A Very Special Man

by Marjorie Lewty

  When he pulled away from her she scarcely knew what was happening until she found herself lying on the bed, cold and bereft because his arms were no longer round her.

  She pulled herself up and saw that he was standing a little way away, his back to her. ‘W-what’s the matter?’ she whispered.

  He turned round and said in a harsh voice that she didn’t recognise, ‘That wasn’t what I married you for, Chloe, as you know. I promised no emotional involvement, but it seems I’m not as strong as I thought I was to resist an enticing female body. I think we’d better forget it happened, otherwise we shall complicate matters in a way that I’m sure neither of us would wish. Perhaps you’ll dress now, while I have my bath, and be out of the way before I come back.’ It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

  She felt chilled through to her bones. This wasn’t the Benedict Dane she had married. He had been changing ever since they arrived, becoming less the modern, easygoing Englishman and more the stiff, arrogant Spaniard, who still expected a woman to be subservient to his command.

  She tried desperately to think of something to say, but nothing came, and he threw a towel over his shoulder and went out of the room without another word or look in her direction.

  The first urgent need Chloe felt was to get some clothes on. She was shaking all over and her fingers were numb as they fumbled with the fastening of her bra. She pulled on the first pair of tights that came to hand and then grabbed one of the dresses hanging on the rail of the bed and dragged it over her head.

  Now that she was covered she felt a little better and she sat down at the massive dressing table and brushed out her hair until it fell in a shining mink-pale mass to her shoulders. She stared at herself in the mirror. No new bride ever looked like this on her wedding day—pale and wan and with the shock still showing in the blue eyes that stared back at her, looking enormous in her small face.

  Hastily she applied make-up, ending with a liberal dusting of blusher. Outlining her mouth was tricky because her hand wouldn’t keep steady when she touched her lips and remembered—And when it came to the final and most difficult part of putting on eyeshadow it was almost impossible. Three times she had to rub her eyelids with soaked tissues to remove the botch she made of it, and in the end they were smarting and bruised.

  That was how she felt all over—bruised, physically and mentally and emotionally. But never again! Never would she let herself be put into such a—such a humiliating position, she fumed to herself.

  ‘Enticing’, he had called her. Just as if she had deliberately set out to seduce him! How could she ever have imagined he was so wonderful? He was a beast, a horrible, insensitive wretch!

  With a final check in the mirror she stood up and made for the door, almost colliding with Benedict on his way back.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m going,’ she said distantly, but he put out a hand and pushed her gently back into the room.

  ‘Wait a minute, Chloe.’ He closed the door with one bare foot and stood with his back to it, looking broodingly down into her face. She, for her part, tried to look anywhere but at the man in front of her, naked down to the waist, where he had knotted a bath towel which looked quite startlingly white against his dark skin.

  ‘I’d like you to know that I’m sorry about that little episode,’ he said. He smiled faintly. ‘Not that I didn’t enjoy it—I did—but I should never have allowed it to happen at all, and I certainly shouldn’t have involved you in such a scene at the end of a tiring day—and with more socialising to come, I fear.’

  She blinked in amazement. He was taking all the responsibility himself, pretending that he hadn’t noticed how eagerly and shamelessly she had responded to his lovemaking. And she had thought him insensitive!

  Now that he had apologised and blamed himself she rushed to find excuses for him. She said uncertainly, ‘It didn’t matter—well, we are married—and I thought—’

  ‘You thought that in spite of our pact, I’d take the first opportunity of forcing myself on you? That I’d expect you to submit out of some sort of antiquated notion of wifely duty?’

  She made herself meet his eyes and again they had that hard, serious expression that was new since he arrived in Spain. She said, ‘I didn’t think of it like that. I didn’t blame you.’

  ‘I blame myself,’ he insisted. ‘I gave my word.’

  The word of a gentleman. The stiff, almost preposterous conception of honour that the Spaniard still has—she knew all about that. She saw that to him his promise to her was more important than any register office ceremony.

