Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male

by Sally Wentworth

  She managed to get away, but not until Guy had kissed her with maudlin sentimentality. Brett shook his hand and wished him well and then they made for the door. But when they reached it they met up with half a dozen other people who were also leaving, friends of Tasha's, who insisted they go along with them for something to eat. Brett would have refused but Tasha cast a laughing glance at him and agreed at once. Piling into a couple of taxis, they drove to a backstreet cafe, a place of metal tables, wooden floor and condensation running down the windows. 'Have the all-day breakfast,' Tasha urged him.

  'It's three o'clock in the morning,' Brett pointed out.

  'So what better time to have it? You'll be ahead of yourself. Go on, the food here is fantastic.'

  They ordered and pushed a couple of tables together, drank beer with their bacon and eggs and sausages, which were, Brett had to admit, excellent. There were other customers in the cafe: taxi drivers having a break, workers from the nearby mainline station and a couple of nurses from the private hospital down the street. One of the latter asked Tasha for the salt cellar and she passed it over with a sympathetic smile, saying, 'You poor things, you look worn out. Have you just finished work?'

  'Yes. Ten hours we've been on.'

  'Really? Surely you shouldn't have to work that long?'

  'We do if we want to keep our jobs.'

  Tasha started chatting to them, then moved over to sit at their table, Brett and the others forgotten.

  'She's always doing that,' one of her friends explained to Brett.

  He nodded, unworried. Soon they would leave and then he would get her alone. He watched her with a slightly amused look in his eyes. She was a good listener and the nurses were really opening up to her as she smiled and nodded in sympathy, asked a question or gave a horrified gasp at an answer. Watching the play of emotions in her face, he became fascinated all over again. He was reminded of an old song, something about falling in love across a crowded room. He didn't know if what he'd felt when he first saw Tasha was love but she had certainly had a devastating effect on his senses. But maybe she made that impression on all men. A 'honey-pot' effect, he thought. Something that drew men to her. He'd met a couple of other women like that in the past and had been attracted, but only briefly because there was no substance beneath the sexiness. But he rather thought that Tasha was different.

  The others rose to leave and he stood up, holding out his hand to Tasha. She glanced up. He stood very tall beside her, but there was nothing looming about it, and the extended hand was an invitation not a command. With a small smile she put her own in it, said goodbye to the nurses, and went outside with him.

  Dawn was breaking. The misty pink glow of the rising sun brushed the deserted streets and sleeping houses, softening any harshness, giving warmth and light to the darkness. They all gathered on the pavement for a few minutes to say goodbye, then peeled off in couples to search for cabs to take them home this early on a Sunday morning.

  'Where to?' Brett asked her.

  Tasha looked round, then said, 'I don't really want to go home. I'd like to walk by the river.'

  'Aren't you tired?'

  'No. Oh, dear! Does that mean you are?'

  'No.' And it was true; tonight he was on such a high that it was impossible to feel tired.

  She slid her arm through his in a completely natural gesture. 'Good. Where do you live?'

  'I've got a place in Docklands.'

  'And is that where you write?'

  'Most of the time. But I've also got an old cottage by the coast in Cornwall; sometimes I go down there and shut myself away.'

  'Oh, I envy you that!' Tasha exclaimed. 'How marvellous it must be to get up when you feel like it, work without any interruptions and… Do you have a phone there?'

  'A mobile,' Brett admitted. 'But I switch it off most of the time.'

  'So you can shut the world out,' she said with satisfaction. 'How about a computer?'

  'A lap-top'.

  'So you do take twentieth-century technology with you?'

  'Did you imagine I'd be bashing out the stories with two fingers on an old typewriter?'

  Tasha shook her head. 'Not really. I suppose we're children of the computer age. I'm often stuck in front of one for days at a time. But it would be wonderful to be able to shut yourself away.'

  'Don't you like people?'

  'Oh, yes, of course.' She paused, looked as if she was about to say something, but then shook her head.

