All I Want Is You (18 page)

‘Oh, Cora.’ I tried to steady her. ‘You’re ill, you shouldn’t have danced tonight.’

She turned to face me, looking like death. ‘I saw Danny last night, Sophie. He’s been begging me to go back with him. I’m sorry, sweetie, so sorry.’

I hate you, Danny
, I muttered under my breath. Cora’s legs were like cotton wool and I was wondering in despair how I was going to get her inside when suddenly Benedict, our neighbour, was out there. ‘Gently now,’ he was saying to Cora, ‘gently does it.’

Half carrying her, he got her up to her bedroom and I thanked him fervently.

‘She’s on something, isn’t she?’ he said. He was only a few years older than Cora, and he had a kind face, though his expression was grave. I didn’t reply; he shrugged and said, ‘Just call if you need me. Or – ’ and he flashed me a smile – ‘you could throw something at the wall.’

I helped Cora change into her pyjamas and went to make her some tea, but I kept thinking it was like Belfield Hall, when I’d failed Nell. When I got back to her, she was trying to pull herself up against the pillow, then she looked at me and said, ‘Oh,
Sophie
…’

Tears were running down her cheeks, making her black eyeliner run. Quickly I put down the tea-tray and rushed to her side to hug her. ‘Cora. Cora, darling. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

‘I know he’s no good for me,’ she wept. ‘I know he’s a no-good cheating bastard. But he keeps coming back to me, and – and
fucking up
my rotten life, and though I
beg him to leave me alone, I love him, Sophie, I need him, and I know Cally will sack me soon, and then what am I going to do? I love him, so much.’

By then she’d collapsed in my arms, her body racked with sobs.

The next afternoon Cora was truly not well enough for the rehearsal, but she insisted on coming with me, and at the theatre my spirits sank even lower when I saw our latest costumes, since they consisted of short, low-necked dresses in garish colours. Later Cally produced large feather fans for each of us, which we were to use in a teasing sort of dance.

Things went from bad to worse. Just before we were due to go on for the evening performance, Cora rushed to the Ladies’ room – then, with seconds to spare, came hurrying back with a big smile on her pale face and winked at me. ‘Had you worried then, didn’t I, Sophie? Let’s hope old Cally’s not on the prowl…’

Mr Calladine
was
on the prowl. ‘Cora,’ he said from behind her. Slowly, she turned to face him. He went on, in a clipped, icy voice that everyone could hear, ‘This afternoon at rehearsals you might as well have been dancing in a different show to everyone else. Sort yourself out, girl, and quickly – or you’re dismissed.’

He stormed away from our dressing room. ‘I’ve got a touch of ’flu,’ Cora said brightly to everyone after he’d gone. ‘Cally’ll soon get over his temper.’

Somehow, she got through the show and she never mentioned Danny to me again, but sometimes I would hear her creeping out of the house late at night, not to
return till dawn, or she’d make some excuse not to come back with me after the show. I guessed she was getting drugs from him. I would help her to change in and out of her stage costumes, but her eyes glittered oddly, her speech began to be slurred; she was hardly eating, and how she got through those gruelling shows I just didn’t know. I missed Belfield Hall. I thought I would never say it, but I missed Belfield Hall and the time before Lady Beatrice, when I’d been almost happy dreaming my dreams and writing my letters to Mr Maldon.

One night, after we’d done our first routine and were coming off stage to change our costumes for the second set, Mr Calladine had another of his surprises for us.

‘Here you are, girls – French maids’ outfits, with fishnet stockings,’ he pronounced. ‘Like they wear in Paris.’

I put the things on and looked at myself in the mirror. The short, tight-waisted black dress and little white apron barely covered the tops of my thighs – I might as well be putting myself up on that stage as a tart, I thought bitterly. Screwing up the white cap in my hand, I was silently resolving to find somewhere else to work, as soon as possible, when I realised that Pauline and her friends were talking avidly about some man in the audience.

‘He’s in one of the private boxes – third from the right, as you look up from the stage. Surely you saw him? My God, you’d mistake him for Rudolf Valentino, he’s bloody wonderful…’

They often talked like that about men they’d spotted, so I hardly listened; I was more concerned about having
to go out there again in my French maid’s costume with a bright smile plastered to my lips. But as I went out, under the lights, I looked up without thinking –
third box from the right –
and the bolt of shock that shot through me almost overwhelmed me.

