She lifted her hand and ran her thumb along my eyelashes, then put her thumb in her mouth. ‘I ate your tears,’ she said. And she sounded like a child.
Son of a gun, but I think I’m falling for her. I stared incredulously at her, the truth of my situation dawning on me. I was fucking falling for her. Every time we met, a little more. I was already neck deep.
‘Yeah, you ate my tears,’ I said slowly, as another tear rolled down unchecked.
She lifted her body and, coming close to my face, licked my salty cheek.
The action had an undesirable effect on my body. Like a half-trained polecat my cock reared its ugly head. I tried to move away from her, but she grabbed my forearms with both her hands. I looked down at them, so small and delicate and yet surprisingly strong. I looked up again into her eyes.
‘Don’t push me away,’ she begged.
I closed my eyes. The music had stopped and a thick heavy silence hung between us. All the things I wanted to say and the things buried inside her. She knew me not at all. I wanted to crush her in my arms and keep her next to me forever. I never wanted her to leave. There was such a pleasure in her proximity. To feel her breathe, to touch her soft skin, to smell the clean scent of her hair. I clenched my teeth. ‘You have to go. Your clothes must be ready by now.’ The words tumbled out of me, harsh and angry.
She went still. Then her hands slipped away from my arm. The music player clicked on again and Last Mistake came on.
‘While you were sleeping I was drinking,’ a man’s voice crooned.
I stood up and looked down at her. Her hair was wet and stuck to her head, her nose was red and my old bathrobe was a shapeless blob around her, but she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
‘By the way,’ she said listlessly, ‘Ivana has invited you to stay the weekend at Marlborough Hall. You can bring someone if you like.’
Marlborough Hall
12
Marlow
The fish, even in the fisherman’s net, still carries the smell of the sea.
—Mourid Barghouti
Marlborough Hall had been built for one purpose and one purpose only—to dazzle. And to that monumental mission every stone in it was utterly committed. Its vast mass of rusticated granite soared, towered, and sprawled before us as we turned through a pair of imposing stone piers, topped with winged bronze chimera.
‘Oh my God. Look at that!’ Beryl cried as she dramatically fanned herself with her hands.
I stopped the Jag and we sat for a moment looking at the lighted splendor that had been the seat of the Swanson family for the last three hundred years. I thought it an ostentatious fortress and the unfriendliest place I had ever seen, but when I glanced at Beryl, I realized she was as horribly enthralled and fascinated by the naked display of power and wealth, as a rat would be in the face of a striking snake. All I could think of was that somewhere in that hostile pile of stones a pale plant called Olivia was struggling to thrive.
‘OK, I’m ready,’ Beryl said more calmly.
I started the car and we drove down a wide gravel drive. We crunched to a halt next to an antique Rolls-Royce.
‘Isn’t this marvelous?’ Beryl whispered excitedly.
‘That remains to be seen,’ I said dryly.
‘What about the hamper? Do we take it in?’ she asked, referring to the hamper of food she had ordered from Fortnum & Mason. She was convinced it was where posh people got their food.
‘I’m sure someone will come and collect it together with our overnight bags.’
‘Of course, silly me. They have servants, don’t they? I hope I don’t make a total fool of myself tonight,’ Beryl said worriedly.
‘You’ll be fine. If you get nervous just think of them sitting on the toilet.’
Beryl laughed heartily. ‘That’s very useful.’
‘Shall we?’ I asked, my hand on the door handle.
She touched my sleeve. ‘Before we go in, I just want to thank you again for asking me to come with you.’