Reckless Page 26

  Instead, she offered what seemed to her to be an insuperable objection.

  ‘Bobby, I think André will come.’

  ‘André won’t come,’ said Bobby.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Trust me, I know.’

  All the time his hands were moving over her body. Now he had hold of her nightdress. He was tugging it up over her thighs.

  ‘But what about Charlotte?’

  ‘Charlotte likes to sleep.’

  He moved over her and found her face in the dark, and kissed her.

  ‘I want you so much,’ he said.

  ‘No, Bobby. We can’t. It’s not right.’

  How could she tell him it was her first time? How could she say she wanted her first time to be with someone she loved? Even as she struggled with these thoughts, her body was betraying her. Her body liked Bobby’s body. She could feel his erection pressing against her, long and hard, and it excited her whether she wanted it to or not.

  She now realised he was fully naked. Had he come down the passage naked? She wanted to see him. She wanted to see a man’s naked body, charged with desire.

  Now he was pulling her nightdress up and over her head. She meant him to stop, she asked him to stop, but the words remained unspoken. Her body was speaking for her.

  He kissed her breasts. She stiffened and shivered and turned her head from side to side.

  ‘Can I see you?’ he whispered. ‘You’re so beautiful. I want to see you.’

  She said nothing, no longer trusting herself to speak. I’m not in control any more, she thought. I can’t stop this.

  He reached for the bedside lamp, turned it on. She closed her eyes against the sudden brightness.

  She felt him draw down the covers, and run his hands over her body. Then he was still, and she knew he was just looking. Then she opened her eyes and looked too.

  His body was beautiful. It was beautiful. He smiled for her, showing his fine white teeth.

  ‘You’re the loveliest girl in all the world,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Bobby. What are we doing?’

  ‘What we were made to do.’

  He pointed to the mirror above the dressing table.

  ‘There. Look at us.’

  She looked, and it was like the erotic miniatures. There she lay, completely exposed, and beside her a strong young man with his cock standing out, stiff and proud.

  ‘Go on looking,’ he said.

  He parted her legs, and before she could stop him he had moved down and his face was between her thighs. She jerked away, but he pinned her down with his arms. So she lay there and let him do what he wanted. Head turned to one side, she watched in the wide mirror.

  His tongue was tickling her down there. For a moment she wanted to laugh. Then it stopped being tickly and became exciting. Then it was overwhelming. Without knowing she was doing it, she moved her hips under his mouth, pressing for closer contact. Shivers of pleasure began to course through her body. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the feelings.

  Then he was moving back up her body, kissing her navel, her nipples, her lips.

  ‘Shall we do it, Pamela?’ he whispered. ‘Do you want me to do it?’

  She tried to shake her head even as he was kissing her, but already he was moving on top of her, and her treacherous body was preparing to receive him.

  ‘Please, Bobby,’ she said, making one last protest.

  She could feel the head of his cock now, pushing against the place where his tongue had excited her so much. Her legs were wide apart, hungry for him to enter her, even as her lips were framing her final appeal.

  ‘Think of André,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ he whispered. He moved his hips. His cock pushed into her. ‘André asked me to come to you.’

  Now he was inside her, filling her. Her body clung to him, holding him in her, craving him, even as her mind reeled in confusion.

  ‘André asked you?’

  ‘Hush! Hush!’

  Now he was moving, drawing his cock almost out of her, then slowly driving it back in. As he did this he bent his head down and took one nipple in his mouth and tugged on it with his teeth. A cascade of sensation overpowered Pamela. She understood nothing. But Bobby’s few words released her from whatever inhibitions remained. None of this was of her doing. She need feel no guilt, and no responsibility. Her body was awakening, and could not be sent back to sleep now. She had entered the secret world of desire.

  She opened her eyes again and looked in the mirror. She could see Bobby’s long body over hers, his hips rising and falling, the curve of his buttocks. At the same time she felt the mounting tempo of his thrusts, rocking her on the bed, and she wanted him to go on and on. She put her arms round him, she kissed his cheek, she whispered words she couldn’t even hear herself. She gave him her body, all of it, wanting him to need her, have her, use her. She felt the rising tide once again, that had begun when he licked her. She closed her eyes and turned her head from side to side on the pillow.

  Then suddenly he stopped. She felt a faint pulsing between her legs. Then nothing.

  So that was it. It was over.

  He gave a sigh, and rolled off her. She felt a warm trickle between her thighs. She didn’t move. Slowly the storm of excitement within her abated.

  What now?

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘What did you mean? You said André asked you. Why did he do that?’

  The answer came drowsily, as if it was something already known.

  ‘The mirror,’ he said. ‘André likes to watch.’

  The mirror over the dressing table. Not on a stand, as was usually the case. A mirror fixed to the wall.

  Pamela felt cold and stupid. But how could she have known?

  ‘Just his particular thing,’ said Bobby. ‘He’s still a wonderful chap. And fun for you and me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pamela.

  Bobby now roused himself. He pulled up his bath robe from the floor, where he had dropped it in the darkness, and climbed out of bed.

