‘Er … yes,’ she said. ‘I will in just a moment.’
‘What’s the matter? Did I get it wrong? I know blue’s your favourite colour, but if you don’t like it, we can…’
‘No, it’s beautiful.’ Too beautiful, too chic; a creation for a film star or a model, not her style at all. She knew from working at Di’s shop how much a dress like that would cost. She was in his debt again, his sexual debt. Could she ever pay him back, be worthy of the dress? She suddenly longed to be a child again, safe and small with Katy, sprawling by the obelisk in shorts and dusty feet; back in single figures when men were only Fathers, either parental or religious; or at least back on the beach in her shabby comfy tracksuit, her private sleeping bag. She had ached to camp for over thirty years, and it had lasted just one night. Though that was hardly Robert’s fault. He must think her most ungrateful. After all, he was only helping out. She’d chucked one decent skirt away, thrown it to the waves; could hardly appear at dinner in this cheaper chain-store one, and a faded cotton tee shirt. It had been bad enough at breakfast. The woman at the table next to theirs had been designer-dressed, in linen, with pearls at wrist and throat.
‘It’s lovely, Robert. I don’t know how to thank you.’ She shook the dress out, draped it on a chair-back. ‘I’ll try it on later, once I’ve had a wash.’
‘Yes, come and see the bathroom. Or should I say the art gallery?’
Even the bath was panelled in dark oak, the walls not tiled, but papered in a linen-weave maroon, the background for a dozen gilt-framed pictures, mostly coastal landscapes. A Victorian bowl and ewer of the sort they used at Brignor stood proudly on its floral china pedestal, serving here merely as an ornament. She glanced briefly in the mirror. Her face looked too informal for the room; seemed to need a frame as well, a famous artist’s signature scrawled across her chin. She watched Robert’s head approach hers in the glass, bend to kiss her neck. It was hard to concentrate. She had drunk four cups of coffee, needed now to void it; was feeling quite uncomfortable, in fact. Liz would say, ‘Scat! I need a pee’, or even use the toilet in front of someone else. Unthinkable for her. Even things like cleaning teeth or washing seemed intimate and private, impossible to share. On the beach, she had walked miles to find a bush; cleaned her teeth in private by the car.
‘I’ll … just have a quick wash,’ she said, willing Robert to leave. He did, but she could hear him still outside, singing, whistling, banging drawers. Which meant he could hear her. She had never emptied her bladder quite so gingerly before, drop by guilty drop; reaching out to run both taps as well, to try to mask the noise. She pulled the chain, frowning at its gurgles, then drifted to the window, gazed out at hedges cut like birds; roses trained to climb and curve in bowers. Liz would love this place. She, too, was staying in a grand hotel. It was Harry’s birthday and they’d flown to Paris to celebrate in style. Harry had driven down to London, so she’d met the man, at last, just before he took Liz to the airport. She’d been surprised how old he seemed; embarrassed by the fact that she knew so much about him, all the private details of his sex life. Eager, Liz had said, with great interest in the subject, but the spirit far more willing than the flesh, alas. No, she wasn’t complaining – he was gentle and considerate, and extremely generous both in and out of bed. What he lacked in passion, he made up in devotion.
She’d felt a twinge of jealousy when she’d seen them both in the Cranleigh Gardens kitchen, gulping a last quick cup of coffee, arms entwined, Harry in her chair. Liz and he seemed bonded now, and Liz talked of nothing else: Harry’s house, Harry’s business, Harry’s hopes of being mayor. She and Liz were still good friends, of course, but they were no longer two girls on their own, and Liz was far less free – less free to spend weekends with her, or plan holidays together.
But why should she need Liz, when Robert was next door? And why was she not with him? Liz and Harry would probably be in bed together, laughing, chatting, cuddling, after croissants and black coffee, enjoying their hotel, revelling in the luxury. ‘Go for it,’ Liz had whispered, with a wink, when they’d kissed goodbye two days ago, yet here she was cowering in a bathroom, worrying about noises from the cistern. Liz had accepted flowers and gifts from Harry without agonising, totting up her debt; would have loved that blue creation, slavered at its price. ‘You’ve got it all with Robert,’ Liz had told her several times. ‘He’s even got hair, for heaven’s sake. I’ve been trying to talk my poor bald lamb into a little Magic-Weave or stick-on, but he’s resisted up to now.’
