Love Falls (23 page)

‘So there you go. I never was,' Isabelle soothed, and she could hear them falling against walls as they staggered away along the corridor. There was the creak of a door opening, a low chuckle, and then quiet.

Lara trod as silently as she could along the hall and slipped into her room. She climbed into the bed, which was high and narrow, and pressing her face into the pillow she tried to sleep. Where was he? She wanted Kip beside her. Wanted him to press his body against hers. ‘A decade of fruitless fucking.' She felt a rush of sadness. A great well of it, oozing through her veins, and she remembered her mother saying that Lambert had never intended to have children. That's why, she'd told her, you're so special. ‘You showed him what he didn't know.' Her mother had cried a few soft tears when Lara told her about the invitation to Italy. ‘You see,' she said. ‘He's grateful to have you now.'

Lara shifted in the bed. Kip? She sat up, but it was only the shutters creaking. She lay back down and pushed her fingers in between her legs. She was still wet, a filmy wet like glue. Could it be useful, she wondered, for sticking envelopes or smoothing eyebrows flat? She brought her fingers up into the moonlight to examine them.

Just then there were footsteps on the stairs. Hurriedly she wiped herself dry with her nightdress, and pulling it down she closed her eyes. Her heart was beating and she forced herself to slow her breath. The steps approached, hesitated and then she heard the handle turn. She wanted to jump up, to throw herself into Kip's arms, but of course she wasn't meant to care. Instead she lay still, pretending to sleep.

For a moment there was silence, and then feet were slipping out of shoes, the clunk of a belt buckle falling as trousers hit the floor. And he was leaning over her. Her heart was beating crazily, her mouth flickering on the edges of a smile, and she felt a chill of air that sent her skin to goose bumps as the cover was lifted and he slid in.

‘Hello.' His voice was hoarse, and oddly changed, and then a heavy arm draped down around her. It smelt of aftershave and suntan oil, and there was a thick metal watch chain that nipped her skin.

Lara opened her eyes. She felt her stomach flip and rise into her throat. ‘What are you doing here?' She didn't turn. She didn't want his face so close to hers. ‘Roland. I'm telling you. Get out!'

‘Aren't you pleased to see me?' His voice was low. ‘Lover boy passed out. Not man enough to take his drink. And I thought – poor Comrade Lara, all alone, waiting and waiting . . .' He began to walk his fingers, incy wincy spider, over her skin.

‘I was asleep.' She struggled to sit up. ‘Go away.'

‘You wouldn't be so mean.' He was stroking her now, running his hand along her leg. She kicked to shake him off. ‘I'm telling you!' And then she remembered that Andrew and Isabelle were somewhere on this floor. If they heard her, they'd know that she'd heard them.

‘I think you're a little bit of a tease . . .' Roland murmured, sliding up the bed beside her, and when she protested, ‘I'm not a tease,' he threw his head back and laughed. ‘I said I think you're a bit tense, that's all. Here.' His hands were on her again. ‘Let me give you a massage.'

Lara's eyes were on the door. ‘No thanks.' She could make a run for it. Race down the stairs, try and find Kip's room, or even May's. But what if she rushed into Tabitha's room, or Hugh's, then how would she explain?

‘Just a little rub. I'll do your shoulders,' Roland persisted, and so she turned away from him and offered up her back.

Roland's hands were oddly ineffectual. They rubbed and slipped against the cotton of her nightdress. ‘Can't you take this off?' he said. ‘It's hopeless.'

Tears pricked against her eyes. ‘Please,' she said, ‘just go away.'

In sympathy he put his arms around her and kissed the side of her face. ‘I'm not that bad,' he said. ‘You'll like it.' He stroked her hair. ‘Many others have.'

‘I won't,' she said. ‘I don't want to.'

She wished she'd learnt judo or karate so that she could leap up now and, keeping her balance, floor him silently with one kick. But he was holding her, crooning, singing a little song. He was stroking her hair, fondling her ears, and for the moment anyway she felt safe.

