The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  She squinted at him, focusing squarely on his eyes to gauge the meaning behind his ever-carefully chosen words. ‘What about you?’ she asked, tiptoeing with equal care.

  ‘With or without me, get away from Harp’s End and London. Follow your dream of the café in the spa town.’

  She began to deny him but he pressed on.

  ‘Promise me,’ he urged.

  Again the farewell bells sounded in her mind but she wasn’t ready to face reality yet, panting with fear and heartbreak on a bathroom floor. It was only when they were parted that the demons whispered their doubts. When he was awake and moving around her, like now, so full of life and ideas, smiles and affection, she believed in their future.

  ‘Rafe, don’t let’s talk about what we can’t yet see or know. You told me to focus on the now.’

  He nodded and turned away but she caught the sad expression before he could rearrange his features into a smile. ‘I’m showering. Soon it will be time for cocktails. Answer the door, would you? There’s a delivery coming.’

  ‘What is it?’ she said to his back as he left her.

  ‘You’ll find out,’ he replied and within moments was humming in the bathroom, the sound of water splashing noisily.

  There was a knock at the door. Stella opened it to find a member of the hotel staff holding a box.

  ‘Madame Stella?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Merci, Madame,’ he said, smiling and offering his light load with a small bow.

  She took the plain white box. ‘Merci, Monsieur. Oh, pardon . . .’ Stella gestured for him to wait. She rifled through Rafe’s trouser pocket and found some Moroccan francs. ‘Merci,’ she repeated, dropping the coins into his palm. He nodded and left.

  Stella checked, seeing the package was addressed to her at this hotel. She blinked, eased the lid from the box and pulled back the white tissue to reveal a magnificent silken fabric of green and ecru. It looked to be a pattern of leaves and stars. Holding her breath, Stella lifted the fabric and it unfurled from its rustle of tissue to reveal itself to be a summer evening gown. She gasped at its simple beauty and the effortless drape of fabric that created its intriguing, yet wholly modest criss-cross neckline whose folds broadened to achieve pretty caps for sleeves.

  It was feather-light and figure-hugging.

  ‘Like it?’ he asked from where he’d obviously been watching her from the doorway.

  She blinked, astonished at how silent he could be. He was towelling his hair but she smiled in a delicious rush of love for the delineated areas of his body that were tanned. His knees to his ankles were bronzed, as were his elbows to fingertips, with a white band where his watch habitually covered. His face and neck glowed and there was the V at the base of his neck where the sun had kissed it long and deep.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Do you hate it?’

  She shook her head, overwhelmed suddenly. ‘I love it but not as much as I love you.’

  ‘Wear it for me?’

  ‘You’ve orchestrated all of this. Did you never doubt we’d be here together?’

  He looked back at her with a sheepish discomfort.

  A silence stretched and it turned awkward. She laid the flimsy sheath of a dress against its tissue.

  ‘What’s wrong, Stella?’

  ‘I’ve always thought of myself as someone in control of herself, and yet you’ve been pulling all the strings in the background of my life since we met.’

  He didn’t move as she’d expected but stared at her from the threshold of the bathroom. ‘I can’t tell you how to feel, Stella. I can only show you how I feel about you, about us. It’s true I wanted you here because I may need your help but I wanted to make you happy as well. I wanted us to have time away from everyone and everything we know.’

  She gave a grimace of annoyance. ‘I hate feeling sorry for myself. It’s such wasted energy.’

  ‘So get ready. I’ll meet you downstairs in the bar, mint julep at the ready.’

  She kissed his shoulder as she moved past him into the bathroom. Tonight she would look like a goddess for him and if it were to be their last evening for the foreseeable future, she would ensure her image and desirability was all he would think of when he left her to return to Beatrice.

