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From: Nick <nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk>
Subject: REPOST Hot Tango by Nick (multiple romance)
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Hot Tango by Nick           (multiple romance) (c) Nick  June 1998
(e-mail nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk)

This story may be freely copied provided it remains entire and no
additions, subtractions or amendments are made. It may not be used for
any commercial purpose without the express permission of the author
(e-mail as above).

The story contains mild adult content and should not be read by minors
(as defined in the country from which it is being accessed).


HOT TANGO

Robbie shuffled along with the queue, eyes fixed on the pavement.
Ahead of him other flower sellers were picking up their merchandise
from a large man with a broad grin and a joke for each of them as he
took their money.

Robbie didn't really think about anything much, and was barely aware
that when he reached the front of the queue, he was still at the end
of it. The story of his life really.

"There you go Robbie." Vic hefted the last two buckets of roses out
from the back of his van. "Have a good night, bro."

Robbie should have liked Vic. After all Vic seemed to like him, which
was more than most, but he didn't.

Robbie muttered his thanks and made to go, when something caught his
eye. A lone rose had got caught in the metal frame at the side of the
van. He put down one of his buckets and reached for it, as Vic stepped
down from the back of the van.

Glancing at it, he his heart seemed to skip a beat at its beauty.

"Oh, Vic."

Vic slammed the van doors and turned towards Robbie, smiling benignly.

"Yes Robbie."

Robbie felt his fist break Vic's nose and saw the blood explode
between shocked eyes as Vic staggered backwards.

Vic was a big man and not an obvious person to pick a fight with.

Vic was married to Wendy.

Wendy was Robbie's sister.

Vic hit Wendy.

Now Robbie had hit Vic and, for the first time in his life, he felt he
had achieved something .

"That was a gift from Wendy, and if you lay another finger on her
she'll send you another! Understood?"

Vic looked at Robbie through watery eyes as he tried to staunch the
flow from his nose. Normally he could wrap Robbie round his little
finger, but there was an unaccustomed look to Robbie's face now and it
actually frightened him. All he could do was nod.

Robbie turned and walked on, throwing the rose absently into one of
his buckets as he went. He no longer understood what had just
happened, though it had seemed perfectly clear at the time. Feeling a
vague sense of well-being, though his knuckles hurt, he now put it out
of his mind. He had flowers to sell to night-time revellers.

Flowers to further the cause of love.

His first port of call was "The Kings Arms", a popular pub from which
he expected rich pickings. He walked in and looked around, trying to
look confident and failing. In the midst of the drinking and yelling,
he found himself drawn to a young couple near the door. From the looks
on their faces, they seemed very much in love. To Robbie they at least
represented no threat and he approached them first.

*****

Johnny looked across at Brenda. She was lovely, but that loveliness
intimidated him. There must be hundreds of men out there, he thought,
who could sweep her off her feet. Why would she look at him? It had
been hard enough just to ask her to come out with him that night, but
now here she was, and he found himself tongue-tied.

"A rose for the lady sir."

Glad of the distraction, Johnny turned to see the dull face of a
disinterested flower seller. A "rose for the lady" seemed a very good
idea.

He looked into the proffered buckets selected one, and paid for it. 

Glancing at the rose, he found himself strangely moved by its radiant
beauty, and suddenly the words he had to say came to him.

"Brenda." He waited until he was sure he had her full attention, then
he clasped her hand.

"Brenda, I know we haven't been going out for very long, but despite
that there is one thing I'm very sure of."

Brenda looked enquiring, though in truth her own heart fluttered in
anticipation.

"I love you and I want you for my wife." he uttered those words, her
face suddenly seemed to turn to sunshine, taking him to heaven with
it.

"Oh Johnny, it's all I'll ever want!"

Lost in his happiness, all Johnny could do was smile at her for a
while, before he realised that he was beginning to look stupid.

"Here," he said, remembering the rose which he had just paid good
money for. "For you."

Brenda took the rose and glanced at it.

The glance became a longing gaze as the beauty of the occasion and the
beauty of the rose touched her heart.

