Summer's Awakening

by Anne Weale

  Springing up from the sofa, he said thickly, 'You don't know what you do to me, chérie.' He walked away to the window and stood with his back to her.

  Watching him, she wondered why he had cut short something they were both enjoying. Was it because of her inexperience? Or because he still wasn't sure of his feelings for her?

  Either way, she couldn't see that it would have done any harm to let things go a bit further. However, as he had just said, she couldn't judge his reactions. She only knew how she felt—as if something lovely had been snatched away before she had had time to enjoy it to the full.

  Still with his back to her, Raoul said, 'I will come to Switzerland. No one stays in Paris in August. My family have a house near Annecy in the Haute-Savoie. It's not far from Geneva.' He turned. 'You must give me your address and telephone number.'

  'I don't know them yet. As usual all the arrangements have been made for us. I'll write to you as soon as we arrive.' She stood up. 'I'd better get back and finish our packing. Thank you for lunch, Raoul—and for this lovely birthday present.'

  He accompanied her down to the lobby, but when he would have asked the doorman to get a cab for her, she said, 'No, I'd rather walk. Goodbye, Raoul.'

  'Perhaps it's a good thing we shall be separated for a while.' He took her hand in both of his. 'Till August. Take care of yourself.' He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into the palm.

  As she walked home, Summer found her thoughts and emotions in considerable confusion. Even if it meant not seeing him till September, she couldn't pretend to be sorry to be going to Switzerland tomorrow. Travelling to new places was always exciting and New York, when the temperature soared as it did in July and August, was not a comfortable place to be for anyone who disliked humidity out of doors and the unnatural coolness of air-conditioning indoors.

  On the other hand she was conscious of disappointment that he hadn't seized his opportunity and swept her into bed. Would she have resisted him if he had tried to make love to her? It was impossible to tell.

  Probably she ought to be grateful that he had behaved with such rare old-world chivalry. It was yet another proof of what an exceptionally nice man he was. She had told him she wanted her husband to be her first lover and he, not being ready to ask her to marry him, had remembered and respected her wish.

  If he had proposed, what would she have said? Not yes... not yet. She needed more time. They both did. Marriage was such an awesome commitment. The rest of one's life in day and night partnership with another human being. She felt reasonably certain that she was never going to meet anyone with whom she had more in common than with Raoul, but they had known each other only a few months.

  Thinking about marriage to him reminded her of the proposal she had received—if such a cold-blooded offer could be called a proposal.

  We'll leave the subject in abeyance for a month or two, James had said.

  She wondered if he would visit them while they were in Switzerland.

  PART IV: MANHATTAN, LONDON, MUSTIQUE

  In winter a smart ski resort, the village of Wengen, was ringed by high peaks which were white with snow at all seasons. From their chalet, its balconies bright with crimson and pink pelargoniums, Summer and Emily could see across the Lauterbrunnen valley to another mountainside village, Mürren. Just below Mürren the lush, wooded pastures were cut by a tremendous cliff down which plunged the Staubbach waterfall, dissolving in spray before it reached the floor of the valley a thousand feet below.

  In spite of the very hot weather throughout their stay, they explored both sides of the valley, toiling up steep, narrow paths to rest in high alpine glades with dazzling views of the Jungfrau, the Eiger, the Mönch and other famous mountains.

  One baking August afternoon Summer was alone at the chalet while Emily played tennis with some other young people whose parents had taken a house at the far end of the village.

  After a strenuous morning Summer was relaxing on the main balcony. Because it was completely private she had dispensed with her bikini and was lying face down on a sun-bed, browning her already brown back and her paler golden behind.

  The local people had been hay-making in a nearby meadow, and the scent of mown grass—the quintessence of summer—wafted on the warm breeze which from time to time caressed her bare skin.

