Phone Conversation

[Sarah Penguin]

Lots of fun, thanks for the update

[D503]

:>

[babykeiff]

Freswith,

[moswet]

Freswith,

[freswith]

Thank you everybody - I am in the middle of writing the next episode to cover where it all starts to become unravelled for Amelia, but it's going to be fairly complicated and might take a little while to get it just right.

[fyunch]

We will bear with you through thick, thin,

[Sarah Penguin]

*unleases a diaper storm from her lab to fix those pesky commando issues*

[Cute_Kitten]

very well written!

[freswith]

very well written!

[freswith]

Pembroke's Treasures.

Our relationship was by no means stable.  Spike spent a lot of time at my house, tending to use his flat for work and his hobbies - mainly painting.  Those times we could share were usually quite hectic, and we led a very busy social life on the occasions when we could get together.  I never knew how I might find Spike, his moods would vary almost minute by minute.

Every once in a while, we got a quiet night in, and I treasured those, a good meal (I had learned how to cook - I tried to stop Spike from cooking as he was much too experimental, and the results were often appalling) followed by a long slow comfortable screw.  However, sometimes Spike had to go out to do a gig, and I preferred to avoid those, as some were in very seedy venues where I would not only be stared at, which is not so bad, but also groped, which is very bad.  When I declined the invitation to accompany him, Spike would pretend to take umbrage, and accuse me of having an affair behind his back.  He said he would take precautions to see that I stayed in to await his return.  Those precautions took the form of marching me up to the little attic room, and exchanging my knickers for a nappy, which I was required to keep on until he returned.  Spike preferred to use a terry nappy for this, as there was much longer ritual involved, and he could use powder and ointment generously, even though it was inclined to make him late for the gig.  Unusually amongst musicians, he didn't like to have sex before a performance - he says it took too much out of him which he needed for his performance, so he preferred to "warm me up" as he put it, in the knowledge that once I was nappied, I would stay warmed up until his return, by which time both of us would be keyed up with anticipation.  He would leave me, either in a baby-doll dress with frilly pants or in a romper which zipped up the back and which - he thought - made it impossible for me to remove my nappy without his assistance.  I didn't disabuse him about this, but sometimes I needed the toilet for serious business, and I had to make sure that he didn't come home to change a dirty nappy - there were limits, after all.  It was all a bit of a game, and it seemed to satisfy both of us. 

I was quite happy if it limited Spike's endless drive to find new experiences - I had had enough of that with his bondage experiments, and I was always afraid of his drug abuse. He would rarely go on stage without having put something up his nose, and then that would need something to calm him down afterwards, and he was always experimenting.  I had the nasty feeling that someday he would overdo it.  He had already done the LSD thing, and still had the occasional flashbacks, and this gave me more reason to keep well clear of him when he was high.  I didn't greatly fear him; He wasn't all that big or strong, and although I was slim, it was all muscle; the amount of athletics I had done at school and the amount of gym I did now made me quite strong, as Spike found out from time to time if he ever tried to play too rough.

Sometimes Spike could be cold and distant with something on his mind; I learned to respect this, as that something could often be new music or art - these were his creative times and the fruits were usually worth the long silences.  At other times he was all over me, and I learned to flatter him and tease him as necessary to keep him amused.  All told, Spike was in a hugely creative period, his flat was filling with pictures and his music was selling well - "Ice Maiden" topped the charts for several weeks, and I often found myself stalking down the catwalk to its distinctive rhythm much to the envy of the other girls.  Spike would spend days on a piece of music or a picture, and sometimes he would try to paint the music itself in melodies of colour and shapes of rhythm, wild colourful abstracts, and at other times he would sit at his easel humming a few lines of melody which his painting had inspired.  He did a particularly good one of me as the Ice Maiden, although by that time the soubriquet had fallen into some disuse.  The press and the paparazzi had taken sufficient photos of us together to dispel any idea that I was some frigid and unobtainable beauty, and the consensus was that Spike had melted and freed the "Ice Maiden", which gave the press many stories, many pictures, and which ultimately brought me a lot of work and even more money. 

It had a downside.  I went away for a week on a swimwear assignment to the West Indies and left Spike to water my houseplants.  I should have known better.  When I got back the entire wall of the garage had been covered with a mural - a trompe l'oeil showing Lucy the Lotus, life-size with me reclining on top of her.  All very pretty except I was stark naked with my legs splayed, and when the garage door was open it would have been clearly visible from the street.  I fumed at Spike and told him "For God's sake put some clothes on me!" The prospect of some paparazzi getting a shot of that was more than I could risk.

I had learned to be very careful of how I handled the paparazzi who plagued us, particularly Sid and Charlie who appeared to make a speciality of taking pictures of Spike and me, so I always made sure to give them a pose or two in passing.  I found that if I treated them to a picture they would leave me alone for a day or two, and I could get on with my life.  It was a two-way relationship; they kept my face in the papers, and that kept work coming in for me, and that made their pictures marketable.  It also spared me from being photographed coming out of Longfellow's at three in the morning, well smashed (for me, that's about three drinks) and accidentally flashing my knickers as I collapsed into a taxi.  I kept Julian's remark about the Paps in mind; they build you up and then they destroy you, and make money both ways, so I was determined to stay on the right side of them.

I asked Spike why he kept his painting so secret, and he replied that he had been caught in a rather bad contract with Solly, and Solly would take a share of anything he did in the art line as well as he did with Spike's music, and Spike didn't want him to be able to do that.  If he ever stopped work, or lost popularity, Solly could effectively put him "on ice", taking a slice of the royalties without bothering to find him new work.  He was happier giving his paintings to me, and my flat began to fill with them too.  Many of them were portraits of me, and I was allowed to give some of them to my parents and one of them even made the wall in Pembroke, where I looked a little incongruous amongst all the sailors and lawyers and assorted other rascals, but Percy wanted it that way.  It seemed to amuse him greatly, and he was proud to show it to visitors.