My Ash. My Mr Maldon.

The music played on. I kept my usual bright smile on my face, my legs and my feet moved as ever to the rhythm –
step, kick and back; step, kick and back –
but my mind was exploding. I wondered what Pauline and her friends would say if they knew that the man up there had bedded me. Had bound my wrists and blindfolded me, but then had made incredibly passionate love to me and begged me to stay. Yet I’d been right to leave him. He was ruthless, he was damaged, and I’d left him because I’d known he would break me.

Now I told myself,
He cannot have recognised me on stage, amongst all the others.
Even if he had, he would surely turn from me in disgust on seeing me dressed in this stupid cheap mockery of what I used to be – a scullery maid. As the applause faded, I rushed from the stage to the changing rooms with Cora following me, uncertain, shaky, as she always was now. Pauline Moran came up to me as well, her mouth curved in a slight sneer.

‘You looked as if you’d had a nasty shock back there on stage,’ she said. ‘Cally’s favourite girl losing her grip – that would be something new. Anything wrong?’

I gazed at her. ‘I so appreciate your concern, Pauline, but I’m fine, thanks.’

She sauntered off to join her friends, who were all
talking avidly about Ash still, though no one knew who he was, thank God. I sat gazing at the mirror pretending to clean away my make-up while shaking inside.

Mr Maldon, oh Mr Maldon, I thought I’d got you out of my life.

Lynton came backstage after the show to offer me a lift home, and I’m afraid I was more curt with him than I should have been. He’d only just departed, crestfallen, when I saw Ash coming towards the open door of the dressing room, his expression as black as thunder.

The other girls had stopped their chatter and were gazing in awe, because he was, in his evening attire, quite simply beautiful – and he looked mad, mad as hell. Without hesitating I grabbed my coat and I ran out through the door at the far end of the room. Was he coming to see
me
? But why? I was nothing to him, I never could be. I’d pulled on my long coat over my silly little French maid’s costume; I flew out into the night with my make-up on, still wearing my fishnet stockings and my high heels, and I found myself in the narrow street at the rear of the theatre.

It was dark here as well as cold, with a chilly wind blowing litter around the pavements. I shivered; this was, I knew, a place where prostitutes loitered. A man with a greasy moustache was already sauntering towards me. ‘Fancy a drink, darling? Fancy a bit of something else?’

I looked round for escape. Oh, God, I should have accepted a lift from poor Lynton. I should have stayed back there and faced Ash. The man started stroking my
arm but I tugged myself away and snapped, ‘Leave me alone.’

His face darkened. ‘What’s up? Hoping for a richer customer, were you, you little stuck-up bitch?’

Suddenly someone was thrusting himself forcefully between my assailant and me. The man backed away. ‘Hey. I was after her first…’

His voice faded as Ash – for it was Ash, of course – said to him, ‘Get out of here. Quickly, if you’ve any sense.’

The man went hurrying off. Ash turned to me. His face was so pale, and so full of rage that I sank back against the wall. He said,
‘What in God’s name are you doing, Sophie?’

I moistened my lips. I tried to answer him, but couldn’t.

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Sophie? It
is
Sophie, isn’t it? Underneath that whore’s make-up, those whore’s clothes?’

My beautiful man. My Mr Maldon, who’d made love to me with such tenderness and yet was now so furious, so incredibly hateful. I found my voice at last. ‘I’m a dancer,’ I breathed, white-faced with shock. ‘It was what I came to London to do. I’m not a whore, you have no
right
to call me a whore.’

‘Then what the hell are you doing out here?’ He swept his hand round to indicate the sleazy street, where women waited for the men drawing up in their cars. Down an alleyway a girl was with a client, and oh God, I could see he was taking his pleasure of her there and then. Ash’s hands were on my shoulders, pulling me towards him. ‘What the hell are you doing, Sophie?’

I could hardly speak. ‘I’m a dancer! I’m earning my living, my lord… Your Grace—’

‘
Ash
,’he broke in curtly.

