The Mixture As Before

by Rosie Harris

  A half smile played at the corners of her mouth. She’d been celibate for so long that it would be like taking a lover for the first time. She looked forward to being coaxed and charmed out of her shell of reserve.

  It was almost midnight before Jan and the others left. After the sound of their car engines died away it was as if the world was wrapped in a blanket of silence. The moon hung like a shining gold shield in the star-studded velvet sky, the air was redolent with the perfume of roses, late honeysuckle, lavender and evening primroses.

  Margaret felt hesitant about going indoors; reluctant to bring such an idyllic evening to an end.

  Attuned to her mood, Jason lingered too, his fingers entwining with hers as they sauntered back towards the house. Margaret made no protest when he deviated from the gravel drive, and led her towards the massive century-old willow tree from which the house took its name.

  Beneath its green canopy, the whisper of the fluttering fronds was the only sound. Her senses responded to the heady smell of his aftershave and the heat that emanated from his body as he took her in his arms.

  She didn’t resist as his lips found hers in a light, tender kiss. It seemed to be a fitting culmination to the evening.

  As his kiss deepened, his tongue prizing her lips apart, invading the warmth of her mouth, she breathed a soft sigh of pleasure. Carried along by her own tumultuous urges, Margaret lost all sense of place or time. She felt as though she had found the fulfilment that had been missing from her life for longer than she cared to remember.

  As Jason deftly undid the fastenings at the front of her dress the chill night air sent a shiver through her and she moved closer, instinctively seeking the warmth from his body. His arms tightened and passion flashed between them like the connecting sparks of an electric current.

  To Margaret’s chagrin Jason suddenly pulled away.

  ‘Sorry!’ he murmured apologetically. ‘I was forgetting you’d laid down house rules about this sort of thing!’ His short, dry laugh implied that she, too, had forgotten them.

  Trembling, as much with anger as frustration, Margaret ran her hands over her hair, smoothing it back into place and refastened the neck of her dress. She was relieved that the moon had slipped behind a cloud and was no longer bathing the garden in a luminous glow so Jason was unable to witness her embarrassment. Without a word, head held high, she left him standing under the willow tree and hurried indoors.

  Upstairs, in the privacy of her own bedroom, Margaret sat down on the upholstered stool in front of her dressing table. Her heart was beating a crazy tattoo as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  It was like looking into the face of a stranger. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and brilliant as though she was in a drug-induced trance What did she want, she asked herself over and over again. This time they had kept their sanity but next time, and there would be a next time she was quite sure of that, it would be very different.

  As she stared at her reflection the years seemed to roll away. She was nineteen again, her mind a jumble of romantic notions. Then, just as she was doing now, she had come home from work, rushed upstairs to her bedroom and stared at herself in the dressing table mirror, asking exactly the same question.

  Then, it had been because the gleam of interest in Reginald’s eyes, and the realization that she was madly in love with him, had caused her such soul-searching. The outcome of that encounter had been emotionally disastrous. A few years of hectic love-making followed by a lifetime of restrictions and domination by Reginald.

  The romance between them had waned quickly, obliterated by his concentration on the commercial success of his business. The almost total submersion of every aspect of his life in business matters had excluded her, left her isolated. He used sex merely as a mechanical release for tension.

  The children had been her compensation but they, too, had dominated her life. Even as a small child Charles had been able to make her feel inadequate by spurning her affection whenever he decided to do so.

  In her constant endeavours to win his approval, she had on many occasions overlooked the emotional needs of Alison and Steven. Alison had resented this; Steven had striven all the harder to please her, to show her love and affection.

  She had learned the hard way the meaning behind the old adage that in every relationship there is one who loves and one who is loved.

  It was one of the reasons why she was so scared of starting a relationship with Jason. Which way would it be with them? Which of them would be the one who loved to distraction and never had the satisfaction of knowing their love was fully reciprocated?

  It was no consolation that fate had deemed they should meet and had inevitably set in motion a kaleidoscope of events.

  She knew that nothing she could do would change the predestined way the shapes and colours fell or the patterns they formed.

  That night Margaret didn’t bother to drag the heavy armchair across the room and place it against her bedroom door.

  Despite her troubled thoughts and many misgivings she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow.

  Thirty-Two

  Next morning, Jason had already left the house when Margaret went downstairs. His bedroom door was closed and she made no attempt to look inside.

  She pottered about in the garden most of the morning, weeding the borders, trimming the edges of the lawn, deadheading the roses and tying back bushes which had become weighed down with their profusion of flowers.

  She felt content and hummed to herself as she worked. She was enjoying the feeling of having the place entirely to herself and to be able to do exactly as she pleased.

  Still in her jeans and sloppy white T-shirt she made a cheese and pickle sandwich for her lunch. She took them out on to the patio and sat in the sun to eat them and drink a mug of coffee.

  Afterwards, she showered and changed into one of the new summer dresses she had recently bought; a pretty blue cotton with white flowers embroidered on it. Then she went to Maidenhead to shop for an hour and meet Jan, Thelma and Brenda for coffee at the Italian cafe in the High Street.

