Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  He yawned, and reached over her to put his glass on the bedside table. ‘I wonder how she got on with Woody tonight?’

  ‘Where were they going?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, but if I know Woody, somewhere with heavy seduction potential.’ He kissed the top of her head and started to stroke the hair from her face. ‘Why don’t you give her a call, make sure she’s got back all right?’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s none of our business. And besides, she’s twenty-three years old, she can look after herself.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ He said it in a way that implied he clearly didn’t. ‘Knowing Woody, he’s probably managed to worm his way into the flat, so she might appreciate a call to help fend him off.’

  ‘She’ll cope.’ She lifted a hand and trailed it lazily over his chest. ‘Do you think we ought to be getting on with some work? Bronwen’s already put off the trip to Italy by a week because you and I haven’t got together about things.’

  ‘Sure, if you like. But it’s late, and I’m free in the morning if you are.’

  Stephanie shrugged. ‘OK, we’ll do it then. Like some more wine?’

  He nodded, and lifted his arm for her to sit up. She refilled their glasses, then went to the mirror to brush her hair.

  ‘I still think you should call Marian,’ he said as he watched her. ‘Make sure Woody’s behaved himself.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Matthew, anyone would think you were jealous.’

  ‘Jealous? What kind of accusation’s that?’

  ‘It wasn’t an accusation. It was merely a word to try and make you see how ridiculous you’re being.’

  A look of anger flashed across his face as he said, ‘You wouldn’t call me ridiculous if I was showing this kind of concern for you. So perhaps it’s you who are jealous.’

  For a moment Stephanie looked stunned. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘Then why won’t you ring her?’

  ‘OK, I will,’ she snapped, and slamming down the hairbrush, she spun round and stalked across the room. Then, feeling unaccountably uncomfortable with her nudity, she slipped on his robe and went into the sitting-room to make the call.

  The phone rang for some time, but eventually Marian answered.

  ‘Marian, it’s Stephanie. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m OK, are you?’ Marian yawned.

  ‘I’m fine. Did I wake you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Everything’s all right, is it?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Everything’s fine this end. How about you? Did you have a nice evening?’

  ‘Yes, it was OK.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To the pasta bar at the end of the road here.’

  ‘Really?’ Stephanie smiled. The pasta bar was hardly a venue for seduction. ‘And Woody? He’s gone home now, has he?’

  ‘Oh yes, he went ages ago.’

  ‘Did he come in for coffee?’

  ‘Just a quick cup.’

  ‘And he didn’t try anything . . . well, anything untoward?’

  ‘No,’ Marian answered, drawing out the word.

  Stephanie turned round as Matthew walked into the room.

  ‘Ask her what they talked about?’ he said.

  Stephanie immediately covered the mouthpiece. ‘I can’t do that,’ she hissed. ‘It’s none of our business.’

  ‘Hello? Steph? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. So you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m just great. And tell Matthew we spent the whole evening talking about him.’

  Stephanie chuckled at the humour in Marian’s voice. ‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have woken you.’

  ‘Not to worry. See you tomorrow.’ The line went dead.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Stephanie said, turning back to Matthew who, still naked, was leaning against the door frame. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement. ‘She told me to tell you they spent all evening talking about you.’

  He gave a shout of laughter, and as she got up from the chair he pulled her into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know why you put up with me,’ he said, still smiling, ‘but I’m damned glad you do.’

  ‘I put up with you, Matthew, because I love you.’

  He cupped her face with his hands and gazed into her eyes. ‘Do you?’ he whispered.

  She nodded. ‘Very much.’ And as he lowered his mouth to hers she peeled the robe from her shoulders and let it slip to the floor.

  ‘There’s something standing between us,’ she said, a few minutes later. Her voice was bubbling with mirth, but his expression remained dark and intense.

  ‘I know,’ he said huskily, and lifting her into his arms he carried her back into the bedroom.

