Deception and Desire (32 page)

‘You were at school with her in Gloucestershire?'

‘Yes. She was my best friend. We've always kept in touch.'

‘And though she's no older than you she's married, with a child?'

‘She's a Roman Catholic,' Dinah said as if that explained everything, but he had seen the hint of the shadows returning and wondered why.

Had Mary perhaps stolen Dinah's boyfriend and married him? Surely she wouldn't want to keep in touch if that were the case. But there was something, something in Dinah's past that she wanted to keep hidden, and in some way it had to do with marriage and babies. If she were not so young and obviously inexperienced he might almost have thought she had been married herself. But the naivety belied that and it did fit with her story of having been at art school, which he was fairly certain was true.

‘So, what do you want me to do?' Dinah asked, and the moment passed.

‘Just be here during the holiday. We'll crack this thing together.'

‘Oh yes!' she said. ‘Oh Van, I shall enjoy that!'

They both enjoyed it. It was the most tremendous fun, stealing into the factory where all the machines stood silent and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that streaked through the unshuttered windows.

Van had collected her at nine thirty on the first Monday of the holiday. His father had left for Italy the previous day and Van parked his Jag in the space reserved with his father's name. Though there was no one but Dinah to see it it gave him a good feeling, as if he were already head of the firm instead of just the heir to the throne. He unlocked the factory with his huge bunch of keys and they went in. Everything had been turned off for the holiday – even the water supply. Van went around flicking switches and loosening taps and Dinah filled the kettle to make them coffee, which they took with them on to the factory floor. They were much too eager to get to work to want to waste time.

For three whole days they worked solidly. The first samples were useless – the sandals were not merely casual but untidy, the boots would have crippled a walker within the first half-mile. They went back to the drawing board, modifying and refining, and tried again. Better, much better. The sandals looked stylish, if totally unconventional, and Dinah reiterated her suggestion that they might sell to women as well as men. Van, who had made the boots in his size, put them on and went for a walk first around the factory floor then around the car park, and pronounced them ‘almost there'.

‘You know what I think?' he said to Dinah.

She shook her head, still neatening one of the straps on the sample sandal.

‘I think we should give these boots a proper trial in the field. Scotland, the Lake District – you name it. It is the holidays after all.'

He saw the quick wings of colour rise in her cheeks and thought they spelled disapproval for the idea. Then she said in a small, downcast voice: ‘You mean you're going to go away after all?' and he realised she had misunderstood him and the reason for her flush was dismay.

‘Not just me,' he said. ‘You too. Where would you like to go?'

He saw it then, that same smile of pure happiness that had transformed her face when he had first given her the job. Happiness, surprise, and an element of disbelief.

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you. Why not? You've earned it.'

The smile faltered suddenly. ‘But I can't afford to go on holiday.'

‘Did anyone ask you to pay? Go on – where would you like to go?'

‘Exmoor,' she said. ‘The Doone Valley. I'd like to see the church where Lorna was shot.'

He laughed. ‘It's just a story!'

‘Maybe. I'd still like to see it.'

At that moment he would have taken her anywhere in the world that she wanted to go.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Exmoor it is. How soon can you be ready?'

‘Anytime.'

‘In that case,' he said, anxious not to give her time to change her mind. ‘We'll go tonight.'

He telephoned through on the office phone to book rooms in a hotel in Minehead – the Gateway to Exmoor – then drove her home, giving her an hour to pack, and picked her up again.

‘I don't think Mrs Brooks approves at all,' Dinah said, giggling, as he put her battered suitcase into the boot beside his own smart monogrammed leather one. ‘ She thinks I'm a scarlet woman!'

And so you will be, if I get the chance! Van thought with a touch of wry humour. Aloud he said: ‘ Take no notice. She's just a narrow-minded old biddy.'

Dinah giggled again. ‘Yes,' she said happily, ‘she is.'

