Now that she had time, she put gold links in the shirt cuffs and a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the coat.
Something was missing. She stared at herself in the mirror until she figured out what else she needed.
A hat.
She opened another cupboard and saw a row of hatboxes on a high shelf. She found a grey top hat and perched it on the back of her head.
She remembered the moustache.
She did not have an eyebrow pencil with her. She returned to Boy’s bedroom and bent over the fireplace. It was still summer, and there was no fire. She got some soot on her fingertip, returned to the mirror, and carefully drew a moustache on her upper lip.
She was ready.
She sat in one of the leather armchairs to wait for him.
Her instinct told her she was doing the right thing, but rationally it seemed bizarre. However, there was no accounting for arousal. She herself had got wet inside when he took her up in his plane. It had been impossible for them to canoodle while he was concentrating on flying the little aircraft, and that was just as well, for soaring through the air had been so exciting that probably she would have let him do anything he wanted.
However, boys could be unpredictable, and she feared he might be angry. When that happened, his handsome face would twist into an unattractive grimace, he would tap his foot very quickly, and he could become quite cruel. Once, when a waiter with a limp had brought him the wrong drink, he had said: ‘Just hobble back to the bar and bring me the Scotch I ordered – being a cripple doesn’t make you deaf, does it?’ The wretched man had flushed with shame.
She wondered what Boy would say to her if he was angered by her being in his room.
He arrived five minutes later.
She heard his tread outside, and realized she already knew him well enough to recognize his step.
The door opened and he came in without seeing her.
She put on a deep voice and said: ‘Hello, old chap, how are you?’
He started and said: ‘Good God!’ Then he looked again. ‘Daisy?’
She stood up. ‘The same,’ she said in her normal voice. He was still staring at her in surprise. She doffed the top hat, gave a little bow, and said: ‘At your service.’ She replaced the hat on her head at an angle.
After a long moment, he recovered from the shock and grinned.
Thank God, she thought.
He said: ‘I say, that topper does suit you.’
She came closer. ‘I put it on to please you.’
‘Jolly nice of you, I must say.’
She turned her face up invitingly. She liked kissing him. In truth, she liked kissing most men. She was secretly embarrassed by how much she liked it. She had even enjoyed kissing girls, at her boarding school where they did not see a boy for weeks on end.
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. Her hat fell off, and they both giggled. Quickly he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She relaxed and enjoyed it. He was enthusiastic about all sensual pleasures, and she was excited by his eagerness.
She reminded herself that she had a purpose. Things were progressing nicely, but she wanted him to propose. Would he be satisfied with just a kiss? She needed him to want more. Often, if they had more than a few hasty moments, he would fondle her breasts.
A lot depended on how much wine he had drunk with lunch. He had a large capacity, but there came a point when he lost the urge.
She moved her body, pressing herself to him. He put a hand on her chest, but she was wearing a baggy waistcoat of woollen cloth and he could not find her small breasts. He grunted in frustration.
Then his hand roamed across her stomach and inside the waistband of the loose-fitting trousers.
She had never before let him touch her down there.
She still had on a silk petticoat and substantial cotton underdrawers, so he surely could not feel much, but his hand went to the fork of her thighs and pressed firmly against her through the layers. She felt a twinge of pleasure.
She pulled away from him.
Panting, he said: ‘Have I gone too far?’
‘Lock the door,’ she said.
‘Oh, my goodness.’ He went to the door, turned the key in the lock, and came back. They embraced again, and he resumed where he had left off. She touched the front of his trousers, found his erect penis through the cloth, and grasped it firmly. He groaned with pleasure.
She pulled away again.
The shadow of anger crossed his face. An unpleasant memory came back to her. Once, when she had made a boy called Theo Coffman take his hand off her breasts, he had turned nasty and called her a