  – 16 –

  Madeleine stood among the conservatory plants, gazing out onto the roof garden. There had never been a time in her life when she had stopped to think about what she was doing, or the consequences her actions might have for others. All she had known was her own beauty, her own needs, her own desires. But in the past two weeks her dreams had been distorted by a monstrous image of herself, as she now began to consider all she had done to those who loved her. She was certain that what had happened now was a punishment, and as she struggled to understand, to make some sense out of the devastation, her longing for Marian had become so intense that she had gone as far as to pick up the phone and dial the number in Devon. But at the last minute her courage had deserted her, and instead she had turned to her work for the release she so desperately craved. At every function, photograph session or press interview she attended, she parted her glossy lips, narrowed her eyes and looked sensuously into the camera; she laughed and flirted, drank champagne, and displayed her long legs for all to admire. There was never a minute in the day when she wasn’t being pampered, photographed or beautified. Stylists, hairdressers, designers – everyone was at work on her; and like a puppet she reacted to every pull of the string. But no matter how hard she worked, how much she drank, or how late into the night she danced, there was no getting away from Paul, from what he had done or the way it was tearing her apart inside.

  They’d slept in separate rooms since the night Harry Freemande had climbed from her bed, put on his clothes and left the house. Once he’d gone Paul had tried to make her listen, had insisted he could explain, but she had locked herself in the bathroom and refused to come out until he swore he would never touch her again. But being repelled by what he had done, and hating him for having done it, had not stopped her loving him. Nor did it stem the swell of dread that swept through her each time that horrible, mocking voice inside her head told her that if he truly was a homosexual, there was nothing she could do to keep him. She had tried so hard not to think about it, had kept herself so busy that when she came home at night all she wanted was to sleep. Her only hope lay in the fact that he was always there; but she couldn’t speak to him, she couldn’t even look at him.

  In the end she had become so desperate to speak to someone that she had called Shamir in Los Angeles. It hadn’t helped, because Shamir had only told her to do all the things she knew she ought to do, but was afraid to.

  ‘Throw him out!’ Shamir said vehemently. ‘Throw him out and change the locks.’

  ‘But he says there was a reason . . .’ Madeleine objected, sounding pathetic even to her own ears.

  ‘What reason can there be, except that he’s a faggot. Get rid of him, Maddy.’

  ‘But I still love him, Shamir.’

  ‘You’ll get over it. Look, he treats you badly enough as it is, and this has got to be the final straw. I don’t know why you’ve put up with him this long, I know I wouldn’t have. And I don’t trust him, Maddy. He’ll do it again, or something equally vile, you mark my words.’

  Madeleine sighed. ‘Oh, I just don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Do as I tell you and throw him out.’


  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  That was three days ago, but despite what she’d told Shamir she hadn’t thought about it, she had pushed it away from her and carried on working. But now, as she gazed out at the garden, the shutters of her mind were again sliding open and she knew that somehow she was going to have to make herself face it.

  Hearing him move about in his study downstairs, she opened the door and walked out into the garden. The heat was like a solid mass beating down from the sky, and all around her the rooftops of Holland Park rippled in the shimmery haze. She wandered over to the hammock, sat down and started to rock gently. After a while she closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would come, but just like the solution to her problems, it eluded her, and instead her mind churned up images of Harry lying in her bed, and Paul’s hand touching his shoulder to waken him. The gesture had seemed so intimate, as if Paul really cared for him. Then, when Harry opened his eyes and saw her standing there, he had turned immediately to Paul, and the look that passed between them had made her feel like an intruder.

