by Sara Craven
'Anything you say, Princess.' Tony's hands were caressing her just as she'd always dreamed. She could feel him undoing all the little buttons on the bustier. Dimly, she could hear voices and laughter, and a few whistles.
Tony was kissing her bare breasts, sucking hard on her nipples, hurting her, so that she moaned a little and tried to pull away.
'You're wasting time.' Tiffany's voice again.
There were other hands on her now, pulling down her skirt. She resisted, protesting weakly.
Someone said, 'You can have your clothes back now, Tiff.'
And Tiffany's reply, swift and venomous. 'After she's been wearing them? You're joking.'
'Tony,' Phoebe whispered, bewildered. 'Wass happening? Where are you?'
She heard his voice. 'I'm here. Close your eyes, Princess.'
She was glad to obey, and shut out the staring faces. It stopped the room revolving too, which was also a relief.
'But her mouth felt so dry. She ran her tongue round her lips. 'I—I need a drink.'
'No more for you, Princess. We don't want you unconscious for your big moment.'
She wondered fuzzily what he meant. Nothing made sense any more. All she wanted was for everyone to go away, and Tony to take her in his arms again. Not hurting her, but gentle, like he'd been in the past.
After a while, the whispering and giggling seemed to fade away, and there was nothing but silence and darkness ...
I want to stop there, Phoebe thought, gathering the folds of her robe around her with a shiver. I don't want to remember any more. But I must. I have to deal with it— all of it—once and for all time.
And then I can get on with the rest of my life.
But first—first, I have to think about Dominic.
CHAPTER FOUR
PHOEBE was grateful at first for the quiet and the shadows. She felt light-headed, weightless, rocked on some infinite, swaying ocean. Soon, she thought drowsily, soon Tony would return. She lay back on the pillows, smiling to herself. Waiting for him. Wanting him.
The sudden brilliance of the overhead light snapping on was like a physical shock. She propped herself grog- gily on one elbow, staring towards the door.
Not Tony at all, she registered dazedly, but a complete stranger in dinner jacket and frilled shirt, his black tie unfastened.
A tall man, with dark hair and eyes as grey and cold as a January sky. A man standing there as if he'd been transfixed. Clearly as startled as she was herself.
His gaze grated across her skin. He said slowly and harshly, 'What the hell are you doing here?'
The room was swaying again. She stared frantically past him, searching for Tony—for anyone except this unknown man who was looking at her as if she was dirt. As if he despised her.
And then, in the long mirror beside the door, she saw herself, irrevocably and indelibly, as he did—naked and bedraggled, her face under the dishevelled blonde wig flushed and streaked with make-up. Someone she barely recognised, but knew must be herself.
He took a step closer and she shrank, grabbing at a sheet to cover herself. 'I said—what are you doing here? And who are you?'
'Phoebe,' she mumbled from her dry throat. 'I'm Phoebe. Tony—brought me.'
He said bitterly, 'I should have known. Well, you're wasting your time. I can do without your kind of filth.' He bent, picked up the handful of her discarded clothing lying beside the bed, his mouth grim with distaste, and threw it at her. 'Get dressed and get out, you slut, before I throw you out.'
He walked across the room and flung open another door. Phoebe could see gleaming tiles and the edge of a bath.
'And dress in there,' he went on bitingly. 'I don't want to watch.'
She couldn't move. She felt numb, paralysed with horror. She had to say something—to explain that it was all a terrible mistake. But the words wouldn't come. She could only stare up at him helplessly.
He completely misinterpreted her lack of response. Phoebe found herself ruthlessly dragged off the bed by her arm and pushed forcefully into the bathroom.
'No more games,' he told her. 'You have exactly ten minutes to make yourself decent, or I call the police.'
The door slammed behind her. Phoebe looked at the grotesque caricature of her own face in the mirror above the wash-basin, and was instantly and comprehensively sick.
She had never been so ill. Each wave of nausea seemed more bitter, more all-engulfing than the last. And even when her stomach was empty she was still clinging to the lavatory bowl, retching weakly.
