to ogle you back.
She has two other English girls staying with her–Anne Cartwright, who is charming, great fun and not at all above herself (she has taught me how to smoke quite successfully and without the least bit of choking) and Eleanor Ogilvy-Smith, who is a great lump of wet clay. Eleanor lives in terror of any possible form of enjoyment and every time Anne and I campaign for some tiny inch of freedom, she immediately sides with Madame Galliot and suggests another outing of the religious variety. She also spends far too much time in the bathroom. Anne and I have bets as to what she does in there–all of which would offend your propriety.
So, please! More news of the Season and every man you dance with and every single dress you wear and what you have for supper (each course) and how many marriage proposals you receive this week and if they kneel and blush and stutter with nerves, etc., when faced with your overwhelming beauty or simply faint. Also, please, please, please give me some small commission here in Paris so that I may have a legitimate reason to set forth into some of the Forbidden Zones– for example, do you need any gloves from Pigalle? Or stockings from the Lido?
I am too, too proud of you, darling! And I think Fa would be too. How am I ever to live up to my beautiful sister? J’ai malade de jalousie! (See how my French improves!)
Send my love to Muv, who must be finding the fight to keep you both chaste and marry you off at breakneck speed quite an exhilarating moral dilemma. She does, as always, write the most fantastically boring letters. They read more like housekeeping accounts than anything else. How did a woman so dull marry so well? (Anne says she must have Hidden Longings, which is quite revolting, especially when you consider what our stepfather probably looks like sans clothes. I told her surely such things should be outlawed amongst the elderly and besides, ma chérie maman does a very good line in Virgin Queenism–her poor Consort has Jesus to contend with now. I wonder she hasn’t invested in a life-sized crucifix to hang above the bed, now that we are so hideously rich.)
Oh! To Be In London!
I do so long to join you and be in the thick of life at last!
Yours, as always,
Diana xxxx
PS Have just tried to cut my own hair with a pair of sewing shears and now look like the boy who delivers for the butcher’s. Anne has kindly lent me a cloche. Pray for me.
Cate walked up the central staircase, to the large open landing of the first floor. It was galleried, furnished with plush red velvet sofas and end tables. She sat down, gathering herself. There was no need to snap at him, she thought, cradling her head in her hands. She was on edge, that was all.
The truth was she’d assumed Jack would be an older man, a contemporary of Rachel’s; some sexless uncle type who needed a helping hand for a few days. Not a man speeding around in a convertible, staring at her with intense blue eyes, asking questions.
She was safe, she reminded herself. This was England, after all. And here, hidden in this remote house, immersed, like a reluctant time traveller, she was protected, surrounded by the beauty and opulence of another, more elegant age. Nothing could touch her. Least of all a man she hardly knew.
Taking a deep breath, she looked around. It was such a luxurious expanse of space to have at the top of a staircase. People must’ve congregated here, talking, laughing and smoking in their evening clothes before going down to supper. She tried to imagine their easy, urbane conversation; the air a cocktail of French perfume and thick, unfiltered cigarette smoke; flattery and flirtation. Running her hand along, she felt the lush, worn velvet, soft and inviting.
Still, she was tense, unsettled. Getting up, she turned down the hall, looking in each of the rooms until she found what was clearly the master bedroom, with its rich mahogany sleigh bed and dark, masculine furniture. She headed in the opposite direction. All the way at the other end of the long corridor was Lady Avondale’s suite, decorated with lighter, more restrained feminine touches. Soft primrose walls were covered in watercolours, the bed was in the French Empire style and blue-and-white chintz curtains were pulled back across the bay window overlooking the front garden. There was a view of the sea. Someone had opened the windows. Fresh towels were placed neatly on the dresser.
She was expected.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tried to still her racing thoughts. It was useless.
Why was it that no matter how far she travelled from New York, it was never far enough?
Opening her handbag, she took out her phone. The number was withheld. A red light flashed – a message. She threw it back into her handbag. Lying down across the bed she curled into a ball, arms wrapped round her knees.
The room was pretty, elegant, but it offered no comfort. She rolled over on to her back. There was the unfamiliar sound of birdsong. It should’ve been soothing but instead it felt insistent, nagging. She was used to car horns, the roar of traffic; too many people, too close together. Nature felt like a black hole into which she was falling, weightless.
Breathing deeply, she tried to relax, pressing her eyes shut.
But as soon as they were closed, the film began to play again. It always began the same way: with his touch on her skin, the musky scent of his cologne, the pressure of his lips, softly caressing against her bare shoulder…
‘Go on.’ He dipped his finger into the glass of cognac, tracing it along his lips. ‘I dare you.’ He leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek. ‘Kiss me.’
How many times had she promised herself she wouldn’t? She wouldn’t answer his calls; wouldn’t go to him; definitely wouldn’t drink.
He was like an invading army; he didn’t want to love her so much as to occupy her. And to her horror, she wanted to be annihilated; overwhelmed. It took so much for her to feel anything at all.
She flicked her eyes open. These dreams were dangerous.
There were other memories, less palatable; even terrifying. So why was this the one that haunted her? The glamour, seduction; the full force of his desire and attention.
Sitting up, she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror on the other side of the room. The slim, blonde woman who stared back was almost unrecognisable, even to her. When she’d first gone to New York, she’d been a brunette, hair halfway down her back, hanging like a veil, hiding her face. Her shoulders were hunched forward, rounding protectively over her solar plexus, which felt permanently tender and bruised.
She wanted to be someone else. Anyone else.
It was Derek Constantine who suggested she cut and dye her hair. ‘Something timeless, classic.’
‘But I can’t afford it.’
‘You can’t afford not to be blonde,’ he corrected her. ‘And,’ he sighed, his upper lip curling slightly as he looked down at her ankle-length skirt, ‘we need to do something about all those black clothes. You’re not an Italian widow. This is a city of very fine social distinctions. Everyone nowadays has money, what’s important is pedigree, exclusivity. You’re like a debutante, before the ball. With proper grooming and introductions to the right people, who knows how far you could go?’
She didn’t understand; it all sounded so conservative and staid. ‘You mean in art?’
His slate-grey eyes were remote, unreadable. ‘In life,’ he answered, pressing the tips of his long fingers together under his chin.
In life.
She blinked back at herself now, two sizes smaller, head to toe in crisp white linen. Clean, controlled, refined. In the hazy afternoon light, she looked golden; angelic.
If only you could remove the darkness of your character with the ease with which you could change your clothes.
He’d sounded so sure, taken such an interest in her. The idea of being guided