  ‘Back to your wife,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Always observe the decencies, eh?’

  He bent down to kiss her on the lips.

  ‘That was delicious,’ he said.

  Pamela was staring at the mirror. Was he still there, silent on the other side?

  ‘So it was all arranged.’

  ‘You should know André by now. He arranges everything, down to the last detail.’

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  He reached out and stroked her cheek.

  ‘How can a gentleman answer a question like that?’

  She gave a little shrug of her bare shoulders. Then realising how cold she was, she pulled the covers up over her body.

  ‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all that matters in the end.’

  He left the room, treading softly. She heard his footsteps move down the corridor to his own room. She heard the bedroom door open and close after him.

  My first time.

  She reached out to turn off the bedside lamp. She cried a little, soundlessly. Then she went to sleep.

  *

  The next day it was as if it had all been a dream. Lady Tillemans did not appear, but André was sweet and attentive as before. Bobby was friendly and loud. There were no secret knowing looks between them. The only moment in which any reference was made to the events of the night was when she and André were briefly alone together after lunch, out on the terrace.

  ‘Have you liked your visit?’ he said.

  ‘Not quite what I expected,’ she replied.

  ‘Would you like to come again sometime?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  32

  Only after she had left Herriard behind her, and returned to Brook Green, did Pamela allow herself to feel the true impact of shock and humiliation. Something of her distress
must have been visible on her face, because after getting back and retreating to her room, there came a tap on the door. It was Hugo.

  ‘I don’t want to bother you,’ he said. ‘But is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said.

  Then, all unbidden, the tears started to flow. It was the sweet concern on Hugo’s face, the simple decency in him, qualities she had never valued before, but which suddenly seemed to her to be infinitely precious.

  ‘Pammy, Pammy,’ he said, holding her in his arms. ‘There, there. Don’t cry.’

  She let him soothe her, and slowly her crying ceased.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Boyfriend trouble, I suppose.’

  ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend,’ she said.

  ‘Why don’t you run yourself a nice hot bath, and then come downstairs and have a glass of sherry. That’s what I do when I have a bad day.’

  ‘Is it, Hugo?’

  She smiled at him, touched.

  ‘The bath has to be hot, mind. And the sherry has to be the best. I have a Very Old Reserve Oloroso downstairs.’

  ‘Thank you, Hugo. I’ll be all right. I’ll come down soon.’

  Hugo left her alone. She didn’t have a bath, because she’d had a bath already, that morning at Herriard. She had scrubbed at her body as if to remove from it every trace of her night’s shame.

  Even now she didn’t know what to think of it all. Had she been abused? And if so, who was to blame? André, or Bobby, or both? She hadn’t been made to do anything against her will. And yet if she’d been asked in advance, she would have refused. Somehow, in the context of such a group of people, on such a night, it had seemed childish to make a fuss. So who was right? Perhaps her dream of being loved was naive, and in the circles in which André moved, where everyone could have whatever they wanted, all liaisons were fluid, marriage most of all. Bobby and Charlotte certainly behaved that way. Was it bourgeois and provincial to hope for love?

  She thought about André’s mother. What sort of mother knows her son’s perverted tastes, as surely she must have known, and says nothing? ‘She lives for me,’ André had said. ‘My happiness is her happiness.’ For a moment, shuddering, Pamela had the sensation that she had been watched through that silent mirror by both of them, mother and son.

  What kind of love is this?

  She recalled Stephen Ward’s words to her, in the basement club where the showgirls posed naked. ‘Just bored people looking for fun,’ he had said, ‘and a few lonely people looking for love.’ The world he had introduced her to offered everything she had dreamed of. On the night of André’s party, making her sensational entrée to the grand room, she had felt as if she belonged in this world, as if she had been born for it. How could she go back now? And back to what?

  She went to the bathroom and washed her face and reapplied her make-up. Then she went downstairs and found Harriet alone in the kitchen, with a bottle of sherry.

  ‘Hugo says you’re to have some of this,’ Harriet said, pouring the dark liquid into a small narrow glass. ‘He’s down in his wine store, arranging his bottles.’

  ‘Arranging his bottles?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Everyone has something they do, which no one else can see the point of. With Hugo it’s his wine cellar.’

  Harriet too had a sherry. They took their drinks into the drawing room. Pamela lit a cigarette.

  ‘Hugo says your weekend has worn you out,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Yes, it has rather.’

  ‘I can’t cope with parties anymore. But of course, after you’re married there isn’t so much point in parties anyway.’

  This practical view of the purpose of parties made Pamela smile. But then she thought of the other purpose to which she’d been introduced, and the smile faded.

  ‘I met Hugo at a party,’ Harriet said. ‘It was a fund-raising dinner for our local MP. Hugo and I were the only people under fifty. He was very gallant, and talked to me. I knew right away he was the one.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘Hugo would say we’re both lucky. Though I do often wonder why he puts up with me. My headaches and so on. But you know, we just adored each other from the start.’

  Harriet spoke in a soft silky voice, as if she was stroking herself. Suddenly Pamela was overcome by the urge to shock her. She wanted to make her wake up and see that men were not to be trusted.

