Whatever Dreams are Made of

George

Solid respectability was the understated unselfconscious achievement of George Albert Jones. His style was worlds apart from the prevalent self-opinionated social media posturing into which he rarely dipped, and only then with distain. His eponymous insurance underwriting firm had offices on Fenchurch Street in London with a branch at Manchester’s Minshull Street. When not at work, he was usually home in an extensive five bedroomed Barnes town house and occasionally at the family cottage in Devon. David Lloyd was the only club of which he was a family member, a privilege which his daughter at Cambridge Uni also enjoyed but which his son at the Slade Art School rejected. George repaired to the club’s sports facility for squash during the evenings when his wife, Felicity, was at the Hospice Support Group, Women’s Institute and others. He also swam a regular forty lengths early each Saturday morning. With his work allowing no time for golf, he permitted himself just a second interest as a member of the Royal Horticultural Society, particularly appreciating a privileged attendance it afforded at Chelsea Flower Show.

Ester

A few years older than George’s daughter, Ester Simpson’s ambition was to break free from her essentially artisan family background and mince round the so-called glass ceiling, hopefully becoming a Financial Times or BBC darling. Her former creative internship at Jones had been rewarded with acceptance for an appointment as a junior executive in the Festivals Underwriting Department. She now lived in Putney and, yes, she was palpably an aspiring snob. Her interests included getting blathered at Stripes each weekend and shopping for designer outfits. The two combined to provide her not un-endowed frame with enticing, yet seemingly casual, chic. She also followed Formula 1 and watched cricket.

George

Apart from occasional libidinous musings, George had never strayed from Felicity, save during courtship. He had never actually wanted to be unfaithful either, merely never addressing his mind to it positively. Aside, that is, for the occasions when his wife was at the annual Conservative Party Conference, when temptation arrived in the form of Anuska, a professional escort whose discretion and anonymity were assured. For this reason, those trysts, which the press would nicely call his ‘romps’, with Anouska were as undiscovered as they were delicious.

           Then there was that unexpected night of nights with Ester.

           How they came together, George felt foolishly at sea. All he knew was revelling in the super king bed in the understated Soho Rooms. In particular, he appreciated the traditional bottle of Krystal champagne with crystal glasses. He found them fitting accompaniments to skimpies being discarded with abandon followed by tentatively exploring fingers leading to robust arousal and several encores.

           “Wonderful, wonderful” he called out loudly.

           “Wonderful, dear, wonderful, what’s wonderful?” It was Felicity after all.

           George, aided by a large Isle of Jura malt whisky, had nodded off during the drone of a diplomatic correspondent on a Newsnight rehash of sterile political posturing that week. After an instinctive guilty horror, George corrected his language and lapsed into resentment at the disturbance.

           “Come to bed, dear, you’ve been dreaming. By the way, Rishi was great.”

Ester

Ester had imbibed as heartily as ever during the second Test.  Her overall objective was to put in place a selection process for a sufficiently well-heeled, biddable, devoted fan of Surrey Cricket Club to partner her for life or produce a profitable split should the nuptial enterprise prove to be a failure. Tonight, she was in the mood for eschewing Barmy soldiers for the period of England versus India.  She was on the razz. Suddenly, unaccountably, there he was. On a bar stool in The Lords Tavern, seemingly absorbed in The Times. Crazy or what? When her slightly greying but still rather good-looking boss stood up awkwardly as she approached, she saw he blushed deeply. Neither his presence nor his explanations for being there was up to muster. Mutual appreciative oral and body language in the Tavern led to a change of scene; Ester’s silky apartment at nearby Europa House. For the couple it was a truly a mysterious unexpected miasma. He was so much better a lover than any of the Barmys, for whom she adopted the position of a one women board of selectors.

           “It was just sensational” she heard herself purr out, louder than she normally would.

           “Really? Was I?”  From a deep alcohol induced slumber, Ester turned rolled over, suddenly alive to the dishevelled Peregrine lying naked, scrunched up in the sheets. Then she remembered the thirty-minute coition the night before and sighed, begging her earlier dream to return.

The Firm

The atmosphere George encouraged in his firm’s offices was stately, cool, well ordered and reliant on discreet but highly effective information technology. Partitions in otherwise open-plan spaces were of polished red beech or glass. Ester joked that, given there was that derided glass ceiling she sought to overcome, she was truly in a goldfish bowl. George was surprisingly egalitarian. He had but formal contact with those around him although all around him knew that Georges word was law. However, anyone incurring unintended losses was usually the subject of intense scrutiny and often recriminations, although delivered with an inscrutable smile.

           Water coolers and whispered gossip around them would not have been out of place in a central casting location scenario but the office refreshment was in fact secured by Hot Diggity, a right-on visiting catering outfit and street food purveyor. Ester had been instrumental in securing their service after becoming quite nauseous following consumption of their predecessors last and consequently valedictory sausage roll. At statutory breaks, therefore, there was a tendency for executives and operatives to cluster in twos and threes in selected working bolt holes. These refreshment conversations were often visible, certainly in the Fenchurch Street offices where George and Ester mainly worked. Gathering not a few nods and winks, was the recent and surprising tendency of Ester to require urgent advice from George over a Latte and George’s reciprocal and unusual need for Ester’s renowned research into areas his long experience in business formerly did not require. Neither questioned or could account for it but put the increased contact down to osmosis.

Geroge and Ester

Felicity rejoiced in having been elected as a prospective Parliamentary Candidate. This event caused much merriment at Jones for everyone understood her husband’s avoidance of any significant personal profile. Someone suggested that George should take up a hobby as some kind of a distraction. His interpretation was to embark on a study of plant explorer, John Tradescant, with a view to writing a distinctive biography of this influential botanist. This task he approached with dedication and alacrity, often burning the midnight oil in his wife’s absence.

           Everyone at Jones was trained in calculation of risk. Nevertheless, one balmy Friday evening, Ester found herself, on a whim, mounting the doorsteps of a certain Barnes Georgian residence, pressing its brass bell. She had undertaken elementary homework to learn that Felicity would be deeply involved that whole weekend in Great Gosport’s Hurrah for High Streets Festival. The white painted front door was opened by George, seemingly unsurprised at Ester’s appearance. He had on, pink trousers and a yellow shirt which was tantalisingly halfway unbuttoned. Books were abandoned as the atmosphere became instantly electric with no need for a switch. Although these were two essentially practical people, they quickly came together, knocking over the silver bowl in the hallway, scattering water and roses in their urgency of passion. Ignoring that little accident, they progressed to coupling on the plush Chesterfield and Kashmir carpets which were complicit in an abandoned uninhibited lovemaking. The final serial coition was, cheekily but recklessly, in the marriage bed. They fell asleep in each other’s arms until the reverie was shattered by sudden shriek from George’s Felicity.

           “George – what on earth are you doing?”

           For the moment he couldn’t think, had no idea where he was in the moment except that it was part of his on worst nightmare.

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