Polly turned her head away, swallowing. 'Jules—did I wake him? Please go and see if he's all right.' She nodded towards the communicating door.
Piran walked across and disappeared into the boy's room. He was away so long that Polly's nerves began to quiver unbearably. She slid out of bed and padded on unsteady legs to the open doorway. Piran was standing beside Jules's bed, looking down at the boy. His back was towards her, but she could imagine the tenderness in his face. She stumbled away as he came back into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. 'He's O.K. Sleeping like a dormouse.' His voice was quite different as he spoke of Jules, quiet and gentle.
'Oh, good.' She did her best to sound calm. 'I was afraid I might have frightened him, just when he was settling down so well.'
He stood quite still looking at her in silence, and her heart began to beat with heavy thuds as she was suddenly aware that she was wearing only the flimsy see-through white nightdress with the lace shoulder-straps. A honeymoon nightie, Alice had said rather drily when she had given it to Polly. She had evidently been hoping for the best, while remaining distinctly sceptical about the success of the marriage.
'What was it—a nightmare?' Piran said at last, and his voice sounded odd, neither impatient nor kind. Bored, perhaps.
Polly nodded. 'I have them sometimes. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I'm fine now.'
The bright overhead light cast dark shadows beneath his cheekbones. His expression was unreadable, his eyes almost hidden under their heavy lids. His forearms showed bronzed and strong beneath the short sleeves of the silk gown, his shoulders wide and muscular. Polly couldn't take her eyes off him. Suddenly the urgency of her need for him overcame everything else, even her fear of rejection.
'That's all right, then,' he said. He turned towards the door, but his feet didn't move.
'No—no, it isn't all right.' She heard her own words rushing out and had no power to stop them. 'It isn't all right, it's all wrong. I'm cold and miserable in this great room all by myself. I'm—I'm lonely.'
She choked on the final word and the tears flooded into her eyes. She turned away from him and sank down on to the bed, and when he didn't move or speak desolation washed over her in a great wave, like the wave in her dream. She leaned forward, her fists pressed to her eyes like a schoolgirl.
Then she felt Piran sit beside her, heard his voice— soothing, as if he were speaking to Jules. 'Poor Polly, poor little girl, what have we done to you? Don't cry, there's a good child.'
She leaned against him, feeling the hard warmth of his body through the thin silk of his gown and the even thinner stuff of her nightdress, and all the extraordinary tension of the last few days drained out of her as she sobbed uncontrollably. He didn't move or speak, and it was like being in a safe haven after riding out a terrifying storm. At last the sobs ceased and she groped under the pillow for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
'I'm sorry,' she said in a muffled voice. 'I'm afraid I cry rather easily, it doesn't really mean very much.' She laughed shakily. 'It's my Pisces moon, you see, or that's what my horoscope says.'
His arm was holding her pressed against him, and now the relief from tension that she had felt a moment or two ago was replaced by a warm disturbance that moved urgently inside her. She tried to draw away but he didn't release his grip by an inch. 'Oh no,' he said softly, close to her ear, 'we can't let you be lonely, can we? Or cold. Not while I'm here to supply the remedy.'
He tossed back the crumpled covers and laid her on the bed. Then he walked over to the light switch beside the door, pulling off his silk gown as he went. Before darkness filled the room Polly had a momentary glimpse of a strong, naked man's body, and a shudder ran through her. Then he was beside her in the bed, easing her flimsy nightdress over her head with practised hands.
His mouth covered hers and the weight and warmth of him was pressed against her. A low moan escaped her and he lifted his mouth away from hers. His voice, deep and shaken, came to her through waves of sensation. 'Polly, is my guess right—you haven't had a man before?'
She shook her head from side to side on the pillow, hearing herself falter, 'No—no—I haven't—ever—'
He drew in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. 'I'll be very gentle,' he breathed against her cheek, and he took her face between his hands before he lowered his mouth to hers again, easing her lips apart. His hands and mouth moved against her, caressing the smooth softness of her limbs until she was almost crazy with her need, her passion rising to his gentle arousing touch until their two bodies were locked together, moving in the primeval rhythm of the waves of the sea.
