The Chandelier Ballroom (13 page)

Everyone else had gone but she’d volunteered to stay on to help him. When he’d thanked her for her dedication as she stood beside him helping to sort the sheaf of documents on his desk, she’d murmured in a low seductive tone, ‘I wouldn’t call it dedication. I’d say it’s something quite different.’

He’d looked up at her, for the first time in his life realised what it was like to feel an overwhelming desire for someone other than his wife. Sensing the change in his manner, she’d moved even closer to him, hand on his arm, slim fingers caressing it. Seconds later he was clasping her to him, his lips hungrily seeking hers with a need to take possession of her. The rest had been frantic, exquisite, she lying across his desk, face down, thighs exposed, gasping with pleasure as she received him. So natural, so wonderful. He had never done this with Joyce. She would never have allowed it.

Since then they’d begun taking advantage of hotel rooms. It was like a drug to him, he wanting more and more, and he found himself dreading his wife’s return. It was she, he told himself, who had driven him into Gillian’s arms with her frigidity. She only had herself to blame. Surely it wasn’t natural for a woman not to enjoy sex? A man can stand only so much abstinence. Yet he did love her. So long as she never found out about him and Gillian they’d get along just fine, and surely it would be a relief to her that he would never trouble her again in that direction.

Three weeks since she had left and still three more weeks to go before she would return. Strangely he was beginning to feel a little put out by the enjoyable time her postcards said she was having in Italy with her mother. She should never have gone, leaving him open to temptation. Had she been here he might have overcome that, he told himself, believing every word of it.

He needed her back just to have her waiting when he returned home. Coming home to that large house all alone was beginning to be unbearable. Yet it was unthinkable, bringing Gillian here to fill those empty hours. The time they spent together was another world, and she played no part in the one that was his and Joyce’s. By the third week, not having her here was beginning to play on his mind. Gillian was all very well but he needed stability, needed someone to welcome him when he walked in through his door.

He hadn’t intended to, but these last few days he had become terse with Gillian and last night they’d had a row in the hotel room, she saying that he was becoming a bore, she didn’t want to hear about the length of time his wife had been away, didn’t want his divided time; that she was no whore to be used as and when he wanted, and when his wife returned would he assume they should rush their lovemaking so he could get back to that silly woman?

‘And how long do we carry on like that?’ she blazed at him when he confessed to being content with the way things were. ‘How long am I to be considered your bit of pleasure on the side?’

‘It’s not like that,’ he said in confusion at her sudden outburst.

‘So what
is
it like then?’ she demanded, growing more aggressive. ‘I tell you this, Arnold, I’m not prepared to sit around forever waiting for you to make up your mind which of us you want. Either you love me or you don’t. And if you do, how long do we wait before you ask your wife for a divorce?’

The word had shocked him. Until then such a move hadn’t occurred to him and suddenly he knew how much he wanted Joyce back with all her faults. Yet these evenings making love, wild and passionate, had become his life, his salvation.

‘I’ll put her in the picture the moment she comes home, I promise,’ he lied. It seemed to content Gillian and they’d made love, harsh words forgotten, he almost throwing himself on her and she reciprocating with frantic enjoyment.

But this evening an innocent remark that this time next week his wife would be home, she immediately interpreting the tone as bordering on the wistful, had started another row in which she screamed abuse at him, so much so that he lost his temper, blaring out that if she thought so little of him it might be best for both of them to call it a day and she was free to leave any time she wanted. He hadn’t meant it, but Gillian was furious.

‘What d’you mean, leave?’ she demanded, jumping to the completely wrong conclusion. ‘Do I take it you’re trying to say I’m being sacked?’

He hadn’t meant it that way of course, but beside himself with hurt pride, having been called a weak and pathetic wimp, he burst out before he could stop himself: ‘If you like!’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ she yelled back at him. Joyce had never yelled at him in three years of marriage. ‘No one sacks me! And on what grounds – that you’ve been shagging me and you’ve now got the wind up? But you can have my resignation with pleasure! I don’t need a stupid twit under his wife’s thumb for a lover. I want a man, one who knows what he wants. So go back to the dear little wife and play the humble little hubby and damned good riddance!’