She was, he thought, more relaxed than at any time since he had known her. It was as if the totally changed circumstances of the last few days had lifted the barriers that little bit more and pushed whatever it was that haunted her into the past where it belonged. His spirits rose. Perhaps away from familiar surroundings the time would be right to unravel the enigma that was Dinah and manoeuvre their relationship into a more intimate phase.

The hotel was on North Hill where the wild and beautiful expanse of Exmoor creeps right down to the outer perimeter of the town and the wide blue bay spreads out beneath. It was late by the time they arrived; they had dinner in the hotel restaurant, all pristine white napery, heavy old silver and sparkling crystal, and watched the sun go down in a blaze of red until it disappeared into the sea. Van made no move that night. Better to let her relax completely, sink into the wonderfully unreal state that comes with holidaying in a romantic setting.

The next day they breakfasted in the same huge dining room and Dinah ate ravenously – stewed fruit, bacon, tomatoes and scrambled eggs, toast and marmalade and coffee. Van, used to seeing her pick at her meals when he took her out to dine, was amazed at her appetite. He had noticed recently that she seemed to have put on some weight – scarcely surprising if she tucked so much away each morning!

Breakfast over, they drove out on to Exmoor. Dinah gazed enraptured at the ever-changing scenery – the deep wooded valleys with streams running through, the wide and wild expanses of moorland, green and purple and gold where the heather and gorse grew in great spreading patches amid the scrubby grass. Van felt a softening inside as he looked at her, experiencing again the same desire to please her that he had felt the first time she had walked into his office.

At last they stopped and Van laced himself into the boots he had made.

‘Moment of truth!'

Dinah laughed. ‘They'll be fine – I know they will!'

‘I hope so – since it's
my
feet that will be covered in blisters if they're not!'

There were no blisters, but the boots did rub his ankle bone.

He eased the boots off, sitting on a boulder, and examined the raw spot.

‘Is it my feet or the boots?'

Dinah had dropped on to the scrub beside him, bending over the offending boot, prodding at the high collar that encased the ankle.

‘It's got to be the boots. It doesn't matter how peculiar your feet are …'

‘Thank you!'

‘… they have got to be comfortable. For you – or anyone. Perhaps if we added a little padding from there … to there …'

‘When do we add it?'

‘As soon as we get back to the factory.'

‘And what about me? How do I get back to the car now?'

Dinah smiled mischievously. ‘Well, you could go barefoot! Or maybe I could make some padding now. Just to try. Here, let me …'

She pushed the boot on to his foot. He winced.

‘Ouch!'

‘Wait a minute.' She searched in her bag for a clean handkerchief and placed it under the collar of the boot. As her fingers grazed his skin he winced again, not from pain now but from the sharp arousing pleasure of her touch. She glanced up anxiously, thinking she had hurt him, and her clear, troubled eyes sent a bolt of desire through the core of him. He reached out and touched her hair, running his fingers through its silky softness, curling around the base of her skull. She sat motionless, looking up at him, her hand still resting on his foot. He bent forward, never taking his eyes off hers, and pulled her gently towards him. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted her, but he knew instinctively that he must not rush her even now.

A tremor ran through her as his face came closer to hers, but it was gentle, like the wind whispering through the bracken. In that moment the past with all its pain, and the lurking uncertainties of the immediate future ceased to exist. There was only Van. The touch of his hand on her hair was her cradle and her grave, the whole of her life was there in the circle of his arms. He was the only one who had ever mattered, could ever matter, she would walk through the fires of hell to be with him, sacrifice anything just to have him look at her this way, hold her, love her. Dinah felt her soul rise within her, taking wing to meet him. And as it did so a tiny detached part of her was whispering that there would never be another moment quite as perfect as this one, when they would be quite alone, quite separate not only from the rest of the world but also from their own fears and ambitions, anxieties and dreams, cut off in a universe of their own making and surrounded by galaxies of stars.

