Echoes of the Dance (15 page)

She shrugged. ‘It was she who told me. I just wondered if you knew who it was.'

‘
Kate
told you?'

‘Well, she sort of let it out of the bag and then she clammed up. It was rather odd, actually. She doesn't seem the type, does she?'

Roly didn't answer and she glanced at him inquiringly and then, seeing his shocked expression, more curiously. He pushed his chair back from the table, going up the steps into the kitchen to fetch the coffee, and she watched him speculatively – her own suspicions growing. The silence lengthened between them.

In the morning Roly was up early, making breakfast, walking dogs, explaining that he must hurry away to a dental appointment in Bodmin. He kissed her goodbye, put her firmly into her car and waved her off.

All the way back to Horrabridge, Monica wrestled with frustration: she'd been so certain that she could create an atmosphere between them that would cast a softening glow across the ruins of their shared past and recreate some of that early magic. She'd convinced herself that he must be lonely and, beyond Mim's encroaching presence, ready for some company. Monica had never had any difficulty in persuading herself that his coolness towards her was merely a need to hide his guilt and hurt that she had left him and this was the first time that she'd seen any indication that he might have serious feelings for another woman.

Not that she'd imagined he'd lived for thirty years in a celibate state – that wouldn't be Roly's style at all – but she'd never been jealous. After all, she'd known from the beginning that he was susceptible to pretty women – how else could she have snared him? She'd found that it had given their relationship a bit of an edge, heightened her sexual feelings for him. Monica pulled a face. One of the problems with Jonathan was that he was so boringly faithful; no surprises there, no challenges. It was all of a piece with his reliability. It was so typical of the unfairness of life that the very things she'd first required of him were the things that lately had become so stiflingly dull, especially lately, since he'd started writing his textbook. When Roly had been living in that half-world of alcoholism, beginning to lose clients, she'd found comfort and security in the safety net that Jonathan was so ready to hold out to her. But back then, she reminded herself quickly, she'd had Nat to consider: naturally she'd put Nat first.

Yet now, reliving those first meetings with Roly, it seemed almost impossible to imagine how she could have ever left him for Jonathan. Listening to his voice on the telephone last night – pedantic, prosy, precise – whilst watching Roly moving about in the kitchen – elegant, exciting, edgy – she'd felt that it was there in that old stone barn that she belonged, not in the smart London house. She'd been cross that she'd been unable to draw Roly into that charmed circle of the past: he'd kept her at arm's length and she'd had a little too much to drink and so lost the chance to weave her web around him.

How odd he'd been after that comment about Kate: surely he couldn't possibly be in love with Kate? Now, on this bright morning, Monica refused to believe it. Much more likely that he felt defensive on David's part. Men were odd like that, and David and Roly had been very close friends; so much so that it had always puzzled her that despite his apparent affection for her, David had never encouraged her relationship with Roly: even her own cousin had discouraged it.

‘You'll never have a moment's peace,' Sara had told her, eyes watchful, lips as thin as split slate; every woman was a threat to Sara.

Monica shook her head, remembering: she'd had no such fears. Her one object had been to catch him, to possess him utterly, and it hadn't been too long before she'd seen the way to do it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Monica plans her own seduction very carefully: Roly must believe that it is his idea and take full responsibility. The timing is important: Mim is away with the ballet company in Holland and David is in Oxford giving a talk at a summer school. She must take a chance with any casual droppers-in, but most of their friends are on holiday and Roly is talking of going down to Cornwall at the weekend. She must act quickly.

She stays on late at the Sales Rooms, saying that she must put in some extra work on one of the catalogues, and it is after seven by the time she arrives in Gloucester Crescent. As she rings the bell she can hear the sound of music – jazz blues: Miles Davis then? She tries to remember the things that Roly likes so that she can use them to bind herself more closely to him. For instance, she knows his predilection for good wine, which is why she has a bottle of claret with her.

‘Hello.' She speaks as soon as he opens the door, not allowing any kind of negative reaction on his part to undermine her resolution. ‘I've had such a beastly day and I can't quite face Sara yet. Are you very busy?'

He holds the door open wider, as she knew he would, and she goes quickly past him, ignoring the big kitchen where everybody usually congregates – that won't do at all – and runs lightly up the stairs to the comfortable sitting-room on the first floor. She hears him behind her and hopes that he is taking the opportunity to appreciate the shortness of her brief, cotton mini-dress.

Inside the big, light room she turns to him, all embarrassment and shyness.

‘I'm being pushy. Sorry.' She indicates the newspaper flung down on the floor, the glass half full of wine, a record still playing: it
is
Miles Davis. ‘You were relaxing and I've disturbed you.'

She makes her eyes widen a little, implying that it would be rather fun to disturb him, knowing that some men would pick up on the word and make a joke about it – which would help things along. Roly is never predictable, however, and asks instead: ‘Why can't you face Sara?'

She has her answer ready – it was to be part of a later dialogue but she is happy for it to be introduced now – and she sighs, pulling her face into an expression of distress.

‘David's away in Oxford for the night and poor old Sara really hates it. All those pretty young students. She'll be out of her tree all evening, waiting for him to phone and when he does she'll snap at him and afterwards she'll cry. God, it must be hell to be jealous.'

She hands him the bottle and he takes it without thinking about it because he's concentrating on what she's just said.

‘Is she really that bad? I know they've had rows when David's being a bit overattentive to some dolly bird but I had no idea . . .'

Monica bites her lip; shakes her head regretfully. ‘It's terrible. Don't say I said anything. I know how close you and David are so I assumed you knew the scene. It makes me feel so uncomfortable, and I'm very fond of David, but Sara is my cousin. She's just so totally unsuited to the Bohemian life and I don't quite know how to handle it. OK if I stay around for a bit?'

