uncontrollably great.
Yes, that was it, she told herself. He loved her, that’s why this had happened. It wasn’t what she’d expected, it hadn’t been romantic and wonderful, it had been messy
and uncomfortable. But perhaps making love was like skiing, painful and hard for the first couple of times. . . .
Anyway, now she’d let him go below the underclothes, stage two, so obviously he
had
to be the love of her life.
But, strangely, she felt like crying.
Two days later Kate discovered that the rest of the school wasn’t speaking to her. They were ostracizing her. Smugly, theatrically, publicly, they made it clear that they
despised her. “What’s the matter? What have I done?” Kate asked Pagan, who looked harassed.
“Oh, they think you’ve gone all the way with François. Pay no attention to the jealous bitches,” she said.
“But I
haven’t,
” Kate said, wondering whether, in fact, she really
had.
Certainly the school thought so. Kate was puzzled by the hypocrisy of a world that
condemned certain actions in public but practiced or envied them in private; she had disobeyed the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not be found out. And besides, she was being punished for being
Miss Gstaad.
The following Sunday, Judy was waiting for Kate outside the Chesa, arms held across her chest and tucked in her armpits, stamping her boots in the snow to keep warm. “Listen, Kate, that
creep you’re going out with has told the whole town that he’s slept with Miss Gstaad. The barman at the Imperial told Nick and Nick came straight to me. We thought you ought to
know.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Kate, realising at last how the school knew. She dashed to the
pension
to meet François, where François smoothly denied telling
anyone. Kate believed him because she wanted to. She felt drained of energy, forlorn, bruised. She clung to François, let him undress her completely, clung to him shivering under the warm
quilt as he stroked her body, as he pushed his hand beneath her buttocks, as he felt between her legs. . . . That hurt a bit as he wriggled his finger inside her. But Kate remained
passive—she didn’t know what was expected of her, but since she’d already been blamed for it, she might as well do it. She could feel the hard warmth and weight of François
on her stomach, there was a second of suspense, then she gasped in pain. But soon they were moving together smoothly, as if they were dancing, and she began to feel a slight warmth and excitement.
But before it developed into anything even approaching an orgasm, François stiffened with a gasp, then she felt a warm wetness as his erection subsided. He seemed pleased with himself, but
Kate felt oddly disappointed, wobbly and stranded. Perhaps there was something wrong with her? Perhaps she was frigid?
It did not occur to her that François was at fault. Boys, she assumed, knew how to do these things. Perhaps she just needed more practice. She supposed that she’d get the hang of it
in time.
Two to come out, the black ones in front to be capped and I have to wear a brace at night for a bit,” reported Maxine that night in bed. “He phoned Papa on the spot
and Papa said go ahead. Not nearly as expensive as I thought, cheaper than my tangerine dress.”
“Well, now your hair,” said Pagan, huddled under her quilt in the moonlight. “It grows too low on your forehead, like a Neanderthal woman. . . . I’m going to trim away a
bit with my nail scissors and give you a lovely widow’s peak. If you don’t like it, you can loop your back hair over it, and if you
do
like it, you can have it done permanently
by electrolysis.” She sprang off the bed and reached for Kate’s little purple underarm razor. In the face of such assurance, Maxine allowed her hairline to be shaved away by the light
of her pocket flashlight. Pagan looked slightly worried after she’d done it; Maxine looked terrible, as if she were being prepped for a
Yes, that was it, she told herself. He loved her, that’s why this had happened. It wasn’t what she’d expected, it hadn’t been romantic and wonderful, it had been messy
and uncomfortable. But perhaps making love was like skiing, painful and hard for the first couple of times. . . .
Anyway, now she’d let him go below the underclothes, stage two, so obviously he
had
to be the love of her life.
But, strangely, she felt like crying.
Two days later Kate discovered that the rest of the school wasn’t speaking to her. They were ostracizing her. Smugly, theatrically, publicly, they made it clear that they
despised her. “What’s the matter? What have I done?” Kate asked Pagan, who looked harassed.
“Oh, they think you’ve gone all the way with François. Pay no attention to the jealous bitches,” she said.
“But I
haven’t,
” Kate said, wondering whether, in fact, she really
had.
Certainly the school thought so. Kate was puzzled by the hypocrisy of a world that
condemned certain actions in public but practiced or envied them in private; she had disobeyed the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not be found out. And besides, she was being punished for being
Miss Gstaad.
The following Sunday, Judy was waiting for Kate outside the Chesa, arms held across her chest and tucked in her armpits, stamping her boots in the snow to keep warm. “Listen, Kate, that
creep you’re going out with has told the whole town that he’s slept with Miss Gstaad. The barman at the Imperial told Nick and Nick came straight to me. We thought you ought to
know.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Kate, realising at last how the school knew. She dashed to the
pension
to meet François, where François smoothly denied telling
anyone. Kate believed him because she wanted to. She felt drained of energy, forlorn, bruised. She clung to François, let him undress her completely, clung to him shivering under the warm
quilt as he stroked her body, as he pushed his hand beneath her buttocks, as he felt between her legs. . . . That hurt a bit as he wriggled his finger inside her. But Kate remained
passive—she didn’t know what was expected of her, but since she’d already been blamed for it, she might as well do it. She could feel the hard warmth and weight of François
on her stomach, there was a second of suspense, then she gasped in pain. But soon they were moving together smoothly, as if they were dancing, and she began to feel a slight warmth and excitement.
But before it developed into anything even approaching an orgasm, François stiffened with a gasp, then she felt a warm wetness as his erection subsided. He seemed pleased with himself, but
Kate felt oddly disappointed, wobbly and stranded. Perhaps there was something wrong with her? Perhaps she was frigid?
It did not occur to her that François was at fault. Boys, she assumed, knew how to do these things. Perhaps she just needed more practice. She supposed that she’d get the hang of it
in time.
Two to come out, the black ones in front to be capped and I have to wear a brace at night for a bit,” reported Maxine that night in bed. “He phoned Papa on the spot
and Papa said go ahead. Not nearly as expensive as I thought, cheaper than my tangerine dress.”
“Well, now your hair,” said Pagan, huddled under her quilt in the moonlight. “It grows too low on your forehead, like a Neanderthal woman. . . . I’m going to trim away a
bit with my nail scissors and give you a lovely widow’s peak. If you don’t like it, you can loop your back hair over it, and if you
do
like it, you can have it done permanently
by electrolysis.” She sprang off the bed and reached for Kate’s little purple underarm razor. In the face of such assurance, Maxine allowed her hairline to be shaved away by the light
of her pocket flashlight. Pagan looked slightly worried after she’d done it; Maxine looked terrible, as if she were being prepped for a
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