His lips touched hers and suddenly it was not only her soul but her body that was yearning, the hard sensual mouth crushing hers with a terrible tenderness. She let go of his foot and somehow was in the gap between his knees, her hands gripping the powerful blades of his shoulders, back arched, head bent back beneath his kiss so that her throat curved like a swan's. His arms were around her now, circling her waist, as she pressed forward against him. After long minutes, very gently he held her away, looking at her.

‘Do you know how long I've been wanting to do that?'

She shook her head. Her lips were swollen, her eyes luminous.

‘I think I only invented this holiday so that I could get you alone. Did you know that?'

Again she shook her head. She had no words.

He kissed her again, delighting in the way her lips responded, speaking the volumes her voice refused to utter. Then he stood up.

‘Shall we go back to the hotel?'

She knew what he meant and for an instant it was as if he had douched her with ice-cold water. This habit of living each moment for itself and never looking ahead had really got a hold on her; lost in the euphoric aura of romance she had simply refused to acknowledge the natural progression of events. Now a great wave of panic washed over her, not because she did not want Van to make love to her – she did, oh, she did! – but because she was suddenly terrified that he would be bound to realise her condition. Her body was still remarkably contained, it was true, her stomach muscles were strong and she was carrying the baby high so the bulge was almost all in her midriff and waistline. But her breasts were full and swollen, the nipples dark and spotted with white nodules. If he saw them he would surely know …

‘Dinah?'

Love flooded her and she knew that if she let this moment slip away it might never come again.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Let's go back.'

He pulled her to her feet, kissed her again. In the quiet that surrounded them, Dinah could hear bumble bees and crickets, all the tiny sounds of nature. For the rest of her life they would be synonymous for her with perfect, unsullied happiness.

‘Thank God I can get these bloody boots off now!' Van said when they reached the car. He sat in the driving seat, kicking them away and slipping his feet into his own comfortable brogues. ‘ No one in their right mind would pay good money for them as they are, I assure you.'

Dinah was too happy to do anything but laugh.

‘Don't you realise that's my design you are maligning?'

‘We'll get it right. I'll get Jim Pratten to work on it.'

‘But I …'

‘Don't worry about it. You stick with the ideas – leave the master craftsmen to sort out the details.'

There was something slightly patronising in the way he said it. Dinah experienced a slight pang of deflation, which was instantly forgotten as he reached over to squeeze her hand.

The hotel was quiet, a few guests taking afternoon tea and pastries in the lounge. Van collected their room keys from the reception desk. Dinah was waiting for him on the stairs. He slipped an arm around her waist.

‘Your room or mine?'

The dark imp of reality tapped her shoulder once more. She pushed it away.

‘Yours.'

She wanted it to be his room. She wanted to see his things around her, holding her safely in his world. Her own room was full of cheap clothes and her tatty suitcase, looking totally out of place on the impressive luggage rack. Her room was evidence of her past, portent for her future. Her room was too close to reality.

He unlocked the door, drawing her inside, and she felt no fear, only a sense of rightness. Though it was less than two hours since he had first kissed her, the courtship had already in a sense been gone through in the long evenings when they had talked endlessly and nothing more.

She looked around. The late-afternoon sunshine was slanting in through the partially drawn curtains, lighting a room that was curiously impersonal. The maids had obviously been in, the room had been cleaned and the bed made, but it was clear that in any case Van was meticulously tidy. His clothes were all hanging out of sight in the wardrobe, not draped around as her own were, on the dressing table there was only his hairbrush and a pair of gold cufflinks to add a personal touch to the hotel's information folder and the courtesy tray with kettle and neatly stacked cups and saucers.

Van pushed the door closed, dropped the room key on to the dressing table beside the hairbrush and took her in his arms. At once desire flooded her, blotting out thought. He kissed her, then began unbuttoning her blouse, and the fear returned, urgent now.

‘Couldn't we pull the curtains … please?' she whispered.