Listening to the gabble, Madeleine told her she’d be happy to welcome him; knowing personally just what loneliness felt like.
He proved to be a lively, immensely handsome young man, polite, well spoken, though she wondered why she’d half expected a graceless twenty-one-year-old as she watched him during the evening, talking easily to those he had obviously never met before, drawing them to him, making them laugh with his light and witty conversation. In fact she felt quite proud of him.
As the evening wore on, she found herself watching him, fascinated by the way he’d wave a hand to his almost every word, the wide smile revealing very even, white teeth; amused by the way his dark hair persisted in falling over his brow, without the Brilliantine most men used; the way his brown eyes would flick in her direction, he tilting his head as their eyes met, and she found herself wanting to invite him again. As her dinner guests began to leave, she said she hoped he’d enjoyed the evening. ‘Thank you very much. I most certainly did,’ he said, his manner more mature than she had expected.
‘I’m planning a sizeable Christmas Eve party here,’ she said while the Fosters waited to leave. ‘May I invite you and your…?’
‘That would be really wizard,’ he broke in with sudden enthusiasm that betrayed his youth but which sent a tingle through her.
‘And your parents?’ she continued, ‘If they would care to come?’
His smile vanished. ‘My parents have their own interests.’ His tone had grown dark, surprising her. ‘Our paths have never really crossed. They lived in India, me at boarding school here. We’ve nothing in common.’
There was an awkward silence, the Fosters hovering. She was aware of her voice rising higher than it should. ‘Then if you’re not going to be with them or with friends, then do come!’
‘I will,’ he said, and his brown eyes seemed to penetrate hers so that she tingled anew.
The Christmas Eve celebration had gone down well.
‘Thank you so much for a wonderful time’ was the general parting remark as her guests left wearily, around two thirty, with some departing nearer three. ‘We so enjoyed the divine buffet, darling, can hardly wait for your next invite. You will invite us, won’t you?’ Of course she would, she told them.
‘And the music, my dear, was quite perfect – exhilarating. I do believe we’re quite worn out!’
She had engaged a jazz pianist and a saxophone for the evening. Most of the time she’d danced with young Ronald, as he, without a partner, had arrived alone, the Fosters busy with their own family party.
Chatting throughout each dance, though what about she could not recall, she’d been most conscious of Ronald’s hand holding hers so lightly, his other hand warm on her bare flesh, her dress having been cut extremely low at the back, almost to her waist. It was easy to pretend it was Tony’s hand on her back, so long as she didn’t look into his face. Not as tall as Anthony, his lithe body still retained the slimness of youth, his features she suspected would last him well into his later years.
As her guests began to take their leave, he had lingered. He was still lingering when the last one departed, and what could she do but ask if he would care for a quick nightcap before he too left.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said graciously. ‘That would be nice.’
Now they sat together sipping brandy, he at one end of the sofa, she at the other, neither of them saying much. When it was that he moved to sit closer to her, very much closer to her, she wasn’t sure but somehow the sleeve of his jacket was brushing her bare arm. She should have got up but she didn’t – merely stayed where she was, aware of the warmth of his upper arm through his sleeve. ‘It’s very quiet now, isn’t it,’ he whispered.
‘Yes, it is,’ she whispered back.
She was about to say that it must be time he went, but somehow couldn’t. Strange sensations were beginning to ripple through her body, sensations of expectancy, like little waves, or tiny needles, exquisite, penetrating, running along her spine, through her muscles and playing inside her stomach. She sat without moving and knew he’d picked up the message her body was conveying to him of its own accord. Anthony wasn’t here and she so needed to be made to feel alive again.
It seemed to happen so quickly. As he turned his face to hers, looking for her lips, she found herself offering them and in the silence of the room they sank down on the settee, as he fondled her breast, the low cut décolletage of her flimsy evening dress offering no resistance to his manipulating hand; feeling it urgently travel down over her body to find her eager and willing, moments later having her gasping with the joy of being taken by him, being loved once more.
It wasn’t until it was over that she felt the guilt; visions of Anthony racing through her brain like little attacking demons, making her suddenly leap up from the sofa and flee from the room, leaving him staring after her.
What his expression was she had no idea for she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look back at him. All she heard was his voice trading after her: ‘What is it, Madeleine? What have I done?’
And her reply, high-pitched, sharp, fragmented like shards of glass as she came to a halt the other side of the door: ‘You’d – best – go! I’m sorry – it was a mistake!’
Reaching
