Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  “No, I’m working and I can’t afford a broken leg. Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Lili took a few steps and winced again as pain shot through her left knee. She took another step, felt sick with pain and staggered. The man in dirty overalls steadied her arm. “I’d better give you a lift back,” he offered.

  “No, thanks, I can manage.” Lili set off, limping, down the road, hoping that this idiot hadn’t blown the film for her.

  He caught up with her, running his fingers through his sandy hair, streaking more grease on his already dirty face. “I’m so very sorry. I promise you, I’m a safe driver. I was just seeing how fast I could corner her, because she still needs a couple of adjustments to the gears.”

  He’d be quite good-looking if he washed, Lili thought, in spite of her pain. In fact, he might be very good-looking if he cleaned the grease and mud off his face.

  “Please let me drive you home—it’s the least I can do.” Nice gray eyes, long straight fair lashes, big freckled nose … Lili agreed. The low cockpit of the beetle-black car was little more than a shell of raw metal with taped wires in different directions across the interior.

  He drove very fast. “Doesn’t this car do less than 70 mph?” Why had she agreed to be driven by this lunatic? Omnium’s insurers would probably cancel on the spot, if they could see her.

  “She’s not very good in the lower gears yet,” the gawky, good-looking Englishman apologized. “This is the prototype. We’re still working on it, and I shouldn’t have taken it out of the garage. Would you mind not mentioning to anyone that you’ve seen it?”

  As the car stopped in front of Lili’s hotel (a famous eighteenth-century coaching inn), her driver asked, “How long are you staying at the Rose and Crown?”

  “Another four weeks. I’ve got a part in the film they’re shooting at the manor house. What’s your name?”

  “Gregg Templeton. What’s yours?”

  “Um … Elizabeth Jordan.”

  He made no move to help her out, and Lili made no move to open the door. It was that awkward moment when two people, who have only just met, are both reluctant to make the first move and invite rejection. Eventually, Gregg offered, “So shall I see you again, Elizabeth?”

  “It’s difficult, we never get any time off,” she said truthfully. “Why not give me your number and I’ll phone you when I’m next free. What garage do you work for, Gregg?”

  “Eagle Motors in Whitechurch. I’ll give you the workshop number.” He scribbled it on the back of an envelope, then helped her out of the car. She winced again. “You need a shoehorn to get out of that thing.”

  “Please forget you ever saw me in it.”

  “Okay, your boss will never know.”

  Gregg looked faintly surprised, then grinned.

  * * *

  On Sunday afternoon, Gregg collected Lili in a beat-up Jaguar XK 150 drop-head coupe, which was as grubby as if chickens were kept in the back. After another fast drive, they swept over the brow of a hill and saw Lyme Regis lying below them, the distant cliffs glowing gold and white, the pretty circular harbor cluttered with fishing boats.

  “Can we go out to sea?” Lili pointed to the small fleet of clinker-built craft at one end of the ancient, stone harbor wall.

  “Why not? We’ll take a motor boat.”

  After an hour ker-chugging over sparkling water, they walked back to the town and, in a bow-windowed Regency tearoom, ate fresh-baked scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream. When Gregg passed his cup to Lili for a refill, he noticed her noticing his grimy fingernails. “My mother’s always complaining,” he grinned. “Drink up, time to take you home.”

  And to Lili’s disappointment, he drove her back to her hotel, then waved a cheery good-bye without making another date.

  * * *

  Lili gazed around the cream, oval reception room at the London Ritz. Elegant women drifted across the pink carpet, greeting each other among the small tables and large palm trees. Behind them, a fountain trickled over a naked golden giantess with a strangely prim expression.

  “I’m almost enjoying my Merry Widow act, now that I’ve started the good works part.” Pagan’s cheerfulness was brittle, Lili thought, as the Englishwoman rattled on. “Organizing your Gala keeps me busy and stops me brooding. We can have Drury Lane Theater on the last Sunday in July, if that suits you, Lili?”

