Breaking the Rules by Barbara Taylor Bradford

bring M home with him to this apartment after dinner, reluctant to let her out of his sight. Then, unexpectedly, outside Le Refuge, he had changed his mind. Once they were standing in the street, facing each other, he had finally given in to the urgent need he had to grab her, hold her in his arms. As he had reached for her, she had reached for him, and they had drawn together willingly, kissing passionately, clinging to each other. M had responded to him ardently, as aroused as he was, and seemingly willing to follow his lead.
    When they had finally drawn apart, a little stunned and reeling, he had been taken by surprise when he noticed the awful look in her eyes. It was one of undisguised apprehension. He had recoiled slightly, not only baffled but also worried, wondering what was wrong. It struck him then that she was not very experienced when it came to men, even though she had appeared to be a genuine sophisticate. And so, because he had serious intentions, he had taken her home instead of into his bed, dropping her off at the brownstone on West Twenty-Second Street where she rented a room from Geo.
    Detecting a hint of disappointment in her as they had ridden downtown in the cab, he had put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. ‘Will you spend tomorrow with me?’ he hadasked, and she had nodded, giving him the benefit of a very big smile. ‘It’s already tomorrow,’ she had murmured. ‘If you’re referring to Sunday, that is. It’s nearly one o’clock.’ They had both laughed, and intuitively he had known that whatever it was that had troubled her outside the restaurant, it had now vanished.
    And so she would come here later. At noon he had told her. They would have brunch and perhaps go to a movie, and he would let things take their natural course. He did not want to rush her, or spoil anything, and he had all the time in the world to court her properly.
    Turning away from the window, Larry moved across the library. As he did, his eye fell on the photograph of his mother in a silver frame; it sat on a walnut chest amongst other family photographs. He stood staring at it, thinking what a beautiful woman she was, with her mass of blonde hair and light eyes.
    Pandora Gallen. One of England’s greatest actresses, but still his mother, nonetheless, and mother to his many siblings, and wife to his father. As he often did, he heard her light, musical voice echoing in his head, explaining something of importance to her. ‘You can know a person for forty years and never know them. Yet you can also meet someone and know them in an instant, in the space of an hour, even less. It’s all about recognition, you see, Larry. Recognizing that you’re the same blood type. Or, if you prefer, from the same tribe.’ She had smiled at him that afternoon and given him a very knowing look. And he had instantly understood that perhaps at some time in her life his mother had met someone whom she had recognized immediately and wanted to be with.
    As he had just done. He had told M she seemed so familiar to him that he was positive they had met before. She had insisted they hadn’t, and yet he had recognized her. She and I are very alike, he suddenly thought. We’re the same breed. There was no need for her to tell him anything about herself: he already kneweverything there was to know just by spending an evening with her. She was from an upper class family, well spoken, highly educated and cultivated. Probably one of a brood, he decided, more than likely the youngest, both picked on and adored. It struck him that she had more than likely crossed the Pond to make it under her own steam without the help of family.
    He smiled to himself, liking this idea. Plucky, he thought, she’s plucky and courageous…and just possibly a carbon copy of me.
    Larry found it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned for two hours and, finally, in desperation, he got up. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and then