by Erica James
‘Of course. Do you have access to any painting materials here?’ I was thinking that maybe I could arrange for that to happen. I was thinking also how much I would like to do something for this intense and quietly spoken man. If only so I could see the melancholy fade from his eyes.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘In fact, I arrange a painting class here for the other POWs. It gives them something to do. Some of them are beginning to show some talent.’
I heard the pride in his voice and the poignancy of it touched me deeply. It made me more determined to do what I could for him, to help him feel less of a prisoner. I suppose that was when I began to fall in love with him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
La Vista, Palm Springs
October 1962
Red
‘Just what the hell is going on there?’
‘Nothing’s going on, Gabe,’ Red lied.
‘The hell there isn’t! I’ve just been talking to Romily and she says she’s flying home tomorrow.’
‘She’s a grown woman who’s perfectly entitled to fly home any time she chooses.’
‘And what about the script?’
‘There isn’t going to be a script. Not if she’s leaving.’
‘Hey, don’t you dare try laying this one on Romily. If she’s going it’s because you’ve made her go. What did you do?’
‘Nothing. We just didn’t rub along like you imagined we would.’
‘Romily gets on with everyone. She’s a professional in all respects, so don’t give me any bunkum about her—’
‘Gabe, it didn’t work out, so just give it a rest, will you? You win some, you lose some.’
‘Yeah, and guess what, Melvyn and I are the ones losing out here. And I’ll tell you this for nothing, you won’t get another God-damned chance to work with us again.’
‘Go on, go the whole hog-roast with your threat. Tell me I won’t work in this God-damned town ever again!’
‘Don’t tempt me!’
Gabe’s rant went on for some minutes more and when he’d seemingly run dry of invective, and after Red had pointed out that the studio could easily find another writer to work with Romily, he put down the telephone and poured himself a large bourbon. It was one of many which he’d consumed in the hours since Romily had left. By rights he should be drunk, but he was stone cold sober. A little blurring around the edges would suit him plenty, if he were honest. But no such luck. He could see things all too clearly and he didn’t like what he saw. No sir.
Some would say he was a flawed man who just needed to work things through, but he was beyond that. Well beyond putting right the many crimes he’d committed.
For some strange reason women liked flawed men. They liked nothing better than a wounded man, or a man with some inner conflict who was fighting his demons. Put the two together and it was jackpot time. Before losing his leg, he would have believed an injury of that nature would limit his options when it came to women, but not a bit of it; it was like catnip to them. He soon realised he could put the injury to good use and exploit women for his own ends. It was all an attempt to soothe his ego, and convince himself that he was still in the game. No matter that his actions were in danger of turning him into an arrogant and manipulative bastard.
Doubtless this was the opinion Romily now held of him after his behaviour today. He should have apologised straightaway and stopped her from leaving, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. That would have been the decent thing to do, the polite way out. But he’d taken the coward’s way. Just as he had once before in what felt like another life. But a life that would always haunt him.
Suspecting that Romily had seen through him and identified him for the fraud he was was one thing, but being confronted with the certainty of it, quite another.
Who’s hiding in there?
Those were her words. And it was a question to which she would never know the answer. Because if she did, she would despise him even more than she did now. The pretend him was so much better than the real him.
Being a writer meant he could create characters who had far better qualities than he possessed, and it didn’t take too much figuring out to conclude these were people he wished he could be. Brave, decent and genuine.
A genuine apology to Romily would have been all that was required of him and Gabe wouldn’t be making threats. But no. He’d blown it. He’d bailed out just as he always did when things got too emotionally sticky.
Slumped in a chair, he stared at the mountain in the distance. Already the light was beginning to fade and Mount San Jacinto was taking on its familiar brooding presence. No matter the pain in his leg, he would fill a rucksack and take off for a few days. He’d lose himself in the desert and forget what a bastard he was.
He’d forget Romily too. And he’d erase forever that look of cool contempt on her face when he’d agreed that she should go. Another woman would have flown off the handle and said exactly what she thought of him – a state of affairs he’d encountered many a time, thereby making the job of getting rid of the woman so much easier. Nothing but a shrew, he would tell himself afterwards, thereby justifying his behaviour. But Romily, and without a word of admonishment, had left him feeling as worthless as a cockroach.
In the gathering dusk Mount San Jacinto glowered back at him as though the very spirit of the desert was questioning him. ‘What are you staring at?’ he felt like saying. ‘Don’t you go judging me. Not you as well.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Julia
‘What did you think you were doing?’ Arthur demanded.
‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean,’ stammered Julia as she fumbled to undo the buttons on her overcoat. Although she knew exactly what her husband meant. She should never have allowed Ralph to talk her into drinking a second and then a third glass of the fruit punch. Poor Arthur had every right to be angry with her.
All the way home from the party he had been ominously silent. Not a word did he utter, despite Julia’s nervous attempts to make conversation. His jaw set as he drove the Rolls along the lanes in the dark, he had kept his gaze fixed ahead of him. It was as if he were deaf to her voice.