  Somehow she managed a small grin. ‘These things happen, you know. We’re only human. It wouldn’t have committed you. I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion that you were in love with me.’

  ‘Nor you with me?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She lied gallantly for the second time in an hour. ‘Love doesn’t enter into it at all.’

  ‘No,’ he said, not taking his eyes from hers for a second. ‘As you say, love doesn’t enter into it at all.’

  He stood very still for another moment or two. Then he drew in a quick breath (of relief?) and moved away from the door. ‘Well, now that we’ve got that straightened out I suppose we’d better face the evening. I wish Catalina hadn’t arranged this get-together, but we can’t very well avoid it. Fortunately it will be quite informal at El Vaso, and we’ll get away as soon as we can. O.K.?’

  ‘O.K.,’ she said cheerfully. It was a relief that they seemed now to be back on their old footing of casual friendship. ‘I’ll go downstairs and get out of your way.’

  She put a hand on the door knob.

  ‘Chloe…’

  ‘Yes?’ She turned.

  His eyes were narrowed into a smile, the thick lashes sweeping his cheeks. With his powerful arms and shoulders and that white towel pulled round his narrow waist he looked quite devastatingly attractive. ‘You’re a very nice girl,’ he said softly. ‘I like you.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘That does wonders for my ego,’ she said as she went out and closed the door behind her. As she found her way downstairs she reflected that liking was a poor substitute for loving, but it was all she was going to get, so she had better be sensible and make the best of it.

  The evening began smoothly enough. Benedict’s uncle and aunt arrived, Chloe was duly presented to them, and the usual pleasant congratulations and exchanges took place. Uncle Richard was tall and balding with hooded eyes and a beaky nose. He was evidently a man of few words and when those had been uttered he stood smiling upon the newly-married couple like a benevolent bird of prey, Chloe thought, and decided he was rather a darling.

  His wife was the reverse of her husband in every conceivable way. She was short and dumpy with an elaborately-arranged coiffure, her black, glossy hair swept up high above a square face with heavily-marked eyebrows and cheeks that seemed stained with plum-juice. At first she spoke a few halting words in English to Chloe, but when she found that Chloe was fluent in Spanish she launched into such a flood of eloquence that finally Benedict said laughingly, when his aunt paused for breath, ‘Hey, steady on, Tia Isabel! Not even a Spaniard would take in all that at once!’

  He moved closer to Chloe and put his arm round her.

  ‘How much of all that did you understand, chiquilla?’ The little endearment went straight to her heart and made it tremble. Her blue eyes sparkled up at him. With his nice aunt and uncle here she could afford the luxury of letting herself look at him like an adoring bride. ‘About half,’ she admitted with an apologetic grin towards Tia Isabel. Everyone laughed and for a moment Chloe had a warm feeling of being accepted as one of this very nice family, and hardly remembered to feel a fraud.

  Uncle Richard and Aunt Isabel had been up to say goodnight to Dona Elisa and agreed that there had been a noticeable improvement in her condition today.

  Tia Isabel, in her quick, bubbling way, added, ‘A new granddaughter has worked wonders for the dear lady,’ and her husband nodded in agre
ement.

  When they had all finished drinking the sherry that seemed an integral part of any social occasion, Benedict said, ‘Shall we go, then? Catalina and her current young man are meeting us at the restaurant, and Luis and Juana will try to join us later if they can manage it.’

  He glanced at his uncle and added, ‘They came to Sevilla earlier—it seems that Luis has business here. I don’t know if you know about it already.’ He put an arm round Chloe as they turned towards the door and added half across his shoulder, ‘Juana phoned me earlier.’

  There was a sudden silence. Then Aunt Isabel murmured, ‘Oh yes?’ Even her flow of words seemed momentarily halted.

