Madame Olga had been in with last-minute words of encouragement, her usually acerbic personality softened. Peter Burod had spoken with her too, and had given her a small pendant with a dainty amber stone. For luck, he had said, but Sara, who knew that other ballerinas did not receive such presents from him, had been touched.
Only from Clyde had there been no sign, no word. Did he know she was dancing today? Sara wondered. Yes—if he had made a point of finding out. She had hoped that he would send her flowers, a gesture of forgiveness and understanding. She had understood too that only a complete break could be effective. As it was, there had been nothing. In the minutes while she waited for the first curtain call, Sara acknowledged that despite all her rationalising, she was disappointed.
And then the moment for personal introspection was gone. She was on stage. Sara Demaine was no longer a girl with problems that concerned only herself. She was Odette, the swan-maiden with a problem easily identifiable by an audience, many of whom had seen Swan Lake before, and who were as caught by this rendering as if they were seeing the dance performed for the first time.
Sara knew herself that her dancing was good. It was as if her grief and disappointment had inspired her, so that she rose above her problems and danced as she had never danced before. She felt a new spring in her steps, a grace in her arms, a sense of space and movement so fluid that there were moments when she felt as if she was flying. The vociferous applause at the end of the act revealed that the audience were caught in the spell that gripped her.
And then she was dancing Odile. If Odette epitomised all the feminine virtues, Odile was the opposite. As the daughter of the evil wizard, out to snare the handsome prince for herself, she was the embodiment of all that was bad. She was also beautiful, with a sensual zest and vitality which captured the imagination of the courtiers before whom she performed. It was a part which taxed a dancer to the fullest.
Sara was on her pointes when the pain shot through her—an agonising pain. Winded, she held the movement a beat too long, and then, as she managed to catch her breath, she was dancing again. Only the discerning eye would have picked up the fault.
Minutes later the pain came again. This time she was ready for it. Conditioning and discipline helped her to surmount it.
She was Odile still when the pain came again— an all-encompassing pain this time. A scream rent the air as Odile, the wicked enchantress, became Sara, a mortal girl. The audience let out a collective moan as she fell unconscious on the stage.
Slowly, with great effort, she opened her eyes. Dizziness, a dreadful dizziness, was all she registered at first—a strange lethargy that seemed to have gripped her limbs, a feeling of total unreality.
Whiteness. All around her an unfocussed whiteness. Dimly the image of music, of movement… And then memory flooded back, and she was trying to focus her vision, to make some sense of the sterile quietness of her surroundings. She tried to sit up.
A hand restrained her, pushing her gently back against the pillows. 'Rest, Sara…'
A voice she knew. She frowned, tried to focus once more, and saw the face of Peter Burod.
'Peter…?' Her voice was low with bewilderment.
'Hush, my dear.'
'The performance…'
'You were taken ill.' He spoke gently, his voice drifting over her like a caress. 'You're in hospital, Sara.'
'Odile…' She was trying to make some sense of the images that merged one into another. 'I was dancing Odile…'
'You were taken ill,' he said again.
'I must go back.' Distress in her voice as she tried to struggle up once more.
'You must rest.' He eased her back. 'Don't worry about the ballet, Sara. Maria took over… your understudy…'
No! Maria can't dance Odette-Odile. My part, the one I worked for. My part!
'No!' she said aloud, with a violence at odds with her weakness.
A nurse appeared beside the bed with a glass of water and a pill.
'I don't want this,' Sara protested.
'You have to have it, honey. We want to save your baby.'
Sara's eyes flew to Peter. His expression was unchanged—grave, concerned, understanding.
'You know?' she asked softly, when the nurse had gone.
'Yes.'
'I'm so sorry…' she whispered.
'For what?' he asked, a little roughly. 'Because you're human?'
'Because I ruined the performance.'
'Don't worry about that.' He took her hand. 'Why didn't you say anything?'