Eventually, she levered herself to her feet, splashed her face with cold water and put on her underwear. She mentally recoiled when she came to the outer clothing, but there was nothing else to choose, so reluctantly she dragged on the skirt and fastened the bustier. Her shaking fingers could hardly cope with the myriad buttons, but she persevered, urged on by his threat of the police. That, she thought, visualising her father's horrified face, would be the ultimate degradation.
She was ready at last—for whatever might be facing her, she thought, swallowing. Slowly, she opened the bathroom door and looked into the room beyond. It was empty. The bed, she saw, was stripped of everything— even the pillows and duvet. Gone to be decontaminated, no doubt, she thought, supporting herself against the doorframe, fighting another wave of nausea.
She went out onto the landing and cautiously down the stairs. She felt raw and hollow inside, and her throat ached with vomiting.
The house was ominously quiet. No music, no sound of voices. Where was everyone? she thought, fighting down a feeling of panic.
He was waiting in the hall below, the dark face carved from stone.
'Where are the others?' Her voice was hoarse and strained.
'Long gone.'
Gone? she thought numbly. Leaving her behind? But they couldn't...
'Who are you?' she asked.
He tutted. 'Didn't they tell you that? I'm Dominic Ashton, and this—shambles you're about to vacate is my property.' He tossed her bag to her. 'This must be yours.'
Then he walked to the front door and opened it, letting in a wave of cold night air. Despite herself, Phoebe shivered.
V'A word of advice,' the hated, contemptuous voice went on. 'Next time you go whoring, try and stay sober. It makes a better impression on the client.'
She said hoarsely, 'I'm not—what you think.'
"You're certainly not very good at it.' He gestured impatiently. 'Now get out.'
'But how am I going to get back?' She knew exactly what her bag contained—a lipstick, a comb, a hanky and a few coins. 'I've no transport. I haven't even got a jacket.'
'That's your problem,' was the curt dismissal. 'Presumably you got paid for your—services tonight. There's a call box in the village with the names of local cab firms.'
'I'm not a whore,' she said desperately. 'I swear I'm not. I—I was with—Tony. No one gave me any money.'
There was a taut silence, then he reached inside his jacket, produced a wallet and extracted a twenty-pound note, which he dropped onto the carpet in front of her.
'For the floorshow,' he said insolently, the grey eyes raking her, reminding her starkly of how he'd found her—stripped and vulnerable on his bed.
She wanted to hit him, to lash out with her nails and wipe the mockery from his face. But she couldn't afford to. It was as simple as that. She had to accept this final humiliation at his hands.
Every inch of her skin seemed to burn as she bent to pick up the note. Then, head bent, she went swiftly past him and out into the darkness. And heard the door slam behind her...
There were tears on her face. Phoebe lifted her hands and wiped them angrily away. She hadn't cried then, so why was she allowing herself this weakness now?
She supposed she must be weeping for her lost innocence. For the sheer cruelty of the betrayal she'd been subjected to.
She remembered little of her journey back to the Bishops' house, except that the cab driver had been an older man who'd treated her
with a mixture of kindness and disapproval, even offering her a rug to wrap round her.
She'd been miserably ill for most of the following day, and, when she had emerged from her room, found herself the target of some edged remarks about the stupidity of drinking to excess when you couldn't handle alcohol from Tiffany's mother.
'I'm surprised at you, Phoebe,' she'd been told coldly. 'I thought you had more sense. And, if this is the kind of exploit we can expect, you'd better go home. You're not at all a good influence on Tiffany.'
Phoebe had felt too wretched to mount any kind of defence in the face of this onslaught. She was already in Mrs Bishop's bad books through the ruin of her wig.
Tony, she'd soon discovered, was nowhere to be seen.
'You surely didn't think he really fancied you?' Tiffany said derisively. She was sitting on the bed, watching Phoebe pack. 'He just needed someone for this trick he was going to play on Dominic, and you were so obviously smitten, you made it easy for him.'
'Why did he do it?'
It hurt to ask. Her head ached terribly, and she felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach, but that was nothing to the inner pain—the knowledge that people she'd trusted had degraded her, made a fool of her. Allowed a stranger to badmouth and humiliate her.
