Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  He kissed her parted lips as he spoke, drawing her close against him, and holding her carefully, protectively, in the circle of his arms.

  “Oh, honey. If you knew what you did to me.” He looked down into her upturned face and smiled. Then he took her arm and rested it through his.

  “I’ve got a little surprise for you. You come along with me now, and you’ll see…”

  He set off toward the house. Hélène trotted beside him, quickening her steps to keep up with his long strides. He took her around the shrubbery and out onto the lawns, in full view of the windows. Hélène stopped.

  “Where are we going? I thought—I thought we were going to a restaurant?”

  “Change of plan. I thought of something nicer. You’ll see. Come on now.”

  He led her right up and into the house, holding her hand now. Across the cool hall, into that vast living room. Hélène shivered as the cool air of the house hit her skin. The blinds were down, and the lamps were lit, though it was broad daylight outside. Ned saw her glance at the windows, and he smiled.

  “More private that way. And I’ve sent the servants out. We won’t be disturbed. Look, Hélène…”

  At the far side of the drawing room he threw back the tall double doors with a flourish. The room beyond was the dining room, which Hélène had never seen before. It was a huge room, cooled by fans that rotated slowly overhead. At one end was a heavy antique sideboard laden with ornate silver dishes. The blinds were down here, too, and the room was lit by candles ranged in tall candelabra down the center of the long mahogany table. Their flickering light shone on porcelain and crystal, on gardenias from the estate, on fruit from its hothouses. The table would have seated twenty people with ease. At one end of it, two places had been laid.

  She stopped, and Ned gave a low laugh.

  “Look.”

  He moved to the sideboard and began lifting silver covers.

  “Lobster. Cold chicken. A special sauce our cook makes, with grapes—it’s delicious, you ever had that, Hélène? Melons. Fresh raspberries and peaches. Cream.” He moved on to an ice bucket. “Champagne, getting nice and cold now. French champagne—Krug, you ever heard of that, Hélène? All just waiting for us to serve ourselves. Better than any restaurant hereabouts, don’t you think, honey?” He glanced at her face, saw the doubt there, and moved back quickly to her side.

  “Hélène, say you’re pleased. I wanted you to be pleased. I wanted you here tonight, don’t you see? Just this once—eating by my side, at my table, in my house. My little girl. My lovely little girl. Eating here like the lady she is. Drinking champagne. We’re celebrating, Hélène, don’t you know that?”

  “What are we celebrating?” She looked at him uncertainly.

  “Why, I guess we’ll have to see.” He grinned. “You and I, we’ve got plenty to celebrate, I’d say.”

  He took her hand and led her back into the drawing room.

  “Now you just sit tight there, and I’ll bring you some champagne. Sip it nice and slow now…remember the bourbon.”

  Hélène remembered the bourbon only too clearly, so she was careful. One glass of champagne. One glass of wine with dinner. Even so, she knew the alcohol was affecting her. It made her head feel light, and her spirits rose, and she was glad of that. Ned was being attentive, and amusing, telling her some story about a congressman he knew; he seemed relaxed, perfectly at ease, sitting underneath a rather ugly portrait of his father, just as if this dinner were the most normal thing in the world.

  He did not seem bothered by how much he drank, she noticed. Three glasses of champagne to her one; at least four glasses of wine; after dinner, when they returned to the drawing room, he poured a bourbon on the rocks.

  He was sitting opposite her, his legs stretched out comfortably, smoking a cigar. The pungent smoke drifted across the space between them. Hélène thought, The next time he puts his glass down, then I shall ask him about the money. I’ll have to. I can’t put it off any longer.

  He put the glass down, and she did. There was a silence. He looked across the room at her as if what she said surprised him. Then he smiled slowly and took a long pull on the cigar.

  “Sixty dollars?”

  “It would be a loan, of course. I’d pay you back, every cent. It’s just that I need it now. I…I need it for a friend.”

  “Sure you do. Anyone I know?”