It would have been different had Ralph left the party with them, he would have made conversation with either his father or Julia. But Ralph had been having too good a time to leave. He’d told his father he would find his own way home, and that there was no need for anyone to wait up for him. Yet even as she had wished for Ralph’s company in the car, Julia had known it would only have been putting off the reckoning she was in for. It was what she deserved after all. She had not been a good wife. She had neglected Arthur, had barely seen him all evening. Worse still, she had made an exhibition of herself. Was it any wonder he was cross with her?
Handing his coat to their housekeeper, who could not look down her nose at Julia with any more disapproval if she tried, Arthur said, ‘Go to your room, Julia, I’ll speak to you after I’ve poured myself a whisky.’
Still in her coat, and clutching her handbag to her, Julia did as she was told and climbed the stairs.
‘How was the party, Mr Devereux?’ she heard Miss Casey ask.
‘It would have been better had my wife not embarrassed me.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured the housekeeper, and in a consoling tone that implied Arthur had her full sympathy.
Thoroughly humiliated, Julia closed the bedroom door behind her and after removing her coat, she began to undress, folding and hanging her clothes with care. Looking at the rip in her dress and hoping she would be able to mend it, tears welled in her eyes. She brushed them away. She must not cry. Arthur hated it when she did.
She must learn to be a better wife. To do her duty. Her father’s voice echoed in her head. ‘Duty, Julia, you must remember always to do your best and not l
et people down.’
She was in her nightdress when the bedroom door opened and Arthur came in, glass of whisky in hand.
‘I know you’re angry with me,’ Julia said, ‘and I just want you to know that I’m sorry. Very sorry. I’ll do whatever you want me to do to make amends. Just don’t keep being annoyed with me.’
‘I’m not annoyed with you,’ he said, crossing the room towards her. ‘I’m disappointed. You let me down this evening. You drank too much and made a spectacle of yourself. I expected better of you.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ she said. ‘I promise. It’s just that Ralph was very sweet and asked me to dance with him and I didn’t realise how much punch I had drunk, and—’ She broke off, unable to speak, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry!’ he snapped. ‘It only makes you look even more pathetic.’
At the harshness of his voice, she trembled.
‘After all I’ve done for you,’ he went on, ‘this is how you repay me.’
The tears really flowed now.
‘You disgust me,’ he said. ‘Just look at the state of you.’ He shook his head. ‘Go and wash your face and pull yourself together.’
Again she did as he said, desperate for him not to be angry with her. Standing at the basin in her bathroom, she splashed cold water onto her face, then dried herself with a towel, dabbing gently at her skin so as not to redden it further. She had annoyed Arthur enough, she mustn’t add to his disappointment in her. She must remember to be a better wife. To please him. To do her duty.
She took a deep shuddering breath and reminded herself that her husband was a good man. He only wanted the best for her. Just as her father had. She had done everything wrong this evening, she had drunk too much and danced too much. It was when Ralph had grabbed hold of her and said he’d teach her how to do the twist that she had really misjudged things. That was her real mistake.
‘Let yourself go, Julia!’ he’d said above the band playing ‘Let’s Twist Again’.
The crowded dance floor was full of gyrating bodies and everywhere she looked, people were laughing happily, their faces bright and shining with the fun of what they were doing. Suddenly she wanted to be just like them and after a few hesitant twists, and at Ralph’s encouragement, she threw herself into the dance with gay abandon. It felt wonderful to feel so free and alive, to let herself go, just as Ralph had urged her.
Disaster struck in her attempt to copy Ralph and twist down almost to the floor on one foot. She was giggling so much she lost her balance and before she knew it, she was lying on her back, her legs sticking up in the air, her knickers and stocking tops on show for all the world to see. Only when Ralph had helped her to her feet did she realise her dress was ripped at the back, exposing her yet more. Then she saw Arthur staring at her with a grim expression on his face. Seconds later he came over and said they were leaving.
Confident that she now had her emotions under control, Julia returned to the bedroom. Arthur was standing at the foot of the bed and was in the process of laying his trousers on top of the ottoman, smoothing out any wrinkles or creases. He was so fastidious with his clothing.
‘Take off your nightdress,’ he said matter of factly. ‘Then show me how sorry you are.’
He pointed to where she was to kneel, directly in front of him at his feet, and she willingly followed his instructions.
Always do your duty . . . Always do as you’re told . . . Never disobey me . . . And never tell anyone.
The next morning she slept in, and just as Arthur had explained would happen, she was left undisturbed by the household staff.
‘You’ll want to sleep off your hangover,’ he had said in a reassuringly solicitous voice when he’d left her to go to his own room.
‘You’re probably right,’ she said, shamefaced. Her head had indeed started to thump, and her stomach was churning querulously.
‘Of course I’m right,’ he’d replied. His hand on the door handle, he’d added, ‘I’ll inform Miss Casey that you need peace and quiet and won’t need any breakfast. And while you’re recovering, you might like to consider how inappropriate your behaviour has been and how you let not just me down, but yourself.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ she’d said. ‘I promise it won’t ever happen again.’
