'You can't drive a man wild . . .'he licked her fingers, catching them in his lips and kissing the palm of her hand as it fluttered over his mouth' . . . without taking the consequences. You know that, don't you, angel?'
'I love you, Torrin.'
Putting a finger over her lips, he muttered further feverish endearments, drawing her down and down over him so that she felt as helpless as a rag doll, all resistance turned to yearning as his strength transported her to a heaven she had never dreamed of, all words but the one that was his name scoured from her mind in the ecstasy of the moment.
She lay collapsed across him, one of his arms heavily resting across her back to stop her slipping off the narrow day bed, his own head thrown back across the pillows. His lips pressured gently against the side or her neck as she moved up to kiss him. 'We're an impractical pair,' he murmured after a while, 'there's a perfectly sound double bed across the room . . . Come on,' he urged, forgetting his fractured ankle and cursing under his breath as he put pressure on it again.
Merril slithered into the cold sheets beside him. 'This is heaven, Torrin! I never knew it could be like this. It must be the best kept secret in the world.'
'Idiot, I don't know where you've been living! Come here, that was only a beginning . . .' Injury forgotten, he began to give her a lesson in love she knew she would never forget.
It was early next morning while they were both still sleeping that Tom rang, as promised, to tell Torrin he'd fixed an appointment with Wardrobe. 'How are you feeling, love?' she heard him ask.
'Not bad, replied Torrin.
Merril lowered her lashes. Not bad? She felt wonderful. She imagined how she would scold Torrin when he came off the phone for being so grudging about such a wonderful night. Then another thought popped unbidden into her head -- some comment about stage-struck women—and she had a nightmare picture of this being the sort of thing to happen to him all the time. The thought was so horrible, she prayed it wasn't true. She jerked her head round to watch him when he replaced the receiver, as if she would be able to read his past in his face.
'She's going to come up here to take measurements, so we needn't get up just yet,' he remarked, oblivious to the turmoil of her thoughts.
She allowed him to put his arms around her and they lay in each other's arms until the very last minute when Torrin finally had to reach out to ring down for breakfast. He wouldn't let her get dressed, and she hid under the blankets as the trolley was wheeled in.
'Hotels are one of the last places in which one can justify having breakfast in bed,' he told her sternly. 'No hotel manager worth his salt feels he's doing a proper job if his guests leap forth at crack of dawn to vacate their rooms without first having dined like Caesar recumbent.'
'As an argument it's rather poor, but I'm too comfortable to argue,' Merril replied, propping herself up against him when the waiter had left and nibbling on a piece of cinnamon toast.
'Do you do this sort of thing often?' she ventured at last in a small voice, trying to sound casual and half hoping he might think she simply meant having breakfast in bed in hotels; but it was too much like the question she had asked the previous night and he obviously took it as a direct probe into other affairs.
'Don't probe! It lacks style.'
'Sor --' she began, then snapped her mouth shut. 'No, I meant breakfast in bed,' she muttered, suddenly chilled by the deliberate intrusion of the outside world and the inference to be drawn from Torrin's reticence.
'Hotel breakfasts in bed? Whenever I can. One needs some comfort during a tour. It can be hell moving from town to town all the time.' He settled back. 'I used to tour six months of the year with a small theatre company, everyone mucking in with the loading of the props, setting up and so on—even driving the truck from venue to venue. That was soon after I left drama school. Wonderful years, but damned hard work, and one certainly learns to search out the little luxuries that make life bearable.'
'Like some friendly girl in your bed, I suppose?' Merril couldn't help remarking.
He laughed and gave her a little hug, but didn't agree or disagree. She was thoughtful as they breakfasted, becoming increasingly aware that, despite their lovemaking, Torrin's attitude to her had changed in a subtle way. It had really begun since their argument at the mill, only being made worse when he got hold of the idea that she was stage-struck. She tried to recall what it was she had said during their argument that had seemed to trigger off his change, but could only muster a hazy recollection of that stormy scene.