She dearly loved Johnny with a longing that she had been shy of for so
long, and now she was happier than she could ever remember being. She
never wanted to tell anyone her secret, least of all Johnny, though
her mother knew now. A discreet operation, and it would go with her to
her grave.

Suddenly it was different. As if in a flash of light she saw that the
tiny life inside of her was hers to protect, not destroy. She loved
Johnny so much she could never ever risk losing him, but it came to
her that secrets did not form the basis of true love.

"Johnny, she said, clutching the rose, there's something you should
know..."

A party, too much drink and ten minutes alone with a boy whose name
she had forgotten had blighted her life until now. As she spilt out
her confession to Johnny, she seemed to draw strength from the rose
she clutched so tightly. She knew she had to do what was right, and
she knew that if Johnny could not see that, then her life would be
shattered forever.

Johnny's adoring gaze never faltered.

He would give anything for her and only longed for the opportunity to
prove it. In devoting himself to something that was obviously so dear
to her, he could demonstrate his love and bind this divine creature to
him forever. He reached for her hand and clasped it. As both hearts
soared, the rose dropped to the table, its part in their lives now
finished.

*****

Robbie was having quite a good start to the evening. His first rose
had gone to an earnest love-struck young couple, and the barflies had,
lemming-like, each bought one. Now he was peddling more of them to a
group of young businessmen, who probably felt guilty about having
forgotten their wives and girlfriends in their own selfish enjoyment.

Yes, his first port of call had been very profitable. Already one
bucket was half empty, and at this rate he could be home early. On the
way out, he noticed that the young couple had left also, their drinks
unfinished.

They had also forgotten to take their rose. Perhaps they didn't need
it any more.

Well, thought Robbie, if they didn't need it, someone else would.
Besides it was clear profit if he could sell it again.

He left "The Kings Arms" and made for the French restaurant across the
street.

The first thing he noticed as he entered "Chez Victoire" was that the
place seemed to be full of women. This was a shame, since most of his
market was from men buying flowers for the women in their lives. Who,
wondered Robbie, would women buy flowers for? Only for themselves, and
only as an admission of defeat.

There was just one couple, and although they didn't seem to say much
to each other, he expected that at least they would be a sure-fire
sale.

"Haven't you heard sonny,"  he growled, "these are the days of the
'independent woman' - its *patronising* to buy flowers for them. She
can get her own bloody rose if she wants!"

Robbie backed off. He wasn't one to debate issues like this.

Two businesswomen were talking earnestly, sipping large glasses of red
wine as they ate an expensive looking meal.

"...but if your suppliers aren't performing, Jenny, you should go
elsewhere - the first law of the free market."

Robbie felt awkward interrupting them.

"Er, would either of you..."

One of the women completely ignored him, while the other gave him a
look that reminded him of a Klingon Princess he had once seen in an
episode of Star Trek.

He backed off, not sure where to put himself for a moment. There was a
noisy hen-party at the end of the restaurant. He steeled himself at
the prospect of dealing with them next. 

"Hey San," the girl yelled across the table, "this young *stud* wants
to be deflowered!"

The wall of humiliating laughter which followed was more than Robbie
could take. He flushed with embarrassment as he backed away and
narrowly avoided the girl's lunge for his testicles.

One more try. A table of four women presented a more sober, rational
prospect. They were all somebody's mother, free for one night of
family duties and were talking animatedly about each others lives. Or
at least three of them were - the fourth seemed slightly detached from
her friends. She was the one Robbie would sell to first.

*****

Sylvia knew she shouldn't really be there - not tonight of all nights
- but the evening had been planned for months and she couldn't have
  cried off. She did her best to participate, but it seemed whenever
she tried to think of something else.

"How's Brenda?" Debbie asked.

Debbie was always the one to make sure things were right. She was good
at spotting the "social stragglers" and chivvying them along. Her
sense of humour was sometimes lacking, but at least her heart was in
the right place. Right now, however, Sylvia wished she's just let her
"straggle".

"Fine." Sylvia lied as the others looked at her expecting more
information on her daughter's progress. When  Sylvia said nothing else
the other women went on to discuss their own offspring.

