by Anne Weale
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a Vogue reader,’ said Cressy, keeping her face straight.
He laughed, pretending to aim a punch at her shoulder, his fist stopping short of contact. ‘I’ve read more unlikely things than that when I’ve run short of books. Come and have your coffee.’
Rather than sitting on the sofa, Cressy picked up one of the cups and saucers, intending to continue her inspection of the paintings. She noticed that he had also put out some liqueur glasses and two bottles, one of brandy and another with the hand-written label Hierbas.
‘That’s a concoction made by Catalina,’ said Nicolas, seeing her glance at it. ‘It’s made with herbs, and anís made from aniseed. Would you like to try some?’
‘Just a little, to see what it’s like.’
He took her at her word, pouring no more than a tablespoon into one of the glasses.
Cressy transferred her cup to her left hand and took the glass in her right. She had been trained by Maggie never to pull a face if she didn’t like something, but it was hard to maintain a polite expression after sipping the pungent spirit tasting of liquorice and unknown herbs.
‘Most people think it’s vile,’ said Nicolas. ‘I quite like it. I’ll have that glass for myself and give you some brandy to take the bad taste away.’
Watching him pour a more generous slug of the brandy, Cressy decided she needed it—not merely for the purpose he’d suggested but to relax the mounting tension inside her.
Her second decision was not to continue wandering but to sit down on the sofa. To stay on her feet would only postpone the moment when he acted on their unspoken agreement.
Sinking onto the feather-filled cushions, she said, ‘I’ve only just realised, this room isn’t white like the bedrooms. What is this colour? It’s too soft to be called salmon-pink.’
‘My mother calls it pale terracotta. This is mainly a winter room. In summer we live on the terrace, by the pool and in the barn. In winter white walls can look cold, so in here Mama broke with tradition and had it painted this colour. It’s been quite widely copied.’
He settled his long, lean frame on the sofa beside her—not close, but not as far away as he could have sat.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Cressy. ‘It’s a lovely room...very soothing.’
‘But not, I think, soothing for you at this moment,’ Nicolas remarked dryly.
She flashed an uncertain glance at him.
‘You’re exerting terrific control but, under a superficial air of poise, you’re quaking. Why are you all strung up?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ she said unevenly.
‘I do.’ He took away her half-drunk coffee and put it beside his own on the table. Then, sliding an arm round her shoulders, he drew her closer. ‘You feel it’s happening too fast... right?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, sharply aware of the hard arm behind her shoulder and the faint lime scent of his aftershave.
‘Time is an illusion anyway. Five minutes’ pain seems interminable. Five minutes’ pleasure seems to pass in a flash.’ His voice was a husky rasp which sent shivers down her spine. ‘Do you really want to postpone something we both want? Shall I make up your mind for you?’
He turned her face towards his, his blue eyes blazing a message which made her draw in her breath in the last sane moment before she closed her eyes, and an instant later she felt him kissing her lids.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE WAS kissing her welcoming mouth when the silence of the house was broken by a peculiar sound.
They stopped kissing, listening, alert.
Almost immediately Nicolas relaxed. ‘I’d forgotten... it’s only Juanito coming in through the cat flap.’
He was looking at her lips, pausing a moment before resuming their kisses. Then a movement in the room behind him caught Cressy’s eye. She looked to see what it was and gave a cry of dismay.
The black cat she had seen earlier had just deposited a pathetic little bundle of dishevelled feathers on the largest of the three Oriental rugs covering the floor between the two outer doors.
Nicolas looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, God... that bloody cat!’
As they both jumped up from the sofa Juanito’s satisfied smirk changed to a vigilant stare.
‘I’ll grab him—you see to the bird,’ said Nicolas, springing towards him.
But the cat had already snatched up his trophy and was streaking to the shelter of the table laden with books. He crouched there, looking aggrieved that his cleverness wasn’t being received in the manner he thought appropriate.
