. But..."

"Well, that's easy. Our cottage will be empty then. Here: let me give you
the address."

Joyce puts down her cutlery, retrieves a note-pad from her bag, and begins to 
write.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly."

"Nonsense." Joyce speaks with flat impatience, waving her pen dismissively.
"Actually it would be nice for us to know that there was someone in there,
someone we could trust. I'm putting down the 'phone number of the people who
keep the key... and here's my domestic number... and my mobile.  Really... 
any time in late April, just go down there, it's completely free, you can
just walk in."

"But this is terribly kind of you."

"Not at all. As I say, it would be a relief for me to think there's someone
trustworthy there, looking after it. Now you have a good excuse to go,
because you'll be doing me a favour."

"Oh I can't believe this!"

Joyce turns and gives Linda a smile. Her voice goes lower and acquires a
seductive tone.

"Perhaps you can tear Brian away from his garden."

"Oh if only..." Linda rolls her eyes. She can just hear what he will say:
"What, at this time of year? Honey, you know: those weeds, and with all
that rain..." And to Joyce she says, "Won't you be wanting to go down there
then? It will be springtime, and I'm sure the countryside will be really
lovely."

"Unfortunately I'll be on the other side of the world after Easter," Joyce
responds with regret in her voice. "I'm supposed to be learning about the new
Australian techniques.  All desperately technical, I'm afraid, but even the
French are having to learn from the Australians."

The remains of the main course are cleared away, and the fruit salad is
served. It is somewhat over-garnished with Kiwi fruit.

There is another gale of laughter from Annette's coterie. Stray words
suggest that the conversation has taken a slightly lubricious turn.  By now,
Annette's companions are too relaxed to realize that Annette is drunk, that
Annette is talking too much.

Linda becomes distracted, and a little pink-cheeked at what she overhears.

Joyce is content to pick at her fruit salad. The pudding wine is
surprisingly good. It is probably Italian, but it has charm. At any rate, it
is a much-needed distraction.

The coffee arrives.

No milk, no sugar: Joyce takes up her saucer. "I find I have a headache," she
says coolly to Linda. "I'll just sit quietly next door."

Linda murmurs something; then turns back. She remembers Annette as she was; and
now, she is deliciously merry, full of fun. Everyone is having a good time.
Really, that Joyce is a funny creature. Generous... but so uptight. -
Heavens! How Annette's bosom rolls as she laughs!

* * *

A waiter looks cautiously into the lounge. Yes, there is someone in there. He
straightens himself and walks in. He is smart, and young.

"Would you care for a liqueur, madam?"

"Yes." Joyce's voice is flat, as if disappointed. "Do you have a good port?"

"Yes, madam..."

"I mean a _good_ one?"

"...We have a vintage character 1995, a vintage 1991, and a 1994..."

Joyce looks at him. Her face is a mask. Her eyes are cold: beautiful, but
cold.

"The 1994. Show me the bottle."

"Certainly, madam."

Joyce's head rolls back on to the armchair. She certainly looks as if she
has a headache; but gradually, the mouth relaxes, the forehead smooths.

"The port, madam..."

"Oh." Joyce sits up and looks at the label. "Good."

The waiter laughs nervously. "Madam knows her port."

"Mm. Thank you."

She reclines again and closes her eyes, not touching the glass.

* * *

The women drift into the room, talking and laughing. There are arms round
waists. A few glance to the back of the room, and are momentarily surprised
to see Joyce already at ease in her heavy leather armchair, motionless as if
she had been there all evening.

Joyce opens her eyes just enough to see them move about, find their places.
The waiter is busy now. She opens her eyes a little more. Annette is there,
in that loud yellow dress, sprawled in a large armchair by the door.  Despite
the dress, she can still be lovely when she relaxes.

Linda is sitting closer to Annette. It is a good viewing position. She sits
quietly, not one of the coterie, listening to their conversation. The drinks
are passed round.

The talk is loud and long. From time to time, one or two people glance
toward the smart woman at the back, her legs elegantly disposed, her drink
untouched, her eyes closed, her hands quietly folded, her face
expressionless. They assume she is asleep.

Annette is talking about her last husband. Her amusingly disparaging tone
makes them laugh.  Elsewhere, people are discussing their children.
So-and-so has gone to university. - So-and-so is doing really well at
tennis. - Oh, really?  My Jonathan quite likes tennis.

Linda looks down the room to Joyce. Just at that moment, by chance, Joyce's
eyes snap open and she reaches forward for her port. As she does so, she
looks across the room at Annette. Her glass in her hand, she stares. At this
distance, her face seems like a mask of disapproval.