  When she came home again shortly before five o’clock, Margaret deliberately didn’t do anything about preparing an evening meal. Instead she sat out in the garden reading a book until the sun dipped below the horizon and a chill evening breeze sent her indoors.

  She was just starting to make herself a snack when Jason arrived home. He gave no reason for being late and she didn’t ask. He greeted her in a mildly friendly manner and asked what they were eating.

  Feeling guilty because there wasn’t a meal ready, Margaret tried to make excuses.

  Jason dismissed the matter as of no importance. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he laughed. ‘You go and watch television and I’ll bring in something on a tray for both of us.’

  ‘No, no! I’ll do it,’ she protested. ‘It’s my responsibility to prepare the meals.’

  Laughing, he shooed her out of the kitchen. ‘Preparing a snack for us both will help me to unwind.’

  Defeated, Margaret did as she was told and retired to the sitting room.

  The news had just started when Jason came through with two trays. He placed one on her lap. Sandwiches, salad, fresh fruit salad topped with cream and accompanied by a shortbread biscuit.

  ‘Have you got everything you want?’ he asked before settling himself down in an armchair and balancing the other tray on his knees.

  ‘Yes thank you. It looks lovely.’

  Margaret ate in silence, her eyes alternatively looking at her plate and then at the screen. Reginald had hated anyone to speak or pass any comment while the news was on so she was taken aback when Jason began commenting on everything the newscaster said.

  Edward Stourton was reading the news and it amused her when Jason butted in, expressing his own opinion, or arguing with what he said, almost as if the man was in the room with them.

  Later, though, when she settled down to watch the evenin
g play, Jason’s continuous running commentary and witticisms about the plot and the characters annoyed her. She found it so distracting that eventually she pleaded a headache and went upstairs to finish watching it on the portable television in her bedroom.

  Being so unsociable worried her and as she lay there listening for Jason to come up to bed she wondered if she ought to go down and apologize. After all, she reminded herself, he had made her a delicious supper.

  She fell asleep still trying to summon up the effort to get out of bed and slip on her dressing gown and go downstairs.

  By way of apology the following night she went to considerable trouble to have a tempting cooked meal ready for Jason when he arrived home. She even went as far as to phone his office and leave a message asking him not to be late but to be home by seven thirty.

  So that there would be no repetition of the television incident she laid the table in the dining room, using her best china and cutlery and the treasured crystal flutes that had been one of her wedding presents and reserved for very special occasions.

  Jason arrived home promptly at seven thirty bringing with him a bouquet of freesias.

  Margaret accepted them with delight. ‘How clever, they’re my favourites.’

  ‘Really!’ He looked pleased. ‘I had difficulty finding something you didn’t already grow.’

  ‘I’ve tried to grow freesias often enough but sadly not with any success. I’ve never managed to grow freesias, anemones, sweet peas or nasturtiums and I love all of them,’ she added wistfully.

  ‘Then I must grow them for you. I have green fingers, did I tell you?’

  She shook her head, smiling. Trust Jason to be able to do things she couldn’t.

  ‘I’ll put them in water. They’ll make a lovely centre piece for the table.’

  There were so many of them that as she carried them into the dining room she wondered if their fragrance might be overpowering.

  Jason raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw the elegant table display.

  ‘Are we celebrating something special he asked?’

  ‘No! You prepared the meal last night so I thought I ought to do it tonight.’

  ‘Nice thought but you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’

  ‘It was no trouble, I enjoy eating in here.’

  ‘When we are on our own a snack on a tray in front of the telly is quite alright for me,’ he told her firmly.

  ‘I always eat my main meals in here,’ she told him.

  ‘Not when you are on your own, surely!’

  ‘Yes, even when I’m on my own. Reginald was very particular about not letting standards slip.’

  Jason placed his hands on her shoulders and swung her round to face him. ‘Reginald’s not here now,’ he said gently. ‘You don’t have to live by his rules any more.’

  ‘I know that! Even so, I think it’s important to maintain standards.’

  Jason made no answer but he looked annoyed and the imperceptible shrug of his shoulders implied that he thought she was making an absurd fuss.

  He’d regained his good humour by the time they sat down to eat. He praised her cooking, asked for a second helping of the apple crumble she had made for dessert and insisted on helping her clear away afterwards.

  ‘Having a dishwasher is so labour-saving.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve never had one before. It never seemed to be a justifiable expense. Reginald always claimed it wasn’t necessary for two people.’

  ‘And did he do the washing up?’

  Margaret shook her head emphatically. The thought of Reginald washing or drying dishes was something she could barely comprehend.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she chuckled. ‘Once he’d finished eating he adjourned to the sitting room with his newspaper. I cleared away and washed up, while he enjoyed a brandy and watched the television, or read his newspaper until I took in the coffee.’

  Jason scowled. ‘Things are going to be different from now on. Very, very different, you’ll see,’ he assured her softly.

