by Jessica Ayre
'Please, Jennie, be a little patient with me.' His voice was rough with emotion.
She followed him up a few stairs to a handsome wooden door. Her eyes threw him a question.
'It's home—I wanted to show you something.'
The door opened on to a long corridor, panelled in tawny gold pine. Derek led her into a large high-ceilinged sitting room, framed by pine-shuttered windows at either end, and pointing to a soft leather armchair, beckoned her to sit. She sank gratefully into the chair's comfort, watching him discreetly as he poured her a drink. Again she found herself marvelling at the sheer grace of him, that lithe form, the rugged face with its expressive eyes beneath the golden hair. An ache of sheer longing came over her, but she pushed it back, making herself sit up tautly, poised for what was to come.
Catching her eyes on him, Derek returned a look which sent a shudder through her. He passed her a tall ice-laden glass and raised his.
'To you,' he said simply.
They gazed at each other for a moment, then he reached a hand out and pulled her from her chair.
'Come upstairs.'
She trailed after him, glimpsing objects that she would have liked to handle, noting the few good paintings on the walls, the fine arrangement of contemporary furniture mingled with old. So like him, she thought suddenly. He led her into a booklined room with a large marble fireplace, and Jenny stopped short as she saw what hung over the mantel. Her two sketches of him, beautifully framed and oddly juxtaposed, the sunlit nude and the swaggering he-man.
'You see, I take your image of me seriously, whatever my actions may suggest,' he chuckled, and Jennie found a smile rising to her lips.
'Will the real Mr Hunter please stand up?'
'Which one would you prefer, Jennie?' He was suddenly upon her, his golden face alight with mockery as he crushed his lips brutally to hers, suffocating her. She pummelled his chest hard, forcing her face away, unable to stop hitting him as the rage of months surfaced.
'Right, I gather that's the one you don't like,' he said, laughing. 'Funny, you know, he's quite successful with the ladies.'
Then his face was suddenly transformed into seriousness. He trailed a finger lightly over her cheek, sculpting her features as his eyes grew black with a brooding intensity. He searched for her mouth gently, letting her passion grow to meet his until she felt she couldn't distinguish his lips from her own, her pulsing breath from his.
His face, when he released her, was naked, vulnerable, and her heart leapt out to him. She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. She wanted desperately to say something, something which would break the mood, distance her a little from a desire which she felt would too quickly overwhelm her.
Her voice was ragged as she sought for the right tone.
'And I thought the sketches were meant for your grandmother!'
He laughed huskily, still holding her to him, 'Only one of them was, if you remember. And she thought it was little too risqué.'
'You mean there really is a grandmother?' Jennie looked at him in astonishment.
'Do you take me for a liar, young lady?' he said sternly. 'I may be many other things—uh-uh, don't bother to list them—but I am not a liar. If you don't believe me, I shall prove it to you right now.'
Playfully he pulled her after him, Jennie still not sure whether to believe him or whether the whole thing was a jest. They went up another flight of stairs and Derek pressed a bell.
'Don't worry, I'm not taking you to see a relic,' he whispered to her, noticing her anxious look. 'Grannie even manages to travel from the country up here periodically.'
A stout middle-aged lady opened the door.
'Hello, Mrs Woods. We've come to pay a brief visit. Will you ask Grannie if she can receive us?' He ushered Jennie in, introduced her to Mrs Woods, and before she could catch her breath, an imposing elderly woman was upon them.
Almost as tall as Derek, her grey hair neatly gathered into a bun, her eyes still a clear blue, she smiled at Derek warmly and took Jennie into the gesture.
'Hello, Gran. I've brought you a visitor, the one who draws those naughty pictures.'
Jennie flushed, but the old woman's outstretched hand and the twinkle in her eyes told her it was unnecessary.
'I've been telling him for years to stop behaving like a fool, my dear. I'm glad to see someone else has caught him at it.' Her admiring glance at Derek betrayed her words, but Derek took them up.
'Sh, Gran! I told Jennie you thought of me as an intellectual.' He kissed the old woman on the cheek, led her to a chair and motioned for Jennie to sit down as well.
