by Anne Weale
Quickly dividing by twelve, she said, ‘Twenty-five years.’
As she lifted her glass, Cal touched his lightly against it. ‘To our silver wedding.’
‘To our silver wedding,’ she echoed, and thought what an extraordinary toast it was, considering their original wedding had yet to be consummated.
Yet, strangely, his confidence warmed her. He was always so sure of himself. Her father had been the same, but Paco had lacked assurance, although that had been more understandable. He had not been reared to give orders and take decisions.
Nor had Cal, by the sound of it; not in his early years, although his expensive education must have been designed to inculcate qualities of leadership and self-reliance. But Antonia had the impression that, even without that type of schooling, he would have been a natural leader, a man who would rise to the top in whatever field he chose to tackle.
To eat, he had ordered small cheese fritters, the cheese blended with flaked almonds, and a dish of black olives.
‘Is this enough to keep you going until after the theatre?’ he asked.
‘Yes, more than enough. Which theatre are we going to?’
‘To the Theatre Royal in the Haymarket.’
She had hoped that would be his answer, for the play was the one she had picked out from the list of shows in The Times that morning.
When, about half an hour later, they took their seats in the stalls, she wondered if Cal would repeat the behaviour she had found so disturbing the last time they were at the theatre.
However, once the play had begun she became too engrossed in it to give any further thought to the man beside her until the curtain came down for the first interval. As neither of them smoked, they felt no compulsion to leave the auditorium and mingle with the crowds in the bars. They had just agreed to stay where they were when an elderly man who knew Cal walked along the now empty row of seats in front of them and, when Cal introduced him, remained chatting to them both until people began to filter back from the bars.
‘The second and third acts passed without any distracting behaviour on Cal’s part, and it was not until they were leaving the theatre that he touched her, and then only to steer her through the swarm of the departing audience.
At home, she found a candlelit table for two set up in the sitting-room, and Marcos waiting to serve them with more chilled champagne.
The meal which Cal had instructed Rocío to prepare was entirely Spanish. It began with empanadas, the miniature turnovers filled with sieved tuna in a little Béchamel sauce, which were perfect only when they came to the table freshly fried.
These were followed by a paella Valenciana which Rocío herself brought to the table in a paellera, the large shallow metal pan with handles from which the dish took its name. On Cal’s instructions, she had made a large one so that she and her husband could also enjoy a generous helping of the saffron-yellow rice to which had been added pink prawns, black mussel shells containing coral-coloured flesh, bright green new peas, shreds of scarlet pepper, and, round the rim of the pan, segments of lemon. In addition the paella contained joints of chicken, sliced squid, chopped tomatoes and a lobster cut into pieces. To Antonia, the aroma and flavour were too nostalgic to be entirely enjoyable. They reminded her of a hundred other paellas she had eaten during her life, not least of one shared with Paco in the restaurante at the back of a bar not far from the canodromo, the dog track on the busy Avenida del Puerto near where he lived.
For their pudding, Rocío had made pastel de neuces, which was a baked caramel custard with walnuts added to it. The first time flan had appeared on their table, Cal had groaned, explaining that whenever he stayed at hotels in Spain, invariably ice cream and flan—which bore no resemblance to a flan in the English sense—were the only two puddings to be had. But with the first spoonful he had discovered that Rocío’s flan was greatly superior to the hotel variety because his cook kept the sugar for flans in a jar containing a vanilla pod, her caramel topping was thicker, and the custard itself was delectably light. Sometimes she added the juice of an orange and a little .grated peel, and Cal, who at one time had bypassed the pudding course, now enjoyed flan as much as Antonia.
After serving the coffee, Marcos bade them goodnight.
‘Next week we must start to make a more serious effort to look for a permanent house. I should like to be settled before the end of the year,’ said Cal. ‘By the way’—producing his cheque book from an inside pocket of his coat—‘would you fill in the stub of the cheque for that dress.’
‘I didn’t use the cheque, Cal. I already had this dress which seemed ideal for the necklace.’ She rose from her chair. ‘The cheque is in a drawer in the writing table. I’ll give it back to you.’
As she passed him, he caught her wrist and stayed her. ‘Why not spend it on something else?’
‘It’s kind of you, but there’s very little I need, having just had a trousseau made for me.’
‘Oh, come,’ he said, with a trace of impatience in his voice. ‘I never heard of a woman who had actually to need clothes before she could bring herself to buy them. Since I don’t have the pleasure of undressing you, at least let me dress you.’
It was said with a look which made colour flame in her cheeks. Instinctively she attempted to free her wrist from his grasp, but his light clasp tightened, becoming as inescapable as a handcuff.
He pulled her down on to his lap and pressed a long, savage kiss on her startled mouth.
‘Perhaps I will undress you,’ he said huskily, and again his mouth stifled her protests and he held her captive with one arm, while his other hand loosened the zip at the back of her dress.
At one time she would have resisted, but now she could only submit in petrified silence to the sudden onslaught of passion provoked by her failure to use his cheque. He was no longer a stranger, but a man she had grown to admire for his kindness and forbearance. She could not fight him when he slipped the dress from her shoulders and down her arms.
