Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (16 page)

He sighed. ‘Better now than after we’re married, I suppose. But, Izzie, what’s the matter with me, do you think? Third time it’s happened now. Have I got BO or something? Tell me, there’s a good girl.’

‘Henry it hasn’t happened yet. And you do not have BO,’ said Izzie smiling. ‘I can promise you that. Or bad breath. And neither are you boring or stupid or any of those things.’

‘Well then. Why won’t any of these girls marry me? They start out all right, every time. Mustard keen. Then suddenly it’s over. Just like that. There must be something.’ He blew his nose hard, poured himself another glass of wine.

‘I don’t know,’ said Izzie rather helplessly. ‘I suppose people do change their minds. Find out more about each other and – decide it’s not a good idea. Gosh, look at Amy, twice already. It’s just something girls seem to do.’

‘You don’t,’ said Henry morosely.

‘No. No, I know I don’t.’ Her tone was suddenly disconsolate. He looked at her.

‘Here, have some wine. Share my glass.’

She took a sip obediently; it tasted nice, soothing and comforting. Usually she didn’t like wine very much. She took another.

‘I’m really sorry for you Henry,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure in time you’ll find the right girl. She’s out there somewhere now, I expect, looking for you.’

‘I hope so. I really do. Oh God, I don’t know. This has been pretty bloody hurtful. Last time we met, Clarissa was talking about where we might live.’

‘Poor Henry.’

‘I’m really awfully fond of her, you know,’ he said suddenly, after a silence. ‘Really fond. She’s a great girl. Lot of fun.’

‘Yes,’ said Izzie carefully. It was difficult to know what to say.

‘And my parents like her. And I got on pretty well with hers. We were talking about wedding dates, Izzie. It wasn’t just a brief romance.’

‘No, I know.’

‘Pretty bad show all round. I’m going to look no end of an idiot. Here, have some more wine. Poor old Henry, they’ll be saying, can’t keep a girl. Wonder what’s wrong with him—’

‘Of course they won’t.’ She had another drink; she seemed to need it, it was helping her through this difficult conversation. The bottle was nearly empty; Henry looked at it.

‘Better get another. Won’t be a tick. Don’t go away now, will you?’

‘No, I won’t.’

He disappeared, came back with another bottle and two clean glasses. He filled one to the brim and handed it to her.

‘Drink up. Now where was I?’

‘You were saying people would be thinking there must be something wrong with you.’

‘Well, they will, won’t they?’

‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ she said. ‘Just look at all the romances you’ve had. Dozens it seems like to me.’

‘But none of them last. That’s exactly the problem. How about you, Izzie?’ he said suddenly, looking at her intently.

‘What about me?’

‘Well, I mean, you haven’t got anyone – sort of permanent, have you? Or have you? Are you keeping him from us?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘I wish I was.’

She stopped. She didn’t really want to have this conversation with Henry. It was humiliating. And at this particular moment, slightly dangerous.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Izzie, come on. There is. You look upset. What is it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Why not? I’ve been baring my soul to you. Come on, tell me. Tell your big brother.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘And you’re not my brother.’

And then, partly because of the wine, and partly because the evening had been in its various ways upsetting, and she suddenly couldn’t help it, couldn’t help thinking of that other relationship, that other, so unbrotherly relationship, far more dangerous and threatening than the one with Henry, she started to cry.

Henry was horrified; he put his arm round her, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, handed it to her.

‘Here. Come on, Izzie, don’t cry. Tell me what the matter is, please.’

‘Oh it’s nothing. Really. It’s just that – ’ suddenly she succumbed to the temptation of talking about it, talking to Henry, who at least, she knew, found her attractive, and made it therefore less humiliating ‘ – well, I don’t seem to have much success with men. They just don’t seem to like me. At least girls like you, fancy you, want to marry you. Even if they sometimes go off the idea later. And actually I don’t often fancy anyone either. I don’t know about there being something wrong with you, but I think it’s more likely there’s something wrong with me.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re terribly fanciable, terribly pretty. You know what a torch I’ve always carried for you for a start.’