‘
Ash.
I’m earning my living, Ash, but you wanted to make me your whore! And I’m not a whore, I’m not…’

He dragged me towards him. It had begun raining, but he ignored it and pushed my coat aside; his hand was plunging beneath my black short skirt, feeling for the tops of my fishnet stockings, palming the bare flesh of my thighs. He said, ‘You’re certainly giving a good impression of one.’

I jerked myself away and slapped his face, feeling the hardness of his jaw and the slight roughness of his evening stubble against my hand. ‘Bastard,’ I breathed. ‘You bastard.’

He smiled then; a slow curving of his beautiful mouth that betrayed no joy, no pleasure, but simply a sardonic acknowledgement of the truth, as if he were saying,
Did I ever tell you otherwise?
His fingertips brushed my neck then moved lightly along my chin and tipped up my face so I had no choice but to look into his blue, hard eyes.

Then he was hauling me towards him, he was kissing me, and his mouth was moving harshly over mine. Oh, God, there was nothing tender about his kiss; nothing tender about the way his tongue delved and thrust against my teeth. I wanted to cry out my defiance, but instead I found myself clutching the lapels of his coat, twisting at the expensive cloth in desperation as my breasts tingled and the heat in my stomach unfurled. He tasted like cold champagne, but infinitely
more intoxicating; he was hateful, but his embrace and his kiss ignited the core of my existence.

‘Stop,’ I breathed, pulling away. ‘Stop. You have no right to do this.’

I beat with my fists against the hard wall of his chest. He moved away a little, his face harsh, his dark eyes unreadable. ‘No right?’ He reached in his pocket, pulled out some coins and, without even looking at them, he pushed them into the pocket of my cheap coat. ‘No right? Well, I do now.’

That made me want to cry. But then he kissed me again and he lifted my skirt again to find my panties; he stroked me there with his strong fingers, feeling my heat, the wetness between my thighs. Shame coursed through me; it felt wicked and, at the same time, sublime.

He breathed rawly, ‘Do you still want me to stop?’

There was nowhere to hide from him. Nowhere for me to hide from the savage force of the feelings he aroused in me. And as if reading my mind he rasped out, ‘You’re mine, Sophie. You’re mine. No one else’s. Ever.’

In that moment, on that grimy London street, with the rain seeping down on us and the darkness all around, he turned me roughly so I was facing a brick wall and I had to throw my hands flat against it to keep my balance. From behind he was ripping my panties aside, diving his fingers into my wetness, kissing the nape of my neck while I gasped for air.

‘You are to stop dancing,’ he grated in my ear. ‘I will not let you dance in public, do you hear me? You will not whore yourself.’

His hands were driving up me, his hips were pressed
against my bottom and I could feel the upthrust of his erection, even through the thickness of his clothes. A shiver of desperate need ran through me as his fingers dipped then circled, dipped then circled inside me.

I was trembling uncontrollably, I was moaning with despair and desire. All I could see was that brick wall; his presence obliterated my other senses. His other hand was suddenly round my body, covering my breast and pulling at my nipple through my flimsy bodice; I felt myself helplessly tilt my hips back towards him, meeting his strong hand, matching his rhythm. His fingers were still stroking me, driving into me, and I climaxed wildly, calling out his name.

Almost instantly he spun me round and held me close, protecting me from the rain, sheltering me in his arms, warming me with his body, kissing the top of my head while I wept. He repeated softly, ‘You left me, Sophie. You turned me down – for
this
life.’

Something twisted so hard, so deep inside me that I couldn’t bear it. I really hadn’t known I could hurt so badly. I cried, ‘You have no right to preach at me! You asked me to be your mistress, but only for a while, and isn’t that exactly the same as making me a whore? You wouldn’t let me see you, you wouldn’t let me touch you at Belfield Hall!’

And it was the same just now
, I thought bleakly. Oh, God, it was the same just now; he’d pushed me against that wall and relished my helpless longing for him, but he hadn’t even let me see him. He’d been aroused – hadn’t I felt his acute need for me? – but he’d kept himself coldly, disdainfully aloof.

And now he said, ‘You promised me devotion.’ His eyes were without expression.

‘You didn’t
want
devotion,’ I retorted bitterly. ‘You told me, quite plainly, that you wanted to be able to discard me as soon as you’d had enough of me, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You only got me that job at Belfield Hall and asked me to write to you, because you wondered even then if some day you might become duke and you wanted me to tell you what was happening there—’