Gemma Makes Her Mark, page 2
In the early days of his life on the outside again they had met regularly for coffee and for what were presumably and officially supposed to be ‘post-release support meetings’; but which went well beyond the required time or usual locations and soon involved them talking and drinking until throwing out time. Mark had even encouraged Gemma to go on a couple of dates with a friend of one of her friends. It might have been taking playing it cool a bit far but his idea had been to act as a kind of sophisticated mentor to her and pretend to help her find a suitable boyfriend, while at the same time letting her see how much more interesting and challenging a prospect he would be. He assumed it had all worked pretty much according to plan when one of their increasingly regular late-night heart to hearts, with him offering her the wisdom of his knowledge of the male species, had led to a hug, and then her letting him slip his hand under her dress. It seemed to Mark that was what they had both been waiting for; he had spent that night at Gemma’s flat. While it had been a few years since he had been touched by anyone apart from himself, there was certainly something special about the way she controlled him while seemingly abandoning herself. She certainly knew how to enjoy herself.
It never crossed Mark’s mind that the managing of it all might well have been the other way around; he always assumed that no one could be as manipulative as he was. He had never doubted his attractiveness to women, and even Justine’s abandonment of him and the subsequent events hadn’t undermined his self-confidence that much. On occasion he had found himself wondering if his tendency to believe in his own superiority had been the cause of his problems, but he never allowed such doubts to take root.
***
Gemma had been quite a catch and Mark had revelled in the excitement and freedom she offered him after years away. After the initial pretence of their official, ex-con and probation officer, relationship, their meetings soon turned into nights out, eating and drinking; and she had certainly proved to be more than the naïve do-gooder that had been his first impression when she had visited him at Ford as a newly qualified probation officer. Mark had soon discovered that she had family money behind her and that her job, while not just posturing, was also and clearly not the vocation he had initially assumed it was for her. There was more to it than that, though. There was a confidence about her he hadn’t noticed straight away; it was apparent in the way she dressed and the way she was when they first made love. Of course, things had moved on since the mid-1970s, and maybe the 1980s would prove to be different, but nonetheless she dressed differently to his previous girlfriends – classy dresses and smart suits which had a timeless air to them rather than the ex-hippy stuff which he’d been used to. Not yet twenty-five years old, Gemma could make herself look either younger or older depending on the context, and with a natural elegance she always managed to look taller than her five foot five. She had fine auburn hair, olive green eyes and a full figure – ‘voluptuous’ might be over-stating it, but she reminded him of Hollywood actresses of the 1930s and ’40s, Jean Harlow, Veronica Lake and the rest. The blouses or shirts Gemma tended to wear under her suits for official court visits had to stretch to the limit to fasten, the material teasing and testing the hold of the buttons in a clearly provocative manner. As well as that, there was an irresistible freshness about her; thankfully she had ignored the wide-shouldered power-dressing that had become something of a fad for professional women after the success of Dallas, the new American soap opera currently obsessing the tabloid press.
In spite of the fact that Mark had been pretty much deprived for almost six years, and arguably might not have been particularly difficult to please, she was certainly equal to anything he could remember, and that included with Justine. He had found it difficult to accept how clearly infatuated he must have been with Justine and over his years away he had become convinced that she had been the real cause of his downfall. It felt good that at last he could see she hadn’t been so special and that Gemma was more than a match. Gemma’s approach to sex had taken him by surprise – it was a strange but exciting mixture of absolute baseness, along with an almost prudish coyness. On the one hand, he found her appearance radiated an innocence and freshness that suggested a cosseted upbringing. Almost by contrast, and while attempting to impress her with his literary knowledge and general sensitivity, he had discovered that she had read Nabokov’s Lolita as well as Justine, Juliette and all of de Sade’s English translations that she could get hold of, and that she wasn’t interested in the more conventional and popular examples of romantic books and dramas. Somewhat bizarrely, it was after one impromptu and pretty wild session that Mark realised it had been watching a documentary on the life of chimpanzees that had turned her on; and she had admitted that watching animals just doing it was enough for her to lose any inhibitions. Mark wondered if it was because he was getting older or just easier to please himself, but within a few months he felt an attraction and closeness which took him by surprise and which had an air of authenticity that he had never really experienced before.