  Brett, feeling that this was important, that what she might have said would have given a clue to her character and very much wanting to know her better, said persuasively, 'Tell me.'

  Again she shook her head. 'No, I don't know you well enough.' And she moved to take her arm from his.

  They had come to the river and were walking along the Embankment. They were completely alone. Brett came to a halt in a shaft of sunlight and turned her to face him. The sun caught her hair, turning it into a stream of molten gold. She looked so lovely his breath caught for a moment in his throat. But then he pulled himself together and said firmly, 'That's very strange—because I feel as if I've always known you. All my life.' Reaching out, he took her hand. 'You can trust me, Tasha. I think you know that.'

  'Do I?' She looked up into his face for a long moment. Then gave a small, awkward laugh. 'Please don't get serious.' There was a note of pleading in her voice.

  Immediately sensing it, Brett grinned, lightening the moment. 'I'm not. But you're hiding from me.'

  Nearby there was one of the ornate wrought-iron bench seats that were placed at intervals along the Embankment. Tasha drew her hand out of his and went to sit on it. She leaned forward pensively, her elbow on her knee and her chin balanced on her fist. Brett leaned back against the parapet, watching her, waiting.

  There was mist still hovering over the river but it was clearing rapidly as the sun rose, grew warmer. A solitary working boat chugged downstream towards the estuary and the sea, with a black cat that sat on the stern, washing its fur, completely at home on the water. It made Tasha smile and she suddenly felt good. The cat, the morning sun, and Brett—yes, she had to admit he made her feel pretty good, too. He certainly looked good, leaning back like that, his hands in his trouser pockets, the material stretched tight across his hips. Her throat felt dry for a moment and she quickly lifted her eyes to his face. And she liked the firm set of his jaw, its square determination, his lazy-lidded eyes. But could she trust him as he'd said?

  Tasha was a creature of instinct, although instinct had proved to be wrong in the past and she'd learned not to trust it. But, impulsively, she did so now, saying slowly, 'Do you ever feel that life is like a long corridor—a corridor of closed doors?'

  'Is that how you feel?'

  She nodded. 'Sometimes the doors are opened for you; sometimes you open them yourself.'

  'And when you go through them?' Brett asked, his eyes fixed intently on her face.

  She gave a small shrug. 'Sometimes it's bright and sunlit and you're glad you opened the door. But sometimes it's dark and cold.' She was silent for a moment, lost in thought, lost in past memories, then she looked up at him. 'After you've opened those kinds of doors it makes you more careful. Instead of opening every door you choose to walk past some of them, leave them closed.'

  He came to sit beside her, put his hand on the back of the seat as he faced her. Softly he said, 'But how do you know which ones to open and which to leave closed?'

  'You don't; that's just the trouble.' For a moment her beautiful eyes became very vulnerable. 'That's why you're always afraid.'

  'Of what?'

  'Of not opening the door that might lead you to—' She stopped abruptly.

  Instead of pushing her to tell him, he said gently, 'To the ultimate door?' She didn't answer so he guessed. 'The one that leads to happiness for the rest of your life?'

  Entranced that he had read her mind, Tasha gave him the most wonderful smile. 'Yes, the one that leads to paradise,' she said simp
ly.

  He was astonished that she'd chosen that word, that she still believed that there could be such a place. He saw that she was, at heart, still an innocent, still a believer in perfect happiness, even though she'd hinted at a knowledge of the darker side of life. This new perception of her—and that smile—caught at his heart.

  She saw the astonishment in his face and looked away. As if she regretted having confided in him, Tasha suddenly got to her feet and began to walk along at a brisk pace. Thinking that she was upset, Brett quickly caught her up. But she smiled at him and said, 'I just looked at Big Ben and saw the time. It's nearly six. I must find a cab.'

  He wondered if that was just an excuse; she'd seemed in no hurry before. But he said, 'We'll get one in Trafalgar Square.'

  Five minutes later they picked one up, the driver on his way home after working all night. 'Where do you live?' Brett asked her.

  'In Bloomsbury. Within spitting distance of the British Museum.'