  ‘Get dressed,’ Paul had told him, and while Harry picked up his clothes and started to put them on, not looking at Madeleine once, Paul had stood beside the bed, doing nothing to cover his own nudity. For her part Madeleine had simply stared at them, rooted in shock and feeling strangely detached from herself, as if she were an invisible being who had stumbled upon two people she didn’t even know. Then somewhere deep inside her, revulsion and denial had started to heave, surging upwards from her gut, past her lungs and into her throat until it had vomited forth on a scream of pure torment and confusion. Paul swung round and made to grab her, but she had backed away, snarling and clawing like a wild animal. As she ran down the stairs she heard him coming after her, but then Harry called out and Paul had gone back. A few minutes later she had heard the front door close. She’d wondered then, as she did now, whether Paul had dressed to see Harry off, and whether they had kissed as they parted.

  She opened her eyes, unable to bear the persecution of her imagination. In front of her, on the table, a magazine lay open, so she picked it up and started to flick over the pages. She could concentrate on nothing, but nevertheless she didn’t hear the conservatory door open, nor did she know he was in the garden until his shadow fell over her.

  She turned away, and the magazine slipped from her lap to the floor. For a long time neither of them spoke, only the sounds of distant traffic stole the Sunday afternoon silence, then a lawn mower, then a dog barking. Despite everything, her body ached for him to hold her, to protect her from the torment of what was happening to them. If only it had killed her love, but it seemed only to have intensified it.

  Realising that she was holding her breath, she closed her eyes, then let it out slowly.

  ‘Maddy, we have to talk.’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  His shadow moved and then she felt him sit beside her. She stood up and walked towards the conservatory, but before she could open the door he was in front of her, blocking the way.

  ‘Listen to me, please, Maddy. Let me explain.’

  She turned her head, fixing unfocused eyes on a bay tree he had brought home once to surprise her.

  ‘You can’t keep avoiding me. We have to face this, Maddy – together.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve tried, but I can’t.’

  ‘Let me help you.’

  Her expression was closed to him, but he searched her face, trying to find a way inside the shells of the Russian doll that were now so firmly closed to him.

  ‘It was a man,’ she whispered. ‘You went to bed with a man.’

  ‘I know.’

  She looked at him, imploringly. ‘Then where does that leave me?’

  ‘It doesn’t leave you anywhere. You’re still here. We both are.’

  Tears, like two crystal beads, ran down her cheeks. Using his thumbs he wiped them away, then crushed her against him. She didn’t respond, but neither did she try to break free.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and with his arms still round her he gently led her across the garden and sat her in the deep wicker chair next to the hammock. Then kneeling in front of her, he took her hands between his. ‘You know why I did it,’ he began. ‘You know . . .’

  She snatched her hands away. ‘No, Paul, I don’t know. Any normal man, a man who likes women, couldn’t have done that.’

  Resting his elbow on the chair-arm, he pushed his head into the heel of his hand. ‘I couldn’t help myself, Maddy,’ he groaned. ‘I couldn’t see any other way.’

  ‘But I gave you a name. All you had to do was call him, he could have done it.’

  He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have worked, Maddy. I thought about it and thought about it until it almost drove me out of my mind, but in the end I knew I couldn’t open you up to blackmail.’

  ‘What do you mean? How would it have . . .?’

  ‘The boy would have been suspicious. He would have wanted to know why we were so keen for him to go to bed with Harry. Then he might have threatened to expose what we were doing. At the very best, it would have come out that we were paying men to sleep together. At worst, if he’d got to find out the whole truth, all three of us – you, me and Harry – would have been ruined.’ He paused, giving her a moment to digest this. ‘So do you see now why I had to do it myself?’ he added softly.

  He watched her eyes as uncertainty deepened the anguish, yet from their clouded, doubt-filled depths he could see a tiny glimmer of devotion beginning to surface. He waited, watching for the moment when her indecision reached its peak; then just a few seconds more until the light of love began to eclipse the cloud of misgiving; then he whispered, ‘And I needed to do it, Maddy.’

  Immediately the light was extinguished. ‘Needed!’ she cried. ‘You need . . .’

