Is it Tom’s huge knowledge of opera that seduces Laura away from her bloke?
Since my mother met Dylan she’s become rather stupid – I hate to say it, but it’s true. Just because his family own some kind of country estate on the Welsh borders, she’s decided he’s the one for me. I’m not so sure. I like Dylan, and we have fun together, and the sex is… good. But the idea of spending my life with him is faintly ludicrous. With anybody, in fact, but especially Dylan, who is too well-spoken, well-heeled and well-groomed to be quite believable.
She gave us opera tickets for my birthday. We were having lunch with her and Dad and she produced the envelope with a flourish like a rabbit she’d pulled from a hat.
“Pleasures in the Park,” I read aloud. “An evening of Purcell, champagne and romance.” She smiled meaningfully and Dylan looked politely interested. Dad looked at his plate, embarrassed as ever by Mum’s manoeuvrings.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”
I gave her a sarcastic glance. I’d never been to the opera – it was another attempt to impress Dylan and give him the chance to ‘pop the question’. That’s what my mother does to you – she makes you think in inverted commas.
Dylan took the tickets. “Dido and Aeneas in Hyde Park,” he read. “Yes, Laura and I will look forward to it.”
I took the tickets back, resignedly. “Thanks, Mum,” I said and Dad winked at me, pleased to be left out of the thanks that were no thanks.
I decided I’d simply have to drink enough champagne not to notice the singing – until I read the small print on the ticket: ‘One glass of complimentary champagne per ticket, served thirty minutes before performance time’ – wow! What a night of extravagant passion this promised to be.
What A Performance
I met Dylan at Hyde Park Corner tube and we walked into the park together. By the time we found our seats, dusk was falling and the rows were filling up. A waiter brought our champagne. It was nicely chilled but in plastic flutes which rather spoiled the ambience. We looked around as we sipped and made small talk. Dylan seemed to know a lot about opera, which depressed me. He stood and waved at someone. “A chap from school,” he explained, sitting down again. I looked at him; tall, blond, excellent manners, good prospects, attentive lover – and wondered why I was so hard to please.
‘Chap’ was soon with us. He was shorter than Dylan and had dark brown hair and blue eyes. He was stocky and the impression of solidity was emphasised by the loose shirt he wore; a blue embroidered top, stark but somehow right for outdoor opera – it made Dylan’s white shirt and linen blazer look stuffy.
“This is Tom,” Dylan said. “Tom – Laura.”
He shook my hand and smiled. “Hello, Laura.”
“Hello.” How banal it all was, how bloody boring. I imagined spending the rest of my life making small talk to ‘chaps from school’ or their ‘good lady wives’ and felt nauseous.
“Do you like opera?” Tom asked.
“Not really.” It sounded ruder than I’d meant and Dylan frowned.
“Well, you have to imagine yourself back in the day, then it’s a bit more exciting.” There was a lilt to his voice – Welsh? “You see, in its day, this was like Mick Jagger in the sixties or Miley Cyrus on her wrecking ball – utterly shocking entertainment!”
Yes, definitely Welsh. “It was the first opera in English performed in front of royalty. The girls in the chorus were the daughters of nobles and merchants and they…” he dropped his voice so I leaned over to hear him, “…showed their ankles!”
I giggled and Tom glanced over at Dylan. “Hey Gar, we’ve got some corporate honchos here tonight from Japan – why not go and network?”
Dylan nodded and rose. He was some kind of investment specialist – all I knew was it meant wearing silk ties and dining in City clubs with other men. Very boring.
“So…” Tom crouched beside my seat and I was aware of his thumb touching my thigh through my skirt as he put out one hand to balance himself. “Let me tell you about the opera we’re going to enjoy tonight.”
Which he did, making me laugh with his stories like the tale of one of the chorus girls who had enjoyed dressing up as a sailor so much she’d run away from home and spent six months as a midshipman in the Navy before she was detected. I laughed so much the champagne went up my nose and Tom had to pat me on the back. As the bell rang for people to sit down, I was rather looking forward to the show.
Encore
It wasn’t bad. I could think of things I’d rather be doing: fucking, dancing, eating, shopping, but it was enjoyable enough. I applauded with genuine enthusiasm at the end and then headed back to the tube with Dylan. But when I dug in my bag, I discovered my mobile was missing.
“Shit!” Dylan didn’t slow down, heading further away from me with every stride. “Dylan… Dylan!” Finally he turned, an expression of irritation easing into blandness so fast I almost missed it. “I’ve lost my phone. I’ll have to go back.” There was the irritation again, not glossed over so swiftly this time.
“Don’t worry, I’ll catch you up…” I paused. “Or no, I’ll meet you at the flat, no point two of us hanging around.”
He nodded. “Okay, I’ll open the wine and turn down the covers all ready for you.” He smiled, but the shiver down my spine was too cold for anticipation.
