Room Beneath the Stairs

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “Thank you.”

  “I suppose a lot of chaps have told you that.”

  “A few.”

  “Well, I mean it sincerely. I’m a very sincere fellow, as you’ll soon discover.”

  “Will I?”

  “Do you believe in fate?” he continued huskily. “It was fate that made me dash into this shop. I can sense it. Can’t you? You and I are going to be very, very close.”

  I smiled wryly, amused by the shopworn dialogue. At least Ellie’s lads were a bit more subtle in their overtures, although the goal was the same. Grey Brandon liked what he saw and wanted to sleep with me. I imagined that he usually didn’t have to try very hard to have his way. That animal vitality and lazy masculine charm must have made conquest a snap in most instances. There weren’t that many old-fashioned girls around these days.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he inquired.

  “Believe it or not, I’m going to go home and wash my hair.”

  “Your hair’s lovely. I like long hair; much more feminine than those short jobs. You can wash it tomorrow night. Tonight I’m going to take you to—”

  “You’re wasting your time,” I said lightly, amiably.

  “Huh?” He looked totally surprised.

  “I don’t accept pickups, Mr. Brandon.”

  “Well, look—”

  “But thank you for trying.”

  His brow creased; the corners of his mouth turned down in disappointment. The gray eyes looked hurt. If sheer male magnetism failed to do the trick, it seemed boyish vulnerability was certain to get results. He was trying very hard. I smiled, lighthearted and glad without really knowing why. It always makes a girl feel good to have a man desire her, but I felt positively radiant. It was a very dangerous feeling. Perhaps he hadn’t completely failed, after all. Watch it, Carolyn, I cautioned myself.

  “I guess you think I’m pretty fresh,” he said glumly.

  “Not really.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know many people in London and.…”

  “What about the party where you may have seen me?”

  “It didn’t amount to much. I didn’t know any of the people.”

  “I see. You’re all alone in the big city and crave companionship.”

  “Well—yeah, I guess you could put it that way.”

  “I know what you crave, Mr. Brandon, and you’re not going to get it. Not from me, at any rate.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Miss Dawson.”

  He grinned again. The mood lightened. I felt like a little girl at her own birthday party.

  “You said something about buying a book.…”

  “Oh, sure, I almost forgot. Let’s see—have you any thrillers? Carlotta adores them, reads them by the score.”

  “I’ve got scores. Shall I help you select one or two?”

  “By all means.”

  I stepped around the counter and walked over to one of the tables. He was watching me with hooded eyes, and I felt very glad that I had worn this particular dress today. It was white cotton sprigged with tiny blue and lilac flowers, with a full skirt and a close-fitting bodice that showed off my nicely developed figure. I was no femme fatale—far from it—but I knew that I was reasonably attractive. And obviously Grey Brandon thought so. His eyes gleamed with masculine appreciation as I reached for a gaudily jacketed thriller.

  “Does she like them genteel or bloody?”

  I was dying to ask him who Carlotta was.

  “Bloody. The bloodier the better.”

  “This one’s been rather popular. All about a homicidal maniac who carries around a trunk full of—”

  “Why don’t you just pick out a few?” he suggested, still standing in front of the stove, watching me. His hair was curling into feathery blond locks as it dried. He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side, an attractive stance that emphasized his considerable charms. I didn’t really need to wash my hair tonight.

  “How many do you want?” I asked.

  “Just pick out those you think she’d like.”

  “That isn’t fair, you know. You’re the first customer I’ve had today. I really need to make a big sale. I’ll probably select a dozen.”

  “Fine. Make it a dozen.”

  I browsed over the titles, occasionally selecting a book to add to the stack. I could feel his eyes watching my every move. It was rude of him to stare like that, and I should have been offended, but I found it extremely pleasant. The lighthearted sensation hadn’t abated one bit. Allen had certainly never made me feel this way, nor had any of the other young men I had gone out with. I tried to tell myself that it was just the surprise of seeing him again after all this time, but although I was frequently dreamy and often foggy about practical matters, self-deception wasn’t one of my faults. I found Grey Brandon shatteringly attractive.

