A Bid for Love & A Chance of Happiness

by J. B. Sherrard

  "That would be lovely," he said and when she returned from the kitchen she found he had lit the gas fire and was looking out of the uncurtained window.

  "I'm sorry there aren't any curtains," she said. "The ones in here were long and soaked up the sea water." She put the two mugs of coffee on the window-sill, standing beside him.

  He turned to her with a groan. "Oh, angel, don't stand so close, there's so much I must tell you before…" His voice trailed off as he looked down into her expectant face.

  "Before what?" she whispered, reaching up to slip her arms about his neck.

  He made no answer, but his arms closed convulsively round her and his mouth found hers. Petra struggled a little to pull away from him and he released her at once, but she didn't move far. She smiled up at him and said, "There are curtains in the bedroom."

  He gathered her into his arms once more and with the single word, "Witch!" carried her through to the bedroom.

  There was no carpet on the floor, but the bed—being an old-fashioned wooden one—had stood high above the sea water and remained virtually undamaged, and the curtains hung at the window from which Petra had made her escape.

  Nicholas deposited her on the bed, jerked the curtains along their track, lit the gas fire and then turned back to her. His breathing became heavier, his loving more urgent and Petra, as aroused as he, pulled him down beside her, and cried out her love for him in the ecstasy of her fulfilment.

  They fell asleep in each others arms and, as she drifted into blissful oblivion, Petra knew she had never been so happy before.

  She awoke to find him standing over her, already dressed. "I've got to go, angel. Do you want me to drop you back to college, or are you going to stay here?"

  Petra uncurled like a waking kitten and reached her arms up to him.

  He laughed and bent to kiss her. "No more, angel. I've got to be in Yorkshire by mid-afternoon."

  "Yorkshire?"

  "Remember, I told you I've a couple of lectures to do up there this week?"

  Petra did remember and pulled a face.

  "I'll be back on Saturday," Nicholas promised. "Where will I find you, here or at college?"

  "Here," said Petra definitely. "I'll be here."

  "Are you going to stay here now?"

  "Mmm. I think so. Don't want to shock the night porter in college."

  Nicholas pulled the bedclothes up round her and, holding them firmly in place as if to avoid further temptation, kissed her once more.

  "I'll phone if I can," he said. "But I'll be here on Saturday."

  Petra heard his car engine outside in the street and then the roar as he accelerated away, leaving a silence hanging in its place. She curled up again and dreaming of Nicholas beside her, drifted off into sleep once more.

  Chapter Six

  Petra spent Sunday in a happy daze. She met her students for a lunchtime drink in the pub as arranged, and then returned to the flat to finish the gloss paintwork. She worked alone, completely content in her own company. The shadow Tom had cast over her the evening before had faded away in the sunshine of her love for Nicholas.

  Her heart turned somersaults at the very thought of him and she found herself laughing out loud for sheer joy when she remembered how he'd held her, kissed her, loved her. He hadn't said he loved her, Petra could accept that it was too early for that, but that he wanted her she was in no doubt and having recognised and acknowledged her own feelings for him, she was determined to do all in her power to turn that wanting into loving, not merely with his body but his mind and soul as well.

  Pausing in her glossing of a window frame she said, "I'm going to make you love me, Professor Romilly, or die in the attempt."

  Petra decided to move back into the flat as soon as she could. She would contact the carpet warehouse first thing in the morning. They guaranteed fitting within forty-eight hours and thanks to her father's generosity, she could tell them to go ahead. She would make her curtains and collect the chair covers from the cleaners so that when Nicholas arrived next Saturday everything would be ready and she would be waiting for him in her own flat.

  Petra didn't see Tom the next day. It wasn't that she avoided him particularly, but she visited her teaching practice students in the morning and had lectures and tutorials all afternoon. Her lunch hour she spent at the carpet warehouse arranging for the delivery and fitting of her new carpet and kitchen vinyl, and directly she had seen her last student, she hurried round to the flat to begin work on her curtains.