Tiffany shrugged. 'They've never liked each other, and Dominic was having this really stuffy birthday dinner with some boring old schoolfriends, so Tony thought he'd liven it up for him. Simple as that.'
She giggled. 'When we all cleared off, he left this note for him to find—"Many happy returns. Your birthday present is unwrapped on your bed". We only wished we could have been there to see his face when he found you. Or yours, when you saw him,' she added spitefully.
She shook her head. 'God, you're so gullible, Phoebe. You must be the only person in the world not to guess thece was vodka in that orange juice.'
'Yes,' Phoebe agreed colourlessly. 'Gullible is the word.'
Tiffany eyed her speculatively. 'Tell me, did old Dom—you know—try anything on? Or were you too far gone to notice?'
'No. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be any more interested in me than Tony was.' Phoebe looked her straight in the eye, and it was Tiffany who lowered her gaze uncomfortably.
'A word of warning,' Tiffany said, after a pause. 'Don't go whingeing to anyone about all this. Because it's our word against yours, and my parents believe that you were so far gone that you passed out and we had to leave you behind. I'm sure you don't want that to be spread about.'
'No,' Phoebe said quietly. 'I wouldn't want that. I suggest we forget the whole thing.'
Tiffany looked frankly relieved. 'I knew you'd see sense. And you should be grateful to us,' she added as she swung herself off the bed and walked to the door. 'At least you won't be so bloody naive in future.'
'I'll bear it in mind,' Phoebe told her retreating back with irony.
She'd never managed the gratitude, but she'd done her damnedest to forget the whole sorry incident. To pretend that it was just one of those things. That she'd healed without scarring.
The fact that Tiffany hadn't returned to school in September, but had moved out to Spain with her parents, had helped.
But she hadn't bargained for the dreams, which had begun a few months later. And, the worse they had got, the more she'd tried to bury the cause of them in her subconscious, she realised now. She'd been afraid to examine what had happened. To confront the bitter truth and defeat it. And this had been compounded by her own lack of anyone to confide in. Not that she could have borne to confess what a fool she'd been.
She'd been young and vulnerable, and she'd been treated without mercy by Tony and without compassion by Dominic Ashton.
His birthday present, she thought with a flash of anger. Unwrapped on his bed. And she paused.
He was married then, she thought. And if Serena Vane had been with him when he found me, it could have led to all kinds of problems. It was worse than a practical joke. It was real malice.
But his marriage broke down, anyway. And I've carried my problems like a festering sore all this time. But now I've faced up to it, let the poison out.
Impossible as it seems, maybe meeting Dominic Ashton like this has been a kind of therapy. Not, of course, that I ever want to see him again, she amended hastily.
She stood up. Tonight, she thought, I shall sleep without dreaming.
'I'm so sorry, dear.' Mrs Preston's pleasant face was wrinkled with anxiety. 'But I did say it was only a temporary job...'
Phoebe smiled at her. 'Yes, you did, and I understood that, and it's quite all right,' she reassured her. 'I'm glad Debbie's better,' she added, without total sincerity, trying to ignore Lynn pulling hideous faces in the background.
'And I wouldn't want you to leave right away,' Mrs Preston made clear. 'Poor Debbie hasn't regained all her strength yet, so she'll have to ease her way in.'
'Ease is right,' Lynn muttered, when their employer had gone fussing off. 'I don't know why she doesn't put a bed in the kitchen for her.'
Phoebe grinned, and went off to lay the tables for lunch.
For someone who was now virtually redundant, she felt remarkably cheerful. She would hand in her notice to Hanson the Hateful at the end of the week. Then, as soon as Mrs Preston released her, she could leave Westcombe. After that—the world was her oyster.
It wasn't the most pleasant of days—cold, with squally showers driven by a biting wind—and the tea rooms weren't particularly busy.
Phoebe was warming herself with a cup of tea when the bell tinkled, signalling the arrival of a customer.
'Your table,' Lynn commented, peeping through the round window in the kitchen door. 'You lucky devil.'