  “Does Carlotta live on the island?” I inquired casually.

  He nodded.

  “You must be terribly fond of her.”

  “I am.”

  He wasn’t helping at all.

  “Thoughtful of you to be buying all these books for her. She’s a very lucky girl.”

  “She’s no girl,” he remarked.

  “Oh?”

  “She’s sixty-four years old. Carlotta’s my grandmother. She’s a crusty old dame, notorious for her temper and bizarre projects. A genuine eccentric, my gran. I suspect she’s quite mad, but delightfully so.”

  “She sounds—enchanting.”

  “She is, thoroughly.”

  I moved back behind the counter, carrying an expensive armload of new thrillers. The lashing deluge had stopped, giving way to a light gray drizzle. A sparkling network of raindrops glittered on the windowpanes. I began to tally up the total cost, a formidable task, as I had no adding machine. Still uncertain that the figure was correct, I presented a much marked-out and erased bill to Grey Brandon. He studied it with one eyebrow arched, then looked at me with amused disbelief.

  “You’ve undercharged me by half a pound.”

  “Oh, dear—I’m not very good at figures. Numbers throw me dreadfully. People don’t usually buy so many books.”

  Taking pad and pencil from my hand, Grey made out a new bill while I watched helplessly. Then he paid me, and I rang up the amount on the deplorable old cash register. It clattered and coughed asthmatically.

  “Shall I wrap these? I’m very good at wrapping.”

  “Please do. I’d like to mail them off this afternoon.”

  I wrapped the books into a neat, sturdy bundle, using lots of heavy brown paper and string. Taking a pen from the porcelain jar beside the cash register, Grey addressed the package: Mrs. Carlotta Brandon, Greycliff Island, Cornwall.

  “You haven’t put on your return address,” I reminded him.

  “So I haven’t,” he replied. He put the pen back in the jar, slinging the bundle of books under one arm.

  “But—”

  “I’m sure they’ll get there safely enough,” he said.

  I made no further protest. For some reason or other, he didn’t want his grandmother to know where he was staying in London. That much was perfectly obvious. I wondered why.

  He gave me a curt nod. “It’s been pleasant, Miss Carolyn Dawson.”

  “Yes—uh—thank you. Come back again.”

  He left the shop without further comment. It seemed suddenly empty and bleak. I sat behind the counter, watching pedestrians pass by on the sidewalk outside, not really seeing them at all. The drizzle vanished. The sky lightened to a soft violet-gray. Motorcars rumbled down the narrow street with much honking of horns and screeching of tires. I heard none of it. I was visiting a private dream world, a habit carried over from my childhood. The clock ticked. An hour passed, two, and it was time to close up.

  I put on my tailored lavender-blue coat. It was belted at the waist, with a flared skirt. Through Ellie’s connections I was able to indulge a taste for fine clothes with great economy, buying expensive garme
nts at rock-bottom prices. The air was cool and damp as I stepped outside. I locked the door carefully and checked to see that it was secure; then, turning around, I saw a familiar figure lounging against the red brick wall of a shop on the other side of the street. He was wearing a dark tweed overcoat now, the bulky garment making his shoulders seem all the broader. He grinned amiably, waved and sauntered lazily across the street, causing a blast of fury from an impatient cabbie.

  “I still intend to wash my hair, Mr. Brandon,” I said with remarkable calmness.

  “Thought I’d escort you home. What shall it be—taxi? Underground? Private limousine?”

  “I usually walk.”

  “Fine. The exercise will be good for us.”

  “You’re very presumptuous, Mr. Brandon.”