‘Oh Henry, don’t. Don’t start being kind.’

‘I’m not being kind. I think you’re gorgeous, always have done. You can’t have forgotten our little romance. Now who ended that, you or me?’

‘Me,’ she said and in spite of herself, she smiled at him, a reluctant, awkward smile.

‘Well, there you are. In fact, you started it, you were the first to set me on my downward spiral. So don’t start giving me any sob stories.’

‘Sorry,’ she said meekly. ‘Sorry, Henry.’

‘Come here,’ he said suddenly, setting down his wine glass. ‘Give me a hug. We seem to be in a bit of a sorry state, both of us.’

She let him put his arms round her. ‘You silly girl,’ he said, kissing her cheek gently. ‘You silly, silly girl. Lovely, silly Izzie.’

And then suddenly, and she was never sure afterwards how it happened, she kissed him back quite gently but on the mouth, and against her lips she felt his change, felt them become harder and more urgent and seeking. And also quite suddenly, it was welcome, rather than otherwise, and comforting and reassuring, and she began to return his kiss; and then his arms tightened round her, and he turned her to face him, and moved one of his hands up to her hair and started stroking it and pushing through it, loosening it from its clasp.

‘Lovely Izzie,’ he said. ‘Lovely, lovely Izzie.’

Emotions roared through her, difficult, confusing, dangerous. This was in some ways so exactly what she wanted, to be held and desired and found beautiful; and in some ways so exactly what she didn’t, knowing that they were both drunk, upset, feeling lonely. But—

‘Oh Izzie,’ he said. ‘Izzie, you are so silly. And so beautiful.’

And then his mouth was on hers again, and she couldn’t help it, she leaned back on the pillows, feeling dizzy, not just with the wine, but with emotion and pleasure and the sweet, strange reassurance of being desired and desirable, and she pushed him away from her and smiled up at him, her eyes probing his.

They were very dark, his eyes, and very serious, and so was his face; and his voice, when he spoke, was shaky, but in a quite different way: ‘You really are lovely, you know,’ he said again. ‘And so very – desirable.’

After that everything happened rather quickly.

She could never have said afterwards that she didn’t want it: she did. She wanted it, and wanted Henry, as she had not wanted anyone since – well, since she could remember. She could not pretend she had discouraged him; she did not. She did not just allow him to caress her, to stroke her breasts and smooth her legs, and kiss her neck, she encouraged him; she did not protest in the very least as he began to undress her. She did not say once that he must stop, rather she urged him on; in between kissing him, holding him, she sat up, pulled off her dress, allowed him to remove the rest of her clothing.

She did not tell him – of course, how could she – that she was a virgin, that she had never done this before; choosing instead to let him discover it, thinking, confident indeed that he must be experienced enough to deal with the fact beautifully . . . Disappointment there; he lacked skill, even she could recognise that, and it was awkward, painful even. Her own pleasure and excitement faded as his increased, and by the time he had finished – horribly soon – and rolled off her, breathing heavily, she felt nothing at all except considerable discomfort and even pain. Shocked into sobriety she found herself simply appalled at what she had done.

After a few minutes Henry turned away from her, reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He offered her one; she shook her head.

‘No thank you.’

He was silent for a while, drawing heavily on his cigarette; then he said, ‘I hope – that is, I hope that was all right for you, Izzie.’

‘Yes,’ she said, quickly. ‘Yes, of course it was. Thank you.’

‘I – didn’t realise. That – well, you know . . .’

‘No. I’m sorry, I should have told you.’

‘Of course you shouldn’t,’ he said in an attempt at gallantry, ‘don’t be silly. Anyway – well, it was jolly nice for me.’

‘Good,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful, light-hearted, as if the whole incident had simply been a piece of rather unimportant fun.

‘I really am sorry,’ he said again, and then turned and smiled at her, his dark eyes moving over her face, the old charm and confidence quite restored.

‘Honestly, Henry, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Really there isn’t. I – well, it was my idea quite as much as yours.’

‘I suppose so.’

Another silence; then, ‘I think I might get dressed,’ she said, ‘get back to the party. People might wonder what’s happened to us.’