  “I’ll have to check with Stash, my agent. He’s coordinating with the choreographer, who’s directing the show, and they’ll check the date with the singers, the dancers and the musicians.” Lili poured out more tea; this weird British custom was habit-forming. “Remember, Pagan, that we split up at the end of filming The Best Legs in the Business, and it’s a complicated job to get everyone together again, just for a one-night live show for charity.”

  “I’ve got a terrific committee together to organize the evening,” Pagan enthused, thinking that Lili looked preoccupied. Again Pagan felt that pain in her chest. The doctor had said that it was merely another manifestation of grief; he had reassured Pagan that her depression, memory loss, and strange behavior were not unusual after a bereavement. He’d also hinted at another delicate matter and asked her if she’d been, as he phrased it, “missing her husband at night.”

  “If you can’t sleep,” he suggested tactfully, “tune your radio to the BBC World Service.”

  He thinks nice women don’t wank, Pagan had thought. But the following night at 3 A.M., she had remembered his advice, twiddled the radio dial, found some pleasant Mozart, then settled back and let black night wash velvet over her. Suddenly, a cheery, dynamic voice had urged her to buy tickets for a rock concert in Croydon. Crossly, Pagan had twiddled the dial, got what sounded like some soothing Sibelius, and recomposed herself just in time to hear the news in Dutch. As dawn blocked in the shape of her bedroom windows, feeling depressed and unsexy but wanting to sleep, Pagan had reached for Sheila Kitzinger’s book on female sexuality, which fell open at the masturbation chapter.

  In the Ritz tearoom, Lili fidgeted in her gilt chair. “What am I going to do about it?”

  Pagan bunked. “But we’ve already decided what you’re going to do for the Gala—a show based on some of the numbers in your Mistinguett film.”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” Lili waved aside the Gala with one hand. “I mean, what am I going to do about Gregg? Do you think I shouldn’t have noticed his filthy hands? Do you think I embarrassed him? Do you think I came on too strong, Pagan? Do you think that tomorrow is too soon to telephone him?”

  “Lili, you can’t start an affair with some village mechanic, just because he’s the only man you’ve met in the last five years who isn’t dying to make love to you.” Pagan sipped her Earl Grey. “Don’t you think that perhaps you want this man so much, simply because he doesn’t want you?”

  “I’m not sure what to think.” Lili sounded wistful. “Except that Gregg behaves as if I’m normal.”

  Pagan raised her mahogany eyebrows. “Were you wearing that kit when you met him?” If so, Pagan couldn’t imagine any man not wanting Lili, who was swathed in layers of pink-and-white knitting. All Lili’s clothes seemed to be made in Paris by Japanese men, who had never heard of skirts, blouses, or frocks.

  “No, I wasn’t wearing this.” Lili was defensive. “I was walking through the mud in an old raincoat without any makeup and with a scarf around my hair.… Pagan, how can I see him again?”

  “You have his number—telephone him.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that! I don’t want to look too…”

  If you don’t care about someone, Pagan thought, it is perfectly easy to pick up the phone and dial his number; but if you care, then all you can do is sit and watch the telephone and silently will it to ring.

  “If he’s a mechanic, why don’t you get yourself the sort of car that demands attention?” Pagan suggested.

  “You mean something like a Porsche?”

  “No, not at all like a Porsche.”

  * *
*

  “Naturally, you can’t expect everything that you would get in a new model, but our own guarantee accompanies every car we sell,” said the fat salesman in ginger tweed. “How about this MGB GT—a collector’s item now, Madam.”

  “No,” said Lili, looking around the showroom at the array of battered agricultural vehicles, decrepit sports cars and ancient saloon cars that had been carefully maintained by old ladies. “I want the cheapest car you’ve got.”

  “That would be the Riley, then.” Just another lady customer, they never laid out on a car. “Totally reliable model, this one, Madam.”

  Lili shook her head.

  “We’re expecting a very fine Ford Granada in tomorrow.” The salesman sucked on his pipe, to imply trustworthiness.

  “No, this is my only morning off.” Lili’s makeup call was at 5 A.M. “How about that?” She pointed to a tiny Morris painted with pink and orange flowers, cabalistic signs and the words “love” and “peace,” none of which disguised the rust on the doors.

