by Ann Charlton
Applause.
… and slowly, very slowly he would reach out for her…
'Aren't you going to clap?' Vanessa asked.
… and she would touch him and love him…
The curtain closed on the play and on Dru's private preview. Just in time, she thought laughing softly, and joined the applause.
Afterwards they went backstage where Dru was introduced to the cast. They were more curious than anything and surprised. So she really is ordinary she could almost see them thinking. It didn't matter. She had a celebration to go to tonight.
Locke left her with Eric and Vanessa and went to change. Somehow as Dru dodged the purposeful stage crew, she lost the other two and stood uncertainly near the dressing room doors. Vanessa's laugh came from one of the rooms, but still Dru hovered, disliking the idea of making an entrance into a room full of theatre people. The clear, carrying voice of Melanie Cross, who was better know for some idiotic T.V. soup commercials than for her theatrical roles, kept Dru where she was.
'—maybe she has hidden talents. But there's no doubt he's played his cards just right. All that devotion to a homely little wife has killed the Falkland story and—' she paused, '—will keep the spotlight off him and Sandy.'
'Sandy? Is she still in the picture?' another woman asked.
She? Sandy—a woman? Dru stood transfixed.
'Is it still on between them?' the woman insisted.
'Lord, you've seen Sandy and you've seen his wife. What do you think?' Melanie gave a brittle laugh.
'Melanie,' Eric objected weakly, 'This is all rumour, pet.' There was more. Gossip, careless and relished. The discussion dropped in volume as if they suddenly remembered that the 'homely little wife' was in the general vicinity. When Eric emerged and caught her eye, Dru walked quickly away.
There were reporters waiting by the stage door when they left. Some of the cast, including Melanie walked out with them. But Locke was the target. A photographer snapped him and Dru.
'Mrs Matthews, what do you think of the play?' a reporter asked. It was an inane question that invited a standard answer. Everyone looked at her. She stood there feeling her despair harden to a cold core of anger. Not only was there a loved previous wife, but a mistress who phoned and phoned her married lover. And Locke had let her think Sandy was a man and a nuisance and all the time he was probably arranging their next meeting. All those late, late rehearsals. But for what? She glanced at Melanie Cross who wore an indulgent smile at the hesitation of the homely little wife.
'The play? I think it's tripe,' Dru said clearly and there were several gasps including one from a reporter. 'But beautifully done.'
Locke almost threw her into his car. His modulated voice rose to lambast her for a full five minutes without pause. 'Why? Why the hell did you have to say that? Are you some sort of saboteur?'
'I said what I thought.'
He ranted again. When they got home his anger showed no sign of abatement. Hands on hips he glared at her. 'You've probably rung the death knell on the play with that crack.'
'Oh rubbish! How could my opinion influence anyone?'
'Because you are my wife, you stupid little idiot—' he grabbed her and shook her so that her tight curling hair swayed about her face.
'Wife! Ha! You married me to give the press something respectable to write about you for a change. You wanted to see me "let loose" on them, to put it in your own words. Well now I've been let loose—tough if you don't like it.'
'You think all I want from you is your smart back-chat?' He gripped her arm and strode to his bedroom. She resisted, remembering how she'd pictured going there in silk and in naive acceptance that she would lovingly fill second place in his heart. Second? Go to the end of the queue, stupid.
'Oooh, is this the big scene?' she mocked. 'Shouldn't you have your shirt off for this—you always do in your movies.' He pulled her along behind, swung his arm at full stretch then let go so that she tottered into the darkened bedroom and landed on the bed.
'Bull's eye,' she gasped, her heart knocking holes in her chest, 'You got the leading lady on the bed in one take—'
'Shut up.' He leaned over her, one knee on the mattress edge, a hand fast in the crinkled mass of her hair. With a wrench of his wrist he angled her head for his kiss. All his shock and fury at her disloyal criticism were in it. He had come to expect the little wife to say and do the right thing in this odd marriage of theirs. Dru reminded herself of that while his lips bruised hers, reminded herself that he had lied to her and let her go backstage tonight where everyone knew she was a joke as a wife.