'I… I couldn't. I… I wanted to go on dancing… for as long as possible…'
'There was a doctor here, Sara, while you were unconscious. He said you'd been told to rest.'
'Yes.'
'Sara, who is Clyde?' asked Peter.
She felt something tighten inside her. 'Clyde is here?' she whispered.
'No, Sara.' He stroked her hand gently, and she saw the compassion in his eyes. 'But you spoke of him, called for him.'
'I see.' Her voice was dull.
'Wasn't Clyde the man you were engaged to?'
'Yes…'
'And he's the father of your baby?'
'Yes.'
'Clyde who? I'll phone him. He should be with you.'
'No!' Nerveless fingers closed on his hand with sudden strength. 'He… he mustn't know.'
The kind man at her bedside did not press her with more questions. He seemed to sense her extreme distress. But his hand remained on hers, and though he was not Clyde, and Clyde was the only person she wanted with her despite her protest, Peter's presence provided its own kind of reassurance.
At length, driven by the need to talk to the one person who seemed to understand her and accept her without any demands, Sara unburdened herself voluntarily. Perhaps it was Peter's complete lack of censure, she thought, that made talking to him so easy, or perhaps it was just a gentleness and humaneness of manner. She held nothing back.
Now and then her eyes went to his face. Their expression was always the same; attentive, concerned. A good man, Sara thought, and understood anew why he was so respected in the company.
'Clyde should be told,' said Peter, when she was silent.
'No!' Sea-green eyes filled with sudden panic.
'He is the father.'
'I know.'
'And it's not his fault that you decided to call off the marriage.' The hand that held hers tightened. 'You're being unfair to him, Sara. He's man enough to make his own decisions. But he can't make them without knowing the facts.'
'No.' Blindly she shook her head. 'I know what he'd decide. He'd marry me.'
'Would that be so terrible? You love him.'
'I love him, yes. But after what happened he no longer loves me.' She pushed herself a little way up against the pillow. 'It wouldn't work, Peter. You must see that. He would resent me—resent us both.' She closed her eyes. 'I couldn't bear that.'
'Have you thought how hard it will be?' Peter asked.
'I'll have to manage.'
'Do you have any financial resources? From what you've told me…'
Her eyes fluttered open. 'I'll be dancing. In a day or two I'll be back on stage.'
'No, my dear, you will not,' Peter said compassionately. 'The doctor made that quite clear.'
The small oval face took on a look of sheet-white transparency. The fingers resting in Peter's hand grew rigid. 'I'll manage,' Sara said. And then, more fiercely, 'I will manage, Peter, I promise you that.'
There was silence after her words. Long minutes of silence. Tired by the emotion expended in the discussion, as much as by the medication she had received, Sara closed her eyes once more. Peter did not speak. Only the warmth of the hand that held hers revealed that he had not left her side.
At length, breaking into her thoughts, she heard him say, 'There is a solution.'
'You're suggesting I teach,' she said, putting into words the trend of her own new thoughts.
'You're a brave girl. One of the bra
vest I know.' There was admiration in his tone. 'No, my dear, I wasn't thinking of teaching. Marry me, Sara.'
Heavy lids jerked open to reveal the surprise in the green eyes. 'You can't mean that!'
'Why so astonished, Sara?' There was a new expression in his face, one she had never seen before. 'It's not the first time I've proposed to you.'
'I know. But circumstances have changed…'
'You're carrying another man's child. And you love him.' The tone was matter-of-fact.
She stared at him, bewildered. 'Yes.'
'Have you forgotten that I love you? What's happened? The fact that you're human hasn't changed that.'
Sara, felt tears gather behind her lids. She tried to blink them back, yet the eyes that met Peter's were shimmering with emotion. 'I didn't know there were men like you,' she whispered.
'I could give you a good life, Sara. My house is just a few hours from Cape Town. When I'm not working with the company we'd be together.'
'The baby. Clyde's baby…'
'I'd love it as my own. And we'd have others, Sara.'
