Virgin's Holiday

by Halliday, Brett;

  The sudden onrush of emotion following this experiment frightened her. She drew her hand away and unsnapped the brassiere.

  Then she hurried into the bathroom and arranged the taps to send a hot stream of water into the tub. It was too hot at first as she lowered first one foot and then the other, but she gritted her teeth and slid down into the tub with a gasp as her limbs and thighs encountered the water. She rubbed her legs vigorously and forced her body to remain quiescent.

  She remembered reading about one of Valerie Ware’s heroines who bathed in water heated almost to the scalding point as a prelude to amatory activity. That was in Penthouse Passion. Vergie recalled it clearly as the steaming water induced a certain lassitude.

  Vergie stood up and soaped herself as the water rose higher in the tub. The blood had rushed to the surface, and her entire body was a deep rose hue.

  She gasped again as she sank back into the water and grimly slid her body down so it lapped about her chin. Then she closed her eyes for a little time and tried to plan the future. Tonight was simply a beginning. But something would happen tonight. She knew it.

  After tonight many things would happen. She was determined to remake Vergie Whidby into the sort of person to whom things must happen. Like Sonia Sidonie in Valerie Ware’s next-to-the-last novel, Elixir of Sin.

  She stepped from the tub after a time, and rubbed herself with a bath towel. It was amazing, she reflected, how the hot bath had affected her. She felt ready for any experience. It had stilled the inward excitement and tumult to a sort of placid awareness of herself and her relation to life.

  She had never thought much about her relation to life, she reflected as she dusted lightly scented body powder over her limbs and breast.

  In Random she had only lived vicariously through the medium of books such as Valerie Ware wrote. She and the other young writers who boldly dared to write of love as the moderns know it and live it.

  But Random seemed so far away now. A dimly remembered past, separated from the vibrant present by so vast a gulf it could not be bridged by memory. And she was glad it was so far away. She would live gloriously for a time … but she would never, never go back to inhabit the drab husk which had been Vergie Whidby just twenty-four hours previously.

  The scanties were slipped into position as she made this resolve, and she sat on the edge of the bed to draw on the frailest pair of nylon hose. She stretched out her legs and admired them as she drew the stockings up. Lisle hose had been the height of luxury she had permitted herself in Random.

  She caught her breath as she moved across the room to sit before the vanity and apply rouge and lipstick. She was being terribly wanton, she reflected.

  She knew nothing whatever about the application of cosmetics. But Belle had explained about foundation creams and other intricate details. Vergie followed her directions, but she had to try three times before she could get the rouge evenly applied to both cheeks. After the third trial she wondered if she didn’t have too much on, but her inexperience told her it was all right.

  The application of the lipstick was also very trying, and work as she would it seemed impossible to get the effect other women seemed to achieve so casually.

  She hesitated at using mascara but decided to have done with qualms. This was easier, and she was pleased with the entire effect as she powdered over the rouge. It did not occur to her that too much rouge is as arresting as too little.

  She smoothed her hair, feeling positively devilish as she noted the perfect wave which Sally had introduced.

  The gown came next. She slipped it over her head and let it settle down upon her body caressingly. Her shoulders were bare, the gown being held up by the tight waist and the wide bow which tied across the top of her breasts.

  She giggled as she faced herself in the mirror after everything was in place. She had always thought brassieres were designed to hide the fullness of one’s breasts. All that she had ever purchased in Random had pressed the breasts flat in a shapeless huddle. This wispy thing of lace achieved exactly the opposite effect.

  She blushed as she noted the bold manner in which the nipples pressed against the tight satin. But she was glad, she told herself firmly. She must learn not to blush.

  An entire new set of values were offered her in exchange for her former prudery. She must learn to be bold. To be brazen. To discuss sex in the casual manner of Valerie Ware’s heroines. She supposed she’d have to learn to smoke cigarettes and drink cocktails.

  Men and life would become an open book to her soon, she vowed. She would learn to distinguish between passion and love, between the erotic stimulous of desire and the truer flame of the life-urge.

