Harriet (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

    HER manic high spirits infected the children. They drove up to Hinksey Hill yelling Knick Knack Paddy Wack at the top of their voices, and screamed with delight as the red and silver toboggan hissed down the silent hillside, throwing them into the drifts and folds in the snow. Then they got up and, panting, pulled the toboggan to the top of the hill, hurling snowballs at one another, the Duttons’ cairn snapping at the snow with ivory teeth, until they were all soaked through but warm inside.

    Simon Villiers kissed me, she wanted to shout to the white hilltops, and happiness kept bubbling up inside her as she hugged the children more tightly. They were reluctant to let her go.

    ‘Stay to tea,’ they pleaded. ‘There’ll be crumpets and chocolate cake and Doctor Who.’

    ‘Harriet obviously has other plans,’ said Theo Dutton, who opened the front door to them. ‘Be careful, my sweet. Read your sonnets. Try to shun the heaven, if it’s only going to lead to hell.’

    Was it so obvious to everyone, wondered Harriet, as she galloped back to her digs through the snow. She passed the Robert Redford film without a twinge of regret. She’d got the real thing ahead of her.

    Back in her room, she examined the picture of Geoffrey, smiling self-consciously and clutching a tennis racket. And that photograph makes him better looking than he really is, she thought. She glanced too, at the photograph of her elder sister Susie, looking ravishing on her wedding day and hanging on Peter Neave’s arm. That was one of Harriet’s problems, always being compared with a slim, beautiful sister who never got spots, and who had the kind of self control that never took too many potatoes, or betrayed too much interest in a man until she knew that he was hooked. Harriet knew how Susie had churned inside over the rich and glamorous Peter Neave, how she had waited all day biting her nails for him to ring, and when he finally did, had had the nerve to say, ‘No I can’t tonight, or tomorrow, or the next night, and I’m away this weekend,’ playing hard to get for the next few weeks until she’d literally brought Peter Neave to his knees with a proposal of marriage. How could one ever believe one was attractive when one ate too many cream buns and lived in Susie’s shadow, and frightened men off by getting too keen too quickly? She must try and be sensible about Simon.

    What could she wear? Her grey shirt had a mark on the front; the maroon sweater had lost its elasticity in the wash so the polo neck looked like a surgical collar; she’d sweated lighter rings under the arms of her brown dress when she’d been nervous at a party. Her jeans were clean but they covered her legs, which were her best thing, and they were so tight they would leave marks all over her body when she took them off. But she was not going to take them off, she said to herself furiously. Soon there were clothes lying all over the floor The water only ran to a tepid bath. She was in such a state she washed her face twice, cut herself three times shaving her legs, and then got back into the bath to wash between her toes in case Simon was the sort of man who kissed one all over. Then she rubbed her landlady’s hand-cream all over her body and smothered herself in French Fern talcum powder.

    In the bedroom, she examined herself naked in the mirror. Were the goods good enough? Her bust was much too big. But men didn’t seem to mind that. Her legs were all right except for the bleeding, but everywhere else was a bit voluptuous. She took the mirror off the wall and, holding it above herself, lay down on the bed. Would she pass muster at this angle? Her stomach looked flatter anyway, and her hair fanned out nicely. Stop it, she said to herself furiously, you’re only going to have a drink with him.

    There was a knock on the door. She jumped up guiltily, grabbing a towel.

    ‘Going out, dear?’ said the landlady, Mrs. Glass, ‘there’s a nice piece of hot gammon if you fancy it.’

    Mrs. Glass often grumbled how much her lodgers cost her, but she preferred the ones that stayed in. Miss Poole was a nice, quiet girl, and sweet natured too, if she wasn’t so dreadfully untidy.

    ‘Your poor mother wouldn’t want you to starve yourself,’ said Mrs. Glass, who thought everyone under eleven stone needed feeding up.

    ‘I’m going to a party,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll probably stay the night with a girlfriend, so don’t worry if I don’t come back.’ The glib way she could lie.

    ‘Quite right not to trust young gentlemen driving on these roads,’ said Mrs. Glass. ‘Do you good to get out and enjoy yourself for a change.’

    ‘I’ll have a real tidy out tomorrow,’ said Harriet, wincing as she put deodorant under her arms. Her leg was still bleeding; it must be all that excitement pulsating through her veins.

