by Lilian Peake
Stepping out, she thought, That should do the trick. Towelling herself and then rubbing vigorously at her hair, she thought, What trick? What use was it punishing herself, for that was what her action had amounted to, when it was Slade she should be punishing? Her assumption that a cold shower would cool her fury was, she discovered to her dismay, quite false. The subsequent towelling had brought her to warm, vibrant life!
Pulling on her robe, she looked round for a comb and pulled it through her moist curls. Then she made a second dash along the landing—only to come upon the tall, immovable figure of her husband standing, legs stiffly apart, arms folded, in the doorway of her room.
His Jacket was off, his shirt pulled free and unbuttoned. He looked fresh and washed, probably having used the washbasin in Patrick’s room. His hair was ruffled as if he had run wet fingers through it. His attitude seemed careless and a little wild. His eyes were brilliant with a consuming anger.
Hiding the fear his whole demeanour inspired in her, Rosalind said, ‘Please let me pass. I want to go to bed.’
‘So do I,’ he answered. ‘But tonight I fancy company.’
Her heart began to hammer. ‘Ring Nedra,’ she flung at him, ‘and tell her to get the next flight back. She’ll give you the company you want, right through the night!’
He seized her arms and rammed her body against his. The impact was bruising and momentarily deprived her of breath. ‘You left the reception without telling me. You went with Gerry.’
She could not look at him because her face was a mere lips-touch away from his chest. She held herself rigid to stay free of contact. ‘I was bored,’ she said as casually as she could manage. ‘You made it plain you didn’t need me, so I didn’t join you.’
‘Bored,’ he gritted, his grip tightening. She mauled her lower lip to hold back any plea for release which she knew would be ignored. ‘When I asked you to help me by—’
‘Acting as a substitute Nedra. I know, but sorry, it’s just not my line. You chose the right woman when you appointed her. But then you have an unerring eye for the right kind of female, haven’t you? Pennant Wills told me how in America you had affairs—’
He threw her from him and she glanced down to find that her robe had come open. She saw how his eyes were raking her. Growing warm with mortification at his malicious smile, she wrapped the robe about her, wishing the belt was not missing. ‘Affairs?’ he snarled, hands on hips. ‘You dare to talk of my affairs when it’s as plain as the pattern on the wallpaper that that was—almost—what you had with John Welson before he left the company, and which you so casually called “friendship”?’
‘How,’ she countered sarcastically, her eyes bold with a false courage, ‘did you arrive at such a perceptive conclusion?’ Her eyes were drawn down to the hairs which clustered on his chest, to the hard line of waist and stomach.
‘By observation, watching him greet you, seeing your face brighten at the sight of him. By the way you talked, by the familiarity between you. Then Gerry came on the scene, didn’t he, creeping in, as he thought, unnoticed. After that, you had them both dancing attendance, and there was no happier person in that room than Rosalind Anderson. At heart you’re still that flaunting, promiscuous little baggage you were at sixteen, aren’t you?’
‘If you say so,’ she shouted, ‘then I must be! And you haven’t changed, Slade Anderson, not in any way. There’s no love in those covetous eyes of yours, only possessiveness and lust. You still maul me about. You only made marriage to me a. condition of signing that contract to deprive any other man of the chance of possessing me.’
She had passed the limit, she knew by the tensing of his body, by the way his fingers fastened round her wrist. He dragged her across the landing and into his bedroom, slamming the door with his shoulder. He twisted her to face him.
‘So I covet you,’ he blazed, ‘so I lust for you and want only to possess you? I’ve deprived you, have I, of your chances of offering yourself for use by any other man?’ He jerked the robe from one of her shoulders, holding her arm to prevent her from pulling it back. ‘Instead of another man, I’ll exercise my legal rights and use you.’
He looked her over. ‘Yes, you’re beginning to look like a wanton, immoral little tramp.’ He tore the robe from her other shoulder, watching it fall about her feet. ‘Now you’re here for the taking, I’ll show you what it’s really like to be mauled by a man, to be possessed. Until now I’ve been gentle with you, but by heaven, tonight I’m giving you a real lesson in loving !’