All her life - *all* her life Sylvia had devoted herself to her
family. She had done her very best to make sure her kids were able to
take on the pressures and responsibilities of adulthood. But now, it
seemed, it was all for nothing.

Sylvia was so angry.

She was angry with Brenda, who had caved in after more questioning
than she could take, about why she had been sick that morning and
confessed that her period was now 3 weeks late. How could she be so
stupid! You'd think she didn't know about contraception, although
Sylvia had explained to her the need to be careful until she was blue
in the face.

Mainly, though, Sylvia was angry with herself.

Christ - what had made her think she was any good at mothering in the
first place? She always felt as she cooked, washed and ironed and
wiped their arses that she would rather be doing something else. Now
it was plain that she hadn't been up to the job anyway and she had
only succeeded in bringing lives into the world to screw up.

Right now, she felt, it was time to reappraise what life meant to her,
and at this moment, prattling inanities with other wives and mothers
was the last thing she wanted to do.

She glanced across at Helena. Of the three women, Debbie, Jane and
Helena, Helena was her best friend and right now she would have given
anything for the other two not to be there. She would have given
anything for a heart to heart with her right now. Helena always seemed
to understand.

"Er - would you like a rose madam?"

Sylvia looked up into the shy guileless eyes of the young man with the
buckets of roses. 'Not a care,' she thought. 'Lucky bastard.'

She reached into her handbag for her purse and handed him two shiny
coins before reaching into the bucket to select her rose.

It's strangely beautiful orange blooms seemed to seek her aching heart
out like a searchlight.

She smiled suddenly, beaming across the table at Helena.

"Here Helena, for you!" She offered her the rose on an impulse,
interrupting a conversation in which she had not been participating.

Helena raised her eyebrows in surprise and smiled as she took the
offered rose.

"Why thank you, kind sir!" she said with mocking formality. She put
the rose between her teeth and tossed her dark mane with the flair of
a flamenco dancer, her eyes sparkling.

Sylvia caught her breath. Helena could be astonishingly attractive
when she chose to be and Sylvia found it disconcerting when the full
power of that magnetism was turned on her.

What she did not know was that Helena's soul was now on fire, ignited
by the orange flame blossoms.

"Hey, is there something going on between you two we should know
about?"

Jane was the antidote to Debbie's formality. The years had not been
kind to her figure, and tonight in particular, the phrase "mutton
dressed as lamb" seemed to apply. Still, no party was ever complete
without Jane and her sense of fun.

"Just wait 'til I get you home, sweetheart!" Sylvia, deciding to ride
with the joke, almost startled herself with her mood switch. She
stared across into Helena's burning eyes drawing strength from them.

What the hell!

She needed to come out of herself.

"Huh! Don't mind us!" Jane came in again, pretending to look shocked
(though in reality she was a little surprised).

"Why wait?" Helena came in, a devilish glint in her eye. "We could do
it on the table now between courses. Give that hen-party something to
talk about, eh!"

Sylvia dropped her eyes suddenly, the image suddenly stark in her
mind.

Debbie's jaw dropped in horror. "Please!"

Sylvia glanced up at Helena like a guilty schoolgirl, a smile playing
on her lips.

"Stop this - You're behaving like ...like immature sluts!" Debbie
rasped.

They fell silent, the words hanging in the air. So much more shocking
to have come from Debbie's lips.

Sylvia looked up again, her eyes brimming for no reason she could
fathom.

"Brenda's pregnant!" she blurted out.

She had time to take in the varied expressions of shock and concern on
the faces of her three friends before the tears overwhelmed her.

"I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, how awful for you..."

"Sylvia?"

Murmured reassurances and comforting arms shored up her rumbling
emotions and she looked up, smiling through her tears.

"...and tonight," she went on, "tonight..., for the first ... the
first time in my... life, I'm going to ..."

They waited patiently as she sniffled the words out.

"...fucking enjoy myself for once! Anyone else game?"

She looked round at them radiating tearful defiance at the world.

