She had laughed with a hollow gaiety, and shook her hair. ‘No, you’re right,’ she said. ‘Silly of me. I must be getting all confused.’ She paused. ‘Thanks though,’ she said earnestly and climbed into the car. She wound down the window. ‘We can still meet tomorrow, can’t we? Same time?’
As he lay back now he asked himself if he would have been so thoughtful and reticent if he hadn’t been working the dreaded gonococci out of his system. He didn’t press himself too strongly on that point, didn’t insist on an answer: it was sufficient, surely, that he’d behaved commendably, taken care that there was no reason for Celia to think she’d done anything cheap. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her turn over and unclip her bikini top to present a bare back to the sun. As she awkwardly attempted to slip her arms out of the straps one breast suddenly hung free like a bell before it was resnugged in its bra cup. He knew, then, that he was kidding himself: his mornings with Celia Adekunle had nothing to do with information-gathering.
A while later, after a swim and some conversation, he ordered drinks and a sandwich. The steward brought the clinking tray over. Celia looked across her vodka and tonic at him sipping his Coke and said, ‘I don’t know how you do it, Morgan. You must be the only man in Nkongsamba who doesn’t drink.’
Morgan tapped his stomach. ‘I promised myself I’d lose some beef…’
Celia laughed. ‘Well, drinking Coke won’t help.’ She had a point there, he thought. He was about to say that he reckoned he’d be packing it in soon anyway when he saw a sight that made his chest thump with apprehension.
‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ he swore. Emerging from the ladies’ half of the changing block at the far end of the pool were Priscilla and her mother. Priscilla was wearing her reinforced Oloko-meji costume while her mother favoured a short white towelling robe which blew apart as she walked to reveal an immense two-piece maroon swimsuit of the sort favoured by pregnant women or demure American matrons; the kind that has two loose theatre-curtain flaps hanging from the upper half that effectively retain the necessary modesty while allowing the wearer the freedom of a two piece — if she’s pregnant — or the impression she’s still young enough for one — if she’s conceited. Through the gap in the curtain Morgan caught a glimpse of very, very white skin, and above the top half noted the razor-thin crease of compressed cleavage surrounded by a juddering jelly-sea of tightly packed and constrained bosom. Two sturdy blue-veined thighs completed this vision of an ageingjuno, a thickened, middle-aged and middle — class Botticelli Venus returning to the waves, clutching in her right hand a rubber flower-bedecked bathing cap.
As they drew near it became obvious to Morgan that they had seen him but were, independently or by mutual pact, going to pretend they hadn’t. From sheer obstinacy he decided he wasn’t going to let this happen.
‘Chloe! Priscilla!’ he hailed as they came closer, the joviality of his tones belying the nervousness he felt. He hadn’t seen Priscilla since the day he’d bumped into her and Dalmire at the club: Dalmire genial and talkative, Priscilla proudly independent. Recognition made inevitable by his shout, he saw her adopt this no-hard-feelings pose again.
‘Hello,’ she said gaily. ‘Thought I’d seen those trunks before.’
He looked down, suddenly conscious of how prominently his groin bulged. ‘Yes,’ he said, sensing the nervousness about to overwhelm him. ‘They are rather crying out for attention, aren’t they.’ He hurriedly introduced Celia. ‘You know Celia Adekunle I think. Chloe Fanshawe, Priscilla Fanshawe.’ They agreed they did. Morgan sensed the eyes of Mrs Fanshawe burning behind the opaque discs of the sunglasses she wore, sizing up, evaluating, condemning.
‘Day off?’ she asked through smiling teeth.
He was furious at the implication. He turned to face her. ‘All work and no play,’ he said in a steely voice. ‘Don’t want Jack turning into a dull boy, do we.’
There was an uncomfortable silence as the hostility seemed to crackle between them. ‘Well, we mustn’t keep you,’ Mrs Fanshawe said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Adekunle…Morgan.’ They marched off, Morgan stared hatefully at her broad beam.
‘Goodness me,’ Celia said. ‘What on earth did you do to offend her?’
‘God knows,’ Morgan said uncomfortably. ‘Something to do with being alive I think.’ He sat there in silence, seething and cursing at being witnessed like this.
‘Morgan,’ Celia said. ‘What’s going on…?’ For a horrible moment he thought she was going to ask about Priscilla, but the pause only came about because she was lighting a cigarette. ‘…between you and Sam? What’s this great interest all about?’
He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Nothing really,’ he said cautiously, though he felt instinctively he could trust her, ‘just some footling idea of Fanshawe’s. He thinks Sam’s party’s going to win the election so we’re being very friendly.’ His mind was still on Priscilla so he added without thinking, ‘That’s why we’re giving him the flight.’
‘Flight? Where?’
‘To London. For two weeks.’ He looked round. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you know? Shit, I’m sorry.’
Celia smiled grimly and took a long trembling drag on her cigarette. As she exhaled she shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t know. To London?’
‘Yes,’ he said, wondering if he’d given something vital away. ‘He asked specifically for two seats — I had the tickets delivered today — I just assumed he’d be takingyou…Perhaps it’s a surprise,’ he added gamely.
She laughed harshly. ‘Fat chance,’ she said. ‘You see, Sam’s got this possessive thing about me. He doesn’t allow me to leave the country. I haven’t been home for three years. He thinks that if I ever get back to Britain he’ll never see me again.’
Morgan swallowed. ‘Is he right? I mean, would you run away?’
She seemed quite composed again. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Like a shot.’
It was 3.45 in the afternoon. Morgan’s Peugeot was parked down a laterite track in the shade of a towering mango tree which stood somewhere in the middle of a half-grown teak forest. Slim twenty-foot teak trees stretched away on both sides of the track, their oversized soup-plate leaves hanging motionless in the afternoon’s torpid dust-heat. Celia Adekunle’s Mini was parked just in front of Morgan’s car which had all its doors open, as if the driver and passengers had suddenly abandoned it in the face of an ambush or air attack and run into the forest.
Celia and Morgan knelt naked facing each other on the towel-draped back seat. This seemed to be the point to which all their conversations and meetings had inevitably been heading. There was a sense of something final in the air, of something ended, reached. They had talked calmly, kissed and removed their clothes with no trace of self-consciousness. Beyond the pool of shadow cast by the mango tree the sun seemed to beat down on the growing forest with a metallic solid strength, like bars round a prison cell. Morgan felt a sweat-drop trickle down the side of his face. Celia’s hair looked damp and tousled. She dragged it back and held if off her neck with both hands, causing her small flat breasts with their disproportionately large nipples to rise.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘It’s too hot for sex.’
Morgan leant forward over his thickening penis and licked the shine between her breasts. He felt as though he were in some kind of tin sauna, every inch of his body was moist, warm and dripping.
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