Her lips were dry as she watched him unfasten his belt and throw aside his shirt. The sight of his body stirred her desire unbearably and yet she wanted to hate him for putting fear in her heart where love should have been. He lifted her bodily and dropped her on to the bed, threw himself beside her and clamped his hands on each side of her head.
His mouth was bruising, delving, draining the honey-sweetness from the depths of hers. His hands ran over her then, without gentleness, began to explore unmercifully every past of her. She hated him yet loved him, wanted him yet longed to throw him from her, but there was no matching his anger-boosted strength.
When he took her, the pleasure was exquisite, yet almost unbearable. When, a long time later, they were still and lying apart, tears welled and she wanted to sob her heart out. Slade had used her, hurt her, humiliated her. She knew that no man who loved a woman would have acted towards her as he had done to her that night.
Thinking he slept, she lay quietly, unable to relax. The tears rolled down to dampen her pillow, but not one sob would she allow to escape. When she felt him move, throw back the bedclothes and get out, she whispered hoarsely, ‘What are you doing, Slade?’
‘Finding my clothes.’
She pressed the covers to her throat. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Travelling north. To join Harry Adamson.’
‘And—and Nedra?’
There was no reply. He left the room and a few minutes later there was the sound of a bath filling. Returning, he switched on the main light. He was dressed, his hair was neat, his eyes hard as rough diamonds, his jaw like hitting rock. He dragged two suitcases from inside the wardrobe and started packing them with clothes, opening drawers and cupboards.
‘Be honest,’ Rosalind cried, ‘and admit it’s Nedra you’re going to see.’
He echoed, ‘It’s Nedra I’m going to see.’
The cases snapped shut and he rose, looking down at her. ‘So, in view of my admission, you can now enjoy yourself with John Welson without a twinge’ of conscience.1 She started to protest at his statement, but he went on, ‘You may still have been virginal—as I know you were—when he left Compro—and you, but now I’ve taught you so much there’ll be no barriers, will there, to the consummation of your relationship with him.’
‘You’re only pretending,’ she cried, ‘that I want to be unfaithful to you to justify that statement you made the day I agreed, under duress, to marry you.’
He frowned. ‘Explain that, will you?’
She dragged herself into a reclining position, pulling the bedclothes with her. ‘You said that since there was no— no love between us, it would leave you free of any emotional obligations and you’d be able to take out any woman you wanted.’
‘I remember the conversation, which means I also remember that you said you would hate me until the day you died. I’ve often wondered since whether subsequent events had made you change your mind. Seeing you with John this evening, I knew they had not, and I also knew why.’
He went to the door, a suitcase in each hand.
‘Why? Tell me why!’
‘That for you it’s been John all the time.’ His eyes became expressionless. ‘Am I correct?’
Now was her chance to tell him that she loved him and no one else. Her eyes held his. If there had been even a spark of love, of emotion, even of warmth, she would have told him the truth. Inside her was a choking feeling because in his eyes there was nothing. It was Nedra he
wanted now. Hadn’t he just told her? She would not deprive him of his wish. Even so, she could not bring herself to speak the words.
Instead she turned away on to her side, presenting him with the back of her head. To him it would appear to be confirmation on her part that he was correct about herself and John.
‘Enjoy Nedra,’ she managed to say. ‘I hope for her sake you treat her better than you’ve treated me tonight.’ She had completed the sentence without letting the tears show through.
The door opened, the door closed. Footsteps retreated and the slam of the front door echoed through the house.
CHAPTER TEN
IT was next morning before Rosalind realised she had slept in the house alone. Patrick’s door was open and his bed had not been disturbed. It was when she was dressing that the telephone rang.
She ran into Patrick’s bedroom and reached for the extension telephone. Was it Slade calling to tell her he had changed his mind and was on his way home? It was Patrick, apologetic but euphoric.
‘I decided to come north to see Emma,’ he said. ‘On the spur of the moment. I just wanted to see her again. You do understand, Rosa?’