  “Frankly, Madam, you would be taking your life in your hands. That’s a trade-in we accepted from the hippy commune in Uttoxeter and it’s only fit for scrap.” No profit on that one, the salesman thought, he’d better scare her. “We could not give it our guarantee, Madam.”

  “Perfect,” said Lili. “I’ll take it.”

  * * *

  Ten miles out of town, the little Morris gave a despairing clank, shuddered and stopped. Delighted, Lili walked another mile to the nearest telephone booth.

  Within an hour, Gregg was fiddling under the battered hood. “We’d better give it a run.” He pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “But I don’t think this clutch will last much longer.”

  They jerked in silence along wet country lanes until Lili saw a painted sign swinging in the breeze at the roadside beside a white-thatched building. “The Magpie and Stump! We don’t have pubs in France.” Dropping a hint was a new experience for Lili.

  Picking up a hint was a new experience for Gregg. “Want to go on Sunday?”

  Next Sunday, after visiting the pub, they sat in the tinroofed country cinema and watched Spartacus. It was raining and there was nowhere else to go. On the following Sunday, Gregg hired a fishing boat and they caught two evil-looking black lobsters. “Let’s take them back to my hotel and have them cooked for dinner,” said Lili. She found it uphill work. At this rate they would not be holding hands before Christmas. But she sensed that, surprisingly, this gawky Englishman did not know how to make the next move.

  “Your leg okay now?” Gregg asked, as they drove past high, honeysuckle-entwined hedges.

  Lili pulled up her chamois skirt and thoughtfully felt her thigh. “Almost.”

  “Good.” He did not take his eyes off the road.

  They crossed the hotel lawn and approached the kitchen door. As they reached it, a shower of pink-tipped white petals fell around them. Lili stopped and looked up into the lichen-covered branches of the apple tree.

  “Oh, the poor thing—it’s trapped!” She pointed up to a terrified ginger kitten stuck on the tip of a fragile branch.

  “Stupid moggy. Shouldn’t have climbed up there in the first place.” Gregg, like most country people, was not sentimental about animals. “Can we get into that room?” He pointed up at the mullioned window close to the struggling kitten.

  “Yes, it’s the staircase window. I pass it every morning,” said Lili.

  They clattered up the uncarpeted oak staircase and Lili opened the window. but Gregg could not quite reach the kitten. Every time he leaned out the window a little more, the kitten retreated a little further back on the branch, then mewed more loudly. “Cats always back off if you grab at them.” Gregg thought he was damned if he was going to risk his neck for such a dumb animal.

  Slowly, he twiddled his fingers as he withdrew his hand from the branch.

  Slowly, the kitten followed the fingers.

  Then Gregg grabbed.

  “There, there, kitty, panic’s over.” Holding it by the scruff of the neck, he handed the ginger scrap to Lili, who plonked down the eerily-moving bag of lobsters on the staircase and cuddled the kitten to her breasts, where it promptly hooked its claws into her white cotton sweater.

  “Stroke it,” she said, pulling Gregg’s hand to the kitten. His hand was much bigger than the little animal. Lili stood on tiptoe, shut her eyes, and kissed him full on the lips.

  After a bit, she said in a wobbly voice, “My suite is just along the corridor.”

  Lili’s bedroom had an oak-beamed ceiling which sloped down toward the diamond panes of two small, stone-framed windows. The chintz curtains matched the yellow-flowered rug on the dark, polished floorboards; a copper warming pan hung on one side of the stone chimneypiece, while a row of hunting prints hung on the other. All this tourist-trap, Manderley kitsch was spoiled by the cheaply made, flimsy, standard British hotel bed, covered by a slippery, green satin quilt.

  Gregg pushed Lili’s lips apart with his tongue and explored her mouth. She felt the muscles move in his back as she slowly slid her hands down his spine and an ache of desire tugged between her legs. Gregg’s soft dry lips brushed her throat, then Lili heard him murmur her name as his lips moved downward.

  Once in bed, Lili noticed, Gregg lost his awkwardness, but he wasn’t very experienced, she thought, gasping as he nibbled a little too hard. I mustn’t come on too strong, she thought. She felt the tremor in his fingers as he parted her pearl-pink lips and moved his fingers softly, cautiously inside her.