In March there came the usual invitation to Granpa's birthday lunch, hosted by Percy at Pembroke.  It happened that both Spike's and my calendars were free on that date, so I accepted on behalf of both of us before I had second thoughts.  To put it simply Spike wasn't exactly Pembroke material, and I had to brief him on our little traditions, which amused him immensely.  He had never actually been to a formal lunch or dinner in his life, I don't think he had ever heard Grace intoned before the meal or the Queen's health toasted after it, and although he did own a dinner jacket which he had specially bought for an awards presentation, he had no idea that such a thing was never worn before the evening.  He was reduced to paroxysms of laughter when he heard that we always drank the Queen's Health sitting down - a naval custom - instead of standing, but that was our family; we were Navy almost to our roots.  The fact that our most distant roots were actually in piracy amused him still further, and inspired me to threaten that if he failed to respect our little traditions I would maroon him on the central reservation of the motorway on the way back.  To tell the truth he was, a little bit unhappy about coming partly because, I suspected, he was a bit awkward in that atmosphere, but also because it represented a further stage in our relationship that he was not too anxious to take.  I could see his point; we were both enjoying the butterfly world of London society, and being taken home to be part of the family could lead down that dreadful world of marriage - real marriage - and the patter of little feet, and neither of us were ready for that; we were having much too good a time living on the crests of our respective waves.

I had to watch Spike carefully while we were at Pembroke for the birthday party, but he was on his best behaviour.  His quiet amusement while the Queen's Health was toasted could have been mistaken for loyal delight, and I think his interest in aircraft carrier design owed more to the schoolboy in him than to his present politics, which he was wise enough not to mention.  I became a little worried when eleven-year-old Viola sat herself in his lap and held her arms around his neck in adulation, but he only patted her gently on her carefully-padded bottom and gave me a conspiratorial wink.  I managed to get a photograph of this on my mobile, and emailed it to Viola, after which every child at her school and in the village must have been shown it many times.  Thankfully she was wearing a loose skirt, and no sign of her nappy could be seen.  Given Viola's inclination to have an accident at such moments, I was very glad that Claire had ensured she was adequately protected - I didn't fancy the prospect of having to change Spike as well.

When I joked with Spike about this afterwards he told me that it was not an uncommon event at his concerts - he was used to seeing worried parents escorting damp little girls out of the auditorium at his concerts, and he thought that nappies for all might actually be a good idea - it would save an awful lot of tears and hassle, but then he went on to say that he would be the last to propose it; it would cost him a large part of his loyal fanbase.

The other surprise of the party was Vickie, who had flowered into a raving beauty from the slightly scruffy schoolgirl she had once been.  I saw Spike's eye glitter, and for a moment envy flared in me.  I made sure I stayed close by his side as we made small-talk.  She was on the last few months of intensive study for her A level exams and had been granted a rare day off from her revision in order to come up to the party.  When asked what she intended to do afterwards she said she was hoping to go to the Glastonbury festival after the exams, and ultimately to Cambridge.  Spike replied that he was booked to do a session at Glastonbury and hoped to see her there., at which I decided that come what may, mud or high water, I would make sure I was alongside Spike for that weekend.  Vickie just smiled gently and replied that her boyfriend was going to take her. She made the slightest accent on "boyfriend" and I admired her tact; she had indeed grown up a lot recently.  I noted that she looked around briefly to make sure her parents were out of earshot before mentioning him, and I assumed the relationship was not approved by them, and they might not even know about it.  I decided to match her tact by keeping her secret.

Spike was then dragooned into joining the usual treasure hunt by Viola and Holly, but he didn't realise at first that they were not playing a party game; they were after real treasure in deadly earnest.  All the children had heard the story of Black Jack Sinclair's gold which was supposed to be hidden somewhere inside Pembroke, and generations of them had hunted for it.  No oak panel had not been thumped, no wall lamp had been left untwisted, no creaking floorboard had not been carefully prised up at sometime or other in the unceasing search.  This particular session had reached the attic, as the duds up there was deemed to be more washable than the mould in the cellar, and there was less prospect of any damage to anything valuable such as Uncle Percy's wine racks.  I went along to keep an eye on Spike for various reasons - I still didn't altogether trust him, and felt he might need a chaperone where Viola was concerned, and would certainly need one as far as Vickie was concerned.  I needn't have worried.  Viola was much more interested in the prospect of finding treasure, and Vickie stayed behind with the adults in the drawing room.  Young William led the proceedings with Viola in close support, and the smaller children in the role of apprentices.  The attic was subjected to a careful survey, and Jack was used in the role of terrier to investigate the various hatches and crevices that led on into the roof spaces.

William opened the big chest under the window, and stopped for a moment, looking curiously at the contents.  Little Alice came over and joined him.  "Just nappies." She said, "For Viola and me.  Old ones, towelling ones.  We have to wear them sometimes instead of the dis.. dispossibble ones we normally wear."  I looked round desperately at Viola.  She was blushing so strongly I could feel the radiation on my skin from where I stood next to her.  Spike stepped forward, and my heart came into my mouth; whatever he might say could be disastrous for all of us, and could destroy the little girl beside me, ruining what until then had been her perfect day.  I moved forward to try to interrupt whatever Spike might say, but he beat me to it.

"What a good idea!" he said, and the pop star, the Living God Walking Among Us, had spoken, and he had approved, and all was now well with the world.  I felt Viola's surface temperature, which had threatened a meltdown, drop by ten degrees centigrade and the potential flood of tears recede into history.  "Lots of children wear them," Spike continued, " and lots more should.  I see them having accidents at my concerts, and it's such a pity they don't have them on."

Bravo, Spike!  Summa cum laude! - Just hope to God Viola and Alice didn't blurt that out within the hearing of any reporter.