Dru dragged her head free.
'What finesse!' she flung at him. 'My first boyfriend kissed better than that and he was only twelve—' she sucked in her breath as Locke swept a hand over her, rumpling her skirt up over her thigh, tugging her chiffon blouse from the waistband to bare her midriff. He pushed beneath the fabric to fondle her breast.
'Is that so?' he whispered in her ear. His fingers worked their way under her bra. With the utmost finesse now, he stroked and plucked. 'Perhaps he was a bit young for this…'
The sensations were exquisite. Dru couldn't stop her sigh of pleasure. Oh no. She twisted her body to escape his touch. It was worse—wonderful and worse. Locke let her sit up then caught her from behind.
While she flailed harmlessly at him he unfastened her blouse and nuzzled at her neck. 'And this—how about this…?' he murmured and put his mouth to her nape while he curved his hands to her breasts. No. Her head sank back against him. It was getting more difficult to remember the thought she had to hold on to. Don't…
'Dru darling,' he muttered and swung her about. Her hands went to his shirt, began undoing the buttons. His chest was bare and smooth. How beautiful he was to touch… what was that thought? Don't ever…
Locke pushed her blouse over her shoulders, slithered it down her arms. He unhooked her bra and stroked its straps aside too. The zipper of her skirt opened to his touch—his tender, expert touch. Locke took a long time to dispense with the skirt, touching and caressing her as it slid over her hips and thighs… desire knotted inside her. He could make her want him so easily—but he knew that, didn't he? He could have his beautiful girlfriends and then, anytime he chose, he could make love to a wife who knew she was getting the leftovers. Her arms went around his neck. I love you, you rotter. But it's not a good enough reason. What was that thought? Don't ever settle for…
'Dru—sleep here with me—I want you.' The weight of his body settled on her. Her skin flamed. 'I love you darling.'
Second best. Don't ever settle for second best. Sam had said that. Second best would have been good, Sam. Not perfect—good. But third best? No. She made her body stiff, inhospitable. 'I love you…' She wondered how many times men had trivialised those beautiful words at a high moment of sexual persuasion. Not even 'I love you, Dru' but the nice, impersonal 'darling'—the all purpose endearment safe to use should you get your lovers' names mixed in the heat of moment.
'I don't want to sleep here with you,' she said, turning her head. 'But you married me so technically I suppose you have the right to insist. I hope you won't.'
There was a stunned silence.
'What the devil are you talking about?'
'You said nothing need change between us unless I wanted it to,' she reminded him. He switched on a beside lamp. Stubbornly she held his gaze. 'I don't want things to change.'
'What was all that writhing about then?' he demanded harshly. 'You touched me as if you wanted to make love.'
'What do you expect? I'm only human after all. Physically you're very—appealing.'
His handsome mouth parted as if to say something then snapped closed so hard that a muscle clenched in his cheek.
'But it just wouldn't be right for me, Locke. Mere sex—without love—'
He looked away from her. There was an oddly vulnerable look about him. Hurt. 'I thought—over the last few weeks—it's Pennington then is it?'
Michael? She'd forgotten Michael. Locke caught her by the shoulders. 'Do you still love him? Do you?' he insisted when she didn't answer. Eva and Sandy, she thought—and who else? But he had the nerve to want her to wipe out any past allegiances.
'Yes,' she said at last and he let her go.
Locke was morose and monosyllabic the next day. His only reference to the previous night came when he opened the bar refrigerator and took out the two frosted glasses.
'I'll leave the champagne on ice,' he said dryly, 'Who knows, you might change you mind.'
A tiny piece in the morning paper featured her comment about the play. And a critic quoted her.