Passion rose in a mutual explosive force that left Polly lying drained and deliciously languorous, drugged with happiness that filled every part of her body and mind. Bliss, she thought sleepily, heaven, ecstasy. She hadn't known it could be so wonderful. She moved closer to Piran, burying her head in the hollow of his neck.
Time passed, she didn't know how long, as she lay half asleep, happier than she had ever been in her life. Then she was aware that Piran was moving beside her. Very gently he eased himself away and sat up. Polly's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness now and she saw him as a shadowy figure against the faint light from the direction of the window, his features indistinct. He was reaching to the floor for his gown and standing up to slip his arms into the sleeves.
He leaned down towards Polly. 'Thank you, my dear,' he said, 'that was very pleasant.'
Had she heard aright? Polly's inside plummeted downwards. Pleasant—what an odd, hurtful word! To her their lovemaking had been earth-shattering. To him it had just been—pleasant.
He touched her hair. 'Not cold any more? Not lonely?'
She shook her head from side to side on the pillow, unable to speak a word.
'That's good, then, I'll leave you to sleep.' He went out of the room and closed the door.
Polly lay very still for a long time, her eyes fixed on the place where the door made a pale blur in the darkness, her eyes aching with unshed tears. Then, from the next room, came the faint tapping of a typewriter.
She had disturbed him at his work. He had made love to her because she had practically begged him to. Now he had returned to his work and he couldn't have shown her more plainly, or more humiliatingly, that what had happened between them had meant merely that he felt sorry for her.
Polly buried her face in the pillow and sobbed out her loneliness and hopelessness. While outside, although she couldn't see it, her Pisces moon looked on coldly over the sea.
She was wakened by Jules, jumping on to her bed like any other excited small boy. 'Aunt Polly, wake up, there's sea all round and waves, and there's a little boat and—' He paused for breath and hurled himself off the bed and rushed over to the window, dragging back the long curtains. 'Can we go to the sands this morning? My daddy once took me to the sea, but—' his forehead wrinkled '—I don't know where it was.'
Polly slid out of bed and joined him at the window. The house looked down from high ground over the sweep of a bay and it was an exhilarating sight in the morning sunshine, with the sea and sky an even, picture-postcard blue. To the left a high grassy ridge swept along the skyline and dropped down, ending in dark rock, into the water. Far to the right she could see a small town nestling above the beach and rising again to form the other enclosing arm of the bay.
'Can we go to the sands?' Jules was shaking her arm. 'Please!'
Polly smiled down at him, pushing back her tousled hair, trying not to think of what had happened last night. Never again, she vowed, would she put herself in such a humiliating position. It made her flesh creep, now, to remember how she had behaved, how she had almost begged Piran to take her in his arms and make love to her. And afterwards—he had just got up and left her and gone back to his work. It wouldn't have been surprising, she thought bitterly, if he had left a couple of five-pound notes on the dressing table.
She shook her shoulders as if she could shake off the memory. 'Yes,' she tol
d Jules. 'Let's go down to the sea when we've had some breakfast.' She felt as if she would never want to eat again, but she was here to care for Jules, she reminded herself, and Jules looked as if he needed feeding up.
Mrs Joe had laid breakfast at a small table in the window of the snug. The table was set for two and there was no sign of Piran. Polly could hardly say to Mrs Joe, 'Have you seen my husband this morning?' so she had to appear to know where he was.
She left Jules eating his cornflakes and went back upstairs. The door to Piran's room was open and his writing desk with his typewriter on it, was unoccupied. She wondered if there was a connecting door to another room and went inside to look. There was one door only and that was ajar. She peeped inside—after all, she told herself, she was perfectly justified in entering her husband's room, so why need she feel so absurdly guilty?
The bathroom was smaller than the one attached to the room next door, but fitted just as luxuriously, in a pale amber suite. An array of elegant bottles stood on the tiled windowsill and a heavy scent hung on the air that didn't in the least accord with the astringent cologne that Polly already associated with Piran. She went forward and picked up one of the bottles—an oval glass one with an ornate stopper. Mystère de Rochas, she read, and underneath— Paris.