She splashed her face with water. Why was it so hot? They were no longer in the car, with the sun panting through the windows, burning on the glass, yet she still felt that sensation of being exposed to some relentless source of heat – itchy heat, restless heat, heat which seemed alive in its own right. She ran more water, lathered up the expensive floral soap, so she could enjoy its musky fragrance on her skin, dried her hands on the luxurious thick-pile towels, then squirted Liz’s scent behind her ears. She must ‘go for it’, as Liz advised; be Robert’s glorious Gloria. She would have all day to practise, to cool herself and calm herself, before she sauntered down to dinner in her Swanson gown, or tried out the four-poster. She could relax first in the shade, sit in that cool garden with its leafy walks, green lawns, maybe have a drink or two, and later a cold bath … By evening, she’d be perfect in the part, and by the end of the week, she could return to Liz triumphant, swap details, swap successes.
‘Robert,’ she said, as she stepped back to the bedroom. ‘Have you seen their marvellous garden? Why don’t … ?’ She broke off in mid-sentence. Robert had vanished, only his possessions scattered all around, a whiff of men’s cologne hanging in the air. She heard a muffled voice calling from the bed. ‘It’s incredible in here. Sort of back to the womb. Come and be my twin.’
An arm appeared between the heavy curtains, an arm naked to the shoulder. So he had taken off his shirt. What else, she wondered, with a surge of apprehension, as she unbuckled her child’s sandals? He was going far too fast. It was only half past ten and they hadn’t had their drink, or bath, or … ‘Who cares about the time?’ Liz said, grinning from the bed she shared with Harry, brushing flakes of croissant from his paunch. ‘For God’s sake, take your chances, love. Enjoy life for a change, instead of worry-gutting.’
Impulsively, she unzipped her summer skirt, let it fall around her to the floor, then climbed in pants and tee shirt through the curtains. He drew her down towards him, bare chest against the cotton of her tee shirt, corduroy legs capturing her naked ones. They were in their own small room, a dark and claustrophobic room, bounded by four walls of crushed red velvet; all the smells sharpened by the closeness of the space: the smell of frangipani soap still clinging to her hands; the tang of Robert’s cologne; luncheon smells rising from the kitchen through the open bedroom window. It was hot again, stifling hot, as if all the heat she’d felt so far had climaxed at this point, culminated in the heat of Robert’s body, the red furnace of the bed. She was aware of perspiration filming her whole body, prickling on her scalp; her heart itself pumping out more sticky dangerous heat.
He leaned up on one elbow, outlined all her features with a soft caressing finger. ‘You’ve got a lovely mouth, d’ you know that? See that little dip above your upper lip? That’s a sign of passion.’
‘You’ve got it too.’ Her finger traced the same spot on his face.
‘You see, we obviously belong together. I realised that from the first moment I set eyes on you. I’ve been pretty bloody patient, don’t you think? Except for yesterday. I owe you an apology for that.’ His hand was on her thigh, moving slowly up it, round towards her pants. ‘No!’ He removed the hand himself, returned it to her face. ‘This time it’s real slow motion. I promise not to rush things. We’ve got all day, all week. In fact, we can stay here all damn year, if you touch my chest like that again. Yes, my nipples like it, too. I’m not sure men’s are meant to. Who cares? It’s bloody marvellous. Yes, use your mouth
. That’s wonderful …
‘It’s fearfully hot in here. Are you sure you want that top on? Here, let me help. That’s better. Now the bra. Damn! These hooks are tricky. Complicated things, bras. That’s it, slip it off. Christ! They’re beautiful. They drive me wild, d’you know that? I’ve only got to look at you and I’m …’
He reached up to turn the light on, a dim pink-tinged light, half-concealed in the hangings of the bed. ‘Rose-coloured tits you’ve got now. I love those little dots all round the nipple, as if they’re there to show it off. I’ve just got to touch them, darling. No, take your hands away. I can’t see them if you do that. God! They feel so good. Your skin there’s quite fantastic, all smooth and silky, with these tiny pale blue veins, which make it look translucent. Thin-skinned, that’s what you are – thin-skinned in every way, not a great tough rhinoceros like I am.