Last night his own warning had been clear enough, but she had chosen to ignore it, not really believing he could mean it, and, in the ecstasy of loving him, feeling herself invincible—powerful enough to make him love her by the sheer force of her own desire.
Now, in the light of day, things were not so cut and dried. Torrin himself was not the unresisting force he had been then.
Merril burned to get things straight, but was frightened to hear his reply until, at the very last moment, just as he was levering himself over the side of the bed, she said tersely, 'Am I just a one-night stand to you, Torrin? Tell me.' He dropped back heavily on the edge and put his head in his hands, his face concealed, and for a moment or two didn't bother to reply. Then he turned to her. His face was wiped of all expression again. 'I warned you you'd got it right from the very beginning. I'm not a hero, I'm made of flesh and blood. And I'm open to temptation, as you've seen. I'm not your dream lover, Merril.'
'I don't expect that any more. It was unrealistic she said miserably.
'I warned you not to expect anything from me in the way of commitment. Don't let's have regrets now when it's too late.'
He turned round to look at her. She was sitting bolt upright, blonde hair tousled from the touch of his own hands, face flushed after a night's lovemaking, her breasts, uncovered, glowing with a pearly lustre.
He looked at her for a long time without moving, then gave a flip smile. 'One-night stand?' A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. 'No, I don't see you like that.'
He turned away, but when he turned back there was a crooked smile on his face as he caught her eyes. 'One night isn't enough. You've still a lot to learn. Two or three might cover the curriculum, though.'
She could see he wanted to keep things light, but his reply tore her apart. She had been right to be wary, knowing all along this would happen. Torrin was simply too spoiled by constant admiration to take her seriously. He hadn't understood how much it had cost her to surrender to him. It was more than she had ever given any man in her life. And now he was telling her it was over.
'No regrets,' she replied bravely. 'I might even sign on for another course of lessons. I'll let you know.'
Unable to keep up the don't-care manner a moment longer, she leaped out of bed and made a pretence of racing to the bathroom first, jeering at him through the door as he limped after her. Pretending it was all a game, she slammed the door and locked it. Then she switched the shower full on to drown out the sound of the sobs that wrenched through her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The girl from Wardrobe and her assistant had already arrived by the time Merril emerged from the shower, flushed, and not a little embarrassed at the thoughts that would be going through their heads when they saw her with only a bath towel draped around her. With a muttered greeting she snatched up her clothes and retreated into the privacy of the bathroom once more to put them on.
Their task was finished by the time she re-emerged. This time she had made up her face and done her hair, and hoped she was looking more self-possessed than she felt. The wardrobe mistress, Marie, was sitting on the floor, resting her head against Torrin's 'good' leg, and they were chatting in a friendly, intimate manner that made Merril purse her lips. She knew it was silly to feel jealous, but she did, she couldn't help it. Especially when Marie turned to him and in response to something Torrin said, smiled up wickedly and announced, 'I know your measurements as well as I know my own, darling, so don't fret.'
He looked puzzled.
'Oh, never mind, Tory darling,' she whipped back, then regretted showing her feelings so plainly when she saw the bored look on his face as he understood what she was getting at.
'You can opt out any time you like, Merril.' He shrugged his shoulders into his jacket, still sitting down to save his ankle, and when she didn't answer he said, 'OK—so do we go or don't we?'
She felt her breath stop. Now was the point of no return. She gave a brief nod.
On the way down she avoided his glance, helping unobtrusively by holding open the lift doors and wondering if they would have time to unravel the knot of misunderstanding between them before they parted. Thinking ahead to that time, she asked, 'When do you want me to leave?'