‘OK, let's just go to sleep,' he said, sliding with her down into the bed.

They lay spooned together, their breathing slow, Lara, her every sense alert in case he should move the arm that lay sprawled across her, moments from her breasts. She felt like a clam, curled into herself, but the more she curled the more vulnerable she was behind, and she was right, his hand was slipping across her drawn-up knees, edging over the ruck of her nightdress, sliding up the exposed skin of her thigh.

She moved her own hand fast and caught him. ‘No.' She pulled his arm back around her and placed it on the sheet where she could see it. ‘For God's sake,' she said, and her voice, irritable as a schoolmistress, made him laugh.

‘Very stern,' he said, and for a moment she thought he was going to seize her and spin her round, but he stayed still.

He stayed still for so long that very gradually she started to relax. He had one leg over hers. A leg as heavy as a log, and his groin, she could feel it, encased in hot tight cotton, was pressed into her side. And then, as if in his sleep, he began to move his hand, so slowly she could hardly accuse him, the palm kneading her leg. It was nice. Soothing. If only it was Kip. And then his hand dropped down against her stomach. She held her breath. Could he be asleep?

For a while he was still and then slowly he began to move again, in lazy circles. She felt like a kitten or a baby being stroked, but revolted too, if she allowed herself to think. Soon, she repeated. Soon he'll be asleep and I can slip away, but just then his hand, the flat of it, rose higher and brushed against her nipple. Inspite of herself she felt a streak of fire run through her. She swallowed and moved, squashing both breasts into the mattress, but he moved with her so that his knee was between her legs and she was pinned. Lara kept her breathing even, her mind numb.
I'll
pretend to sleep, she thought, and then when he's not expecting it I'll throw him off. She tested her leg against his but it was made of stone.

‘Mmm,' he drooled in response. ‘This feels nice. And if you're worrying about my wife – solidarity with women and all that – she won't mind. She'd be relieved. Get me off her back for once.' He began to laugh and Lara felt the wetness of his dribble on her neck.

‘I won't tell her,' Lara promised. ‘Just go back to your room,' and again she tried to shift his weight.

‘There's nothing to tell.' He stretched his arm over and caught her wrist. ‘Come on, just give me a kiss.'

‘No!'

‘Go on.' He was sliding over her, the rough stubble of his cheek scraping her face, and she remembered hearing that prostitutes were prepared to do anything – anything! – but kiss. He was on top of her now and she freed her other arm, but as soon as she did he caught it. ‘What will you do now, little Bolshevik?' He was crouching above her and the only way she could get up was to thrust herself backwards and into his lap.

‘You're pathetic,' she said, and she tried to rip one arm free, but his grip was iron. ‘Ow.'

The skin was stinging, and she tugged again and with no warning he pushed her hard against the bedhead and forced himself against her. He must have used his free hand to release himself because his cock, that was the right word for it, was hard and dry and forcing itself against her. Roughly he pushed her legs wider and with a grunt he was inside, tearing, gasping, sighing, forcing her up against the wall.

Lara closed her eyes. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to turn her head and bite him, and she realised she'd thought, right until that minute, that it was all some kind of joke. But she wouldn't call out. She couldn't. She didn't ever want anyone to know. Instead she stayed as still as she could and waited for it to be over. His body was hot and convulsing and draped over hers and she felt him straining and rigid in every nerve. She closed her mind off too, so that she saw nothing but a long bright streak of colour, a sunset along a muddy river. And it was over. He was still. Head bent against her neck. Releasing her hands.

She heard him swallow. ‘Sorry,' he muttered.

She didn't look round. If she could manage it, she'd never look at him again. Lara slipped down into the bed, her face turned to the window, and pulled the sheet as high as it would go.

‘That wasn't so bad, was it?' Roland reached down to his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘May I?' he asked, but she didn't answer.

There was a pause while he lit up and exhaled.

‘You weren't a virgin?' There was a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

‘No.' She was relieved to be able to answer with the truth.