  She knew all this would come to her with experience. Tonight, on the verge of thirty, she stood ready to step over the threshold of the past to a beckoning and flame-hued future.

  She moved about as she made her final preparations to do down to dinner. She had aquamarine slippers which matched her gown, and an entire set of imitation jade costume jewelry. Necklace, earrings, pin and bracelets. She slipped three bracelets on her left arm, and fastened the long earrings in the pink lobes of her ears. The pin she fastened to her bare shoulder with the new solution, so it just seemed to perch there. Her heart was pounding like mad as she opened the door of her room and stepped into the corridor to keep her tryst with adventure.

  This time, feeling more sure of herself, she went to the elevator landing and pressed the Down button. The evening gown trailed on the floor behind her, and she lifted it as the elevator stopped to take her downward.

  She felt quivery inside, yet she was outwardly composed as she crossed the lobby to the dining room which occupied one corner of the lower floor.

  A waiter in mess jacket and white flannels, bowed before her and led her to a small table for two near the orchestra.

  Vergie’s heart was pumping with mad excitement as she settled herself in the chair and looked about the room. A six-piece orchestra played from a small dais at the back. There was a sprinkling of diners about the room. Each occupied table was set apart from the others by means of a shaded table lamp.

  Indirect lighting supplied a soft amber glow to the entire room, while each of the diners seemed to occupy a tiny oasis of stronger illumination. The effect was very pleasing, Vergie thought. There was something intimate about the manner of lighting each table apart from its fellows.

  Then the waiter was hovering over her shoulder, and she studied an impressive menu which he had laid before her. She didn’t know what to order. There was such a multitude of unfamiliar names. Then she was relieved to find a regular dinner listed which required only that she select the various courses from a number of printed items. With these details attended to, she sipped her water meditatively, and wondered how adventure would come to her.

  Fate has a way of taking such matters entirely out of one’s hands at times.

  Upon this hypothesis, we may credit Fate for bringing Jules Ferrand into the dining room at this juncture.

  Jules was forty, and he was bored. Clad in formal attire, he looked bored. His brown eyes were pensive, and his black mustache drooped with an air of melancholy.

  It was all his own fault, he was reminding himself as he followed the waiter to a table only slightly removed from Vergie’s. It had been an asinine folly, this seeking the will-o-the-wisp of a former love in Savannah. He supposed, drearily, this was an indication of approaching senility. No man but an old fool would try to turn back the hands of the clock to warm over a long-dead love. The attempt had proved a miserable failure, and he resented having put himself in the ludicrous plight of seeking something he didn’t want after he found it.

  Annie had been a lusty little animal ten years ago. Memories of her body had afforded him peculiar gratification for ten years. Now he had returned to immolate those memories upon the pyre of damning reality. Everything was gone. Ten days of his precious vacation wasted in searching for Annie who waddled and was the mother of three bulging bra
ts. His aesthetic sense had been shocked this afternoon. He winced now as he recalled that awful moment when Annie had blinked heavily at him.

  Hell and damnation! He sighed as he seated himself, and extracted a monogrammed cigarette from his case. Ten days of his vacation gone, and he couldn’t get away from Savannah until early morning. He had been planning this coup for more than a year. Anticipation of wallowing in the delights of Annie’s sensuality had upheld him through long dreary days as he stood erect in the pajama and lounging robe department of a Fifth Avenue haberdashery.

  Each detail had been planned with such meticulous care. For instance, he had done without lunch for three months in order to acquire the exactly correct cigarette case.

  For it must be understood that when Jules Ferrand had met Annie in New York ten years previously he had been a small bit player in the New York motion picture studios. Perhaps he had overplayed his hand a little when causing her to believe he was well on the road to stardom in the flickers. But what would you? A society belle from the old south would have been unimpressed by a player of small bits. Then had come lean years, and the eagerly grasped position in the pajama and lounging robe department.

