For a second she thought he was going to defy her and stay, go on arguing, but after giving her a long, hard stare she could not decipher he turned on his heel and walked out without another word.
She heard him go down the stairs, heard him slam out of the house. Standing by the window, she watched him drive away, his tail-lights winking red as he disappeared down the drive and out into the lane beyond.
Only then did she break down, burst into tears. Connel had got too close, emotionally and physically. He had come close to taking off her clothes and entering her. She had come close to letting him do whatever he liked. She had wanted him—with a need that was almost pain.
Now she felt grief, an aching loss, as if something world-shattering, something explosively important, had almost happened to her, then at the last minute been snatched away.
It had been her decision. She had stopped him. So why did she feel guilty? Why was she standing here with tears running down her face?
It was time she made up her mind—how did she really feel about Connel Hillier?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Next morning she got up late, enjoying even more than usual the pleasure of being able to stay in bed as long as she liked. After a breakfast of porridge cooked in the microwave, which made life so much simpler than having to cook it in a saucepan and keep stirring it to make sure it didn't burn, she went shopping and had coffee in the village pub, The White Swan, which was no longer the sole haunt of men but had become something of a meeting place for both sexes, and all ages. This social revolution meant that she had found the bar packed with other women who had done their weekend shopping and were now sitting together, gossiping and having coffee; some of them eating hot croissants or toast, too. Some of them had children with them—if food was being eaten children were allowed in the bar, but had to leave once food was no longer served. The arrival of women in pubs had brought about a big improvement in decor. Carpets on the floor, where once there had been sawdust, comfortable couches instead of wooden benches, bright colour schemes and ornaments and pictures on the walls.
It was a bright, cold day; Zoe sat in a windowseat so that she could gaze out at the little garden running beside the pub. There were few flowers around at this late date in autumn, and the deciduous trees might be almost leafless, but a holly tree still had its dark green leaves, and was also covered in scarlet berries. Country people said that meant a hard winter ahead. Nature provided food for birds in bad weather when the ground was too frozen for them to find insects easily.
There were other bushes in flower: a Viburnum shrub covered in pink flowers, some white winter-flowering roses, a few orange chrysanthemums and some rather scrubby-looking purple Michaelmas daisies. Those splashes of colour lifted Zoe's spirits, which had been rather low from the minute she got up and remembered what had happened yesterday.
She was depressed Oh, not because Connel had made that pass. Men were always doing that She coped with them casually, easily. She didn't resent passes—in some ways they were flattering, so long as they could be fended off without trouble. When someone weird like Larry made a pass it could be scary, of course, because he wouldn't give up, lie turned nasty when you rejected him, but most men took no for an answer and backed off.
Last night she hadn't been afraid Connel might be dangerous, might try force or turn nasty. That wasn't what was worrying her, dragging her spirits down.
The trouble was, she had wanted him, even though she had said no. For the first time in her life she had really wanted a man so badly that it had been very hard to stop him, and she wasn't sure what that meant.
In fact, she was confused, bewildered, uneasy, her thoughts went round and round in circles whenever she tried to think it all out, but worst of all her brain appeared to turn to melting ice cream the instant images of Connel entered her head.
Am I in love? she wondered one minute, then the next angrily thought, No! Of course she wasn't In love! The very idea made her laugh.
Except, of course, that it didn't Because she wasn't laughing. She was far too depressed even to smile.
Some Saturdays she had lunch out, met neighbours and friends and chatted to them, but today she wasn't staying here for lunch with the regulars. She decided to have cheese, salad and a slab of French bread at home instead, so she headed for her cottage after leaving the pub.
While she was unpacking her groceries she switched on the answer-machine.
'Hallo, Zoe.' Connel's voice made her start so violently that she dropped a box of eggs on the floor.
'Damn, damn, damn,' Zoe muttered, looking down at the mess. Luckily, her kitchen floor was tiled and easy to clean, but even so what a nuisance to have that to clear up!