Nicolas shot in pursuit, diving under the table, but without success as Juanito retreated behind its pedestal and backed out of reach. As he withdrew, Nicolas cracked his head on the table’s rim. He stood up, rubbing his scalp and cursing in Spanish.
‘It’s hopeless,’ he said. ‘We’ve had this happen before. He’s as quick as greased lightning, damn him.’
‘But the bird’s still alive,’ Cressy wailed as the cat demonstrated his speed by breaking cover and flashing past her. This time he took cover in the space at the back of the hearth, behind the basket of dried herbs.
‘I doubt if it is,’ said Nicolas. ‘It’s probably died of fright. Don’t make a big deal of it, Cressy. I know it’s nasty, but it’s the way cats are. Put it out of your mind. We’ll leave him and go to my room.’
He put his arms round her, tipping her face up to his, the cat and the bird dismissed as he put a hand to her face, stroking her cheek with the backs of his knuckles.
But for her the spell had been broken. She couldn’t forget the terror the bird, if alive, must be feeling in the jaws of its captor.
Drawing back from him, she said, ‘I think we should say goodnight. It’s been a long day. I’m tired.’
He wouldn’t let her go. ‘I’ll give you my special treatment. You’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like a million dollars. We both will.’ He was smiling as he said it.
For an instant she weakened, longing to go where he led, longing to sleep in his arms. Then she pulled back more firmly.
‘I’m sorry...I’m out of my depth...this is happening too fast...too soon. I should never have let you kiss me.’
He released her, beginning to frown. ‘You’re not making sense. Two minutes ago you were ready and eager to make love. If you’re still upset about the bird...’
‘It’s not only that,’ she said quickly. ‘In a way I’m glad that it happened. Sorry for the bird, but glad to be brought down to earth. I’m not comfortable with this, Nicolas. I’m not used to sleeping with strangers.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I’m not used to sleeping with anyone. It may sound silly to you, but Fuzzy and I made a vow that we wouldn’t sleep around...that we’d both wait for Mr Right. She changed her mind and regretted it. I’ve managed to stick to it.’
By the time she finished explaining, the expression on Nicolas’s face had changed from annoyance to perplexity.
‘Am I hearing this right? Are you saying that at twenty-three you’ve never been to bed with anyone?’
‘Yes—I mean no, I haven’t. I know it’s unusual, but—’
‘That’s the understatement of the year. It’s not unusual—it’s phenomenal. I’ve never met anyone your age who’s still a virgin.’
‘Well, you have now,’ she retorted. ‘I really don’t see what’s so incredible about it. It used to be thought quite normal in days gone by.’
‘It’s not normal now,’ he said dryly. ‘I’d already sussed that you hadn’t a lot of experience, but not to have any is amazing. What’s the idea of it?’
‘I guess the basic idea is not to do something just because everyone else does...or says they do. Fuzzy and I started talking about it at school. At the beginning of term, girls would come back and boast about what they’d done in the holidays. One girl, who was later expelled, had tried cocaine. Not surprising, really, as her mother was hooked on it. Another had shoplifted clothes her mother wouldn’t buy for her. They’d nea
rly all had sex with boys. But when we asked them about it, you could tell they’d been disappointed.’
‘That’s equally unsurprising.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘Most teenage boys make love with as little finesse as rams. They get better as time goes on.’
‘Hopefully some of them do,’ said Cressy. ‘But a lot of them don’t. You’d be surprised how many girls in their twenties are still disillusioned about sex. From what I hear, it’s less a joy than a bore.’
She expected him to look affronted, but instead was surprised to see his mouth twitch at the corners. ‘How am I going to convince you of my proficiency if you won’t let me touch you?’
That his sense of humour was still intact and functioning so soon after being rebuffed came as a pleasant surprise. From things told to her by Fuzzy and others, she knew that sex was a minefield of misunderstandings, and most men were supersensitive on issues relating to it. But perhaps Nicolas wasn’t one of them. He was different in many other ways, and perhaps also in this area.