'Hullo,' drawled a woman's voice from behind her. 'Doing a Bluebeard's Wife act?' The words were accompanied by a husky laugh.
Polly spun round and nearly dropped the bottle. In the doorway stood a dazzlingly beautiful young woman in a white sun-suit. What showed of her skin— and it was a great deal—was satin-smooth and tanned to an even coffee brown, and her hair was the white-gold colour that set off the whole spectacular effect.
She lounged gracefully against the doorway regarding Polly with an amused stare out of green-shadowed eyes. 'You must be Piran's new little wife. He called on me early this morning to tell me he'd managed to get his young nephew back to England. And to tell me about you. You're Polly, I guess.'
'Yes,' Polly replied shortly, resenting the woman's manner, her tone, everything about her.
'I'm Esmée Clark, and you must call me Esmée. I'm sure we'll be great friends. Piran's such a very dear friend of mine,' she added with a smooth smile.
'Oh yes?' murmured Polly, feeling her way.
'—and naturally he came round early this morning to explain to me about why he'd felt it necessary to be married. I must say it was a bit of a shock. Piran's always been like me—definitely allergic to remarriage. But I understand it was because of the boy. Poor Piran, he's got quite a guilt complex about that brother of his dying in Paris, and he'd do anything to get the boy under his wing. So I quite understand why he had to get himself a wife so suddenly. I told the poor darling I wouldn't hold it against him.'
She laughed again as she sauntered back into the bedroom and slid open the door of the clothes closet. 'I'll just remove the incriminating evidence,' she said lightly, 'and take myself out of your way. Piran's waiting for me at my cottage.' She pulled some silky garments down from the rail and held up a black satin kimono, thickly embroidered with vivid birds and flowers. 'Gorgeous, isn't it?' she crooned, stroking it with long mother-of-pearl talons. 'Piran brought it back from Hong Kong for me on his last visit there. He's such a generous darling.'
Polly had followed in silence and she stood beside the dressing table, her hands clenched behind her. It might have occurred to her, she thought bleakly, that Piran would have a woman somewhere in England. It had been very naive of her not to realise that a man as vital as he was would certainly not lead a celibate life. But she hadn't expected to be confronted with his woman so soon.
Esmée pulled open drawers and swept a few lacy undergarments into the expansive white canvas beach-bag she had slung over one shoulder. 'There, that's the lot, I think.' She slammed the drawers shut. 'Happy days,' she sighed, and, meeting Polly's blue stare, she rolled her eyes meaningly and added, 'Or rather, happy nights!'
She turned to the door. 'So nice to have met you, Polly. It's been lovely having a chat, and I'm sure you'll get on well here, with the little boy to look after. You're a schoolteacher, aren't you, so you'll be able to be a real governess for him.'
She touched Polly's arm lightly as she passed, and Polly felt herself cringe away in dislike. 'Don't worry, Polly, you won't see very much of me. I never could stand that mealy-mouthed woman from the shop. And anyway, I have a cosy little summer cottage quite conveniently near. I'll be staying on longer there this year.'
She swept out of the room, leaving a trail of exotic French perfume hanging on the warm air.
Polly sank on to the bed, feeling as if a steamroller had passed over her. But after a few minutes she stood up and straightened her back. Piran hadn't offered her love when he asked her to marry him, so she had been foolish to expect anything from him but a home and a job. Last night she had lost her head completely, but it wouldn't happen again. From now on this would be a job and nothing more, and as soon as Jules had settled down happily with his uncle, and the legal proceedings were over, she could suggest that she should quietly fade out of the picture. She was sure that Piran wouldn't stand in her way.
She saw nothing of Piran for the rest of the morning. After a conference with Mrs Joe about meals she and Jules found their way to the beach. It was a perfect September day, the sun still warm, the fringe of golden sand stretching away to the far headland, the waves creaming in lazily. The holiday season was almost over and there were few people about. Jules paddled along the edge of the tide, chattering away happily. Polly looked at his too-thin little legs as they splashed through the water and a lump came into her . throat.