  For a while she tried to concentrate on Pensées, a book of philosophical reflections by Pascal, a seventeenth-century French writer, which someone had left at the chalet. Then, surrendering to languor, she put the book aside and lay down, her head cushioned on her forearms and the line, The heart has its reasons, which are quite unknown to the head floating in her mind like a mantra.

  Lost in a drowsy day-dream, at first she thought that the delicate ripple of sensation from her nape to the base of her spine was the breeze. Then it happened again, going the other way and feeling almost like a finger.

  By the time she realised it was a finger, it had been joined by three other fingers, and a thumb and a palm. A whole hand was passing lightly over her sun-warmed left buttock and down the back of her thigh. A hand which, for all its gentleness, was unmistakably male.

  'Raoul?' she queried, without moving.

  He was expected to arrive the following afternoon. Naturally her first thought was that he had come a day early. When he didn't answer and the hand returned to her bottom, she pushed herself up on her elbows and twisted to look over her shoulder.

  'You!' she exclaimed, aghast.

  For it wasn't Raoul who was squatting beside the sun-bed, casually fondling her backside as if he were stroking a cat. It was James.

  He gave her smooth rounded cheek a final pat and stood up. His smile mocking her startled confusion.

  'Disappointed?' he asked.

  'W-what are you doing here?'

  'Passing through. I thought you would probably be out and I shouldn't see you till later. It's an unexpected pleasure to find you at home to welcome me.'

  As his amused gaze swept from her head to her heels, she wondered if her body was blushing to match her face.

  'Maybe I should get into the sun cream market and use you to advertise my product,' he murmured musingly.

  Peering up at him, over her shoulder, was beginning to add physical discomfort to her mental discomfiture.

  She said, 'If you'll turn your back I'll put something on and... and make you some coffee.'

  James's reaction to this was not to do as she requested but to seat himself in a cane chair facing the sun-bed.

  'I'm not embarrassed by nudity,' he announced smoothly. 'The beaches round the Mediterranean are littered with near-naked bodies. Even in Spain, once so prudish, bare breasts are a common-place sight. Don't cover up on my account.'

  As she gritted her teeth, he added, 'And I have seen you undressed before, if you remember.'

  There was—and she felt sure he knew it—a big difference between lying on a Riviera beach among hundreds of women in monokinis and being totally naked and alone with a fully dressed man. Particularly this man.

  The only wrap she had with her was a large scarf of printed cotton which she had left draped over the back of another chair. To reach it she would have to stand up and turn in his direction, giving him a clear view of her front.

  Well... so what? her common-sense asked. He's not going to rape you, you idiot. Why are you in such a stew?

  Why indeed? The answer to that was too complex for her to analyse it right now. But it wasn't because she was still ashamed of her body. Considering the size she had once been, she was in good shape. A gradual weight loss combined with an exercise programme had succeeded in slimming her down without loss of firmness.

  Nerving herself for his scrutiny, she rolled into a sitting position and forced herself to move without haste as she retrieved her scarf and wrapped it round her like a sarong.

  'Why did you think it was Santerre who was touching you a moment ago?' James enquired, watching her tuck in the corner of the scarf.

  'He's
staying with his family near Annecy. We're expecting him to visit us tomorrow.'

  'And I take it his hand on your bottom is more acceptable than mine?' His lion's eyes were no longer smiling and his tone held an edge of sarcasm.

  What perverse impulse made her say 'Yes' when it was so far from the truth?

  'But Raoul would never touch someone unless he were sure it was welcome,' she added. 'He... he would have coughed or something.'

  'Damned gentlemanly of him. It was more than faint sarcasm now. 'He sounds in the same league as Bayard—sans peur et sans reproche.'

  'Yes, I think he is,' she retorted. 'And I don't know why you should sneer. He's been a very good friend both to me and to Emily. I thought you liked him yourself.'

  He shrugged, and his voice was indifferent as he said, 'I have no objection to his coming here if you feel the need to see each other while you're in Europe. I'm only staying here for one night. I shan't interfere with your plans. Excuse me, I'm going to unpack.'