  She stepped into the lounge that was brimming with drinkers and was aware immediately of appreciative glances. Heads turned and smiles from men drinking together or alone were flashed in her direction. But her attention was drawn to Rafe, whose silhouette she picked out immediately as he stood alone on the verandah. The sun had set but the dying echo of its presence had left the sky in a red blaze around him. She laughed inwardly. For a girl known for her pragmatic nature, how ridiculously fanciful she’d become since meeting him; her life felt a long way from London’s Underground, grocery shopping and battling through traffic to get to work each day. That all seemed to belong to a different world now.

  The gown billowed gently at her ankles and she was sure she must look as though she were floating across the room. He’d seen her, turned fully and leaned back against the balustrade to watch her approach. The ceiling fans beneath the verandah’s ceiling stirred the otherwise breathless evening and she realised they were not alone once she’d stepped out of the lounge and into the evening. But the others didn’t matter.

  He kissed her hand and then leaned in to kiss her cheek, his eyes glittering darkly in the low light as they turned away to look out across the gardens.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m speechless, that’s why,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know which word best describes how you look or how it makes me feel to look upon you. Humbled, I suppose.’

  ‘Another odd word choice,’ she jested. ‘Why humbled?’

  ‘That you’d choose me.’

  She shook her head and considered him, wondering whether to say what was in her mind. She decided she would. ‘Rafe, perhaps what I like most about you is that you aren’t aware of the effect you have on women. Either that or you are ruthlessly self-effacing.’

  He shrugged. ‘Most people bore me, Stella. I don’t put myself around enough of them to see my reflection . . . if I can put it that way.’

  She took his hand, smiling gently at his explanation. ‘Well, thank you for the compliment and for the heavenly dress; I really don’t know how you do it . . . size me so well, I mean. You could have a well-paid job at Bourne & Hollingsworth any day of the week!’

  He gave a low chuckle. ‘You and Georgina are a perfect match; I’ve been buying for her since she was a little girl.’ She knew he was right, recalling how well Georgina’s sailor’s dress had fitted. She banished the annoyance that recollection brought. ‘Women’s garments are so much more interesting than men’s,’ he said, flicking at a lapel.

  ‘Shall I put your name forward to the buying team, then?’ she offered, laughing as she spoke. ‘We can both work and travel together buying beautiful clothes to sell in the department store. What a team we’d make.’ Her amusement faltered as something dark ghosted through his expression but he rearranged his grin so fast she couldn’t chase down that haunted look. Besides, he was already signalling to a waiter, distracting them both from the notion.

  ‘I promised a mint julep. And I think you must have one. It will match your gown.’

  ‘Both so appropriate for Marrakech,’ she remarked. ‘The leaf design even looks like mint.’

  He grinned, spoke to the waiter and turned to sigh at the scape before them. ‘A beautiful night for a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Stop now. I was impressed by you long ago; no need to charm,’ she teased gently, linking his fingers in hers.

  Rafe shrugged. ‘I could wish I’d tried my hand at poetry.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  He gave a snort of disdain.

  ‘Why not? You have years yawning ahead of walking moors and climbing hills.’ It was meant to sound light and jaunty but her remark won only a glance of soft wistfulness she couldn’t fathom.
>
  ‘There is some bad news, I’m afraid.’

  Stella’s expression fell. ‘Oh no, what?’

  ‘There’s a fellow I know – Wilkinson – also staying at the hotel tonight and he invited himself to join us for dinner.’

  Even though her expression reflected disappointment, she felt relief drain through her. She’d expected worse. ‘Couldn’t you put him off?’

  ‘Did my damnedest,’ he admitted, as the waiter arrived with a tray. ‘Ah, here we are, lovely it is too, served traditionally in a silver cup.’

  Stella beamed as she was handed a cup, so chilled it had frosted over, with a sprig of mint waltzing lazily amongst clinking ice cubes. She smelled the fumes of the spirit base.

  ‘Good southern bourbon served here,’ Rafe said, clinking cups. ‘Here’s to balmy, wonderful nights of lust,’ he said with a wicked glint.

  Stella paused, before adding, ‘To warm and happy days ahead.’