I looked into the chest.  It was all still there, including the big nappies at the end, which had been bought for Juliet - just before she finally dried up - although they were one short now.  That was in the shelf of my changing table in my own attic room, and had finally seen the use for which it had been created.  Spike reached in to the trunk and picked up the pink gingham strapped romper, which I remembered so well.  I had worn it in the summer, in the house and around the garden.  It was comfortable and it held my nappy up and stopped it drooping.  It still held it up if - when -  I had had a little accident or two, and it saved me from having my play disturbed every five minutes or so for a nappy hitch to stop everything coming down around my knees.  Sometimes I made deliberate use of it rather than interrupt my game, until I would be checked by an eagle-eyed Gran and marched off to the nursery for a change.  All told, I had fond memories of it - those carefree days when the sun always shone and there was always ice cream for tea.  Now it was in Spike's hands, and I suddenly wanted it back.  He held it up by the straps and said, "This is very pretty.  Do you wear this Viola?" and she shook her head.

That's Amelia's." she said. "I don't wear those.  My nappies don't droop like those old terry ones do."

"Not even if they're wet?" replied Spike.  Viola shook her head.  Spike held it up against her, and said, "It's much too small for Amelia now, but it would fit you."  Viola blushed again, but this time it wasn't with fear or embarrassment.  I began to see myself in her, back in the days when I had my mad crush on Peter.  I wondered if my feelings had been quite so transparent, and had to conclude they must have been.  I also began to understand Juliet's position;  little girls can be dangerous, unstable things, especially as they approach puberty and are at the mercy of their new and untried hormones, and sometimes men don't appreciate how strong those feelings can be, especially when experienced for the first time.  It was time to do what Juliet would do, to take over, to distract the man before he gets himself in too deep.  I took the romper from Spike and held it against my chest, then sashayed across the attic lampooning my catwalk style to the children's huge amusement.  As I turned I saw Spike laughing at me, but then me bent down to the chest and picked up one of the big nappies, and held it out like a bullfighter's cape ready to catch me.  This was getting a bit thicker than I had planned and I was just working out how to avoid the indignity of being nappied in front of my expert audience when Vickie appeared at the door and announced that tea was ready, adding the magic words "ice cream" which precipitated a stampede of little feet towards the stairs.  With some reluctance on my part I folded the romper and put it back in the chest with the nappy, and then took Spike by the hand and followed them.

I thought no more of the incident until I came home a week later to find that Spike had indeed done as I asked; he had repainted part of the mural in the garage, and I was no longer stark naked.  Now I had a little pink gingham strapped romper on over what was obviously a large terry nappy with the elastic of the baby pants just appearing below my bottom, and it was all still clearly visible from the street.

[Sarah Penguin]

Bwahahahaha the mural edit *giggles*

[derj]

Thanks for a great chapter! I want more....

[D503]

Bravo!

[fyunch]

Brilliant.

[Cute_Kitten]

Excellent as always!

[freswith]

Longfellow's

I plodded wearily though the arrival gate at Heathrow, for the umpteenth time cursing Sandra for booking me on the red-eye flight from Tokyo, and economy class at that, but she had been adamant that it was the only seat available until after the weekend.  I'd tried to get an upgrade, citing the gross and smelly man beside me who seemed to think himself so attractive, but it appeared that Sandra had been quite right; there simply weren't any spare seats out of Tokyo that night.  I don't think I had managed a wink of sleep.  I smiled wanly at the paparazzi, and said hello to Sydney and Charlie, and hoped that was one picture that wouldn't make the papers.

Still, things were looking up. That was the last assignment of a frantically busy summer, and I had enjoined Julian, under mortal threat, not to accept any bookings between now and the start of the fashion weeks in September.  I had got a long summer free, I desperately needed a real holiday, and I planned to make the most of it.

The first job was to sort out Spike; things were coming to a head.  While I had been in Tokyo rumours had reached me that he had been playing around, and a few strategic phone calls had confirmed my fears.  All right, he had had some cause to celebrate; my advice that he should get a lawyer to investigate his contract with his manager Solly had been very successful.  The lawyer had found a number of fatal mistakes, not least that Spike had lied about his age when he signed it because he was under eighteen, and thus it had been invalid all along.  Spike and his lawyer had then put Solly over a barrel and obtained much better terms - for a start Solly now took his percentage off after the expenses had been deducted as opposed to before, and those expenses had suddenly become much more reasonable.  The new contract also referred only to music, and had not mentioned art, with the result that Spike had capitalised on his fame as a pop star to launch another career as a serious artist.  His first exhibition had been a great success, and he was now being invited, and even paid, to decorate walls all over London.  Strangely he found that it had removed the excitement from doing it - he no longer feared being caught and exposed.

He had also splashed out and taken his driving test.  Although he had never mentioned it before, and I had never asked him, he had never learned to drive, partly because it wasn't really needed in London where owning a car was something of a liability.  Anyway it gave me one more problem; he wanted to drive Lucy.  This worried me, not least because he was almost uninsurable, but also because he was far too inexperienced to appreciate Lucy's foibles - she could be a demon in the wet, when her light weight and surfeit of power could make her break away under clumsy handling - and I genuinely feared for his life if he got into her alone.  I also feared for my life if he got into her with me in the passenger seat.

Things were compounded by his increasing drug habit; he seemed to want to push half of London up his nose.  So he could afford it - even his bad pictures were fetching good money - but as a result he was becoming increasingly erratic in his behaviour.  Even his cat, the mighty Micawber, seemed to be getting wary of him with his short temper and unpredictability.  All told, I was going to have to take Spike in hand, and it wasn't going to be easy.