  ‘Hugo’s very open with his emotions,’ she heard herself say. ‘I was feeling rotten when I got in, and he just let me cry on his shoulder.’

  ‘You cried on Hugo’s shoulder?’

  ‘It was so sweet of him. When he holds you, you feel so safe, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet, pouring herself more sherry.

  ‘He’s so protective of me,’ said Pamela. ‘He’s always warning me about men. One-track minds, he says.’

  ‘Hugo says men have one-track minds?’

  ‘You know. Getting their wicked way with you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, massaging her temples. ‘What a lot you two talk about.’

  ‘Mostly he talks about you, of course,’ said Pamela.

  ‘What does he say about me?’

  ‘How rotten it is for you to have these headaches. How uncomplaining you are. How sorry he feels for you. He’s just so amazingly sympathetic.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve always thought so.’ She gave Pamela a faint smile. ‘The awful truth is I can feel one of my headaches coming on now. I shall have to go upstairs. Bright lights make it so much worse. It’s better for everyone if I cast my gloom alone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Pamela. ‘It must be the sherry.’

  Harriet took herself up to her bedroom. Mary came downstairs. She’d read Emily her bedtime story, and now Emily was ready for her goodnight kiss. Pamela told her that Hugo was down in the cellar, and Harriet was up in her room with a headache.

  ‘Oh, poor Harriet,’ said Mary. ‘Do you think there’s anything I can do for her?’

  ‘You could chuck a bucket of cold water over her,’ Pamela said.

  Mary burst into a guilty laugh.

  ‘Oh, don’t!’

  ‘I bet you it’d work faster than aspirins.’

  ‘I’ll go and see if there’s anything I can bring her.’

  While Mary was upstairs, Hugo emerged from the cellar, brushing dust off his hands.

  ‘How’s the sherry?’ he said. ‘Has it done the trick?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Where’s Harriet?’

  ‘Headache.’

  He nodded as if he had known before he had asked. He poured himself a glass of sherry.

  ‘I like it down there,’ he said, nodding at the floor. ‘It’s cool and orderly, and stacked with fine bottles that are steadily getting finer. That’s quite something, isn’t it? A place where the future is guaranteed to be better than the past.’

  ‘I hope that’s true even above ground,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Me too,’ said Hugo.

  Then his eyes met Pamela’s and they looked at each other and neither of them spoke.

  The front doorbell rang. It was Rupert.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’m off to Ireland in the morning.’

  ‘Stay and have a drink,’ said Hugo. ‘Stay for supper.’

  Hugo and Pamela both knew it was Mary that Rupert had come to see. These days Pamela spoke openly of her belief that Rupert was in love with Mary. She said it not because she believed it, but because it displeased her. There was too much need on either side. It was all a little too pitiful for her liking.

  Rupert declined supper. Hugo went up to Harriet, and Mary came down. Rupert told her that he was going to Mountbatten’s summer home in County Donegal, on the west coast of Ireland. Pamela, hearing this, slipped upstairs to her room.

  ‘And where would it be in Donegal?’ said Mary.

  ‘I
t’s called Mullaghmore. A few miles north of Sligo.’

  Mary said nothing to this.

  ‘I’m told it rains all the time.’

  ‘So it does,’ she said.

  ‘Promise me. No running away. I’ll only be gone a week.’

  After Rupert had said his goodbyes, and was walking briskly down the street towards the Broadway, Pamela came running after him. She pressed a folded piece of paper into his hand.

  ‘I made her tell me where she’s from. It’s called Kilnacarry. In Donegal.’

  33

  Mountbatten’s summer house in Ireland turned out to be a castle. Set on a low headland jutting out into the sea, its massive granite walls and pointed turrets dominated the landscape for miles around.

  ‘Some people find it a bit grim,’ said Mountbatten, walking Rupert round its roof terraces, gazing out over the iron-grey Atlantic. ‘I love it. The worse the weather, the happier I am.’

  Classiebawn Castle was a neo-Gothic fantasy, built by Lord Palmerston, the pugnacious Victorian statesman. Like most of his grand properties, Mountbatten had inherited it from Edwina.

  ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘after you’ve paid 80 per cent death duties, and handed over another 15 per cent to the girls, there’s not much of the inheritance left.’

  This was a working holiday, not a family holiday, so Mountbatten’s daughters, sons-in-law and grandsons were not in residence. The great house was gloomy and silent. The party from London was four: Mountbatten, his defence adviser, his secretary and Rupert. The regime was strict. From breakfast to lunch, Mountbatten pored over the minutiae of the service departments, as he refined his proposal for a centralised command structure. Rupert, alone in a separate room, worked on his own paper. They came together for lunch in the long bleak dining room. Then, in the afternoon, they went mackerel fishing, or shrimping, or walking.

  Rupert was undoubtedly surplus to requirements. He knew very little about the controversial defence reorganisation. He wondered why he’d been invited. Then on the second afternoon Mountbatten said to him, ‘Come along, Rupert. I’ll show you our beach.’