  He didn’t reply to that but sipped, looking away to the darkening sky with now only a glimmering slash of its glow from moments earlier.

  ‘I know most people marvel at sunsets but I personally prefer the promise that sunrise brings.’

  ‘There you are,’ she said, trying to avert the sudden sadness that had crept between them. ‘You’re already a poet.’

  He sighed and pulled her close. ‘I’m sorry about dinner.’

  ‘Does he know who I am to you?’

  ‘He didn’t ask. A gentleman wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good, because I sensed you were embarrassed when we were with Youssef this morning.’

  He glanced at her.

  ‘I’m not offended but I suppose the sooner we are honest, the easier it will be.’

  He raised his cup again. ‘To honesty.’

  She sipped, wondering how sincere that toast might be. Stella allowed the potent yet sweet and scented drink to slip down and somehow warm and cool her throat at once. The minted ice was deliciously chilling against the fiery bourbon.

  ‘Good evening,’ said an aristocratic voice interrupting them.

  ‘Ah, Wilkinson.’ Rafe shook hands with a man a few years older than himself. His voice was terribly posh to Stella but his smile was as warm as the bourbon.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, turning and offering his hand.

  ‘John, let me introduce you to the woman I love. Her name is Stella Myles. We’ve only known each other a short time but I feel as though I have been searching for this girl all of my life.’

  Stella stared at Rafe, dumbfounded, her mouth still open in disbelief as John Wilkinson shook her hand gently. ‘That is quite an introduction, Miss Myles. I’m positively charmed to meet you.’

  Rafe gave her a look that asked, Was that honest enough? He drained his cup. ‘Let’s get some champagne, shall we?’

  She blinked in consternation, looking away from him. ‘Hello, John,’ she said, her mind racing as to what had just occurred and why. ‘Please, call me Stella. I hear we’re dining together this evening.’

  ‘If you’ll allow me to bully in on your romantic evening,’ he said with a polite nod. ‘Given Ainsworth’s obvious infatuation, I’m sure you have hundreds to share together yet.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said politely and smiled for him, even though she felt troubled not only by Rafe’s mood but his hedging around their future and now his reckless announcement of their relationship. Granted, she’d asked for it. ‘I’m starving, actually,’ she added, realising they hadn’t eaten properly today and what had been in her belly she’d effectively violently emptied earlier. ‘Rafe, let’s eat, shall we?’ she suggested, hoping that food might soak up the flute of champagne he had pilfered from a passing tray and was about to chase the julep down with.

  Dinner turned into a sombre affair for Stella. The men discussed Britain’s economic woes before inexorably turning to Europe’s doldrums and ultimately to Germany hauling itself from the ashes of war in the fist of its new leader.

  ‘Odd-looking fellow, isn’t he?’ Wilkinson observed.

  ‘Short,’ Rafe commented, swallowing a cognac after his fourth champagne. Stella was counting.

  ‘Usually the most aggressive as a result,’ their companion added with a grin. He had not kept pace with Rafe’s drinks and Stella noted their fellow diner had remained sober and charming throughout their dinner of roasted chicken that was terribly English but Rafe had ordered some authentically local side dishes; one called couscous that was a Berber specialty. It had arrived in a mound, flanked by whole roasted vegetables and served with chopped mint and lemon.

  ‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ Wilkinson had winked at her.

  ‘It’s so exotic. I’ve never tasted anything like this before,’ she admitted.

  In any other circumstance Wilkinson would have made an amusing and enjoyable dinner companion but Rafe’s increasing intoxication and his mystifying mood change that had prompted it was worrying her. Music had struck up as most people from the dining room had thinned out to finish their evening next door with the small orchestra. ‘Well, dear friends, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a quiet smoke of my pipe on my balcony and that will do me nicely for today.’ John Wilkinson touched her hand. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, my dear; I’m sure every other man tonight envied me.’

  ‘You can bet they did,’ Rafe said without slurring but Stella’s irritation was no longer happy to remain tucked neatly out of sight and it took all her effort not to scowl.

