“I . . .”
Clive tightened his grip on her for a moment, then took note of the expression on Violet’s face and realized he’d been bested. He let her go. “If you want to, Violet. Don’t let me stop you.”
Violet moved swiftly into Sam’s arms, but the foxtrot ran for only another half minute and then they stood for a few moments, still holding each other, gazing at each other, waiting for the next song.
It was a waltz: “It’s Time to Say Goodnight” by Henry Hall. He pressed her to him, his warm hand on the small of her back, and they started to move. The party, the crowd, receded into the distance. There was only her body and Sam’s body, perfectly in time with the music. His good breeding meant he danced like a dream, twirling her and catching her, pulling her back against him. Her feet may as well have been on clouds. Such happiness, such lightness inhabited her. Finally, the last line of the song rang out and silence came. The record had finished, but still they danced, the waltz’s rhythm faultless in their hearts and bodies as they danced from one end of the room to the other and back again, while the crowd parted and stood on the sides watching them.
As if waking from a sleep, Sam blinked rapidly, realizing the music had stopped. He released Violet, picked up her hand, and kissed it once. He leaned close to her ear, whispered two words, then turned and left through the same door he had come. Another record went on, and slowly people began to return to the dance floor. She stood where Sam had left her, and several of the other girls eyed her curiously, jealously. Judging her with their gazes.
Clive joined her. “That’s Samuel Honeychurch-Black, isn’t it? You know him?”
“Only from serving his dinner,” she lied.
Clive looked to the door, then back to Violet. “How very strange for him to turn up here like that.”
Violet cleared her throat, pretending she was anything but deeply affected by dancing with Sam. “Yes. He does seem a little odd. But he’s a very good dancer.”
“Be careful Miss Zander doesn’t hear about this. Fraternizing is—”
“Strictly prohibited. Yes, I know. But everyone saw him come to me. It wouldn’t have been polite to refuse him, given he’s such an important guest.”
“I suppose so.” Clive smiled. “Another dance?”
“I’m quite exhausted,” she said. This was true, but Violet also now knew that dancing with anyone but Sam from now on would feel like dancing on leaden feet. “I’m going to sit a few out.”
She took to the back stairs and smoked a few cigarettes. The girls outside hadn’t seen Sam arrive so didn’t feel the need to gossip with her about him. She kept her thoughts and feelings to herself, but if any of them had known what she was planning, they would have thought her mad.
* * *
Late, late at night. Myrtle slept across the room, snoring softly. Violet particularly didn’t want to wake Myrtle, because Myrtle suspected something was going on. When Violet had returned from the dance, Myrtle had told her incredulously that one of the guests, Mr. Honeychurch-Black, had come looking for her. It was Myrtle who had directed him to the dance.
“What did he want?” Myrtle had asked, and Violet’s ineffective dismissals and disavowals had only intensified Myrtle’s curiosity.
Violet rose and dressed quickly. No time for a singlet and bloomers—her skin prickled at the thought of it. Just a slip, a dress, and her bare feet on the cold floor. She glanced out the window, through the crack between curtains. Moonlight and shifting shadows in the wind. Violet took a breath and quietly left her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
She tiptoed along the corridor. It was close to one in the morning and everyone was asleep. But he would be waiting for her.
Come tonight. That’s what he had said before he left her at the dance. There was not a force in the world that could stop her from fulfilling this command. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked warnings—about her soul, her body, her future—but desire drowned them all in a molten gold river. Come tonight. She was coming.
Her feet creaked on the second set of stairs. She paused, waiting to hear if any doors would open, any questions would be asked. But the sleeping silence remained unbroken, and she was more careful and light as she ascended.
Along the corridor in the dark, counting the doors until she realized there was only one with a yellow light shining under it.
She stopped outside it, realized that if she knocked she would draw attention to herself. Instead, she turned the handle. He had left it unlocked.
The scene that greeted her was wholly unexpected. Completely clothed, he lay asleep on top of his bedspread. His hands were folded over a silver pipe of some kind. A tray next to his bed was full of unfamiliar metal implements.
Before she could get any closer to look, he roused, saw her, smiled. “You came.”
“Yes.”
He put the pipe on the tray. “I fell asleep waiting. I told myself if I woke in the morning and my light was still on, it meant you didn’t love me. Come here.” He spread his arms, still lying on the bed.
She hurried over, sank into his arms, her lips hungrily seeking his. With his hands hard on her upper arms, he pulled her down against him. His hair smelled like molasses and old plant cuttings, an intoxicating exotic smell she couldn’t place. He kissed her as though he wanted to climb into her mouth and dissolve in there, then rolled her over on her back and sat up, his knees spread on either side of her hips.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
She struggled to a half-sitting position and plucked her dress up at the hem, turning it inside out to get it over her head.
“Take off your slip,” he said next.
Her body shuddered with pleasure. She pulled it off, and was now naked.
“Lie back,” he said.
Once again, she did as she was told, folding her arms behind her head, feeling open and exposed. “I’ve never done this before,” she said.