'Very funny.' Phoebe gulped down the rest of her tea, and picked up her order pad.
'I'm not kidding.' Lynn rolled her eyes. 'He's gorgeous in a brooding way.'
'Let me see.' Phoebe craned her neck, then stepped back, aware that all the colour had drained out of her face. She tried to sound casual. 'You think he's so lovely—you have him. I'll swap tables with you.'
'You're on,' said Lynn instantly. But she was back within a minute. 'What's going on, Phoebe? He's asked for you. Do you know him?'
Phoebe bit her lip, cursing under her breath. 'Our paths have crossed,' she admitted. 'I didn't particularly want to repeat the experience.'
'But he clearly does.' Lynn patted her back. 'Off you go, ducky, and put in a good word for me.'
Dominic Ashton was sitting glancing through the menu as Phoebe approached. He inclined his head formally. 'Hello again, Miss Grant.'
'Just what do you hope to gain from this, Mr Ashton?' she asked in a furious whisper.
'In the first instance, some lunch,' he returned calmly. 'Do you recommend the macaroni cheese?'
'All our food is good,' she told him icily. 'The macaroni cheese comes with a side salad and granary bread. I meant, why did you ask for me?'
'I have an invitation from Tara,' he said. 'She'd like you to come to supper tonight.''I'm afraid that isn't possible.' Phoebe wrote down his order. 'Can I bring you something to drink?'
'A pot of coffee—Colombian. And what's so impossible about it? You did go out of your way to befriend the child, after all.'
Yes, she thought, but that was before I knew she was your daughter.
She said shortly, 'I'm busy tonight.'
He gave her a sardonic smile. 'Don't tell me. You have to wash your hair.'
'Oh,' said Phoebe, somewhat nettled. 'Does it look as if it needs it?'
'Not at all, but that is the all-purpose excuse.' He leaned back in his chair, the grey eyes speculative. 'Would it make any difference if I told you I won't be there?'
'No,' she said. 'It wouldn't. I—I just think it's better for me not to see Tara again.'
'Better for whom? Certainly not for Tara. As far as she's concerned, you promised her, and that's sacrosanct.' He paused, then continued levelly, 'As I told you, we only came down here a short while ago, and
Tara is finding it hard to settle and make new friends at school. Without Cindy, she's lonely.'
'That's emotional blackmail,' Phoebe said angrily.
'It's also the truth. But, if you can't spare her a couple of hours, there's no more to be said.'
She hesitated. 'And you definitely won't be there?'
'I'm having dinner with Miss Sinclair.'
She sighed. 'All right, then. I'll come over straight from work.'
'No,' he said. 'We'll collect you.' And as her lips parted in protest he went on, 'Tara insists on it.'
Phoebe had the feeling she'd been totally outmanoeuvred, but there was nothing she could do about it.
I'll pay this one visit, she decided as she retreated to the kitchen, but it will be the first and last. I won't make any more rash promises.
Lynn was agog. 'Who is he?'
'He's that little girl's father,' Phoebe admitted reluctantly. 'I met him when I took her home the other night.'
Lynn nudged her. 'Perhaps he wants to give you a reward.'
Phoebe shook her head. 'It's Tara. She's asked me to have supper with her.'
'And Daddy makes three?'
'No, thank God. He's having dinner with a woman called Hazel Sinclair.'
Lynn looked disappointed. 'That's poor timing.'
'Not from my viewpoint.' Phoebe gave her a faint smile. 'Mr Ashton and I will never be friends.'
'Who mentioned friendship?' asked Lynn.
From then on they were kept too busy for any further discussion, to Phoebe's secret relief.
Dominic Ashton ate his lunch with apparent appreciation and left a generous tip with his bill. Phoebe, her throat tightening, put the money straight into Lynn's jar.
Almost before she knew it, closing time arrived. In the staff cloakroom, Phoebe washed her face and hands then released her hair from its elastic band, combing it into the smooth bob she wore outside working hours. She applied a discreet touch of colour to her mouth, studying herself doubtfully in the mirror.