Torrin's reply was interrupted by the arrival of the black Jaguar. It stopped as close to the hotel doors as possible and the chauffeur came up the steps, holding out an arm for Torrin. Evidently someone had kept him up to date with the situation. Merril wondered what it cost to employ someone like that, plus car, plus parkside mansion . . . Somehow it didn't make sense, unless Torrin had appeared in films and made his money that way. He would never have toured for so long in the conditions he had described earlier if his family were as well-heeled as she had first imagined.
When they were settled in the N car and it was speeding down the Strand, she asked him again. 'When do you want me to leave?'
'I heard you the first time, and I'm still thinking about it.' His eyes narrowed. 'What about you? When do you want to leave?'
Never, Merril thought, averting her face. 'I can come back to town tonight,' she muttered eventually. 'Whenever it suits you.'
'Tomorrow morning would suit me better,' he replied at once.
So be it, she thought. It was a slight reprieve. At least she had given him the option of getting rid of her sooner. But then, after last night, why should he? The cynicism of her attitude was untypical, but she couldn't help it. Last night she had simply provided a little of the luxury' he had learned to seek out, hadn't she? The thought brought a tear of humiliation to the corners of her eyes. Her pride was in shreds, but she couldn't bring herself to leave him until he asked her to go. She would stay as long as possible. Every minute would be counted and stored and afterwards preserved in the archives of her memory as something special and unrepeatable.
As before, the driver dropped them in the grove and they walked back over the wooden bridge towards the house. The mill stream was still swollen after the previous day's rainstorm, and Merril shuddered as she looked down into the powerful current. Torrin had saved her life. As they paused on the bridge she touched his arm but found herself unable to frame the words that would tell him of the depth of her emotion. He seemed to understand what was making her tongue-tied, for after glancing down at the rushing water he tightened his grip on her. arm before giving a little shrug, a slight smile softening the austerity of his expression. 'Close shave, hm?' He pushed her on ahead, limping slightly as he followed her into the garden.
After lunch which was waiting tor them, prepared, he explained, by a woman from the village who had also brought in the Sunday papers, Torrin settled down before the log fire blazing cheerfully in the open fireplace and with his foot resting on a stool began to go through the contents of a leather bag he had brought back from the theatre.
'Anything I can do to help?' asked Merril, coming to sit next to him.
'Stopped taking notes, have you?' he teased, looking human all of a sudden.
'I made all the notes I wanted last night,' she retorted drily. 'What are you doing now?'
'My usual Sunday morning task, a little late this weekend.' He pushed some letters over to her. It was fan mail, she saw that at once, much of it written on lurid-coloured notepaper, some of it scented, she noticed with a faint smile. Teenage girls. She had never gone through that phase, not having had much interest in pop idols or film stars at that age herself.
'Do you always get this much?' she asked.
'There's a little more this week, with the opening.' He gave a chuckle. 'Read this, she sounds priceless!'
Merril blushed as she read the impassioned declarations scrawled in a large schoolgirl hand on pink note-paper. 'Honestly!' She hastily put it with the others. 'How on earth do you answer that sort of thing?'
'Mainly I hand the lot over to my agent. One of the secretaries sees that they get answered once I've looked them over. Some of them are rather sweet,' he paused, 'others not.'
Before she could ask what he meant a photograph of a very pretty girl of about seventeen fell out of one of the envelopes. Torrin eyed it appreciatively, and his expression made Merril turn away. She got up rather hurriedly and went to refill their coffee-cups from the pot in the hearth. When she turned round he was already opening the next one. No wonder he looked as if he had heard it all before when she said she loved him! she thought. Her declaration had been pale stuff compared to these purple pages. But her love was real, wasn't it? These—these others, they were just teenage dreams.
She came to sit on the floor at his feet. 'Torrin, how will you ever believe a woman really loves you after being brainwashed by all these fantastic, ephemeral protestations?'
'Not so ephemeral, some of them,' he replied, continuing to read a long letter, several pages of it, until, reaching the end, he said, 'This particular girl has been writing to me for the last eighteen months. Saw me in some production up north.'
'Why? Why does she do it?'