  “Grey. The name’s Grey. And you may as well resign yourself, Carolyn. You’re going to see an awful lot of me from now on.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  He linked my arm in his, and we began to walk down the still damp sidewalks, passing antique shops and dime stores and narrow, disreputable-looking restaurants. Gaudy posters adorned the front of a sleazy cinema. A corner pub was already jammed with roistering tipplers, lusty noises pouring out onto the street. All the sights and sounds of London seemed magnified because I was with Grey Brandon. We didn’t talk. I merely indicated directions. People thronging past must have taken us for lovers, an attractive couple content to be strolling together as twilight fell and neon lights began to spill their garish colors over the city.

  As we reached Covent Garden—the district Steele once called the heart of London—flowers and produce perfumed the air with odors both sweet and pungent. Although it was still early, night was falling rapidly. We passed large wooden carts, men in heavy aprons and rolled-up shirtsleeves transacting late business. The walks were littered with flower petals and limp cabbage leaves and an occasional carrot; several stray dogs rummaged about. Soft lights washed the elegant columns of the opera house, an incongruous touch of glamor in this congested area. We turned down a narrow block of flats on a street not much wider than an alley. I stopped before one of the gray stone buildings, its ancient white marble portico dingy with soot. The front door was open, revealing a flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs within. As we stood there a streetlamp bloomed, shedding weak golden light.

  “This is it,” I said, disengaging my arm.

  “Interesting place,” he remarked. “Lots of atmosphere.”

  “My roommate and I live on the top floor. We can see the Covered Way from our back windows. The produce trucks make a dreadful lot of racket in the early morning hours, but we love it.”

  “Do you have a basic black dress?” he asked abruptly.

  “As a matter of fact I do, but—”

  “It should be suitable,” he interrupted. He lifted his wrist to glance at his watch, ignoring my protests. “It’s nearly seven. Let’s say I pick you up at 8:30. I intend to take you to the fanciest restaurant in town, and then—well, after that we’ll play it by ear.”

  “Evidently you didn’t hear what I said earlier. I don’t—”

  “Eight thirty sharp. And please be ready. I hate women who dawdle.”

  With those words, he turned and walked away with brisk strides, soon disappearing around the corner. I climbed four flights of stairs in something of a daze, infuriated, enchanted, frightened, elated. Ellie threw the door open, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Who is that delicious man?” she cried. “I happened to glance out the front window and saw you standing there in the lamplight. Carolyn, have you been holding out on me?”

  “He came into the shop today,” I said vaguely, slipping out of my coat and gazing at the cluttered living room as though I’d never seen it before. “He intends to take me out to dinner tonight.”

  “He’s maddeningly attractive. Is he an athlete? Those shoulders—he looks like a Rugby star. What’s his name?”

  “Grey Brandon.”

  “Grey Brandon? The boy from Greycliff Island?” Several years ago I had told Ellie all about that summer day, discussing it at length. She had a very good memory. “What a remarkable coincidence!”

  “Isn’t it,” I replied, still staring into space.

  “Did you remind him of that day?”

  I shook my head dreamily. Ellie was quite impatient.

  “What’s he doing in London?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Carolyn, you look—good heavens! You look like someone in a trance. Don’t tell me he’s Mister Right!”

  “He might be, Ellie. He—just might be.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I lost my job the following week. I really didn’t care. I made no effort to find another. My dismissal only meant that now I had more time to spend with Grey. We had gone out together every single night, and now I was free to see him during the daytime as well. Together we took excursions. We went to all the historic spots, the Tower, the Abbey; and sometimes we merely walked, pausing to browse through a shop, to study the architecture of a particularly interesting old house hidden away on some unfamiliar side street. Two weeks passed, then three, and I knew that I was hopelessly in love with him.

  I was a different person. I saw everything with new eyes. I had been contented before, drifting through the days in a pleasant stupor, but now there was a sparkle, an exuberance. I was happy, and there is a great deal of difference between happiness and contentment. I awoke each morning with eager anticipation. The joy inside was like a heady wine, intoxicating me. So much has been written about love, so many clichés, and all of them applied to me as I awakened to emotions I had only read about before.

