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Authors: Charlotte Lamb
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corridor, and James slowly, reluctantly followed. Patience stopped at a door, turned the handle and opened it on a scene of lamplit cosiness.
His eyes leapt around the room nervously, taking in the fact that it was a square bedroom which was also a sitting room, containing a red-velvet-covered chaise-longue of Edwardian style, ornate and sensual, heaped with velvet cushions in several colours, on which reposed a trio of battered old teddy bears. Beside it was a small, round table on which stood a brass pot of pink and white hyacinths in bloom, their scent rich and sweet, and in the far corner a bed covered by a patchwork duvet. A woman lay in the bed, leaning against a pile of pillows, her face turned towards the door.
James couldn't refuse to move—he would have looked ridiculous, and he hated above everything to look ridiculous—so, walking like a robot, he crossed the room and put the tray down on the table, taking only one brief, hurried glance before looking away again.
'Hallo, James,' his mother said, and incredibly he knew that voice immediately; the timbre of it had deepened, grown husky, but he found he had never forgotten it.
He had to look at her then. Her hair, like Lavinia's, was white, but had a faint pink rinse in it; James stared, thinking of candy floss at a fair. It had that wispy texture, like thistledown, unreal and insubstantial. He had been remembering her hair as dark, like his own, sleek and long and silky.
She held out her hand as if he were a stranger come to visit her, and of course they were just that—strangers.
His feet felt like lead but with an effort he somehow, moved them and took her hand; once his had been swallowed up in hers but now it was the other way around. Her lingers were tiny and cold. His hand could have crushed them.
He did not know what to say. What did you say to someone you had not seen for so many years? Someone you had been very angry with for so long?
But was that fragile creature in the bed the woman he had hated all this time?
The last time he'd seen her she had been young, beautiful, smelling of French perfume and full of gaiety. There was no resemblance between the two images; only her voice remained to haunt him, like 'the voice of a ghost whispering down the chill passages of memory.
'Hallo,' he said, hating this situation and hating Patience for getting him into it. It was all her fault— who did she think she was? What gave her the right to prod and push people into doing things they did not want to do?
'Sit down,' Patience said, as if he was one of those children downstairs whose lives she managed so certainly and self-confidently. She pushed a chair forward for him; the seat of it banged into the back of his knees and forced him to sink down onto it. 'Let's have the coffee, shall we, before it gets cold?'
Sitting down gave him something to do. He crossed his legs, smoothing down his trousers, and suddenly noticed specks of mud on them—he must have got that when he'd crawled into and out of Thomas's den. Crossly, he brushed at the specks, but they had dried hard. The trousers would need to go to the cleaners tomorrow. Accepting the coffee Patience handed him gave him something else to do; he slowly stirred the spoon round and round, staring down into the cup.
'Sugar?'
'No, thank you.' James turned his smouldering eyes towards her, hoping she could read his mind this time—he was thinking about what he wanted to say to her, the blistering words he would use if they were alone.
She grinned at him, her hazel eyes dancing. Oh, yes, she had read his mind and it merely amused her. She was one of the strangest women he had ever met, at one and the same time too young and too old for him. Too young in years and experience of the world; too bossy to live with.
What am I thinking about? he asked himself in horror. Live with? Flushed and furious, with himself as well as her, he looked away, stirring his coffee.
'Would you like me to go away for a
His eyes leapt around the room nervously, taking in the fact that it was a square bedroom which was also a sitting room, containing a red-velvet-covered chaise-longue of Edwardian style, ornate and sensual, heaped with velvet cushions in several colours, on which reposed a trio of battered old teddy bears. Beside it was a small, round table on which stood a brass pot of pink and white hyacinths in bloom, their scent rich and sweet, and in the far corner a bed covered by a patchwork duvet. A woman lay in the bed, leaning against a pile of pillows, her face turned towards the door.
James couldn't refuse to move—he would have looked ridiculous, and he hated above everything to look ridiculous—so, walking like a robot, he crossed the room and put the tray down on the table, taking only one brief, hurried glance before looking away again.
'Hallo, James,' his mother said, and incredibly he knew that voice immediately; the timbre of it had deepened, grown husky, but he found he had never forgotten it.
He had to look at her then. Her hair, like Lavinia's, was white, but had a faint pink rinse in it; James stared, thinking of candy floss at a fair. It had that wispy texture, like thistledown, unreal and insubstantial. He had been remembering her hair as dark, like his own, sleek and long and silky.
She held out her hand as if he were a stranger come to visit her, and of course they were just that—strangers.
His feet felt like lead but with an effort he somehow, moved them and took her hand; once his had been swallowed up in hers but now it was the other way around. Her lingers were tiny and cold. His hand could have crushed them.
He did not know what to say. What did you say to someone you had not seen for so many years? Someone you had been very angry with for so long?
But was that fragile creature in the bed the woman he had hated all this time?
The last time he'd seen her she had been young, beautiful, smelling of French perfume and full of gaiety. There was no resemblance between the two images; only her voice remained to haunt him, like 'the voice of a ghost whispering down the chill passages of memory.
'Hallo,' he said, hating this situation and hating Patience for getting him into it. It was all her fault— who did she think she was? What gave her the right to prod and push people into doing things they did not want to do?
'Sit down,' Patience said, as if he was one of those children downstairs whose lives she managed so certainly and self-confidently. She pushed a chair forward for him; the seat of it banged into the back of his knees and forced him to sink down onto it. 'Let's have the coffee, shall we, before it gets cold?'
Sitting down gave him something to do. He crossed his legs, smoothing down his trousers, and suddenly noticed specks of mud on them—he must have got that when he'd crawled into and out of Thomas's den. Crossly, he brushed at the specks, but they had dried hard. The trousers would need to go to the cleaners tomorrow. Accepting the coffee Patience handed him gave him something else to do; he slowly stirred the spoon round and round, staring down into the cup.
'Sugar?'
'No, thank you.' James turned his smouldering eyes towards her, hoping she could read his mind this time—he was thinking about what he wanted to say to her, the blistering words he would use if they were alone.
She grinned at him, her hazel eyes dancing. Oh, yes, she had read his mind and it merely amused her. She was one of the strangest women he had ever met, at one and the same time too young and too old for him. Too young in years and experience of the world; too bossy to live with.
What am I thinking about? he asked himself in horror. Live with? Flushed and furious, with himself as well as her, he looked away, stirring his coffee.
'Would you like me to go away for a
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