'You're tempting me, Peter, you know that, don't you?' Looking at him, noting the strong chin beneath the firm mouth, the humour and the gentleness in the brown eyes, Sara knew that if she could never love another man as she had loved Clyde, if she had to settle for second best, she would find nobody better than Peter Burod.
His smile was surprisingly boyish for a man in his late forties. 'I want to tempt you.'
'Peter…' somehow she had to get through to him, 'I like you so very much. But I don't love you.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'I don't know if I ever will.'
'I love you. After Lisa died I didn't think I could ever feel strongly about a woman again.' He bent, and she felt his lips touch her forehead before going to her lips with surprising pressure. 'I won't press you for an answer today, Sara. Just think about it.'
When the sun was shining Kalk Bay must surely be one of the loveliest places on earth, Sara thought as she made her graceful high-stepped way along the sand. The sky was a powder blue above a vivid tabloid of forests and mountains and sea: A light breeze skimmed the water, ruffling the tops of the waves. In the fishing harbour the anchored boats rolled on the swell. A small boat had just put in with a catch of Cape snoek, and children were crowded in excitement around it, while above it, no less excited, a few hungry seagulls screamed. Kalk Bay had provided the setting for many a painting. On a day like this it was easy to see why.
Sara chose a spot near a clump of rocks. She spread her towel on the sand and took off her beach-gown. Before lying down she glanced at her figure. Still no obvious rounding. The only concession she had made to her pregnancy was the substitution of a one-piece bathing-suit for her bikini.
It was good to be out of doors again, with the smell of salt in her nostrils and the crash of the surf in her ears. Strange too, for until the day of her collapse every waking moment had been spent at rehearsals. Not only that, she could not remember when she had been here alone. The last time had been with Clyde. They had romped in the waves, and at sunset, when the fishermen and the holidaymakers had left the beach, Clyde had kissed her with a thoroughness that had made her dizzy with a desire she had not dreamed existed.
Thoughts of Clyde always brought pain. The struggle to forget him was far from over. It seemed there was nowhere she could go where there were no memories. But forget him she must.
She had come here to think. Not about Clyde—she knew he was lost to her—but about Peter. Kind, gentle Peter who understood and forgave everything and yet wanted her to be his wife.
'It wouldn't be fair to marry you feeling the way I do,' Sara had protested once.
'Let me the judge of what's fair,' he had smiled.
A little way distant two small children played with a beach-ball while a noisy terrier yapped at their heels. Sara watched the scene in amusement— and then suddenly she stiffened. On the periphery of her vision a man was walking. He was tall and well-built and his movements had a lithe ease. The breeze blew his fair hair backwards from his head. Clyde! Her hand went to her throat in panic as she stared at him.
'Stop it!' she told herself firmly. 'You can't forever see Clyde in every tall stranger. Get a grip on yourself or you'll make your life a total misery.'
Very deliberately she turned her eyes away from the man and back to the sea. The waves looked tempting. No undue exertion, the doctor had warned, no dancing… At the same time he had said that walking and swimming would be good for her.
The water was warm, the waves gently rolling. Lifting her feet from the sandy sea-floor, Sara lay back and let the swell carry her. The rhythmic movement had a calming effect; she could feel the tension draining from her.
When a pair of strong hands gripped her shoulders she went rigid. For just a moment she kept her eyes closed. There was familiarity in the touch of the hands, in the feel of the long fingers against her bare skin.
She was dreaming, she told herself; she had to be. The grip tightened and she opened her eyes, slowly, unwillingly, and found herself staring into a taut chiselled face.
'Clyde…' The name was wrenched from a parched throat.
'Little idiot!'
'You're angry…'
'What the hell did you think you were doing? Trying to kill yourself?'
The blue eyes were like steel. Around his nostrils the skin was white. Sara looked at him uncomprehendingly, drinking in every line and crevice of the beloved face.
