Charity (39 page)

‘What’s this about?’ He laughed, delighted by the intensity of her probing tongue.

‘It’s the hungry pussy again,’ she whispered, undulating her belly against him and giving him an erection. ‘Feel me?’

He slid his hand up her skirt and to his surprise found that she was wearing no knickers and she was hot and wet. He pressed her up against the wall, not caring if anyone came along.

‘You naughty girl,’ he murmured, pushing his fingers deep inside her. ‘Fancy letting a man do this to you.’

‘Make me come here,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t wait.’

He couldn’t describe how she made him feel. It was like being a teenager again with all the thrill of heavy petting. She dug her fingernails into his neck and clung to him as he played with her. Her breathing was laboured and her knees quivered against his.

She unzipped his trousers and took out his penis, holding it against her belly, groaning and writhing, her lips reaching for his.

‘I’m coming,’ she moaned. ‘Do it harder!’

He was tempted to fuck her now, even though he was nervous about being caught. But Charity moved him round, pushed him up against the wall, bent down and took him in her mouth.

John could hardly believe she was doing this. She had attempted it for the first time only the day before and he’d thought she didn’t really like it.

There was only one dim lantern at the end of the cobbled alley. Two windows with iron bars looked down on to it and in both there was faint light which could be a staircase where someone was standing watching them. But he didn’t care now; all he could think of was her lips around him, the feelings welling up inside him and how hot her pussy had been seconds before.

‘Oh God,’ he groaned as he came, his legs turning to indiarubber so he had to lean forward on her.

They ran back to the hotel hand in hand, laughing like a couple of school children.

It was after one when they got back to their room, having stopped for a few more drinks in the bar downstairs. Charity was so drunk now she could barely manage the stairs.

‘I love you,’ Charity flopped down on the bed, stretching her hands out wide, her skirt rising up to show her lack of underwear. ‘Please come and do wicked things to me.’

‘My father always said gentlemen mustn’t take advantage of drunken women.’ John looked down at her, putting on an air of mock disgust. ‘And tomorrow morning you must go down to the bar and apologise for sitting there without knickers. You are insatiable. I must’ve aged ten years in these few days.’

In the time it took to clean his teeth, John found she had fallen asleep, still dressed. He rolled her over, unzipped her dress and took off her stockings, leaning to kiss the soft skin on the inside of her thighs.

‘I love you,’ he murmured, rubbing his face on her belly and drinking in the musky smell that reminded him again of the incident in the alley.

He wished he dared expose everything that was in his heart, but he daren’t. There was a place and time for them here. But what about in ten or twenty years’ time, when he was growing frail and she was still young and beautiful? He couldn’t bear to see her going to meet a lover, to see irritation on her face instead of desire. Most of his life had been spent happily alone. He wanted that kind of peace now, not this raging in his heart that would stop him from working or even thinking.

But as he looked down at her sleeping face, the pain of knowing what he must do was unbearable. She was in his heart, his skin – even his soul. He had never loved any woman as deeply as this and he knew, with utter certainty, that he never would again.

‘Only one more day.’ John sighed as they stood on the top of the dome of the Duomo looking down over Florence. He had climbed the four hundred stairs often before, marvelled at the panoramic view in all four seasons. But it had never looked quite so beautiful as today.

The sun was warm, lighting up the red of the rough tiles of roofs below. Churches, houses and palaces huddled together in a patchwork of terracotta, pink, grey, yellow and cream. Here and there small roof gardens were bright with mimosa and polyanthus, and in the distance tall thin cypress trees stood sentinel on the green hills.

‘Do we have to go back?’ Charity couldn’t imagine London now. Even going back to her new flat and seeing Dorothy and Rita had no appeal.

‘Of course we do.’ John looked off into the distance. ‘You’ve got to find a job and I’ve got an assignment for the
Sunday Times
in Germany.’

Charity wanted to ask him so much, but she couldn’t. She found it was odd that she could talk about everything else – about sex, her family, even experiences while she was having Daniel – yet she couldn’t quite put her feelings towards him into words.

‘I love you’ didn’t cover it. She needed him, adored him and she wanted to wake every morning with him beside her. How could she explain adequately to such a sophisticated man how much she wished she could cook his dinner, iron his shirts and care for him? He’d be appalled if he knew she had hoped one of those Durex had broken and she was pregnant.