That was it – four weeks of mad, wonderful, anxiety-free passion, over. He wanted to say he didn’t mean what he’d said, but he knew he couldn’t. It was then he realised he had merely been carried away by the excitement of sex. It would have had to come to an end eventually because he could never have divorced Joyce. He’d never tell her what he’d been up to. Better she remained oblivious. Had it gone on she would undoubtedly have found out and then were would he have been? Just as well things had come to a head. It was beginning to worry him. So long as she didn’t seek retribution, try to blackmail him. But he didn’t think she would stoop that low.

To his intense relief, Gillian handed in her notice the next day. He knew he must have really upset her but was too relieved to worry, which in itself proved that he couldn’t have been that much in love with her, just in love with the thrill of it. She handed her notice to his father, saying she’d been offered a better job starting immediately, not needing to work out her notice.

His father hadn’t queried it except to remark, ‘Seems you must have seriously offended her over a few things to say the least, the way she stormed into my office. She was fuming and I was not going have my junior partner being asked to match his word against hers. No doubt something you said or did. You’ll need to be a bit careful how you handle your secretary, Arnold. Touchy people, secretaries. Especially the young, clever, good-looking ones.’

To Arnold’s ears the remark seemed to hold a double meaning and he swallowed hard even as he smiled and said he would remember that.

All he wanted now was for Joyce to come home, for everything to get back to normal. She had sent a hasty postcard saying she’d be home on Saturday, seventeenth July, a week earlier than expected, leaving him to thank his lucky stars that he and Gillian had parted company just in time.

He was actually looking forward to seeing her, to carrying on his life where it had left off all those months back. But he was a little mystified by her having cut short her holiday. Her postcard had been almost terse, giving no reason, and for an insane moment he’d wondered if Gillian had got in touch with her and told all. As his secretary she could have got hold of any one of those postcards he’d kept in his desk drawer, each with an address of the hotel Joyce was staying in. Could she have been that underhand? What was it – a woman scorned? He remained on edge as he waited for Saturday to arrive, his heart beating sickeningly every time he thought of it.

She was happy to be back in England. It had been a good holiday and she was feeling so much calmer than when she left, though something about Italy had felt rather strained. The people had been friendly and easy-going, but there’d been a lot of military presence that had rather unnerved her.

Waiting for her as she and her mother got off the train from Dover was Arnold and her father. Arnold held a huge bouquet of red roses that almost hid the upper part of him, and a satisfying thought flooded into her head as he thrust the bouquet at her – yes, he did love her and had really missed her these past weeks. It was written all over his face as he caught her to him, almost crushing the blooms, to plant a kiss on her lips which immediately embarrassed her with people still alighting from the train. She was sure some of them had grinned secretly, seeing it.

Her father had simply pecked his wife’s cheek, presented to him as though she too felt uncomfortable with even this small demonstration of affection with people around. The modest bunch of summer blooms was, however, accepted with a little more grace, a small thank you and a smile while a porter gathered up the mound of luggage onto a station trolley.

Saying goodbye to her parents who’d be travelling home, Joyce settled herself gratefully in the passenger seat of their own car, her own luggage piled in the boot and on the back seat.

‘It’s so nice to be going home,’ she whispered as they drove out of London.

‘It’s nice to have you home,’ he answered, his sentiments sounding oddly mechanical, his eyes concentrating on the road ahead. ‘You had a nice time though?’

‘Oh, marvellous!’ she gushed, instantly embarking on nearly every detail of her holiday, it all coming alive again for her as she spoke. ‘I think it was just what I needed.’

She half closed her eyes, the lids feeling heavy after a long homeward journey. ‘Mother was so good, she took me everywhere. I almost felt I didn’t want to come home, but now I’m so glad I am. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got you a few really nice presents from Italy. I hope you like them. They’re …’

She let her words trail off, realising that he hadn’t been responding to her account of her holiday for some time. She was about to jerk him into paying a little more attention to what she’d been saying, but weariness was overcoming her, her eyelids drooping lower and lower and, hardly aware of it, she drifted off into a doze.

