Christmas Nights

by Penny Jordan

  ‘You might not want to accept it now, but you didn’t really love him,’ Oliver told her coolly. ‘If you had—’

  ‘You have no right to say that,’ Lisa objected suddenly, angry with him—and, more tellingly, with herself, without wanting to analyse or really know why.

  ‘What do you know about love?’

  ‘I know enough about it to recognise it when I see it—and when I don’t,’ Oliver countered as she fell silent, but Lisa wasn’t really listening; she was too caught up in the shock of realising that the pain spearing her, pinning her in helpless, emotional agony where she stood, was caused by the realisation that for all she knew there could have been, could still be a woman in Oliver’s life whom he loved.

  ‘Stop thinking about it,’ she heard Oliver telling her grimly, her face flushing at the thought that he had so easily read her mind and guessed what she was feeling, until he added, ‘You must have seen for yourself that it would never have worked. Henry’s mother would never have allowed him to marry you.’

  Relief made her expel her breath in a leaky sigh. It had been Henry whom he had warned her to stop thinking about and not him. He had not guessed what she had been thinking or feeling after all.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed a truce,’ she reminded him, adding softly, ‘I still haven’t thanked you properly for everything you’ve done. Helping—’

  ‘Everything?’

  For some reason the way he was looking at her made her feel closer to the shy teenager she had once been than the adult woman she now was.

  ‘I meant…’ she began, and then shook her head, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to list all the reasons she had to thank him without at some point having to look at him, and knowing that once she did her gaze would be drawn irresistibly to his mouth, and once it was…

  ‘I… That turkey smells wonderful.’ She gave in cravenly. ‘How long did you say it would be before we could eat?’

  She could tell from the wry look he gave her as she glanced his way that he wasn’t deceived, but to her relief he didn’t push matters, leaving her to follow him instead as he turned back towards the stairs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I NEVER IMAGINED you’d be so domesticated.’

  They were both in the large, well-equipped, comfortable kitchen, Lisa mixing the ingredients for the bread sauce whilst Oliver deftly prepared the vegetables, and she knew almost as soon as she had voiced her surprise that it had been the wrong thing to say. But it was too late to recall her impulsive comment because Oliver had stopped what he was doing to look frowningly across at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘To sound patronising,’ Oliver supplied for her.

  Lisa glanced warily at him and then defended herself robustly, telling him, ‘Well, when we first met you just didn’t seem the type to—’

  ‘The “type”.’ Oliver pulled her up a second time. ‘And what “type” would that be, exactly?’

  Oh, dear. He had every right to sound annoyed, Lisa acknowledged.

  ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,’ she confessed. ‘It’s just that Henry—’

  ‘Doesn’t so much as know how to boil an egg,’ Oliver supplied contemptuously for her. ‘And that’s something to be admired in a man, is it?’

  Lisa’s face gave her away even before she had protested truthfully, ‘No, of course it isn’t.’

  ‘The reason Henry chooses to see even the most basically necessary domestic chores such as cooking for himself as beneath his male dignity is because that’s the way his mother has brought him up and that’s the way she intends him to stay. And woe betide any woman who doesn’t spoonfeed her little boy the way she’s taught him to expect.’

  There was no mistaking the disgust in Oliver’s voice as he underlined the weakness of Henry’s character, and Lisa knew that there was no real argument that she could put forward in Henry’s defence, even if she had wanted to do so.

  ‘It might come as something of a surprise to you,’ Oliver continued sardonically, obviously determined to drive home his point, ‘but, quite frankly, the majority of the male sex—at least the more emotionally mature section of it—would not take too kindly at having Henry held up to them as a yardstick of what it means to be a man. And neither, for future reference, do most of us relish being classified as a “type”.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Lisa protested. ‘It’s just that when we first met you seemed so… I could never have imagined you… us…’ She was floundering, and badly, she recognised, adding lamely, ‘I wasn’t comparing you to Henry at all.’

  ‘No?’ Oliver challenged her.

  ‘No,’ Lisa insisted, not entirely truthfully. She had been comparing them, of course, but not, as Oliver fortunately had incorrectly assumed, to his disadvantage. Far from it… She certainly didn’t want to have to explain to him that there was something about him that was so very male that it made laughable the idea that he should in any way fail to measure up to Henry.

  Measure up to him! When it came to exhibiting that certain quality that spelled quite essential maleness there was simply no contest between them. Oliver possessed it, and in abundance, or so it seemed to Lisa, and Henry did not have it at all. She was faintly shocked that she should so clearly recognise this—and not just recognise it, she admitted uneasily. She was quite definitely somehow or other very sensitively aware of it as a woman—too aware of it for her peace of mind.

  ‘I happen to have an orderly mind,’ Oliver was telling her, thankfully unaware of what she was thinking, ‘and I loathe any unnecessary waste of time. To live in the midst of chaos and disorder seems to be totally counter-productive, and besides…’ he gave a small shrug and drained the peeled and washed potatoes, turning away from her as he started to cut them, so that she could not see his expression ‘… after my mother died and my father and I were on our own, we both had to learn how to look after ourselves.’

