The Silver Chain. Primula Bond

and they are kissing, hard, I can see their tongues, and their hands are roving, hers going under his tail coat and squeezing his buttocks, his wandering shamelessly between her legs, wrinkling up her red skirt, pushing it up her thighs, his hand and wrist diving in.

      Polly’s knee lifts and hooks around her boyfriend’s leg to steady herself as his hand disappears, touching her where no-one else is allowed, assuming that no-one else can see.

      But I can see, and so can my companion. I tear my eyes away from my cousin, because the sight of that naked love, or at least lust, is embarrassing to watch. She’s got what you haven’t got. But the jealousy is all grown up now. Emphasising what I’m missing. Who I’m missing.

      I squeeze my bare legs together, trying to quell the hint of heat between them, and then I see all too obviously what the sight of my kissing cousin has done to the American. There is a big bulge under his toga. The white cotton is rising in a comical tent over his crotch.

      ‘How about it, Polly’s cousin? They’re all at it in there, or they will be.’

      I blush hotter as he shifts closer along the seat. I move slightly away, but he’s reasonably gentlemanly, at least at first. He takes my hands and pulls me closer.

      ‘There’s a light in your eyes,’ he says quietly, his mouth close to mine now. ‘And I can see you’re distracted. Who are you thinking about?’

      I don’t move or say anything. He’s right, I am distracted. I can’t help thinking about Gustav. I wish he was here, looking at me like a glittering treasure he found in the snow. I’m dying to show Polly, her friends, that I can click my fingers and get anyone. But this all feels like a silly game. My heart isn’t in it. I want to get out of here, back to him. Look into his eyes which will tell me clearly that they like what they see.

      ‘Well, if you’re not distracted, I sure as hell am. Look how I’m fixed now.’

      The guy takes my silence for consent, and takes my hands. He places them over the rigid shape under the cotton and it jumps in response. He leaves my hands there and strokes my legs, fingers wandering, under my dress. They pause, politely, then move on up my thighs.

      My hands are still resting on him. I’m letting him touch me. I should play along. I will myself to want it, enjoy it, but I can’t. I shake my head and close my legs against his exploring fingers, and thankfully he pulls away.

      In the doorway I can see Pierre’s hand working under Polly’s skirts. She is half opening her legs to him, wanting us all to see, to know what he’s doing to her, but half trying to keep herself hidden for the sake of decency. Her dress has ridden right up and every time he pushes at her, the curve of her butt presses white and flat against the glass door.

      What’s wrong with me? If I’m aching for something, attention, caresses, then let this guy have his way. No point pining after someone else. Gustav won’t be giving me another thought, while this guy is here, he’s hard, he’s willing and able. So get over it. Show Polly I’m sexy, too, and desired. This guy is up for it, but he’s not doing it for me. Just as Jake didn’t do it for me, in the end. Maybe if I wait, sit here very still, the ache will subside, or wake up into something more useful.

      Or maybe there’s nothing in me to wake up. Maybe I’m sitting here on this seat with a good-looking, aroused bloke unable to react because I’m terminally frigid, as Jake shouted yesterday morning (was it as recent as that?); he shouted it after me, standing on the metal step, shivering in the damp dawn as I stumbled across the field, away from his caravan.

      Frigid cow, he’d yelled, the new, insulting violence weighting his words to make him feel better. And to punish me for faking it, and then leaving him.

      The American starts to sing under his breath. Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?

      He strokes my face. No. It’s not him I’m looking for. But there’s no harm in letting him touch me like this, is there? It’s a party. He’s cute enough. Why not test myself? See if I am really frigid?

       Are you somewhere feeling lonely? Or is lonely feeling you?

      Still looking at Polly, certain that she can see me, I turn my mouth into his stroking hand, flip out my tongue and hook the guy’s finger into my mouth. Even though he’s still wearing those stupid glasses I can tell from the excited biting down of his teeth that I’ve suitably surprised him. I nibble further down the finger and start to suck.

      His tongue flicks across his slightly open mouth. It’s such a quick flick that I can tell what he’s thinking. He reckons he’s reading my signals loud and clear.

      And Polly has noticed, just as I wanted her to. She can see me up close to one of her cute friends. She nudges Pierre to show him, too, but he’s talking to someone else and he doesn’t turn to look. She puts her thumb up to me, shakes her dress down to cover her legs again, then Pierre’s arm comes round her waist and they merge into the crowd.

      The music has faded to one plaintive violin, the lowest possible notes probing the emotions. The dancing has slowed.

      The American sees that no-one is watching. He’s strong, and he pulls me over onto him, to sit right down on his lap. My lace dress floats up round my hips. The hardness grows and jumps under the toga and pokes at my inner thigh, jabbing on the bone, at the tendons up high, trying to impress me, weaken me so that it can get in.

      ‘I need help with this,’ he groans, lying back, complacent in the assumption that he’s got me where he wants me. ‘I’m sorry, honey, but you caused this boner.’

      I look down at him. ‘No I didn’t. My cousin getting it on with Pierre did that to you.’

      ‘Well, you’ve kept it going. I’m in trouble if I don’t have a woman at least once a day. Polly promised that this would be the place and she’s right. Look at you. Sex on a stick, like all the horny English girls. You gotta help me out here. Just with your hand. Your mouth?’

      I sit there for another moment, straddling his bare thighs, feeling the hardness pulsing against me under the stupid toga. What a drag that must be for a guy, being attached to that hardness all your life, no control over it, what or who is going to trigger it, or when. Pretty girl wandering round a party on her own in flimsy dress. Get hard. Picture in a magazine. Get hard. Sit on a beach. Listen to sexy music, that disco thump that matches your heart beat. Matches the bump and grind of lovemaking.

      But what about me? I may as well be made of stone. My body isn’t reacting to him at all. I’m straddling a handsome guy with a thumping erection who will do anything to relieve himself and nothing’s happening in here. I’m closed up. Dry as dust.

      I come to my senses. ‘No. No. I’m sorry. I’m not like that. I’ve got to go.’

      I lift my leg and climb off him, tug my dress down, hear the rip of vintage lace, feel the dress slipping.

       Frigid. You frigid cow.

      ‘Look, fair enough if you don’t want to go with someone you’ve just met. Choosy’s fine. But what about me? Help me out here. Girls like you shouldn’t be allowed out looking so goddamn hot!’

      He sits up, slams a cushion down on his disobedient groin. I wince.

      ‘I don’t blame you for being pissed with me. But I’m not putting out. No.’

      He sighs. ‘I can tell your head is somewhere else. Who’s the lucky guy?’

      I fiddle with a loose thread on my dress. ‘Don’t be nice to me. I just acted like a tease.’

      ‘And I acted like a schmuck. But I still say you owe some responsibility for this situation.’ His smile spreads wider. Those amazing straight American teeth. He’s obviously relieved that we can talk. And talking like civilised people might just make his hardness subside. ‘Cousin Polly’s never mentioned you’d be here. She’s a great stylist, isn’t she? You know some of the studios are looking at her fashion work? She’s made you look like