  The chalet had four bedrooms. She opened her mouth to offer to show him the two unused rooms, but he was already walking away and she realised that he didn't need her to conduct him upstairs. He had only to open doors to discover which rooms she and Emily were occupying.

  Listening to the sound of his footsteps crossing the wax-polished wooden floor of the living room, she wondered for a moment if his snappy remarks about Raoul could have been prompted by jealousy. No, jealousy was too strong a word. But he might feel some resentment that she seemed to prefer the Frenchman's approach to his own.

  If only he knew her real reaction to his touch. What her inner self had wanted to do when she looked round and saw whose hand was stroking her behind had been to turn on her back and give him her most glowing smile.

  What would he have done if she had, she wondered.

  It was something she would never know; a chance she had failed to take and which would never come again. Had she been bolder, more daring, she might now be locked in his arms instead of being left on her own, regretting her mishandling of the encounter.

  Soon afterwards Emily came back. For the rest of James's stay she was always present and Summer was never alone with him. He had gone before Raoul arrived to spend three pleasant days in their company.

  After that, every time Summer sunbathed she remembered James's hand on her flesh. She tried to close her mind to the memory and to think instead of Raoul's kiss as they soared high above the fragrant meadows on the Grindelwald chair-lift. But somehow, in spite of the heavenly setting, the kiss itself had not thrilled her.

  In mid-September the two girls left Wengen with unforgettable memories of their Swiss summer. But although on the long flight west across the Atlantic she tried not to let herself dwell on that afternoon on the balcony, it was undeniably the most vivid and disturbing of Summer's memories.

  She spent much of the flight attempting to convince herself that it was Raoul whom she most wanted to see again. Her mind accepted him as the better man for her, but her heart denied it. It had its own reasons for loving James.

  Not long after their return to New York, Raoul told her that Santerre et Cie were giving a party at an hotel to present the new seasons's designs to selected clients. He suggested she should buy a new dress.

  'Something simple which will set off the jewels I should like you to wear.'

  'What are the jewels like?'

  'You'll find out on the night of the party,' he said, with a mysterious smile, and she guessed he had had one of her own designs made up for the occasion.

  Emily was going to be out of town that week; staying with Cordelia Rathbone in Bermuda. In any case the party was not an occasion for teenagers. As a matter of courtesy, Raoul had sent an invitation to James which he had accepted with the proviso that, having meetings in Chicago that day and returning on the evening shuttle, he might be a late arrival.

  While Summer was dressing for the party, she wondered which of her designs Raoul had made up for her to wear. She hoped it was the one she thought of as the mermaid's necklace.

  More than any other precious stone, she loved the clear, shining, sea-water blue-green of a fine large aquamarine. The mermaid's necklace had five in a simple but bold gold setting with ear-rings to match. But whichever design he had chosen, her classic black chiffon dress with its narrow straps, low décolletage, close-fitting waist and floating skirt was the perfect foil for fine jewels.

  For a change she had had her hair put up at the salon where she had it cut when she was in New York. The upswept style made her look more sophisticated, and she took great pains with her make-up, giving her eyes a more dramatic emphasis than usual.

  Raoul was punctual in arriving to fetch her. It was the first time she had seen him dressed for a black tie occasion. She wasn't sure that she liked his claret-coloured tie and cummerbund, or the jewelled studs in his dress shirt. Like his cuff-links they were probably Fabergé, but she felt she preferred the low key black onyx studs and black silk tie which James wore with his dinner jacket.

  'You look lovely, Summer,' he told her. 'I like the new hairdo.'

  'Thank you. Will you have a drink?'

  José and Victoria were off duty, and she had let him in herself.

  'Not at the moment, thank you. I want to show you my surprise.'

  He was carrying a large manila envelope from which he extracted a flat leather case. Having placed this on top of a table, he put his thumb on the catch and then paused for effect, smiling at her. 'I hope you're going to like it.'

