Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  She opened the bedroom door and entered quietly. In the darkness he heard the rustle of her clothes as she undressed – perhaps for the second time tonight for all he knew – and the sound of her going out again to the bathroom. He peered at the clock and could just discern that it was half past one in the morning. Five minutes later she lifted the sheet and slid into bed beside him.

  She was naked. Because of the heat.

  Inch by inch she snuggled closer. Her arm came across him tentatively at first, gently caressing, trying to ascertain whether he was asleep, and he could discern her minty toothpaste breath near his face.

  Maybe it was not because of the heat.

  He felt himself harden.

  ‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.

  He feigned a yawn and stretched. ‘I am now. What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. What time did you come to bed?’

  ‘About half past eleven,’ he said.

  ‘And how long have you been in bed?’

  ‘God knows…an hour?’

  ‘Then it must be about half past twelve,’ she suggested, confident she would get away with it. ‘Put your arm around me and kiss me, Brent.’

  ‘Where have you been till now? It’s way past that time.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Brent.’

  She snuggled up to him and found his lips, giving him a long, probing kiss that sent him a message he had certainly not been expecting to receive that night. Her hand reached between his legs and stroked him sensuously. She pressed her moist, lightly perspiring body against him and he rolled on top of her, her breasts yielding as his own chest pressed against them. Almost at once he entered her, surprisingly easily, as if she had been ready for this, and he revelled in the familiar luxury of her slippery softness.

  But too soon he had to withdraw. To prolong the ecstasy he had to withdraw.

  ‘Don’t stop already,’ she hissed, her disappointment obvious.

  ‘I had to,’ he groaned.

  ‘By God, Brent, you’re bloody useless…’

  ‘Sorry…’

  ‘Oh, don’t put one of those damned things on. It’ll be all right now – this time of the month.’

  ‘If you’re sure…’ His tongue left a wet trail between her breasts, down past her navel and over her belly before it was swallowed up in a warm crop of dark, damp curls.

  Next day, Eleanor and Stephen pulled up outside a detached house at Selwyn Road in Edgbaston. The elegant dwelling, overlooking Rotton Park Reservoir, was to let and Stephen already knew how much it would cost in rent. Realistically, it was beyond his means but, in his eagerness to impress Eleanor, and especially since their tiff last night, he was prepared to make himself afford it. There had, after all, been a great deal of interest in his new jewellery design venture and already commissions were abundant. He had sold the ring he’d designed for Maxine for a handsome price and, in three months’ time, he would be making so much money he would not even notice the rent. He might even be looking to buy a house.

  He switched off the engine and turned uneasily to face Eleanor with a smile that begged both forgiveness of his trespasses and approval of his lofty aspirations.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite bijou, I suppose,’ she answered, affecting some disinterest, justifiably, she believed. ‘I’d like to see inside before I make any further comment.’ She looked around her condescendingly. ‘It’s a fairly good area, I suppose. At least it overlooks the lake. What time did that chap say he would be here?’

  Stephen looked at his watch. ‘About now. I told you last night what time.’

  ‘Well, maybe I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Listening! You weren’t speaking either.’

  ‘You know why I wasn’t speaking. I don’t want your prissy Maxine Kite mentioned again.’

  ‘She’s not my Maxine Kite. She’s nothing to do with me anymore.’

  ‘So why were you so damned concerned who she was with when we saw her last night? If she’s nothing to do with you any more what the hell does it matter?’

  ‘Just natural curiosity, Eleanor. Nothing more. It doesn’t matter…Let’s not argue about her anymore.’

  ‘I’m getting out for a breath of air,’ she said, underscoring her annoyance. ‘My clothes are sticking to me like I don’t know what in this too awful car of yours. I’m going to wander along the road and take a peep at some of the other houses along here. Some of them look very nice.’

  Stepping out of the car into the hot summer sunshine, he followed wordlessly.

  ‘Is he coming by car – this chap?’ Eleanor asked as Stephen joined her on the pavement and obsequiously took her arm.

