The Lodger: A Novel (18 page)

“Oh,” said the man, sounding crushed, “I thought we were going the same way.”

She drew herself to her full height, fixing him with a stern glare. “I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

Without another word, the man stepped into the gutter and hurried away across the road. The clear notes of St. Pancras Church pealed the half hour.

Dorothy strode furiously onward with shaking legs that refused to stabilize themselves. The man had been easy to get rid of, but he had taken the delightful sense of freedom with him, leaving something altogether more disturbing in its wake.

By the time Dorothy reached the sanctuary of her room, she only wanted to rest. The curtains were open: she could see the gentle reassuring bulk of housefronts across the road; their upper windows dark or burnished blue in the reflections of streetlamps. Most of the French windows along the balconies were lit, golden and inviting. She fetched a candle and took off her hat in front of the narrow mirror.

The glass was blurred. There was something blocking her reflection: some sort of foggy mess. Holding the candle up so that it shone directly onto the mirror, she saw writing, flamboyant and feminine, thick with loops and whorls … made with
lipstick
. Bemused, she wondered who on earth could have got into her room? Still more puzzling, who could possibly want to disfigure her mirror in this bizarre manner? She moved the candle across the glass so she could read what the letters spelled.

I LOVE YOU
they said.

A bolt of shock jerked through Dorothy’s body from deep within her belly, taking with it all she knew and all she was.

Only one person could have done this. She could see Veronica gliding swiftly upstairs to her room. Had Dorothy in her abstraction left it unlocked? Or had Veronica gone to Mrs. Baker and begged for the key, on some pretext of needing access.

Joy and horror impaled her. The familiar surroundings of her room seemed new and strangely transfigured. Veronica had driven through the last of the barriers standing between them.

With a rapid intake of breath, Dorothy wondered if Mrs. Baker had seen the writing on the mirror when she came up to clean.

Thirteen

Veronica opened her door at once, as though she had been waiting for Dorothy. Their eyes met, and Dorothy found there the searching gaze she had often seen in turning suddenly toward her during some lively exchange of words. Instead of looking away, Dorothy felt herself sinking into their warmth; or rather, plunging, as if she was falling off the edge of a cliff.

It was a long moment of wordless realization, more hidden and marvelous than love between a man and a woman, yet flowing from the same depths. But it was also a claim, so potent it tugged her to the brink … a soft exclamation escaped from her lips. The warning voice within her was shouting aloud now, urging her to escape …

With a cry of joy, Veronica drew Dorothy into the room. She shut the door and kissed her full on the lips.

Dorothy pulled away and took a few steps backward. There was a sensation in her stomach that was like being in a suddenly dropping lift. She leant against the door, grateful for its solid indifference against her spine.

Veronica’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered. “You know how I feel about you,” she said softly. “I want to be as close to you as it’s possible for two people to get. And unless I’m badly mistaken, you want it, too.”

“Yes, but—”

Veronica moved across the room and put her arms around Dorothy.

It was strange, momentarily, to hold a different person to Bertie. But almost at once, it became entirely familiar, and the way their bodies fitted together was as close to perfect as anything Dorothy had known. Veronica’s body felt hot through the fabric of her kimono; her heart was beating recklessly against Dorothy’s breasts.

Smoothing Dorothy’s hair away from her face, Veronica kissed her again, tenderly at first, but with growing urgency. The inside of Veronica’s mouth tasted of apples. Dorothy slipped her hands around Veronica’s waist, feeling her eloquent curves beneath the smooth satiny fabric of her kimono …

Dorothy was lost; she was drowning in sweetness. There was no going back.

She had no idea how long they stood like this, glued together, exploring each other. Veronica’s hands were stroking her face, pulling the pins from her hair. Dorothy felt it cascade down her back in a heavy wave. She could not peel herself away. She had become a different creature, her body no longer defined by weakness and fatigue, but burning and shuddering from head to foot, consumed by uncontrollable physical hunger.

With deliberate daring, Veronica slipped one hand between Dorothy’s legs; she started rubbing in exactly the right place. For an alarmed instant, Dorothy thought
she has done this before.

