what it offered.
God, he wanted to want to –
The weight of her body on him. Her arm round his neck, clinging. The flesh . . .
Something dug and bit in his stomach.
He managed to kiss the top of her head, as you would a child come to say goodnight. It was as much of a ‘no’ as a slap in the face.
With a tart little blink she pretended that hadn’t been the question. After a moment she got up, and went to the window, and came back and sat herself down mermaid-style at his feet, looking up at him. She said gently, ‘What can I do for you, Peter? How can I make you happy?’ At which he let out a bark of laughter, which sounded much crueller than he had intended, even to his own ears, but which he could not pull back. She winced.
Do you even read the version in the papers? he thought. Do you have the slightest idea what’s going on out there? And then stopped himself. It wasn’t her fault.
‘I only want you to be happy, darling,’ she said boldly, flinging caution to the winds.
He blinked. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not in your power, my dear,’ he said mildly. ‘So you’d best put it out of your mind.’
Slap, slap, slap.
She turned and went upstairs. He pushed himself out of the chair, like an old man, and poured himself a brandy from the sparkling clean, perfectly positioned decanter on the deeply polished sideboard.
*
The following morning Julia went up to London on the train. She proceeded smartly to Selfridges, where she bought herself a dim green wool dress with a wide collar and a soft V-neck, belted at the waist, and the new war-crinoline shape, flaring to her calves. It showed her narrow ankles, and it showed her throat. She bought a pair of new shoes, dainty black, almost practical, with a heel. She looked at the underwear – every time she looked in a shop they had brought out new designs. Goodness, they were pretty. Blue figured silk . . . but Peter had never liked the thigh-restricting corsets. She blushed, and banished the blush. That was what she was here for.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, gesturing to an unfamiliar item.
The girl gave a delicate smile. ‘It is a bust-improver, madam. The, em, moulded area increases the generosity of the form. It’s entirely invisible, of course, when worn. But not, em, something madam would be requiring.’
Goodness.
Most of the new styles were so soft and free-moving. That was all right – her breasts were still good. Weren’t they? Yes. She chose a nice light corset – no stays or any of that old-fashioned nonsense. Vogue disapproved of women wearing the new knitted-silk dancing corsets for the day. She’d read it was daring. She felt daring. Perhaps Peter would like daring.
Then the girl showed her some beautiful silk chiffon drawers and chemises in the Oriental style. Pale green like a pistachio nut, bias cut, with a dusty pink trim. The sort of thing Vogue called: ‘Those blushing trifles that are born to blush unseen.’
So much had been unseen of late. Well. Perhaps he would look at these.
‘ So pretty,’ she murmured. The drawers were tiny. They wouldn’t be the least use for everyday wear.
‘We also have this,’ said the girl, modestly. With a little flourish of her neat hands a delicate slip appeared along the counter, the same silk chiffon, with fine satin ribbons for the straps. ‘And, er . . .’ It was a deep-sleeved wafting boudoir gown, the same silk chiffon with devoré velvet, and a soft sash to tie it.
The girl actually stared at Julia in the changing room, her peony skin, the exquisite scraps of lingerie. Like a present wrapped only in ribbons.
Julia bought them all. And new stockings.
Christmas Eve, by the cruel requirements of the regiment, was his last night. After their delicious, elegant, slightly formal dinner, over which Julia had taken considerable trouble, she said she would go to bed early, and she kissed Peter sweetly as she went, not saying she was tired, or had a headache, or anything.
She
God, he wanted to want to –
The weight of her body on him. Her arm round his neck, clinging. The flesh . . .
Something dug and bit in his stomach.
He managed to kiss the top of her head, as you would a child come to say goodnight. It was as much of a ‘no’ as a slap in the face.
With a tart little blink she pretended that hadn’t been the question. After a moment she got up, and went to the window, and came back and sat herself down mermaid-style at his feet, looking up at him. She said gently, ‘What can I do for you, Peter? How can I make you happy?’ At which he let out a bark of laughter, which sounded much crueller than he had intended, even to his own ears, but which he could not pull back. She winced.
Do you even read the version in the papers? he thought. Do you have the slightest idea what’s going on out there? And then stopped himself. It wasn’t her fault.
‘I only want you to be happy, darling,’ she said boldly, flinging caution to the winds.
He blinked. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not in your power, my dear,’ he said mildly. ‘So you’d best put it out of your mind.’
Slap, slap, slap.
She turned and went upstairs. He pushed himself out of the chair, like an old man, and poured himself a brandy from the sparkling clean, perfectly positioned decanter on the deeply polished sideboard.
*
The following morning Julia went up to London on the train. She proceeded smartly to Selfridges, where she bought herself a dim green wool dress with a wide collar and a soft V-neck, belted at the waist, and the new war-crinoline shape, flaring to her calves. It showed her narrow ankles, and it showed her throat. She bought a pair of new shoes, dainty black, almost practical, with a heel. She looked at the underwear – every time she looked in a shop they had brought out new designs. Goodness, they were pretty. Blue figured silk . . . but Peter had never liked the thigh-restricting corsets. She blushed, and banished the blush. That was what she was here for.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, gesturing to an unfamiliar item.
The girl gave a delicate smile. ‘It is a bust-improver, madam. The, em, moulded area increases the generosity of the form. It’s entirely invisible, of course, when worn. But not, em, something madam would be requiring.’
Goodness.
Most of the new styles were so soft and free-moving. That was all right – her breasts were still good. Weren’t they? Yes. She chose a nice light corset – no stays or any of that old-fashioned nonsense. Vogue disapproved of women wearing the new knitted-silk dancing corsets for the day. She’d read it was daring. She felt daring. Perhaps Peter would like daring.
Then the girl showed her some beautiful silk chiffon drawers and chemises in the Oriental style. Pale green like a pistachio nut, bias cut, with a dusty pink trim. The sort of thing Vogue called: ‘Those blushing trifles that are born to blush unseen.’
So much had been unseen of late. Well. Perhaps he would look at these.
‘ So pretty,’ she murmured. The drawers were tiny. They wouldn’t be the least use for everyday wear.
‘We also have this,’ said the girl, modestly. With a little flourish of her neat hands a delicate slip appeared along the counter, the same silk chiffon, with fine satin ribbons for the straps. ‘And, er . . .’ It was a deep-sleeved wafting boudoir gown, the same silk chiffon with devoré velvet, and a soft sash to tie it.
The girl actually stared at Julia in the changing room, her peony skin, the exquisite scraps of lingerie. Like a present wrapped only in ribbons.
Julia bought them all. And new stockings.
Christmas Eve, by the cruel requirements of the regiment, was his last night. After their delicious, elegant, slightly formal dinner, over which Julia had taken considerable trouble, she said she would go to bed early, and she kissed Peter sweetly as she went, not saying she was tired, or had a headache, or anything.
She
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