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Didn’t you have the gumption to ask?’

  ‘I never thought.’

  ‘Then how will you know him?’

  ‘Eleanor, I just assumed we’d know each other by dint of actually meeting here. That’s obvious, I would have thought.’

  ‘It might be obvious to you, Stephen, but I like things more cut and dried.’

  ‘Well, you can’t get it more cut and dried than that. Here, look. I bet this is him now…’ They watched a man striding towards them expectantly. ‘Good afternoon…You must be Mr Paisley.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The man smiled vigorously. ‘Mr Hemming? Very pleased to meet you…Mrs Hemming…’ he held out his hand and they shook it in turn, catching each other’s eye to acknowledge the man’s incorrect but forgivable assumption. ‘Have you been waiting long? Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Stephen said affably. ‘We were enjoying the sunshine.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful day again.’

  ‘This is quite a nice area,’ Eleanor remarked to Mr Paisley. ‘I’ve not been down here before.’

  ‘Oh, very select,’ Mr Paisley responded with great assurance.

  ‘Reflected in the price of the rent, of course,’ Stephen commented wryly.

  ‘But an excellent property, Mr Hemming. And elegantly furnished. Of course, it represents an excellent opportunity to take advantage of this delightful neck of the woods, so convenient for the city. Do let me show you the property…After you, Mrs Hemming.’

  They turned and headed for the front door. As they walked up the short gravel drive, Mr Paisley delved into his trouser pocket, withdrew a set of keys, and thrust one into the lock. They entered.

  ‘Oh, very imposing,’ Stephen remarked approvingly. ‘Just look at that staircase, Eleanor. The handrail itself is a work of art.’

  ‘The carpet feels lovely and soft under my feet,’ she conceded.

  ‘Moving along the hall…’ Mr Paisley said, ‘here, we have a cloakroom…That door there is to the drawing room, and the one over there is to the dining room. This door here…’ he gestured to a door under the staircase, ‘leads to the cellar, which is exceptionally dry, clean, and with ample wine racking. My client is a connoisseur of fine wines, you know.’

  ‘Might he have left some in the cellar, by any chance?’ Eleanor enquired, tongue-in-cheek.

  Mr Paisley shook his head and smiled. ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Pity. I’m very partial to a glass of champagne.’

  ‘Obviously a woman of exquisite taste.’

  ‘A woman of expensive taste, Mr Paisley,’ Stephen said frankly.

  They followed Mr Paisley as he led them through this door and that. Then, as she entered the dining room, Eleanor gasped. Never had she seen such furniture. The highly polished cherrywood table, chairs and sideboard were positively regal, compared to what she was used to. She imagined a brilliant, silver candelabra adorning the table laid with a sumptuous feast for important guests. An Italian marble fireplace distinguished the room, and an elegant Art Deco lamp standard, the likes of which Stephen had never seen but admired enormously, stood sublimely in a corner.

  ‘Are you allowed to tell us who your client is, Mr Paisley?’

  He shook his head. ‘Suffice to say, Mr
Hemming, that the family have emigrated to one of the Carolinas – health reasons – the lady of the house, you understand. If, after two years, they decide to stay there, which in my humble opinion is likely, then this house is to be sold. Meanwhile, it is available for rent on a two-year lease as I discussed with you. My client is keen that the lessee should be a professional gentleman – preferably, er…without children…’ He looked from one to the other apologetically. ‘Someone with some empathy for the fine furnishings, you understand. Someone who will nurture the place, who will care for it. I take it you are a professional man, Mr Hemming?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes, Mr Paisley. I am a jewellery manufacturer.’

  ‘Indeed. Ah!’ Approval.

  ‘This is certainly a fine room, Mr Paisley.’

  ‘I’m certain the whole house will impress, Mr Hemming, Mrs Hemming…Let’s move on, shall we?’

  When they had seen the rest of the house, they descended the impressive staircase in procession, led by Mr Paisley. Eleanor turned to Stephen and silently signalled her approval of the house by raising her eyebrows.

