In the end, she decided she would show him what she had done. When she walked into the living room, he was leaning back in his chair, his hands hooked behind his head, staring out of the window. He turned to her, and although he didn’t smile, he didn’t snarl either as she proffered her efforts of the afternoon.
‘Will you want to check it?’ she asked.
He took it without looking and put it down on his desk.
‘I’ll read over everything you’ve done each night. If there’s any corrections you can do them first thing, before you carry on. That’s how I used to do it with the previous typist.’
The Previous Typist? Didn’t the poor girl have a name?
‘Fine,’ said Jane. ‘I expect I’ll get faster. It takes a bit of getting used to, your writing.’
He gave a little nod, as if in agreement, then turned away from her, back to his work. She left the room. As soon as she got out of the front door, she breathed a sigh of relief. She felt as if she had been holding her breath all afternoon.
Just think about the money, she told herself. Just think about all the dresses you can buy. And she kicked her shoes off and ran, all the way down the path and down the dunes, getting faster and faster until she reached the beach.
The next day she had a good look around the room she was working in before she started.
There were rows and rows of his books. Hardbacks, in pale colours. Some in English - she counted eight different titles. And all the others in every other language you could think of. Some she could discern - French, Italian, German - but some she couldn’t, though she suspected some were Scandinavian, and some in Chinese and Japanese. She leafed through them in wonder, thinking how fantastic it must be for someone in another country to want to read what you had written. She read the reviews on the flyleaves. He was certainly highly thought of, if they were to be believed.
She hadn’t really taken in what she was typing the day before, but he had left her work on the table, with just a couple of alterations, and she read it through again. This time she took in the narrative. It seemed to be about a middle-aged woman, the Anita Palmer of the first paragraph, a well-to-do but bored housewife to whom nothing much seemed to happen. She wondered how on earth he knew so much about middle-aged women - the details he had included seemed accurate, what she was wearing, what she was cooking. And he seemed to understand what was going on in her head. The fact that she was bored. Screamingly bored. And that she was irritated by her husband. Jane had seen her own mother react in the same way to her father.
As she began typing the next chapter, the point of view changed to a young lad who worked in Mr Palmer’s factory. Entirely different to the woman, but they both shared a certain disillusion with life. Boredom. They both seemed to be asking themselves the question, ‘Is this it?’
His language was spare, the dialogue sparse, but somehow the words seemed to draw a very vivid picture of the world he was creating. She found herself totally drawn in, wondering about the fates of the characters. Her fingers moved faster and faster over the typewriter as she raced to the next chapter.
It wasn’t what she expected him to write at all. She’d expected something manly and thriller-ish, involving espionage and murder and the Iron Curtain, something she wouldn’t understand. Certainly not something that she would be interested in. And not something so . . . emotional. The characters were both so unhappy; they both felt so trapped. She found herself longing to know what happened next.
From Terence Shaw she heard nothing.
By one o’clock she was starving. She crept into the kitchen and picked a dusty glass off a shelf, then ran the tap. It came out more forcefully than she expected, spattering back up at her and drenching her blouse. She gave a cry of annoyance and stepped back, then stepped forward again to try and turn off the tap.
Terence Shaw was standing behind her.
‘I suppose you’re hungry.’
He said it as if it was a huge liberty, to dare to need food.
Jane bit her lip.
He strode over to a small fridge, yanked the door open and pulled out a plate. On it was the remains of a large pork pie. He rummaged about and produced a handful of tomatoes.
‘Come on, then,’ he said to her, and she followed him obediently, through the palatial living room and out of the French windows onto the terrace outside. There were a couple of old chairs and a rickety table. He put the plate down and went back inside, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘I don’t think I should . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘I won’t be able to concentrate.’
‘Rubbish. A good Chablis focuses the mind wonderfully. ’
He poured a substantial amount of straw-coloured liquid into a glass and pushed it towards her. Jane sipped it tentatively; Terence Shaw took a slug of his and smacked his lips in satisfaction.
‘Delicious.’
‘Mmm.’ She didn’t like to say that to her mind it was sour. She liked her drinks as sweet as possible.
‘So. Tell me about Jane.’
He stuck his long legs out, picked up a hunk of pork pie, and stared at her.
‘Um. There’s not much to say, really. I’ve . . . just left secretarial school. In London.’
‘So, you’re hoping to get a job working for a company director, share a flat with some nice “gels” in Kensington, then meet the man of your dreams and get married?’
He was mocking her. She supposed his prediction wasn’t so very far away from what would probably happen, but did he have to sneer? But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a retort. And the really infuriating thing was, now he had so ably predicted her future, it sounded so dreary, so unexciting. For an awful moment, she thought she was going to cry. Not because he had been cruel, but because it seemed unfair that she was so obvious.
She screwed up her eyes in the bright sun and looked at the sea while she considered her reply. She couldn’t see the huts, they were too far down the beach, tucked under the dunes out of sight, but she imagined her family sitting having egg sandwiches, and for a minute she wished she was with them. Feeling safe, and not being interrogated.
