The Beachcomber (3 page)

“Come back to bed, Kathy.” Taking advantage of her hesitation, he collected her into his arms and carried her away from the window and across the room where, ever so tenderly, he laid her on the bed. In a moment he had slipped off her dressing-gown, leaving her naked before him; eyes wide with lust, he gazed down, his own desperate need obvious as his eyes roved over her petite, slim figure with its perfectly round breasts and tiny waist.

Her eyes, though, were her best feature: golden-brown, with long curling lashes and perfectly shaped eyebrows. “I do love you,” he muttered, then, stretching his arms up to the bed head, he neatly straddled her. Leaning his head to kiss her on the mouth, he relaxed his body to fuse nakedness with nakedness.

It took less than five minutes for him to satisfy himself and, when it was over, it was she who drew away first; though he was so elated and fulfilled, he didn’t even notice.

For a long moment she looked at him from the bottom of the bed; at his uptilted face. He gave a soft, low laugh. “I’m sorry it was so quick, but you shouldn’t have kept me waiting!” Suddenly he was sitting up, staring back at her. “Was it all right for you, sweetheart?” It seemed to be of paramount importance to him.

Kathy smiled, a reluctant smile that appeared to pacify him. “Yes, Geoff,” she lied. Up until then she hadn’t realized how little she found attractive about him. She didn’t even like him very much.

He glanced at the clock. “Oh, damn! It’s still only six o’clock. You shouldn’t have woken me so early! Come on … come back to bed … we’ve another hour yet.”

She nodded. “I need a drink first.”

He smiled. “What? You mean I’ve made you thirsty with all that lovemaking?”

She looked away. “Something like that.”

“Well,
you
can stay up if you want, but I need my sleep.” With that he drew the covers over him and, spreading himself right across the bed, he was soon asleep.

Seeing him like that, knowing how she had shared a bed with him, Kathy felt dirty, degraded. It had been a mistake. “It doesn’t look like there’d be any room for me even if I
did
come back to bed!” Tonight, she had begun to wonder what she had ever seen in him.

In the half-light she made her way to the window, noisily tripping over the pillow he had thrown off the bed. “Who’s that?” Peering over the covers, he stared at her, his tone impatient, all tenderness gone. “Are you coming back to bed, or what?”

“No! Like I said … I need a drink.”

“Well, don’t wake me up when you get back in!”

Lingering by the window, she looked across to the other building again. The light was still on, but there was no sign of the man now. “Poor chap,” she murmured, “I wonder why he couldn’t sleep? Divorced maybe … can’t get used to it.” She sighed. “I know what that feels like!”

Feeling sad and suddenly weary, she put the kettle on; while that was brewing she visited the loo. Afterward, looking in the mirror, she addressed herself in bruising tones, “You’re a mess, Kathy Wilson!” Looking back at her image in the tiny oval mirror, she saw how the life had gone from her face; the golden-brown eyes weren’t so bright anymore, and her brown hair was lank about her shoulders. “In the last year you’ve let yourself go. It’s no wonder men have begun to treat you like the dirt under their feet. All right! So you were married and he left you because he’d found somebody else.” Dan and she had been happy enough for a couple of years, but the war had taken its toll on him, as it had on so many other young men. She gazed at her image a moment longer. “Men! Who needs ’em?”

She allowed herself a smile. “You did have some good times though, didn’t you, eh? And when he walked out, it was only natural that you felt worthless. So what! That was over a year ago, and you’re still not over it. You’re moody and bad-tempered. You almost lost your job because you were absent so often they thought you’d emigrated, and now, here you are … making a mistake with the first man who came along and was kind to you.”

Casting a disillusioned glance toward the bedroom, she shook her head in dismay. “Geoff isn’t for me! He may be handsome and well spoken, but deep down he’s a bully, and he really fancies himself. I just let myself be carried along by the dates and the flattery.”

She wagged a finger at herself in the mirror. “She might be the worst mother on God’s earth, and there are times when you’d be better off without her interfering, but she’s right!” she groaned. “It
is
time you got yourself together. You’re not the first woman to lose her husband and you won’t be the last.” They were her mother’s words, and they had never been truer.