‘Good idea. Yes. Want the bathroom? It’s just next door. But of course you know that.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know that.’

She felt she now knew something else too, without having any experience to base the knowledge on at all; the reason girls might break off their engagements to Henry Warwick. There must be a great deal more to sex than that. Surely, surely there must.

Keir sat in his parents’ kitchen, staring at the letter that had just arrived for him. He knew he hardly had any need to open it. ‘Macmillan’, read the name on the envelope. It would no doubt contain another rejection. So far he had had six. All the big houses, Hutchinson, Michael Joseph, Collins, all had given him an interview, all so far had turned him down. He knew why, of course; and they would never admit it, of course. He was an ideal candidate – on paper. He had a First in English from Oxford, he wrote well, he had reviewed books for
Isis
, he had worked in bookshops, he was very widely read, not only in the classics, but in contemporary fiction as well. He really should have got a job. But – he couldn’t. Or not the job he wanted. Time and again, he was told to come back when he had some experience. ‘And how do I get that?’ he said in despair, ‘if no one will give me any in the first place?’

At first he had suspected it was because of his accent, his grammar-school education, indeed, would have welcomed that in some perverse way, it would have given him something to be angry, rather than despairing, about; but it was not. It swiftly became clear to him, that his First in English from Oxford was qualification enough. It was a simple case of supply and demand. For every editor’s job, there was a very large handful of applicants; it was as simple as that.

He was offered other jobs in the publishing houses; in production, administration, accounts, publicity, even as a trainee rep. But he regarded those as insults; he wanted to be an editor. And being Keir, he was not prepared to settle for anything else; and being Keir, he took it as a personal insult.

It made him angry and aggressive with everyone: including Elspeth. Especially Elspeth. She had sympathised with him at first, had even suggested, very gently, that she might speak to one of her uncles about him, but he had turned on her, his face contorted with rage.

‘Don’t even think such a thing. That I would take charity, betray myself like that. Good God, Elspeth, have you no sense of any kind?’

She retreated hastily, said she was sorry, she was only trying to help, was so clearly distraught for him that he had forgiven her. But the fact remained, she had the job he wanted. Had acquired it with the absolute minimum of effort – whatever she might say about the family insisting on a good degree – and it hurt. It hurt badly.

He went upstairs, opened the letter, skimming through its contents: ‘Dear Mr Brown, thank you so much for coming to see us . . . very impressed . . . excellent qualifications . . . however . . . wonder if you have considered Sales . . .’

He sat there for a while on his bed, staring at it; then he tore it up into very tiny pieces and put it in his waste-paper basket. And after a while he went downstairs and said to his mother, as if he were announcing he was going to the shops: ‘I’ve decided against publishing. I don’t think it would suit me, anyway. I’m going to take up teaching. Far more worthwhile.’

Izzie had managed to persuade herself it had all been for the best. This was, after all, the 1950s, and sex to their generation was not quite what it had been to their parents and grandparents. She was no longer a virgin which was wonderful; her small, but extremely heavy burden had been lifted. The fact that it had not been lifted with any degree of care and skill perhaps didn’t matter too much either; indeed if it had been, she might have found herself nurturing romantic notions about Henry which would have been dangerous for both of them. Amy had seen her a few days after the party and told her that Clarissa had telephoned Henry that morning and said she would like to see him.

‘Turns out she just had a fit of pre-nuptial nerves. He’s like a dog with two tails. They’re having dinner tonight. So it’s probably all on again. Of course we’d rather it was you, Izzie, but there’s no hope of that, we know. And he was wretched about it, poor old boy.’

‘Yes,’ said Izzie, forcing some laughter into her voice. ‘I could see that. And no there’s no hope of it being me, as you put it. ’Bye Amy.’

So really, it was all very much for the best. Very much for the best. Of course it was.

‘Is it true, Lieberman – ’ the voice was very measured across the study, very drawling ‘ – is it true your father died in a concentration camp?’

‘No,’ said Lucas firmly. ‘No it’s not.’

‘But he’s not alive? He never brings you down.’