I closed the front door behind me as quickly as I could, since I was still worried that some stranger outside might see the mural of me dressed like a baby, and looked to see if Spike had kept his promise and dressed me in something more respectable - hell, there were enough bikinis and lingerie available, and almost anything would have done.  I would even have modelled it for him.  Naturally, only to be expected, I was still there dressed in my pink gingham romper.  I looked at it for a long moment. I actually wouldn't have minded having a nappy on now; all I really wanted to do was to creep upstairs to bed, and curl up in peace and quiet until I could sleep off the jet-lag, and if I felt the need to go, well, I could sleep in a wet nappy just as well - I had had plenty of practise over the years.  I towed my suitcase though the garage, patted Lucy affectionately in passing, and made for the kitchen:  Cup of tea.  Hit the sack, and face tomorrow when it comes.  Thankfully, there was no sign of Spike.  It would have been nice to curl up with him, but I don't think I would have had any sleep.  Spike was running on rocket fuel these days and never seemed to be able to relax.

I climbed the stairs, dumped my coat, kicked my shoes off, staggered over to the drinks cabinet and poured myself a large vodka, topped it with some orange juice, and took a swig.  As it burned its way down I felt my muscles begin to relax.  However, before I drank more I remembered to take the necessary precautions, and dragged myself up to the little garret nursery.  I selected a disposable from under the changing table, looked at the cold plastic, and decided to do it on the bed.  I dropped the side, spread the nappy, sloughed off the clothes I had worn for the past thirty hours or so, considered going downstairs again for a shower, rejected it, and laid myself down on the nappy.  I followed the usual ritual, raised the sides to make sure it was central, and pulled the front up between my legs.  It would have been nice to have someone to do it for me, just like the old days when I could just lie back and be pampered, but nobody was here to help, no Mum, no Juliet, and alas no Peter.  And no Spike, and for the first time I felt that was a blessing; I really couldn't handle his demands at that moment. I fastened the tapes, took a large T-shirt from the drawer and went downstairs with the old familiar waddle.  I finished my drink with one good swig, and headed for the bedroom.  My bed had never looked so welcoming, and pausing just to draw the curtains to shut out the afternoon sun, I wriggled in between the sheets, curled up in a foetal position, slipped my hands between my thighs and gave myself up into the arms of Morpheus.

"Amelia!"  The voice cut through layers of my sleep and I climbed the long shaft up to consciousness and prised my eyes open.  The sunbeams were streaming through the gap in the curtain at a slightly different angle, but I felt I had only just put my head down.

"Spike, what is it?" I groaned.

"I'm on a television show tonight. Live!  There's even a chance of a series!"

"Oh, Jolly Good.  I'll try to watch it." I replied and slumped backwards towards the abyss of blissful sleep.

"But aren't you going to come?"

"Oh Spike, I'd love to, but I've only just got back in from Tokyo and the flight was Hell."

There was a pause.  "It's very important to me, Amelia, and there are people there I particularly want to impress.  I was really hoping you'd come with me.  These people could be important to you as well."

I groaned.  He was right.  Much of my job involved being seen in all the right places and mixing with the right people.  It was just that nobody realised what an unglamorous job it was being glamorous for a living.  I swung my legs out of the bed.  He noticed my nappy, and I saw him smirk.  That annoyed me; he should have known better. "Get out while I dress." I snapped then added, more softly,  "If you don't mind."

"You could just wear the romper over the top." he replied, "It might set a new fashion.  It would certainly get you on the front pages."

"I don't think the world is quite ready for that." and I pushed him out of the room.  I wished now that I had never let him have a key to the house.

I got rid of my nappy, throwing it back on to the bed, and did a quick mental inventory of my wardrobe. The little yellow dress, I thought.  If I'm going as his floozie, I might as well dress like a tart.  The yellow underwear, too, or maybe the black... or would that be too much?  It didn't take long, although my make-up had to be a rapid repair job rather than a full pre-shoot make-over.  I had to use a few drops of witch-hazel to whiten my poor bloodshot eyes, and made what I could of my hair; long and loose was the best I could do, and perhaps I could hide behind it if need be.

I went out to meet him and got the barest grunt of approval. I was annoyed again; Spike looked as Spike normally looked - as though he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards - although now it had the look of a more expensive designer hedge; Spike had been earning a lot of money lately.  Either way, he could at least have complimented me a little.

I called a taxi.  I was still feeling the effects of the vodka, and knew I would be drinking more in the BBC's hostility suite - sorry, "Hospitality Suite", as it was their custom to loosen their guests up with a drink or two before they went on, and I wouldn't want to drive back after that.  I realised Spike was a little disappointed, as it would have been very stylish to arrive in Lucy with me as his driver, but that was just tough, Spike, I'm not your chauffer and I'm not going to risk my licence for you.  As we passed Lucy, Spike remarked that I had parked her in the garage facing out.  Yes it was unusual, but it matched the way he'd painted her on the side wall, and even though I officially didn't like the picture of me in baby gear, in fact I loved the picture of Lucy all raring to go, and her front view looked better when she was seen from the street.  All these things I did for appearance's sake - but then appearance was my business, and I took my business very seriously.