    She put on a pair of black lace pants and a black bra witha red ribbon she had bought in anticipation of Geoffrey. The pants hardly covered her at all and the red ribbon was too much, so she tore it off.

    There was her black sweater all the time under the bed. She could wear it with her red skirt. It was getting late. What happened if Simon got bored of waiting and went out?

    For once, her hair obeyed her. She splashed a bottle of scent, a Christmas present from Susie, all over her. She hoped it didn’t clash with the French Fern. How did French ferns differ from English, she wondered. Perhaps they were more sophisticated.

    She galloped back along the streets. It was very cold now and the street lights gave the snow a curious pale radiance. Her breath crystallized in little clouds before her. The white nights, she said to herself; she was Anna Karenina smothered in furs hurrying to meet Vronsky, Natasha quivering with guilty expectation waiting for Anatole.

    She felt more and more sick with nerves. Perhaps her mouth tasted awful; she stopped at the newsagents to buy some chewing gum. The windows of Simon’s digs were black. He’s gone, she thought in panic; one of those dazzling creatures has spirited him away. No, a thin beam of light trickled through the green silk curtains. A group of people were coming out. Oh, those echoing self-confident voices!

    ‘I do think it’s anti-social of Simon to throw us out when it’s so cold. Chloe is going to be simply livid,’ said one of the girls, scooping up a snowball and throwing it at one of the boys, as they all went screaming off into the night. Harriet threw away her chewing gum, it made no sound as it landed in the snow. The door was still open as she went up the path. Simon emerged from the darkness, his hair gleaming white in the street lamp.

    ‘I thought you’d done a bunk,’ he said.

    ‘I got soaked. I had to change.’

    He put his hand out and touched her cheek.

    ‘You’re frozen. Come in.’

    Only three people were left in the drawing-room. Deirdre, who was putting on lipstick, a blond man who was rooting around the drinks tray to find himself some more wine, and Chloe who sat on the sofa, huddled like a sparrow on the telegraph wires on a cold day.

    ‘Oh poor thing,’ thought Harriet. ‘I’d mind losing Simon.’

    ‘Come on chaps,’ said Simon removing the bottle from the blond man, ‘chucking-out time.’

    Harriet went over to the fire. She felt miserably embarrassed. Chloe looked mutinous. Simon got her blond, squashy fur coat out of the bedroom and held it out for her.

    ‘Come on, darling,’ he said firmly. ‘Beat it.’

    Two angry spots of colour burnt on her cheeks. She snatched the coat from him and put it on herself.

    ‘You’re a bastard, Simon,’ she hissed. ‘And you won’t escape unscathed either,’ she added to Harriet, and, with a sob, ran out of the room down the stairs.

    ‘We might all meet at Serena’s party later,’ said Deirdre, kissing Simon on the cheek. ‘She is expecting you, Simon."

    ‘Not tonight, darling. Tell Serena I had a previous…’ He shot a glance at Harriet. ‘No, a subsequent engagement. Now goodnight, darlings.’ And he shut the door on them.

    He turned and shot Harriet that swift, devastating smile.

    ‘One has to be brutal occasionally to get what one wants in life.’

    ‘She was awfully upset,’ said Harriet.

    ‘She’ll recover,’ said Simon.

    He chucked some logs on the fire, covering the flame and throwing the room into semi-darkness, and gave her a drink, the cold condensing on the outside of the glass. She held on to it to stop her hands shaking and took a huge gulp; it was a long time since the baked beans.

    Simon disappeared into another room. She felt as though she was alone in some deserted woodland house, and that Indians or some invaders were slowly creeping through the undergrowth towards her - but she didn’t know when or from where they were going to attack. Simon returned with the remains of a quiche on a plate.

    ‘We never did have any lunch. Do you want some?’ She shook her head.

    Simon helped himself to a slice.

    ‘You’re all right after the crash, are you?’ he said with his mouth full.’Just a few bruises, that’s all.’

    ‘I must look at them later.’

    Her heart thumped madly; the firelight flickered on his face. She jumped as a log fell out of the grate.

    ‘Relax,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve never seen anyone as terrified as you. What put that scared look in your eyes? Were you raped as a child? Did you have strict parents? Were you bullied at school?’ He was making fun at her now, but his voice was like a caress.

