The Debutante. Kathleen TessaroЧитать онлайн книгу.
look after this.’
‘Thank you.’
She crossed the lawn, retreating from him, into the house, through the open French windows where the wind gathered and released the gauzy white sheers with invisible fingers.
The old house changed with the encroaching darkness. Rooms that were open and inviting in the daylight took on an unfamiliar coldness; shadows loomed and uneven floorboards sent her stumbling along the hallway. Although they were too far away from the shoreline, she thought she could hear the sea; surf crashing into cliffs.
Suddenly, her body felt leaden with exhaustion; her mind numb. The stairs groaned as she climbed up to her room. Without turning on the lights, she slumped on the edge of the bed. The last pink embers of sunset faded into the west. A minute later they were gone.
She picked up her mobile phone, lying on the bedside table. Two more missed calls. She was unable not to check it. Unable to return the calls yet unable to delete his number; unable to move forward in any way, trapped in an invisible cage of contradiction and obsession. She switched it off, tossing it across the room where it landed in a corner. Far away enough so that she couldn’t reach across and grab it in the night; close enough to be retrievable. Self-loathing swelled and saturated, bleeding silently through her, like ink across a clean sheet of paper.
She could see Jack’s blue eyes, narrowed, triumphant; hear the superiority of his voice.
What did that make her?
She knew all too well what that made her.
It still thrilled her. That was the most disgusting part. She dreaded the missed calls yet feared the day when there were no calls at all. Her motives were clouded, filthy. Nothing about her was clear or good or pure any more.
‘We’re bound, you and I.’ The memory of his voice, low, just above a whisper, his breath hot against her cheek played again and again in her mind. Without thinking she rubbed her forearm; she could still feel the pressure of his fingers, digging into her flesh when she tried to move away.
Twilight reigned. A pale sliver of moon began to rise.
It was an unknown house; veiled yet alive in the darkness. It sighed and trembled. Things shifted, shapes, half seen, darted across the floor.
And without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth or take her clothes off, Cate curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
20 July 1926
My darling Wren,
Well! Finally something interesting has happened here! Eleanor’s cousin has arrived in town–Frederick Ogilvy-Smith or Pinky, as he’s known, on account of his permanently flushed cheeks (they really do look like a freshly spanked bottom)–and he is the most fun, which is surprising, considering how congenitally dull Eleanor is. He’s on his way to Nice to join the Hartingtons at their villa near Eze but decided to stop a bit longer to take us all out to supper and a show. Of course Eleanor was mortified but he and Anne and I all got on brilliantly. Perhaps a little too brilliantly–tell me what you think. We are strolling out across the Place de la Concorde after leaving the Ritz and he takes my arm.
‘You’re the bread girl, aren’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon?!’ (I was trying to be serious and aloof but really there’s no point with Pinky–he just carries on regardless.)
‘Now don’t be coy. Everyone knows your mother married Lord Warburton of Warburton’s Wholesome Wholegrain. And a fine loaf it is.’ He looks at me sideways. ‘I expect I best woo you, now that you’re a famous heiress.’
‘I’m not famous.’
‘You will be.’
‘And I’m not an heiress!’
‘Yes, well, insanely well off then. Shall I do it now?’
I sigh. ‘If you must.’
‘Best get it over with.’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts on a wobbly sort of voice. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue–’
‘Please stop.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What about Anne?’
‘What about her?’
‘Well, oughtn’t you woo her too?’
‘It’s not really how it’s done. Not strictly speaking. You’re meant to wait for one girl to go before you have a bash at another.’
‘We’re friends.’
‘I see.’ He turns to Anne. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue–’
‘Brown.’
‘Ah.’ He stops. ‘This is too complicated! Shall we all have a cocktail? A cigarette?’ He turns to me. ‘A kiss?’
And I did, darling–that is, let him kiss me. And before you become too livid let me explain that the thing about Pinky is he’s good fun and quite harmless. He’s more like a brother than a man and we were aching to find out what it was like. Besides, he kissed Anne too. There’s really no point in him kissing just one of us as we won’t have anyone to discuss it with later. We both agreed it was a bit wetter than we thought it would be and probably would’ve been nicer if it hadn’t been Pinky. He asked if he could write to me and I said yes. Already I’ve had a postcard of a goat and a rather suspect-looking peasant girl. And instead of the bread girl he’s taken to calling me Toast. Do you think we’re engaged?
Please don’t tell the Holy or I shall be forced to elope with a man I’ve only met once.
Piles of kisses from,
The Wayward (Libertine)
Jack took the plates into the kitchen, piling them into the sink. Mrs Williams would probably do them in the morning. He should leave them. Still, he turned on the water and squirted some sharply scented lemon washing-up liquid into the bowl, dunking his hands into the hot soapy water. Here at least he could make progress; change something. Doing the dishes was proof of a civilised world and a surefire remedy for existentialist angst.
Besides, he wanted to buy some time, put some space between them.
He’d intended to be witty, charming. Intelligent yet funny and unpretentious. But none of his carefully composed observations were required. The conversation had a life of its own that he hadn’t been able to control. He rinsed a glass clean under the tap.
He didn’t agree with her. Found her thinking flawed; a curious combination of honesty and elusiveness.
And yet she was undeniably compelling. When she moved, his gaze followed. When she spoke, he found himself leaning forward not just to hear what she had to say, but to catch what she didn’t; the spaces between her thoughts, which seemed to reveal even more. There was an unwilling transparency about her; a glassy fragility in spite of all her defences. His instinct was to protect it.
No wonder Derek Constantine was captivated. And he wondered again as to the exact nature of their friendship.
Some people were like viruses, infecting everyone they come into contact with. Derek Constantine was one of them. A fatal combination of glamorous tastes and plausibility, Constantine possessed a sleek moral dexterity masquerading as open-mindedness and sophistication that was almost impossible to resist. Why did he, of all people, have to be her connection in New York? Exactly what