The Garden Of Dreams

‘I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind.’ Raoul Denis was standing by the table. He was holding Mrs Henderson’s magazine, but as Lissa started pouring the coffee, he put it down and came to sit on the sofa.

‘No, it was a good idea. It always gets chilly up here late at night, even if it is officially supposed to be early summer.’ Lissa helped herself to sugar and passed the bowl to Raoul, who declined it with a slight gesture.

‘Did you arrange about your car?’ she asked.

‘Yes, a tiresome misunderstanding. It will be here presently.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, without thinking.

‘Je suis dеsolе. Do you wish the evening to end so soon?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Lissa began, leaning forward to put her mug back on the table. She was determined that he should not needle her again. Certainly he seemed very much at his ease, stretched out on the sofa.

‘More coffee?’ she asked.

‘I thank you, but no.’ He replaced his own cup. ‘It was delicious, however.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ she smiled, thinking of Paul, who invariably expressed his appreciation in extravagant terms.

It was as if that smile lit a fire in Raoul.

‘Mon Dieu!’ His voice sounded suddenly hoarse, but whether it was anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. Before she had a chance to protest, he had reached for her, drawing her roughly into his arms and silencing her with his mouth.

When at last he raised his head, his eyes burned down into hers, as she lay bruised and breathless in his arms.

‘Bon Dieu, Lissa, do you know what you are doing to me?’ he muttered. He bent to her again, but this time his mouth caressed a feverish path down her throat and searched the soft hollows between her neck and shoulders.

Lissa’s pulses were pounding violently. The room swam, and she felt every nerve ending in her body throbbing insistently. Slowly her hands, which at first had been braced against his chest, crept up to clasp his neck, and her fingers twined in his hair. Murmuring endearments in his own language against her parted lips, he began to slide the chiffon from her shoulders. Her body arched towards him instinctively, welcoming his touch. His grip tightened, and the soft chiffon tore beneath his hands.

Something hard and metallic tinkled to the floor and rolled a little way. The brooch—Paul’s brooch.

Lissa was suddenly, sickeningly aware of what was happening to her.

‘No!’ She tore herself out of his arms, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace, her hair falling round her bared shoulders, her dress torn almost to the waist.

‘Oh, you brute! You devil … how dare you!’

‘Dare?’ He stared up at her. His eyes glittered and he looked as dangerous as a black panther. Lissa was horribly aware of her complete isolation. The couple in the flat below were on holiday and Mrs Henderson was too far away to hear any cries for help. And he knows Jenny won’t be back tonight, she thought helplessly. He must have planned all this deliberately.

‘I was under the impression, ma belle, that we had come to an understanding. Surely you are not trying to pretend that I am the first to avail myself of your—services?’

‘Services?’ Lissa almost choked. ‘You don’t mean—you can’t imagine that I … that I would let you …’

‘Until a moment ago I had every reason to think so.’ His eyes went over her in insolent appraisal and she felt naked under his gaze. ‘As far as I am concerned, ma belle, by accepting my invitation tonight, you placed yourself at my disposal. I regret that you do not see fit to keep your part of the bargain. I am still more than ready to keep mine.’

‘Get out,’ Lissa said between her teeth. ‘Get out now before I call the police!’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ he asked. He laughed harshly. ‘I would not be so ill-advised as to call the police if I were you. The English police are not fools, and they would know what to make of a young woman who allows a man to wine and dine her for the evening and then calls “Rape” in her appartement. Besides, you are unharmed, except perhaps for your dress—and your pride.’

He picked up his light overcoat from a chair and walked to the door.

‘Bonne nuit,’ he said, with a slight bow, and was gone.

Lissa rushed to the door and locked it, then leaned her forehead against the cool white-painted panels, listening to his footsteps going downstairs. Her breath came in great shuddering sobs, and she shivered violently.

Eventually, as her self-control returned, she walked slowly to the bedroom and threw herself across her bed. She felt numbed, yet her throat ached fiercely and her eyes pricked with tears.

Bitterly she blamed herself for agreeing to go out with him in the first place. Yet Paul knew him and obviously trusted him.

The most shaming part was that she herself had allowed it. She had made no effort to resist—had not even wanted to resist, until the memory of Paul had been forced back into her mind, almost by accident.

