Never Too Late (22 page)

morning dash through the traffic and put on some lipstick

before wiping it off hastily. You’re going to be talking

about college work, for God’s sake, she told herself. Let

him sec how seriously you take your art - he’s probably

sick to the teeth of flirty students who bat their eyelashes

at him and conveniently forget what they’re there for.

At half-four exactly, she knocked on Owen Theal’s

office door and he opened it immediately, his coat in his

hand.

Cara faltered. ‘Sorry, did I come at the wrong time? Are

you going out?’

Theal smiled, with a glint in his dark eyes. ‘No, we’re going out. It’s a bitterly cold day and a drink will warm us up. Besides, it’s nice to get out of this place occasionally.’

They walked companionably along the road with Theal

explaining that he loved Dublin’s Georgian architecture

but his favourite city, architecturally speaking, was Paris.

He’d travelled all over the world and by the time they

were ensconced in the tiny Dawson Lounge, he’d told Cara

about his year in France and the subsequent two years

when he explored Europe, journeyed to India, and even

spent some time on a New Zealand vineyard.

‘You’ve been everywhere,’ she said, eyes shining with

admiration. ‘I’ve only been on a plane once!’

‘You’ll travel, don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘What’s

your poison?’

‘Er … coffee?’ Cara said.

Theal brushed that idea aside. ‘Nonsense. You’ll have a

real drink. Do you like Scotch?’ He didn’t wait for her to

answer but ordered two Scotches with ice.

Not used to drinking anything stronger than wine or

beer, Cara found the whisky burned the back of her throat

but, not wishing to seem ungrateful or rude, she drank it

anyway.

Owen was so easy to talk to. And so interested in her. He

really wanted to know all about her: what she liked, what

she didn’t like. Where she lived, who she lived with, why

she’d decided to go to art college … Warmed by the

alcohol and his interest, Cara found herself talking nineteen

to the dozen about how she’d adored paintings when

she was younger and how she’d bury herself in library

books about the Prado in Madrid until she felt as if she’d

really seen all the Goyas and Velasquez.

She didn’t notice Owen silently ordering another drink

and sliding her empty glass away to replace it with a

double. He was drinking very quickly. Ridiculously, she felt

she had to keep up, like eating your soup at the same speed

as everyone else so you won’t keep them waiting for the

next course.

‘We recognise each other, we artists,’ he said solemnly,

running one finger around the rim of his now-empty glass.

‘I think that’s why I brought you here to talk to you - I

know you’re different, you’re like me. You’re an artist.’

‘D-do you think so?’ Cara stammered.

‘Of course.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I can spot it a mile off.

It’s in your hands.’ He picked up her right hand and held it

carefully in both of his, his fingers warm and sensitive as

they examined hers and caressed her palm.

Cara said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. This was

all very strange.

‘You must let me help you, Cara,’ he said earnestly.

‘Well, er … yes,’ she replied.

As abruptly as he’d started, Owen dropped her hand and

began talking about college and the syllabus. Cara, who’d

been getting nervous what with all the hand holding stuff,

relaxed again. He was simply being friendly. He was artistic

and didn’t operate by normal rules. No other teacher

would hold your hand like that: Owen was different, that

was all. He got them another drink.

‘Please, let me pay,’ said Cara, embarrassed, hating him

to think she was mean even though her bank account boasted only fifty pounds that had to do her for the next two months.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re an impoverished student, I’ll

pay,’ Owen said fondly.

After their fourth drink, things began to feel a bit hazy.

Cara felt her insides lurch from the combination of alcohol

and no food. Her face was flushed and she knew she wasn’t

making too much sense. But Owen Theal didn’t seem to

mind. He appeared to love listening to her. He sat beside

her - not touching her - listening raptly. It was nice, she

thought dreamily, nice to he listened to so intently.

She didn’t want the fifth, and very large-looking, drink

but he insisted.

‘We’re celebrating,’ he said smoothly, pushing the glass

into her hands. ‘You’d be insulting me if you said no.’

‘I don’t want to do that,’ Cara said, flustered. She didn’t

know you could insult someone by not having a drink. She

knew nothing, really.

She drank it slowly, wishing she’d said no. As if he sensed

her discomfort, Owen became even more entertaining

than before. He told her outrageous stories about famous

artists, amused her with risque tales of Slaney College’s

teaching staff, and generally made her feel like a fascinating

and mature woman. With the warm whisky inside her and

the warmth of his attention outside, Cara basked in a haze

hotter than a sweltering summer’s day.

It was around seven when they finally left the tiny

crowded pub but instead of turning down towards the

college, Owen led her firmly up the street, guiding her

with one strong hand on her elbow.

‘We’ve got to eat,’ he said in surprised tones when Cara

began to protest.

Thinking of Evie waiting patiently at home with dinner

in the oven, Cara knew she should phone or something.

But he didn’t give her a chance. He rushed her towards

Merrion Row and she felt almost embarrassed to explain

that she went home after college almost every night

instead of partying with the wilder students.

In The Sitar, a fragrant Indian restaurant, he ordered red

wine and filled her glass up almost before she could say

anything.

As he ate his lamb korma, Cara toyed with her

Tandoori chicken, aware that the room seemed to he

moving in and out of focus. She finally understood that

old joke about not being drunk if you could lie on the

floor without holding on. At the moment, she felt as if

she’d fall off her chair any second. And she was nauseous

into the bargain.

She just wanted to go home, to sink into her cosy little

bed in Evie’s back bedroom and feel the soft sheets wrap

themselves around her. She longed for sleep but how could

she get out of this?