She awoke with a start and sat up as the car swung into the long gravel drive with its flower borders and well-trimmed shrubs. The house looked unexpectedly different, like seeing a long-forgotten acquaintance again, unable to re-adjust to the once so familiar. She’d only been away a couple of months yet everything struck her as being larger than she remembered, the tall windows even taller, the wide bay window even wider, the upper windows too strangely different, all of it momentarily unreal. Seconds later all had fallen into place, everything back to normal, familiar again, a phenomena anyone coming home from a long holiday might experience and find amusing. Yet she felt suddenly disconcerted, a tiny shiver rippling through her.

It wasn’t the end of it. Stepping inside the door while Arnold unloaded the suitcases, she felt a cold draught moving along the hallway to meet her. It seemed to be coming from what Arnold loved to call the chandelier room, and she noticed that its door was open. She gave a shudder and hurried into the sitting room to escape.

Having deposited the suitcases in the hall, Arnold followed her into the room, immediately noticing her drawn expression.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he queried.

‘Just tired,’ she answered, sitting down in the armchair by the bay window.

‘I expect you are. You slept most of the way home,’ he added. ‘I reckon you could do with a nice cup of tea.’ He turned as their cook-cum-housekeeper came bustling in.

‘Oh, Mrs Evans, I know we’ll be having dinner soon and I hope you don’t mind, but we could do wonders at the moment to a cup of tea.’

Her chubby face beamed. ‘Funny you should say that, Mr Johns. I was coming in to ask that very thing. I expect you could both do with a little bit of cake too. I made a nice Dundee this morning. I don’t think it’ll spoil your dinner.’

‘Thank you,’ Joyce said feebly, and as the woman made to go out, she called after her, ‘And Mrs Evans, could you close the door to the big room as you pass? There’s quite a draught coming from there.’

‘Yes, of course. I didn’t realise it was open.’

‘It’s probably the French windows,’ Arnold said as she went out. ‘It’s been such a warm day and as Mrs Evans was here I left them open. I’ll go after her and close them now.’

Left alone, the late afternoon sun pouring warmth on her back, Joyce sat staring at the sitting room door as if should her gaze wander something strange might manifest itself. Such an irrational fear that she became angry with herself and deliberately turned away to stare out of the window at the lovely slanting sunshine. Moments later Arnold returned to drop onto the sofa and begin asking more about the holiday and if she was still happy for them to go on the one he’d planned in September, being as she already seemed to have had such a good time with this one.

‘Of course,’ she told him without hesitation. ‘I’m looking forward to it very much.’

It seemed a relief to him to hear her say so and he immediately embarked on what he had planned for it. Slowly she relaxed, feeling better with herself.

Later, going upstairs with a lighter heart to freshen up and dress for dinner, she noticed the door of the chandelier room open again and a faint draught touching her arms. Rooted to the spot she called to Arnold who came hurrying out into the hall at her frantic cry.

‘You said you’d closed those French windows!’ she accused.

‘I did. They might have blown open again.’

‘There’s no wind.’

‘Then I couldn’t have shut them properly, could I?’ He sounded off-hand, moving off to check, leaving her standing halfway up the stairs.

‘No, they are closed,’ he said, coming back into the hall now, firmly shutting the door behind him, but before he could look up at her she had run off up the stairs, disappearing along the passage to their bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed she was aware that she was trembling, fighting to calm herself. Slowly the trembling ceased and by the time he’d followed her up to get ready for dinner, she was herself again, annoyed at her silly behaviour.

Sunday, a day to linger under the covers a little longer, to rise to a leisurely breakfast, take things slowly and do very little, maybe read, have a little swim, or perhaps wander about the garden, though today it was too hot for that.

This morning Arnold had gone off to play golf. He’d asked her to go too, had tried teaching her some time ago, but she wasn’t keen on it and today it was too hot to be traipsing across the greens in the full sunshine and she was still weary from yesterday, all that travelling home from Italy.