  His eyes glowed as his gaze locked with hers and Margaret felt a slow heat building up inside her. Alarmed in case Jason sensed how much he affected her she turned away quickly and began sorting the china Jason had just dried and putting it away inside the glass-fronted cupboard.

  She felt mortified that she kept reacting like a lovesick schoolgirl to his blandishments and innuendos. Why on earth couldn’t she handle the situation in a cool, mature way?

  She tried to picture how Jan would treat him, how she would reply to his banter, but quickly gave up. It was a pretty foolish comparison, she reasoned. Jan’s personality was entirely different to hers and Jason obviously didn’t have the same feelings for Jan as he had for her, or else he would have moved in with Jan long ago.

  It was as pointless comparing herself with Jan as it was comparing Jason with Reginald. In each case they were opposing personalities. The washing up incident was only one of their many dissimilarities. Reginald would never have dreamed of making his own bed, or hanging up his clothes, any more than he would have returned the newspapers to the paper rack after reading them, or rolled them up neatly and placed them into the waste-paper basket when he’d finished with them. Those were the kind of things he had always expected others to do for him.

  She felt resentful that for almost forty years she had done all those sorts of things with such slavish docility. She had never had a word of thanks, nor had she ever questioned whether or not it was her responsibility. Jason had opened her eyes to the fact that there was no god-given law that said it was her duty to wait on other people.

  Even so, although she was grateful to Jason for a good many reasons, including the fact that his outlook on life had changed her own opinion about so many things, not least her own value, he was only a lodger. It was her home she reminded herself, so she shouldn’t permit him too much freedom to air his views or encourage him to change her lifestyle.

  As it was she was perturbed by the sexual tension between them. He was good looking and charming; he had a thriving business and good prospects, so why was he interested in a woman twenty years older than himself?

  To her mind it didn’t make sense.

  Thirty-Three

  Over the next few weeks Margaret found every aspect of her life undergoing change. Jason was a tornado of energy and so full of surprises that she didn’t know what to expect from one day to the next.

  He was so anxious to please her that he was always startling her with unexpected bouquets of flowers, gifts of chocolates, unusual meals, or spontaneous outings to places she would never have dreamed of visiting, or hadn’t known existed.

  Some of their trips left her gasping with delight. Attending Henley Regatta had been one such an occasion. She’d felt like a million dollars in a new full-skirted red and white summer dress, white jacket and a flower-trimmed, red straw hat. Jason had sported a black blazer, white flannels and a cream panama hat.

  They’d enjoyed the hospitality of one of Jason’s clients on board a luxury cruise boat moored near Henley Bridge. It had afforded a magnificent view of the entire stretch of the river and they’d been able to watch the races while being wined and dined in style.

  Other outings, such as the trip to a steam fair at Knowl Hill, where she’d stumbled around in mud that ruined her shoes, had left her wondering why Jason had brought her to such a place. She certainly hadn’t shared his interest in the noisy, oily tractors and engines or the rides that he found so exhilarating but which had petrified her.

  Her reaction hadn’t pleased him. She’d quickly found that beneath his cool, laid-back manner he had an iron will and couldn’t tolerate any opposition or dissension of any kind. He always expected things to go his way and once his mind was made up nothing could move him.

  Jason was the same as Reginald in that respect and it troubled her.

  In most other aspects, though, he was the exact opposite of Reginald. He was full of geniality and charm, a sophisticated urbane man of the wor
ld. No one had ever paid her so much attention, or been so solicitous, so determined to make her feel happy.

  Whenever Jason was in the house things buzzed. His energy left her breathless. For so long she had been attuned to living with someone much older than herself who demanded peace and quiet. Now she had to contend with the reverse side of the coin and often she found herself exhausted simply trying to keep pace with Jason.

  It astonished her the way he asked her opinion about so many diverse things. She felt flattered when he not only listened attentively to her answer but also drew her into lengthy discussions. Verbal debate was something of a novelty to her and she was so out of practice that at first she felt whatever she said sounded trite. It also disconcerted her to find that in most of their exchanges she ended up agreeing with him.

  Margaret also found it unnerving that Jason noticed even the minutest change she might make around the home. A photograph moved to a different spot while she was dusting, fresh flowers in the hall, a change round in the sitting room, a new magazine on the coffee table, even a different brand of biscuits, were all noted and commented upon.

  It was the same with the way she dressed. She had discarded most of the contents of her wardrobe, the drab clothes she had worn over the past ten years. She had replaced them with smart new outfits in brighter colours since she’d decided they did so much more for her appearance than muted beiges and browns.

  Jason had accompanied her on several of her shopping trips and to her embarrassment had insisted she went in for shorter skirts.

  ‘You’ve got good legs so why not show them off,’ he’d protested when she demurred.

  He had certainly provided plenty of opportunities for her to do so. They went out to eat several times a week and always to a different restaurant. He favoured Indian, or Chinese, but he loved to surprise her and sometimes he took her to one of the quaint riverside pubs, or one of the many plush eating-places dotted around the Thames Valley.