  ‘Stop! Listen to me. I had to do it. For us, for my book, and for the next book I write. I needed, yes needed, the experience. I’ve tried to imagine two men in bed together, but I couldn’t. That’s why, when you told me about Harry, I laughed. I laughed because it was the solution to everything.’

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘It was never meant to change anything between us. If Harry and I hadn’t fallen asleep that night, you’d have known nothing about it. Christ, Maddy, I love you, do you think I’d . . .’

  ‘Who did it to who?’ she snapped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, who did it? Who was the man?’

  ‘Oh God, Madeleine, does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His mind was racing. What was she thinking? Why did it matter? Then it hit him. She wanted to know if he had been aroused enough to achieve penetration. ‘He was the man,’ he answered quietly.

  Her head fell back against the seat, her lips were open, her eyes closed. ‘Did you have an erection? While he was doing it, were you excited?’

  ‘Maddy, for God’s sake!’

  Her head snapped up. ‘Does his prick turn you on?’

  ‘Shut up!’ He grabbed her hair and pulled her face down to his. ‘You’re asking things that don’t matter.’

  ‘Oh, they matter!’ she spat. ‘I need to know, Paul, and you’re going to tell me. Do you get hard thinking about him? Let me feel. Let me feel!’ she yelled. He slapped her hands away and she rocked back in the chair. ‘What next, Paul? You on top of me and him on top of you? Is that what you’re after – for the book! Or doesn’t anything I have interest you now?’

  Suddenly his hands were under her dress. She screamed as she slid to the floor and tried to kick him away. The hem of her dress had snagged on the chair, leaving her naked from the waist down. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed them to the ground, then taking her knees, he forced her legs apart.

  His breathing was heavy and sweat poured down his face. He stared down at her, his fingers digging painfully into her thighs. Then he tore open his jeans.

  As he started towards her, their eyes met. And when his face was over h
ers she braced herself for the pain of what he was about to do.

  ‘Oh no,’ he sneered. ‘I’m not going to rape you. You’ve seen it, you know it’s there for you. Now, you tell me you want it.’

  She lowered her eyes to his mouth, then gasped as he took her dress between his hands and ripped it from her body.

  ‘Do you want it?’ he yelled. ‘Look! It’s here, it’s hard for you.’

  Her breath panted through open lips, her hands twitched at her sides and there was an ache in her loins more acute than she had ever known before.

  ‘Tell me, Madeleine. Tell me you want me, or . . .’

  ‘I want you!’ And her legs locked about his waist, pulling him from his knees. He entered her brutally, but her scream was stifled by his tongue.

  She tore at his hair as he pushed his arms under her, hooking his hands round her shoulders. ‘Is this good enough for you?’ he snarled. ‘Is this what you want?’ He was ramming into her so hard that she cried out with every stroke. ‘This is what I thought about when I was with him. Yes, my prick was hard, like it is now. All I wanted was you, your legs around me, your tongue in my mouth, your hands on my balls. I wanted to fuck you, Madeleine, like this. Tell me you love me, you bitch. Tell me you forgive me.’

  ‘I love you!’ she cried. ‘Oh God, Paul, I love you!’ He slipped a hand between them and pushed his thumb into the soft flesh. And then it was upon her, wave after wave of exquisite pain pumping viciously through her loins, whooshing through her veins and propelling her into the throes of frenzy.

  ‘OH MY GOD!’ she screamed, and as she arched herself towards him he grabbed her hips, holding her up to him, pushing, stabbing, every muscle on fire as the juice flowed from his body in spurt after spurt of burning, devastating, beautiful gratification. ‘It’s for you, Madeleine!’ he roared. ‘This is for you!’

  Finally, as the strength ebbed from his body, he slumped over her, heaving great shuddering breaths as sweat poured from his skin. Her arms were thrown wide, across the ground, but her face was turned to his and he could feel her breath on his neck. After a while he rolled onto his back and they lay side by side on the baking tiles, for a long time too exhausted to utter anything beyond a moan or a sigh.