  All through the years Jules had cherished the memory of the delectable evening when Annie had surrendered her virtue to his onslaught. For ten years he had planned to re-enter her life in the pose of the successful motion picture star.

  So much for one’s dreams.

  Vergie regarded Jules with interest as he languidly took his seat nearby. Her heart gave a leap as she studied him beneath lowered lashes. She felt that God had sent him in answer to her prayers. The perfect gentleman! An aristocrat from the top of his sleek head to the tip of his patent leather pumps.

  He was the only man in the room in correct evening attire. Vergie knew because she had studied photographs in the style catalogues.

  Jules’ reactions on observing Vergie were a little more complicated. He paid little heed to her at first, except to note that she seemed overdressed to be dining alone in these quiet surroundings. He didn’t care to notice any woman particularly. He fancied the role of melancholy into which he had sunk after his disillusionment.

  He leaned sideways and smiled as he lit another cigarette. He knew that his profile was good, and he felt that Vergie was watching him.

  She dropped her eyes when he swung back suddenly to stare at her. She wore too much rouge, he conceded, but her shoulders were nice. The protuberant nipples beneath the satin fascinated him. He felt a vague lifting of his melancholy.

  Evidently a very wealthy lady demanding attention, he thought indulgently. Ah well! He understood her type. Over-emphasizing their physical charms to induce a flirtation, then abruptly congealing when one ventured too far.

  He would have none of her wiles, he decided.

  So the little game went on. Vergie was blissfully conscious of Jules’ occasional glances. She accepted them as rightful tribute to her charms. But she wriggled uneasily as dinner progressed and he made no effort to attract her attention. She supposed, however, that no gentleman would make the first move. Her pulse beat a little faster as she came to the conclusion that she must give him some opening.

  Of course. Sonia Sidonie would not have hesitated. None of Valerie Ware’s heroines would have counted the cost when facing the prospect of such an adventure.

  She concluded her dinner slowly, darting little glances at Jules to time her sweet with his. She was momentarily disconcerted when he refused dessert, and loftily called for his check. Her parfait had just arrived, and she was particularly partial to parfaits. But this was no time for dalliance.

  Vergie pushed it aside and beckoned her waiter to bring her check. Jules had arisen when Vergie pushed back her chair and slipped past him. She was trembling as her eyes met his for a fleeting moment. Then her fingers relaxed as she swept by him.

  Her beaded bag dropped to the floor at his feet.

  Jules hesitated and made a wry little face at the bag. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Why not? The implication was obvious.

  He picked the bag up and followed Vergie into the lobby. She had turned aside toward an alcove partially screened by a potted palm. He hastened to her side and bowed.

  “You will pardon me,” he murmured. “I think this is your bag.”

  “Oh yes!” Vergie turned in pretty confusion. “How … how stupid of me.”

  “Not stupid at all,” Jules told her. “On the contrary. A particularly discerning gesture.” He took her arm gently and motioned her toward the lounge.

  “You are very kind and very thoughtful,” he murmured as they sat down together. “When the eyes meet and understanding flashes between strangers … it is a courageous act for the lady to take the initiative. The gentleman being honor bound to remain silent by silly convention.”

  “Then … then you think I dropped my bag on purpose?” Vergie faltered.

  “Of course. Why not?” he asked. “You and I … we understand, eh?” He made a fluttering gesture with his right hand. The gesture seemed to imply that he and Vergie were set apart from the common herd. Two who understood and were not bound by conventions.

  “I … I … Yes, of course,” Vergie said. They were sitting very close together, and the palm hid them from the gaze of the curious in the lobby. She wondered what to do next.

  Jules solved that problem very satisfactorily. He was beginning to forget to be sorry for himself. The thrill of the chase took possession of him. This new conquest looked easy, and soothed his sense of disappointment over the dismal fiasco the pursuit of Annie had brought about.

  “You are very beautiful. And I am very lonely,” he murmured. He took Vergie’s left hand in his own, and let his knuckles lie upon her soft thigh.