  “No. No—you don’t know them.”

  “Well now—let’s see.”

  He reached inside his white jacket and drew out a fat billfold made of crocodile skin. There was a thick wad of notes inside it. He looked at the notes, then at her, then he closed the billfold and put it away.

  “Come here, honey.”

  He patted the seat beside him, and Hélène got up slowly and moved across. As she sat down, he took her hand.

  “You going to be nice to me tonight, Hélène? You going to make me feel happy? You do that, and I’ll be honored to help you out. I told you. I like to give my little girl presents, you know that…” He took another long swig of the bourbon. His hand felt sweaty though the room was cool. Gently but insistently he lowered her hand and pressed it against the thick muscles of his thigh.

  “Give me a kiss, Hélène. Just one little kiss…”

  Hélène leaned forward. His lips looked full and red; and he had that glazed look in his eyes again. Carefully she pressed her mouth against his.

  “Not like that, honey…” He shifted a little in his seat. “Open your mouth, you know the way I like to kiss you. More. Yes. Oh, honey, like that…”

  She could taste the bourbon on his lips. His moustache was rubbing her skin. He tilted her back, leaning against her with his full weight, his hand moving up over her dress. His tongue moved in her mouth, deep and warm.

  “Honey, what are you wearing under that dress?” He squeezed her breast playfully, so the wire cups of the bra bit into her skin. “I think you bought something else besides the dress, something else to please me. Did you do that, Hélène? Did you?”

  Hélène lowered her eyes. Her heart was beating very fast, and her throat felt tight and dry.

  “Maybe…”

  Her voice came out low and husky, and she saw the answering response in his eyes as she looked up. It excited her, and confused her, the quickness of that reaction, the ease with which she could evoke it.

  “You’re a little fox, you know that? A cute, wicked little fox. You know just how to drive a man wild. Where’d you learn that, Hélène? A little girl like you.” He lowered his mouth to her neck and nuzzled wetly at the skin beneath her ear. “You like it, don’t you?” he whispered thickly. “You pretend not to sometimes, but I know. Tell me, Hélène, tell me you like it when I kiss my own little girl…”

  “I do like that. I like it when you kiss me.”

  “And when I touch you? You like that too, honey?”

  “Sometimes.” She looked away. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Now, don’t you say that; don’t you think it, you hear?” He lifted his hand and began to stroke her throat. “If it feels good, it feels good. No sense in denying what you feel, honey. You know I’m just crazy about you. You know I’d never hurt you. And besides, you trust me, honey. I know you do. You wouldn’t come to me for help if you didn’t trust me, I know that.”

  His voice had been soft; now it took on a slightly hard edge. For the first time, Hélène felt a dart of alarm, a sense that things were slipping out of her control. He began to kiss her again, and to stroke the full curve of her breasts under the thin cotton dress. Then, abruptly, adjusting his trousers, he stood up, just at the moment when Hélène had decided she must tell him to stop. He took her hand.

  “It’s hot in here, don’t you think? Let’s go someplace cooler, more comfortable…”

  He half-led, half-pulled her out of the room, across the hall, and up the wide stairs. If he heard her protests, he gave no sign of it. On the wide galleried landing, he pulled her against him tightly, his brea
th coming fast, one hand fumbling for the handle of a door. He pushed it back and drew her inside.

  They were in his wife’s bedroom. Hélène recognized it at once, even after all these years. The blinds were up, and moonlight striped the floor. It gleamed on the triple looking-glass, the heavy silver brushes, the cut-glass bottles. There were white linen dust sheets over the upholstered chairs. Ned moved away from her and roughly pulled off one of them. He turned, and tossed it across his wife’s bed, over the embroidered silk cover. He adjusted it fussily, smoothing out the folds, so there was a square of white linen right in the middle of the silk. Then he started to undo his belt.

  Hélène stood very still. For a moment, she could feel the clutch of bobby pins in her hand, could smell the hair tongs, could see the sallow skin, the powder caking in the heat. She lifted her hands.