  Uncle Richard’s slow, quiet voice filled the gap. ‘Yes, I knew. Luis has had some difficulty with his suppliers of esparto matting and he thought he might contact a firm here.’ He smiled his kind, hooded smile at Chloe and said, ‘That is a very pretty dress you’re wearing, my dear.’ She murmured thanks as if nothing had happened, but as they crossed the patio, where the scent of flowers in the evening air was almost overpowering, she thought, It is Juana. They all know about what happened—whatever it was. Everyone knows but me and that’s why they’re being so very nice to me. They feel sorry for me. Second-best. Married on the rebound.

  As they walked along the narrow streets, avoiding the passers-by who were all coming out now, in the cool of the evening, Chloe wondered if she would have the courage to ask Benedict to tell her the full story. Then she remembered how he looked when he was angry, and she doubted it.

  Uncle Richard’s car was parked in the small plaza with the orange trees, and they all piled into it and drove towards the centre of the city. It was beautiful in the dusk, with the lights and the shimmering leaves of the trees and the girls in their pretty dresses. The car moved too quickly for her to get more than a confused impression of fascinating old buildings, some with typical Moorish arches, of churches, and towers, and public gardens.

  Beside her, Benedict laid an arm across the back of the seat and leaned towards her, pointing out one or two places as they passed by. ‘Seville is one of my favourite cities,’ he said. ‘I’d like to show it to you one of these days.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love that,’ she said warmly, quite forgetting for the moment that there was a time limit to their marriage and that without him, she could never, never return to Seville.

  Tia Isabel was chatting away about everything and nothing, sitting beside Uncle Richard, who was inclined to grumble about the difficulty of locating El Vaso, where they had arranged to meet Catalina. ‘These young people! I really don’t know why we couldn’t have arranged to eat at a decent hotel.’

  They found the place at last, in a side street, and as they climbed down the slatted wooden stairs Chloe wondered if this were the real Spain or a stereotype Spain provided for the tourists. The place itself looked very like a theatre-set for a production of Carmen, with wooden tables and chairs, bullfighting posters on the walls, and butchered pigs hanging from the ceiling. A smoky haze hung over the room; and in a small cleared space a girl in gipsy dress was stamping and twirling to the accompaniment of a guitar.

  Catalina was already there, with a very young man called Manuel who, Chloe gathered, was a student at the university and who talked politics incessantly to anyone who was prepared to listen. But talk was almost impossible, with the general noise and music and stamping that was going on around them. The patrons had come to enjoy themselves and were doing so in an uninhibited fashion.

  Benedict was engaged in ordering, together with the two young people. Tia Isabel was gazing around with frank enjoyment of all the noise and excitement. Uncle Richard became more and more taciturn and only broke his silence to lean across the table to Chloe and say mournfully, ‘Do you enjoy this sort of thing?’

  She wasn’t exactly enjoying it. It had been a long day and her head was beginning to ache and, like Uncle Richard, she would have preferred a meal in a more restful atmosphere, but on the other hand there was no possibility, here, of the party becoming a stiff and conventional wedding party, which might have been embarrassing. On the whole she was glad they were here.

  ‘I hope you’ll like this,’ said Benedict, close to her ear, as tall pitchers were set before them. ‘It’s quite a favourite of mine. Sangria, it’s called, but don’t be put off by the rather gory name.’

  The drink in the pitcher was indeed blood-red, bubbling coolly, and with slices of orange, pineapple squares and cherries. It was only slightly sweetened and served with cracked ice and cinnamon. Chloe sipped and pulled a face at the harshness of the drink. Then, valiantly, she tried again and yet again, and finally smiled at Benedict and announced, ‘Yes, I like it, it’s wonderfully refreshing.’