“All the better,” he replied, bending over her, his lips on her left breast, his mouth closing over her nipple. Then he moved across to the other side, and suckled at her with such bruising force that she gasped and squirmed violently.
His mouth descended, across her ribs and belly, then farther still until he pushed her thighs apart and buried his mouth in the sweet, hot crevice between her legs. Violet had never felt such sensations. She bucked her hips and moaned, her eyes fluttering closed. The pleasure was so intense and scorching that she thought it might kill her.
After a time he sat up, and she groaned when the sensations drew away. She opened her eyes and saw he was stripping out of his clothes, standing up and kicking off his trousers. “I must have you,” he said, taking his erection in his hand. “Roll over.”
She rolled over, and he positioned himself behind her, lifting his hips so her bottom was in the air. Once again, she had the wonderful wicked sensation of being exposed to him, then he entered her and she cried out in pain.
“It’ll only hurt for a moment,” he said as he started to move, and he was right. He had a hand on each of her buttocks and she let the tide of desire and pleasure rock through her. As his pace grew faster, he moved one of his hands under her hip so he could touch her between her legs, in a spot that seemed so dense with sensation she wondered that she’d never found it before. With a minute of deft rubbing, she suddenly exploded into a shattering pleasure that would have made her fall flat on her face on the bed were he not holding her hips up. She cried out, and, seconds later, he did, too.
He laid her gently on the bed, turning her over to look down at her face.
“That was incredible,” she gasped.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “To see and hear your pleasure is the most beautiful thing in the world.”
She let her head fall back and started to laugh. “I never thought . . .”
He stroked her hair away from her face. “Never leave me.”
“I never will,” she replied.
“I will find a way
to be with you.”
“I believe you.”
They fell asleep with the lamp still on, curled together on top of the bedspread.
CHAPTER NINE
2014
After eight straight days on the breakfast shift, I was looking forward to a sleep-in. The mornings were growing cooler and darker, and I was snuggled a long way under covers and layers of sleep when my phone rang. I jolted awake, looked at the clock: 4:57. Was it Tomas? No, it was my mother.
“Mum,” I croaked into the phone. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, just thought I’d catch you before you went to work.”
“No work today,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Having a sleep-in, then lunch shifts all week.”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. Still, you can go back to sleep shortly, can’t you? I’ve just made myself a cup of coffee and thought, I’ll sit down and call Lauren. It’s so nice to hear your voice now you’re not around anymore. It’s a bit lonely here this morning.”
I sat up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes and yawning. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s on his way up to Sydney for a conference. He’s going to drop in on you this week sometime.”
“Tell him to call me first. In case I’m working.”
“Will do. I’m hoping he’ll meet that boyfriend of yours.”
The ground suddenly became tricky. I said, “Hm,” in a noncommittal way, my sleepy brain grasping around for a change of topic.
“Lauren? Would that be all right? You’ve never had a boyfriend before and we want to know that—”
“Tomas is in Denmark.”
“He’s gone home?”
“Temporarily.”
“Why?”
Just lie. Just lie to her. “An old friend of his has been in a car accident. She’s seriously hurt. He’s gone to be with her.”
“Oh. A female friend? They must be close.”
“He calls me every day.”
“Still . . .” She let the word hang, and it did the work she wanted it to do. Still.
He wasn’t here; he was over there, with his ex-wife. Sabrina had survived surgery, was stable but still in a medically induced coma. Tomas had managed to track down one of her cousins, who was making arrangements to fly in from America to join them. Sabrina’s best friend from high school had shown up, and several of her workmates were in and out visiting her. So it wasn’t just Tomas and Sabrina alone in the hospital room together. But he still wasn’t talking about coming back. “It was only a few dates, Mum,” I said. “Mightn’t go anywhere.”
“Sounds like he’s leading you on.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah, none of them can be trusted. They break your heart. You’re better off without them.”
“You married Dad.”
“He’s a rare one. I got lucky.”
I didn’t reply. There was little point in contesting the issue with her. Mum could see only a world in which bad things awaited her children. I lay back on my pillow and turned on my side, and as I did so I noticed the photograph of Adam and Frogsy, which I had propped beside my alarm clock. Here was the change of topic I’d been hoping for. “Hey, Mum,” I said. “Did Adam ever mention a friend named Frogsy? Or a friend named Drew?”
“I don’t know either of those names,” she said.
“From before. When he lived up here in the mountains.”
A brief silence. Then, “He had a lot of odd friends at that time, Lauren. I don’t remember their names.”
“What kind of odd?”
“Just . . . odd. People who wanted to lead him astray. I noticed not a single one came to see him when he was sick.”
I didn’t point out that she’d made it nearly impossible for people to see Adam when he was sick, and that the Blue Mountains were a long way from Tasmania. I picked up the photo and gazed at it. That day, with its sunshine and wind, had passed. The dark future had come. Every moment was a moment like this one: a held breath before whatever came next, good or bad, entirely unpredictable. I thought about Tomas’s ex-wife and her car accident, how she had left the house assuming she would return safely. I closed my eyes. No wonder Mum worried: a million possibilities hung on every moment. Today, home alone, she must be out of her mind with formless anxiety. “You must be lonely without Dad there,” I said. “I’m going to make a cup of tea and then we can have a long chat. It’ll be almost like being together.”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “What a lovely idea.”