Connel's voice was deep and husky. 'I'm sorry about last night. Can we start again? I'm having a party this evening—Mark and Sancha are coming. Will you come with them? Please, Zoe.'
His voice vanished, the machine switched off, and Zoe leaned on the kitchen wall, breathless.
Should she go?
No. Not on your life. Only an idiot would risk seeing him again; she was staying away from him in future.
She looked at her reflection in the chrome fitting of the oven: green eyes huge and glowing, with dilated pupils; face flushed, mouth parted and trembling. Who do you think you're kidding? she asked her mirror image.
Wild horses couldn't drag you away from the chance to see him again.
You're hooked, addicted. A sad case. Hadn't she always despised women who got themselves into this state of hopeless dependence on one man? Well, now she could despise herself.
She turned away and set about clearing up the broken eggs before she finished unpacking the groceries.
A quarter of an hour later, while she was. eating her cheese, French bread, and salad, Sancha rang, her brisk voice making it clear she was in a combative mood. 'Are you coming tonight or not?'
'I suppose so,' Zoe reluctantly said.
Her sister spluttered. 'You're very annoying, do you know that? This is a party—not a visit to the dentist! You might try to sound as if you expected to enjoy yourself!'
Meekly, Zoe sighed. 'Sorry. I'm eating my lunch and thinking about work…'
'What else do you ever think about?' Sancha accused.
Wouldn't you love it if you knew? thought Zoe, but said aloud, 'What should I wear?'
'Mark told me to put on something pretty, not just casual clothes. Not jeans, in other words. It isn't a barbecue, although there is a well-lit garden we can explore, apparently. But there's a caterer doing the food. Mark says some important clients will be there, people Connel wants to impress. Mostly rich people, I gather, who'll be dressed up to kill, so take a lot of trouble to look your best, Zoe, for Mark's sake!'
'A dress, then, not jeans?' It sounded rather boring, though. Rich businessmen en masse were not her favourite people. She never knew what to say to them. They led such tedious lives.
'Of course—I told you, no jeans! We'll pick you up at seven-fifteen. Okay?'
After she had rung off Zoe sat down to sip the glass of apple juice she was drinking with her meal. Only then did it occur to her to wonder where Connel lived. A flutter of excitement began in her stomach. What sort of place did he have? She was curious.
Let's face it, she was curious about everything to do with Connel. His background, his family, where he lived, what he read, what he did in his spare time! Any detail about him was interesting to her.
She began impatiently clearing away the evidence of her meal. Couldn't she think of something else? That afternoon she worked on next week's film schedule, noting down new ideas for scenes, frowning over the script and worksheet.
At six she went upstairs to have a shower before getting dressed. After putting on filmy black silk bra and panties, richly trimmed with lace, then a matching black chemise, with a deep band of lace at the hem and neck, she wriggled into a very brief black dress. Armless and almost backless, it began just where her breasts began, leaving a tantalisi
ng glimpse of white flesh, then clung all the way down to just above her knees, so tight it was a second skin.
Staring at herself in it, she hesitated—was it too daring for a private party? She had bought it to wear on public occasions, film functions, award ceremonies, times when she would be on view, when the paparazzi would be swarming and reporters around. It was a dress to dazzle, to catch the eye, make people look twice, maybe three or four times. It was a dress to be seen in!
She had only worn it once or twice before, and she knew it was not a dress you could relax in. Men stared too much, especially if you forgot and bent forward even a little so that they saw more of your breasts.
Should she change into something less daring? She looked at her watch, groaning. No, there was no time; it was seven now and Mark and Sancha would arrive before she got her make-up on if she didn't hurry.
Cautiously perching on the edge of her dressing-table stool, she began to smooth foundation over her skin with her fingertips.
As she had suspected, her sister and brother-in-law arrived promptly. Hearing their car grate over the gravel, Zoe took a last look at herself, grimaced, then fled, grabbing up her black velvet cape and black velvet evening bag from the bed as she ran.
