Ellie (63 page)

Bonny turned back to him, her eyes glinting. ‘It’s absolutely lovely,’ she said in an awed voice. ‘It’s like a rich person’s house, only smaller. Imagine when that’s all lawn down to the river, a couple of small trees and flower beds.’

Magnus was delighted by her enthusiasm, and her understanding of the image he had tried to create. He loathed those awful red-brick houses the councils were so fond of; he felt people deserved better.

‘You’re so clever,’ she went on. ‘I love that elegant staircase, the pretty fireplace and the hatch from the kitchen into the dining-room. I’d give my right arm to live here.’

He saw then that the glint in her eyes was caused by tears, but he didn’t understand quite why the house moved her so much, unless it was the flashy touches he’d added because of her. She ran upstairs, looking at the bathroom and bedrooms, opening cupboard doors and moving from room to room as if planning the decoration.

‘The kitchen will be built in,’ Magnus said when she came back down again, showing her a glossy brochure with an illustration of a woman rolling out pastry on a fitted work surface with cupboards above and below. ‘It’s a new space-saving idea, they have them like this in America.’

Bonny looked at the brochure and with a stab of guilt remembered her parents’ kitchen with its ugly boiler, white china sink and the cabinet with an enamel, drop-down flap. She hadn’t seen them since she moved to Brighton. They thought she was still in the show too.

‘I think it’s all marvellous,’ she said wistfully. ‘I can’t imagine anything better than living here.’

It was the sad look in her eyes which made Magnus take her in his arms. ‘You’ll get married one day and live somewhere like this,’ he said. ‘Probably somewhere even better. I designed this with ordinary people in mind.’

She turned her face up to his, and the moment their lips met, passion flared up like fire in dry straw.

Her tongue flickered against his, two hungry mouths feasting on one another as he crushed her into his arms. She pulled out his shirt, reaching under it, her fingers clawing at his back, insinuating her hips and belly against his until she felt him grow hard against her.

‘Make love to me here,’ she whispered, sliding her hand over his erection. ‘Now, here on the floor.’

‘It’s dirty,’ he said weakly, glancing round at the bags of plaster, the tins of paint, yet his fingers were already fumbling at the row of tiny buttons on the bodice of her dress.

‘I don’t care,’ she sighed, as his hand cupped round one breast. ‘Please, Magnus?’

Magnus knew that any one of his workmen would have taken her against a wall, on a pile of bricks, anywhere, to satisfy their lust. He had always thought he had more respect for women than that, but he couldn’t help himself.

A pile of sacks and dust sheets with a few newspapers on top was all he could find. But as he laid them down he saw that Bonny had already torn off her dress and was holding out her arms to him, wearing nothing but a pair of pink camiknickers.

He grabbed her, pressing her up against the wall, mouth pushing aside the delicate material to suck on her breasts, his spare hand pulling off his trousers in fevered haste.

‘Long and hard,’ she murmured as his fingers thrust deep inside her. ‘I want you to make me scream aloud.’

Memories of making love in the Oxford hotel had tormented him on so very many nights. But when he flung her down on to the makeshift dusty bed, the smell of new paint and plaster seemed to zoom him into an even wilder, desperate plane. She was so hot and wet, clawing at him, rolling on him, begging for more all the time in a way he’d known no other woman do. He knelt between her splayed legs, licking and sucking at her sex until she went into spasms of delirium, tossing her head from side to side, screaming out his name. She rolled him over on his back and slowly slid down on to him, making Magnus gasp with pleasure. She rode him, head thrown back, eyes closing in ecstasy almost as if she were alone with some inanimate, penetrating object. Magnus held her thighs, and wallowed sensuously in the delight of seeing a woman using his body so wantonly.

Her hair smelled of lemons when she finally bent forward to kiss him. He felt he was drowning in the scent, bewitched by the silkiness of her skin, every nerve ending pulsating as she devotec her attentions to pleasing him. He wanted to prolong the total bliss, yet felt himself being sucked into a vortex where he would surrender his life, heart and soul, in exchange for release.

‘I love you Magnus,’ she screamed at the moment of climax, clawing at his shoulders and grinding herself hard against him.

