Deception and Desire

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Not just me,’ he said. ‘You too. Where would you like to go?’

  He saw it then, that same smile of pure happiness that had transformed her face when he had first given her the job. Happiness, surprise, and an element of disbelief.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Why not? You’ve earned it.’

  The smile faltered suddenly. ‘But I can’t afford to go on holiday.’

  ‘Did anyone ask you to pay? Go on – where would you like to go?’

  ‘Exmoor,’ she said. ‘The Doone Valley. I’d like to see the church where Lorna was shot.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s just a story!’

  ‘Maybe. I’d still like to see it.’

  At that moment he would have taken her anywhere in the world that she wanted to go.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Exmoor it is. How soon can you be ready?’

  ‘Anytime.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, anxious not to give her time to change her mind. ‘We’ll go tonight.’

  He telephoned through on the office phone to book rooms in a hotel in Minehead – the Gateway to Exmoor – then drove her home, giving her an hour to pack, and picked her up again.

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Brooks approves at all,’ Dinah said, giggling, as he put her battered suitcase into the boot beside his own smart monogrammed leather one. ‘ She thinks I’m a scarlet woman!’

  And so you will be, if I get the chance! Van thought with a touch of wry humour. Aloud he said: ‘ Take no notice. She’s just a narrow-minded old biddy.’

  Dinah giggled again. ‘Yes,’ she said happily, ‘she is.’

  She was, he thought, more relaxed than at any time since he had known her. It was as if the totally changed circumstances of the last few days had lifted the barriers that little bit more and pushed whatever it was that haunted her into the past where it belonged. His spirits rose. Perhaps away from familiar surroundings the time would be right to unravel the enigma that was Dinah and manoeuvre their relationship into a more intimate phase.

  The hotel was on North Hill where the wild and beautiful expanse of Exmoor creeps right down to the outer perimeter of the town and the wide blue bay spreads out beneath. It was late by the time they arrived; they had dinner in the hotel restaurant, all pristine white napery, heavy old silver and sparkling crystal, and watched the sun go down in a blaze of red until it disappeared into the sea. Van made no move that night. Better to let her relax completely, sink into the wonderfully unreal state that comes with holidaying in a romantic setting.

  The next day they breakfasted in the same huge dining room and Dinah ate ravenously – stewed fruit, bacon, tomatoes and scrambled eggs, toast and marmalade and coffee. Van, used to seeing her pick at her meals when he took her out to dine, was amazed at her appetite. He had noticed recently that she seemed to have put on some weight – scarcely surprising if she tucked so much away each morning!

  Breakfast over, they drove out on to Exmoor. Dinah gazed enraptured at the ever-changing scenery – the deep wooded valleys with streams running through, the wide and wild expanses of moorland, green and purple and gold where the heather and gorse grew in great spreading patches amid the scrubby grass. Van felt a softening inside as he looked at her, experiencing again the same desire to please her that he had felt the first time she had walked into his office.

  At last they stopped and Van laced himself into the boots he had made.

  ‘Moment of truth!’

  Dinah laughed. ‘They’ll be fine – I know they will!’

  ‘I hope so – since it’s my feet that will be covered in blisters if they’re not!’

  There were no blisters, but the boots did rub his ankle bone.

  He eased the boots off, sitting on a boulder, and examined the raw spot.

  ‘Is it my feet or the boots?’

  Dinah had dropped on to the scrub beside him, bending over the offending boot, prodding at the high collar that encased the ankle.

  ‘It’s got to be the boots. It doesn’t matter how peculiar your feet are …’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘… they have got to be comfortable. For you – or anyone. Perhaps if we added a little padding from there … to there …’

  ‘When do we add it?’

  ‘As soon as we get back to the factory.’

  ‘And what about me? How do I get back to the car now?’

  Dinah smiled mischievously. ‘Well, you could go barefoot! Or maybe I could make some padding now. Just to try. Here, let me …’

  She pushed the boot on to his foot. He winced.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She searched in her bag for a clean handkerchief and placed it under the collar of the boot. As her fingers grazed his skin he winced again, not from pain now but from the sharp arousing pleasure of her touch. She glanced up anxiously, thinking she had hurt him, and her clear, troubled eyes sent a bolt of desire through the core of him. He reached out and touched her hair, running his fingers through its silky softness, curling around the base of her skull. She sat motionless, looking up at him, her hand still resting on his foot. He bent forward, never taking his eyes off hers, and pulled her gently towards him. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted her, but he knew instinctively that he must not rush her even now.

  A tremor ran through her as his face came closer to hers, but it was gentle, like the wind whispering through the bracken. In that moment the past with all its pain, and the lurking uncertainties of the immediate future ceased to exist. There was only Van. The touch of his hand on her hair was her cradle and her grave, the whole of her life was there in the circle of his arms. He was the only one who had ever mattered, could ever matter, she would walk through the fires of hell to be with him, sacrifice anything just to have him look at her this way, hold her, love her. Dinah felt her soul rise within her, taking wing to meet him. And as it did so a tiny detached part of her was whispering that there would never be another moment quite as perfect as this one, when they would be quite alone, quite separate not only from the rest of the world but also from their own fears and ambitions, anxieties and dreams, cut off in a universe of their own making and surrounded by galaxies of stars.