In these few days she’d thought of Daniel often, but her feelings were less intense. She’d even stopped to look at a tiny Italian baby in a pram without wanting to snatch it up and hold it. But she needed the security of knowing John felt at least a little like she did; then she could go back to London and pick up her life.

‘But what about us?’ was all she managed to say.

‘I’ll be in and out of London.’ He smiled down at her but his eyes looked distant. ‘You must go back to your life and your friends.’

‘I can’t bear the thought of being apart from you,’ she gulped, ignoring a horde of noisy Americans clicking cameras and shouting to each other. ‘I love you, John.’

‘You don’t really love me, Charity.’ He forced himself to laugh lightly. ‘It’s been wonderful, but what we’ve got here will fade back in England. Just think of me as a good friend. Wear those new clothes with pride and don’t look back. You are like Michelangelo’s David – small in stature, young and smart, and you can take on all those Goliaths now. Remember that when you think of Florence: the past is done, only the future is important.’

Charity bit back her tears. She wasn’t going to beg him to say he loved her and she would show him she could be strong.

‘I do love you, John Marshall,’ she said with a toss of her head, turning to the narrow winding staircase. ‘Just remember it was you who turned me down, when you’re old and lonely.’

John stayed another minute or two. He would never come back here again; he had to impress it on his memory now, for all time. If he lived to be a hundred, Florence and Charity would remain inseparable and he had to try and leave his heart and love for her here.

Chapter Eighteen

A smell of stale cigarettes and fried food assaulted Charity’s nostrils as she opened the front door. She dropped her case and stared in disgust.

The coffee table was awash with spilt tea, mugs and a loaded ashtray stuck to it. Dirty plates and clothing were strewn on the floor; a saucepan congealed with dried baked beans lay on one of the armchairs.

She had expected the girls to be at work, but seeing this kind of squalid mess after the luxury of the hotel in Florence brought on a feeling of total desolation.

Charity closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she made herself switch on the light to brighten the gloom and see the flat through the same eyes as she had before she went away.

They had painted the lounge white that first weekend. Dorothy had brought the two big Renoir prints back from Devon, Rita’s mother had given them the wall unit that housed the television and record player. Charity had contributed the bright Mexican-type rug they’d flung over the old settee and the lace cloth on the table. All three of them had sat here gloating over how good it looked and vowed never to turn it into a pigsty.

With a sigh, Charity began to stack up the dirty dishes and carried them through to the kitchen. She avoided looking at the mess in there. She took a wet cloth and went back to the coffee table, wiped it clean, and made an attempt at picking up all the clothes.

‘You knew they were untidy,’ she said aloud, switching on the radio for company. ‘At least it gives you something to do until they get home.’

Charity wasn’t sure whether John even intended to contact her again. He’d held her hand so tightly as he put her in the taxi at London airport. But he still kept insisting she would forget him as soon as she was back here.

How could he think that? Her whole body was aching for him, she was sure she couldn’t live without him. Did all those wonderful experiences in Florence mean nothing to him?

It was over an hour before she found the letter from Central Promotions tucked up by the sugar jar in the kitchen.

‘Dear Miss Stratton,’ she read. ‘I have now selected a short list of girls for the Glamour Girl Cosmetics promotion and I would like you to attend a second interview with two of the company directors on Monday, 22 February at 10 a.m. at this office. If you are unable to attend, please contact me as soon as possible.

‘Yours sincerely, Anne Rushton.’

The feeling of dejection left Charity suddenly. If she hadn’t been alone she might have whooped with glee. She had convinced herself Miss Rushton hadn’t liked her but now she had a second chance to impress her.

‘Chas!’ Rita shrieked as she opened the front door. ‘Look, she’s home, Dot, the flat’s all clean!’

If Charity had harboured any thoughts of grumbling they were forgotten in the joy she felt at the sound of Rita’s voice. She ran out of her bedroom, arms wide to hug her friends.

‘We’ve missed you so much.’ Rita’s coat was soaked with rain but she embraced Charity fiercely. ‘What was it like?’