'As the leading man's new wife—clearly not too starry eyed to have lost her critical ability—said—it is tripe, beautifully done. I can put it no better than Mrs Matthews.' Days later it became clear that neither her comments, nor the critics' had affected the play's popularity but Locke's mood showed little sign of improvement. Which was unusual for him.
Eric called in, eyes flicking from Locke to Dru.
'Now you're not going to hold that comment against her are you old son,' he said in a jollying tone. 'After all, Dru hasn't had any experience with showbiz. It was probably just nerves.' He winked at her and she squirmed. He was trying to be helpful but somehow it made her sound immature and a bit simple.
'It hasn't done the play any harm,' Locke said with a glance at her, 'So let's forget it.'
Eric smiled. 'You sure dropped a clanger pet, but as time goes by you'll get the hang of it.'
But maybe Eric was more annoyed about her 'clanger' than he appeared. He didn't kiss her either when he arrived or left this time.
Locke remained distant until the following Saturday. Dru went out on to the balcony to water the pot plants and was greeted with a chorus of boos from the street, six floors below. To her astonishment the noise seemed to come from five nuns, grouped on the pavement and staring up at Locke's apartment. Very young nuns, she thought from what she could see, wearing make up and somewhat outdated habits. Locke wandered through the living room to the kitchen in his low-slung pyjama pants and morning stubble. His hair was standing on end and he scratched one shoulder. It reminded her of the first morning she'd run into him at Sea Winds.
'You've got some admirers out there,' she told him.
'Are they in costume?'
'Habits.'
'Oh boy, this I've got to see.' He went to the balcony doors with her and peered down. The girls saw him and cheered. He shook his head and laughed. 'They must spend a fortune hiring outfits. Once they came in spacesuits.'
'Was that what you meant when you said some of your fans had seen you first thing in the morning?'
Locke looked down at her. 'Yes. Did you assume I meant a closer view—like from the next pillow?'
'Well—I suppose I did.'
'Not me. I've never been a groupie man.'
'They booed me. How long do you suppose they'll stay there?'
'Last time they waited until I went out. About three hours. Tore my best shirt as I got in the car.' Thoughtfully he regarded Dru. 'Of course there's an ironclad way to get rid of them, probably for good. But I'd need your help.'
'That's what I'm here for isn't it?' she said, 'To repel your teeny bopper fans? And stop people talking about who is in your bed.' Which was ironic. The one person definitely not in it was his wife.
'Come on then.' He grabbed her arm and pulled her out to the balcony railings.
'If you're going to pose for them you'd better scratch your chest or something ungodlike to put them off—they can't see the ginger stubble on your chin and the mess your hair is in from there.'
'I'm not going to pose for them,' he waved a hand at the girls, 'We are. Wave to the fans, dear.' He took Dru's hand and raised it. The fans fell silent. Then he swept Dru into his arms and gave her the big screen treatment. Stared into her eyes for a few moments and kissed her, moving his mouth generously on hers, rubbing her lips apart for a deeper tasting.
'Mmmmm. Orange juice,' he murmured against her lips.
'Count yourself lucky. I nearly had grapefruit.'
'I like grapefruit too.'
'What about lemon?'
He laughed and his breath gusted, mingled with hers, 'Lemon I'm used to. No—don't go.' He held her tightly against him when she made to leave, brought her back to his hard muscled warmth until her lips were touching his again. 'We haven't finished.' Again he kissed her and this time she wrapped her arms tight around his bare back and returned the kiss. Second or third best—it didn't seem to matter right then.
'There,' he said with satisfaction and looked over the balcony to the street. The fans in their black and white habits had gone. 'That worked very well.' He surveyed her from head to toe and nodded. 'Thanks, Dru.'
It was the end of his moodiness, thought they didn't again achieve the camaraderie that had so marked their honeymoon days. She saw little of him. With few exceptions he slept late after his performances and spent the afternoons working out at his club or reading in his study. It was the end of morning jogs in the park. The end of quite a lot Dru thought unhappily. Once, after an hour of restless pacing around the apartment, he asked her to play squash.