  “I can’t. What are you doing? Ned—please…”

  “Look, honey, let’s not play games anymore, all right?” He lurched slightly, his mouth smiling, his voice filled with a sudden impatience.

  “You want a present, you just be nice to me, all right? Real nice, the way I know you can be.”

  His fingers were on his fly; she heard the zipper as he moved toward her. He laughed and reached for her hand.

  “Come on now, Hélène. Give me your hand. Don’t tease now. Don’t you know? Men don’t like women who tease. That’s it. Now touch me, honey. Go on, slip your hand right inside my pants. Nice and slow.” He gave a grunt of pleasure.

  “That’s it. That’s it, honey. That feel good? Feel big? You see what you do to me now…”

  He had her hand trapped between his palm and the thrust of his flesh. The heat of his skin, the size of his erection, terrified her. She couldn’t move, and he seemed to interpret her silent stillness as acquiescence. He drew her over to the bed, lifted her in his arms, and pushed her back onto the white square of sheeting. Then he began to take off his clothes, taking his time, as if he enjoyed stripping in front of her.

  Hélène sat absolutely still on the sheet and watched him. Her mind stopped all its darting and flurrying, and became hard and cold and clear. She understood, completely, and with a sense of calm detachment, as if this were happening to someone else.

  He had been leading up to this for months, waiting perhaps for the moment when his wife was away. Asking him to lend her the money had given him an additional excuse, that was all. Now, she saw, he felt perfectly justified in what he was doing. It was a bargain, an exchange. She had accepted a present; now she wanted money, and he wanted this. Love was not involved, of course not—how stupid she had been. Just sex and commerce. Sixty dollars worth of a good time.

  He kept his boxer shorts on. Hélène looked at him. Undressed, his body was powerful and square, thickening around the waist, with the beginnings of a paunch. There was a mat of thick black hair across his chest, narrowing to a line that disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts. Compared to the tan on his face and neck and arms, the rest of his body was startlingly white. His erection made the shorts pucker and bulge. He had his hands on his hips, and a smile of absolute confidence on his mouth. Hélène looked at him and knew she hated him with all her heart.

  “You ever seen a man like this before?”

  “No.”

  He grinned. “Let’s make you feel a little more comfortable, okay, honey?”

  His fingers reached for the zipper of her frock, tangled in her hair. As he undid it, his hands shook a little. He eased it off over her head and tossed it onto the floor. Then he kneeled back on the bed and just looked at her.

  “Jesus. Sweet Jesus.”

  He didn’t bother to undo the bra. He just lifted her breasts higher in the lacy cups so the nipples were exposed. Then he pushed her back and began to suck. Half-kneeling, half-crouching, he burrowed his head against her flesh. Hélène lay quite still; she watched him and felt him from a long way away, a million miles away, the other side of the moon. With a part of her mind she had not known she possessed, she was calculating where she’d make him stop. At first he was too busy to notice how quietly she lay. He was too busy licking and sucking and probing. His fingers moved down, flickered across her smooth stomach, hesitated, then moved on down. They glanced across the sheer nylon, felt for the pubic mound, tweaked the nylon aside, gripped her painfully by the pubic hair the way a man might grab a dog by the scruff of the neck.

  “Part your legs, honey. Just a little bit now. I won’t hurt you. I want to give my little girl a good time. Let me feel, let me touch. Is that nice, honey? That feel good when I touch you there?”

  One finger inserted between the lips, searching, pressing too hard. He jiggled the finger about.

  “You’re still dry, honey. Wait awhile now.” He gave a low laugh. “A woman’s just like a car, you know that? Have to give them time to warm up.”

  He jiggled the finger about some more, and Hélène winced.

  “Come on now, honey, you’re not tryin’, you know that? Here.” He withdrew his hand abruptly, and reached for hers. “You feel me now, get to know me. Feel how warmed up I am, how hot…”

  He pulled her hand in through the slit in the boxer shorts, guiding it roughly over the smooth hard skin of the shaft, down to the loose skin, the swing of his balls. They felt damp and crumpled, round and hard inside, like little rocks. The shaft of his penis dipped and lifted as she touched. Hélène shut her eyes.