In the car on the way to the BBC I told Spike about my dreadful flight and that I hadn't slept properly for longer than I could remember at this moment, and apologised if I was not my usual cheery self.  Spike's reaction was rather unsympathetic, but he offered me a line of coke, which I refused.  I hated the idea of drugs; at heart I am a control freak and I really don't like the idea of losing control and Spike was well aware of it.  Once we got to the studio we were shown into the "hostility suite" and drinks were served,  I took another vodka-and-orange without thinking.  Miranda Parkinson, the woman who was presenting the show, was in the suite to greet Spike and we took an immediate dislike to each other.  She was haughty and arrogant, made up to the nines, and looking immaculate, and I suddenly felt as if I had been dragged backwards through one of Spike's hedges.  I didn't like her eyes, which had a cold and calculating glint, and I didn't like her prompt dismissal of Spike's idea that I should appear on the show.  Although this rejection was much to my relief, as I was feeling like death warmed over, I felt I should have at least been allowed to decline the offer gracefully.  I was more than content to sit back in the comfortable armchair and sip my drink slowly - and cautiously, as it was large and almost entirely vodka.  Miranda fluttered and made a lot of fuss over Spike, who lapped it up, but when she gave instructions to the various other staff she was quite imperious, and snapped orders which had to be obeyed instantly; she was very much the Prima Donna on her show.  I watched though the monitor as the show started, and was amused to hear her accent change from Home Counties cut-glass to something much more earthy and Londonish, almost becoming Cockney  as she introduced Spike with huge flattery as the artistic sensation of the season.  I watched the interview closely, not listening so much to the words, as they were complete rubbish anyway, utterly devoid of truth on both sides, but watching the body language.  I didn't like it at all. Miranda was plainly flirting with Spike, and Spike was plainly rising to it like a man.  I took another swig of my drink as I watched through narrowed eyes as the seeds of envy and suspicion sprouted in my mind.

As we left the studio we discussed the program.  I had actually fallen asleep in my comfortable armchair, and missed the end of it, and Spike was not amused.  He was absolutely full of beans, and instructed the driver to take us to Longfellow's Club.  I protested, as I was desperately tired and only wanted my bed.  Just me, just my bed, and no Spike tonight if you please.  Spike sneered at me, and said I wasn't really understanding how important this was to him.  I sighed - or was it a yawn, and pulled myself upright.  Longfellow's it would have to be.  Spike offered me a line of coke - he seemed to have lots of the stuff on him these days - and in a moment of weakness I accepted;  I would need something strong just to keep me upright for a little while, until I could persuade Spike to just let me go home.

Two hours later I was propped up against a table in Longfellow's.  The cocaine high had largely worn off, and I had had a serious row with Spike.  No, he wasn't coming to bed with me tonight; I was desperately tired, and had a headache - a real one, too - and the last thing I wanted was a hectic session of sex, with him or anyone.  I just wanted my bed, and I wanted my teddy bear to cuddle, and sweet oblivion for as long as I could make it last.  Spike had then cleared off to the Gents, and had been gone a long, long time, and I was still stuck behind at the table, feeling increasingly isolated and foolish.  People were glancing at me sidelong, so often that I checked my clothing for a wardrobe malfunction or a drink stain.  People were speaking behind their hands, sharing some joke of which I was the subject rather than the party.  Now and then I caught a few words:  "Spike...",  "...the Gents...",  "...with a boy!" ,"...Oh my God, I didn't know he was one of those!" and a picture slowly built up in my mind.  The infinitely horny Spike, the great sexual experimenter, had experimented a lot too far this time. 

I decided to go home by myself.  Summoning what felt like the last reserves of my strength I stood up, picked up my bag, and swayed most unpleasantly.  This was no way for Amelia Grace, supermodel, and from a famous Naval family, to behave.  I straightened my back, squared my shoulders and looked about me imperiously, in just the way Miranda had done.  Eyes that had been staring at me dropped, and people avoided my gaze.  That was better!  I walked forward carefully with all the dignity I could muster.  Five paces on, and I came face to face with a giggling Spike, arm in arm with a willowy fresh-cheeked youth.  I looked Spike up and down.  His clothing was in even more disarray than usual, and there were stains on the front of his trousers.  I looked at his stupid grin, and any love I had ever felt for him died at that moment.  He recoiled before my glare, and seemed to shrink, while my rage made me grow by several inches.  He released his pretty boyfriend, and started to speak.  His voice was slurred, and his pupils were dilated, and it was obvious that whatever else he had taken, or done in that toilet, had not improved his mental faculties in any way.

"Well, why not?" he slurred, "You weren't going to!" 

Too right, and never again!  If he thought he was going to put his thing into me after it had been up ...there... he was very much mistaken.  I didn't know what interesting diseases his little bum-boy had, but I wasn't going to catch them from Spike, No Thank You Very Much!  I continued towards the exit, ignoring him. 

"...And he was better than you!" jibed the drunken Spike.  That was enough!  And in public, too! I wanted to hit him, to shut him up, and as the thought took form, so I felt a strange tingle all across my shoulders and up the nape of my neck, something like the burn I got in the gym, but far more intense; I could have sworn my hackles were rising like Asbo's did when he was furious and about to bite.

"...And he doesn't like to wear Nap..." and that was as far as he ever got before I hit him.  I hit him in the way I hadn't hit anyone since I belted Mags that time, and I hit him like I had been taught by Matt, fist tightly balled and aiming at a point beyond his chin, following through with my shoulder.  I hit him on the point of his jaw, while his  mouth was still open, and he went over backwards and struck his head sharply on the column behind him.  I didn't wait to see anything more, but marched stiffly and proudly out of the club and, after pausing only briefly to pose and smile for Sidney, I climbed into a waiting taxi.

[D503]

"hostility suite" hahahaha... brilliant.

[warpiper]

I am still loving this story, years after I started reading it.

[Sarah Penguin]

Thanks for the update, I hope Spike isn't seriously hurt, even though he's a weasel.

[derj]

[fyunch]

Well, I don't care if he's hurt, after all, he's just a figment of Freswith's imagination (and ours, now).

[freswith]

Well, I don't care if he's hurt, after all, he's just a figment of Freswith's imagination (and ours, now).

[freswith]

Escape

It was late in the morning when I woke, much later, but it was a Sunday and there was nothing I had to do.  I rolled onto my back and stretched, and at once became grateful for the precaution I had taken last night; after all I had had to drink, I had needed it.  Now I needed to go again, and I decided to take the lazy way out.

