Yorkshire pud, apple pie.'
'Rugger . . . hm? I was always afraid of the injuries. A broken nose wouldn't
have
mattered.
Might
even
have
been
an
improvement'—stroking his large, high-bridged nose. 'But I never fancied the idea of having my teeth knocked out. Very gutless of me, I'm afraid, but there it is.'
'Not gutless . . . sensible. Mike had lost several teeth.'
Christie remembered the dismay she had felt on their wedding night when, just for a joke, her husband had taken out the bridgework replacing two lost teeth. He had put it back almost at once, but it had been the first jarring note. The second had been when she had emerged from the bathroom, shy in her white chiffon nightgown, and he had said, 'You won't need that on, old girl. I've been a model of good behaviour so far—not much chance to be anything else while your old man was breathing down my neck—but tonight's the night we start making up for lost time. So strip off, there's a good girl. I expect you spent a bomb on that nonsense, and I don't want to tear it.'
Had she been foolishly over-sensitive? Or had he been crude and crass? How could she ever know the answer?
'Were you really expelled from your school, or was that an exaggeration on Paul's part?' she asked, to shut out the distasteful memory.
'My father was asked to remove me. As my partner in crime was a member of the staff, it was a hushed-up expulsion.'
'What kind of crime?' she asked blankly. The only offence she could think of involving a master and a boy was unbelievable in relation to the man on the opposite side of the table.
He read her mind and his mouth quirked. 'No, I was always heterosexual. I was caught in flagrante delicto with one of the assistant matrons. Had a master come in and found us I should probably have got off with a beating. I was seventeen. She was twenty, and not inexperienced. Unfortunately it was the Headmaster's wife who caught us, a woman of the highest morals who was deeply shocked—and perhaps subconsciously envious, the Head being a scholarly aesthete of powerful intellect but somewhat lacking in red blood.'
'It's not brawn which makes a good lover,' Christie said shortly.
How would I know? she thought, the next instant. Maybe Mike was a wonderful lover. He wanted to do it every night, and sometimes again in the morning. So often ... so quickly ... oh, God, let me not think about it.
'No, it's not,' Ash agreed, his tone casual. 'But nor is it an intellectual exercise. A happy medium is desirable, wouldn't you say? Will you have pudding or cheese?'
She had the Chefs Cake, he the Stilton.
'No coffee, thank you. The bill, please,' he said to their attentive waiter.
When it came, he signed it and tipped. 'Now we'll stroll across to my mooring.'
On the way he paused by a building with tall Georgian doors and windows like those of The Admiral's Inn. But this was of timber construction, with a balustraded balcony above the wide verandah surrounding the ground floor.
'The Admiral's House. Tradition has it that Nelson lived there when he was based in Antigua between 1784 and 1787. In fact the house wasn't built until midway through the next century, and the house Nelson really occupied was on the site of the present officers'
quarters. This place contains quite an interesting museum which you should come and see another day.'
He moved on towards a three-storeyed building which he said had originally been the vast copper and lumber store.
'Now it's twelve self-catering apartments, done up in excellent taste, some for four and some for two people. I would have booked you in here, except that they're full at present.'
Passing other buildings they came to the dockside itself, the moored vessels spread round the semicircular quay like the sticks of a fan, their sterns to the quay, their cabin lights casting golden spangles on the dark still water between them.
'There she is—my Sunbird,' said Ash.
Christie heard the pride in his voice as he
'Rugger . . . hm? I was always afraid of the injuries. A broken nose wouldn't
have
mattered.
Might
even
have
been
an
improvement'—stroking his large, high-bridged nose. 'But I never fancied the idea of having my teeth knocked out. Very gutless of me, I'm afraid, but there it is.'
'Not gutless . . . sensible. Mike had lost several teeth.'
Christie remembered the dismay she had felt on their wedding night when, just for a joke, her husband had taken out the bridgework replacing two lost teeth. He had put it back almost at once, but it had been the first jarring note. The second had been when she had emerged from the bathroom, shy in her white chiffon nightgown, and he had said, 'You won't need that on, old girl. I've been a model of good behaviour so far—not much chance to be anything else while your old man was breathing down my neck—but tonight's the night we start making up for lost time. So strip off, there's a good girl. I expect you spent a bomb on that nonsense, and I don't want to tear it.'
Had she been foolishly over-sensitive? Or had he been crude and crass? How could she ever know the answer?
'Were you really expelled from your school, or was that an exaggeration on Paul's part?' she asked, to shut out the distasteful memory.
'My father was asked to remove me. As my partner in crime was a member of the staff, it was a hushed-up expulsion.'
'What kind of crime?' she asked blankly. The only offence she could think of involving a master and a boy was unbelievable in relation to the man on the opposite side of the table.
He read her mind and his mouth quirked. 'No, I was always heterosexual. I was caught in flagrante delicto with one of the assistant matrons. Had a master come in and found us I should probably have got off with a beating. I was seventeen. She was twenty, and not inexperienced. Unfortunately it was the Headmaster's wife who caught us, a woman of the highest morals who was deeply shocked—and perhaps subconsciously envious, the Head being a scholarly aesthete of powerful intellect but somewhat lacking in red blood.'
'It's not brawn which makes a good lover,' Christie said shortly.
How would I know? she thought, the next instant. Maybe Mike was a wonderful lover. He wanted to do it every night, and sometimes again in the morning. So often ... so quickly ... oh, God, let me not think about it.
'No, it's not,' Ash agreed, his tone casual. 'But nor is it an intellectual exercise. A happy medium is desirable, wouldn't you say? Will you have pudding or cheese?'
She had the Chefs Cake, he the Stilton.
'No coffee, thank you. The bill, please,' he said to their attentive waiter.
When it came, he signed it and tipped. 'Now we'll stroll across to my mooring.'
On the way he paused by a building with tall Georgian doors and windows like those of The Admiral's Inn. But this was of timber construction, with a balustraded balcony above the wide verandah surrounding the ground floor.
'The Admiral's House. Tradition has it that Nelson lived there when he was based in Antigua between 1784 and 1787. In fact the house wasn't built until midway through the next century, and the house Nelson really occupied was on the site of the present officers'
quarters. This place contains quite an interesting museum which you should come and see another day.'
He moved on towards a three-storeyed building which he said had originally been the vast copper and lumber store.
'Now it's twelve self-catering apartments, done up in excellent taste, some for four and some for two people. I would have booked you in here, except that they're full at present.'
Passing other buildings they came to the dockside itself, the moored vessels spread round the semicircular quay like the sticks of a fan, their sterns to the quay, their cabin lights casting golden spangles on the dark still water between them.
'There she is—my Sunbird,' said Ash.
Christie heard the pride in his voice as he
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