I saw him across the room being greeted by the host. I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought for a moment I was going to faint.
I was attending the exhibition of a third rate painter's work, for which, as a freelance journalist, I was to write a review for a minor local paper. I had got sick of the sugary pink and white creations, and was standing around with a cocktail called, I believe, "A Landmine." It tasted of dishwater and kerosene.
I had been watching the silly posturing and stupid conversations that these pretentious occasions give rise to, laced as they are with "Dears" and "Darlings," when I saw him.
My mind swirled back nearly seven years to a beautiful summer day. At the time, I was the wife of a Housemaster at a middle ranking private school. One of the duties was to entertain to tea once a week, two of the students. They were appallingly boring and formal occasions and I am sure the students, or should I call them victims, liked them no more than I did.
The day in question was during the last but one week before the school broke up for the summer recess. We were to entertain two senior boys, both of whom were leaving to go on to university. One of them was Hartley George, the other boy's name I cannot now recall.
There was an influenza virus going round the school, and the day before the "Tea," my husband, Arthur Greenwith, took to bed, laid low by the dread disease. He suggested that we cancel the tea, but I objected. Hartley had become a particular favourite of mine, and I had observed that he had a strong attachment to me. This often happens in boy's schools, where women are rare, and they are away from the feminine company of mothers and sisters.
Arthur was in no condition to care one way or the other, so I went ahead with the tea. As it turned out, Hartley arrived on his own. The virus had also struck down the other boy. So we ate and drank alone.
Hartley was almost fully-grown at that time, being tall, about six feet, and well built, with an almost gypsy look about him. He had somehow escaped the worst things those private schools do to their victims, and he turned out a gentle and considerate boy with a taste for the arts. His father owned a chain of clothing stores around the country, and on the occasions when he had turned up for parent's days in his Rolls-Royce, he presented as a loud mouthed, bombastic man. Hartley had also escaped that character trait.
After our tea, I suggested that as it was such a beautiful day, we take a walk through the woods that abutted our back fence. Hartley agreed, so we went out through the gate in our back fence, and strolled through the trees to the stream that flowed some little distance away.
Arriving at the stream, we sat down on a grassy patch and for a while continued our conversation about music. Then at one point in our talk, Hartley took my hand. "You know I love you?" he said.
He followed up these words by leaning over and kissing me gently on the lips and in doing this he released my hand, and I felt his hand cup my breast.
I protested, "Stop this Hartley, I'm a married woman."
He didn't stop, but moved closer to me, still cupping my breast and kissing me. "I want you so badly," he said. "I've wanted you ever since I came to this school. I love you so much."
I pushed him away saying, "And I'm very fond of you, Hartley, but we can't do this."
He said nothing for a moment, then went on, "If you really cared about me, you'd let me do it with you."
Here I must explain the nature of my situation.
My mother had died when I was twelve. My father, with whom I was very close, died when I was eighteen of cancer. I had nursed him through his illness for nearly two years, and when he died I was exhausted and bereft.
He had left me a few investments which, given the strictest economy, I could just about manage on. To try to recover from my exhaustion I went for a week to a seaside boarding house. Here I met Arthur Greenwith. He was some fifteen years older than I was but he seemed to have a sort of solid assurance about him. I suppose this was what drew me to him. With the loss of my father, I was seeking some new anchor in my life, and Arthur seemed to provide that.
To cut a long story short, I ended up marrying him, and on our wedding night I found what a ghastly mistake I had made.
I am not sure whether he is a repressed homosexual or not, but he was quite incapable of getting an erection with me, and his attempt to penetrate, half hearted as it was, was an utter failure. He could not even break through my hymen. This I did long afterwards by using a dildo.
I was bitterly disappointed and quite horrified when Arthur said, "It doesn't really matter, you don't want kids, do you!" It was not a question, but a statement. I did want kids, but his tone encouraged no argument.
I silently wept myself to sleep that night and many nights afterwards.
In time, I discovered what Arthur really wanted. He wanted first, a housekeeper. Then he wanted the respectability of being married. As he worked in a boy's school any hint that a master was homosexual was death to that master. A married man was thought to be safe.
Another thing he wanted was a decorative wife. Someone one who would outmatch the rather frumpy wives of the other masters. Even if I say so myself, I had no difficulty doing that, and this was demonstrated by the way the other masters and the older boys ogled me. I hasten to point out that Hartley had never ogled me. His gaze was a sort of ardent longing.
I acknowledge that I enjoyed this devotion, and reciprocated with an affectionate concern for him. If you condemn this, then put yourself in my place. A young women with an impotent husband having the attention of a handsome, loving young man just a few years younger than she.
Now here I was with this young man pleading with me, and understanding from my own experience what sexual frustration can do to one, my heart went out to him. I admit that his approach had aroused me, and I could feel the wetness growing round my vagina.
I laid back and pulled back the hem of my frock, exposing my panties. "Take my panties off, darling," I whispered.
He paused for a moment, and then reaching up pulled off the garment to expose my sex organ.
"Come into me, sweetheart"
He undid the front of his trousers, came over me, and I guided him into me.
He was very gentle and loving, and, it was my first time with a man apart from Arthur's failed attempt, and I am sure it was his first time with a woman.
He gave little gasps interspersed with declarations of love as he moved up and down in me. I reassured him, "Lovely darling. It's beautiful."
He could not last long, and soon I felt his movements quicken, then he was pumping his seed into me. I thought it would never stop. I even had the rather humorous thought; "He's been saving all his sperm since he came to puberty just for me."
When he had finished, he lay in me for a long time, stroking my face and still declaring his love.
In the end I had to say, "We must go back now, darling, my husband might want something to eat or drink."
He sighed, but removed his penis from me. We tried to straighten ourselves up a bit, then walked hand in hand back to the gate in the fence.
The end of term being upon us, life became a whirl of activity, and that was the last time I saw or heard from him, until this moment at the art exhibition.
He was walking along with a notebook in his hand making brief notes as he came in my direction. I thought I might flee - hide in the ladies room – but finally decided to face the situation.
He was almost upon me before he saw me. He stopped, stared, then said, "It's Mrs.Greenwith, isn't it?"
"Ex Mrs.Greenwith. I'm Tara Ashe now," I said. "Mr.Greenwith and I parted company and got divorced many years ago."
"Oh! How are you?"
The formality seemed ludicrous and we both knew it. Questions were tumbling through my head, and I am sure through Hartley's, but we continued down the safe track. "What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I'm supposed to be reviewing this stuff for one of the Dailies," he replied. "What about you?"
"Well, it seems we are in the same trade," I said, "I'm doing a review for one of the local rags."
