woman as next Head of Chambers should put that right.”
Chapter 7
H e had said that he would be with her at Pelham Place by six-thirty, and by six Octavia was ready and waiting, moving restlessly from her small galley kitchen to the left of the door into the sitting-room, where she could gaze from the window up through the basement railings. It would be the first meal she had cooked for him, the first time he had entered the flat. Until now he had called for her, but when she had invited him in, he had said mysteriously, “Not yet.” She wondered what he had been waiting for. Some greater certainty, some more positive commitment, the right moment to make a symbolic entrance into her life? But she couldn’t be more committed to him than she was now. She loved him. He was her man, her person, her lover. They had never made love, but that would come. There would be a right time for that too. Now it was sufficient for her that she could rejoice in the assurance that she was loved. She wanted the whole of the world to know. She wanted to take him back with her to the convent, to show him off, to let those despised and arrogant girls know that she, too, could get a man. She wanted the conventional things: a ring on her engagement finger, a wedding to be planned, a home to make for him. He needed looking after, he needed love.
And he had another power over her, and one she only half-acknowledged. He was dangerous. She didn’t know how dangerous or in what way, but he wasn’t of her world. He wasn’t of any world that she had ever known or expected to know. With him there was not only the urge and excitement of growing desire, there was a
frisson
of danger which satisfied the rebel in her, made her feel for the first time in her life fully alive. This wasn’t just a love affair, it was a comradeship-in-arms, an alliance, offensive and defensive, against the conforming world of home, against her mother and all her mother stood for. The motorcycle was part of that Ashe. Her arms round his waist, she would feel the rush of cold night air, see the road spinning like a grey ribbon under their wheels, want to shout with exhilaration and triumph.
She had never known anyone like him. His behaviour to her was punctilious, almost formal. He would bend and kiss her cheek when they met, or lift her hand to his lips. Otherwise he never touched her, and she was beginning to want him with a need which increasingly she found it hard to hide. She knew that he didn’t like to be touched but she could barely keep her hands from him.
He never told her where he was taking her, and she had been content not to know. Invariably it was to a country pub; he seemed to dislike London pubs and they went to them seldom. But he despised the smart country pubs with rows of Porsches and BMWs carefully parked outside, the hanging baskets, the bar with its open fire and artfully arranged objects to provide a synthetic rusticity, the separate restaurant serving predictable food, the sound of confident, braying upper-class voices. He stopped always at the quieter, less fashionable places where the country people drank, and he would settle her in a corner seat, fetch the medium sherry or half-pint of lager for which she asked, and his own half-pint of beer. They would eat bar food, usually cheese or pâtè and French bread, and she would talk while he listened. He told her little about himself. She sensed that he was both willing that she should know how awful those early years had been, and yet unable to tolerate her pity. If she questioned he would reply but briefly, sometimes with a single word. The impression he gave was of someone in control, who had always been in control, staying with each foster parent for as long as he had decided to stay and no longer. She learned to know when she was treading on dangerous ground. After the meal they would walk for half an hour in the country, he striding ahead, she scurrying to keep up with him, before
Chapter 7
H e had said that he would be with her at Pelham Place by six-thirty, and by six Octavia was ready and waiting, moving restlessly from her small galley kitchen to the left of the door into the sitting-room, where she could gaze from the window up through the basement railings. It would be the first meal she had cooked for him, the first time he had entered the flat. Until now he had called for her, but when she had invited him in, he had said mysteriously, “Not yet.” She wondered what he had been waiting for. Some greater certainty, some more positive commitment, the right moment to make a symbolic entrance into her life? But she couldn’t be more committed to him than she was now. She loved him. He was her man, her person, her lover. They had never made love, but that would come. There would be a right time for that too. Now it was sufficient for her that she could rejoice in the assurance that she was loved. She wanted the whole of the world to know. She wanted to take him back with her to the convent, to show him off, to let those despised and arrogant girls know that she, too, could get a man. She wanted the conventional things: a ring on her engagement finger, a wedding to be planned, a home to make for him. He needed looking after, he needed love.
And he had another power over her, and one she only half-acknowledged. He was dangerous. She didn’t know how dangerous or in what way, but he wasn’t of her world. He wasn’t of any world that she had ever known or expected to know. With him there was not only the urge and excitement of growing desire, there was a
frisson
of danger which satisfied the rebel in her, made her feel for the first time in her life fully alive. This wasn’t just a love affair, it was a comradeship-in-arms, an alliance, offensive and defensive, against the conforming world of home, against her mother and all her mother stood for. The motorcycle was part of that Ashe. Her arms round his waist, she would feel the rush of cold night air, see the road spinning like a grey ribbon under their wheels, want to shout with exhilaration and triumph.
She had never known anyone like him. His behaviour to her was punctilious, almost formal. He would bend and kiss her cheek when they met, or lift her hand to his lips. Otherwise he never touched her, and she was beginning to want him with a need which increasingly she found it hard to hide. She knew that he didn’t like to be touched but she could barely keep her hands from him.
He never told her where he was taking her, and she had been content not to know. Invariably it was to a country pub; he seemed to dislike London pubs and they went to them seldom. But he despised the smart country pubs with rows of Porsches and BMWs carefully parked outside, the hanging baskets, the bar with its open fire and artfully arranged objects to provide a synthetic rusticity, the separate restaurant serving predictable food, the sound of confident, braying upper-class voices. He stopped always at the quieter, less fashionable places where the country people drank, and he would settle her in a corner seat, fetch the medium sherry or half-pint of lager for which she asked, and his own half-pint of beer. They would eat bar food, usually cheese or pâtè and French bread, and she would talk while he listened. He told her little about himself. She sensed that he was both willing that she should know how awful those early years had been, and yet unable to tolerate her pity. If she questioned he would reply but briefly, sometimes with a single word. The impression he gave was of someone in control, who had always been in control, staying with each foster parent for as long as he had decided to stay and no longer. She learned to know when she was treading on dangerous ground. After the meal they would walk for half an hour in the country, he striding ahead, she scurrying to keep up with him, before
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