By Marriage Divided

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘Has it suddenly hit you that it’s gone, in a manner of speaking?’

  ‘It’s suddenly hit me that I feel…a little unreal,’ she said slowly. ‘And a little rootless. My father always used to sit where you’re sitting, for example. We always used to have macaroni cheese for dinner on Sunday nights when we were here—I didn’t even realize while I was doing it that it was sheer habit.’

  He watched her for a long moment, then he stood up and came round to help her up. And he drew her by the hand into the lounge, sat her down in a comfortable armchair and pulled a footstool up for her. He threw another log onto the fire and put a CD onto the stereo that was built into the wall. ‘I did unpack my music,’ he said with a glimmer of a smile, and poured her the last of the wine. ‘Relax. I’ll make the coffee.’

  It was Mendelssohn that flooded the room, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, and she sighed with pleasure and sank back with her eyes closed.

  Presently, she opened them at a sound to see him standing in front of her with a tray and blushed, because she’d been conducting the ‘Wedding March’ vigorously with her hands.

  ‘You do like your music,’ he said, putting the tray on the table and sitting down on the edge of the footstool.

  She moved her feet so he had more room. ‘Yes. But so do you, I gather. That African CD was wonderful. I got some of the tunes on the brain!’

  He laughed and poured the coffee out of a percolator. Then he opened a bottle of cognac and tipped a dram into each cup.

  Domenica widened her eyes but accepted her cup. ‘Do I look as if I need a little…fortification out of a bottle?’

  ‘You look better,’ he observed. ‘Less haunted.’

  She grimaced and sipped her coffee.

  ‘You’ve been the strong one for a long time, I would imagine,’ he suggested. ‘It’s only natural for a reaction to set in.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She laid her head back.

  ‘How’s business?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘Blooming. I’ve sold the design for an aerobics bodysuit to a chain of upmarket sportswear shops. We go into production in a week.’ She lifted her head. ‘I’m hiring more machinists and cutters.’ She stopped and sat up, suddenly struck. ‘I really will have to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow! I’ve got interviews starting at nine o’clock.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said easily. ‘I’ll be spending Friday night in town. There’s a Mozart by Moonlight concert in the Botanic Gardens. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Is that all you’re going back for?’ she asked a little surprisedly.

  ‘No. That and business.’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

  ‘I’d love to come.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up, it starts at eight so—’

  ‘Come to dinner about six,’ she interrupted. ‘That’ll give us plenty of time.’ She yawned suddenly and eyed her coffee-cup comically.

  ‘Time for bed,’ he said, standing up. ‘Can I lend you a T-shirt?’

  She got up and looked around. ‘There it is, no, thanks, I’ll use this.’ She picked up her beautiful mocha pashmina wrap that she’d brought in from her car earlier, and without which she rarely left home.

  ‘A scarf?’ he said quizzically.

  ‘Not a scarf, not a shawl, a wrap and not any old wrap either,’ she contradicted. ‘A pashmina wrap and just about the most useful and lovely part of my wardrobe.’ She ran its silken softness through her fingers, then shook it open to its full extent.

  ‘What is pashmina?’ he asked.

  ‘The finest, lightest, softest cashmere,’ she explained. ‘This one in particular is seventy per cent cashmere and thirty per cent silk. All the most elegant women possess a pashmina these days,’ she added with an impish glint in her eyes.

  ‘I see. I’m still not quite sure how you’ll wear it—to bed.’

  ‘As a sarong.’ She shook it again and wound it around her. ‘Like so.’

  He said nothing but when she looked up from the pashmina into his eyes, it was to see they were arrested in a way that left her in no doubt he was visualizing her wearing nothing but the wrap.

  She unwound it and bunched it up in her hands. ‘Sorry. That was thoughtless, again,’ she said unevenly, with colour fluctuating in her cheeks and an inner trembling taking possession of her as she was drawn into a circle of physical awareness.