'Jennie's got an exhibition coming up, Grannie,' he added.
'Well, as long as she doesn't display you. We wouldn't want the world to know,' she bantered to Derek, and then, turning to Jennie, 'That's wonderful, my dear. Where will you be exhibiting?'
Jennie named the gallery.
'That old rogue!' Mrs Hunter laughed. 'Never mind. He runs a good establishment. I hope you'll invite us.'
Jennie assured her that she would and then seeing Derek get up, rose as well.
'Do come and see me again when you have the time, Jennie. Don't wait for my grandson to invite you. He's so busy scurrying round the world, I never see him.'
'You're going to see so much of me for the next few weeks, you'll be happy to have me leave!' He kissed the old lady goodbye warmly.
'There, she's altogether real, isn't she?' he smiled at Jennie once they were down the stairs.
'Yes, and lovely with it.'
'Well, you've obviously made a conquest of her, let alone me.'
Jennie looked at him oddly.
'Yes, me, though you may not know it yet.' The playfulness left his face as he looked at her intently, a little muscle moving tensely in his jaw. She felt her stomach beginning to flutter and she lurched away from him, afraid of his touch.
'I can see I'm going to have a little convincing to do,' he said, his voice rough, 'and a little explaining.' Abruptly he walked away from her.
Jennie shivered. Warmth had gone with him and she felt very small, very alone, standing there in the long hallway with its single densely green fern. She fingered its leaves abstractedly, sinking into a reverie so that when he returned, she jumped.
'I've booked us a table. I think we have some talking to do. Please, Jennie,' his eyes filled with entreaty, 'don't make it harder than it already is.'
She gazed at him, not understanding, perhaps not wanting to understand; it would draw her into his web again. As if I'd ever been out, she thought, her inner voice filled with scathing self-contempt.
Derek drove skilfully, smoothly through a tangled maze of streets, and Jennie quite lost herself in the process. They stopped by a canal, its darkening waters filled with gaily painted houseboats.
'Quite a different world here,' she noted aloud.
He nodded, helped her out of the car, gripping her arm so tightly that she flinched. He released her with a shrug, folding his hands into his trouser pockets and giving her a wary look. They walked side by side, but apart, towards a small mews restaurant. Jennie noticed the name and gasped.
'But, Derek, that's far too extravagant!' she exclaimed.
'We're celebrating, remember?' he said tersely, and her heart sank as they stepped into the intimate, simply-furnished room.
Unwilling to look at each other, they concentrated on the menu, which was filled with detailed descriptions of the food at hand. Brandade of smoked trout; leek and pumpkin soup thick with cream; guineafowl basted in limes duck in ginger and honey. The list was small but select. Jennie wished the knot in her stomach would uncoil so that she could enjoy what sounded like exquisite food. She caught Derek's eye.
'If you're thinking what I'm thinking, then we'd better make a pact and be friends for a while,' a slow smile spread over his face, melting her coldness. 'The wine will help. They have some of the best in London.'
He ordered a bottle, and as Jennie took a sip of the mellow fruity li
quid, she felt she had never tasted wine before. She answered his expectant look with a wide smile of her own.
'That's better, Jennie.' He took her hand and held it firmly so that she couldn't withdraw. His eyes on her face were warm with tenderness, glowing in the candlelight.
'I'm going to get this over quickly. I'm not good at it, haven't had much practice.' He cleared his throat dramatically, a glimmer of amusement creasing his lips. 'Jennie, how would you like to live with me? Live with me for a long time. I think some people still call it marriage.'
Jennie's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
'Well, it wouldn't be so bad, you know,' he mistook her look. 'I'm not always a brute. My grandmother can vouch for that,' he laughed nervously as she made no response.
'But I thought…' Jennie's voice broke.
'You thought what?' Derek pounced at her suddenly.
'Thought you were having a little sun-induced escapade,' she brought it out bluntly.
He looked at her, his eyes grim now as they openly explored her face, her neck, her body, stiff in the upright chair.