Getting to know Gemma before and since his release had certainly changed Mark’s plans for his future, although if he was being honest he hadn’t really had much of a long-term or clearly worked out plan at all. Anyway, que sera, as it seemed to be turning out; he realised Gemma was good for him and he’d been lucky, even though he reckoned he deserved it.
In fact, although he had his own flat, it wasn’t long after his release before he and Gemma were spending most nights in the same bed, and had decided to buy a place and live together. House prices were still rising at almost ten per cent a year and Mark was keen to invest what money he had as soon as he could. They had decided on Petworth and found a quaint two-up, two-down at the end of a row of four what would originally have been agricultural workers’ houses; the sort of Victorian terraced cottages that were found all over the English countryside. The original, outside toilet had been replaced with a kitchen and shower-room extension in the early 1960s and with the exposed beams and open fireplace it maintained a charm and homeliness which both he and Gemma had been taken with. Conveniently, it was on the Littlehampton side of the town, and the move itself had gone through pretty quickly. Neither of them had to sell and they had moved in together within six months of Mark’s leaving Ford Open Prison.
***
As his mind returned to the barbecue that Friday afternoon, all in all Mark felt quite positive about life. Even though there had been the odd moments of tension between them – usually about his lack of work and direction, which were becoming a little more regular recently – he was looking forward to Gemma getting back from her work. It was a lovely hazy day which always helped his mood, and now that there was some sign of life from the briquettes, things didn’t seem too bad. On the whole, it was comforting to reminisce about the last seven or so months, and his earlier sense of despondency seemed perhaps rather indulgent. It hadn’t been long after his release before Mark had also come to feel something close to affection for Littlehampton, in spite of its unmistakably down-at-heel image — maybe, perhaps, because of it. Wandering around the town, he had liked coming across the occasional commemorative plaques highlighting the Roman occupation of the area. He and Gemma had spent a few weekend lunchtimes eating in the slightly forlorn seaside cafés or harbour-side pubs, sometimes along with random groups of ageing bikers who seemed to see Littlehampton as a sort of emblem of bygone, and missed, days. Gemma’s rented apartment on Pier Road had been particularly cool and was a class above his own; the elegant main room overlooked the river and lighthouse, and beyond that the Channel. They’d spent some intense but special evenings there at the start of the year and of their relationship, including listening to John Lennon songs in the wake of the shock of his murder; he particularly remembered playing Roxy Music’s version of 'Jealous Guy' time after time.
However, after the first couple of months of freedom, as the new year had gathered momentum, and tempering a little his positive mood and feeling as the barbecue at last sprang into life with some gusto, there hadn’t been that much to get particularly excited about. Sure, they had bought the house together and the move to Petworth had been something of an adventure, but that had been about it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to get his life moving again, but if he was honest about it the latest endeavour, dabbling in the antiques business, showed little signs of taking off for him, and was basically just another example of self-indulgence.