  ‘Goodnight, John. I hope we meet again.’ She stood to show her intent and feigned a small yawn. ‘I shall turn in too.’

  ‘Stella?’ Rafe said. ‘The night is but young.’

  ‘Night, old chap,’ Wilkinson said, tapping Rafe on the shoulder. ‘Tonight’s on my tab.’ He walked away before Rafe could protest, perhaps sensing aggrieved words about to be exchanged.

  Rafe lifted a careless hand in farewell but his stormy gaze was riveted on her. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To bed,’ she said, smiling at the waiter who pushed her chair in for her. ‘Goodnight, Rafe.’

  ‘Wait!’ he called far too loudly.

  She was glad there was only one other couple dining – two men, laughing loudly with each other over balloons of brandy. She turned back.

  ‘Rafe. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what? What am I doing?’

  ‘Making the ruin of our single evening any worse.’ She turned away and in her haste and annoyance stupidly took the wrong doors and found herself back out on the verandah. She swung around to find a different way back but he was right there behind her, his voice as soft as his footfall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why am I sorry? Because I’ve upset you.’

  ‘Why did you try so hard to upset me, I mean?’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘How much more did you plan to drink? Until you were so drunk you couldn’t support yourself?’ She turned away from him, placed her hands in frustration on the balcony, promising herself no tears. She despised even letting fly with these angry words.

  Rafe put his arms either side of her so his hands rested next to hers. ‘It takes a lot more liquor to make me lose my faculties, Stella. I admit I am drunk on love, though, and what I can’t have.’

  ‘Can’t have?’ She turned around in the circle of his arms. ‘Can’t have? I’m yours. What’s not to have?’ she said, searching his face in the light of the lanterns that had been lit since night had closed in.

  A whisper of a breeze stirred a curl of her hair, which he caressed between his fingers with a sad smile. He leaned down and kissed her and it was a heartbreakingly gentle gesture. ‘Just the sight of you, especially tonight, is intoxicating. Can we blame that?’

  ‘Why so sad, then?’

  ‘I like Wilkinson but I wanted to bore him into leaving us. I needed you all to myself.’

  ‘You have me, Rafe. And even if we’re forced apart, you’re right here,’ she
said, placing her hand over her heart. ‘And I will always be right there,’ she said, swapping to place it over his.

  He covered it with his own. ‘Let’s dance, Stella. Let’s begin tonight again.’

  She made a face as though she didn’t feel like it.

  ‘Please,’ he urged. ‘Let’s go back to where my love for you began . . . on the dance floor, you in my arms, but frosty at me.’ A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. ‘Dance with me?’

  ‘One dance before I take you up to my bed and only because you’re a good dancer and those are thin on the ground in London, let alone Marrakech, I suspect.’ She fought her way back to find her mood of affection and amusement.

  ‘One last dance,’ he said, taking her hand, pulling her away from the railing.

  She didn’t much care for the sound of those words but refused to remain wintry with him. ‘Here?’ she said, looking around.

  ‘Why not? I don’t want to share our last dance with any observers, not even the orchestra.’ He began to move her, light on his feet as always, although she could tell his mood was far from bright. She wished she could approach whatever it was that was dancing between them. Stella wondered whether it was his fear about tomorrow, or was it his fear about all the days stretching beyond that and the recriminations they might contain over betraying his family? ‘Stella?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Stop thinking, stop trying to second-guess me. I can almost hear your thoughts. Just close your eyes and dance in my arms.’

  And so Stella danced with him, like liquid mercury, cleaving to him but not binding him in a proprietary way. That’s where Beatrice went so wrong, she realised in a moment of epiphany as they moved to the sound of a distant waltz that found them from the ballroom. Beatrice had wanted to own him, control him, in the similar greedy way that a passionate collector might covet an item.

  Rafe touched the tiny peephole of flesh in the small opening that the folds of her gown afforded. She smiled for him but he was lost to her, staring at where his finger connected with her skin.