Paul! If he knew! She shuddered and buried her face in the ivory-coloured quilt. Would the Denis man tell him? Somehow she doubted it. But he must never find out. He would be incredibly hurt, and rightly so, that she could behave like that with a man who was not only a stranger, but whose whole manner from the beginning had betrayed a strange kind of contempt for her.

The worst of it was that she was still conscious of him. It was as if the pressure of his lips and hands was a lesson that once learned, she could never forget. She sat up slowly, raking the silky mass of pale hair back from her face, her eyes brooding. She looked down at her torn dress with revulsion, then jerking at the fastenings, stripped it off and flung it to the floor. She would throw it away and make some excuse for its disappearance. It had been her favourite, but now the sight of it was unbearable.

It was chilly in the bedroom, and she put on her black and silver housecoat before wandering restlessly back into the warmth of the living room. She looked round, wishing with all her might that Jenny was not staying the night with Roger and his parents. Normally Lissa had no objection to being on her own, but now she desperately needed to hear a friendly voice, and not have to sit alone with her thoughts.

A hot drink of milk and a couple of aspirins. That was the answer—and some noise. She picked up the transistor radio, twisting the controls until she found some quiet, rather sentimental music, and carried it into the kitchen with her while she heated her milk.

She returned to the living room and set the milk down on the coffee table, still littered with the cups she had used for coffee with Raoul. Then she went over to the sideboard for the aspirin. Her eye was caught by a message on the pad there in Jenny’s writing. ‘Maggie popped in just after you went, full of beans, full of mystery too. Something wonderful has happened, but she’s going to tell you herself tomorrow. Be good. Love. J.’

Lissa frowned a little. This was getting to be a night for mysteries and she would welcome a little plain speaking from now on. She put the pad down and picked up Mrs Henderson’s magazine.

It might not be the most stimulating reading in the world, but that was all the better if it helped her put the evening’s events out of her mind and helped her get to sleep. As she sat down on the sofa with it, it fell open on her lap, and she saw a corner of one of the pages had been deliberately turned down. Not only that, but someone, presumably Mrs Henderson, had carefully outlined one of the pictures on the page in blue ballpoint pen.

‘What in the world …?’ Lissa looked down unbelievingly. The occasion that was being reported was a dance at the French Embassy some weeks ago when she had first started going out with Paul. And there they both were, standing together at the foot of a staircase, quite oblivious of the fact that they were being photographed. There was a paragraph about them too, referring to Paul as a ‘playboy diplomat’ and describing Lissa as ‘his latest girl about town’:

As if she was something rather nasty in the City, Lissa thought, her sense of humour reasserting itself. So this was what Mrs Henderson meant by her cryptic note! How awful, she thought, hoping that no one else she knew had seen it.

Her thoughts stopped there with a vivid memory of searing anger in a man’s eyes, and the magazine being thrown down contemptuously.

That must have been what made him so angry, Lissa realised, but it certainly did not explain why it affected him like that.

It was beyond her, she decided, as she drank the last of her milk. She could only be thankful that she would never have to see that Denis man again as long as she lived. And if Paul mentioned him, she would just have to change the subject.

But the thought brought her surprisingly little comfort, either then or in the long hours that followed before she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Lissa did not feel particularly refreshed when the buzzing of the alarm brought her unwillingly back to wakefulness the next morning. As she sat up to switch it off, she sniffed experimentally. There was an unmistakable odour of coffee, and even as she threw the covers to go and investigate, the bedroom door opened and Jenny walked in smiling with two cups on a tray. It was then for the first time that Lissa realised that the other bed was crumpled.

‘So you didn’t stay at Roger’s after all?’ she exclaimed.

‘No, his mother wasn’t feeling too well—some virus thing, I think, so he brought me back here late. You were dead to the world. By the way, you owe me thanks for doing the washing up.’

‘Washing up?’ Lissa stared at her, puzzled, then remembered, crimsoning, last night’s debris still left in the living room.

‘And you’d left the gas fire on,’ Jenny said reprovingly. ‘Whatever was the matter? Surely the Pirate King didn’t have that much effect on you?’

Lissa sipped her coffee, trying to avoid Jenny’s gaze, but it was no use. Jenny came and sat on the edge of the bed, and gave her a long, even stare.