  “You want to take a closer look, honey? See the goods?” She could tell from his voice he was smiling, could feel him easing the boxer shorts down over his hips.

  “Open your eyes now, honey. Take a good long look.”

  Hélène looked. His flesh looked red and swollen. The tip of his penis was like an eye, she thought. A small unwinking eye; at its center, one moist wet pearl of white.

  “You can kiss me down there, honey. It feels real nice.” His hand closed around himself, as if to display himself the better. A tremor ran through his body.

  “Honey…I can’t hold back much longer. You know what I want.” His voice was thick and indistinct; he was trying to straddle her, two thick thighs either side of her waist. Hélène raised her clear blue eyes and looked him directly in the face.

  “I’m not going all the way.”

  The words came out quite distinctly. She saw his eyes widen for a second in surprise. But it was only for an instant; his face was flushed, his lips slack, his eyes purposeful again. It was as though he didn’t see her, she thought detachedly.

  “Sure, sure. Lie back…” He was panting. He pushed her back roughly, his hands fumbling for her breasts, cupping them up and together so they made a narrow channel of flesh for the shaft of his penis. Then he began to rub himself, back and forth, back and forth, with an angry erratic motion. Above her, his face contorted and swayed.

  “Like that. Like that. That feels good. So good. Jesus—don’t move now. You’re so big. Just a little girl and so…”

  For a second the friction increased frantically, furtively. Then it stopped; his body went rigid, and his breath was expelled in a groan. Hélène had shut her eyes; it was all very very quick. Now she opened them in sudden alarm; he sounded as if he were dying. Then she felt wetness spurt across her breasts and throat. Then he slumped on top of her, breathing hard.

  After a few minutes, she pushed him a little, and he rolled off her. Carefully she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She looked back at the square of white sheeting. It had been accurately placed; no mess on the silk of his wife’s bed. How many times had he done that before—and why there? She didn’t care, but she felt coldly curious.

  “I should go home now.”

  He sat up, pulling up the boxer shorts. “Sure. But we better clean you up a bit first.”

  It was he who fetched the tissues and rubbed at her skin and hair. Quite without embarrassment, she noted. “Best skin lotion in the world.” He grinned. “That’s what they say, honey.”

  Hélène put on her dress and zi
pped it up. She waited silently while he got into his shirt and pants. “Could I have the money now?”

  Not “present”—money. She said it quite clearly. She wanted him to know she understood, that she wasn’t deceived. Above all, she wanted him to know that she had felt nothing. He had bought himself a good time, that was all.

  He frowned. She could see he was offended, but he tried to pass it off.

  “You’ve got kind of a blunt way of putting things.” He hesitated, his hand on his jacket. “That all it meant to you? Come on now, honey?”

  “I thought you said you liked to give me presents?”

  This time she couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice, and he heard it. His face darkened. Very deliberately he took out his billfold. He counted the notes out, tens, onto his wife’s dressing table. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Fifty-five. He gave her a cunning smile and put the billfold back into his pocket.

  “I need sixty.”

  “Five on account. You get that next time you’re nice to me.”

  Hélène looked at him. Then she walked stiffly across the room and picked up the money. He caught her hand.

  “Jesus—you’re something, you know that? I don’t believe this. I’ve seen more tact in a New Orleans cat house…” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “Come on now, honey—why are you acting this way? I did something to upset you, or what? Hélène, talk to me, say something. You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you? I gave you a good time…”

  “I have to go now.” She freed her wrist and turned. She was starting to shake, and she wanted to get out of the room before he noticed.

  “Hélène…”

  There was a note of pleading in his voice. He lifted his hand to her, and she looked back at him for a moment.

  “Hélène, honey, please, Wait a minute…”