But he would soon fatten up into a normal, healthy little boy of his age after a while in this lovely place. What she had agreed to do was worth while, just for Jules's sake, she persuaded herself. She couldn't imagine why she had complicated it by falling in love with Piran St Just, who quite obviously would never be in love with her—as Alice had warned her. She must make the best of what she had, and not go chasing after rainbows.
'Having fun?'
Polly spun round, catching her breath, as a deep, familiar voice came from behind her. She had never imagined that Piran would follow them down to the beach. She had thought he would either be working or—amusing himself with Esmée Clark.
But her resolution held. Her voice was cool and steady as she said, 'Oh, hullo. Yes, we found our way to the children's paradise. All Jules needs now is a bucket and spade and some swimming trunks. The water is still quite warm enough for swimming.'
'Splendid idea. Hullo, young man,' as Jules saw him and came running up. Polly saw Piran's face change, saw the pleasure on it. This, she knew, was the very first time that Jules had run to his uncle of his own accord, happily, confidently.
'Hullo, Uncle Piran. Can I swim soon?' he asked eagerly.
'Why not? We'll all swim this afternoon. Come on, we'll go down into the town and buy some gear for you and Aunt Polly. There'll just be time before the shops close for lunch.' He turned to Polly. 'That suit you, darling?'
Polly's heart somersaulted. The little word had come out so easily, so naturally. But of course it meant nothing, she told herself firmly. Perhaps writers usually call women 'darling', like theatre people.
'I'd like that,' she said rather primly, and felt his eyes linger on her curiously, before he took Jules's hand and started up the beach.
In the busy little seaside town a few miles away they found a shop with the remains of the summer stock still on show. Piran would have happily bought up the whole shop. Everything that Jules's eyes lighted upon was immediately added to the collection of buckets, spades, beach balls, games.
They emerged finally with Piran carrying a large red bucket in one hand and a cricket bat in the other, while Polly carried the spade and the stumps and Jules hugged an enormous blue and yellow ball.
Piran glanced at their reflection in the shop window and roared with laughter. 'We'd look pretty silly if it started to
rain, shouldn't we?'
But it didn't rain. The September sun continued to pour down, and after lunch they all went back to the beach. Polly, who had never learned to swim, splashed about in the shallows while Piran gave Jules his first swimming lesson. And again the treacherous idea came into her head as it had done in Paris, that they were like a happy family, the three of them. Remember the Clark woman, she warned herself, and don't get any more foolish ideas.
But she felt a certain relief because she had been dreading seeing Piran again after last night, and as it turned out it had been made easy for her. Or perhaps he had decided to make it easy for her, by ignoring the incident and putting their relationship back where it belonged—on the basis of friendship.
She waded out of the water, flopped down, and began to dry her hair on a soft towel. Piran and Jules came running up over the sand and Jules was spluttering and laughing. 'Ooh, I can nearly swim, Aunt Polly! Did you see me?'
'Yes, you were very brave, Jules. Much braver than I should have been.'
Piran stood looking down at her from his great height. 'Haven't you ever learned to swim, Polly?' he asked, and when she shook her head he added softly, 'That's something else I shall have to teach you, then.'
There was no mistaking his meaning. Oh no, thought Polly, I won't let him patronise me—amuse himself with the naive little nobody, while he gets his real satisfaction from the soignée, sophisticated Esmée Clark, who undoubtedly knows every trick in the book to please a man. She gave her hair a final rub, managing to hide her face as she did so. It would be so easy to give herself away—to let him read the yearning in her face.
She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring his remark, and, reaching into the beach bag she had bought this morning, took out a comb and began to pull it roughly through her wet hair. She was horribly aware of him, standing so close, of his brown skin, glistening with the sea water, of the rippling muscles of his arms and legs, the dark hair that ran thickly down his chest. The longing to reach out and touch him was almost unbearable.
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