Linda is momentarily distracted by a movement from Annette; then she looks back
to see Joyce sitting as before, her eyes closed, her glass now half-empty
upon the table.  Annette had fallen silent for a moment, but now embarks on
the story of her eldest son.  Apparently he is in trouble with the police.
She is worried.  Various friends attempt to comfort her, to no effect.

The waiter reappears. Annette asks for another liqueur. A large one.

"So as I was saying..."

She is becoming tedious.

"Do you remember Henry Parkinson?" one of her friends interjects, hoping to
steer the conversation on to a more convivial track once more.

"Huh! That idiot? - Oh." Annette is distracted by something at the back of
the room.

Linda follows Annette's gaze. Joyce is now standing. She has her handbag.
She is looking at Annette. Annette is looking at her. Joyce's eyes are cold,
and for a moment commanding. Her mouth seems peevish, her cheek slightly
flushed, as if in anger. Joyce sets her chin and walks to the door, looking
neither to right nor left, saying not a word. Presumably she is heading for
the toilets.  Her glass of expensive port stands half-empty on the small
table by her armchair.

"I think I'll just pay a visit," says Annette, crimson-cheeked, and excuses
herself. In her absence, her friends resume their lively conversation about
the men in their lives, past and present.

Idly, Linda notes the time.

The subject of men soon exhausted amid reticent laughter, Annette's friends
fall into discussion of their children's scholastic progress. Linda is
bored. She looks at her watch. Five minues. Ten minutes.

Outside the door, a smartly-dressed young woman in a navy blue suit and
black stockings. She is talking to the waiter, who looks in through the
door, then returns to her, shaking his head.

Moments later, Annette reappears at the door, anxiously adjusting her dress.
Linda checks her watch. Nearly fifteen minutes. Annette seems to droop. Her
neck and chest are flushed. She almost falls into her chair, and seems to
swipe at her huge liqueur in its ostentatious glass.

Annette's friends resolutely ignore her; she falls into a doze.

Suddenly, Joyce reappears at the door. She is looking only at Linda. Her
mouth is small and tight, but her eyes are wide, piercing, beautiful. She
waves briefly, her fingers splayed. The next moment, she is talking to the
smart young woman, holding her by the shoulders. Linda catches the emphatic
words, spoken slowly:

"I'll drive."

Then Joyce is gone. Moments later, the young woman is back with a note in
her white-gloved hand. She kneels before Annette's chair and touches her on
the arm. Annette stirs into drowsy wakefulness.

Linda admires the swell of the young woman's calf, the way the stretched
nylon betrays the lustre of the flesh beneath. As she stands, Linda realizes
that she is perfect, perhaps more perfect than Annette had ever been. Her
lips are splendid, even in their faint expression of distaste. Then she, too
is gone, moving exquisitely in her tight navy suit with its crisp brass
buttons, her heels clicking neatly away down the hallway; then comes the
discreet thump of a car door, and almost instantaneously, the deep rumble of
a huge engine.  The rumble hovers for a moment, seeming to shake the floor,
then rises to a soft growl which distances itself with swift, understated
emphasis.

Annette appears to be asleep. Certainly she is very, very relaxed. In her
hand is the small piece of paper. Her mouth falls open charmingly. She is
more beautiful now, her former glory restored.

Ashamed to stare, Linda looks at the exquisitely-moulded ceiling, grimed
with the smoke of men's cigars.

The husbands begin to arrive, smiling, slightly defensive, to retrieve their
loved ones.

A big man, astonishingly coarse-featured, goes to Annette's chair. Her head
has fallen a little lower, and the piece of paper has fluttered to the
floor. He shakes her shoulder gently, good-naturedly. She stirs and rises
awkwardly, embracing him for support.

Without quite knowing why, Linda rises too, and retrieves the piece of
paper.  She stands gracefully and hands it to the drunken woman; then
returns to her armchair, a blush upon her cheeks.

As she watches Annette limp away, draped around her husband's body, scarcely
heeded by her garrulous friends, Linda feels a mixture of excitement and
fear. For upon the piece of paper were dates in late April, and the address
of a cottage in the south of France.

She thinks about that address, and allows herself to picture in her
imagination a beautiful cottage, and the thrill of opening the door to a
fair-haired Englishwoman far from home.

She looks vainly for Brian. No doubt he has been delayed by the need to
complete some worthy self-imposed task.  She feels a momentary need to fling
herself at him. Looking once again at that splendid ceiling, she calms
herself, remembering how embarrassed and bemused he becomes when she does
that.

No, she thinks. No, I'll wait.