  She half-hoped Nicholas would phone, but then remembering she hadn't given him her ex-directory number, she realised that unless he had taken it himself from the telephone, he wouldn't. Anyhow, she thought, he'll think I'm at college, not here.

  Petra didn't see Tom the next day either, and wondered if he was avoiding her. She hoped not. Although she had been angry and embarrassed by his behaviour at Angelo's, she also knew he had been drinking and had said more than he ought as a consequence.

  It was Wednesday lunchtime when she finally bumped into him. Literally, in fact, as she hurried along the corridor to the staff-room. The pile of folders she was carrying cascaded to the floor and they both bent down to retrieve them.

  "Thanks, Tom." She smiled at him. Tom murmured something but didn't return her smile. He walked beside her however and held open the staff-room door for her. She thanked him again and was moving away to put the files on the table when he caught her arm.

  "Sorry about Saturday," he mumbled awkwardly.

  "Forget it," said Petra lightly. "I have."

  "Really?" He sounded anxious.

  "Of course."

  She smiled at him and he said quickly, "Have a drink with me later?"

  "That would've been nice, Tom," she replied, "but I've got the carpet fitters coming this afternoon, so I've got to be at the flat, I'm afraid."

  Tom didn't accept defeat easily. "I'll come round there then," he said. "I'd love to see it now it's all clean and painted."

  Petra sighed inwardly. She hadn't finished the curtains and she had masses of student work to assess before the weekend. Still, if it would make her peace with Tom it might be worth it. She could always work into the small hours if necessary. Petra felt she could cope with anything just now. She was riding the crest of a wave.

  "All right," she said. "I'll be making curtains, so why don't you bring a bottle of wine with you and we can stay in by the fire?"

  Tom agreed and then muttering something about a lecture, disappeared.

  The carpet fitters arrived as promised and set to work at once. Petra had decided to close carpet both the bedroom and the living-room this time. The salt water had badly stained the polished wooden floor in the living-room and utterly destroyed the rugs.

  When Tom arrived he was full of admiration for the work she and the students had done.

  "It really does look lovely," he said as he made the guided tour. "I see the bed wasn't harmed."

  Petra had an almost overwhelming desire to giggle, but she managed to keep her countenance and say, "The water stained the legs and took all the polish off, of course, but luckily it didn't reach the mattress. Mrs. Arden sat on it until we were rescued—it gave her somewhere dry."

  "Have you seen her since the flood?" Tom asked as they went back into the living-room. "Where's a corkscrew? I'll open this wine."

  Petra found it for him and said, "No. She was in a nursing-home for a while and now she's moved into an old folks' home. Nicholas moved her on Saturday."

  Tom poured the wine and handed her a glass. "I really am very sorry about Saturday evening," he began.

  Petra interrupted him. "Yes, you said so, Tom. Let's forget it."

  "Petra, I can't. I was drunk and…"

  "I know," she said drily.

  "But do you know why? Why I'd set out to drink myself under the table? Because I was insanely jealous." He set his glass down and said aggressively, "I love you, Petra. You must know I do." He moved to take her in his arms but she p
ulled free saying, "I didn't, Tom, we just had fun, that's all. I'm sorry, I really didn't know how you felt."

  "Well you must be blind, that's all." Tom was almost shouting and Petra was suddenly afraid.

  "Tom," she said as calmly as she could, "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I really am. I'm very fond of you, you know that…"

  "Fond!" growled Tom. "How very generous of you." He grabbed hold of her and forced her to face him. "Fond's no good to me, Petra. I came here to ask you to marry me."

  "Well, you're making a pretty poor job of it," said Petra with spirit. "Please let go of me, Tom."

  His hands slid from her arms, and he said miserably, "I am, aren't I? Can I start again?"

  Petra replied as gently as she could, disturbed by his dejected expression, "No, Tom. It'd be better if you didn't. I'm truly sorry if you feel this way and I hate you to be hurt because of me, but I can't give you more. I love you dearly as a friend, but that's all."