  Lisa discovered that there was a very large lump in her throat as she pictured the solemn, lonely little boy and his equally lonely father struggling together to master their chores as well as their loss.

  ‘The behavioural habits one learns as a child have a tendency to become deeply ingrained, hence my advice to you that you are well rid of Henry. He will never cease being his mother’s spoilt and emotionally immature little boy…’ His tasks finished, he turned round and looked directly at her as he added drily, ‘And I suspect that you will never cease thinking of Christmas as a specially magical time of year…’

  ‘No, I don’t expect I shall,’ Lisa admitted, adding honestly, ‘But then I don’t really want to. I don’t suppose I’ll ever stop wanting, either, to put down roots, to marry and have children and to give them the stability and permanence I missed as a child,’ she confessed, wanting to be as open and honest with him as he had been with her.

  ‘I know a lot of my friends think that I’m rather odd for putting more emphasis on stability and the kind of relationship that focuses more on that than on the romantic and sexual aspects of love—’

  ‘Does there have to be a choice?’ Oliver asked her.

  Lisa frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Isn’t it possible for there to be romance and good sex between a couple, as well as stability and permanence? I thought the modern woman was determined to have it all. Emotional love, orgasmic sex, a passionately loyal mate, children, career…’

  ‘In theory, yes,’ Lisa agreed ruefully. ‘But I suppose if I’m honest… I’m perhaps not very highly sexed. So—’

  ‘Who told you that? Henry?’

  ‘No,’ she said, stung by the mocking amusement that she could see in his eyes, aware that she had allowed herself to be drawn onto potentially very treacherous ground and that sex was the very last topic she should be discussing with this particular man—especially when her body was suddenly and very dangerously reinforcing the lack of wisdom in her laying claim to a low libido when
it was strongly refuting that. Too strongly for her peace of mind. Much, much too strongly.

  ‘I… I’ve always known it,’ she told him hastily, more to convince herself, she suspected, than him.

  ‘Always…?’ The way the dark eyebrows rose reminded her of the way he had looked when he had come round to see her and demand the return of Emma’s clothes, and that same frisson of danger that she had felt then returned, but this time for a very, very different reason.

  ‘Well, from when I was old enough… When I knew… After…’ she began, compelled by the look he was giving her to make some kind of response.

  ‘You mean you convinced yourself that you had a low sex drive because, presumably, that was what your first lover told you,’ Oliver challenged her, cutting through her unsuccessful attempts to appear breezily nonchalant about the whole thing.

  ‘It wasn’t just because of that,’ Lisa defended herself quickly and, she realised uneasily, very betrayingly.

  ‘No?’ Oliver’s eyebrows rose again. ‘I’ll take a bet that there haven’t been very many… Two, maybe three at the most, and that, of course, excludes Henry, who—’

  ‘Three…?’ Lisa was aghast. ‘Certainly not,’ she denied vehemently. ‘I would never…’ Too late she realised what she was doing… what she was saying.

  It was one thing for her to feel that, despite the amusement of her peers, she had the sort of nature that would not allow her to feel comfortable about sharing the intimacy of her body with a variety of lovers and that her low sex drive made it feel right that there had only been that one not really too successful experience in her late teens, and it was one thing to feel that she could quite happily remain celibate and wait to re-explore her sexuality until she found a man she felt comfortable enough with to do so, but it was quite another to admit it to someone like Oliver, who, she was pretty sure, would think her views archaic and ridiculous.

  ‘So, there has only been one.’ He pounced, immediately and humiliatingly correct. ‘Well, for your information, a man who tells a virgin that she’s got a low sex drive tends to be doing so to protect his own inadequacy, not hers.’

  Her inadequacy! Lisa drew in a sharp breath of panic at the fact that he should dare so accurately and acutely to put her deepest and most intimate secret fears into words, and promptly fought back.

  ‘I’m twenty-four now, not eighteen, and I think I know myself well enough to be able to judge for myself what kind of sex drive I have…’

  ‘You’re certainly old enough and, I would suspect, strong-willed enough to tell yourself what kind of sex drive you think it safe to allow yourself to have,’ Oliver agreed, staggering her with not just his forthrightness but his incisive astuteness as well.

  Pride warred with caution as Lisa was torn between demanding to know exactly what he meant and, more cravenly, avoiding what she suspected could be a highly dangerous confrontation—highly dangerous to her, that was. Oliver, she thought, would thoroughly enjoy dissecting her emotional vulnerabilities and laying them out one by one in front of her.

  In the end caution won and, keeping her back to him, she told him wildly, ‘I think this bread sauce is just about ready… What else would you like me to do?’

  She thought she heard him mutter under his breath, ‘Don’t tempt me,’ before he said far more clearly, ‘Since it’s Christmas Day I suppose we should really eat in the dining room, although normally I prefer to eat in here. I’ll show you where everything is, and if you could sort it all out—silver, crystal, china…’

  ‘Yes… of course,’ Lisa agreed hurriedly, finding a cloth to wipe her hands on as she followed him back into the hall.