Maybe he had expected it to be too easy, but he assumed with his background as a university lecturer and with two degrees he’d be able to pick up something, and if nothing else some part-time lecturing at least. In fact, after the Christmas break he had given that a go and had made appointments at a couple of local further education colleges to offer his services – the problem was trying to explain a six-year gap in his CV and avoiding having to fill in any awkward questions on application forms about previous convictions. His first attempt, at the College of Technology in Worthing, had been unsuccessful; indeed, he was left with the distinct impression that the two full-time, General Studies lecturers who had met him felt he was over-qualified and potentially some kind of threat to them. After that, he had managed to talk himself into being given a two-hour evening class teaching General and Communication Studies to a group of engineering apprentices at the Chichester College of Technology – a typically uninspired example of 1960s architecture, soulless square blocks with not a curve in sight. The course itself was apparently a compulsory module on some kind of vocational training programme they were enrolled on, but the students themselves had absolutely no interest in improving their communication or general skills. Mark had soon realised why he had been offered those hours. He had struggled through sessions from January till Easter and it had been more than enough to put him off that career path. It had been how he could imagine taking an F stream in some sort of failing comprehensive would be, except that these students were adults, supposedly. Although not overtly aggressive their obvious disdain came over with a slightly threatening air; in particular, he hated having no sensible response to questions about the relevance of it all. One of the most amusing books he’d read while serving his sentence had been Wilt; and Tom Sharpe’s description of Henry Wilt’s experiences of trying to teach literature to bored apprentices in what must have been a very similar type of college had certainly captured the tone of his own brief encounter with similar students. He remembered with some fondness, and maybe slightly rose-coloured glasses, the buzz of teaching bright undergraduates at Sussex University before he’d thrown it all away. He realised how he had revelled in the respect, bordering on admiration, that came with that status; and there had been the added bonus of plenty of young, attractive and impressionable students.
Apart from the academic world which wasn’t looking a likely prospect, drugs was about the only other area Mark had any sort of background in, having dabbled with buying and selling when he was a student himself. In fact, soon after getting out of Ford and with little else to do, Mark had looked up a couple of contacts he’d had in Brighton but to little avail. They’d given up dealing and settled down – it was probably no surprise that the hippy dream was certainly becoming a thing of the past. He had to face it, he was well out of touch with that scene. Even though Mark was aware that it smacked of desperation he had also tried unsuccessfully to get some help in that direction from one of his old university mates, Martin, who had always been well-connected. Their reunion meeting had turned out to be a slightly uncomfortable affair, though; Martin’s record business was going well and he’d been friendly enough on the surface but there had definitely been an awkwardness between them. In fact, it had left Mark feeling quite down – he and Martin had shared many evenings drinking and getting wasted in the old days, just after Mark had started his job at Sussex University and before Justine and his prison sentence, but on this occasion Martin had seemed distracted and keen to get rid of him. Of course Martin was busy with his work but they hadn’t met up for over six years and Mark had hoped for a little more than what felt distinctly like a brush-off. Martin had said enough to suggest that hearing about the murders had both amazed and horrified him; as it apparently had for most of their old friends. He did manage to find out that Martin, Tom, Paul and the rest still met up regularly and that Justine and Tom were still together and apparently on the point of getting married. Martin had clearly felt somewhat embarrassed by the whole thing and had dodged answering Mark’s suggestion that he bring Gemma over to meet up and perhaps have a meal or drinks together.
Mark had driven back to Littlehampton afterwards feeling a complete outsider – they might consider themselves open-minded and hip, but serial murdering was obviously a step too far for his old friends. He’d been close to them all for years, but they had all had it easier than him from the start. Most of his university friends had come from public school backgrounds and well-off families and had all managed to do pretty well for themselves in various legitimate pursuits, including property management and the music business. When all had been going along smoothly for himself, Mark had enjoyed their self-confidence and entrepreneurial spirits; and with his position as a university lecturer and published academic he had felt at least their equal. He could see it had never been a real equivalence, though, and maybe they’d always felt it; they possessed and paraded their own hubris with irritating ease. Background and family status clearly still gave a different and unique kind of arrogance. Anyway, to hell with them, he had his life to get on with.
***
Mark looked at his watch. It was half past five, the sun was still hot on his back and playing on the grass in the field behind the house – surely more than ready for a first cut and bailing for hay. He was glad he’d put his shorts on. Gemma couldn’t understand his reluctance to show his legs but he’d never been comfy with it, unless he’d been on a beach. He had worn jeans, or between 1975 and 1981 the prison equivalent, ever since he was a teenager and he saw little reason to change the habit. The compromise had been to cut an old pair of Wranglers off just above the knee, and to be fair it felt quite good today.