His mouth still devouring hers, he reached behind her to unclip the clasp of her bra. It was not a simple hook and eye, but a plastic device which made him exclaim impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, is this thing padlocked?’
Defeated by the awkward clip he ripped it open at the front, its flimsy construction offering little resistance to his strong brown fingers. An instant later Antonia was naked from shoulder to waist, and Cal’s lips were questing the soft curves of flesh between.
It was then, knowing that his self-control had finally snapped, that, no longer wishing to deny him but knowing that he would regret it if he took her by force, she burst into helpless tears.
For a few seconds longer his lips burned her delicate skin before, with a stifled groan, he stood up and set her on her feet.
‘Don’t panic. I shan’t break my word tonight. I can wait—but not for much longer.’ His voice was harsh with emotion, his blue eyes brilliant with hunger.
As he strode from the room, she had an impulse to run after him. But although he was less of a stranger, she still wasn’t ready to submit her body to his passion, much less to respond with the eagerness which he required of her.
When he had gone, she covered herself with her dress and picked up the ruined wisp of black lace which he had dropped on the floor. The memory of the passage traced by his lips made the hot blood rush to her cheeks. And yet she had to admit to herself that what she had felt, while those intimate kisses scorched places where even Paco had never ventured, had not been revulsion, or even the sense of betrayal of the Spanish boy’s memory which she had experienced on her wedding night.
Cal had stirred sensations deeper and more fundamental than she had ever felt before. It seemed to her now that, somewhere deep in her nature, there smouldered an unsuspected heat which, if fanned, would blaze into flame. But had it anything to do with love?
CHAPTER FOUR
She did not see him again until the following evening. The day seemed endless. Antonia could think of nothing but
what had happened the night before. She wondered if the same thoughts were interfering with Cal’s concentration.
That night they were going to a supper party at the Fletchers’ house in Highgate. Cal came home late, with only just enough time for him to bath and change before they set out.
In the car on the way to the party, he said, ‘I apologise for frightening you last night. It won’t happen again—unless you wish it.’
Antonia said nothing. What was there to say?
After some moments he took one hand off the wheel and, keeping his eyes on the road, reached for one of her hands and raised it to his lips.
For a reason she could not analyse, the gesture brought tears to her eyes. Before he replaced her hand in her lap, her fingers tightened in response.
They arrived at the party, if not in the perfect accord of the happy newlyweds they were supposed to be, at least without too much constraint between them.
Not long after her uncle’s unexpected visit, they spent a night in the country with one of Cal’s business associates.
Telling her about the invitation, he said, ‘It means sharing a room, I’m afraid, but I’ve said we can only stay for one night this time, and I should think all their visitors’ rooms have twin beds.’
The Marshalls lived in a stockbroker’s-Tudor house to which they had added a heated swimming pool in which, when Cal and Antonia arrived, a number of children and teenagers were swimming while their elders sat out of range of splashes, drinking tea or alcohol, according to their choice.
Harry and his wife Juliet rose from their chairs and came forward with welcoming smiles when Cal and Antonia joined the group at the poolside. They had been admitted to the house by an Italian manservant to whom Cal had given the keys of his car and of their luggage.
Like the Rankins before them, the Marshalls welcomed Antonia with a great deal of warmth. Harry looked about forty, but Juliet was only a few years older than Antonia. Cal had already explained that she was his second wife, replacing his first wife from whom he was amicably divorced and by whom he had three children who spent most of their holidays from boarding school with him and Juliet.
‘Harry married at twenty, when he was too young to look for more than a pretty face and figure, and long before there was any sign that he was going to do very well for himself,’ Cal had told her, on the drive down. ‘Betty would have been happier had he stayed as he was when they married. She grew up in a small terraced house—not the kind of terrace Nash built!—and she couldn’t adapt to the way he lives now. You’ll find him something of a show-off, but he’s a sound chap at heart. I don’t know what you’ll make of Juliet. I think, in a different way, she’s every bit as dim as Betty was, but she has more idea how to spend Harry’s money to advantage.’
Now, meeting Juliet in person, Antonia knew almost at once that, although they were closer in age, they had less in common than she and Fanny Rankin. Juliet, it soon emerged, was a slavish follower of fashion. If Vogue said ‘Purple for spring’, Juliet went into purple. Whatever was ‘in’ she adored, whatever was ‘out’, she despised.
It was not until later when, leaving Cal talking to his host, she went upstairs to change for the evening that Antonia discovered their room did not have twin beds but a double one.
Someone had unpacked their cases, hung their clothes in the wardrobes and put their other belongings in appropriate places. The bed had not yet been turned down, but her nightdress had been placed on the left side of the bed, with her mules at the base of the night-table, and Cal’s pyjamas and slippers were on the other side.
As she was contemplating the situation Cal himself entered the room.
‘I’ve come up for a sweater. It’s turning cooler now and Harry and I are going for a walk for half an hour, so there’s no need to hurry your bath. I shall probably have mine at bedtime. By the way, as I came upstairs Juliet told me to tell you that if you’ve left any vital bit of your make-up paraphernalia behind, she can probably provide a substitute.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of her. I shouldn’t think I’ve left anything. I haven’t looked, but I think you’ll find your sweater in one of those drawers’—indicating a chest of drawers on the far side of the bed.