‘I think it’s too soon for touching. I think there are other things people need to know about each other before they get to that stage.’
Nicolas looked at her thoughtfully. After a long pause, he said, ‘Okay, if that’s how you want it, that’s what we’ll do. Goodnight, Cressy. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Nicolas. Thank you...for everything.’
She turned in the direction of the staircase. She was on her way up when he said, ‘Oh, one other thing...’
She stopped and looked down. He was still where she had left him. ‘Yes?’
‘None of the bedroom doors has a lock, but don’t let it worry you. You have my word that you’ll be as safe in this house as you would be in a convent.’
He turned and went back to where they had been sitting.
It was hours before Cressy slept. Those ecstatic moments in his arms, when he had kissed her with such disarming tenderness on her eyelids, her cheeks and her neck before finally finding her mouth, had been an experience she would never forget even if nothing more came of it.
She knew in her bones that he would be a marvellous lover. Although whether that intuition would ever be proven now seemed unlikely.
What was certain was that in their short time on the sofa he had succeeded in arousing her to a point far beyond anyone else’s effect on her.
At the same time she knew she had been right to resist him. It would have been rushing their fences to go to bed within hours of their meeting. A pledge was a pledge—even a pledge to oneself.
In his room at the end of the corridor, Nicolas was also awake, thinking about this strange girl he was saddled with, for the time being.
His first impulse, after she had disappeared up the stairs, had been to call one of the women who had been in his mind earlier on and work off his frustration in one of their beds.
But Cressy would have heard the car, wondered where he was going, and perhaps been nervous all on her own in a strange house far from home. With some girls he wouldn’t have cared if they were alarmed by the night noises of the old house. But for some reason she revived protective instincts which didn’t get a lot of scope in a world where many young women seemed to resent the attitudes instilled in him by his mother. Now those old-fashioned manners were only exercised when he was with women of an age to enjoy chivalrous treatment. With most of Cressy’s contemporaries gallantry wasn’t welcomed—it was read as sexist superiority.
He wondered if her protracted virginity was really caused by a hang-up rather than strong moral principles. But she hadn’t held back when he had kissed her. She had seemed to enjoy it.
Maybe, if he was patient, he might yet get her into bed. On the other hand, if she really had scruples about not making love with anyone but her future husband, perhaps he should let her alone.
Cressy didn’t oversleep because she had set her travelling alarm-clock. But when it woke her she groaned, knowing before she opened her eyes that she hadn’t had enough rest. Her mother could manage on five hours and her sisters were rarely in bed before midnight at the earliest. But she needed eight hours to feel good the following day. She definitely wasn’t up to the early-morning run she had planned as her start to the day.
A bath made her feel a bit brighter, but she wasn’t keen to face Nicolas after what had happened last night. It seemed more than likely he would make it clear that although she had been welcome yesterday today she wasn’t, and had better find somewhere else to stay.
Nicolas was already at the table, reading what looked like a long fax message, when she stepped onto the terrace.
He put it aside and stood up to pull out her chair. ‘Good morning.’ He didn’t ask how she had slept.
‘Good morning.’ As he moved the chair in from behind her his nearness was a vivid reminder of last night’s much closer contact.
‘What do you usually have for breakfast?’ he asked.
‘Muesli, toast and fruit. But I’m happy with anything you’re having.’
‘Muesli, toast and fruit plus a French omelette. Actually, it isn’t toast. I don’t eat sliced bread unless I have to, and proper bread is hard to cut so that it fits in a toaster. We have a sandwich toaster which takes cuts of village bread. But it gets very hot, so you need to be careful not to burn yourself.’
He indicated the gadget which was sitting on a side table, plugged in to an outside socket outlet. Then he passed her a bag of muesli.