  'I'm sure I shall. Do let me see.'

  He pressed the catch, lifted the lid and revealed the shimmer of diamonds, the ice-gleam of platinum. It wasn't any of her designs. It was the dew-beaded web she had seen on his drawing-board the first time she had been to his apartment.

  She had told him then it was beautiful, and it was. But it was a beauty which went with white mink and Cattleya orchids. She admired the craftsmanship of it, but it wasn't for her. It was too fragile, too cold. A necklace fit for a Snow Queen.

  'Let me put it on for you.' He lifted it from its black velvet bed.

  The lid of the case was lined with black satin stamped in silver Santerre et Cie.

  He lifted it carefully over her head and moved behind her to secure the clasp. 'For your ears I have a pair of diamond studs. They're in my pocket.' He handed her a small box.

  She went to a mirror to see how the necklace looked on. Seeing the delicate meshes spread on her golden skin, the diamonds winking and flashing, didn't change her opinion.

  'It must be worth a fortune, Raoul.'

  'It isn't the sort of thing you'd leave in a dressing-table drawer. It would have to be kept in a bank vault. Don't worry: you're in no danger because you're wearing it. I've made special security arrangements.'

  She fastened the studs in her lobes. As she turned her head from side to side, he put his hands lightly on her smooth upper arms and let them slide down to her wrists in a gentle caress. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to her shoulder.

  'You don't know what pleasure it gives me to see my creation on someone worthy of it. I wish you could always wear it. To me it's a sacrilege when a necklace like this is worn by an old, ugly woman.'

  She turned to face him, smiling, wanting to be kissed. Raoul started to bend his head but then straightened again.

  'No... better not smudge your lipstick,' he said, stepping back. 'We must go. As one of the hosts I have to be there before our guests arrive.'

  She knew that he was now the only Santerre on the board of directors, although two other directors were of French origin, although not, like himself, of French birth.

  Not surprisingly all the board members' wives, when she met them a short time later, were magnificently jewelled. She saw them appraising her necklace but no one made any reference to it. It seemed to her that although Raoul s colleagues were favourably disposed towards his protégée, their wives' amiability masked varying degrees of hostility.

 
; In the case of one of them, this might be because she had a daughter a year or two younger than Summer for whom, perhaps, she cherished matrimonial ambitions which included the company's debonair president. The undercurrent of coolness emanating from the other two wives could be the antagonism which some women who undervalued their role as home-makers felt towards women with careers. Or it might be that they saw her as a glamorous blonde whose slenderness underlined their own figure problems, little guessing the relentless self-discipline which lay behind her new image.

  The Presidential Suite in which the party was being held gave her a curious sense of déjà vu although she couldn't recall seeing it illustrated in a magazine.

  The room was on two levels, the upper level—where Raoul was going to receive his guests—being separated from the lower by a wide flight of two or three steps flanked by flower-banked balustrades. As well as the waiters who would circulate with the champagne, a butler and two maids had been hired to take charge of the men's coats and show the women to a luxurious bedroom where they could leave their furs.

  When everyone had arrived four top models were going to display some of the new season's jewels, after which a buffet supper would be served from the suite's dining room. Extra furniture had been introduced in the very large sitting room so that, at that stage of the party, everyone would be able to sit down.

  Sipping her first glass of champagne, she wondered what time James would arrive. Thinking of him made her realise why the Presidential Suite seemed vaguely familiar. Long ago, when he was still her bête noire, she had imagined herself, in a setting very like this, giving him the cold shoulder.

  As things had turned out she no longer felt bitterly angry with him and indeed, while Raoul was obliged to leave her for his duties as host, would have welcomed the support of James's presence in an assembly of people most of whom knew each other but were strangers to her. Clearly the wives of the other directors did not intend to exert themselves to introduce her, and Giselle and Scott Adams had been prevented from coming by the sudden serious illness of Scott's father.