Spare Brides (30 page)

He picked up the papers and held them whilst he glanced around the room, looking for somewhere to put them down again; his expression suggested that he was noticing the unappealing poverty for the first time. He dropped the papers on a dusty, overstuffed sofa, disturbing a skinny tabby cat that was lying in the crook of the arm. Facing towards the fire was a battered leather chair with a tartan rug hung over the back; there was also a wardrobe, a set of drawers and not much else by way of furniture. Nothing by way of ornament. She felt comforted by his books, lined up along the walls and in towers in the middle of the floor, but there was a lingering smell of decomposing vegetables and not quite clean clothes, even though the skylight was open. She didn’t sit down.

He petted the cat. ‘Do you like cats?’

‘We have dogs. Three of them.’ And then, to ingratiate, ‘There is a kitchen cat. A mouser.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I like cats. They don’t expect too much. People talk of a dog’s loyalty, but I find them needy.’

She wondered if he found her needy, if he would ever need her. He offered her milk or beer to drink. She said she’d have beer, although she thought she should probably stop drinking. He handed her the bottle.

‘No glasses, I’m afraid. I’ve never thought to buy that sort of thing. You know.’ He shrugged and glanced around the utilitarian space, then waved his hand, almost an apology. ‘Crockery sets, rugs, vases and such. We managed with so little in the trenches, I got used to it. Besides, I don’t spend much time here.’ Although she didn’t say anything, he added, ‘I’ll buy some for next time.’

They stared at one another hopefully, unable, unwilling to say anything more, sensing that something delicate but vital was being established, something that words might ruin. Lydia wasn’t sure who moved first, but they were upon one another in an instant. Greedy for each other. They kissed hard. Tasting one another’s lips, stained with champagne and cigarettes. Their tongues, cautious at first, became brave; animated, fleshy, wet, intertwined. A promise. A memory. A foreshadowing. They stumbled, backing up against the kitchen table, causing the teapot and condiments to rattle. He pulled and plucked at her clothes and she at his, but waistband, braces, pearl buttons and tight tailoring all seemed to work together to confound and frustrate. Neither was prepared to stop kissing, so they continued to blindly and ineffectively tug. She bit his lip, not quite gently. He grabbed her head and kissed her harder so she couldn’t tease. Then he kissed her neck, her ears, her throat. She groaned. He pushed his face to her breasts. She wanted his tongue and lips and hands to find her smooth breasts, her hard nipples.

She yanked at her dress and it fell to the floor. Many women, even the modern ones, still wore girdles and even bandeau bras; not to create nipped waists and heaving bosoms, but the opposite. They wanted to be desexed, masculine if possible. Lydia, naturally flat-chested and slim, didn’t need to worry; her underwear was delicate, a mass of laces, silks and chiffons. She looked like a gift, wrapped in floral patterns and ribbons. He stood back, took a moment, drank her up.

Next, slowly, he finished what she had inexpertly started: he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was magnificent. Strong and defined. Toned. There was not an ounce of unnecessary about him; he bulged with power and vigour. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he took off his socks and shoes; he let his trousers and underwear drop too. He stood naked and glorious, his hard penis showing what he wanted. She started to wrench at the ribbons on her camisole, but he stopped her. He picked her up. Not the way a groom picks up a bride and carries her over a threshold, but by putting his hands under her arms and carrying her as one might carry a muddy child from the garden to the bathroom. Teasingly he kept her from his naked body. She went limp in his arms. Weightless. He laid her on the bed, gently removed her heels and finally, finally climbed on top of her. The heaviness of him stopped her breath.

It was unbearable.

It was everything she’d ever wanted.

She sighed, the sound of release, and acceptance and longing. She felt him along the length of her; at last her body and mind opened.

They forgot everything other than each other. They drifted beyond their pasts and did not need futures. They had all they required there on the thin mattress, on the iron bed, in the spartan bedsit. Neither lover was aware of anything beyond an annihilating consciousness and impression of the other, rousing and amplifying. There was no music to hide in. The only sound was the sound of bare skin slithering over fabric, as their arms, legs, bodies skated across one another in an impatient, intense grappling; that and the sound of the wetness of their lips and tongues as they landed, kissing and licking. Imperceptibly he inched her out of her clinging, silky underwear. She lay proud and pink. Exposed and exhibiting. His eyes fell from her face to her breasts, to her waist, to her bush of pubic hair. He reached out and placed a finger in there. Cold and smooth on her hot excitement. She thought of the marble statues in the museum and the snow they’d trudged through. He moved his finger leisurely, bit by bit, until pleasure swelled into a fat throbbing, so powerful it was almost painful. She shuddered and flinched; snatching at his body, she pulled him back on top of her, digging her fingers into the flesh on his back, his buttocks. At last she took hold of him. She had never had occasion to name the part before, even in her head, but now she took his beautiful penis, first in her hands and then in her mouth. She’d never imagined this was something she might do, and was surprised that, with her lack of experience, she instinctively knew how to please him, and that she was clear about her own desires.