I yawned, and in raising my hand I felt my fingers were stiff and bruised.  Inspection showed my knuckles had been slightly skinned, and for a while I wondered what had happened.  Then it started to come back to me.  All that Spike had said and done, the outrageousness of it, and the satisfaction I had felt in hitting him.  I felt a warm glow inside me, quite unlike the cold empty feeling I had had when I'd had a row with Matt.. God! Spike had deserved it!  Never mind, I was now very soggy and I knew if I lingered there too long I might leak and would have to wash the bedclothes.

I staggered downstairs to the bathroom and took a shower, then mooched into the kitchen for breakfast.  There wasn't much in the fridge, but I made the best of it.  I went through my messages on the answer-phone.  The only important one was from Mum who said that she was staying in Scotland with Dad while the builders were in at home replacing all the heating, and so the place had no water and was not really habitable for a few days.  She looked forward to seeing me when she got back.

It was nearly mid-day when the doorbell rang, and I went to see whom it could be at this hours of a Sunday morning.  It was Julian, so I let him in.  He looked very worried.

"I've been trying to phone you," he said "but I think it's off the hook."  I cursed - I taken it off the hook when I got in, I didn't want any more disturbance, all I wanted was sleep. "Have you heard about Spike?" he said.  I shook my head.  I did not particularly want to hear about Spike.  "He's in hospital.  Intensive care.  He was in a fight last night and was hit on the head.  He's very ill." 

My mind cleared in a moment.  "I hit him." I blurted out,  "We'd had a row, He'd been in the toilets screwing a boy, and sneered about it, so I hit him.  Not hard."

Julian stood there gaping.  I realised I might have said quite the wrong thing - Julian was gay and might see things differently.

"My God!" he said, "You must have hit him terribly hard.  He's in a hell of a state."

"Which hospital?" and Julian told me.  I went for the phone, and after much flustering, got through to the hospital.  I asked about Spike and was told that he'd been admitted.  I explained that I was his girlfriend, but it didn't seem to cut any ice.  All I could get was that he was in hospital with a head injury, in intensive care, and his condition was critical.  I was now in a complete tiswas.  Julian took over the phone and called Solly, Spike's manager.  Solly confirmed what the hospital had said.  Spike was unconscious, critically ill, and being brain-scanned.  He had been in a fight at Longfellow's and had fallen and hit his head.  The police were waiting to interview him when - or if - he recovered consciousness.  As each piece of news came in. the pit in my stomach grew deeper and colder, and I didn't know which way to turn.  I realised if Spike died, I could be in very serious trouble.  Suddenly my whole lifeplan was under serious threat.  I wanted to go to the hospital, to be there, to try to help him, to try to bring him round, but Julian was much more into protecting me and keeping me from being questioned by the police.  He said he would get me a lawyer, which worried me even more - he just confirmed to me that I was in serious trouble.

The doorbell rang again.  Julian told me to stay where I was while he answered it.  It was a reporter, and there was the flash of a camera.  Julian just said "No Comment." and slammed the door.  The doorbell kept on ringing.  We retired upstairs to my living room, and Julian called Marguerite Channon, and discussed the situation.  Marguerite's response was typically clear and decisive: on no account was I to talk to the press, and if possible, not to the police.  I should go to ground, and stay there until the lawyers had looked at the situation and given their advice.  I should avoid all contact with the press and any paparazzi.  Julian should go to the hospital and try to find out everything he could, while Marguerite would talk to Peter Longfellow and try to find out what had actually happened. 

I went to the window and peeked around the net curtain, but pulled back sharply as a dozen cameras were levelled at me.  I just managed to get the net curtain back in place as a bombardment of flashes went off.  The lane outside was full of people, clustered around my front door.  I was under siege; it was evident the story had got out and I was seen as the culprit for Spike's...  murder?

The dreadful thought poured down on me like a bucket of icy water.  Murder.  Trial.  Prison (Hell! Those prison uniforms are so last year!), disgrace, ruin.  I felt the panic rising within me, and tried everything I could do to keep it under control.  Julian was doing his best to comfort me and support me - bless him! - but the dreadful spectre was still in the room.  We tried and tried to find a good lawyer, we wanted one who was in our circle and in whom we had confidence, but it was a Sunday afternoon in the holiday season and only a few ambulance chasers were around.  By nightfall we hadn't got anywhere, and Julian had to leave to look after his own family.  I observed the convention of not asking what his family might consist of; Julian was noted for keeping his private life private, and that left me on my own.  I made what supper I could from the dwindling supplies in my freezer, and decided to go to bed.  I looked out of my window carefully, and there were still reporters outside, periodically ringing my doorbell, and continuously being ignored.  I felt desperate to get away from them.  Anywhere would do.  Even my bedroom at the back felt so vulnerable; I saw a couple of people in the garden of the house at the back, and they were obviously watching for me.  Eventually I went up to my tiny garret room where I had my nursery, and dropped the side of my cot.  Here I felt safe, here I felt secure; nobody except Spike even knew of it, and Spike wasn't in a position to tell anybody.  I changed for bed, going through the old familiar ritual, and curled up in the womb-like embrace of my cot, side raised, and world shut out.

I tried to sleep, but in sleep came terrible dreams.  Spike, falling backwards against the pillar, with a crack like an eggshell, Spike, a bloodstained zombie pointing his finger at me as he staggered closer and closer, the bars of a prison closing in on me, closer and closer until I seized them and pushed myself away.  Flashguns were firing and the jail door was thundering shut.  I woke in a sweat, still clutching the bars of my cot in the stuffiness of my garret room as the first heavy raindrops hit the window, another flash of lightning illuminated the room, and for a moment I thought I saw the figure of a man, a bearded man wearing doublet and hose.

I began to think with feverish speed.  Francis Drake.  My childhood hero.  What would he have done in my situation?

"Well, I wouldn't be sitting in a great big baby's cot, dressed in a nappy and feeling sorry for myself!" came a voice in the back of my head.  "If the enemy has you cornered, don't just sit there waiting for defeat, you have to break out, take sea-room, find reinforcements and then get back at 'em!"