'So did I.' His voice was equally blunt.
'Well then?' she challenged him.
'Well then, I was wrong.' He gripped her hand fiercely so that she could feel the indentation of each finger. 'And it's taken me a long time to get used to the idea. I don't plan to get married every day. And when I do, it's for good.'
She baulked. 'You might consider the object of your plans.'
'Oh, Jennie. I'm not doing this very well.' He took a large gulp of wine. 'I've been going through hell,' his voice receded into huskiness and he reached for his glass again. He saw the protest rising to her lips.
'I know, I know, I treated you badly, but I didn't realise then—' His words trailed off and he forced himself to continue, attempting matter-of-factness. 'When I got back from Rome and found your enigmatic drawing, but not you, Daniela told me you'd taken off because—well, because I'd abused you. She led me to believe that you'd had a woman-to-woman chat and that it had all come out. And she suggested there was someone else. Is there, Jennie? That Max of yours, perhaps?' He looked at her defiantly.
She shook her head honestly.
'Good,' he breathed. 'That simplifies things a little. In any case, when Daniela told me all that, I thought—well, that's that. I felt only a glimmer of guilt. But it grew, and when I found out a few days later that Daniela had all but hunted you off the set, I raged—raged at her like a real bully. I'm not proud of myself for it.'
He lit a cigarette and looked into Jennie's eyes for some response! But she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
'Well, then… oh, the whole thing is too messy, too complicated. I couldn't destroy the film—a film on which so many people had worked—simply because I'd behaved like an idiot. To both of you, I should add. Daniela was threatening to walk off. I should have finished with her ages ago instead of letting it trail on.' He shrugged, his face grim. 'But I like her—like her still,' and he gazed at Jennie provocatively.
She met him blankly, despite the knot she could feel coiling inside her. 'Go on,' she said tersely.
'Daniela's good humour was important. Before you left, she'd already been making a fuss. Do you remember that day when I came to fetch you at the hospital, and—well, I was a little distracted, to put it mildly? Not only because I found you with another man,' a flare of anger leapt into his eyes only to disappear as quickly as it had come. 'Enrico had asked me to write a film for Daniela based on an idea I'd had. Daniela had just put her foot down hard and said she wouldn't work with me again if I was going to carry on with every little bit who caught my fancy. I was dreadfully ashamed of myself for kowtowing to her just to keep her good-tempered. But I was trapped by the situation.'
Jennie's voice broke through stridently. 'And I was just a little bit, as you say. I haven't changed, you know.'
He looked at her fiercely. 'Listen, woman, it's not what I said, but what Daniela said. And if you remember… Do you remember, Jennie?' He paused, scrutinising her face. 'That's when we went off together, to the temples.'
She gazed up at him, so aware of his harsh masculinity that her limbs turned molten. 'Yes, I remember,' she said, her voice hoarsely low. 'I remembered so well, it almost destroyed my life. I don't want it destroyed again.'
He relaxed his hold on her hand, but kept her eyes riveted on his. The waiter brought their food. The lemon-scented trout tasted like sawdust in Jennie's mouth, and Derek left his plate untouched.
'Jennie, please, listen. I would have written, would have called, but I didn't know what to say, didn't really know the extent of what I felt. But Daniela did, probably knew before I did or she wouldn't have fussed. Well, then I had to go to California and I thought I'd forgotten. But I hadn't. I kept imagining you with that Max creature.' He glared at her, played with the food on his plate and then looked up at her again. 'Jennie, I haven't been able to sleep with another woman since that night in Agrigento.'
A hard laugh rose up in her and burst out.
'You hardly slept with me, if I remember the details precisely.'
'Little bitch,' he murmured under his breath, fixing her with his eyes. 'I was trying to be honourable, trying to spare you. Not that I managed it very urbanely. It's a rule I have. Don't toy with impressionable young women. For all the good it's done me in this case.' He looked at her, suddenly haggard. Yet the edge in his voice persisted. 'But we'll soon change that.'
Jennie could feel his knee searching for hers under the table. She moved her legs away from him, an ironical light suddenly playing in her eye.
