A Class Apart

by Susan Lewis

  “Just let her try prompting me,” Maureen continued, her strangled voice indicating that she was applying her orange lipstick, “she’ll have a nice treat in store for her if she does.”

  With that Ellamarie pulled open the cubicle door and stalked out. She had the satisfaction of seeing an orange line snake towards Maureen’s nose, before she flung her bag across her shoulders and trilled: “Well, Maureen, I sure do love treats, so my book’ll be at the ready,” and she started to turn away. “Oh, but I’m forgetting,” she stopped and smiled, making sure she caught Maureen’s eye in the mirror before she looked pointedly at the script that was lying on the wash basin, “you’re not off your book yet, are you? Oh well, some you win. Treats later maybe,” and with that she threw the two women a beaming smile, and sailed out of the room, but not before she saw the answering gleam in Ann Hollier’s eye.

  Everything about London and its turbulent past set Ellamarie’s romantic soul into motion, and though Bob laughed as they walked towards the Tower of London, he grudgingly admitted that yes, it affected him too. They were wrapped in woolly hats and scarves to keep out the cold, and once out of sight of the rehearsal rooms, Ellamarie slipped her arm through his. Bob always felt uncomfortable when she did this, afraid that he might see someone he knew, or more importantly someone who knew his wife. It was an unnecessary fear, because he often walked along like this with actresses, but he supposed that his guilt was the reason for his discomfort. He didn’t pull away, he knew Ellamarie would be hurt if he did.

  “So you see,” she was saying, “I’m worried about them all.”

  “They’re grown women, darling,” he answered, “I’m sure they can look after themselves.”

  “Oh sure they can, but it still doesn’t stop me from worrying. I saw Ashley yesterday, for lunch. You should have seen her. She looks awful. What beats me is how he could have done it to her?”

  Bob shrugged. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  “Don’t take his part,” Ellamarie objected. “I won’t allow it. He’s a bastard son-of-a-bitch and that’s all there is to it. And someone’s got to do something about Kate. I mean, it’s not natural to be so long without a man.”

  “She’s out with a different man almost every night, from what I can gather,” said Bob.

  “But she doesn’t sleep with them.”

  “Not everyone is as insatiable as you, darling.”

  She laughed. “That’s because not everyone has you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I thought Jenneen was fixing Kate up with this chap, Joseph?”

  “Joel. She is. But who’s going to fix someone for Jenneen?”

  “Ellamarie, stop it. Next thing I know you’ll be running some kind of dating agency.”

  “Well, I want everyone to be as happy as I am,” she said, pulling him to a stop and turning him to face her.

  “You, my darling, are having an affair with a married man.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Don’t remind me.”

  They walked in silence for a while, watching the people passing, and looking up at the ancient City buildings that surrounded them. Ellamarie wished her father could be with them now, he would just love to hear her talk about the Tower, and all she had learned about the people who had lived and died there. She felt sad whenever she thought of him, so far away in Wyoming, still believing that she would go back home to him one day, when she knew she never would.

  She shook herself. “Was your weekend good?” she asked Bob.

  “OK.”

  He could feel her eyes on him and grinned. “I missed you,” he whispered, turning to look at her. “Did you miss me?”

  She seemed to think about this for a minute. “A bit,” she admitted.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Just a bit?” He sounded more Scots than he usually did.

  She nodded.

  A fire engine screamed past, and like everyone else they stopped to watch it go by.

  “So how did the rehearsals measure up this morning?” she asked him, when they were walking again.

  “Good. Yes, good. There’s still a great deal of work to do, but I think we’re getting there. I’ve decided that we won’t rehearse this afternoon.”

  “You mean you’re giving us the afternoon off, sir?”

  He chuckled. “Certainly not! No, I thought this afternoon, as the whole cast plus stand-ins are with us today, we might have a group discussion. Do some analysis.”

  “Sounds heavy.”

  “No one ever said Shakespeare was light.”

  “I was kidding. Tell you what, why don’t we start now? Give me, the poor American, a fighting chance.”

  He looked at her, and though she was laughing at herself, he could see that she was serious. “OK,” he said, “I want to take a look at the four different types of love in the play. Orsino, who is in love with love. Olivia who falls in love at first sight. Viola who has a secret love . . .”

  “I think it would be truer to say Viola suffers a secret love.” Her voice was meaningful.

  She saw his eyes flicker towards her, but he made no comment. “And Malvolio . . .” he went on.

  “. . . is in love with himself,” she finished.

  “Precisely. And it is those four themes that I want to discuss this afternoon.”

  “I see.” She seemed to go off into a world of her own, and Bob let her be. He needed to think about the interview he was doing later on the BBC, when he would be quizzed about his adaptation of Twelfth Night. He hated doing the promotion ritual for his productions. Actors, he felt, were better suited. But he had once made the mistake of being a lively interviewee, and ever since he had been pestered to do more. The BBC had offered to come to the rehearsal rooms, but Bob didn’t trust Maureen Woodley. It would be like her to point the interviewer at Ellamarie and whisper something damning in his ear. There was quite enough attention focused upon them as it was, without television taking up the cause.