  He still said nothing but it was impossible to be oblivious to the sensuous pull between them—the air was charged with it. The way his dark hair fell, the lines of his face, the scar on his eyebrow, the magnificence of his beautifully co-ordinated body even so still as it was now, the memory of his hands on her—all these things spoke to her senses and drew a response that made her breathe raggedly and yearn physically for his touch and the sheer fire power of what they did to each other.

  It also gave her an intimation that, even closed into her own bedroom and own bed, there would be little relief from the urgency of these sensations.

  She opened her hands in a helpless little gesture and the pashmina dropped to the floor.

  He ignored it and spoke at last, his grey eyes ranging from her hair to her mouth, to her breasts. ‘We can do it, Domenica, so long as you don’t regret it in the morning.’

  She bent down to retrieve her wrap and asked the only question she could think of as she straightened, ‘How can I know…that?’

  He smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘If you can’t, let’s wait until you’re—clearer in your mind about it. Goodnight, my dear.’ He waited, then when she didn’t respond, although she looked supremely disconsolate and confused, he did smile genuinely. And he stepped forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. ‘Go to bed. It’s not the end of the world. Just cold-shower time!’

  On Thursday evening he rang her at home to tell her he wouldn’t be able to make dinner with her the following evening but if she could put herself in a taxi and get to the Botanic Gardens, could he meet her there?

  ‘I—yes, why not?’ she said down the phone, hoping her disappointment didn’t make itself heard in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said.

  She gritted her teeth—he had heard it.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘I have to leave for Singapore at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning—something has come up out of the blue and I’ve got wall-to-wall appointments until about seven tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said brightly. ‘Shall I meet you on the harbour wall?’ She named a spot.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps we could turn dinner at your apartment into supper, after the concert?’

  ‘All right. See you!’ She put the phone down, and sat down to think.

  She’d left Lidcombe Peace in a rush on Monday morning, having only slept fitfully then, towards dawn, so deeply, it had taken Angus several raps on her door to wake her.

  She’d showered hastily and emerged to find that he’d made breakfast: bacon, eggs, toast and a pot of strong tea. She’d also winced visibly at the impact of him, shaved, clear-eyed and as invigorated-looking as only someone who’d been out and about in the brisk, early morning air could.

  Whereas she’d had faint shadows under her eyes, no make-up, nothing even to tie her hair back with, and yesterday’s clothes on.

  That it had all coloured her mood, that she was jittery at the prospect of dashing back to town had, apparently, amused him.

  And she’d told him, as she’d sipped the tea gratefully but contemplated the bacon and eggs rather darkly, that she’d rather he said nothing.

  ‘OK. I take it you’re not a morning person, Domenica?’ His grey eyes glinted.

  ‘You take it wrong,’ she replied gloomily. ‘I can be as bright and bouncy as the best of them, but not today.’

  ‘Why don’t you eat something?’ he suggested.

  ‘Because I feel sick just to think of bacon and eggs—my digestive system has not awoken properly yet.’

  He laughed outright and pulled her plate towards him. ‘Try the toast with some hone
y,’ he advised, and started to eat her breakfast.

  She stared at him. ‘Is that your second breakfast or…?’

  ‘My second,’ he agreed complacently. ‘I’ve got a lot to do today and I can’t stand waste.’

  ‘Now I feel really terrible. You’re not only bright and bouncy, sexy and good-looking, you not only kept me awake in my wretched pashmina for a lot of the night but you’re the kind of “waste not, want not” person who will eat two breakfasts. It’s too much!’

  ‘Domenica…’ he was still laughing as he put his knife and fork down ‘…which would you prefer? That I throw your breakfast in the bin or—kiss you until you feel better about things?’

  Her lips curved into a half-smile and she started to butter a piece of toast. ‘I think…you’d better finish my breakfast.’ She reached for the honey. ‘Because in five minutes I have to be gone.’