  Ought I to be doing this with firm thrusts, or three fingers? Am I going to hurt her? Gregg wondered, as with small purrs she moved slowly against his hand. Where the hell is it? wondered Gregg, groping hopefully for the tiny seed-pearl lump. The tips of his fingers found a firm tip, like the point of a pencil under the soft, slippery skin. Lili arched like a leaping trout as he touched it. Got it, he thought with relief, no need to ask for directions.

  After a bit, Lili gasped, “Now, now,” and he rolled carefully on top of her. With a sigh of joy, Lili welcomed him into her body and he began moving with slow, deep thrusts. The bed swayed and creaked with every thrust, releasing little clouds of dust from its chintz flounces.

  Lili felt as if she were floating, falling, slipping unconsciously into a new incarnation, as Gregg thrust steadily, his lips brushing the pale blue veins of her neck. The erotic smell of his fresh sweat grew stronger as Lili pulled him into her at every stroke, clenching her muscles around his shaft to suck him into her body. The gasps and groans and odd little birdlike cries grew louder in the quiet room.

  Then suddenly Gregg arched his back and shouted. “That bloody cat!” he roared.

  The frightened kitten had first hidden under the bed, then adventurously it had jumped onto the night table, where it had purred like a little sewing machine. Then, with bared claws, it had dived onto Gregg’s naked back.

  Gregg swatted at the kitten and half fell off the bed. The green satin quilt slid to the floor, and the kitten skittered under the carved oak linen press.

  Lili sat up and licked the tiny spots of blood on Gregg’s back. “Forget Ginger,” she murmured. Sensuous and eager, their bodies joined again. “Lili, Lili, oh, Lili,” Gregg breathed as the rhythm of his body became urgent and inexorable. Lili realized that he was gone, he could not stop, he could not hear her, he was unaware of everything except that he was cresting that wave which … With a crash, the bed fell apart.

  “I think the earth just moved,” said Gregg from among the wreckage.

  * * *

  The sea was gunmetal, the sky was purple-gray, and black clouds collided overhead as they battled through the rain toward the end of the jetty. “No chance of taking a boat out today,” shouted Gregg, through the lashing rain and sea spray.

  “Why is it that all the things Englishmen like to do, make you cold and wet?” Lili yelled above the gale.

  “Be fair, there are some things I’d rather do in the
warm.” Gregg hugged her and their raincoat buttons tangled as he kissed her salty, wet lips.

  “Okay, I can take a hint. Let’s get back.”

  They turned and, heads down, battled against the shrieking wind toward the rocky beach.

  There was a curse as the photographer slipped on the seaweed-covered rocks. “Over here, Gregg,” he shouted. “Just one shot—who’s your ladyfriend?”

  8

  Early June 1979

  LILI’S FACE TENSED as she looked at the photographer, but Gregg calmly turned to pose, his arm still around Lili’s shoulders. “Better make it just one shot, Eric,” he said pleasantly, “I’m off duty today. This is Elizabeth Jordan.”

  “How’s the Spear coming along, Gregg?” The man reached inside his grubby duffel bag for an even grubbier notebook.

  “Pretty good, we’ll be racing at Silverstone next week.”

  “I expect Sir Malcolm’s over the moon, then. Are you going to run at Le Mans?”

  “He’s very pleased, yes,” said Gregg. “But whether we qualify for Le Mans depends on how we run at Silverstone.”

  To Lili’s amazement, the man picked up his camera case, stowed his notebook, and floundered back up the beach as Gregg said, “Sorry, darling, I’m afraid I’m the only celebrity in town most of the time. That photographer was from the Dorset Echo.”

  Then Lili remembered that on the hotel bed he had called her Lili.

  “Gregg, you recognized me!” she said accusingly, her secure happiness starting to crumble, like a child’s sand castle, washed by the sea. He had been lying to her.

  “Of course, Lili. You’re a household face. Anyone would recognize you, in spite of the headscarf.”

  Lili sighed. “I thought we might have more chance of a relationship if you didn’t know who I am. Any nice guy runs for cover when he sees me coming, and the creeps come out of the woodwork.”