It’s ironic, Rosalind thought, suppressing the tears. My brother racing north to see the girl he loves, my husband racing north to see the woman he … Her mind blocked out the final word.
‘It’s all right, Patrick,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m on my own, but it doesn’t master. I’ll have a quiet weekend.’
‘Alone? What’s happened to Slade?’
‘He went north, too—to see Harry Adamson.’ She added, hoping it sounded like an afterthought, ‘Nedra’s with Harry.’
‘I know that, don’t I, since she wasn’t at the reception last night.’ It seemed that Slade’s journey to join Nedra meant nothing to him because he went on, ‘Just thought you’d like to know that Emma and I are officially engaged.’
The tears rose, welled and fell. ‘Patrick, I’m so pleased! Hug Emma for me, will you?’
‘Sure I will,’ Patrick answered happily. ‘It’s all in the family now, isn’t it? I mean, you and Slade, Emma and me.’
‘Yes,’ said Rosalind, drying her eyes and suppressing a sigh, ‘it’s all in the family. Have a good weekend. See you Monday at the office?’
‘In the afternoon. I’ll travel south Monday morning. How long will Slade be away?’
‘He didn’t say.’ After a pause, she added, ‘I’ll be okay. Give my love to your very new fiancée, not forgetting my parents-in-law.’
The morning dragged. Listlessly Rosalind dusted and cleaned. Making Slade’s bed, she thought about the lovemaking, if that was what it could be called, his brutal, contemptuous treatment of her, the cold passion of his kisses. She sank on to his pillow and wept. Drying her eyes at last, she dragged herself upright and tried to decide whether or not she wanted lunch.
The telephone rang again, making her jump. This time she walked slowly into Patrick’s room. No need to hurry; it would not be Slade. She had the strangest feeling that she might never see him or hear from him again.
‘John here, Rosa. Just thought you and Slade might come out for a meal with me. I know Patrick’s gone to see his girl. Last night he waited until Slade had left the reception, then made up his mind.’
‘She’s his fiancée now, John.’ John made congratulatory noises. ‘And Slade’s gone away for a day or two.’
‘Leaving you behind? The man must be mad! Maybe I can work on you and get you into my clutches again.’
Rosalind laughed, but it was a superficial affair,
‘But that means you can eat with me, doesn’t it?’ He waited for an answer. Rosalind thought defiantly, Why not? Slade’s gone to Nedra. Why shouldn’t I go out with John? It was, after all, only for a meal, whereas with Slade and the woman who seemed to have captured his love—as she had vowed to do—it might well be for the night—or two …
‘Yes, it does,’ she agreed. ‘Thanks, John.’
‘I’ll be round in half an hour. Okay?’
The meal was good, the conversation amusing, as Rosalind had known it would be. John’s spirits were, as usual, high, lifting hers, too. He took her back to the house and invited himself in—to save her from being lonely, he said. Rosalind did not mind, in fact she welcomed his presence. It kept her thoughts away from Slade and Nedra …
It was just after the evening meal that the phone rang for the third time that day. John, who had stayed on, called to Rosalind who was in the kitchen that he would answer.
‘Prescott residence,’ she heard him say. There was a pause, then he said, ‘Hallo?’ in a puzzled tone, after which he replaced the receiver. ‘Strange,’ he commented, joining her, ‘not a word, not even heavy breathing. Just a clatter, then nothing. A phantom caller, obviously.’
Rosalind handed him the drying-up towel. ‘I hate that kind of phone call,’ she said with a shiver. ‘Especially when I’m on my own.’
‘Good thing I was here, then,’ said John. ‘At least the caller would have heard a man’s voice.’ John took a plate and rubbed it thoughtfully. ‘I really intended to have a talk with you and Slade today about my new job. You know, some kind of advice which would give me an easier lead-in to the work I’ll be doing.’
‘I could give you an insight into some of it, John.’ In the living-room she told him, ‘Slade wants fifteen more programmers, and that, he assured me, was just the beginning!’