Selfless, they both worshipped. Raining kisses and caresses on each other until their lips and throats became dry, they explored and pleasured one another. She luxuriated in him. Forensically she investigated the different tones of his skin; from the smooth and tanned to the bristled red. She came to know how his freckles and moles were scattered, where his veins flowed like tributaries of a river and which hairs were smooth and glossy, which were coiled and unruly. She studied him as though he was the only and first man. She nuzzled his groin and armpits, inhaling the bitter strains of his sweat as though he was perfumed. She smelt his breath, his hair. He roamed over her with similar frank pleasure. He kissed her neck, breasts, shoulders, thighs, feet. Her body arched towards him, ached for him.

The moment finally came when he was inside her. It was different from the time in the study. This time there was no distance; he held her tightly, he repeatedly kissed her face. Her lips, her cheekbones, her eyelids, her nose. Deeper. Closer. Backwards and forwards. In and out. Not too far out. Rolling, growing, plunging. It was impossible to know where she stopped feeling, where he began. Awed, she understood the concept of being as one. She understood life, death and loss whilst he came inside of her. Whilst she came out of herself.

A
FTERWARDS THEY LAY
side by side, breathing deeply. Exhausted. Sweat glistened on his forehead; his face was blotchy and bright with the attractive sort of colour that is raised through exertion. She wanted to lick the sweat, taste his saltiness again, but her body was spent; she couldn’t even summon the energy to roll on her side. She did not modestly pull the cover over herself but lay, magnificent, available. Complete.

He fetched a mug of water for them to share, then got back into bed and lay beside her. He lit a cigarette, which they smoked in silence. Somewhat revived, she rolled on to her side and stubbed it out in the ashtray that was on the floor, then she pulled his arm around her for warmth and a sense of protection.

‘Where does he think you are tonight?’ There was no need to elaborate on who Edgar was referring to.

‘He’s in the country, at his parents’ place.’

‘That’s very convenient for you.’

‘And you,’ she reminded him. She closed her eyes. Sleep and rest were needed. Her body was being dragged into that comfortable moment just before a loss of consciousness when the world seems fluid, pliable and unthreatening in any way; he roused her.

‘Come on, you have to get dressed.’ He kissed her ear and then climbed out of bed.

‘What?’ She was bleary, drugged with loving and couldn’t understand his meaning.

‘You can’t stay,’ he said abruptly. He pulled on his underwear and stooped again to pick up his trousers. On the kitchen table the candles were still burning; just inch stubs remained. That and the fact that the sky, visible through the skylight, was still a deep blue-black suggested it was probably about four in the morning. She groped for the bedside clock and confirmed her guess.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’ll have to go.’

‘No, there’s no need. I told you, Lawrence is away. The servants will assume I stayed with Ava. Come back to bed.’

He ignored her request, sat on the edge of the bed. His broad bare back was blue like a silhouette in the moonlight. He started to put on his socks. ‘I never let anyone stay,’ he muttered. There had been so many? There were so many still? The thought slashed her. ‘You must get a cab.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t get a cab at this time, how would I explain it? Why must I leave?’ She felt tears scratch her throat; she wondered if he could hear them in her voice. Fear and insecurity flooded through her body; she was going to drown in a sudden feeling of lacking. Was she a disposable conquest? Someone he’d had and finished with? Someone he could dismiss like a hire-by-the-hour whore? Was he an unscrupulous cad, an animal, after all? ‘Why must I leave?’ she demanded again. ‘How could you say such a thing to me?’

Edgar’s shoulders were rounded. He did not look like a man who wanted to hurt. For the first time the shadow of defeat seemed to fall over him.

‘I’ll shout out, Lid. I’ll cry.’ She didn’t understand. ‘That’s why I took these rooms, high up away from other paying guests.’ He turned to her. ‘I get visions. Memories. When I sleep. I don’t know how to stop them.’ She realised for the first time what an enormous effort must be involved in being Edgar Trent, the hero. She now knew that every move he made hovered between arrogant swagger and a desperate vulnerability. He must try so hard, all the time, to maintain the stance, because it was striven for, not given up naturally. He was wounded and suffering even though there were no bullet holes.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I do.’