'Life unsatisfactory, perhaps? She has two small children, an unimaginative husband and an ageing, incontinent father to look after with no hope of anything better for a very long time. I'm her little bit of escapism, her dream lover who keeps her sane in an impossible situation. And why not?'
'It's ridiculous! Don't they realise what fools they're making of themselves?'
He shook his head. 'Life's been good to you. You can't possibly imagine what it's like to be trapped in a situation you don't want but which for various reasons you're forced to endure—courage makes them go on, they should be admired, not mocked. I would run away if things weren't to my liking. So, too, in all probability, would you. But some of these women, they go on and on, caring for their families, struggling to make ends meet, surviving under impossible conditions. They're the salt of the earth.'
His voice, his words, even the phrases he was using, reminded Merril of what Azur had said about the villagers he took her to meet, the ones caught up in a war they didn't want. It made her gasp. 'Have you --' She broke off. Of course he hadn't said these things before, yet it gave her such a sense of deja vu, she was thrown into confusion.
'What's the matter?' Torrin noticed her change of colour.
'Nothing,' she replied, her heart fluttering before she could bring it under control. Then, pulling herself together, she asked, 'Are you right? Is it courage? Or is it stupidity that makes people go on heedlessly, mindlessly, year after year?' An image of her mother flashed before her eyes, her mother waiting by the phone for news of her war correspondent husband in one trouble spot or another. Her mother never missing the news in case there was something about the latest foreign war. She had scarcely had enough peace of mind to live a life of her own. Merril had despised her for it.
'Wouldn't it be better if they got up and did something about the situation they're in, if it's so hard to endure?' She felt a flush of anger lash her face as she fought against some deep-seated response. 'I would fight back! I wouldn't lapse into day-dreams—I'd do something! I couldn't bear not to change things.'
'And if things couldn't be changed?'
'Then I'd die in the attempt!' She broke off again as something struck her with unpleasant clarity. In a minor way wasn't she herself simply lapsing into a dream of what-might-have-been? First over Azur, and now over Torrin himself? For instead of standing up and telling him he could go to hell, she was passively en
during the agony of knowing she meant nothing to him, and suffering it because she felt compelled to, by love in her case. And it wasn't duty, or any of those other reasons some of these women had for putting up with lives devoid of hope, but love, some would say a self-chosen torment.
What made it easier still, she knew it would be over tomorrow. Compared to long years of endurance, it needed little courage to get through one day of hell.
Her eyes glistened. 'I should show more sympathy,' she muttered. 'I'm—' She smiled bitterly. 'If I was allowed to say I'm sorry, I would do.'
'Good—well, don't. It's enough to feel it.' Torrin put his head on one side. 'Don't look so miserable —they're not all sob stories. Some of them are fun, they're simply looking for a little spice. They can be very naughty indeed!
'Do you ever meet any of them?' she asked. 'I mean, after they've written to you?'
'Sometimes. They turn up at the stage door expecting me to remember everything they told me about themselves.'
'What do you do?'
'It depends.'
'On what?'
'On what they want,' he shrugged.
'Would you give them what they want?'
'Sex, you mean?' he asked brutally.
Merril nodded, averting her head.
He didn't answer straight away and she turned back to gauge his expression. He was smiling.
'Well? she demanded more sharply than she intended.
'Of course I don't. It'd be very one-sided, wouldn't it? I'd be taking advantage of them.'
'You took advantage of me last night!' she flared back before she could stop herself.
'On the contrary, you took advantage of me...' His expression was amused.
'I --?' Her mouth opened in astonishment.
'That was the last thing on my mind last night, and I warned you what would happen if you went on seducing me in that wanton fashion, but you were determined to ignore my warnings, weren't you? I had no choice once you'd got me to the point of no return.' Torrin was chuckling softly now and, putting out a hand, began to smooth the hair back from her crimsoning face. 'I was utterly helpless—it was a wonderful, a unique experience --'
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