Magnus looked at her face as she lay curled against him and he felt he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. Such soft, sweet lips, still swollen from kissing, cheeks with an apricot blush and eyebrows just a glint of gold.

Dust danced in sunbeams through the french windows, playing on her tanned legs and small, white buttocks. She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘You’ll always be mine here now,’ she said, one finger tracing round the outline of his lips. ‘Every time you come in here you’ll see me, smell me, feel me.’

Magnus had no reply. He knew she was right. The memory of today would make it harder and harder to return to Yorkshire to be a husband and father. But he loved Ruth too. He could never turn his back on her and his children. He wished he’d never met Bonny and brought this torment on himself, but at the same time he felt so alive inside he knew he couldn’t give her up.

Ellie and Bonny were still in their nightdresses, sitting either end of the bed drinking tea, even though it was eleven in the morning and the sun hot outside. It was a week since Bonny had come back from her weekend with Magnus and it seemed to Ellie that she couldn’t talk about anything else.

Their boarding-house in Brighton was in Western Road, a tall, narrow, terraced house which had little to recommend it but its position, close to the shops and just a short walk to the Palace Pier and the theatre. Their landlady, an old widow called Mrs Parret, was very fond of telling them about the ‘nice families’ who came here before the war for their holidays, claiming if she could just get some paint and a man to ’do’ the outside of the house, these families would come flocking back. Both girls doubted they would. Practically all the boarding-houses in Brighton had ‘Vacancy’ signs up, even though it was the high season, and most of them were far nicer houses than this one.

It had a weary, sad look as if it knew it was past its Edwardian prime, clean but shabby: chipped ornaments and saggy chairs in the lounge none of the residents bothered with; the dining-room obsolete because Mrs Parret was too old to feed her guests any longer. Their small room was at the back on the second floor, gloomy because the window overlooked a brick wall, and cramped because it was only intended as a single room. Ellie was trying to control her mounting irritation with Bonny, not only for her untidiness, but for the way she seemed to be living in some fantasy world.

‘Magnus won’t leave his wife, Bonny,’ Ellie said in exasperation. ‘I don’t doubt he’s fallen in love with you. But he loves his wife too and men like him are too responsible to abandon their home and children. You can never be more than his mistress.’

‘I can make him leave her,’ Bonny pouted. ‘He’s got all those houses, we could live in one of those.’

Ellie sighed. Bonny had drawn pictures of his houses, raved on about how clever Magnus was. It was all getting so tedious. ‘He’s built those houses to sell, to make enough money to move on to bigger projects. I can’t see a man like Magnus, used to a big country estate, living in suburbia with a girl less than half his age.’

‘But they’re lovely houses,’ Bonny argued. ‘What’s wrong with suburbia anyway?’

‘Nothing, not for people like us who’ve lived in places with outdoor lavvies and no gardens. But he’s what Marleen would’ve called a nob – they don’t go for that type of house. Now, did you tell him you’ve got the sack from the show?’

Bonny’s face darkened. ‘Why bring that up?’ she snapped, snatching up a pair of shorts from the floor and pulling them on.

Ellie arched her eyebrows. ‘Because I can’t keep you for ever, Bonny. The show’s ending in September. We can’t count on getting another job together, not after the way you blew this one. So if I get offered something good in London I’m going to take it and you’ll have to look out for yourself.’

Ellie had been feeling very bruised when they arrived in Brighton. She was grieving about Marleen, and thinking about Charley, off to Australia. She found it hard to forget that Bonny hadn’t come to Marleen’s funeral with her, but spent the day with Magnus instead.

Bonny had acted like a spoilt child when she found they couldn’t do a double song and dance act together. If she hadn’t been so sulky and rude, Mr Dyson the producer might have come round. But instead she got up to her old tricks again, going out every night after the show, missing rehearsals, being mean to the other dancers and generally making a nuisance of herself until Mr Dyson lost patience and sacked her.

With hindsight, Ellie should have distanced herself and let Bonny sort herself out. The chances were she would have gone back to her parents in London once she’d had to leave the digs Mr Dyson had put them in. But Ellie felt sorry for her, so she left the digs too and rented this room for them to share, fully expecting Bonny to find a job and support herself.