  ‘So, Mr Hemming,’ Mr Paisley said, ‘the choice is yours…I think you’ll agree it is an excellent property.’

  ‘And liable to be up for sale in a couple of years,’ Stephen reminded himself. ‘Mmm…I’ll take it, Mr Paisley. I’ll take it.’

  ‘Excellent…Er…Do you have children, by any chance, Mr Hemming? Mrs Hemming?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Stephen answered with finality. ‘I think we qualify nicely on that score.’

  Brent Shackleton, relieved that his relationship with Eleanor seemed to have taken a turn for the better, was even more confused and frustrated when she returned home early that evening, having evidently reverted to the former aloofness that was all too symptomatic of her affair with Stephen Hemming. So, last night’s lovemaking had been just her way of getting back at Stephen after a row. Nothing had really changed. And when he analysed his feelings in more depth, apart from the resentment he harboured at having been used, he found he was still as indifferent to her as he had been before.

  Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 seemed the perfect choice of music for a humid summer’s evening. Despite the clammy heat, Howard Quaintance imagined easily the glistening frost of a heroic Russian winter invoked by the bewitching melodies and glittering blend of instrumental sounds. It was a musical feast enriched by the sight of Maxine, at one with this great orchestra. Frequently she would glance his way and the warmth and admiration for him in her look as she caught his eye made his heart leap. Never had he witnessed such feminine grace, such fluidity of movement as he saw now in her playing of the cello. She was mesmeric, yet so lacking in awareness of her sensuality, oblivious to the effect she had on him. He wanted her, oh, God, how he wanted her. He remembered her lips last Wednesday night, cool, succulent, like lush petals unfurling from a bud; chastity and sexuality existing within her symbiotically. Now, he was drifting on a tide of sensuous recollection of those luscious moments as well as anticipation of more.

  The interval came, and Howard remained near the front of the auditorium while many around him headed for a frantic drink at the bar in the short time allotted. He thumbed through his programme absently, imagining the moment when Maxine would be at his side once more, when he would be able to hold her and tell her with his eyes how much he was already in love with her. He wanted her to know, but it was too soon yet to actually say the words. He wondered fleetingly whether she might appear from backstage and stay with him for a minute or two, but she was evidently unable to. So he sighed and waited, with ultimate patience, for the second half of the programme when she would appear again.

  Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade was the perfect finale to a programme of more modern Russian music. Howard pondered the creativity of the Russian composers; the vitality, originality and emotion that seemed to explode like brilliant beams of dazzling sunshine from behind dense black clouds.

  Soon enough the concert ended, overrunning its time by nearly fifteen minutes. It meant having to dash with Maxine to the Tower Ballroom, encumbered by her cello. On the way, she asked Howard how he’d enjoyed it.

  ‘Immensely.’

  ‘Then you should come to every performance,’ she suggested. ‘I can always get you a ticket.’

  ‘Count me in,’ he responded happily.

  ‘Not for August, though. There are no more concerts in August.’

  ‘You mean you have a holiday?’

  ‘From the CBO and two weekends clear of bookings for the jazz band. I’m looking forward to the rest.’

  They got out of his car and Howard took the overnight case in which Maxine always transported her slinky, clingy dress that she wore for jazz bookings. When he had locked each door she took his hand with such endearing familiarity, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that his heart rejoiced at the spontaneity of it.

  Inside the ballroom, Maxine met the others and introduced Howard.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Brent said brusquely. ‘You’re a pal of Randolf who used to play piano with us.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Howard admitted affably. ‘He’s the organist at my church.’

  ‘Being a church organist is about his level. How is he? Seen him lately?’

  ‘I see him every Sunday.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s your lucky day then, eh, vicar?’ Brent remarked acidly. ‘But, hey – no need to give him my regards.’

  ‘God, no. We wouldn’t want to upset him unduly.’ This cynical response was warranted, Howard felt, for he could not condone Brent’s anti-social attitude. The man might be suffering emotional turmoil over his woman, but his curtness took Howard aback.