When she opened the front door there was a silence, then Mark gave a long wolf whistle, his brows rising.
Sancha said, 'That dress is…' Words appeared to fail her for a second, then she took a long breath and said, 'I've never seen you wear it before—did you buy it specially for tonight? It will certainly make Connel sit up.'
'And beg,' Mark dryly murmured.
'I didn't dress for Connel Hillier,' snapped Zoe. 'And it isn't new. It's the dress I bought in the spring, when we were up for a Best New Feature Film award, which we should have won, but which was stolen from us by…'
Sancha's eyes widened and she interrupted. 'Oh, yes, I remember! I caught a glimpse of it while we were watching the television news coverage of the awards.'
'I wasn't on the TV programme! As we didn't win, they weren't interested in us,' Zoe bitterly said.
'No, but when they announced the nominees for that category they scanned the tables of each film up for the award, and I saw you, with the rest of the people in your film, the actors, and Will, and your assistant, whatever her name is…but as you were sitting down I didn't realise the dress was so…'
Her voice tailed off.
'So what?' demanded Zoe, bristling. 'What's wrong with this dress?'
'Not a thing,' Mark said, grinning wickedly, looking her up and down, from her wild red hair to her creamy, naked shoulders and the smoothness of her half-covered breasts, down over the tight black dress to her long, sleek legs and small feet in expensive Italian black leather high heels. It's scrumptious, positively delicious. You'll be fighting men off all evening.'
'Would you like me to get one just like it?' Sancha asked in a chilly voice.
'You? Certainly not,' he said, frowning. 'You're my wife, a respectable married woman—I don't want other men eying you in public, and if you wore that dress they would.'
Sancha looked at Zoe. 'Now do you see what I mean?'
'I see your husband has two standards—one for you and one for other women. And if I were you I wouldn't be pleased about that! Unless you have the harem mentality,' Zoe tartly said. 'Look, are we going to this party or not?'
'Temper, temper,' Mark said, laughing.
'What do you mean, harem mentality?' Sancha asked indignantly.
Without answering Zoe switched off the hall light, closed her front door and stalked, head held high, to their car.
'I understand what Mark means,' her sister said, following. 'I wouldn't want other women staring at him, either.'
'Jealousy is childish,' Zoe said, getting into the car.
'Oh, of course, you wouldn't be jealous if you saw your man with someone else!' Sancha snapped.
'No, I'd just dump him and walk away without a backward glance.'
'That's what you always do anyway!'
'If you two keep squabbling you won't enjoy the party,' Mark told them as he got behind the wheel.
Zoe had just remembered that last year Mark had been involved with someone else, and Sancha had been very hurt, jealous, unhappy, but had refused to leave him, had fought like a tiger for her marriage. How could I forget that? Zoe asked herself. How stupid can you be? She couldn't apologise, either, in front of Mark, so she lapsed into silence and stared out of the window as he drove off, along the lane, back to the main road, where he drove across into another lane which led to the village of Rookby, half a dozen miles away. After driving along the main street, lined on each side by small pastel-washed cottages in terraces, with a few older buildings scattered between them, a lurching black and white Tudor house, a couple of white-plastered, bow-fronted eighteenth-century houses, Mark turned left by the old church.
That was medieval, with a rather squat bell tower and stone and flint walls, surrounded by a green sea of grass lapping at old gravestones. The lane wandered on for five minutes until they reached some tall, white gates. Mark spun through them and slowly proceeded up a wide drive fringed by silver birch trees which gleamed strangely, like slender ghosts, in the light of tall black-painted lamps set at intervals. Suddenly through the trees they saw the house, a square black shape against the starry sky, windows glinting at them.
'Is that his house?' Sancha gasped. 'It looks huge.'