  Vergie’s breathing was constricted for a moment. Her impossible dreams were coming true. Verily, here was the Prince of Romance. She thought she had never seen so distinguished a gentleman. His manners were as faultless as his attire. She trembled as his knuckles seemed to press down upon her thigh.

  “Why should you be lonely?” she asked dry-lipped.

  “Ah. But you should understand so well,” he told her. He lifted his perfect eyebrows in a faint grimace. “There are such hordes who would flock about one,” he murmured. “So few who truly understand. Last week I simply cast myself adrift on my yacht, bound for nowhere. Tonight … Fate has led us together.” His gaze was ardent. He squeezed her hand tentatively.

  “Your yacht?” Vergie gazed at him wide-eyed.

  “A small affair,” he said. “But comfortable. We’re tied up a few days for minor repairs,” he explained, “and I came ashore to stretch my legs. I’m staying here while the yacht’s in harbor.”

  “Oh!” Vergie breathed the word with rapture. She moved restlessly as he dropped her hand to offer her a cigarette.

  “No, thank you,” she said, thrilling to note they were adorned with a personal monogram. “I … my throat,” she explained. “My physician told me I was smoking entirely too much.” She smiled at him coquettishly.

  “That’s too bad,” Jules murmured. He studied her as he lit his cigarette. He wasn’t quite sure of his ground yet. He didn’t quite understand Vergie. Her clothes were obviously good, and her body was perfection. But the rouge was horribly misapplied, and there was a haunting expression about her eyes which he did not understand. Yet she was obviously complacent. And she seemed to take him wholly at his own valuation.

  “Perhaps your physician does not advise you to abstain from wines,” he suggested delicately. “I have some really good port in my suite upstairs. Would you … join me?”

  “Oh … oh yes.” Vergie smiled. Of course. She forced her body to arise and accompany him across the lobby to the elevator. She had desired to love dangerously. She must teach herself not to shrink.

  Jules had done himself very well in the way of hotel accommodations, considering that his weekly salary in the department store was only forty dollars. But he had planned every d
etail of this vacation with meticulous care. He had expected to bring Annie to this sitting room, and had arranged everything to carry out the role he played.

  There were roses on the center table, autographed photographs of movie stars placed carelessly about. A crystal wine service on a serving stand. A side door stood ajar, affording an intimate glimpse of the bedroom.

  Vergie sank down on the sofa and tried not to betray her nervousness as Jules fluttered about, pouring two goblets of wine, handing her one with a quiet smile while he arranged a cushion on the floor near her feet.

  “I must prostrate myself to pay you proper homage,” he said.

  Vergie smiled at him and gave herself over to the exaltation of the moment. They sipped their wine silently. A dim light on the table in the center of the room, and a floor lamp near at hand provided the only illumination.

  There was flame in the wine which Vergie drank. Flame which coursed down her throat and spread to her loins. She leaned back idly as Jules leaned forward so his cheek brushed her knee.

  “I adore you,” he murmured.

  Vergie closed her eyes and drew in her breath sharply. She felt she could not move as his cheek pressed against her knee.

  His fingers touched her ankle. Lightly. Caressingly. She lay with her hands clenched at her sides as his fingers crept upward along the rounded calf. She could not open her eyes. She tried to recall whether the heroines of Valerie Ware’s books offered any resistance at this stage of the game of love.

  She thought not. She was savoring the same emotions they had known under the artful ministrations of their lovers.

  Vergie gave herself over to passion. Strength seemed to flow from her limbs. She slipped sideways, and lay huddled on the couch. Amazing changes were taking place inside her being. She felt utterly shameless, and she was made impatient by his slow advance.

  For Jules was proud of his artistry in arousing passion. He had taught himself to hold his own emotions in check while arousing those in the feminine body to the apex. Experiments had proved to him that the feminine response is far slower than the masculine. His hand was a delicate instrument of torture which alternately advanced and retreated. His lips followed.