  Grey was something of an enigma. He told me very little about himself and rarely mentioned his family. I found out that he lived on the island with his grandmother, his aunt and his cousin Evan, whom I had cause to remember. Fishing was a great industry on the coast, and the Brandons practically had a monopoly on it. They owned more than two dozen large fishing vessels that were manned by men from the village, as well as a great cannery on the mainland. There were also investments in the city, I gathered, although Grey was extremely vague about them. Talking about the island and his family seemed to make him uncomfortable. He frowned and fidgeted every time I asked a question, so I soon stopped.

  He never explained what he was doing in London either, although I assumed it was for some kind of prolonged holiday. He certainly hadn’t come to transact any kind of business, and he seemed to have plenty of money to indulge every whim. He changed hotels three times, mysteriously, for no apparent reason. I remembered his refusal to write a return address on the package of books he sent to his grandmother. He obviously didn’t want his family to know where he was staying. Well, that really wasn’t so surprising, I thought. Any number of young men find it refreshing to get away from their families for a while.

  I didn’t let any of this bother me. I merely enjoyed Grey Brandon as a marvelous companion—jolly, humorous, taking an almost childlike pleasure in the foolish, touristy things we did together every day. During the evening he became a suave, confident escort, the fun-loving lad in suede jacket and jeans turning into a sleek, handsome man-about-town in elegant clothes.

  He had a sunny disposition, yet I knew there were hidden depths to his character. Grey was blithe, carefree; yet there were times when a shadow seemed to pass over him. Then he grew silent and withdrawn, his gray eyes cloudy, lips pressed together, a worried frown between his brows. I learned to accept these moods, never to question them. They invariably vanished, and when they were gone he was merrier than ever, his smile warmer than before. At the cove, all those years ago, I had sensed some sorrow, and the sorrow was still there in the man, buried deep inside. I suspected that it had something to do with the loss of his parents, who had died in a bizarre boating accident when he was a very young boy.

  Grey was a complex person, and I loved him all the more for it. He was courtly and teasing, manly and seductive, all a
t the same time. For all his virility and sexual magnetism, he had a kind of puppy-dog vulnerability that made him all the more appealing. He made even the most commonplace things seem exciting, and every moment spent away from him seemed intolerable.

  Not that things were perfect. We had our conflicts. These were to be expected, and, not surprisingly, they were over my refusal to accompany him to his hotel room. He felt that such matters were natural and right. I stubbornly clung to my old-fashioned standards. We argued. He could be quick-tempered and sullen, and I hadn’t lost all of my childhood scrappiness. Like all couples in love, we argued, and like all couples we felt closer and more united when the arguments were over.

  A month passed. The March winds were strong and there was a chill in the air, yet it was truly spring for me, my first real spring. I began to wonder how long it would last. I began to wonder when he would leave, vanishing out of my life as suddenly as he had appeared. Such bliss couldn’t last. I felt a certain sadness amidst the joy, and I began to be afraid he wouldn’t call, wouldn’t appear on the doorstep with his warm smile and wind-flushed cheeks and disheveled blond hair. He was too good to be true. I had done nothing to deserve such happiness.

  One Sunday afternoon we were strolling in the park. Although it was April, the trees were still bare, studded with hard greenish-brown knobs that would soon unfurl. The lawns were crowded. Lovers strolled hand in hand or reclined on blankets spread over the grass. Children played noisily, while mothers sat gossiping on the benches, knitting needles clicking. Guitar music twanged plaintively. Overhead, through a network of stark black limbs, the sky was steel gray with just a suggestion of blue.

  Grey was silent. He wore tight tan denim trousers and a brown suede jacket, the collar turned back to reveal the sheepskin lining. Dark blond locks fluttered in the wind. Eyes downcast, mouth a bit surly, he kicked at rocks with the toe of his scuffed loafer. He hadn’t said a word in the past fifteen minutes. I walked beside him, worried, the wind lifting the skirt of my lavender coat and tugging at the sapphire blue scarf I had tied over my hair. He had wanted us to spend the afternoon in his hotel room. I had refused. The young people necking so passionately and openly on the blankets seemed to mock me and underscore my prudery.