‘Well,’ she managed eventually, ‘I’m not so very sure what else a girl like me is supposed to do. I’m not awfully good at anything. And I’m not very brave. So yes, you’re probably right.’
He had the grace to look a little shamefaced. Her reply was so disconsolate.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to see about making you a little more adventurous.’
The look he gave her made her feel warm. Or was it the sun combined with the wine, which she found she had drunk even though she’d initially found it unpalatable. ‘Do you read?’
She felt embarrassed by his question, because she didn’t, not really. The last thing she had got through was Forever Amber, because everyone else at the college had been reading it, the tattered copy passing from hand to hand. But she didn’t think the misadventures of a restoration hussy were what Mr Shaw would consider literature, judging by what was on his shelves.
‘Everybody reads, don’t they?’ she replied, evading the question rather neatly.
‘You’d be surprised.’ He refilled his glass. ‘I sometimes think if more people took the time to read proper books, there would be fewer problems in the world.’
No, thought Jane, Forever Amber wouldn’t be in that category. Terence Shaw wouldn’t consider it proper on any level.
When she came to go back to her little room, her head was swimming slightly, but she was glad her new employer seemed to have thawed, and wasn’t quite as curt as he had seemed initially. She was surprised to find herself picking up his manuscript eagerly. Anita Palmer had just met the young lad from chapter two, Joe Munden. Jane had a feeling she knew what might happen next.
She stopped typing with a start when Terence Shaw came in.
‘It’s five o’clock,’ he told her, and she wasn’t sure if he was annoyed she had out
stayed her welcome or impressed by her conscientiousness.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I wanted to find out what happened . . .’
The smile he gave her lit up his face, in fact the entire room.
‘That’s good,’ he told her. ‘That’s . . . good.’
He plonked a book on the table. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Jane’s cheeks flushed pink. She’d heard about it - who hadn’t?
‘See what you think of this.’
And he walked out. Tentatively, she picked up the book, expecting it to be hot. The papers were still full of the court case.
She couldn’t take it back to the beach hut. Her mother would flip if she saw her reading it. Actually, blow her mother. She was the one who had organised the job. And Jane couldn’t help it if her employer had forced the book upon her.
Anyway, she could slip another cover on it. She looked at the bookshelves and selected another volume of the same size, removing the dust cover, her heart thumping.
As she left, she realised it was Friday. Was he expecting her over the weekend?
‘Mr Shaw?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Do you want me over the weekend?’
He leant back in his chair, smoking his cigarette thoughtfully.
‘No such thing as time off for a writer, when they’re in full flow,’ he informed her. ‘But you needn’t worry, I suppose. See you first thing Monday.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And it’s Terence. Mr Shaw makes me sound like a . . . schoolmaster. Or a magistrate.’
He shot her a dazzling smile. He looked entirely different when he smiled.
Jane just nodded. She couldn’t imagine having the nerve to call him Terence, but she didn’t say so. She’d just have to avoid calling him anything for the time being.
She spent most of Saturday trying to read Lady Chatterley, lying on a scratchy car rug on the sand. She was careful to make sure her mother didn’t cotton on to what she was reading. She found it a struggle, it was terribly wordy, but she was determined to persevere. Something inside her wanted if not to impress Terence Shaw, then at least to prove to him that she wasn’t just a silly little girl with no thought for anything other than boys and dresses.
Even if that’s what she had been up until now.
By teatime she found lying in the sun concentrating had made her head throb. Against her better judgement she agreed to take part in a rounders match with some of the other children on the beach, and was surprised to find she enjoyed it.
‘You see,’ said her mother triumphantly. ‘You just needed something to do.’
Maybe, thought Jane, and found herself glancing along the beach to Terence’s house, wondering how many more words he had managed to scrawl out over the weekend.
On Monday morning she scurried along the beach and up the cliff path.
‘I don’t think he writes as well as you,’ she told Terence of D.H. Lawrence, solemnly, and was flustered when he laughed long and hard, and patted her on the shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he managed eventually, and she wasn’t sure what he found quite so hilarious. It was true. Lawrence waffled on, while Terence got straight to the point - he made you feel exactly what the characters were feeling, even if he did occasionally use words she’d never heard of. She was slightly unsettled by his reaction, but felt that she had pleased him. And it was with eagerness that she picked up his manuscript. She was far more intrigued by Anita Palmer’s plight than Constance Chatterley’s.
She was gradually getting used to his scrawls, and transcribed them more swiftly. When she came upon words she didn’t know, she pulled down the dictionary from the shelf and looked them up. She had never given any real consideration to words before, and she was amazed to find there were words for feelings she had never pinpointed or identified in her short life. She found herself regretting not paying more attention at school, but none of the teachers had ever made her want to read, or increase her vocabulary. Jane had been a user of adjectives like ‘nice’ and ‘good’ and ‘fun’. Whereas now, in the space of one morning, she had discovered ‘ebullient’, ‘coruscating’, and ‘eviscerated’. Not that she was likely to use any of them on a daily basis, but it was interesting. She felt . . . stimulated.