‘It was wonderful,’ Charity said, but disengaged herself to look at her friends. Both were wet right through, icy to the touch. ‘But I’ll tell you everything when you’re dry. Let me take those coats!’

‘You’re not our mother!’ Dorothy admonished her. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at seeing Charity even though she was too cool to go in for Rita’s exuberant hugging. ‘I’m sorry about the mess we left. We didn’t expect you back till tomorrow.’

Despite the apology, both girls stripped off their coats, flung them down on the floor, kicked off their shoes and ran to get towels for their wet hair.

‘Come on, we want the dirt,’ Dorothy yelled out from the bathroom. ‘We’ve spent the whole week guessing what you were up to. We want the complete, unexpurgated version now.’

Charity made them a cup of coffee, hanging up their coats at the same time. By the time she got back into the lounge Dorothy was wearing a towelling bathrobe and was perched on the end of the settee filing her nails.

‘It was the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,’ Charity said.

‘We’re not interested in the scenery.’ Dorothy grinned. ‘We want to know about you-know-what!’

Rita threw herself into an armchair, her legs over the arm. Her red hair had gone into corkscrew curls from the rain, she had mascara smears down her cheeks and a huge hole in the knee of her stocking.

‘Well! Did you sleep with him?’ Her brown eyes danced with mischief.

‘Don’t ask such personal questions,’ Charity said haughtily. She had expected the girls would want to know everything and until this minute she’d thought she could tell them; but now found she couldn’t.

Dorothy sensed that Charity was upset.

‘Later, eh?’ she said, patting Charity’s shoulder in understanding. ‘We’ve got a date tonight so we’ll have to have a bath and get ready. But tomorrow we’ll have a long talk.’

‘You’re both going out?’ Charity’s heart sank. It was bad enough spending the afternoon alone but she had comforted herself with the thought that her friends would be home tonight.

She saw the girls exchange glances and knew instinctively that something had happened while she was away.

‘Oh hell, Chas.’ Rita looked oddly embarrassed. ‘We wouldn’t have arranged anything if we’d known.’

‘It’s OK.’ Charity switched on a smile. ‘I’ve got some washing to do and sleep to catch up with. Did you know I’ve got a second interview for Glamour Girl on Monday?’

‘Yes, Ratty Rushton told me.’ Rita looked pleased at the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Dorothy’s started working there with me already.’

‘I didn’t think she liked me,’ Charity admitted. ‘In fact I’d convinced myself she thought I was dowdy, stupid and plain. She asked if I always wore such long skirts and suggested that I get a padded bra!’

‘It was your skin she was interested in, she couldn’t fault that.’ Rita balked at admitting Charity had sensed Miss Rushton’s real opinion of her: the only reason she’d finally agreed to give Charity a second chance was because Rita had promised to work on her. ‘Now if you’d gone for the first interview looking like you do today! …’

In all the excitement it was only now that the girls noticed a change had taken place in Charity. Her dress was of turquoise wool crêpe, with a deep scoop neckline and long sleeves. It clung to her slim shape like a second skin and it had obviously been very expensive. Not only that, but she had the most exquisite black suede shoes with four-inch stilettos.

‘Where did you get that outfit?’ Rita got up from the settee and touched Charity’s dress reverently.

‘John bought it for me,’ Charity blushed. ‘He bought me so much, he just wouldn’t stop. Do you like it?’

‘Like it! I’d die for it.’ Dorothy shook her head in wonder. ‘Shame you’re so small, I could have borrowed it tonight. Let’s see the rest of the stuff then!’

Dorothy and Rita stared in amazement at the heap of clothes on her bed. ‘He bought you all
that
?’ Rita gasped.

Charity nodded. ‘I hate to think what it cost! I kept telling him not to, but the more I said it, the more he bought.’

Rita began to sift through the dainty underwear, blouses, skirts and sweaters as if she were at the first day of the sales, clucking and squeaking with excitement.

Dorothy picked up a black chiffon evening dress with a sequinned collar and held it against herself.

‘It must have cost over a hundred quid!’ she said in awe. ‘And look at that!’ She dropped the dress and picked up a pale blue leather jacket. ‘Tell me your secret. I never got more from a man than a bunch of flowers.’