‘I’m tired, Owen,’ she slurred suddenly. ‘I’ve got to go

home’

He promised to drive her and they went back to the

college. ‘Come into my room, I’ve got to get my keys,’ he

said.

Like the obedient girl she was, programmed through

years of training to do exactly what a person in authority

said, she went, her limbs unsteady as she climbed the stairs

to his office.

Inside, he turned and grabbed her, pushing her up

against the filing cabinet and winching her big coat from

her shoulders.

Cara would have gasped but his mouth was fastened on

hers, his lips wet and rubbery as they took over hers,

slobbering on her face, smelling of wine and whisky.

‘I knew you liked me too,’ he murmured between

driving his tongue into her mouth. ‘I know you’ve been

watching me all evening but I had to be sure you wanted it

too. You’re so sexy, Cara. Mature, grown up and sexy.’

It was the words that did it. He believed she wanted him

too, believed she’d been giving him the come on all

evening. When she’d laughed at his jokes and taken the

drinks he’d bought her, he’d assumed she fancied him too.

It was like a mating dance and she’d danced it, too stupid

to know the difference, too full of her newfound sexuality

to know what she was doing.

Cara felt so out of her depth, but if he believed she

knew what she was doing, how could she say she’d never dreamed of him touching her like this, that she didn’t like it? She’d obviously led him on. It was her fault this had happened. How could she stop it? So she said nothing, just let him kiss her roughly for a few minutes. Then something

inside her snapped and she knew she had to stop him, had

to get him off her. Now.

‘No,’ she breathed, her voice faint. ‘No,’ she said again,

more strongly this time.

He kept going, shoving her jumper up around her ribs,

big hands wrenching it up over her breasts.

‘No!’

‘Don’t be such a little tease,’ he said raggedly. ‘You want

it, you know you do.’

‘I don’t,’ she sobbed, trying to push him away from her.

‘I don’t want this. Please.’

He wasn’t listening. He’d dragged her skirt up around

her waist and was fumbling with her tights. God, he wasn’t

going to stop! She pushed him away but he didn’t budge.

Cara was strong but Owen Theal was bigger, much, much

stronger, and able to handle alcohol. He wasn’t drunk and

unsteady. He was utterly in control. His hands were

everywhere, touching and groping. Touching her intimately,

grabbing parts of her no man had ever touched

before. As he grabbed her, she felt sick, truly sick.

Then it came to her. The answer, the way out.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ she gasped, then made a retching

noise, like one of her father’s dogs trying to vomit after

eating grass.

As if he’d been scalded, Theal sprang back.

‘A bag, a bucket, get me something to be sick into,’ she

said between retches. She clasped her hands to her mouth

as if she was ready to vomit and he whirled around

frantically looking for something.

‘Don’t be sick here,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll get something …’

He dragged open the door and Cara could see him rush

down the hall towards the staff room. This was the chance

she needed. There was no time to sob or sink on to the

floor crying. Grabbing her coat and bags, she stumbled

from the room, pulling down her skirt as she ran. Her coat

was trailing on the ground behind her as she ran with one

arm in and one arm out, but she didn’t care. She simply

had to get away.

Her blood was racing in her chest, pumping frantically in

terror She nearly fell on the landing, tripped on the broken

tile she blithely walked past twenty times a day.

But she recovered her balance and it didn’t stop her

headlong flight. She tore past the classrooms, terrified he’d

find her gone and run, shouting, after her. But he didn’t.

She ran past the locker room and pulled open the heavy

door and was out in the street in moments. Out in the

blessedly safe street.

Cara ran all the way to the bus terminus, her heart still

pounding and her breath rattling inside her chest. She ran

like someone possessed, as if all the demons of every

horror movie she’d ever seen were after her.

Mercifully, a bus sat waiting, lights on, engine idling

while the driver waited another five minutes so he could

leave at exactly eleven o’clock. Cara climbed the step to

the driver and looked at him as if he’d personally saved her

from Owen Theal.

‘You’re in a hurry,’ he said, taking in the hot, flushed

face and her ragged breathing.

‘Yes.’ She smiled shakily and showed him her travel

card, then went to the back of the bus and sank gratefully

into an empty seat. Eyes wide, she stared around at the

darkened street outside, expecting to see him come after

her any second. He knew where she lived, what bus she

got. She’d told him. He’d follow her, she was sure. Please,

please don’t let him follow me, she prayed fervently, too

scared to close her eyes. If she did, he’d appear in front of her like a demon, so she kept watching frantically. Ten endless minutes passed, ten minutes when Cara felt as if

she’d have a heart attack from fear.

Her heart didn’t stop pounding until the driver closed

the doors and the bus pulled away from the kerb. Now she

felt totally safe. Owen wouldn’t find her now, he couldn’t.

She sat back and stared blankly out into the night, too

shocked to cry. What had she done? Oh, God, what had

she done?

Evie had been in bed when she arrived back, reeking of

unfamiliar Scotch and freezing because somewhere along

the way, she’d lost the crimson chenille scarf and matching

hat her sister had given her as a present. Not somewhere,

really. In his office. On the floor where he’d thrown them.

She’d been too scared to remember them when she raced

out of the door with sheer terror in her soul.

‘What time do you call this to be coming in?’ demanded

her sister, face icy with disapproval. ‘It’s nearly twelve and

you’re …’ She paused and sniffed the air disbelievingly

‘Drunks I’ve been worried sick about you.’

Standing at the door, gazing into the room that was so

Evie - all warm floral fabrics and soft cushions, the pine

furniture dotted with lace mats, the tiny china elephants

Evie loved to collect and family pictures everywhere Cara

felt suddenly tearful. She longed to throw herself on