Her fingers galloped on. Sometimes Terence invited her to share lunch, and sometimes he didn’t. Gradually she found herself relaxing in his company. His bark was definitely worse than his bite. She found the courage to tidy his desk - she had to do it every morning, but he didn’t seem to mind when she whisked away the empty mugs and glasses - he seemed to drink an awful lot - and emptied the ashtray.
One afternoon he came into her room to find her with her head in her arms, sobbing. He looked alarmed.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s chapter nine,’ she sobbed in reply. ‘I don’t believe she’d do it. She loves him more than anything else in the world. And she wants a baby more than anything in the world.’
Anita Palmer and Joe Munden had embarked upon an affair, with inevitable consequences.
‘She wouldn’t get rid of it,’ Jane insisted through her tears. ‘You’ve got to change it.’
Terence pulled her to him and stroked her hair while she sobbed.
‘Oh Jane,’ he sighed. ‘I can’t change it. I can’t change it because that’s what happened.’
She pulled away, staring at him as the realisation dawned on her.
‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re Joe!’
He nodded.
‘’Fraid so.’ He looked away, his eyes screwed up slightly. Was he trying not to cry?
‘That’s awful,’ she whispered. ‘That’s terrible. Where . . . where is she now?’
He shrugged. His expression was bleak.
Without thinking, she threw her arms around him.
It wasn’t really him she was hugging, it was Joe. The young, barely formed young man whose whole future had come crashing in on him, whose world had been turned upside down by a woman who should have known better. But Terence seemed to take great comfort from her embrace.
‘Oh, Jane . . .’ There was a crack in his voice. ‘Jane . . .’
He pulled her face up to meet his. She could see his tears through her own. There was a long moment while they gazed at each other, and then . . . he kissed her.
Jane felt as if she was falling. Every nerve ending in her body crackled; a sensation like the faintest sea breeze skittered over her skin from head to toe. Nothing whatsoever told her to resist. There was no hesitation, no question. It was as meant to be as when Joe met Anita. She remembered reading the words and marvelling at their power. And being envious of their experience. And now here she was, feeling the same thrill, as Terence picked her up and carried her down the corridor through into his bedroom, dropping her gently onto the bed. She lay there, eyes wide, her breathing shallow.
‘We don’t have to do this . . .’
‘Yes, we do,’ she breathed, and with an unexpected bravery pulled him down to her. She wanted to be part of this man, this man who had felt so much, suffered so much, this man who had made her think for the first time in her silly, superficial life.
He unbuttoned her dress carefully, kissing each bit of her as it was exposed - her collarbone, her shoulder, the back of her neck, her breast - oh God, she never knew that was what it was going to be like. She shivered as he continued his exploration, unable to believe what was happening, thrilling at the sensation of his lips on her skin.
‘I’ve never—’ she managed to gasp.
‘Sshh,’ he replied. ‘I know.’
He calmed her, stroking her with firm, confident hands. She sank back into the comfort of the mattress as his fingers brushed the inside of her thighs. Instinctively she pushed herself towards him - she wanted to feel his touch, something inside was screaming out for contact. She’d never felt an urge as strong as this before - she’d experienced mild flutterings and pinpricks of pleasure when she’d danced with boys in London. Never this overwhelm
ing, almost desperate need . . .
When he finally touched her she gave a little gasp of shock, and then relaxed. It was alien to her, to have someone touch her there, but it felt so right, so delicious, and she didn’t feel self-conscious, not at all. He stroked her for what seemed like hours, and she purred with the pleasure of it, something immense building up inside, a sweet pain piercing her, drilling right into her core.
Suddenly he stopped. She opened her eyes in indignation, but he rolled on top of her, spreading her legs so he could push himself inside her. And that felt even better, as if she was being totally possessed. She thrust at him to recapture the sensations, and he moved with her, and back it came, the pulsing, melting whirlpool . . .
Her legs tightened round him as her first orgasm crashed through her.
They lay for what seemed like hours, their arms wrapped around each other, not speaking. Occasionally he brushed his lips against her, as if to reassure her, but they were both in their own world, filled with wonder. She breathed in the smell of him, felt his sweat on her skin, unable to believe how relaxed she felt, lying naked next to him.
Eventually he peeled himself away and she suddenly felt cold, as stark reality seeped into the room. What now? Did she just go back to her typing? Or would he expect her to leave?
‘We’re going to have such fun, you and me,’ he whispered, and she felt a smile spread over her face and her uncertainty vanish.
Somehow she knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she was ready for it. She was totally entranced. Spellbound. By his talent, by his wisdom, by the knowledge he instilled in her and the feelings he had awoken. She was totally in his thrall.
When she came to work each day, she never knew what mood he was going to be in or how he was going to treat her. Sometimes he barely acknowledged her existence, and she might as well not have been there, in which case she went upstairs and carried on with her typing, happy to wait until he thawed. Sometimes he greeted her effusively and just wanted to talk. Other times he grabbed her, kissed her, pulled her down onto the floor. And he could switch himself off as quickly as he turned himself on. Blowing hot and cold was an understatement. He went from wintry, Arctic disregard, when his eyes barely seemed to see her, to the blazing heat of ardent passion, when all that seemed to matter was her.
The Beach Hut Page 3