  "A friend," said Tom bitterly. "When I want to love you! I could make you love me, Petra. If you'd only let me make love to you properly, you'd see."

  Petra, who had relaxed her guard a little as Tom had calmed down, suddenly found herself snatched into his arms once more. Holding her with a strength she found it impossible to break from, he forced his mouth on hers, kissing her brutally, pushing her back against the wall so that her body was crushed against his. She fought him, struggling to free herself and all of a sudden he let go.

  "Don't worry," he sneered. "I'm not going to force you. I wouldn't, anyway, in the same place he did last Saturday. Oh, I know you didn't go back to your room in college, so you needn't pretend."

  As suddenly as before his manner changed. "Oh, Petra, wouldn't you rather be with a real man who can show you what love really is, someone who's free to love you and marry you and give you children, than—" his expression darkened again—"a man who's married and would have to keep you tucked away and then leave you alone while he scuttles back home to his darling wife?"

  Petra stared at Tom in blank disbelief. The colour drained from her face leaving her pale and cold. "But—but Nicholas isn't married," she whispered.

  "Isn't he? Have you asked him?"

  "No, of course not. The subject…"

  "Didn't arise." Tom finished the sentence for her. "I'm sure it didn't! He'd take care of that, at least until he was sure of you."

  Petra's legs felt weak and she sank on to a chair. "I don't believe you," she said. "You're making it up just to get your own back. I know you are!"

  Tom laughed unpleasantly. "I might have, if I'd thought of it. But in this case I didn't have to. Nicholas Romilly is married, so there's no room for you in his life except as his mistress."

  "How do you know he's married?" asked Petra, a little of her spirit returning to her. "Who told you?"

  "No one told me, but it's not difficult to find out. You gave me a book of his to read before he came to the conference. Well, I didn't read it then, but I have now, at least—" he corrected himself smoothly—"I've read the jacket and that's the most interesting part of all. I'll show you."

  To Petra's horror he picked up his discarded overcoat and took a book from its pocket. She recognised it at once as a copy of one of Nicholas' accounts of some work he'd done on the Greek mainland several years before.

  Tom presented it to her open at the back where the autor's notes were on the jacket. There was a list of Nicholas' scholastic achievements including his chair at a new university and then at the end the words she had been dreading leapt to meet her: "Professor Romilly lives with his wife in London."

  Petra stared unseeing at the words. Tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. Silently she wept, in sudden and awful desolation. The hand that held the book shook violently and Tom took it from her.

  For a moment he watched her, all triumph draining away as he saw her grief, then he said softly, "Do you want me to stay?"

  Unable to speak, Petra shook her head, she wanted to be alone. Gently he kissed her forehead and turned away.

  Petra didn't recoil at his kiss, she was unaware of it, as she was unaware of his departure. It wasn't until the click of the latch on the front door penetrated her mind that she knew he had gone and rending sobs escaped her.

  Petra arrived at college the next morning very pale and washed-out but with a great many things sorted out in her mind. She hadn't slept that night. For the first few hours she lay on the bed where she had been with Nicholas and wept for her lost happiness. Her life seemed to stretch away into the distance, a flat grey expanse without relief or colour. She viewed it bleakly for a long time before her natural optimism exerted itself in any measure.

  Pale-faced, Petra had returned to the living-room and picked up the book. There once again she read the fateful words. Turning to the front she looked for the date of publication and discovered it was 1978. Seven years ago. A flame of hope flickered inside her. All that Tom had proved from the book was that Nicholas had been married in 1977, but it was now 1985 and anything might have happened. People got divorced, didn't they? Or died? Petra shuddered. She didn't wish anybody dead, not even Nicholas' wife, but marriages did break up.

  Why hadn't Nicholas said at the outset that he was married? Why hadn't he brought his wife to the conference? Why hadn't the subject come up in conversation? Was that what he'd been going to tell her before their feelings had blotted out all thoughts of speech?