* * *
I needed to find Frogsy and Drew. I needed to know these “odd” people who had been Adam’s friends before he got sick. I surmised that Frogsy might be a pet form of a surname, and went through the local phone book looking for names beginning with Fro. Frockleys and Frohloffs and Frombergs. I called a few, explained who I was looking for, and was met with numerous rebuffs, some curious, some gentle, some puzzled and irritated all at once. I tried rhyming surnames: Boggs and Toggs and Vogs. Loggins and Coggins. Still nothing, and I’d spent half a day feeling increasingly embarrassed and annoying. I opened all Adam’s books one by one, checking for more dedications and shaking them for loose photos, but found nothing. I pinned the photograph on the fridge with a magnet, to remind me to take it to work tomorrow to ask Penny.
I got on with my day, catching up on laundry and washing up. I was taking the recycling rubbish out to the bin when I saw Lizzie struggling with her woodpile, which was down the same graveled side path as the bins.
“Hang on,” I called, jogging up towards her.
“Thank you, dear. The deliveryman came today and he stacked it too high.”
Logs kept rolling off the top and onto the ground. I tidied them up, stacking the thicker round ones upright, and containing the others behind the wire fence. “There you go,” I said, dusting my hands off on my jeans.
“I think he thought he was doing me a favor, leaving me extra. We old ducks get cold in the autumn. Not working today?”
“Day off. Want to come in for a cuppa?”
“I think it would be most cruel of me to have you make me tea on your day off.”
“Don’t be silly. I’d love to have you.”
“Well, all right, then.”
She followed me back to my flat and looked around while I made a pot of tea. “You’ve made the place look pretty,” she said.
“I’ve not really done anything to it,” I replied.
“Light and air and books. That’s all it takes. It seemed quite sterile before. I hadn’t let it out for a year or so, not after the last mob.”
“Why? What did they do?”
“I think they were drug dealers. Cars pulling up at all hours. Nice to have a straight arrow in here.”
“Well, you couldn’t get a straighter arrow than me. Do sit down.”
She didn’t sit down. “What an odd collection of books. These are your brother’s?”
“Yes. He read widely. When he was sick.” I watched her pull out books and slide them back, then she came to stand in the kitchenette while I poured the tea.
“Who are these handsome lads?” she asked, pointing at the photograph on the fridge.
“That’s Adam on the left and a mystery friend. You don’t know him, do you? It was taken about fifteen years ago. Did you live here then?”
“Yes, I moved here just after my mother died. But I don’t recognize the friend. Your Adam has a sweet face.”
“I’m keen to know about his friends. This one is named Frogsy, probably a nickname. He had another named Drew. I know even less about him.”
“If they’re still in Evergreen Falls, somebody will know them,” Lizzie said. “It’s a small town.”
“I suppose. Though fifteen years is a long time.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s gone in a blink.”
My past fifteen years hadn’t been a blink so much as a long, drawn-out sob.
“Why do you want to find them?” Lizzie asked.
�
��Just to see if they have any interesting memories of Adam. I was only fifteen when he got sick, and so my impression of him is limited. Mum said he had ‘odd’ friends up here, and that interests me. Mum’s threshold for odd is pretty low, I might add.”
I arranged the teapot and cups on a tray and ushered Lizzie into the sitting room. We sat and poured tea and talked about the weather, but then she asked, “What’s happened to Tomas? I haven’t seen him for a little while.”
I told her the whole story, including how I missed out on my first-ever third date, and she listened and nodded, her blue eyes bright and sharp. I left out the business about the key to the west wing and the room with the love letters, simply because I didn’t want to get Tomas in any trouble with the developers. He had asked me to be discreet in my investigations. The gardeners had been clearing the grounds for the past week, so I hadn’t had a chance to go back in.
“So,” I finished, “now I don’t know when he’s back or if he’ll even be interested in seeing me again.”
“Why would you think that?” Lizzie said, pouring herself a second cup of tea.
“Well, he’s been with his ex-wife. I mean, my mum said he can’t be trusted.”
Lizzie frowned. “Dear, he didn’t go back to her to fool around. She’s been seriously injured. What a man he is to put aside any ill will between them, any concerns of how his return might be interpreted by the small-minded, and do the right thing. Lauren, that’s not a man to mistrust; that’s a man to trust with your life.”
Her view, so at odds with my mother’s, lit up the room. She was right. She was right and Mum was wrong, because Mum could see only through the prism of her worry.
“Let me tell you about my father,” she said. “He was the most steady, loyal, good man you can imagine.” Her voice stretched across tears, and she had to catch her breath. “But . . .” She trailed off, waved a hand. “Every family has secrets, I suppose. No point in airing them. You wouldn’t be interested.”
I was so interested. But my curiosity was for salacious details, and it wasn’t fair to extract them from Lizzie if she wasn’t comfortable.
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