'But this time, I'm the one who has to agree.'
Derek glowered at her. 'Eat your food, woman, or I won't bring you here again!'
An arch smile flickered over Jennie's face as she obeyed, mockingly demure. She put a slice of guineafowl into her mouth, relishing its exquisite bittersweet flavour. By the time the delicate iced amaretto soufflé had arrived, Jennie felt drunk on food. She threw him a deliberately defiant look. 'I think this has been the sensual experience of my life.'
He grimaced and then his eyes undressed her, slowly, boldly, catching flame as they travelled over her. 'You have things yet to learn, young woman,' he said, his voice low, carrying both invitation and threat.
'And I intend to choose my teacher through careful research,' she teased.
He scowled at her and abruptly called for the waiter. Having paid the bill, he took her arm roughly and led her towards the car. They drove silently, Jennie trying to make some sense of her inner turmoil, but with no success. Sensing his anger, she didn't dare ask where he was taking her. It was clear all too soon as he pulled up in front of his house and brusquely ushered her in.
He left her alone for a moment and she sat down in the same leather armchair, curling her legs under her. The low pulsing rhythm of piano and bass heralded his return. He had abandoned his jacket and his open-necked shirt moulded the expanse of his chest. Drawing her to her feet, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and slowly, sensuously moved her to the yearning jazz rhythm. Her limbs swayed, glided, blending themselves to his every gesture.
'We're good together,' he whispered into her ear and then, pushing her thick hair back with a gentle stroke, he buried his lips in her neck, sending waves of sensation down her body. With an enormous effort of the will, Jennie pulled away from him. A question had haphazardly risen on the waves of her body and suddenly she had to know the answer. She reached for the packet of cigarettes which lay on the low coffee table and took one, playing for time.
Derek's gaze penetrated her as he watched her movements, and shrugging, he offered her a light. She caught the glint of his eyes in the flame and searched for a cool voice.
'And what are you working on now?' she asked, the sound strange in her own ears.
'I thought I was working on you,' he muttered. 'But obviously I was wrong.'
She pressed on, now resolutely cool, despite his tone. 'Are you doing
a new film with Daniela?'
'So that's it!' his face broke into a wide grin. 'Jennie, I may be a fool, but I'm not crass. Or stupid.' He pulled her to him, stubbing out her unsmoked cigarette in an ashtray and lifting her into his arms.
'I'm writing this script about a rather mysterious and beautiful young woman, who has a boozy stepfather hidden in her closet and who wants more than anything else in the world to be a good painter,' he said in mock seriousness as he carried her up the stairs.
Jennie struggled out of his arms and found herself facing him, almost stumbling back into his arms as she sought her balance on the stair. He put out a hand to steady her and looked deeply into her eyes.
'Oh, Jennie, don't. Don't be so defensive. I don't care about the boozy stepfather you're obviously so ashamed of, you haven't even ever mentioned him. I don't frighten that easily, you know. Nor do I care a jot about any of the men you may have known, who've treated you so badly that you seem to be afraid of us all.'
Jennie started to protest, but he stilled her words by placing a finger gently over her lips.
'I care only about you, the you who rises to challenge, who tries to behave honourably, who concentrates intently on her canvases; the you who claims to dislike men and yet kisses me so beautifully… so beautifully.'
He pulled her up on to the landing beside him and lowered his lips to hers in a slow searching kiss which made her skin flame.
'You know, you're the only man I've ever been able to touch.' There was a quiver in her voice as she brought it out.
'So that's it,' he said reflectively. He took her hand and guided her up towards the long panelled hallway at the top of the stairs. There, he motioned for her to sit in a plush armchair. A smile hovered round his lips. 'And so it should be, young lady. These things do have something to do with feeling. Perhaps everything to do with feeling,' he added softly. 'So let's stop pretending otherwise, Jennie.'
He lifted her up and held her tightly in his arms, a tenderness mingled with passion suffusing the rugged planes of his face.
Taking it in, Jennie grew suddenly bold. 'And what happens to our mysterious young woman?'