'No, but it is quite large—six bedrooms, a stable block behind it—and it's early Georgian, built around 1760,' Mark told her. 'It was very run-down when Connel bought it, needed a new roof, a lot of replastering, central heating put in. It was damp in some of the rooms. It took him about a year to put it all right, and for the last year he's been having it redecorated, inside and out; Connel got in a very classy firm who did the lot, found furniture, chose colour schemes, advised on carpets. He didn't have time to do all that himself. But now it's finished and he's pleased with the way the place looks— hence the party, this is a sort of house-warming.'
Sancha sighed wistfully. I'd love to live in a place like this!'
'So would I,' Mark dryly said. 'But I'm afraid I'm not in Connel's income bracket, love, so unless you divorce me and marry Connel, you never will.'
'I'll think about it,' Sancha said, giggling. To own a house like this he must be very rich.'
'Very,' Mark said, sliding a glance at Zoe over his shoulder. 'You're very quiet, Zoe. Seeing Connel in a new light, are you?'
'I was thinking about the work involved in running a place as big as this,' she coolly said. 'All those rooms to keep clean!'
'Connel has a housekeeper who cooks for him, several part-time cleaners, and a gardener.'
Staring, as they came closer and she could see the house more clearly, the rows of pedimented windows, the high-pitched red roof, the elegance of the structure, Zoe said, 'His wife would spend hours every day just organising the staff I'
Mark gave her another wry look, brows lifting. 'Determined not to be impressed, Zoe?'
A little angry colour stole into her face, but she was saved the necessity of replying because he was just pulling up outside the facade of the house in a large parking bay to the side of the front door. There was only just room for their car; a couple of dozen cars were parked echelon-style already.
This was obviously quite a large party, thought Zoe, as she and Sancha got out. While Mark was locking his car Zoe whispered to her sister, 'Sorry I snapped earlier.'
She got a wry, sideways smile. 'That's okay, I forgive you. I always do, don't I? Are you nervous, Zo?'
'Nervous?'
'About seeing Connel again?'
'Of course not!' She flushed crossly, but knew her sister had come close to the truth—she was edgy about seeing Connel.
He had had a dangerous effect on her. It was hard to admit that, especially as she had no idea how to cope with her feelings.
Mark caught up with them and they walked on in silence towards t
he white portico of the front door, feet crunching on the gravel. In spite of the cloudless sky, the stars, the night air was quite warm, yet Zoe was shivering inside her velvet cloak. Seeing this beautiful home had altered her perception of Connel.
She had begun to think of him the way she thought of men she worked with: colleagues, comrades, men you could talk to, casually, as a friend, men you could trust and rely on.
The way he had cooked for her, taken care of her, tidied up and cleaned the house, had not prepared her for what she saw now. Connel did not cook for himself; Mark had just told her. He did not clean his own home. He had servants to do all that for him. Connel, in fact, lived in a different world from her. They had nothing in common. Zoe felt oddly depressed by that thought.
A grey-haired, middle-aged woman, wearing a neat black dress, opened the front door and smiled at them, ushered them into an oak-panelled hall, took their coats and showed them into a long, elegantly furnished room filled with people whose voices made the room seem much smaller than it was; Zoe didn't recognise a single face.
A girl, also in black, offered a tray of drinks. Zoe took Buck's Fizz, orange juice spiked with champagne. So did Sancha. Together they stood, staring around.
The room was classically decorated; the walls painted a smooth, soft eggshell-blue; the white ceiling elaborately plastered, with swags of flowers, cherubs, in the centre of which a chandelier swung, Venetian glass dripping down from rows of bud-like bulbs. There were dark blue velvet sofas here and there, and matching chairs scattered along the walls, leading towards a well-lit garden you could see through open French windows hung with floor-length curtains in the same shade.
'What do you think of the decor?' Sancha whispered, and Zoe shrugged.
'No surprises, are there? I mean, the colour choice and the decor are conventional, traditional, what you would expect in a house like this.'
'But it is so elegant,' Sancha wistfully said.
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