‘Of course it is.' She sees him wonder if he is being inhospitable, realizing that he's still holding the bottle and giving himself a mental shake. ‘Like a drink?'

She grins at him, just a little touch of cheekiness edging into the winsome waif bit: ‘That was the general idea.'

He laughs and, just suddenly, looking at him, she wants him. It's the way he stands there, relaxed, dealing with the bottle: detached and desirable. She sits down in the corner of the long sofa and concentrates her will upon him. She knows he fancies her and her own longing and desire fly out like invisible gossamer threads to draw him to her. When he brings her glass across to her she kicks off her shoes and curls up comfortably, smiling at him.

‘Actually, I'm thinking of looking around for my own pad. I was hoping you might be able to give me some ideas. It would have to be very small and cheap.'

She introduces a faintly anxious note here and this time he responds right on cue.

‘Would you want to be alone? Can't you find someone else to share with?'

‘Like you and Mim? You're lucky to have a sister you get on with so well.' She sounds envious of his good fortune. ‘I wish I had a sister or a brother. I don't particularly want to be alone but it's just getting a bit difficult with poor Sara always in a state and I suspect that David's getting a bit fed up with having me around.'

A lightning glance at Roly's unsuspecting face confirms her suspicions that David has already admitted as much to Roly.

‘It isn't easy, playing gooseberry.' She laughs, mustn't get too pathetic, nothing sexy about being pathetic. ‘Anyway, I might enjoy being alone.' She makes big flirty eyes at him. ‘At least I'll have the chance to do my own thing.'

He laughs too, relaxing now and pouring more wine for them both. ‘Sounds good to me.'

‘Does it?' Her jokey directness takes him by surprise but she sees that he's pleasantly intrigued. ‘That's fab. So.' She shifts closer to him, displaying plenty of bare leg in the process. ‘Any ideas about a flat?'

‘Gosh, I don't know.' He pretends to consider, entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘How about the attic?'

She laughs joyfully, leaning against him, seeing that he's thinking, Actually, she really is fun when you get her on her own, and says: ‘Want to show me round?'

‘I might just do that,' he answers, looking down at her, and she looks back, eyes widening, so that he has no option but to bend his head to kiss her. She feels his brief shock at her ready response to the kiss but she follows up her advantage very swiftly. After some more wine, and a lot more kissing, she senses that the time is right to turn up the heat a little. She has been clever enough to choose a dress that unbuttons at the front and, since she doesn't wear a bra, the next stage moves along with a nice natural ease. She encourages whilst appearing to be passive. In fact she manages to conduct the entire seduction in a way that makes Roly feel that she is powerless to resist: overwhelmed by her own emotions and his desire.

Afterwards, when he sees the blood on her thighs, on himself, remembers that moment of resistance and her cry of pain swiftly shut off, he is shocked.

‘I had no idea . . . You should have said . . .'

‘But I love you.' She smiles shakily up at him, tears on her cheeks – of relief and triumph, but he is not to know the difference – and repeats: ‘I love you, Roly. I thought you knew. I'm so glad it was you.'

And Roly feels doubly guilty as he holds her tightly.

During the next few weeks, whilst Mim is still away on tour, Monica makes certain that she and Roly see a great deal of each other and doesn't attempt to hide her ever-growing passion for him. He is flattered, charmed by this blend of sexy innocence, so that when she tells him that she is expecting their child he reacts exactly as she hopes. She is careful not to blame him – no, the fault is all hers, she loves him so much; she weeps with shame and remorse and fear, and his response is to take her in his arms and ask her to marry him.

So strong was this image from the past that it was a shock to see Janna sitting on the step outside the cottage door. Monica parked the car, struggling to regain her composure, and climbed out.

‘Hi, Moniker.' Janna's smile was wary. ‘Had a good time?'

‘Yes, I have. Thank you.'

Today, Janna was wearing frayed denim shorts and a T- shirt printed with the bright, coyly smiling face of a fifties-style girl and bearing the legend: ‘I Don't Cook, Clean or Put Icky Things Near my Mouth'. Looking down at her, Monica wondered if Janna was really in love with Nat; if Janna felt that overwhelming passion that she, Monica, had once had for Roly. Almost at once she dismissed the idea: if Janna had those feelings she wouldn't go off for weeks at a time. The brief unsettling sense of kinship flared and died.

‘How was
Treesa
?' she asked brightly, stepping past her, not waiting for an answer.

She didn't see Janna's smile fade. She was noticing the shawl draped over the chair and the mug – Peter Rabbit and Mr McGregor, set like flies in amber, eternally following one another round the cucumber frame – back in its place in the kitchen.

I shall go home today, she was thinking. No point in staying now Janna's back. Of course, the fact that she is back gives me a good reason for staying with Roly next time. Lucky that Jonathan is wrapped up in that wretched book. I'll be able to slip away again quite soon . . .

She went upstairs to pack. Through the half-open bedroom door she could see the flung-back sheet, Janna's tote bag with some garment spilling out of it and, just suddenly, she was thinking of Roly again. The physical side of their marriage had been so good; and how proud he'd been of Nat. Standing there, on the tiny landing, she tried to remember when it had begun to go wrong. Of course, there had been whole areas of his life in which she'd never engaged, but she hadn't cared about that. His work was merely something that enabled him to support her and she wasn't jealous of his pretty models: she was his wife, the mother of his son, and she had no intention of antagonizing Roly by behaving as her cousin Sara did towards David.

There was only one woman that she'd resented and that woman was Mim. She'd never been able to influence or affect their relationship: their shared past, mutual friends and the caring they showed for each other was like an irritation on her skin. It wasn't until after Mim's accident, however, that it had been really necessary to apply pressure and to make it very clear to Roly that the time had come to choose between them.