  His lips touched hers and suddenly it was not only her soul but her body that was yearning, the hard sensual mouth crushing hers with a terrible tenderness. She let go of his foot and somehow was in the gap between his knees, her hands gripping the powerful blades of his shoulders, back arched, head bent back beneath his kiss so that her throat curved like a swan’s. His arms were around her now, circling her waist, as she pressed forward against him. After long minutes, very gently he held her away, looking at her.

  ‘Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do that?’

  She shook her head. Her lips were swollen, her eyes luminous.

  ‘I think I only invented this holiday so that I could get you alone. Did you know that?’

  Again she shook her head. She had no words.

  He kissed her again, delighting in the way her lips responded, speaking the volumes her voice refused to utter. Then he stood up.

  ‘Shall we go back to the hotel?’

  She knew what he meant and for an instant it was as if he had douched her with ice-cold water. This habit of living each moment for itself and never looking ahead had really got a hold on her; lost in the euphoric aura of romance she had simply refused to acknowledge the natural progression of events. Now a great wave of panic washed over her, not because she did not want Van to make love to her – she did, oh, she did! – but because she was suddenly terrified that he would be bound to realise her condition. Her body was still remarkably contained, it was true, her stomach muscles were strong and she was carrying the baby high so the bulge was almost all in her midriff and waistline. But her breasts were full and swollen, the nipples dark and spotted with white nodules. If he saw them he would surely know …

  ‘Dinah?’

  Love flooded her and she knew that if
she let this moment slip away it might never come again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back.’

  He pulled her to her feet, kissed her again. In the quiet that surrounded them, Dinah could hear bumble bees and crickets, all the tiny sounds of nature. For the rest of her life they would be synonymous for her with perfect, unsullied happiness.

  ‘Thank God I can get these bloody boots off now!’ Van said when they reached the car. He sat in the driving seat, kicking them away and slipping his feet into his own comfortable brogues. ‘ No one in their right mind would pay good money for them as they are, I assure you.’

  Dinah was too happy to do anything but laugh.

  ‘Don’t you realise that’s my design you are maligning?’

  ‘We’ll get it right. I’ll get Jim Pratten to work on it.’

  ‘But I …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You stick with the ideas – leave the master craftsmen to sort out the details.’

  There was something slightly patronising in the way he said it. Dinah experienced a slight pang of deflation, which was instantly forgotten as he reached over to squeeze her hand.

  The hotel was quiet, a few guests taking afternoon tea and pastries in the lounge. Van collected their room keys from the reception desk. Dinah was waiting for him on the stairs. He slipped an arm around her waist.

  ‘Your room or mine?’

  The dark imp of reality tapped her shoulder once more. She pushed it away.

  ‘Yours.’

  She wanted it to be his room. She wanted to see his things around her, holding her safely in his world. Her own room was full of cheap clothes and her tatty suitcase, looking totally out of place on the impressive luggage rack. Her room was evidence of her past, portent for her future. Her room was too close to reality.

  He unlocked the door, drawing her inside, and she felt no fear, only a sense of rightness. Though it was less than two hours since he had first kissed her, the courtship had already in a sense been gone through in the long evenings when they had talked endlessly and nothing more.

  She looked around. The late-afternoon sunshine was slanting in through the partially drawn curtains, lighting a room that was curiously impersonal. The maids had obviously been in, the room had been cleaned and the bed made, but it was clear that in any case Van was meticulously tidy. His clothes were all hanging out of sight in the wardrobe, not draped around as her own were, on the dressing table there was only his hairbrush and a pair of gold cufflinks to add a personal touch to the hotel’s information folder and the courtesy tray with kettle and neatly stacked cups and saucers.

  Van pushed the door closed, dropped the room key on to the dressing table beside the hairbrush and took her in his arms. At once desire flooded her, blotting out thought. He kissed her, then began unbuttoning her blouse, and the fear returned, urgent now.

  ‘Couldn’t we pull the curtains … please?’ she whispered.

  He looked at her with love and indulgence in his eyes. She was such a child, so shy. He would teach her to enjoy lovemaking, to glory in the sight of his body and his enjoyment of hers, to watch the act and so appreciate it with every one of her senses. But it would take time. For now he would humour her and do it her way.

  He crossed to the window and drew the curtains. They were thick, lined with heavy material, and they shut out almost all of the light. He went back to where she stood, arms wrapped protectively around her body. A moment’s doubt assailed him.

  ‘Dinah … you are sure?’

  She nodded. He could hear her breath, soft and uneven. As he reached for her, slipping his hands inside her blouse and unfastening the strap of her bra, she moved closer to him so that her body was entirely hidden from him, and again he wondered. Even now she was holding back, keeping within herself that very private place he could not reach. But he wanted her too much now to worry about it. She was shy, that was all, inexperienced and perhaps slightly ashamed of it.