  Brent turned away, acknowledging neither him nor Maxine further.

  With a frown she nudged Pansy. ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘He’s jealous,’ she whispered.

  ‘Of who?’

  Pansy gave a sideways glance at Howard who was laughing at something Toots had said, and Maxine understood. But she was disappointed in Brent’s attitude if jealousy really had instigated it. He had no right to be jealous. He had no call on her, no prior claim. Besides, he was married, and just because his wife was having a fling with her own previous boyfriend, that was nought to do with her. She would tell Brent not to be so churlish.

  ‘I have to go and get changed,’ she said, turning to Howard. She warmly gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘We’re on in five minutes. See you later.’

  Pansy followed her backstage and into the dressing room they shared with the other band members. It was customary by now for the men to turn away tactfully while the girls stripped to their underwear to change their dresses, and tonight was no exception. It did not take more than a moment for both girls to wriggle into their stage dresses and fasten each other’s hooks and eyes.

  ‘You’re a dark horse,’ Pansy said conspiratorially. ‘I know you said you had a date in the week, but he’s a bit tasty.’

  Maxine turned and smiled contentedly. ‘I know. He’s not bad, is he?’

  ‘You keen on him then?’

  ‘Yes, I like him,’ she said demurely. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Brent called him “vicar”. He’s not really a vicar though, is he?’

  ‘No,’ Maxine replied, applying a layer of fresh lipstick. ‘He’s a curate.’

  ‘Honest?’ She laughed with incredulity. ‘He’s a curate?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘He’ll probably end up being the Archbishop of bloody Canterbury,’ Brent interjected. ‘His sort always do.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Brent.’ It was the first time Maxine had ever spoken to him as sharply. ‘What right have you got to complain?’

  ‘No, I won’t shut up, Maxine. You’d better watch him. He reminds me of that Stephen Hemming.’

  ‘He’s nothing like Stephen Hemming.’

  ‘Says you. Whether he is or not, I’ll lay odds you’ll come to a sticky end with him if you don’t watch it
.’

  Maxine made her eyes wide with mock astonishment. ‘Mmm. Brent makes it sound rather exciting.’

  She glanced at Pansy and they burst into peals of laughter.

  The following day, Brent Shackleton received a telephone call from somebody called Dan Robertson. He was the photographer who had taken their pictures at the Botanical Gardens the previous week. The proofs were ready and could they meet so that Brent could see them and tell him which and how many he wanted? Brent suggested meeting at The Woodman at twelve-thirty.

  Dan was already standing at the bar, talking to another man when Brent arrived. They recognised each other and shook hands.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Brent. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a pint of pale, please.’

  ‘You’ve met Bill Brighton before, haven’t you?’ Dan asked. ‘The reporter who did that feature on the band.’

  ‘No. I think we missed each other when you came to listen to the band,’ Brent said. ‘We spoke on the phone though, a day or two later.’

  ‘Which band’s this?’ Bill queried.

  ‘The Owls and the Pussycats. I’m the one who wasn’t there the night you came to listen to us. Had I known you were coming, of course…’

  ‘Well, there’s a turn-up for the books!’ Bill Brighton offered his hand and Brent shook it vigorously. ‘The Owls and the Pussycats. Great outfit. I like your sound. Even without the trombone you were good.’

  ‘Well, you gave us a good write-up. Thanks very much for that.’

  ‘Credit where it’s due. Those girls are good, aren’t they? Where did you find them? Lovely looking girls, as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brent agreed. ‘We’re lucky to have them. They’re a big asset.’

  ‘Two big assets, eh?’ Bill suggested bumptiously, nudging Brent on the arm and winking. ‘Two big assets apiece…eh?’

  Dan Robertson handed Brent his pint. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘I’ve got those photos of ’em here, Bill.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? Let’s have a squint at ’em.’

  From a briefcase at his feet, Dan withdrew a large brown envelope and took from it a sheaf of full-plate photographs.