The roll of thunder arrived like a broadside, and I felt a surge of adrenalin rush through my veins and banish all remnant of sleep.  I don't remember dropping the side of the cot - I think I cleared it in a single leap.  I tried to get rid of my nappy by pulling it down, but it wouldn't budge - not only was it designed not to be pulled down by a fractious child, but I was now much wider in the hips than the waist, so I had to halt my charge while I carefully unlocked a pin.  Then the package slid down my legs and was kicked into a corner.  The pretty frilly nightdress followed just as vehemently and I went down the narrow stairs in the state in which I'd been born.  Once in my bedroom I grabbed some underwear, jeans and a top, and with great presence on mind I grabbed my bag, still packed from Tokyo with all manner of dirty laundry, but containing the essentials of life.  I managed to stuff it into the paltry luggage compartment of Lucy, and then settled myself into her cockpit. 

I sat there for a few seconds to plan my next move, then I turned the key.  After a fortnight unused, Lucy took a moment or two to start, finally clearing her throat and giving a lusty roar.  I hit the opening button on the garage door remote and watched the curtain rise on the battlefront.  A row of faces eventually appeared, cameras flashing, but their triumphant expressions soon became ones of horror as Lucy leapt forward, and bodies scattered desperately to right and left as I hurtled between them; I saw Charlie going one way, and Sidney scrambling desperately in the other.  Sharp right, - correct the slither on the wet stones - and straighten up along the mews.  Remember to press the "Close" button firmly for the garage door and swing left and over the main road, then hard right and up the hill towards Hampstead Heath.  Escape successful!

Halfway up the hill I checked my mirror.  There were lights behind, multiplied by reflections in the wet road surface.  A bevy of bikers, each, no doubt, with a paparazzi on the pillion.  I wasn't clear yet!  Once round the curve I swung a very sharp left into the Arkwright Road and thundered down the hill.  The lights behind were fooled for only a moment, but that gained me a hundred yards.  No traffic at this hour, I turned out onto the Finchley Road and jumped a couple of traffic lights.  The motorcycles were gaining again, but I reached Blue Star corner and swung round onto the dual carriageway.  Two of the motorcycles caught up with me, but I zig-zagged and stopped them from overtaking.  On the straight they had a huge advantage, but on the wet road I could out-corner them with ease.  I gritted my teeth and thought - very briefly - of Princess Diana, and determined they weren't going to get me like that.  They caught up again at the huge roundabout at Brent Cross, but made the mistake of thinking I would go straight on.  I didn't.  I swung left, and the two of them on that side tried frantically to avoid me but collided with each other.  In a moment there was absolute chaos; the first rain in weeks had turned the road into a slippery death-trap, and I drifted wildly down the exit road as motorbikes were colliding all around me.  I could see a mass of lights swirling behind, red lights, white lights, red lights, spinning like tops.  I didn't push Lucy - you don't have to push a Lotus - but I released her up the long curve towards the motorway like an arrow from a bow, and feeling the open road beneath her she gave a howl of joy and carried me clear of the city as the first light of dawn broke under the edge of the storm cloud.  Francis Drake would have been proud of me.

I went up the motorway as fast as I dared on the wet road, until I came across a small convoy of lorries fighting it out.  They were awfully big compared to Lucy, and I felt very vulnerable as I approached the showers of spray they were throwing up behind them.  I started to overtake gingerly, and my windscreen was almost completely obscured for a few seconds while the wipers desperately tried to clear the water that was being thrown over them.  For a moment I thought one of the lorries was pulling out across my path, but the windscreen cleared at just that moment and I saw it was just an illusion.  I worked my way past the convoy, confident that no biker in his right mind would try to follow through that deluge, and continued northward at a more modest speed.

There was just one place in my mind; my parent's home was full of builders, so it was a choice of one - Pembroke.  There at least I would be able to seek Percy's advice; after all, what was the point in having a judge in the family if you couldn't ask him a favour?  I arrived quietly in the driveway - it was still terribly early - and waited in Lucy until I saw signs of movement inside.  Percy, caught in his dressing-gown and much surprised, let me in.  It appeared that Clare was also having a few days off and had taken her children to visit her mother until the Tuesday, and the nanny was on holiday, so Percy was on his own, apart from Maria the Philippino lady who kept house for them.  He listened to me over his muesli and shook his head slowly.  He was not optimistic, and explained to me the implications of the eggshell-skull rule: if Spike died because he had a thin skull, I was likely to be found guilty of killing him, even though my fist hadn't actually caused the fatal injury.  It was exactly the advice I had dreaded, and did exactly nothing for me, and the adrenalin and excitement which had fuelled me so far that morning were all replaced by the cold, empty feeling in my stomach, and a terrible depression.  Percy saw my face, and saw me trembling, and tried to make up for it.  He said that Spike wasn't dead yet, according to the news, and could still make a full recovery.  He said that it was really a case for Claire, as she was a "silk" still practising at the criminal bar, when her three children let her.  She would be back tomorrow, Spike might well be on the road to recovery by then, and everything could be different.  His advice was for me to stay in the safety of Pembroke, where nobody would think of looking for me, until Clare had come back and we would then start to work something out.  In the meantime he had to go up to his office in London and would use the opportunity to make very discreet enquiries of some of his fellow masons in the police and see what the score was.  He warned me that if the police questioned him directly about my whereabouts, he would have to tell them of course.  I had no choice but to agree; Percy was a judge, and had to uphold the law.