    She took another gulp of wine. Having eaten the inside of the quiche Simon was about to throw the pastry into the fire. ‘We could give it to the birds,’ said Harriet.

    ‘We could, I suppose.’ He opened the window, letting in a draught of icy air; the snow gleamed like a pearl. Simon put a record on the gramophone. It was a Mozart piano concerto.

    ‘You still look sad,’ said Simon.

    ‘I was thinking… about Chloe.’

    ‘Not worth it. She’s the most frightful scrubber. I only took her out a couple of times. She’s one of those girls like scrambled egg, amazingly easy to make, but impossible to get off the pan afterwards.’

    Harriet giggled.

    ‘That’s better,’ said Simon, ‘now come and sit on the sofa. No, next to me, not six feet away.’

    She was still trembling, but the excitement was beginning to take over. He picked up her hand and kissed it.

    ‘I thought you were terribly good in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,’ she said brightly.

    ‘I know I was,’ said Simon. ‘So we’ve exhausted that subject.’

    His hand on the back of the dark green velvet sofa was edging towards her hair, but he didn’t touch her. His timing was so good, he held off until she was in a panic that he was never going to. It was terribly hot in the room, she could feel the sweat trickling between her breasts.

    ‘You’re so pretty,’ he was saying in a low husky voice, and then he kissed her. At first she kept her arms clamped down by her side, but suddenly like the reflex action when one’s knee is tapped, they shot up and coiled themselves round Simon’s neck, and she was kissing him back with all he might, and his hands were on the move all over her bod: Hastily she pulled in her spare tyre.

    ‘I mustn’t.’

    ‘You must, you must.’

    ‘You’ll think I’m too easy.’

    ‘I don’t. I just
think
you’re overdressed, that’s all,’ and he took off her earrings and put them side by side on the table. Then took off her shoes, and took the telephone off the hook.

    She sat back waiting for an attack on another front. ‘You’ve got such a lovely body,’ he said, filling both their glasses.

    ‘One should really take lessons at prep school in undoing bras. Oh, I see; it does up at the front,’ he said a minute later.

    His hands were warm on her bare back. He kissed her eyes, her hair, her mouth; she’d never dreamed he’d be so tender.

    ‘No,’ she gasped, leaping up as his fingers edged inside her waistband.

    How could she explain she wouldn’t be easy like this, if she didn’t find him so overwhelmingly attractive?

    ‘Sweetheart, stop fighting it,’ he whispered. ‘I refuse to be put outside the bedroom every night, like flowers in a hospital.’

    Harriet gasped. ‘You’ve read Geoffrey’s letter!’

    ‘I picked it up in the snow. I’m glad he’s glad you’ve gone on the pill, but I’m even gladder.’

    ‘You shouldn’t read other people’s letters,’ she said furiously.

    ‘One must, just to find out all the nice things they’re saying about one. Tell me about Geoffrey. What does he do?’

    ‘He’s a marine biologist.’

    ‘Oh well, we can’t all be perfect.’

    ‘He’s clever,’ said Harriet defensively. ‘He’s just come down from Plymouth.’

    ‘One can’t come down from Plymouth. One can only go up,’ said Simon. He was attacking her waistband again.

    ‘It’s too soon,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t even know you.’

    ‘You talk too much,’ he said. ‘I’ve never heard so much fuss about something that’s so nice.’ He started to pull off her sweater and she was enveloped in a fuzz of black wool. ‘It’s got buttons at the back,’ she squealed, as he nearly removed her ears.

    ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, when she was finally freed, and he pulled her down on the floor beside him. The apple-wood of the logs mingled with a trace of his lavender aftershave, and the animal smell of the white fire rug which scratched against her back. She had no will power. It’s going to happen she thought in panic.

    Will it hurt?’

    ‘You’ll be so excited by the time I’ve got you revved up, you won’t feel a thing,’ he whispered.

    In a few minutes the Mozart concerto jigged jollity to its ending, and the only sounds in the room were her gasps for breath and the soft crackling of the fire.

    Later they went into the bedroom, and once in the night she got up to go to the loo, and gazed at herself in the bathroom mirror, searching for lines of depravity. She looked rather disappointingly the same except that her face was flushed, her eyes glazed. She wondered why she didn’t feel more guilty, then realized it was because she loved him.