I walked back, feeling oddly reprieved, and tried to work out where we’d been sitting, but so many of the chairs had been moved or folded flat that I couldn’t get my bearings.
“Well, well, lovely Laura. I’m afraid you don’t get encores in opera, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” It was Tom and somehow I wasn’t as surprised as I should have been.
He offered to help and we began to search under chairs but the light was almost gone now. A security man strolled over.
“We’ve lost a mobile,” Tom said.
I gaped. ‘We’ had lost a mobile? Dylan might have said ‘this lady’ or ‘my girlfriend’ but he’d never have said ‘we’ had lost anything. In that moment I realised he and I would never converge, let alone merge – and Tom grabbed my hand. I let him. He continued, “I’ll give you my number, not a lot of point giving you Laura’s as that’s the one we’ve lost. If you find it, you can call me. Reward offered and all that.”
The guard wandered off and I stared at Tom through the gloom. “You’re a fast worker,” I said.
“Do you think so? Well, we’ll see…” He held up his hand. “Listen!”
I heard nothing.
“A nightingale, getting ready to sin, clearing its throat, you might say. Come on,” He tugged my hand. I shook my head; I’d misheard, he must have said ‘sing’, mustn’t he?
“What?” I said again.
“We need to get into the trees so it can’t see us, or it won’t sing.”
It didn’t sound likely, but I went anyway – his enthusiasm was infectious. He pulled me into a small copse and we stood in silence. Well, I could hear my heart beating, but I don’t think he could. I hoped not, anyway.
“Close your eyes, you’ll hear better,” he whispered. I did, and immediately felt his mouth brush my cheek. His lips eased against mine and my mouth opened to his as though by command. He put one hand on my upper arm and slid the other under my hair, and now more than my mouth was opening for him. I felt wet and loose, as though my bones had melted and only his soft touch was holding me up. He pushed me backwards gently until my spine was against a tree trunk.
I pressed my body against his, he pressed back so I was sandwiched between him and the tree – delicious hardness on both sides of me, and I began to squirm, wriggling against him until he laughed into my mouth and set his knee between mine so my hottest, wettest part was pinned open over his thigh. I could feel myself getting close to orgasm and I arched my spine, getting the position just right so my clit was rubbed by the pressure of his flexing thigh muscles.
I came, and he really did have to hold me up, it was so intense, so… outrageous, I suppose. Then he put his hand over my mouth and muttered in my ear, “The security guy’s back. Do you want to go and see if he’s found your phone?”
I shook my head wildly and he laughed quietly. We remained silent and still until Tom gave the all clear and then it was as if a war had broken out.
My hands ripped and tugged at his trousers as he yanked up my top and thrust his hands into the cups of my bra, clawing as though he wanted to hurt me. It did hurt, like fuck, but it was also exciting, no, thrilling, like hearing the soprano hit top C and wondering if she’d be able to sustain it. I wondered how high Tom could take me, and for how long.
It didn’t take long to find out. He turned me round and lifted my skirt, pushing it over my hips, yanking my underwear down and then, with a long breathy moan, like an opera hero expiring, sank to his knees and began to kiss and fondle my backside. I held onto the tree and stared at the crescent moon through its branches, trying not to scream my pleasure aloud. His fingers slid inside me and found I was more than ready. I heard him stand, heard the faint plastic crinkle of a condom being applied, and then he was nuzzling inside me, his hands stroking my hips, his mouth pressed against my shoulder. That was when I discovered most of the buttons on my top had gone missing in the excitement.
As he began to thrust I held on to the tree and used is as leverage to move against him, arching backwards to impale myself deeper on his shaft. One of his hands slid round to hold my clit between thumb and forefinger, making me do all the work of sliding and bucking against his grip until I came.
As I was learning how to breathe and see again, after the black extinguishing pleasure of orgasm, I heard his breathing change as he started to come, and a few seconds later it was my turn to reach behind me and slide my hand across his mouth as the security guard strolled past again.
“Was that some sort of revenge thing?” I asked as we tried to restore our clothes to some kind of order. “On Dylan, I mean. Did he bully you at school?”
“Good God, no!” He took hold of my waist. “Dylan was a complete little twat at school, but I wanted you, Laura, because I fancied you like fuck, not to get at him.”
“Seems a bit improbable,” I commented, although I was already melting again under his fingers.
“That’s opera for you. Speaking of which, it’s The Magic Flute next week at Kew – fancy it?”
“I think I ought to talk to Dylan first. Clear things up.” Of course I fancied it, and him, and a repeat performance sounded like heaven, but I wanted to play it cool. Then Tom held out my phone.
“What…!”
“I took it out of your bag. I hoped you’d come back for it.” He grinned, his teeth shining in the dim moonlight.
“You bastard!” But I knew I was grinning too.
“Come on, nightingale,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere more comfortable for an encore.”
“I thought opera didn’t…” and then I stopped, because, of course, he wasn’t talking about opera and I wasn’t going to argue.