Jane smiled indulgently, a trace of guilt in her eyes, while Debbie
looked even more concerned than before. Helena smiled. "Waiter," she
called, "a bottle of your finest claret."

"Don't forget, she's driving." Debbie was cautious.

"No," said Helena, "I am."

"But you've already had too much," said Debbie, "and besides, it's her
car, not yours."

Helena drained her half-full glass and leaned towards Debbie.

"So call the cops, Debs!"

"I just..." Debbie looked down.

"Look, Debbie," Helena was serious now, "Sylv needs a drink now -
tonight of all nights - she needs a drink, and she needs us to join
her. That's all."

And so it was. 

The claret came, disappeared, and was followed by another bottle.
Sylvia forgot about Brenda - at least for most of the time. The hen
party left to go clubbing, the angry couple finished their meal in
silence. The two businesswomen eventually decided to call it a night
and cast haughty glances at the increasingly noisy friends as they
parted to go to separate lonely apartments.

"What a lovely rose." It was passed around the table for each to
admire and on each of them it had its effect. As the evening wore on,
so their hearts were filled with closeness and affection for each
other. They were inspired to open themselves up to the others in a way
they never had before. Everyone understood that it was Helena's rose,
though, given to her by Sylvia.

The waiters leaned impatiently against the counter, the chairs on top
of all but one of the tables, waiting for the girls to finish.
Waiting, it seemed, for a miracle. It came in the shape of Jerry,
Debbie's husband, who had agreed to pick Debbie up at the end of the
evening.

Debbie turned to him, grinning with uncharacteristic abandon.
"Jerrrry, take a seat, have a drink."

"Oh, er - yes, why not." Jerry pulled up a chair and sat. The unheeded
waiters could barely hide their impatience.

Jane leaned over the table and placed her hand on his arm, her eyes
smouldering. "So Jerry, how've ya bin?"

Sylvia could not help smiling. Jerry was unattractive, overweight and
had an untidy mop of reddish hair. Whenever she thought of him, the
phrase "ginger tosser" always sprang to mind. Yet despite all that,
all the women here were flirting with him. The presence of the "ginger
tosser" seemed to have upset the whole balance of the party. Well, at
least she could never bring herself to flirt with him, so it was only
three.

She caught Helena's eye.

Maybe two.

Debbie and Jerry left, and Helena found herself clinging desperately
to the rose. Sylvia was a close friend and she had been concerned all
evening about her. She wanted to help, get close to her, but at first
the forced politeness between respectable mothers had acted like a
barrier.

Then something had happened when Sylvia had given her the rose.

Now she seemed to need the strength that seemed to flow into her heart
from its beauty, and she found herself gripping the stem of the rose
until the thorns hurt. She stared down into the intricate pattern of
its magical orange whorls which seemed to radiate strength. Now, she
knew, she could finally express what had been in her heart all these
years - ever since she'd known Sylvia in fact. This evening it had
come to the surface like a beautiful leviathan. She saw it clearly for
the first time, for what it was.

She found herself looking into Sylvia's eyes.

Deep blue eyes.

Yes, everything was clear.

"Oh come on now Jane," Sylvia was saying, her voice musical with
laughter, "you don't really fancy Debbie's old man do you?"

"Why not?" giggled Jane, "right now I'd sleep with anything in
trousers!"

"Besides, a girl don't have her looks forever does she."

"Keys." Helena whispered to Sylvia as they left the restaurant.

Without a word Sylvia reached into her handbag and handed her car keys
to Helena .

They walked back to the car, swaying in each others arms. Jane talked
loudly and made embarrassing comments to any male within earshot. As
they approached the car she swung round in front of them and stood one
hand on her hip, the other pushing her hair up - Mae West style.

"Whaddya think? Not too bad for a ...for a girl of ...of my ...age."

Jane looked from Helena to Sylvia and then back again. They looked at
each other, smiling, and said nothing.

"Well, anywaaayyy..." she slurred turning to get into the back seat as
Sylvia operated the remote central locking.