‘You must see that it doesn’t.’
It was now gone midday and hunger had replaced the queasiness in her stomach. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of tea and a slice of toast and marmalade. Hearing the sound of a car on the driveway, she slipped out of bed and went to the window. She pulled back the curtains and saw the Rolls with Arthur at the wheel. She watched the car disappear down the drive, and with her stomach rumbling, she decided she was quite well enough now to go in search of something to eat. Never had she slept in so late and heaven only knew what Miss Casey and the other servants would think of her. Added to what they already thought about her. Doubtless she was now the talk of Melstead St Mary.
She hastily dressed, making sure to cover up the bruises on her arms, brushed her hair, and crossed the room to go downstairs.
At first she thought the door was stuck, but no matter how hard she pulled on the handle, or how vigorously she turned it, the door refused to open.
It was locked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Randolph Hotel, Oxford
November 1962
Annelise
As always when she was in Harry’s company, Annelise kept the extent of her feelings for him in check. Instinct told her that it would be a mistake to talk about love to a man like Harry. Crowd him out with overt displays of adoration and he’d be off like a shot.
Watching him sleep in the bed beside her – he always slept after they made love – Annelise felt her heart twist to the point of pain. She would never have believed that such a thing was possible, that loving a man could have this extraordinary effect on her. There was no logic to it; he was, after all, no more than flesh and blood. Yet he could reduce her to an absurd state of greedy need for his touch, for his hands and mouth to caress her body. When he did, it was as though his fingertips had the power to scorch her skin. But there was pain, too.
None of which Annelise could make sense of. It baffled her. She didn’t like how weak her love for Harry made her feel. Was uncertainty the reason for that, constantly wondering when, or if, he would ever be a free man?
Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she turned over to look out of the sash window. The late afternoon light was fading, and rain was now pattering against the glass. When she came back to Oxford following Kit and Evelyn’s party, the Cuban missile crisis and the immediate threat of a nuclear war had passed. Diplomacy had won the day. She and Harry had celebrated the news with a bottle of champagne in bed. This very bed in fact. For some reason she had hoped he might then say he was going to leave his wife. But he hadn’t.
‘I can’t possibly sleep with your mind working away like a pneumatic drill,’ murmured Harry. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Nothing of any significance,’ she lied, still facing the window.
He put a hand to her shoulder and turned her to look at him. ‘That’s one of the things I love about you, Annelise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The way you never reveal what you’re really thinking. Most women are only too quick to unravel their minds to a man and bore them rigid in the process.’
‘Perish the thought I’d ever do that to you,’ she said with some acerbity.
He grinned. ‘You could never do that to me. You’re an enigma, you keep me puzzled and wanting more.’
Wanting more of what? She wanted to ask. But nothing on earth would have allowed her to stray into the no-go area of their relationship. To hint to Harry that she wanted more than to be his mistress would be the end. He would not want to escape the con
fines of his loveless marriage only to be imprisoned by another demanding woman.
She sat up abruptly. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘But it’s not yet four o’clock,’ he said. ‘What’s the hurry?’
‘My aunt is visiting. I told you I would have to leave early.’
‘Did you? It must have slipped my mind.’ And then he smiled again and ran his hand down her neck and to her breast. ‘I had better things to think of than your aunt paying you a visit.’ He stroked her nipple lightly, then more firmly, twisting it skilfully so that from nowhere she was fully aroused. He raised himself to kiss her, his lips hovering so close, but not quite touching, his breath mingled with hers. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ he murmured, his bluey-grey eyes challenging her to say no. ‘Just a little longer?’
With the heat of her arousal flaring from her core and fanning out through her body, right to her fingertips, she kissed him intensely. It was this visceral need in her that she was powerless to disguise. The raw baseness of her desire thrilled her, made her believe that if she had only these moments in her life, it would be enough. It would sustain her.
It was dark when she left the Randolph Hotel to go back to her rooms at St Gertrude’s. With the rain coming down harder now, she hurried along St Giles in the glare of the headlamps and then on to the Woodstock Road. Luckily she had brought an umbrella with her.
Roberts the porter greeted her at the lodge with a cheery smile. ‘Your guest has arrived. I hope it was all right, miss, but I took her up to your rooms.’
‘That was absolutely the right thing to do, thank you.’
A shy smile on his face, Roberts went on. ‘I also took the liberty of giving Mrs Devereux-Temple a cup of tea here in the lodge by the fire.’
‘Oh, you needn’t have gone to all that trouble.’
‘It was no trouble. I’m a big fan of her books so it was an honour to have her company for twenty minutes. I told her she’s welcome to join me for a cuppa any time she likes.’
Annelise left the man glowing in his appreciation for her aunt. Romily might not be a blood-relation, but Annelise had always regarded her as such, and the best of aunts at that. Crossing the front quad, she passed the chapel on her right, its stained-glass windows lit up from within where a choir practice was taking place. Annelise would have loved to join the choir, but alas she was as good as tone deaf. ‘You look like an angel,’ Hope once told her, ‘but let’s face it, dear, you sing like a harpy.’