He found it and put it on, thrusting his arms into the sleeves before pulling the neck over his head. As he pulled it down over his chest, he noticed the bed and bit off an exclamation of annoyance.
‘I hadn’t bargained for this. Whenever I’ve stayed here before there’ve always been two beds. But I’ve never been given this room.’ He gave her a long, intent look. ‘I’m sorry to have misled you, but I’m certainly not going to ask if we can have another room. I should think they’re all occupied anyway. There seem to be at least a dozen people here this weekend.’
‘Oh, no, you can’t ask them to move us,’ Antonia agreed. ‘We—we shall just have to make the best of it.’
‘I think “worst of it” would be more apt—at least from my point of view,’ Cal returned dryly.
He strolled out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving her with flushed cheeks and a pulse-rate considerably faster than when he had entered.
She was dressed and ready to go down when he returned, and he suggested she should go ahead of him. As she left him to change, she felt a little disappointed that he had said nothing about her dress, which was one she had not worn before. It was made of chiffon printed in three shades of grey. The skirt and sleeves were very full but the bodice was shirred to cling close from shoulder to hip.
Her hostess and several other guests were there before her when she reached the very large, luxurious sitting-room. It reminded her of one of the room sets in Harrods’ furniture department. Although there were some ornaments and pictures as well as the expensive furniture, it had a curiously unreal atmosphere. She came to the conclusion this was because everything there was new, and the pictures were all elaborately-framed and lighted reproductions of the better-known masterpieces. There were no antiques, and nothing which looked as if it had been handed down through even two generations. Nor were there any of the inconsequential, highly personal objects which made Fanny’s home so attractive—the clumsy day pot obviously made by a child; the postcard of a glorious view; the saucer, cracked but too pretty to be discarded, kept in use as an ash-tray; the piles of books and magazines; the basket of embroidery wools. Here, all that could be deduced about the owners of the room was that they had plenty of money but either lacked or distrusted their own taste, preferring to follow popular trends.
Antonia was not surprised when dinner began with prawn cocktails, followed by large prime steaks with peas and crinkle-cut fried potatoes, doubtless frozen. There was also what she had come to recognise as a typically English and, to her palate, flat-tasting, garlic-free salad with no oil or vinegar on it, and none provided for guests to use according to their taste.
Of the men between whom she was seated, one gave most of his attention to his food so that, when her other neighbour was talking to the woman on the far side of him, Antonia found it difficult to prevent her gaze straying to her husband.
The first time this happened, Cal had finished eating his prawn cocktail and was listening, with his elbows on the edge of the table and his lean fingers interlaced, to what someone opposite was saying. When he replied, he dropped his left hand and used his right to emphasise what he was saying. Although less gesticulatory than a Spaniard, he made more use of his hands while speaking than most Englishmen. Perhaps it was a habit he had picked up during his frequent travels round Europe.
Watching the graphic movements of his right hand, Antonia could not help remembering that not many nights ago that hand had ripped off her bra and held her pinioned while his angry mouth inflicted kisses which had felt like burning brands on her quivering flesh.
He had promised it would not happen again, but he hadn’t bargained for having to share a bed with her. How difficult would it be for him to keep his word tonight when they lay sid
e by side in the darkness? Very difficult, she would have thought. Unless—her mind went back to the early days of their honeymoon—after losing control the other night Cal had slaked his pent-up desire in someone else’s arms. He might take the view that, while their marriage remained unconsummated, he was entitled to find his pleasure elsewhere.
She had not liked the idea before. She liked it even less now, she found. It made her realise how much there was to admire in him. An illicit relationship spoiled the impression she wanted to have of his straightness and integrity. And yet could anyone blame him for being unfaithful to a wife in whose bed he was unwelcome?
Suddenly aware that one of her neighbours had been speaking to her, and she had not heard a word, she forced her eyes and her mind away from her husband’s compelling presence.
But later in the meal she found herself looking at him again. The pudding course was in progress. Everyone was eating a piece of cheesecake which, because it had come to the table in slices, Antonia suspected of being made by Marks & Spencer. Not that it wasn’t an excellent cheesecake. It was very good, and made even more delicious by the addition of fresh cream. But it seemed to her to be both a cheat and an extravagance to serve bought cheesecake at a private dinner party when it was such an easy thing to make.
This time when her eyes strayed in Cal’s direction, she found him looking at her. There was still some wine in his glass. He raised it, and drank, watching her. In view of the assurance he had given her in the car the other night, it could not be the usual wordless message sent by a man to a-woman in circumstances which prevented him from being more explicit.
After dinner there was dancing. Cal had the first dance with her, but he didn’t hold her close as he had at the Rankins’ house, nor did he dance with her a second time. Presently, while she was dancing with her host and he was expressing surprise that Cal had not yet taken her to Stratford-on-Avon, she remembered a line from Hamlet which her father had quoted sometimes.