‘But you mustn’t. Not with me. It’s fine, with me.’ Gently she placed her hand on his back. He was icy but she carried her warmth out from under the covers. ‘Sleep with me,’ she urged.

He sighed and slowly crawled back into the bed. Suddenly he looked like a boy, not a man. Wary, reluctant, trapped. She knew he’d be vowing to himself not to fall asleep. He wouldn’t let her in yet, but he had not made her leave. She turned on her side and he cuddled in tight. Cupping her breast.

Lydia woke in the night. Her bladder was full and she knew that sleep was impossible until it was dealt with. The chamber pot smelt ripe. There was no one to remove it and she was beginning to doubt whether there was any indoor plumbing. More likely there was a water closet outside in the yard. After what they had done together there ought not to be any shame between them, but she knew she could not urinate in front of him. She turned to him.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked. ‘The piss pot?’ As she’d suspected, he had stayed awake. He’d propped himself up on a pillow and was now sitting bolt upright, like a guard keeping watch. She nodded tightly. Her body small and rigid again, quite unlike it had been when they made love.

‘Is there a lavatory?’ she asked hopelessly.

‘It’s outside,’ he confirmed. Rain battered against the window.

‘I might be seen, and it’s bitterly cold.’ She wasn’t sure which bothered her more. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll wait.’

‘Until the morning?’

‘If I have to.’

He climbed out of bed. The room was so cold now that she could see his breath on the air: a blue cloud in a dark room lit by a grey moon. He shimmered, and despite her embarrassment, her only thought was how beautiful he was. He reached under the bed for the chamber pot. She listened carefully, getting used to the sounds of the house, and followed his footsteps down the creaky wooden stairs. The latch on the back door eased up and clattered down. The door swung wide. Urine splashed down a drain. Footsteps inside the house again. Water running in the stone sink. Lydia thought how thin the walls and floors were. The sheets, the curtains, covers. How thin poor people’s lives were, in comparison to her own. He washed the pot and brought it back to the room, setting it down on the rug in front of the chimneypiece. He poked the fire. Placed another log on it. Jabbed it again. Competent.

‘I’m going outside for a smoke,’ he told her.

As she squatted by the flames, relieving herself – feet grey with the cold, bottom scorched from the heat of the fire – she giggled and thought of the gifts Lawrence had presented to her. The fine shawls he’d draped around her shoulders, the valuable necklaces he’d placed around her neck and, once, an exquisite tiara, presented in a navy blue velvet case, that he’d set on her head. She thought of the clean piss pot and knew she’d never felt so loved.

T
HE HEAT YAWNED
through the house, blasting the usually impervious marble floors and walls, the gravel driveways and the green lawns, breaking down even their cool indifference. It hung in the air. No one could find a comfortable way to sit or stand. The thing to do was lie down whenever an opportunity allowed itself, although it wasn’t possible now. The black garments seemed to grab at the heat, fastening it close to the exhausted bodies; it clung to thighs, brows and backs of necks. The Earl of Clarendale was dead. He’d rather unconventionally chosen a summer month to die, not a season for grieving.

His wife would miss him. Theirs had been a union that was the very epitome of the standards of their day. They had respected one another, quietly but firmly supported one another and, when necessary, they had drawn a veil. But the countess was a woman who had lost two sons and therefore could not feel violent objection towards this loss. Lawrence, her only surviving child, and secretly – to her shame and relief – the one who had always been her favourite, had assured her that as dowager she would always have a home at Clarendale Hall, and her daughter-in-law, Lydia, was the compliant sort. Many dowagers were turned out of their homes on their husband’s death. They had to make do with a smaller house on the estate and a staff of three. At least that wasn’t to be her fate. She would have to hand over the jewels and tiaras; they weren’t hers, they belonged to the Countess of Clarendale. Yes, she’d have to give up her name too, but women were used to that; the moment the earl had closed his eyes she had started to refer to herself as the dowager, it didn’t do to linger. She could continue to play croquet on the lawn, to have bridge evenings, and no doubt Lydia would allow her to instruct the servants. She imagined she would be content enough, going forward, and contentment was all she desired. The dowager rather despised the younger generation’s obsession with chasing happiness and meaning. One read so much about it in the papers nowadays. She thought it was vulgar and unnecessary. Quite unchristian and demanding. Futile.