  The dining room was a well-proportioned, warm, panelled room at the rear of the house, comfortably large enough to take a table which, Oliver explained to her, could be extended to seat twelve people.

  ‘It was a wedding present to my grandparents. In those days, of course, twelve was not a particularly large number. My grandmother was one of seven and my grandfather one of five.’

  ‘Oh, it must be wonderful to be part of a large family,’ Lisa could not help commenting enviously. ‘My parents were both onlys and they only had me.’

  ‘Being an only child does have its advantages,’ Oliver told her firmly. ‘I’m an only myself, and—’

  ‘But you had the family—aunts, uncles, cousins…’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver agreed.

  But he had also lost his mother at a very vulnerable age, Lisa recognised, and to lose someone so close must inevitably have a far more traumatic effect on one’s life than the mere absence of a non-existent extended family.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking,’ she told him wryly. ‘I just sound pathetically self-absorbed and self-pitying. I know how much both my parents need their work, their art, how important it is to them. It’s just that…’

  ‘There have been times when you needed to know that you came first,’ Oliver guessed shrewdly. ‘There are times when we all feel like that,’ he told her. ‘When we all need to know that we come first, that we are the most important person in someone else’s life… What’s wrong?’ he asked when he saw the rueful acknowledgement of his perception in Lisa’s eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I can’t… that you don’t…’ She shook her head. ‘You seem so self-contained,’ was the only thing she could say.

  ‘Do I?’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Maybe I am now. It wasn’t always that way, though. The reason for the breakup of my first teenage romance was that my girlfriend found me too emotionally demanding. She was right as well.’

  ‘You must have loved her an awful lot,’ was all she could find to say as she tried to absorb and conceal the unwanted and betraying searing surge of envy that hit her as she listened to him.

  ‘I certainly thought I did,’ Oliver agreed drily, ‘but the reality was little more than a very intense teenage crush. Still, at least I learned something from the experience.’

  What had she been like, the girl Oliver had loved as a teenager? Lisa wondered ten minutes later when he had returned to the kitchen and she was removing silverware and crystal from the cupboards he had shown her.

  She found it hard to imagine anyone—any woman—rejecting a man like him.

  Her hand trembled slightly as she placed one of the heavy crystal wineglasses on the table.

  What was the matter with her? she scolded herself. Just because he had kissed her, that didn’t mean… It didn’t mean anything, and why should she want it to? If she was going to think about any member of the male sex right now she ought to be thinking about Henry. After all, less than twenty-four hours ago she had believed that she was going to marry him.

  It unnerved her a little bit to realise how far she had travelled emotionally in such a short space of time. It was hard to imagine now how she could ever have thought that she and Henry were suited—in any way.

  ‘I really don’t think I should be drinking any more of this,’ Lisa told Oliver solemnly as she raised the glass of rich red wine that he had just refilled to her lips.

  They had finished eating fifteen minutes earlier, and at Oliver’s insistence Lisa was now curled up cosily in one corner of the deep, comfortable sofa that he had drawn up close to the fire and where she had been ordered to remain whilst he stacked the dishwasher.

  The meal had been as good as any Christmas dinner she could ever remember eating and better than most. It had amazed her how easily the conversation had flowed between them, and what had surprised her even more was to discover that he was a very witty raconteur who could make her laugh.

  Henry had never made her laugh.

  Hastily she took a quick gulp of her wine. It was warm and full-bodied and the perfect accompaniment for the meal they had just enjoyed.

  When they had left the table to come and sit down in front of the fire to finish their wine, Oliver had closed the curtains, and now, possessed by a sudden urge to see if it was still snowing, Lisa abandoned her comfort
able seat and walked rather unsteadily towards the curtained window.

  The wine had been even stronger than she had believed, she admitted. She wasn’t drunk—far from it—but she certainly felt rather light-headed and a little giddy.

  As she tugged back the curtain she gave a small, soft sigh of delight as she stared through the window.

  It was still snowing—thick, whirling-dervish-like, thick white flakes, like those in a child’s glass snowstorm. As she looked up into the darkening sky she could see the early evening stars and the thin sickle shape of the moon.

  It was her childhood dream of a white Christmas come true. And to think that if she had returned to London as she had originally planned to do she would have missed it! Emotion caught her by the throat.

  She dropped the curtain, turning back into the room, stopping as she saw Oliver watching her. She hadn’t heard him come back in and unaccountably she could feel herself starting to tremble slightly.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nothing,’ she denied. ‘It’s just…’ She gave a small shrug, closed her eyes and then opened them again as the darkness increased the heady effects of the wine. ‘It’s just that all of this… is so… so perfect,’ she told him huskily, gesturing to the room and then towards the window and the view that lay beyond it. ‘So… so magical… This house… the weather… the tree… church this morning… my stocking and…’

  ‘And…?’ Oliver prompted softly.

  He was looking at her very intently—so intently, in fact, that she felt as though she could drown in the dark intensity of his eyes, as though she was being compelled to…

  ‘And you,’ she breathed, and as she said it she felt her heart slam fiercely against her chest wall, depriving her of breath, whilst the silence between them seemed to pulse and quicken and to take on a life of its own.