He reckoned Gemma would be back in ten minutes or so – time to put the burgers and a couple of pork chops on the grill. He still couldn’t quite shake off a restlessness that had been with him on and off for a while, and was becoming more on of late, and that was reflected in his mood that afternoon as it veered from contentedness to despondency. It was well into summer and he needed to be doing more than filling time; he’d already done enough of that to last for a lifetime. It had been too easy to let things drift, though. He was becoming too used to basically just pottering around in a desultory but often really quite pleasant way – doing the shopping and cooking, checking local sales and ads. He still had some savings and Gemma’s salary covered the mortgage and other bills. And he always managed to find something to keep him at least semi-occupied. There was that year’s Ashes series to watch and it had been difficult to take his eyes off the third test which had finished a few days ago. The cricket had been unbelievable: England were following on and heading for defeat when Ian Botham played a remarkable innings, 149 runs from 148 balls; then Bob Willis had taken eight wickets, the Australians were bowled out for 111 and the series was levelled. It had been pretty compulsive viewing as well as taking care of a good part of the day and he couldn’t wait for the next match, but it wasn’t moving his life on. Then a couple of weeks before that he’d got side-tracked following the street-fighting and rioting in Liverpool and Manchester. While it might not have had much impact on day-to-day life in rural Sussex, Mark had been gripped by the social significance of it, as well as the anger and hatred shown toward Margaret Thatcher and her government. He could imagine the sociologists he had worked with attempting to analyse and explain it all; no doubt it would encourage a glut of conference papers and PhD proposals. He’d had to fight the fleeting nostalgia he still felt for that life – fair enough, a lot of it might have been the emperor’s new clothes but it was comfy enough and held a certain cachet.
If he was honest about it and even though he wouldn’t call his current lifestyle unpleasant, Mark couldn’t ignore the fact that he was beginning to harbour the occasional concern, or maybe more accurately realisation, that living with Gemma was perhaps not really what he had expected when he’d been planning and fantasising about his life after prison. She was gorgeous and sexy, but maybe not as pliable or, although he hated to admit it, as controllable as he would have liked. Typically, though, Mark was too bothered about his own situation and feelings to give any of his slight doubts more than a momentary acknowledgement before storing them away in the recesses of his consciousness. So what if Gemma didn’t seem to be as easily impressed with him as he’d imagined she had been? That was life, no doubt. Anyway, the way he remembered it she had pretty much thrown herself at him so he had nothing to reproach himself for there. The niggling worry, though, was that he’d got his character assessments spectacularly wrong before, of course. Gemma had made one or two throwaway comments lately that were playing on his mind: nothing specific, but comments the gist of which seemed to be that given the money her family, or more accurately mother, had, she didn’t see why she should be the one working while he managed to occupy himself doing basically nothing. He hadn’t really dwelt on them; although he certainly might have if he had taken the time to consider how Gemma’s take on things was developing.
***
It had been yet another long, hot and pretty tiring afternoon session at the Chichester Magistrates' Court for Gemma. The court itself was an unimposing square block of a building whose main claim to fame had been the appearance there in 1967 of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, for committal to Crown Court after their arrest at Richards’ country house, Redlands in West Sussex, for various drug offences. They had both turned up at the court to plead not guilty and elect for a trial by jury and been faced with a scrum of fans and media reporters outside the building. Although that had been fourteen years ago it was still talked about with some affection by the clerks and receptionists who’d been around at the time. Indeed, the number of celebrities supposedly involved appeared to grow as memories faded, as did the notion that it was all an establishment-organised attack on the Rolling Stones, fuelled by what sociologists might have termed a ‘moral panic’ over the group’s influence on the youth of the country and over hippies in general. Carole on the front desk had kept her newspaper clippings of the event in her desk drawer and insisted on reminiscing about them at any opportunity, seemingly forgetting that Gemma had seen them on her first visit as well as most subsequent ones too.