'I was swimming,' she said uncertainly.
'So far out of your depth?' Clipped. Precise.
The words made an impact on her. She tore her gaze from his face and looked shorewards. She was far from the beach, and she was not a strong swimmer. Lulled by the gentle motion of the waves, she had let the current carry her farther out than she had realised. A chill ran through her as she realised that she could indeed have been drowned.
She tried to struggle away from Clyde, to stand, and found herself being drawn closer against him, her feet touching his calves. She understood that if she touched bottom her head would be submerged.
'Let me go,' she whispered.
'In good time.' The anger had left his face and his voice had become a seductive drawl. 'So my little swan-maiden has turned into a mermaid.'
'I thought I saw you, on the beach…'
'And that's why you tried to drown yourself?' An odd gleam in his eyes.
'Don't say that! Anyway, I decided it couldn't be you. And I wasn't trying to drown…' The words caught in her throat as his hands slid slowly down her back to clasp her waist. The movement sent a torrent of desire cascading through her veins.
'D-do you have to do that?' she asked bumpily.
'You used to like it.' The hand lingered on her waist, curved forward around her stomach. 'You've gained weight.'
Only Clyde could be quite so perceptive. Careful, she thought, very careful.
'Perhaps the water makes me feel different,' she shrugged.
'Could be. Why aren't you at rehearsal?'
So he did not know! Incredibly, he did not know what had happened. And she did not intend telling him. 'We had the day off,' she managed unsteadily.
'And you're spending it alone?' He was so close to her that the salt-warmed breath fanned her cheek. Every inch of her was against him, the strong legs against her feet, the tautness of thighs hard against her own legs, the roughness of a hairy chest making sensuous contact with her bare skin where the costume did not cover her.
His voice was husky as he said, 'You feel just as sexy as ever.'
'Clyde…'
'Sara,' he mocked raggedly. 'Keep still, poppet, you know you want me to kiss you.'
God, how she wanted him to kiss her! She wanted it with every nerve and fibre of her being.
His mouth was descending and she did not try to evade it. His hands were moulding themselves along her figure, welding her to him. She was up hard against the wall of his body, and there was a tightening of mus
cles which left her in no doubt that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
His lips pushed hers apart easily. Her hands lifted to clasp his neck and buried themselves convulsively in his hair.
He was kissing her hungrily, and she was responding with a matching ardour. There was no thought, no past, no future. There was only the vastness of the African sky overhead, the tug and swell of the waves, the hardness of the long male body tight against hers.
She felt it quite suddenly—a tiny bubble-like movement in the region of her stomach, like the merest whisper of a butterfly's wing. Clyde could not have felt it, it was too slight a movement. Yet instinctively she pulled away.
'Sara…' Again his voice was ragged. 'Sara darling…'
'No, Clyde.'
'You want me.'
Yes, I want you. I want you as I've never wanted anything in my life. But our child just moved for the first time. Our child, Clyde!
'We could still get married. Darling, don't fight me.'
A wife and a baby. A burden to him. Belinda's words floating over the sea to her from that shrub-covered arbour.
'My career. Clyde, that hasn't changed,' she lied, every word piercing her in a raw stab of pain.
'Forget your career.' A hand went to her chin, forcing it upwards. For a long moment blue eyes searched green ones that were moist with tears.
'You want me,' he said, so softly that she saw the words rather than heard them over the waves.
'No!'
His face changed. The tautness was back. A muscle moved in the long line of the jaw and something flickered in his eyes. Deliberately he bent to her again. There was no time to twist away, even had she wanted to. His kiss was harder now, seductive, tantalising, yet lacking in tenderness. She understood that he was punishing her for hurting him. He did not know how much she was hurting herself.
She tried to close her mouth to him, but his strength was greater than hers. Besides, as her lips were forced apart an anguished hunger exploded inside her, so that she wanted only to be closer to him, part of him…
Another Life Page 4