  He felt Ellamarie’s eyes upon him and turned to look at her. She smiled, and he lifted his hand to stroke her face.

  “Where were you?” She always felt uneasy if he went into deep thought when he was with her. She was scared that he was thinking about their illicit life together, that it was all an error on his part. She needed constant reassurance from him. And Bob knew it.

  “Oh, I was on an island somewhere,” he grinned.

  She seemed to relax. “When is it?”

  “Desert Island Discs?” He was relieved that she had unwittingly given credence to his story. “Friday next. And you? Where were you?”

  “Me. I was somewhere, long, long ago. In a fine dress, and with many riches. Handmaidens and fools fawning at my feet. And a lover at my side, speaking true love with his eyes, and offering his heart to me.”

  “And did you take it?”

  “Yes.”

  Ellamarie felt her heart turn over as his humorous blue eyes creased at the corners. “But you already have mine.”

  She reached up and smoothed her fingers over his beard. “No, not all of it, only a part of it. In my dream you offered it all.”

  He pulled her closer and brushed his lips against her hair. “I know you don’t believe it,” he whispered, “but here and now, my heart is yours, completely. There is no need of a flight through time to find it.”

  “I wish I could believe you. Bob. Oh, I wish I could believe you.”

  He hugged her, then turned with his arm about her, to walk on.

  “Are you sure you’re not hungry?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “How about some coffee somewhere?”

  “No thanks. I’m happy just walking.”

  Tower Bridge was raised, so they stood at the side and watched the ship come through.

  “How big was the bit?” he said, turning to face her.

  She looked confused.

  “The bit that you missed me?” he explained.

  A light began to shine in her eyes. “Enormous.”

&nbs
p; He pulled her into his arms. “Good, I’m glad. I want you to miss me.” He squeezed her tightly. “God, you feel so good. Even through all this,” and he plucked at her sheepskin coat.

  She unbuttoned her coat, inviting him to slide his hands inside, and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “What did you do at the weekend?” he asked. “When you were missing me so much.”

  “Where shall I begin? So many parties, so many people to see, things to do. And the men. Hell, it’s difficult being so popular.”

  “Pretty ordinary sort of weekend then really?”

  “Mmm.”

  Suddenly, before she knew what had happened, Bob had snatched her hat from her head. “Hey!” she cried.

  “Who are they? Tell me!” he said, “I’ll challenge every one of them!”

  “Not until you give me my hat back!”

  “Tell, or I shall throw myself in the river!”

  They were both laughing by this time, but Ellamarie held firm. “Never!”

  At the sight of her face, fresh and clear in the cold air, and her bright blue eyes dancing, he caught her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. At first she was startled by his sudden embrace, but then she relaxed against him and began to return his kiss. Her hat was dropped to the ground, forgotten, and her red hair was caught by a gust of wind. She clung to him, pushing her body hard against his.

  “Oh God, I’ve missed you so much,” he groaned. “I hate being away from you.”

  She was silent, and he knew what she was thinking. That they need not be apart. That it was him, and only him, that forced their separations. That if only he would allow it, they could be together, always. And in his heart he knew that they could not carry on as they were. It wasn’t fair to her. She deserved more than these snatched meetings, the secrecy, the hidden looks, the furtive telephone calls. She was young and beautiful. She should be shouting her love to the world, living life fully with a man who could give her everything. But he could not give her up. He loved her too much.

  “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  She nodded, and felt the familiar flutterings inside.

  “At the house?”

  She looked at him. “Why at the house?”

  “Linda’s going to be ringing me sometime, I’ll have to be there.”

  The mood was broken, and Ellamarie pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s all right.” She buttoned her coat and picked up her hat.

  “She’s ringing to tell me what time to collect my mother from the station on Friday.”

  “I see.”

  “My mother is coming to stay with us for Christmas.” He wished he would just shut up.

  “Oh yes, Christmas,” she sighed.

  “Have you decided yet what you are going to do?”

  She turned to face him. “I’d like to spend it with you.”

  He gathered her in his arms, not wanting to see the tears that were shining in her eyes. “And I want to spend it with you too. But you know that’s not possible.”

  “I know.”

  “You won’t be alone though, will you? I mean, what about your friends, what are they doing?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied. She wanted him to be guilty. She didn’t want him to know that she had already been invited to spend the time with Kate and her family.

  “You’ve been invited to lots of parties, you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Bob, don’t be so goddamned patronising. Yes, I can take care of myself. But it doesn’t change anything. It’s still you I want to be with, it’s still you I want to wake up to on Christmas morning. Instead I have to think of you with her! Waking up to her, and sharing the day with her, and wondering if you think of me at all.”

  “Ellamarie, I think about you all the time. Every moment I’m away from you I spend wanting to be with you. You know that.” He caught her by the shoulders. “I love you. I love you.”

  “But there’s always your wife.”

  “I’ve told you so many times how it is with us. We have no life together, you know that. My life is here with you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked at her face, sad, and thoughtful. He hated himself for the lies he told her. “Come on,” he said, glancing at his watch, “it’s time we were getting back.”