  She came back to the present and looked around. She’d taken the call in her bedroom with its dusky pink walls and carpet, rich raspberry spread on the double bed and sumptuous pile of pillows in floral pillow cases, pink, white, raspberry and cornflower blue. The bed head, side-tables and dressing table were lovely mahogany antiques brought from Lidcombe Peace, as it happened, as were some of the paintings on the walls and the cheval-mirror that stood in one corner and doubled as a hatstand.

  And there always reposed on one bedside table amongst the overflowing books, a sketch-pad and tub of pencils because sitting on her bed against the piled pillows was often where inspiration came to her.

  And she found herself rubbing her arms—just as he had done, she recalled, in the moments before they’d parted on Monday. Then he’d taken her hands in his, rested his forehead on hers, and said softly, ‘Drive carefully.’ And he’d released her, then put into her hands a perfect creamy Peace rosebud.

  Emotion had clogged her throat and tears had suddenly threatened although she’d managed to hold them at bay—until she’d been in the car and driving away. Then a couple had slid down her cheeks and splashed onto the bib of her overall dress. But why tears? she wondered now as she’d wondered then. How could he move her so powerfully just by being nice? There was an answer to this of course, she told herself. But was she ready to admit that she was falling more and more in love with Angus Keir?

  The next evening, a perfect evening, she sat on the harbour wall not far from the Opera House waiting for him. Although it was a quarter to eight, there was still daylight, a dusky blue version of it that spread over the water and land, softening outlines and gracing the end of a hot day with a cool, filmy bloom.

  She wore a long, straight black skirt and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her lips were painted scarlet, the only point of colour about her apart from her eyes, her hair was loose, ruffled and long and she had flat black boots on. But the black and charcoal emphasized the radiance of her pale skin, and the style of shirt and skirt showed off the slenderness of her figure.

  There were people about, heading for the concert, but as the minutes ticked by, and he didn’t come, the stream of people dried up and she felt unusually alone and isolated. Then he was there, and she swallowed not only in relief, but because he stopped a few paces from her, and it started to happen to her all over again as they stared at each other wordlessly for a long, long moment.

  The entrapment of his mere presence in khaki twill trousers, a blue shirt and a checked sports jacket. The mesmerizing of her senses beneath the impact of his height, subdued strength and the way those grey eyes roamed over her.

  Then he moved to her and put a hand out to stroke the outline of her face with his fingers. She closed her eyes and turned her lips to kiss his palm, and rested her head against his waist. They stayed like that for a minute or more and it was as if all had been said between them, and all that had been said paled into insignificance beside this physical and mental closeness.

  It was still with them when they walked back to his Range Rover after the concert, arm in arm, not only under the spell of Mozart by moonlight, but the spell of their togetherness.

  They said little on the way to her apartment and were barely inside the front door when they moved into each other’s arms. And it started out as a deep, searching kiss they exchanged, a celebration of their togetherness. But it changed subtly to something that was intoxicating, heady and devastatingly sensual. It became a celebration of their bodies and what they did to each other on a physical plane.

  It was mirrored in his indrawn breath when he unbuttoned her charcoal shirt and slid it off her shoulders to reveal a lacy black bra cupping her breasts into twin, creamy with the sheen of satin mounds. And it was in the way he slid his long hands from her narrow waist up beneath her arms and she tilted her head back in sheer pleasure and an unmistakable invitation for him to touch her as he liked.

  And when he said, later, with an effort, ‘You know where this is leading, Domenica?’ she didn’t answer in the spoken word, but took his hand and led him into her bedroom.

  Where he completed undressing her and picked her up in his arms to lay her on the bed. By the time he joined her, she was shivering—not from cold but reaction to the passion they’d unleashed. The utter absorption in each other, the amazing degree of arousal such as she’d never known; the glorious tangle of their limbs and bodies.