  ‘Darling, relax!’ he said, the endearment slipping easily off his tongue though he could never remember having used it to a woman before. ‘ I won’t hurt you. Just let it happen.’

  Her skirt was simple pink gingham trimmed with white broderie anglaise, full and gathered. When he unbuttoned the waistband it fell to the ground. Beneath it she was wearing a petticoat made of layers of stiffened net in rainbow colours; easy, too, to slip that down. It lay at her ankles in a sighing heap and he slid his hand behind her knees, lifting her out of it bodily and carrying her to the bed.

  In the dim light he could see the curves of her body, a little more rounded than he had expected, as she lay on top of the covers. He undressed himself swiftly then knelt beside her, stroking and kissing her until he felt her beginning to respond again. Yet even in response she was curiously passive. Van was used to women who knew how to make love with the skills of a courtesan, who expressed their desire with positive actions, who were prepared even to take the initiative. Dinah did none of these things. Though he could sense the quivering need that was electrifying her body she lay almost completely still, waiting for him to call the shots, and he realised he liked it, that for him it was more arousing to be totally dominant than to be made love to, however skilfully.

  He lay down on his side next to her, turning her so that they lay face to face. He kissed her again, holding her pressed close so that he probed her gently, and she gave a soft, low cry and arched against him. For a few moments more he moved rhythmically until he sensed both from the movements of her body and the rising urgency of her breath that she was in the upward spiral of excitement which leads to climax. Then and only then did he enter her.

  Lying pressed into the pillows, Dinah felt she had moved into another dimension. The excruciating sweetness, the mounting desire, the brief moment of pain, the utter delight of having him fill her, move in her, possess her.

  ‘Please … oh please!’ she whispered, but she did not know what it was she was begging for because already she had everything she could desire and it was wonderful … wonderful! Then: ‘Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop!’ and she knew it was because she wanted this glory to go on forever, the sensation of body and mind and spirit all swirling upwards to the stars.

  ‘Come with me,’ Van murmured, sliding his hands beneath her and raising her so that the tilt of her body brought them still closer together. And suddenly the sweetness was reaching screaming pitch, so sharp she could scarcely bear it and she knew this was the moment to hold on to, this, this.

  Afterwards, subsiding into the warm rosy valley of contentment, she twined her arms around Van’s broad back, holding him within her as long as she could. Only when he slipped from her did she allow that it really was over.

  ‘Oh Van, I love you,’ she whispered.

  He squeezed her gently but said nothing, rolling on to his side and taking her with him. She was becoming drowsy now; though it was still only late afternoon she felt her eyelids closing.

  Beside her Van too relaxed in the afterglow, and a few moments later, still locked in one another’s arms, they slept.

  Something was wrong. Van knew it but could not for the life of him put his finger on what it was.

  He had sensed it almost immediately after that first ecstatic lovemaking When they had woken Dinah had clung to him as if she could not bear to be parted from him for even an instant. At his suggestion she had run a bath, but whilst she was taking it she had locked the door, and when she emerged she looked slightly drawn, although the warmth of the water had raised a rosy flush in her cheeks.

  ‘Come here,’ he said to her, and although she did as he asked he sensed that she had gone away from him again. Frustration made him irritable; he could not understand her withdrawal, the stiffness in every line of her body as he held her. Yet when he said a little coolly: ‘Perhaps we had better get dressed for dinner,’ she clung to him, her tight closed eyes and puckered mouth suggesting she might be close to tears.

  At dinner it was the same; she ate little and seem
ed preoccupied. She did not want a pudding; he went to the sweet trolley to choose from the impressive array of desserts and as he returned to their table he noticed that her face, in repose, was indescribably sad.

  It was as if that shadow that lurked at her shoulder was back, he thought, only darker and more insistently threatening than before. He filled her glass, thinking it might help to relax her, but she drank little, only sipping at the good French wine he had selected.

  Afterwards they went for a walk, down the hill to the sea front, and the burden went with them. Van’s impatience grew. Was this how virgins behaved when they had just succumbed for the first time – wallowing in doubt, resenting the loss of their virginity? It was so long since he had made love to anyone but the most experienced of women and he could not recall ever having encountered such a reaction before, but he thought it must be that. He would have to be patient with her and teach her that there was no need for it to be this way, he decided.

  He made no attempt to make love to her again that night, but next morning as she faced him across the breakfast table she reminded him a little of a piece of diamond-cut crystal, so sharply brittle was she. The cloud, he knew, was still there beneath the shining exterior. It had not gone away, it was simply hidden.

  He drove her to Porlock. They sat by the weir, watching the fishing smacks in the bay, then they went on, up the steep toll road, back on to the moors, seeking out the villages where thatched cottages nestled together behind their gardens, bright with the old-fashioned flowers of summer – hollyhocks and delphiniums, phlox and snapdragons. They had lunch in a country pub and afterwards he headed for the spot she had said she most wanted to see – the Doone Valley.

  They parked on the road, looking down towards the church where Lorna had died, and glancing at Dinah he saw that her eyes were full of tears. In that moment irritation gave way to tenderness. He put his arm around her, turning her to face him.