  As they walked, her hands were so firmly thrust into her pockets that this time he linked arms with her.

  Inwardly she mocked herself. Here she was, Ellamarie Goold, who had had her life so carefully mapped out. The success, the recognition, the brilliant performances she would give, on and off the stage. And everything had gone according to plan, until Bob McElfrey had come into her life. Bob McElfrey, who had fought so hard to win her, until finally she had thought, “Oh, what the hell. I’ve never had an affair with a married man before. It might be fun!” She had never once thought about the consequences. Such a child she had been then. Thinking only of those she knew who had such affairs, and the glamour that seemed to be attached to them. The awe with which they were all treated. The, was it envy? at the tasting of forbidden fruits, at the excitement of being swept off into the night at a moment’s notice. Tales of nights of passion, of love that supression only made deeper. Oh, how wonderful it had all seemed, from the outside.

  But now she was facing the truth. The reality of unfulfilled promises. The waiting that turned to misery and pain, which he must never know of. The heart that filled with hope that must never be spoken of. The snatched moments of happiness that were never real, only borrowed. The stolen ecstasy of feeling his body against yours, of hearing him tell you that never before has he felt like this. And you believe him because you want to. Because you have to. Why is it that the passion that burns for this man is stronger than any other? That the love is deeper, the joy greater? Or is it? Is it just the great myth of the Eternal Triangle? The triangle that deceptions, suicides and murders were made of?

  She was becoming introspective again.

  FIVE

  With a sigh, Kate closed the book she had been reading and turned over. Her eyes were misty, but there was the shadow of a smile on her face. Finishing a book always left her with a heart and mind full of conflicting emotions.

  She glanced up at the clock. It wasn’t even six in the morning yet. She pulled the sheet up around her face and closed her eyes.

  Beside her she could hear him breathing quietly, not yet awake. She let her hands fall to her sides, and willed him to wake up.

  A few minutes later she wriggled further into the bed as she felt his hand brush over her thighs and up across her belly. She parted her lips, and waited for the warmth of his mouth over hers. And as her nipples began to expand under his touch, she felt his tongue push deep into her mouth. She turned to him, and against the soft mound of her tummy she felt him harden and grow. He took her hand and placed it round his penis, and slowly, very slowly, she began to move her fingers back and forth.

  Keeping his mouth firmly on hers he lifted her leg and placed it round his waist. With a brief and gentle push he was inside her. They moved together, gently, pushing closer and closer. He moved his hands under her, lifted her, and as he gave one final, deeply penetrating thrust, he whispered her name.

  Kate lifted her hand to stroke his face. The pillow was cool beneath her fingers, and she opened her eyes. The reality of no one there was so awful she closed them again. It had felt so real. But didn’t it always?

  As she moved she felt the moistness on her thighs, and sighed. Her body was on fire, tingling, and achingly aroused.

  She reached out and fumbled in the drawer beside her bed. Her fingers closed round the cold shaft of the vibrator and she sneaked it beneath the covers. She turned on her back and began to tease herself towards orgasm.

  After several minutes she stopped. It was no good. There was no warmth, no real comfort to be gained from what she was doing. It wasn’t only sex she craved, it was love too.

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sp; She jammed the vibrator back into the drawer and got out of bed. Turning on the shower she began to sing, at the top of her voice. Mrs Adams from upstairs banged on the ceiling, so she lowered the volume. The water was lukewarm, the song cheerful. By the time she got out of the shower she felt better.

  At nine o’clock she was ready to leave. Into the car, along the Fulham Road, cross over to Sloane Square, where she stopped off at Peter Jones to see if her new curtains were ready. No. On then to Victoria and Gracious Living Magazine.

  She had intended to give up journalism altogether when she’d left the magazine three months before, and concentrate solely on her novel. However Margaret Stanley, the formidable features editor at Gracious Living, had continued to call her up on a regular basis and send her off on assignments. Margaret Stanley was a woman who did not take no for an answer.

  Jillian, the photographer, was waiting when Kate arrived, so ditching her car in Margaret Stanley’s space in the small car park, the two of them braved the armpits of commuters and took the Tube into the West End. They were doing an interview with the cast of Les Misérables.

  The morning went well, a whole stack of splendid interviews piling into her notebook. Kate was sorry she couldn’t join the cast for lunch, but, she whispered to Jillian, she was quite hopelessly broke, so really had to go and meet Daddy. Jillian grinned and winked at her. Kate knew what Jillian was after. Or, more to the point, who Jillian was after.

  Her father was pleased to see her, he always was, and they talked over the novel she was writing. She hadn’t plucked up the courage yet to tell him about all the sex in it, she’d blame it on the editor later. Providing she got an editor. But her father had influence, he would see to it. He had seen to practically everything else in her life. Not that she didn’t have talent, of course. But with the world being the way it was, talent didn’t always count for everything.

  Back at the theatre in the afternoon, Kate noticed that Jillian had made her play for the member of the cast she’d had her eye on all morning. By five thirty the two of them were ready to start the preliminaries of the sexual encounter that would come later.