  But he quietened her in his arms first, smoothing not only her body with his hands, but her mind with the way he said her name and kissed her lightly but lingeringly until she calmed down. Only then did he begin again to pay attention to the zones on her body that were most vulnerable and only persisting when she bestowed the same attentions upon him so that it was a two-way street of mounting desire. Desire that became a mutual symphony between them during which she gloried in the hard lines of his body, his strength and his gentleness and the pleasure he found in hers, not to mention the pleasure he gave her.

  But the crescendo took her breath away as that throbbing pleasure exploded leaving her exposed and racked with delight, completely at his mercy, with only being held hard and feeling the same response in him to sustain her.

  They ate supper at two o’clock in the morning.

  Angus was dressed but she wore a vanilla silk robe over a matching nightgown, and a slightly dazed look in her eyes.

  She’d made chicken kebabs with sweet and sour onions and a panzanella, a Tuscan bread salad with tuna, anchovies and hard-boiled eggs added to tomatoes, cucumber, chilli and seasoned with black pepper, wine vinegar, oil and basil.

  Also capsicum, celery, garlic, sea salt and a day-old baguette, she reminded herself as she tried to eat but could only concentrate, foolishly, on the ingredients of her salad. She’d opened a bottle of claret and it crossed her mind that she’d never needed a full-bodied wine more than she did now. But what to say? How to cope with the aftermath of a lovemaking so powerful, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be the same again?

  She’d showered first and come out to set out their supper on her dining-room table while he’d occupied the bathroom but she’d been clumsy and preoccupied—she still was and she felt the silence between them begin to stretch.

  Then he said, ‘May I?’

  She looked at him warily through her lashes.

  He stood up and removed their plates to the low table in front of her cranberry settee. Then he came back, picked her up and put her on the settee. Finally he brought their wineglasses and sat down, taking her onto his lap.

  She sighed and hid her eyes from him for a long moment as the warmth and reassurance of his arms flooded through her.

  ‘It’s hard to come down sometimes without feeling as if you’re falling down a cliff,’ he said barely audibly as he stroked her hair. ‘Especially when it’s so perfect.’

  She closed her eyes in exquisite relief. ‘That’s exactly how I felt. As if I was falling through space, alone.’

  He tilted her chin and kissed her lips until her lashes fluttered up and she drank in those smoky-grey eyes, the star-shaped s
car which she touched again with her fingertips, then trailed her fingers down the lean lines of his face. ‘I was also wondering what to do with myself while you’re away.’

  He captured her fingers and kissed them. ‘I’ll only be gone for three days.’

  ‘That could feel like a millennium.’

  ‘It could, I agree,’ he conceded gravely. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  She sat up and reached for her glass, giving him his at the same time. ‘I don’t have a reservation, for one thing—’

  ‘I’m sure I could arrange that.’

  She looked at him slightly askance. ‘I don’t know why but I believe you. Uh, no, I can’t leave work at the moment—’

  ‘Only one of those three days is going to be a working day.’

  ‘Not for me, sadly, I need to work right through this weekend but—’ she sipped her wine, then rested back against him ‘—the real reason is that I don’t have the energy, moral fibre, presence of mind or whatever—to go anywhere at the moment, let alone Singapore.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Believe me, it’s going to take considerable internal fortitude for me to go anywhere.’

  She sipped some more wine then said abruptly, ‘Did you know this was going to happen tonight?’

  ‘No. Did you?’

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Although I’ve spent all week wondering about it, and, if it did, what it means?’

  ‘That we could be falling in love?’

  A tremor ran through her and she turned her head to stare into his eyes. ‘Yes. Oh, yes, but…’ She stopped.

  ‘It mightn’t be a good idea to rush into anything?’ She saw those grey eyes narrow as he spoke, and an expression she couldn’t decipher shadow them for a moment before a flicker of amusement glinted. Then he added, ‘I think that’s very sensible, Miss Harris. Very wise and thoroughly Domenica.’

  She said nothing, then a faint smile curved her lips. ‘Which just goes to show you don’t know Domenica as well as you think, Angus.’

  ‘In what respect?’ he queried.