‘Shut up, Robert, you’re talking far too much. It’s just that I’m so nervous – yes, I am – nervous as all hell, worse than you. Crazy, isn’t it? I just so want to please you, make it really good for you, as well. Look, let me kiss them, darling. That’ll shut me up. Do you like them being kissed? Like this? Or just the nipples? Your skin tastes wonderful – sweaty, slightly sweet. I’m sweating like a pig myself, and your tummy’s really damp. When I put my face against it, we’re sort of stuck together, joined by our two sweats. I like that. It’s exciting. It makes me feel you’re hot for me and want me. You’ve got a marvellous navel, very deep and private, like an extra secret opening. I can hardly get my tongue in, just the tip. I’m not going too fast, am I? I am? I’m sorry, honestly. It’s just so hard to … Okay, we’ll stop. We’ll cool it. Just a sec, my arm’s bent back. That’s better. Are you all right? You sure? We’ll have a rest, just lie together, talk. It’s so good to have you close.
‘Look, I don’t know how to put this quite, my darling, but the last thing I want is to be just some casual lecher who lures you into bed and … Of course I want you in my bed, but I want you in my life as well. Christ Almighty, Hilary, I’ve spent every night since April dreaming of this moment. I’ve missed you terribly, and my house has felt quite desolate and empty since that one weekend you spent there. I’ve been working like a black on it. The kitchen’s finished now, and all the shelves are up, with my things arranged on them. If I sell the place, they’ll all come down again, back in packing-cases. But if you came to live with me, it could be Gloria’s Tower, a monument to both of us.
‘What I’m really trying to say, darling, is you’re special, very special. No – don’t object, you are. I’ve had the wildest fantasies – except I don’t think they were fantasies at all now. I’ve even thought we’d have a child together, then yesterday you said how much you envied Liz having two daughters of her own – I mean, just as if you’d read my mind, knew what I’d been thinking. Well, it’s not too late, is it? We could have our own daughter. I’d love a little girl. What shall we call her? Gloriette? Gloriana? That was Queen Elizabeth’s name. D’you think she ever slept here? With her Essex? Just think of the couples who’ve made love in this same bed, over all the centuries.
‘Please talk, please say you’re happy. I know I’m rambling on, but it’s because I’m so unsure of you. I don’t know what you’re thinking, when you just lie there saying nothing. I haven’t upset you, have I, suggesting that we live together? I know it’s far too soon and you’ll say we hardly know each other, but by the end of this weekend, I’ll know every single inch of you. Well, I will if you allow me to remove those boring pants. Oh, please, my darling. I won’t touch, I promise – just look, just worship you. God! It’s beautiful. I’ve been wondering for ages if you’d be blonde down there as well. It’s fairer than your scalp hair, and so neat, as if you trim it.
‘Does that feel good? D’you like that? Or d’you prefer my fingers further in, like that? Just relax, my sweet, you’re tensing up a lot. We are a pair, aren’t we? I’m shaking like a leaf myself. You’ve made me feel sixteen again, as randy as all hell, but … God! I’m hot. Are you? I’ve just got to take these trousers off, or I’m going to melt away. Can you help me with the belt? That’s it. Now tug them down. Christ! Your hands – yes, there, just there – yes, harder. That’s wonderful, fantastic!