It was just like being back in Stacey Passage, trying to make a meal on one gas ring, sharing a small bed and falling over all Bonny’s belongings, while she was out half the night being wined and dined. She had made no attempt to find any work and expected Ellie to provide food as well as paying the rent.

If it wasn’t for Bonny, everything would have been wonderful. After quiet Oxford, Brighton seemed as exciting as London. There was the inevitable war damage, the same shortages as everywhere, but the town bustled, the little shops in The Lanes were intriguing, and it was fun to be amongst jolly holiday-makers.

The two solo numbers Ellie had been given were ideal for showing her comic ability, and now Edward was here too. He was playing the piano in The Place, a smart night-club where all the influential people danced and drank. On top of that it had been a glorious hot summer. The barbed wire had been removed from the beaches at last, and the fun fairs stayed open until late at night. Brighton was a fun town. But Bonny had spoilt everything.

She bristled every time Ellie mentioned Edward, or the show. She had droned on and on about Magnus even before she met up with him again last weekend, despite going out with other men continuously. And Ellie was short of money now because Bonny was draining her.

Bonny whisked off her nightdress, pulled on a sleeveless blouse and shoved her feet into sandals. A spiteful, tight expression warned Ellie she was intending to go out and stay out, to make Ellie feel bad about having criticised her.

‘Get a part on your own,’ Bonny snapped as she flounced off towards the door. ‘I can manage without you. But as it happens I was just going to tell you that Magnus has invited us both to a party in London in September. It’s some sort of charity do and he wants us to do a turn in a cabaret. Just about everyone who’s anyone will be there. Perhaps I’ll do it on my own.’ She swept through the door, slamming it behind her.

Ellie began to tidy up. She didn’t believe a word of what Bonny had said and her indignation grew as she picked up dirty underwear, finding used cups and plates under the bed and an overturned ashtray under a pile of magazines.

It was as Ellie picked up a couple of letters that she found the invitation. It was a thick, expensive-looking card with gold lettering. As it wasn’t in an envelope, she had no compunction about reading it.

‘
You are cordially invited to attend a Gala Evening at the Savoy Hotel on Saturday 18th September, to raise funds for the Red Cross
.

Ellie smirked at it, wondering why Bonny hadn’t shown her this the moment Magnus sent it. She glanced at it again, reading the smaller print at the bottom.

‘
8.00 p.m. until midnight. Buffet, cabaret, dancing, auction and tombola. Tickets two guineas. Black tie. Patrons: Lady Penelope Beauchamp, Sir Roger Turnball and Sir Miles Hamilton
.’

Ellie dropped the invitation as if she’d been scalded as she came to the last name. She sat down on the bed with a bump, so stunned she had to put her head down between her knees for a moment.

Since looking up Sir Miles in
Burke’s Peerage
, she hadn’t attempted to find out anything further about him. Had she found herself anywhere near Hampshire she might have gone to look at his house or make some local enquiries, but there had never been an opportunity. Now here, when she least expected it, was an invitation with his name on it.

It was tempting to look for the letter from Magnus that accompanied it. Did he know Sir Miles? Was he really intending them to ‘do a turn’, or was Bonny making things up again? He was certainly taking a risk in allowing Bonny’s name to be linked with his. Ellie felt Bonny was incapable of being discreet about their relationship. It was this aspect of Bonny’s nature which had prevented Ellie from ever telling her about her mother and Sir Miles, and she certainly wasn’t going to admit it now. But if Magnus really was serious about involving her and Bonny it could be just the perfect way of discovering a little more about her father. He might even be there!

A cold chill ran down Ellie’s spine. Romantic little dreams of being embraced as a long-lost daughter were a pleasant way of whiling away a sleepless night. The reality of approaching a total stranger who might not want reminders of the past was something else. ‘There’s no point in agonising about it,’ she told herself as she put the invitation back. ‘For one thing, you might not even get to the party. Just wait and see what happens.’

Three weeks later, Ellie was rummaging through her few clothes in the wardrobe, panic rising as she realised nothing she owned was smart enough even to walk through the doors of the Savoy in, much less to catch the eye of a West End producer.