Helena placed the rose carefully on her lap and she turned the key in
the ignition. She really should not have been driving after drinking
so much, but something seemed to be guiding her that night. She
sensed, rather than saw, the motorcycle which shot blindly past as she
reversed out of her parking space, and paused to avoid it.

"Fucking lunatic!" said Jane, "but nice leathers."

Helena saw the police car pull out in front of them, its blue light
flashing, and caught her breath. It weaved urgently in and out of the
traffic and pulled away from them.

"He can use his truncheon on me any day!" said Jane, her voice
gravelly, as they drove past the uniformed figures which were
questioning the drunk driver they had pulled over.

"God I'm horny," Jane continued as Helena drove, "you ever find
drink... affects you that way? I do. A few drinks and I'm...
anybody's."

"You don't need a drink to be anybody's," Sylvia laughed with her.

"I'll... I'll tell you ...one thing," giggled Jane, "if Rogers still
awake when I get in, he's... he's going to be... walking funny in the
morning!"

"Why does he need to be awake?" Sylvia asked.

"We're here." Helena drew up by Jane's house.

Jane leaned forward and kissed each of them on the cheek.

"'Night girls," she said. "It's been a great evening."

She stumbled out of the car.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" she called back just before
disappearing through her front door.

Helena drove off and the silence suddenly became almost oppressive. It
was only ten minutes to Sylvia's house, but it seemed like an
eternity.

"What shall I..."

"You'd better..."

They interrupted each other, but Sylvia was first back.

"I was going to say, you'd better keep the car - bring it round in the
morning. We'll have coffee or something..."

They were outside Sylvia's now. Sylvia turned to Helena, who seemed to
be staring into the distance, fidgeting uncomfortably. Helena held the
rose tightly in her hand. A drop of blood fell unnoticed onto the lap
of her dress.

"Well..." Helena started but it came out as more of a croak. She
cleared her throat and spoke deliberately. "Well, I suppose..."

Sylvia made to kiss her on the cheek, but as she did so, Helena turned
her head. Their lips met.

They parted, both women faintly surprised, then Sylvia felt Helena's
hand pulling her towards her, and her lips pressed hard against her
own.

She felt dizzy.

The only person she had ever kissed that way before, at least in
living memory, was her husband Stephen but it never felt like this. It
was so different. Helena's lips were sweeter, softer. They trembled
uncertainly. Stephen's never did that. But it was so much the same.
She realised with a shock the way Helena was kissing her signalled the
same desire that Stephen would have signalled.

Sylvia closed her eyes as their tongues danced. She tasted the
sweetness of alcohol on Helena's quivering lips.

She sighed into Helena's mouth as she melted.

Reaching down, she operated the lever to lower her seat back, giving
Helena the invitation she so desperately needed.

Helena kicked off her shoes hurriedly and hitched her skirt up as she
urgently extracted herself from the driver's seat, awkwardly
negotiating the obstacles that the handbrake and steering wheel
presented. Then she paused, staring at the rose she still gripped.
Somehow she couldn't  see its bloom in the darkness. It was as if its
work was done. With a flick of the wrist, it flew out of the window
and was forgotten.

For a few moments, she stared longingly down at Sylvia.

"We've waited for so long," she moaned almost inaudibly. Then she was
touching, feeling, kissing...

Sylvia felt young again. Helena's touch was unlike anything else she
had ever felt. Compared to Stephen, she was quite artless, but this
was all so new to both of them. It was like being a teenager again,
each discovering their needs.

Suddenly Sylvia held Helena close. As her body began to respond to
Helena's unfamiliar caresses, she suddenly thought of Brenda. Brenda,
her daughter.

Brenda, her little girl who had so recently become a woman - who had
so recently experienced the same joy of discovery that she herself was
experiencing now, but with such awful consequences. Brenda, whose tiny
body had, it seemed only yesterday, all but torn her delicate
womanhood apart to stake her right to life. Brenda who would so soon
experience that very same pain - for she knew somehow it would be so,
now.

Tears stung her eyes as she gripped Helena.

In the morning she would make things right with Brenda, but now...

"Love me," she whispered, "love me."

