Free Georgia by Lesley Pearse Page A

at his parents’ wedding picture on the mantelpiece as if half expecting her to reach out and box his ears for even thinking such thoughts. She looked pretty and guileless, gazing up at her uniformed husband in a classic pose of adoration. Was it becoming a war widow and bringing up her son alone that turned her into such a tyrant? She had approved of Celia, the only woman he ever heard her praise. That alone should have warned him off!
    He could remember turning at the altar rail as Celia walked up the aisle on her uncle’s arm, his heart almost bursting with pride.
    Stout-shoed, tweed-skirted Nurse Tutthill, the plain, sensible girl who’d been there for him when he needed a friend was gone. In her place was a new Celia, curvy and feminine in a dark green, peplum-waisted costume and matching veiled hat. A soft voluptuous mouth accentuated with lipstick, shapely legs in sheer nylons, high-heeled shoes and a permanent wave.
    In that moment he thought he’d got everything. Her husky voice promising to ‘have and to hold’, a waft of jasmine scent, and that small hand quivering as he slipped on the ring.
    But just hours later in the hotel in Brighton that glow of pleasure turned to shame.
    He could remember every detail of that night. The pale green satin eiderdown, the bedside lamps with silky tassels on the shades. The shiny walnut headboard, even the smell of the starched sheets.
    Maybe he was guilty of rushing things, but what man wouldn’t when his fingers touched big firm breasts under silk?
    ‘Let me put my nightie on?’ she whimpered.
    ‘You don’t need clothes,’ he said burying his face in her neck as his fingers fumbled to unwrap her.
    On the train going to Brighton he had imagined taking her clothes off piece by piece, kissing every inch of soft flesh. Maybe he had only paid for sex before, but he thought he knew how to please women.
    He turned out the light because she was embarrassed, sure that in darkness she would respond as passionately as him. But as his chest covered her naked breasts he couldn’t hold back. Her skin was so silky he forgot caution, within moments he was pushing into her, squeezing her plump buttocks, whispering things he said to prostitutes.
    It was only after that he realized she was icy, her face turned from him, every muscle and nerve-ending rigid with disgust. He touched her cheeks and found tears and in that moment he felt a complete failure.
    ‘I tried to please her,’ he said aloud as he reached out for the bottle of gin.
    It very nearly ended after the war. No more opportunities to get away and find a more amenable partner for the night. So much pent up excitement in the air as the troops came home, rebuilding all around them, yet for Brian everything stayed the same. Celia wanted a baby, he wanted promotion. A world war was fought and won against all odds, yet still he had a wife who stared blankly at the ceiling while he made love to her. Never actually refusing, but somehow that dutiful subservience made him feel dirty.
    Perhaps he should have let her leave back then, divorce wasn’t such a big deal anymore.
    He felt that uncomfortable feeling of frustration now. Yesterday at the bank it had been so strong he almost went up to the West End after work. Eight hours of working alongside ten women, watching breasts jiggle as they typed. Miss Baldwin the new clerk with her tight skirts and long slender legs curling round her stool as she served customers. At the Christmas party she’d wanted to kiss him, but always he had to be aware of his position. Clerks, assistant managers, they could have affairs, but not the manager, especially one with a social worker for a wife.
    ‘It isn’t fair!’ he looked up at the ceiling. The light was still quivering, but the music was softer now. All those kids up there, kissing, cuddling, their whole lives ahead of them. Was it wrong for a man of fifty to want a woman who liked lovemaking? Celia understood every wife-beater, every