‘The milk in this carton is a brand my mother considers healthier than the usual long-life stuff. Catalina is a traditionalist. In their own house, she and Felió eat the same stuff their forefathers ate. But what she cooks for me is influenced by Anglo-American ideas on healthy eating drilled into her by my mother and stepfather.’
He had effectively dispelled most of Cressy’s feeling of awkwardness. She was grateful for his diplomacy.
‘Don’t mind me if you want to finish reading your fax,’ she said.
‘Thanks, I will.’
He picked up the roll of clipped-together pages and re-rolled them the opposite way to straighten them. This morning he was wearing a shirt the colour of apricots and white denim shorts with a braided leather belt slotted through the loops. His hair was still wet from the shower, or possibly from a pre-breakfast swim in the pool.
While he was reading a clockwork timer in the shape of a lemon gave a warning ping. Nicolas rose, opened the sandwich toaster, took out some chunky pieces of wholemeal bread and dropped them in a napkin-lined basket. After covering them with the napkin, he transferred the basket to the table, reloaded the toaster and reset the timer.
He was still intent on the fax, rereading parts of it and looking preoccupied, when Cressy finished her muesli and helped herself to coffee, toast, low-fat spread and honey in a plastic pot with Spanish writing on the side of it.
The honey had a flavour she didn’t recognise, but it wasn’t until Nicolas had returned his attention to his breakfast that she asked what it was.
‘Eucalyptus,’ he said. ‘If you don’t like it, there are probably other flavours on offer. Rosemary...thyme... orange and lemon blossom. By the way, while I was out on my morning run I had a brainwave. Some friends of mine have a daughter who’s studying in Barcelona, where she uses buses and taxis to get about—so her little car is sitting idle. I’ve asked if you can borrow it. It’s already quite beaten up—Pilar is famous for being Mallorca’s worst parker—but it’s mechanically sound. After breakfast we’ll go and fetch it. Then you can visit the hospital as often as you like without feeling you’re imposing on me.’
‘I think I should find a hotel. Then I’ll be out of your hair altogether.’
‘You’re not in my hair, Cressy. It’s better that you stay here. You’ll be more comfortable, and you can ask my advice.’
The firmness of his tone made it difficult to demur. And did she really want to leave this beautiful place and its owner?
‘All right. Thank you very much. But if my presence
should become an intrusion, I hope you’ll be frank and say so.’
‘You can count on it. Here comes my bête noire and your deliverer.’
Following his glance, she saw the black cat strolling towards them. As Cressy took in the implications of Nicolas’s description of him, Catalina came out of the house with a freshly made omelette.
‘Would you like one?’ Nicolas asked as the housekeeper placed it in front of him.
‘No, thank you.’
On her way back to the kitchen, Catalina spoke to the cat in Mallorquín. Cressy hoped he would follow her. Instead he sat down near the table and began to groom himself. As long as he stayed there it was impossible not to think of the passionate embrace the cat had interrupted.
Evidently Nicolas was having similar thoughts. He said, ‘I moved the basket in the fireplace this morning but there was nothing there. I hope the death of the bird didn’t give you bad dreams.’
‘I slept well, thank you.’ It was true. When she had finally dropped off, she had slept soundly without dreaming. ‘You mentioned your morning run. How far do you go?’
‘I run by time, not kilometres. After half an hour I turn back. Then, when I’m here, I do some lengths in the pool. Are you a runner?’
‘Not in London. I sometimes run at my parents’ weekend place.’
‘Where is that?’
‘In West Sussex, not far from Midhurst—if you know that part of the country.’
‘No, I don’t know England well—only the area round Cambridge. Tell me about your family. What does your father do?’
‘He’s an architect.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She’s...into good works,’ said Cressy. It was a partial truth. Virginia Vale did support various charities and social-reform lobbies.
‘You mentioned sisters. Older? Younger? Married?’
‘Older, but not married yet. For the time being they’re wedded to their careers.’
‘From what I hear, most clever women are these days. One can see their point. They want to be in a stronger position than their mothers and grandmothers. More coffee?’