John whistled. ‘He’s certainly a get-up-and-go man. In the three or so months since I left Comoro things have changed, no doubt about it. There’s a different feeling in the air. It was even there at the reception last night.’
‘We’re going to expand, Slade says, going all out for the big contracts, fat fees for the company, pay increases in one form or another for the staff.’
Towards the end of the evening, Rosalind yawned. John rose at once. ‘Midnight ! I didn’t realise it was so late.’
The telephone rang again and Rosalind’s fingers pushed against her mouth. John said firmly, ‘I’ll go.’ Two minutes later he was back. ‘Same again,’ he reported, scratching his head. ‘I said the number in case it was someone dialling wrongly, but still no answer. Just click, cutting whoever it was off.’
He saw Rosalind’s anxiety and said, ‘Take the phone off the hook. That way it can’t ring again. If they do, they’ll find you permanently engaged. Replace the receiver in the morning. Okay? Oh, and if you should need me in an emergency, I’m at the Royal.’ He scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘There’s the number.’
‘Thanks, John, for a pleasant day,’ she said at the door.
‘I’ve enjoyed it.’ He tapped her chin and tilted it. ‘Keep this up, Rosa.’ He placed a fleeting kiss on her lips and with a brief wave disappeared into the darkness.
Rosalind had a reasonably peaceful night. She had followed John’s advice about the telephone. After dressing, she replaced the receivers on their cradles.
Since she had not felt hungry enough for breakfast, she prepared and ate an early midday meal. Afterwards, she flicked through the colour supplement of the Sunday paper and wondered where Slade was. Seeing the beautiful women modelling jewellery and clothes, pouring their fabulous personalities over sleek new cars and promoting mink and diamonds reminded her painfully of the woman Slade had sped through the night to see.
With an irritated movement she threw the magazine aside and walked to the window, as if by looking out on to the street she might see him passing by. Passing by… Was that all he had been doing in her life? Despite their intimate encounters, and moments of passion, had his marriage to her really been just a means of revenging himself for her past behaviour towards him?
A police car, sirens blaring, sped by. She watched it indifferently. Its approach and retreat in a flash of blue light sounded in the depths of her mind a strange clangour of alarm. Apprehension insinuated itself into her consciousness and an agony of foreboding flooded through her.
The telephone rang. Oh no! she tho
ught. All weekend bells have rung in the hall, in my mind …
‘Yes?’ She could not even remember her own telephone number.
‘Rosa?’ The voice was female and a mere whisper. ‘It’s Emma. A certain man who shall be nameless will kill me for this. We’ve been sworn to secrecy till the morning. But I had to tell you, dear. I’ve got to whisper in case Patrick hears. Rosa, do you love your husband?’
‘Oh yes, Emma, yes, yes. Why, what’s happened. Tell me …’ Terror made her lips stiff.
‘Calm yourself, there hasn’t been an accident. I’ve got to tell you—there isn’t much time. He’s leaving you, dear. Flying off to the States, one-way ticket.’
Terror gripped her. ‘Emma, tell me—is Nedra Farmer with him?’
‘He’s alone, quite alone. All I can say is, Heathrow, Terminal Three. Take-off due at roughly three o’clock. He has to check in at two o’clock, so you’ve an hour, Rosa. Get there, that’s all I can say, get there fast. Here’s Patrick. ‘Bye, love, and the best of luck !’
Rosalind’s hand was shaking so much she could hardly replace the receiver. How to get there, cover that distance through tightly-packed roads out of London in that short time? Call a taxi? It would take them time to get here. They’d have to divert one of their cars … John, at the Royal! He said to ring in an emergency. One of a different sort, but surely he’d agree?
It took a few precious minutes for her call to be connected to his room. He was there, taking an after-lunch rest, he said genially. ‘Take you to Heathrow? Fast? Why—? No, I won’t ask questions. I’ll be round in three minutes.’
He kept his promise and Rosalind was down the steps and into his car almost before the brakes squealed. ‘Know the way, John?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I’ve driven there before to see someone off. It’s a fine day, Rosa. Traffic’s thick, but I’ll do my best. Care to tell me why?’