  All these questions churned in her mind, and yet she was no nearer a solution. How could she confirm the situation one way or another? One answer was obvious and that was to tax Nicholas with it on Saturday, but even as her mind accepted this as the simple solution she was loath to do so without further proof. It wasn't so long ago that she had accused Nicholas of inhuman and uncivilised behaviour without making enough effort to check the facts and circumstances. She had been made to look a fool then, and she was in no hurry to make the same mistake again.

  Perhaps Nicholas had just assumed she knew the truth. If he thought she already knew, then there was no need to say anything to her. He hadn't necessarily set out to deceive her.

  Then she recalled again how he had put her away from him on two earlier occasions. How he had kissed her passionately and then broken free as if something had come into his mind—memories of his wife? She could call to mind now the strange torment on his face in the car; as if he were fighting a battle, she had thought at the time. Perhaps he had been, against his guilt.

  And when he left her curled up in bed, saying he had commitments in Yorkshire, had he really had to be there that day or did he have to return home to spend Sunday with his wife first?

  But if there was a wife waiting patiently at home, where did she think he had been on Saturday? The answer to that particular question was simple of course: he'd been in Grayston-on-Sea moving his mother into an old people's home.

  None of the questions which bombarded Petra's bemused brain brought her any nearer to resolving the situation, but as the grey dawn crept into the sky, she managed to make one firm decision. She would find later books in the college library or better still look in Who's Who. A man like Professor Nicholas Romilly would almost certainly be in that.

  Even this minor decision helped her feel a little better, and she made herself a cup of coffee and, still feeling unable to sleep, set to work on assessing the students' essays she had brought home the previous evening.

  She fought to concentrate her mind on the work in front of her, but even so she found her thoughts drifting away from studies of the Paston letters and the fifteenth-century, and returning to the dull ache in her heart which told her her hopes were indeed forlorn ones and that Nicholas was indeed married.

  Well, she would make what enquiries she could and then tackle Nicholas when he came on Saturday. If he came.

  There was no time before her first lecture to visit the library, but when it was over she hurried to the reference section and searched for Who's Who.

  She carried the hefty
tome across to a quiet table in an alcove and with trembling fingers turned up Romilly—Peregrine Nicholas b. 25th June 1948—then his schools were listed and universities and then in black and white m. Anne Chappie 1973. More information followed, but Petra didn't read it. Who's Who thought he was married as well, and now the wife had a name. Anne. Quickly she checked the date of that edition. 1980, still not completely up to date.

  Her flame of hope refused to be quenched. Surely someone like Nicholas would not two-time his wife, he was a man of integrity, wasn't he? In public life yes, in private who knew? Several of the girl students had been in raptures about him, and certainly not with regard to his lecture and his work alone. He was an extremely attractive man. Surely he'd have no difficulty finding willing women if he wanted them. 'Witness the way I fell swooning into his arms,' thought Petra bitterly, but even so she couldn't believe it of him. Not yet. All that was left to her was to ask him outright—but then if it weren't true, she would have admitted that she had doubted him; believed him capable of such duplicity. And if it did turn out to be true, he would surely laugh at her naiveté. Not that that would matter very much, she thought dully, for I shouldn't see him again if it were true. So she told herself and so she had decided, but that decision had yet to be put to the test.

  Then, while she was in the middle of a tutorial, an idea came to her and the simplicity of it made her feel quite faint. As soon as the session was over, she reached for her briefcase and emptied it on to her desk. Quickly she searched through the papers and files until she found what she was looking for, the letter from Nicholas accepting the invitation to speak at the conference. There at the top was printed his London address and phone number. There was one easy way to confirm or deny the truth of Nicholas being married and that was to phone and see if his wife answered.

  She shoved the letter into her handbag and spent the rest of the day going through the motions of being a lecturer and tutor. She didn't see Tom. She had no wish to meet him with things still unresolved and so she made coffee in her tutorial room and kept well clear of the staff-room and dining-hall. Nor did Tom make any effort to seek her out, for which she was grateful.