  He had been watching her reaction and now he burst into a roar of laughter. ‘That’s my girl! You’re a good sport, querida, you’ll have a go at anything. That’s what I like about you.’ He pulled her close in a bear-hug and laid his hard cheek against her soft one. Tia Isabel gave a little coo of approval at this loverlike gesture; Uncle Richard beamed upon them benevolently; Catalina turned her back and engaged in loud conversation with Manuel. And Chloe, with sudden recklessness, her courage fortified by the wine, and the sherry she had drunk before they came here, twisted her head round until her mouth was against Benedict’s. She wasn’t at all sure what she meant to show him. Perhaps that it was not entirely wifely duty that had motivated her just now in the bedroom. Perhaps she had some vague hope that she could break down the ‘No emotional involvement’ barrier that he had put up between them.

  Whatever it was, she had meant the kiss to be light and fleeting, but somehow it turned into a much more serious affair that went on and on until Chloe was breathless and the fire that had been smouldering inside her since that scene in the bedroom began to spark and flame.

  Then, through the music and the hubbub of talking in the restaurant, Catalina’s voice broke through to her, high and piercing and somehow triumphant. ‘Here’s Luis and Juana,’ she cried. ‘They’ve arrived just in time!’

  Just in time for what? wondered Chloe, coming back to earth from a long way away. She heard Benedict’s quick intake of breath; then the kiss ended abruptly and he was on his feet, and she thought she knew what Catalina had meant.

  A man and a woman were threading their way between the tables towards their party. The woman wore something white and clinging and even from this distance her beauty glowed in the smoky atmosphere of the restaurant like a flower. Benedict moved forward and Chloe looked away. If she saw him meet Juana she would know for sure. While she didn’t know for sure she could still hope a little.

  She turned her eyes on Luis, who had a hand raised in blithe greeting. He was a fair Andalusian, golden-haired and blue-eyed. His skin had a sunburned, weathered look as if he spent a great deal of time out of doors and there were deep creases beside his eyes, which showed him to be a good deal older than, at first sight, he appeared to be. He was smiling widely and Chloe guessed that he had already had a good deal to drink but was holding it with practised skill.

  Then, with a start, she realised that Benedict was introducing her. ‘Chloe, my dear, this is Juana. Juana, may I present my wife,’ he said rather formally; and added, ‘I want you two to be friends.’

  Juana took both Chloe’s hands and held them firmly. Then she leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I am so happy for you both, and I’m sure we shall be friends,’ she said in careful English.

  The warmth in her voice was so real and sincere that Chloe wondered if she could have been mistaken after all. Was Juana, then, not the woman for whom Benedict had risked his good reputation with Dona Elisa? But the thought died almost before it was born, for his eyes, fixed on Juana, held a great tenderness. The unmistakable tenderness of a man for the woman he loves.

  More chairs were being brought up and the seating rearranged and Chloe found Luis sitting beside her, with Benedict on her other side and Juana opposite, next to Uncle Ricardo.

&n
bsp; The party went on. Chloe sat with a smile fixed on her mouth and let the talk drift round her. In fact, though her Spanish was good, she would have been hard pressed to understand everything that was said, in the midst of the babble of voices that came from all sides—German, French, Spanish, Scandinavian.

  She ate her gazpacho, which was ice-cold and would certainly have tasted delicious if she had been in the mood to think about it. But all the time her eyes were drawn across the table to Juana, this girl who was, in a strange way, her rival. Uncle Ricardo was speaking to her and she was leaning a little towards him, listening. She was very, very lovely—as Spanish-looking as Catalina, but there the resemblance ended. Where Catalina was vivacious and sulky by turn, Juana had a still quality of inward beauty. Her dress was chalk-white, dramatic against the honey smoothness of her neck and arms. Her hair was like satin, parted in the centre and drawn back into a coil behind perfectly-shaped ears, from which hung gold hoop earrings. But it was her eyes, sloe-dark behind their curved lashes, that gave character to the whole of her. They had a depth, a sadness, a mysterious quality, that a man could drown in, thought Chloe with a kind of hopelessness. Sink down and be lost for ever. The idea that she could ever rival a girl like this for Benedict’s love died almost before it was born.