  'Handy for research.'

  Tasha got in the cab and Brett went to follow her, but she said, 'Look, you really don't have to—'

  But he said, 'Don't be silly,' and got in beside her.

  In the taxi they talked about Guy, Brett telling her some amusing anecdotes about him from the time they were at university together. He spoke entertainingly but without doing Guy down, which she liked; she got annoyed if people were cruel just to get a laugh at a story. But Brett spoke quite naturally, there was nothing forced or over the top. He didn't put on an act, and he seemed to get as much enjoyment out of remembering the incidents as she did from hearing them. He was obviously fond of Guy and didn't mind her seeing it, and she liked that too.

  Tasha began to wonder about him, about his background, if he was very experienced with women. Somehow she thought he would be, he was so self- confident, so assured in his manner towards her. She knew he was attracted to her, he'd made that very obvious, but he wasn't pushing it too much. There had been that one incident when he'd told her he felt he'd known her a long time; that disturbed her—was playing it too fast. Because she wasn't yet at all sure that this was a door she wanted to open.

  Her eyes were fixed reflectively on his face and she saw his eyebrow rise in amusement and realised he had stopped speaking. 'Was it such a boring story?' he said ruefully.

  Tasha laughed. 'Sorry, I was thinking.'

  'Dare I ask what about?'

  Smiling, she shook her head.

  'Was it about me?'

  The smile became mocking. 'Why would I be thinking about you when there are a million other things I could be thinking of?'

  He pretended to groan and put his hand over his heart. 'That put me in my place. And there was I, hoping that I'd made an indelible impression on you.'

  Tasha couldn't resist asking, 'Are you used to making an impression on women?'

  Reaching over, Brett took hold of her hand and began to play with her fingers. 'That, if I may so, Miss Briant, is a very loaded question. Whatever I say I can't win. I'll either look a wimp or an egotist.'

  'So?'

  'So—I'm not going to answer it.'

  She laughed. 'Wasn't it you, I seem to remember, who said you didn't believe in false modesty? So that must mean that you're a wi—' She broke off as Brett put a finger over her lips.

  His brown eyes laughed down at her. 'I can see I'm going to have trouble with you.'

  She put her hand over his and drew it away a little, said playfully, 'Who, sir? Me, sir?'

  'Yes, you.' He stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek as his gaze held hers, became intent. He leaned forward as if to kiss her, but just then the taxi drew up and the driver, eager to get home, shouted, 'We're here.'

  Tasha laughed up at him, enjoying the chagrin in his face. But when he reached for the door handle and looked as if he was going to get out, she became instantly serious again and stopped him, saying, 'You may as well keep the cab to take you home.'

  He looked at her for a moment, taking in the implications, but his face didn't change as he shook his head. 'I'll see you to your door.'

  They got out of the taxi and Brett paid it off, then turned towards her, not quite knowing what to expect. Even that feeling was almost a stranger to him; he wasn't used to being unsure of himself, and definitely not to being rejected. When the cab drove away they stood and looked at each other, Brett being careful not to be the first to speak. Then he saw her begin to smile and he was filled with hope.

  'Do you have a heart condition?'

  Startled, he said, 'Good heavens, no!'

  'You don't suffer from asthma or anything like that?'

  'Just how old do you think I am?' he said indignantly.

  'OK. But don't say you haven't been warned.'

  They were standing outside an imposing terrace of six-storey Victorian houses, with large bay windows and solid front doors with ornate fanlights over them, in a prosperous-looking street. But, instead of using the front door, Tasha went down some steps to the basement area where she unlocked a door that gave onto a long corridor, evidently what had once been the servants' entrance to the house. She led him down the corridor to a narrow back stair and gave him an impish grin as she began to run up them.

  She lived on the very top floor, in the attics, and even Brett, who considered himself to be pretty fit and had taken the stairs two at a time, was feeling winded when they reached it. But Tasha wasn't even out of breath.

  'How long have you lived here?' he demanded as he leaned against the wall while she unlocked her door.

