The enormity of Jean's proposal was a long time registering on Monique's mind. She couldn't even feel shocked by it, so outrageous was the woman's scheme. All she could say, finally, was: “He'd never agree to a thing like that! Jean — he's simply not the type of man to do such things as sharing his wife with another girl. The whole idea's impossible.”
“Is it?” Jean set her mouth primly. “I don't think it is — and I know Michael better than you, Monique. Oh yes, on the surface he's as dull and stodgy as the rest of his class. But don't forget that he has a mistress: or, more probably, several mistresses.
“Beneath that pin-striped suit and that ridiculous bowler hat is a highly-sexed, very lecherous male! When we were first married we enjoyed ourselves in bed quite a lot. Michael can be an inventive, imaginative lover, believe me.
“Perhaps it's both our faults that we've grown so stale, so remote from each other: both in and out of bed. I'd gamble that faced with the titillating situation of having two girls eager to please him, Michael would quickly regain his old zest. He simply wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity, Monique. And I don't believe that there are many men who could!
“Then, once we've seduced him he can hardly turn around and tell you to leave, can he? And even if he tried, I could always threaten to drop a few hints in the neighbourhood about what we've been up to…!”
Jean pulled Monique closer to her, holding the girl's hands tightly. “It all depends on you, my darling', she whispered. “If you feel you can't go through with such a plan… I'll understand — of course, I'll understand. But think how marvellous it could be: together all day long, every day”.
She pressed her face against Monique's, murmuring huskily: “And every night, too, my precious…”
While she waited for the girl's response, Jean deliberately snuggled her breasts against Monique's; she made their nipples brush silkily together, the red teats touching in dainty little movements. Would Monique swallow the bait, she wondered. And even more pertinently, was it in reality a “bait” at all?
The story she had told the girl was completely true. The only lie (or was it a lie? How could Jean be sure?) being that its ending was not quite as she saw the climax in reality. Monique was expendable… wasn't she? Or was it, after all, Michael who could be dispensed with once she and Monique had their relationship properly established.
For a brief, giddy moment, Jean had the sensation that all this was nothing but a day-dream — a sheer fantasy. It couldn't be real! She couldn't be propositioning this sweet young girl as if she were a completely amoral libertine! In a moment she would sit up in bed and the day would begin again… It must be a dream, it must be!
And then Monique asked if this really was the only way they could be sure of continuing together, and Jean heard herself saying: “Yes, it is, darling” and she knew that it really was happening. It really was! She wanted suddenly to pull back from the machinations she'd set in motion, terribly afraid of their ultimate consequences. It wasn't too late — she could easily tell Monique that she'd just been teasing, that the whole thing was nothing but a silly joke…
“All right, then", Monique's voice came clear and decisively to her ear. “You're not really asking so very much of me, Jean, are you? And I told you before that I'd do anything for you, didn't I? It's a small price to pay for your love, my darling — to have to share you and give myself to Michael… I'll do it!”
Jean could scarcely believe her ears. Monique was actually saying that she'd go through with her plan! Then it was all real, after all — not a dream, not a fantastic wish conjured from her imagination.
She hugged the girl more tightly to her body. “Oh, my darling; my precious!” she cried. “You won't regret it — I promise you, you won't regret it. I'll do everything I can to make you happy, I swear I will!”
To her surprise, Jean realised that she was crying again. Tears of relief and gladness were streaming from her eyes, making Monique's cheek wet and salty. The girl must care so very deeply for her, Jean thought with wonderment. She must love her with a greater intensity at this moment than Jean herself had felt in her entire life to agree such an outlandish proposal.
They fell back onto the bed together, Monique's body covering Jean's. Jean smoothed the girl's short hair tenderly, still overwhelmed by the strength of Monique's love for her.
If only Michael felt so passionately towards her. If only he cared a tenth as much for her as this precious, beautiful young girl!
Jean sighed with self-pity, then realised that in a relatively short time — once she had succeeded in re-opening his eyes to her sexual attraction — her husband might be as demonstrative to her as Monique. She closed her eyes, savouring the blissful thought. That would be worth everything, she mused. All the anxiety, all the unhappiness of the past years.
She let her eyes close, content for the time being merely to hold Monique's warm flesh against her own. There would be plenty of time for them to continue their love-making. All the time in the world…
PART TWO. Michael
1
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, sending the car in a fierce forward thrust down the dual carriageway. The 30 m.p.h. speed limit ended here, and Michael shifted into top gear and let the Vauxhall's speedometer creep up steadily to the 65 mark.
The green verge and the evenly spaced trees flashed past, the flatness of the surrounding countryside blurring into a meaningless frozen landscape. He kept his eyes on the straight grey road ahead — watching as the bonnet of the car greedily swallowed up the tarmac.
Michael Cameron was a large man; but his muscular body, kept in shape by regular exercise and his twice weekly tennis workouts, still retained the angular lines and the even distribution of weight of his youth. His eyes were brown, his face — now twisted into a dark scowl — normally expressed the calm, cool confidence of a man who has found his niche in life and is contented with it.
The lines of middle age were prematurely showing on his forehead and around his rather full and sensuous lips. He was a man who had trained himself neither to feel or reveal emotion: he dealt with crises in his business and domestic life with calm, methodical deliberation, scarcely ever allowing himself to weaken and display signs of involvement with his associates.
In the environment of his office and in the close, inbred atmosphere of his club, he was recognised as an almost too typical example of the English businessman. Moderately successful, assured of a comfortable pension at the end of his working life, commuting by car each day from his semi-detached Surrey house to the firm of London stockbrokers in which he held a fairly responsible position; married with a quietly spoken daughter who lived most of the year in a reasonably-priced boarding school…
People scarcely gave him a second glance. With his rolled-up umbrella, his anonymous pin-striped suit and his dark bowler, Michael Cameron merged into his surroundings like a lizard which is coloured a desert-grey protect it from its enemies. He was outwardly the very epitome of placid, humdrum respectability.
But lately there had been a gradual change in his personality, a shift in his outlook on life. It was still scarcely apparent to his business colleagues, though people who knew him on a social level had remarked upon his abruptness, his frequent bad temper — and his highly changeable moods.
The simple reason for Michael's discontent was that he had reached the age of 35. In itself, the fact meant nothing. He still had many years of relative youth left to him; he had an assured, safe future ahead — and outwardly he had every reason to be satisfied with his life.