I saw Percy off and shuffled back into the house.  I felt as if I had been deserted by everyone; everyone, that is, apart from Gran.  I dearly wanted to speak to Gran, who had always been such a tower of strength, but  I felt myself trembling again.  I didn't want another put-down like Percy had given me.  I called her with some trepidation as I was half expecting another betrayal, but she was immediately right on my side.  She said that there had been a number of occasions when she had wanted to hit Spike herself, that his manners were appalling, and he had behaved like the guttersnipe he most certainly was.  She was sure I would find someone more suitable, even in London.  I found myself smiling at this - I had never seen Spike as being anything really serious, and I almost found myself defending him against Gran's venom, but I realised the truth in what she was saying and the open wound that Spike had left in my heart began to heal.  Gran was very solicitous about my health and well-being, and I told her about the ups and downs I was going through.  She replied that she thought she might have just the thing to help me, and I should stay tucked up in Pembroke while she sorted things out.  I almost laughed at this; the thought of a little old lady in her seventies being able to roll back the tides of medical science and the Metropolitan Police amused me, but I promised to remain at Pembroke until she had got back to me.

I fretted and twiddled my thumbs, and fretted some more.  I listened to the radio, but Spike was only briefly mentioned - condition "serious but stable" after a comfortable night.  Well that was more than I had had.  Then, immediately after the news, they played "Miss Otis Regrets", at which I switched the radio off angrily.  I picked myself up, felt myself trembling and weak at the knees, and decided to make myself busy so as to try to stop worrying about myself.  I shifted Lucy into a spare place in the garage, and took my bag into the house.  In my bag were all the unwashed clothes from Tokyo and the clothes I had on were none too fresh.  I borrowed a bathrobe, and I took them all into the laundry, and braving Maria's tutting I put everything into the great washing machine and set it to work.  It wasn't particularly modern or fast, and it was mid-morning before I could put my clothes out on the line to dry, and afternoon before I could take them back inside.  I decided to occupy the little fourth bedroom, as I felt I was under a bit of a cloud and did not wish to arrogate myself to the grandeur of the second bedroom.  I loaded my clothes into a basket and looked for anything else I could take upstairs.  On the shelf was a pile of terry nappies, medium ones for Alice and big ones for Viola. I was surprised to see that Claire was still using cloth, but having Maria to do the laundry and a nanny to change them it certainly made sense - I had heard Claire complaining about Viola's having leaked at night, and I knew that terries were less inclined to leak when Viola was sleeping on her tummy, which she was won’t to do.  I added the stack to my pile of clothes in the basket smiled at Maria, and set off upstairs.  I dropped my clothes off on the bed in the fourth bedroom, and carried on into the nursery with the stack of nappies.

Once inside the nursery the subtle scent suddenly took me back years and years.  The vanilla of the talcum powder, the slight whiff of PVC, and the soft smells of the disposable nappies hadn't changed a bit.  Here was safety, here was security, here I had spent so many days of childhood, and so little had changed.  The great big changing table was still there, with the curtained shelves beneath, for nappies here and for pants there, they were just the same.  Haldane's cot stood in the same corner where my cot had stood, the little bed was now Alice's and Viola now slept in the third bedroom just the other side of the bathroom where once Juliet had slept, back in the old days.  I stood some time in reverie, thinking of those times, then took the soft terry nappies from the basket and stacked them into the shelves of the changing-table My hands lingered in the softness and seemed reluctant to leave.  My nose was close to the plastic pants shelf, and my eyes level with the cushioned top of the changing table.  I paused.  How long had it been since I lay on there being changed for a nap by strong gentle hands, anointed, powdered, wrapped, until all was safe and I could relax my endless vigilance over my treacherous bladder, pass the responsibility elsewhere, and just blame the result on the expected  "accident in my nappy".  If only I could do it again; if only I could be pampered like that, if only I could set my troubles aside like I used to do, and sleep like a baby for an hour or two!  Why not?...

I knew Maria had retired for her siesta, and wouldn't be about for some time.  There was nothing moving in the house except the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional creak of a floorboard as the old house slumbered in the afternoon sun.  I realised I had stopped trembling, but there was still that wound-up feeling inside me.  It was almost as if I wanted to be sick, but not sick from my stomach - I wanted to vomit from my mind, to throw up all the dreadful things I had ingested, and to start again.

I took a nappy off the shelf, and spread it on the table, folding it corners to middle to make a kite, and laid a pair of pants open beside it.  They might just fit, I told myself as I loosened the waist-tie of my dressing gown climbed onto the changing table, pulled my dressing gown up at the back and sat down on the folded nappy.  I helped myself to a dollop of ointment and spread it on my loins, then added a puff of powder around the rest, then slowly, slowly pulled the front of the nappy up between my legs.  I took the pins from the soap bar, and secured myself, firmly, but not too tightly, just right for an afternoon nap.  Then I slipped my feet though the leg holes of the plastic pants and pulled them gently up my legs, over my nappy, finally pushing the leg elastics up into the nappy to give a leak-proof fit, and felt the soft, cool pillow of plastic between my thighs.  I was safe now, safely nappied, safe within the nursery, safe within the great walls of Pembroke and no one could get at me and no one could hurt me, and I could lean back onto the pillow and relax, and let the sleep that I craved sweep over me like a blanket.  Gradually that tight feeling inside my head began to unwind, like one of those clockwork toys that runs madly until eventually it begins to slow down.  I tucked a finger inside the leg of my pants and felt the comfort of the towelling around me, keeping me safe, like it did in the old days when I could do whatever I liked in my nappy and not be scolded for it.  The clockwork toy slowed down a little more.

As I slept I dreamed a dream.  I dreamed of a beach of pale yellow sand, which went on forever, and a blue sea breaking gently on the shore.  I dreamed of walking along the foreshore, with Daddy holding my hands since I couldn't walk very well because my nappy was so thick, but I waddled along as best as I could and let the cold surf splash over my feet, and I felt I wanted to pee and knew it wouldn't matter because I had a nappy on and that was what it was for and it was expected of me anyway and...

"Hello, Amelia!" came the deep voice from behind me.

[D503]

This was a crackingly good chapter. Great writing thanks Freswith.

[Sarah Penguin]

Yay update time, enjoyed it