She opened her eyes. Veronica’s eyes were open, too; she was watching Dorothy intently. Dorothy wondered what she must look like: wanton, lost in sensation. Then she stopped thinking anything at all, as her body filled with pleasure.

They began moving toward the bed. Dorothy stepped out of her shoes and kicked them aside. She heard the rustle of Veronica’s kimono as it slithered to the floor. Hardly daring to look at her, Dorothy started tugging at the hooks of her own dress, and then her petticoat and underclothes. When she was quite naked, she got into bed beside Veronica and pulled the covers up to her chin, feeling suddenly shy and awkward. Veronica drew them away, gently but insistently. “I want to see you,” she murmured. Her voice was strange and thick, as though she had something caught in her throat. “I’ve wanted to for so long.”

After she had gazed her fill, she knelt between Dorothy’s legs and kissed her stomach, lingering over the soft mound of Dorothy’s belly. Her mouth moved downward, with deliberate slowness that threatened to draw the soul out of Dorothy’s body. Dorothy groaned as Veronica’s tongue found what it was seeking.

It was as different as anything could be from Bertie’s full-on assault. Waves of unbearably exquisite sensation poured over her, each more powerful than the one before. She was tingling, soaring, plunging; she was full of shimmering light, wet and slippery as an eel. She hadn’t known her body was capable of such pleasure. She bucked and grasped hold of Veronica’s thick hair; she cried out in abandon. She was unrecognizable to herself.

Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms. Nothing could have been sweeter than the velvety sensation of Veronica’s skin on hers; the way her head fitted perfectly into the soft curve between Dorothy’s neck and shoulder.

Ecstasy was passing too swiftly into an awareness of what she had done. Yet joy refused to be quenched. The cool night air poured in at the open window, silently stirring the long lace curtains … The generous room was bathed by the dusky orange glow of the streetlamp on the corner. The clear chimes of St. Pancras clock rang out; the rumble of traffic was an unchanging song, a lullaby.

All Dorothy’s perceptions were heightened. She felt exalted and luminous. They exchanged tender caresses and murmurs of endearment; words spoken from the heart’s wisdom. Unsought sleep descended on them both at almost the same moment.

*   *   *

DOROTHY WOKE UP
the next morning, her body feeling deeply refreshed. Veronica was still sleeping beside her: one arm flung over Dorothy, her cheeks lit by a soft flush. Dorothy stretched limbs that were full of cool strength, so utterly different from the fevered weariness of the day before. She watched the sunlight streaming through the curtains, falling in liquid strips on the eiderdown. It was just like the wakings of childhood.

But as she looked the facts of the night full in the face, contentment gave way to shame and agitation. For as long as she could remember, she had been dimly aware of her double-sided nature. Certain sights—the swell of a breast beneath a tight blouse, or a delicate pulse beating in the soft hollow of a throat—caused a quickening of her breath, an inward stirring that was half pleasure, half pain. Until last night, this side of her had been submerged in the depths of consciousness; scarcely acknowledged. Having succumbed to her feelings, she must confront them.

Why was she made like this? What was she, standing midway between the sexes? Did she have a corrupt spirit, a diseased mind … was it some kind of congenital abnormality? And yet there was nothing strange or profane about her feelings for Veronica; they were fine and pure. There seemed something inescapable about them; they were as much a part of life as breathing.

The response of her own body shocked and amazed her. Carried along on an uncontrollable tide of desire, she had acted without shame or inhibition; she had lost herself. The memory of it made her burn with mortification, yet there was pleasure in the feeling, too. Impossible to deny that the night with Veronica had given her the most intense gratification she had known.

What was she going to do? Her feelings for Bertie were waning. This new, more powerful attraction was weakening his hold, sweeping him aside. She was bound to him, nonetheless, by strong ties of loyalty and affection. Her dual allegiances would pull her this way and that, tearing her apart.

Worse still, she was betraying those she loved the most. She had taken her oldest friend’s husband as a lover, and now she had committed a blissful yet unholy act with Veronica, which betrayed Bertie as well. She was doubly, trebly corrupt; she was the vilest creature that ever crept over the face of the planet. Were there no limits to what she was capable of? It was horrifying to acknowledge the many layers of her own treachery.