‘So what was all the fuss? Unless . . .' He laughed. ‘You find me repellent? No,' he continued after three slow smoke rings. ‘Unless you're saving yourself for Kip.'

Tears welled up and filled her eyes.

‘You really like him?' Roland leant over and peered into her face. ‘You really like the little sod.' He shook his head as if at her stupidity. ‘You and the world. I'd better warn him.' But instead of getting up to do so he pushed himself down further into the bed and resting one arm on the mound of her hip he continued to smoke.

Lara stared out of the window. Already the sky was not as dark as it had been, the first dawn light was turning it to grey. She lay still – there was nothing else to do – and pulled her nightdress close. The stars were gone now and birdsong twittered up from the garden below. I'll never sleep, she thought, her eyes gritty, her body seared through with heat and shame. But slowly she began to relax, and reassured by the rhythm of Roland's snores, and too tired to keep her muscles tensed a moment longer, she allowed herself to sink against the bulwark of his body.

Lara woke to find herself alone. She lay still, hoping to convince herself the night had been a dream, but she could tell from the ache in her arms, the sting between her legs, and the one sharp scratch across her wrist, that it was real.

As quietly as she could she dressed. What time was it? The house felt silent, the garden empty below, but the sun was already high above her and the room was warm.

She opened the door and looked along the hall. There was no one. Nothing, and so she ran, not glancing at the row of white wooden doors, all closed. ‘Hello?' she warned as she turned the handle of the bathroom, but there was no one there. For a long minute she stared at herself in the mirror, amazed once again to see no sign of change, and then she splashed her face with water, over and over, until the smell of Roland was gone.

 

 

‘Thank God you're back.' Ginny greeted her at the door, and lowering her voice she told her, ‘Your father's had a fever. He's been calling for you. At least we think it's you.' She turned towards the sitting room, a glass of water in her hand, and Lara followed.

Lambert looked strangely small. He lay on the sofa, draped in a blanket, his face pale, his hair spiky with sweat.

‘Oh there you are.' He put out a hand.

‘Dad.' Lara sank to her knees beside him. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Not too bad.' He smiled and she felt a stab of pain to think she mattered to him. ‘I won't go anywhere again,' she told him. ‘I'll stay here with you.'

‘No.' He tried to sit up. ‘I'm perfectly all right.'

‘Shhh.' She put her hand on his shoulder and he lay back.

She saw his foot then. It was swollen, black and green, the bruise having spread in a river of colour up towards his ankle. Who would have thought such a tiny bone could set up such a protest?

‘The doctor is coming again,' Ginny said. She set a bowl of steaming water down on the floor in which rosemary and lavender leaves floated. ‘If you could soak your foot in this,' she said, ‘it would be very healing.' Lambert didn't move. Ginny dipped a flannel and wrapped it round his foot, brushing against his toe just momentarily and causing him to wince.

Lara sat by his side on a low chair. What could she say to distract him? Unable to think of anything, she pulled her book out from her overnight bag and began to read to him from
The Grapes of Wrath
.

 

 

‘You're back, I see.' Caroline came down from her afternoon sleep, and just for a moment she eyed Lara with real interest. ‘Isn't it the most wretched luck' – she smiled down at Lambert – ‘but hopefully in a day or two  . . .'

Caroline was swathed in layers of organza, cream, pale-yellow and lilac with the finest matching silk ribbon in her hat. Her wrists and ankles were so narrow that the bones protruded, giving her a newborn-animal look.

‘You smell marvellous,' Lambert murmured as she bent over to brush his cheek with a kiss.

‘Well, I'm off to Siena. Today is the day they bring the earth to the Campo. They bring it from the countryside and lay it down to make the track. In fact Antonio always used to say to me if I was ill, or low, “Don't worry, soon they will bring the
terra
– the earth – to the Piazza. It is a sign that the Palio is really very near.”' Once more she leant down over Lambert and as if it were quite natural began to stroke his hair. ‘Don't worry,' she whispered in a soft Italian accent, ‘soon they will bring the earth to the Piazza.'