*****

Stephen turned over in bed half asleep. Was that those damned cats? he
wondered at a noise he thought he half heard. Before he slept again he
heard a car drive off, and Sylvia's key in the lock.

"Hi, sweetheart," he muttered drowsily at her silhouette as she came
in to the bedroom. "A good evening?"

"Wonderful!" said Sylvia, "truly wonderful."

Stephen turned over. He was pleased. His wife had been in a foul mood
before she left. He had no idea why, something to do with Brenda, he
thought. Though when he'd seen her that evening, she seemed happy
enough.

*****

As Stephen walked up his driveway, leaving a contentedly sleeping wife
and an almost obscenely happy daughter, a splash of orange caught his
eye.

A rose.

It had clearly been there all night, but nevertheless, he stooped to
pick it up. Actually it wasn't in bad condition at all and was really
rather beautiful.

He smiled as he drove to work. He thought of giving it to Sylvia when
he got home, but he knew it wouldn't last that long. It didn't matter,
he shrugged, he knew just who needed this rose.

"Hi Wendy, how's things?" He swept into the office and went straight
to her desk, holding his hand conspicuously behind his back.

Wendy looked up and smiled. "Fine, Stephen, thanks for asking."

Stephen smiled back and held out the rose to her.

"For you."

Immediately her face lit up. "Oh Stephen, flowers! What have I done to
deserve this?"

"Flower," corrected Stephen. "I felt if anyone deserved cheering up it
was you."

Wendy dropped her eyes for a few seconds, then looked back at him.

"Thank you Stephen, but you really shouldn't have."

"Is everything OK?" he asked, concerned. "How was *he* yesterday
evening?"

"Well actually..." she paused aware of how public they were. "Can we
talk later? Lunch time perhaps."

She glanced at the rose with an unfamiliar expression.

*****

"Shouldn't that be in water?" asked Stephen, slightly puzzled that
Wendy had chosen to bring along the rose he had given her.

"Oh, I think  an hour or so won't hurt - don't forget I know all about
roses. After all I'm married to Vic."

Stephen had heard all about Vic's rose nursery. He had also heard
about his free use of fists on the woman he was supposed to love.

He drove her down to a local bar where they ordered a sandwich and
drinks, which he paid for.

"I've decided!" she hissed, as they sat down. "I'm not going to take
any more of him and his bloody roses!"

Stephen was shocked. Wendy never showed such forcefulness, despite the
way she'd been treated by her husband. She smiled at him and held the
rose up in front of her. Stephen noticed it was in full bloom now, and
it seemed that its bright orange shone like a little sun.

"He came back late last night." She was dreamy as she stared at the
rose.

"There was blood all over his face..." She reached out and absently
pulled a petal from its base. It seemed to Stephen that he could
almost hear it being torn away.

"He was so *pathetic*!" She spat out that last word and Stephen winced
as she virtually ripped the next petal from the flower.

Stephen became hypnotised as she continued her destruction of the
rose. It seemed to him almost obscene that such a thing of beauty
should be treated this way, but he was powerless to stop her.

"All..." another petal went, "these..." and another, "years..."
another, "I've put up with it!"

Stephen wanted to stop her, but felt overwhelmed by her passion.

"No more!" she gritted, and another orange petal fluttered down. 

All the time she stared at the rose, not at Stephen, but as it ceased
to be recognisable, he saw the tears well up in her eyes. Only when
the rose was no more, its blossom scattered over the table, did she
look up at him.

"It was one of his you know. A special strain he'd been working on.
"Hot Tango". I'd recognise it anywhere."

She was silent for a moment.

"I knocked over one of the young bushes once..." she shook her head
sadly.

"That was the first time. I came round covered in these things, blood
dripping from my nose."

A sob wracked her body.

"I loved him so much, you know. But that love died then as I bled into
the soil."

Again she was silent.

"I hate the damned things!" she burst out suddenly. Then her tone
softened, "but... they are beautiful aren't they."

"Yeah," Stephen could barely get the word out.

"Odd isn't it?" she said wistfully. "Something so beautiful thrives
when surrounded by shit."

END.



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