Could this be the same person who had looked in wonder at the flower beds and the bees, innocent and unchanged? It was herself and not quite herself. She had grown duplicitous, capable of deceptions in the pursuit of her own selfish pleasure. Yet her pleasure was bought at a shameful price.

She shifted restlessly in Veronica’s bed. She felt heavy and sick; clogged up with iniquity. She was hurtling out of control, toward she knew not what. Her deceit had as yet brought no punishment. Retribution lay somewhere in the future, coiled like a motionless serpent; waiting. She didn’t know when or where it would rear its head and strike, but strike it must.

Veronica opened her eyes and smiled when she saw Dorothy.

“Did I dream you up?” she murmured huskily, stretching out her arms for a hug. Her body was warm and lithe; her fingers played lightly over the back of Dorothy’s neck, underneath her hair. Dorothy breathed in her musky scent, feeling herself quicken and grow warm with desire.

She pulled away. “Don’t, Veronica. I must get up this instant. It’s half past eight and I’m going to be late for work.”

She got out of bed and dressed hurriedly, trying not to be distracted by Veronica’s adoring gaze. “I’ll miss you today,” Veronica said simply.

Dorothy battled a labyrinth of feelings. She could feel the coming day at work begin to devour her, but it was also a relief to get away from Veronica.

She paused at the door and turned to face Veronica. “You know what happened last night?”

“Wasn’t it wonderful?”

For a moment, Dorothy hesitated. She said slowly, “It was the most heavenly thing that’s ever happened to me. But it was all wrong, and it mustn’t happen again.”

She walked out and closed the door behind her, not daring to look back.

*   *   *

DOROTHY SPENT THE
next few nights on her own in the Russell Square rooms. She felt it was best for both of them if she avoided Veronica for a while. She knew that in Veronica’s presence, she would only cave in to the attraction that was stronger than she was. She needed time to put what had happened in a box and close the lid; she had to regain control of herself.

If it was not for what had happened with Bertie, she might have surrendered to her feelings. But bitter experience had taught her what lay ahead. Life with Veronica would be as full of subterfuge and pretense, of half-truths and evasions, as the one she led with Bertie. In both cases, the world said their love was wrong. If it was discovered, they would be condemned: ostracized and cast out. She knew that in time, the unsatisfactory nature of their position would erode the joy of being with Veronica. The price was too high.

Dorothy wished she could change her nature. She was tired of falsehood and duplicity; she had lost her will to fight. She wanted to hold her head up, to look the world in the eye without flinching. Why was she so awkward and queer; what attracted her so unerringly to the illicit and the inverted? She longed to be at peace. In bed, battling to sleep, she wondered if her feelings for Veronica would give her the strength to break free of Bertie. She forced herself to smother all thoughts of loving Veronica.

But there was no peace in separation. The slightest thing called up the touch of Veronica’s lips on hers, the texture and smell of her skin. Small shocks of excitement detonated in her belly when she thought of Veronica’s hands on her body; she couldn’t get her out of her mind.

Dorothy felt wrung out and exhausted. She was plagued by a sense of being indefinably ill and getting a little worse all the time. She put it down to a combination of turmoil, overwork, and poor diet. It was no doubt aggravated by her writing. She was scribbling feverishly, far into the night. She still hadn’t found a way of writing that satisfied her, but the attempt allowed her to forget herself; like a strong narcotic, it tugged her into a different world. Yet while it shored up her sanity, it tapped reserves of strength she did not possess.

One night, she woke in the still hours, feeling so utterly alone and bereft, it was as though someone had driven an axe into her breastbone, to the hilt.

She had no idea how long she lay sleepless, impaled and stunned by longing. Presently, a cool and lucid thought filtered through the tumult, making her sit upright in bed. The heroine of her novel, the girl she had called Miriam, who was so closely modeled on her, was alone, too. She was just as solitary and isolated in her world as Dorothy was.
No one else was there to describe her.