  She grinned. 'Two years. An Olympic athlete would envy the muscles in my legs,' she told him.

  'No wonder you dance so well.'

  The door opened straight into a huge sitting-room that ran the width of the house. The windows were uncurtained, letting the morning sunlight flood the room, so that Brett's first impression was of light and warmth. He became aware of bright colours, of a red shawl draped across a settee, of a Mexican rug in greens and blues on the bleached and polished wood of the floor. There were a great many pictures on three of the white-painted walls, modern pictures of clear- cut shapes and colours. The fourth wall was hidden behind primitive but practical bookshelves made of wooden planks supported by tiers of red bricks. There were a great many books, some with the lurid-coloured jackets of novels, others with the more staid covers of reference books.

  There wasn't much furniture, he noticed, just the settee, a table in front of the window with a couple of old dining-chairs, and another series of bricks and planks across one corner to hold a television set and a music system. It was a clean, uncluttered place, but full of warmth and colour. Like the character of its owner? Brett wondered, and was more intrigued than ever.

  Tasha began to say, 'If you'd like a coffee or something—' but Brett caught her arm as she went to move away and pulled her towards him.

  'What's the "or something"?'

  'Tea?' she suggested.

  He smiled, put his arms round her and held her eyes as he drew her close. Unexpectedly, he found that his heart was beating too fast and he was full of the intoxicating excitement of anticipation—emotions he hadn't experienced for a very long time. His lips were dry and his hands unsteady; he felt like a teenager on his first date and just as nervous. Her eyes were open and there was an almost wary look in their blue depths. Softly, reassuringly, he said her name, 'Tasha,' on a long, unsteady breath. Then he reached up to gently touch her face before he bent his head and found her lips.

  She had been kissed many times before by many men, both passionately and gently, and didn't expect this to be much different. Perhaps he might be a little more experienced, but Tasha went into that kiss with her eyes wide open in every meaning of the phrase. His hand went round the back of her head to hold her closer and slowly her eyes closed as his lips moved against hers. It was almost as if she could feel his heart in his lips, slightly trembling, searching, wanting to reach her soul and awaken it from the safety of slumber. His lips were
warm, vital, infinitely caressing. They weren't gentle and not yet passionate, but teasing and evocative.

  A sudden longing filled her, a yearning that she had dreamed about but never known. She relaxed a little and felt a tremor run through him, whether of triumph or libido, she didn't know. Because her own body was starting to awaken, to let desire take hold. Her lips moved under his and she began to kiss him in return.

  Brett breathed her name again on a soft groan, and moved his lips to her throat, trailing kisses along its length, but then came back to her lips again, avid for the response he wanted. Her hand went to his neck and she could feel his pulse beating there, wild and erratic. He rained tantalising little kisses on her lips and she opened her mouth, letting him into its secret warmth. Tasha felt her senses begin to whirl, stood on the edge of the vortex knowing that if she let herself drown in the growing demands of her own body, in her need of him, then she would be taking an irreversible step, would be opening a door through which she couldn't see. With a low moan, she stepped back from the edge, drew away and held him at arm's length.

  'I think you'd better stop,' she said, on an unsteady but firm note.

  Disappointment engulfed him and he was sharply tempted to just ignore her and pull her back into his arms. To force her to want him as much as he wanted her. To overcome her resistance with more kisses until she changed her mind, until she cried out for him to take her. But one look at her face drove all chauvinism from his mind. There was a shocked look in her face, as if she had been taken entirely by surprise. But that the surprise had been pleasant he could see by the warmth in her startled eyes. So maybe there was hope yet, if he didn't rush things, if he played it cool. But he still said, 'Are you sure?' on a hopeful note.

  Tasha laughed at him. 'Yes, I'm quite sure.' She moved away from him. 'I'm going to change.' She went to a door in the wall away from the window. 'If you want a coffee before you go, the kitchen's through here.'

  'Are you going to bed?'

  'Good heavens, no.' She gave him a surprised look. 'I'm going to get ready for work.'