She almost beat him. Almost. As a member of a B Grade team in Brisbane she had played some pretty tough opponents, but Locke was superbly fit and clearly using the game to rid himself of excess energy. They left the court panting and gleaming with perspiration.
'You're good,' he acknowledged with a respectful glance at her. The little wife was okay as a sporting partner. His praise twisted inside her as she thought of Sandy.
When they drove home, he said: 'How about a spa to ease your aching muscles?'
'Great.' She wore a bikini.
'You can take it off if you want,' Locke told her, 'We've got the place to ourselves.' It was a small room with planters of giant leaved philodendron and an Italian tiled floor. Leading off it was the door to the pool and the sauna—the door that Locke had fastened against any other tenants.
'No thanks.'
'You don't mind if I do?' he said as if he was asking if he could smoke a cigarette. Dru waved a nonchalant hand.
'Go right ahead.'
He wasn't simply teasing as she thought. He casually stripped off his trunks, watching her all the time. She was already in the spa, being pummelled by the surging water, and stubbornly refused to look away. The redness of her face she reasoned, could be accounted for by the heat of the water.
'What are you waiting for?' she asked, as he stood stark naked on the spa's edge. 'I'm not going to screech in ecstasy or swoon just because you've got your britches off.'
Locke eased his muscular frame into the water. Closing her eyes she leaned back and let her body lift on a jet of bubbles. The halter neck of her bikini bit into her neck and she raised her arms to loosen it.
'Take it off,' Locke said and her eyes flew open. He was right beside her. With a casual twitch he untied the strings of the bikini and pulled it from her, catching her about the waist when she tried to snatch it back. The hapless bra top nipped on to the tiles and Dru struggled to be free. She disappeared under the water for a second and was heaved up in strong arms, spluttering and cursing him.
'Teh, tch, where did you learn language like that?' he teased and held her slippery body to his to sink down into the warm, fragrant water. He let her go then and at first she wasn't sure if he was touching her or if it was simply the water massaging her body.
'Don't—' she said as the unmistakable touch of his hands registered on her. Green eyes half closed, his mouth slightly parted, he watched her as he closed his hands over her breasts, kneading and squeezing with his thumbs and long, strong fingers. She gasped, tried moving away but he followed until she was on the ledge that ran the perimeter of the pool, well below water level. Her back was against the side and she twisted, but the steaming, surging water planted her on the seat in exactly the right position for Locke. He caught her legs between his ow
n and continued his sensuous exploration. Dru's hands slipped over the skin of his shoulders as she pushed at him. Droplets gleamed on his golden skin and rolled slowly down… her hands lingered, her eyes drooped. Locke's caresses were indivisible from the water's massage. His hands moved down beneath the bikini pants to tweak at the ties and the soaking garment joined its other half on the tiles before she quite knew what had happened.
'Oh—you…' Dru circled the pool, gripping the sides as a jet threatened to raise her above the surface.
'Go away—' He caught her, stilled her protests with a kiss and eased his thighs between hers. 'No,' she mumbled against his lips at the touch of his intimate, probing hands. The steam clouded—the water jets drove fiercely into her… 'Locke—' she cried as the heat and the need became unbearable.
He let her go, retreated to the far side of the pool, legs stretched out. 'Refreshing isn't it?' he said and studied her incredulous, frustrated face.
'You—you—' she said when she got her voice back. 'You did that on purpose—' He'd used all his expertise, aroused her to want as she never had before, taken her to the very edge…
'I could hardly do it by accident,' he mocked. 'You only have to tell me if you want me to go on.' His voice deepened. 'No? Another time perhaps.'
She got out of the pool.
'You look superb naked. Like a beautiful athlete.' Locke said and she snatched her towel from the tiles and slung it around her. 'You won't mind if I don't come out just yet, will you? Things have er—altered— since I came in and I wouldn't want to embarrass you.'