‘Just a moment, we’d better use one of these damn … Don’t shut your eyes. I like you looking at me – yes, all the time, even while I put it on. Don’t look so worried, darling. I promise to be gentle, stop whenever you like. You just say, okay? Last night was my time, this is yours. I want to know exactly what you like. Oh, Gloria, my darling, just to feel you right against me. I never thought I’d … That’s it – put your arms around me. Press really close – go on. I want to imagine we’re one body, joined all the way from … No, wait. Lie still a moment. I’m sorry, darling, but I’m going to have to cool it, or I’m afraid I’ll just explode again, like yesterday. I don’t know what you do to me. I’m not usually like this. You make it so exciting, as if it’s my first time, as well. Hey! – let’s have a sort of fantasy, pretend we’re celibates. I’m a monk and you’re a nun and we met on a pilgrimage to Walsingham: It’s only a few miles from here, in fact. Right – I’m very bashful, just a shy young virgin, not sure what to do with it. Can you help poor Brother Robert? No, you can’t. You’re just as shy as I am, little Sister Mary Aries, eyen pretty scared. And we’ve both got these black habits on, yards and yards of them. I’m fumbling with your heavy skirts, fighting all those petticoats. You’re trying to drag them down again, begging me to stop, but …
‘No, forget about the habits – we’re in our nightclothes now and I’ve just crept into your cell, and I’m lifting your white gown above your head. My hand’s between your legs, sliding up towards your … Oh, come on, darling, let me. I must just touch you there again. You’re wet, you know – you are. That means you really want it. Say you want it, darling. I love to hear you tell me. It really turns me on. Christ! You feel amazing – so hot and sort of … D’you like my fingers there? More fingers? My whole fist? Now let me just slide in. I can’t hold on much longer. Your cunt! It’s …
‘No, wait – let’s do it kneeling. Could you just turn over and sort of hump up on your knees? Oh, please. You must. We’ve got to kneel. We’re monk and nun, you see. I’ll go in really slowly. It won’t hurt at all, I promise. That’s it, that’s quite fantastic. Now try and put your head down, so your body’s sort of sloping, and I’ll kneel over you. How does that feel, Sister? Can Brother Robert go in a bit further? He’s not hurting, is he? Sure? Now, keep very very still, or Reverend Father Abbot may realise what we’re doing and come storming up from chapel. No, you mustn’t move like that, Sister. It’s quite disgraceful for an untouched virgin. You’ll have to do some penance. Christ! Do that again. Yes, grip like that, it’s wonderful. Yes, I love it. I love you. Oh, Hilary, oh, Sister …!’
Chapter Twenty six
‘Hey, Gloria, my sweet, don’t you think we ought to celebrate tonight?’
‘Celebrate? What for?’ Hilary idled to the window, stared out across the downs. It was sad to see them parched and brown, the elms below the lighthouse already specked with rust, though it was officially high summer, when trees and fields were usually still lush, still flaunting in their prime.
Robert joined her at the window, stooped down to kiss her neck.
‘You mean to say you’ve forgotten?’ He shook his head, mock-angry. ‘Try to work it out. What’s the date today?’
The feast of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, she thought automatically. Our Lady’s vestments at the Mass – the ones she’d sewn herself, in Mary’s colours – white with a blue orphrey. She dragged her mind from Brignor, made it concentrate on Robert, on August in the world. ‘Gosh! It’s not your birthday, is it? I thought you said September.’
He laughed. ‘No, not my birthday. Something we did together – very much together. I’ll give you a clue. It’s a two-months’ anniversary.’
‘Two months?’
‘Mm.’ He pu
lled her tee shirt up, slipped his hands beneath it, cupped them round her breasts. ‘I can see I’m the real romantic, who remembers all the dates. Give up? Okay, I’ll tell you.’ He pressed his chest closer to her back, rubbed himself against her, like a cat. ‘It’s exactly two months to the day since our first night in bed together. I think that deserves a bit of a splash-out, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, leaning back against him, eyes screwed up against the glare outside.
‘You don’t sound very keen, my love. What’s the matter? Are you tired? I know I kept you up last night, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?’
She nodded, caught her breath. Her nipples were still sore, and he was using both his thumbs to tease and fret them. She did feel tired, partly from the heat. It had been the driest, hottest summer for a decade; July a little cooler, but August aping June in its sweltering days and heavy sticky evenings, its mean and grudging rain, which had fallen only once in three long weeks. It seemed all wrong for England to see that thin and thirsty grass stretched taut across the dry bones of the hills; the pond reduced to a curve of hardening mud, the horizon lost in heat haze.
‘So we’ll have dinner out tonight, okay? Somewhere really grand.’ Robert smoothed her tee shirt down, gave a last tweak to the nipples through the fabric.
She dodged back to the fridge, to pour herself some orange juice, couldn’t find the carton for the crush and scrum of packages jostling on the shelves – meat and fruit and salads they’d bought in last weekend, hardly touched at all. ‘We’ve got so much food already, Robert. Isn’t it a waste?’
Devils, for a change Page 46