Thank you, Dawnj, for editing! This was supposed to be a short one. Oh well, you'll have to bear with me for some time.
*****
Rumour had it that June Faversham was a slut. She was a one, it was said - wild, and an easy lay, in for anything. She was a girl who would use and discard boyfriends at will. It was also said she would never say no. Feeling horny? June would always be more than willing to help you out; sex was her middle name.
It wasn't true. June had been curious about boys and love and sex when she was in her middle teens, like everyone else, but contrary to popular belief she hadn't been in for anything or anyone. She had just had three boyfriends only, over a six-year period. Her brief relationships had never worked out that well, and though she understood what love might be about, her attempts at making love had been none too satisfactory.
Her first boyfriend was just too young, too hasty and, eventually, intellectually not up to her level . They parted quite amicably, happy to be free from the demands they couldn't meet. The second one was alright for a few months, but then he lost interest. Her third boyfriend, John De Vere, had been very possessive. After a very short time his sexual appetite had become demanding and unpleasant, expecting her to do things she definitely did not want to do. John couldn't handle the fact that June didn't see him as God's gift to women and the be-all and end-all in her life. That, and the fact that he had started to be physically abusive, was quite enough. When she broke up with him, he started spreading rumours. He made her out to be the way he'd wanted to see her, licentious and whorish, and as he was a glib talker, the rumours stuck.
Even when John was arrested later for domestic violence, the tales he'd spread didn't lose their credibility for some of the men whose ears they'd been poured into. It seemed impossible for June to convince her the people in her surroundings; whatever she did, and no matter how prudently she behaved, her false bad name followed her like a puppy, always there, and yelping at the most impossible moments.
June was completely fed up with it all. It appeared her reputation gave men the right to insult her and expect things from her. She hated it, and refused any contact with them. She even went as far as moving house, eventually, to go and live where she wasn't known. It seemed to work out very well. For a long, long time, it felt as if her alleged past had been safely buried under a new face and in a new circle of acquaintances, in a place where she had a nice job and felt respected and valued. She slowly got over her distrust of people. She started to visit some of them again, and she even became mildly interested in the opposite sex - not that there were any attractive specimens - and eventually let herself be persuaded to visit the birthday party of one of her colleagues.
June usually wore a business suit to work, and she'd not bought any party clothes for ages. But she didn't care too much; a new pair of green jeans, a blouse and a sweater would have to do. She hadn't worn any make-up since she'd moved to this part of London. Her old lipstick turned out to be so dried out it was useless, and so she only used a little mascara and a whiff of a somewhat sedate perfume. Not that it mattered. She had never cared much about her appearance, but as she was a good dresser by instinct, no one ever noticed. She looked at herself critically in the mirror for a moment, and nodded at her reflection. She didn't look her age; she was thirty-four but could easily pass for five years younger or more. "Hello girl," she said, and smiled.
The party was in South London. Because June didn't want to live on orange juice all night, she walked a couple of blocks to the tube station. She had to change at Whitechapel and she got off at Norwood Junction. From there it was just a five-minute walk.
Mary-Jane Dubois had turned forty two days before. She loved having people over for a party, so this Friday night her house was packed with friends, colleagues and a couple of stray acquaintances. She lived with her husband in a rather large house that had been in the country when it saw the light; now it still had a spacious garden, and it boasted a big living-room adjacent to a kitchen that was almost the size of June's living-room and kitchen taken together.
Mary-Anne greeted her happily. She was a big woman with a very friendly disposition, and a lean, tallish husband with a sardonic look on life who lectured in something unintelligible at university. They were a slightly unlikely but very devoted couple, and the parties they gave were always enthusiastically attended by lots of people. The house was crowded. She recognised a few people from work, and Mary-Anne introduced her to a few others. Then the bell rang and her hostess excused herself, leaving June with a glass of red wine and Alice, the young woman to whom she'd just been introduced.
They stood talking together for a while. June rather liked Alice, who was a musician and talked quite engagingly about the concerts she was giving these weeks. June made music herself, so the subject was quite appealing. But after some time Alice drifted off to a young man who played in the same quintet as she did, and Jane stood alone, looking at the crowd enjoying themselves.
She nodded at a colleague who stood talking to a thin woman with a sour expression and a glass of water in her hand. The colleague gave her a wink, and she smiled at her. She decided to go and talk to her as soon as she'd have ended her conversation when she got cornered by a slightly unpleasant-looking man. She thought he must be in his late forties, and he exuded a somewhat seedy air.
"Hello," he said. "I think I know you, Miss Faversham. Heard a lot of lovely things about you. My wife is out of town tonight, and you are just what I need for a nice romp between the sheets! We've got some nice PVC underwear - swing those knockers up and down some." He leered at her, and gave her a wink that made made him look even more repulsive.
The flesh in June's neck seemed to shrink as she heard what he said. "I'm very sorry but you must be mistaken," she said. "I don't think I know you, and I would be very happy if you took your misguided sense of humour elsewhere."
"Oh no," he said. "I'm not mistaken at all. If you like, I could tell the others what I know about you? Good idea, er? Or would you rather no-one knew? In that case I'm ready to leave when you are. Jim's the name, by the way. Jim Jones." He winked again. "It's a long time since I fucked a nice young thing to pieces."
Jane spun round on her heels. She did not want to have anything to do with this man. She didn't want the rumours to start, either, and she supposed he'd be quite capable of starting them if his present behaviour was anything to go by. She looked at a picture on the wall but she didn't see what was in it; instead she saw her future go up in smoke again.
She put the glass she was still holding on an occasional table and walked to the far end of the room where a low fire was burning in the grate. She saw nobody there and there were two easy chairs in front of it. Her legs were trembling and she sat down in the nearest one.
"Hello," someone said. "I'm not that invisible, I hope?"
She started. There was someone sitting in the other chair. He put down a book he'd been holding, got up, extended his hand, and said, "George Jillings. Pleased to meet you."
June got up and shook his hand. "I'm June Faversham," she said. She looked at George, and wondered how she could have overlooked him. He was at least 6'8" and he was handsome and broad-shouldered with a shock of brown hair. His eyes were brown, too, with a tinge of green. They were kind; it felt good to look into them.
"You're not taking part in the festivities, either?" he said.
"No," June said. "I'm not." She tried to give him a noncommittal look, but to her horror she didn't manage to. She bit her lower lip and repeated, "I'm not, no."
He looked at her and said, "Do sit down again. Can I get you something to drink?"
She slumped into her chair and said, "Yes please. Could you get me a stiff whisky?"
He nodded. "I won't be a minute," he said.
But he was a little longer that he'd wanted to. When he crossed the room to reach the table that held the bottles, he was accosted by an unpleasant man who said, "Excuse me, but I'd like to warn you about the woman you've just spoken to."
"I beg your pardon?" George said. "Warn me? I'm quite old enough to take care of myself, thank you."
"Oh, but you don't know. She is quite the village slut. Quite likely to give you the clap, you know. Made a lot of victims..."