She went to the kitchen, where she fetched a glass of water. As she sat sipping it and musing, she came to a conclusion. “Right! I’ve had enough of his hands all over me, ordering me around: ‘Do this’ … ‘Get me that.’” She mocked him to perfection. “… And if he never kisses me again, it’ll be too soon!”

It took all of two minutes for her to sneak into the bedroom, collect her clothes and sneak out again. Five minutes later she was ready to leave. One last peep at his sleeping figure on her side of the bed and she was tiptoeing out of there, to the merry tune of his snoring. “Sleep well, you bugger!” As she went, she deliberately slammed shut the door.

Having got up early, shaved and dressed and ready for off, Tom saw the young woman from his window. She was hatless, her shoulderlength brown hair flying out behind her. He watched as she bounced along with a spring to her step; he saw her deliberately stride out into a busy street and hail a taxi-cab, the traffic swerving around her. When, in order to avoid hitting her full on, the driver of the black cab screeched to a halt, she calmly climbed aboard and waved him on.

Tom laughed out loud. “
That’s
what you call a gutsy woman!”

Just then the telephone rang; it was his brother Dougie. “Just checking you got back all right,” he said.

“Got back … had a bath and an early night, and now I’m raring to go.” What he was “raring” to do was to organize his life at last.

“Good trip?”

“Good enough.”

“Right! See you at the office. I’ll be late, I reckon … got a frantic call from Joe Nightingale … some planning difficulty or other, it’s a damned nuisance. Still, I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t get round.”

“Dougie, wait!” Now that his mind was made up, he needed to tell the world. “What time will you be back, do you think?”

“Not sure. You know what it’s like. When Joe can’t have his own way, he tends to get het-up. Then you have to take him out and discuss the finer points over a pint. I don’t suppose I’ll get away much before what … three … four? Why?”

“But you
will
be back at the office today, won’t you?”

“Sure thing, but what’s the panic?”

“No panic. There’s something I need to talk over with you, that’s all.”

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll try and get away by two. How does that suit?”

“Okay. See you then. Give my regards to Joe.”

“Hmh!” Dougie gave a laugh. “Knowing how difficult it can be to drag yourself away when he’s got a bee in his bonnet, I’ll probably have him in tow.”

“Naw. You’ll deal with it. See you at two then!”

“Can’t wait!”

A moment later, having seen that his cupboards were bare, Tom threw on his jacket and made his way out of the building. He quickly hailed a cab, though not in the same cavalier way as the young woman before him. “Can you take me to the best greasy spoon you know?” he asked.

The cabbie acknowledged his request with a grin. “I know just the place,” he said. “Sausages, mushrooms, and thick fried bread like you’ve never seen. Two slices o’ bread and marge, and a pot o’ tea to go with it.” He winked in his mirror. “How does that sound, guv?”

Tom was impressed. “Sounds like the nearest thing to heaven to me,” he said. Settling comfortably in his seat, he shut his eyes and ears to the traffic and let his stomach dictate.

Even now, early though it was, London was a bustling medley of trolleybuses, bicycles and motor cars. But the cabbie was as good as his word. “Baker’s Caff,” he declared, drawing into the curbside, “owned and run by my own dear mamma … name of Lola. Looks like the devil, cooks like an angel!”

At that minute a woman emerged. All smiles and white teeth, she was ample in every way; obviously of Italian origin, with her black eyes, and her dark hair tied in an elaborate knot at the top of her head. “Come in! Come in!” she urged.

Opening her dimpled arms, she embraced him with surprising strength. “Nice to see you, handsome man. You wanna the breakfast?” As she spoke she nodded, her smile growing so wide it almost enveloped her face.

The cabbie laughed. “Course he wants ‘the breakfast’! Why do you think I brought him, eh?” Winking at Tom, he suggested mischievously, “Matter o’ fact, I’m beginning to feel a bit peckish myself.”

“No, you can’t!” She wagged an angry finger at him. “I don’t feed you no more today! You be a good boy … get away and bring me more customers.”

Laughing, he deposited Tom into her care and drove off.

Lola’s breakfast was as good as it got with rationing still in place: two huge sausages; a heaping of mushrooms; four crinkly cooked tomatoes; even a fried egg, and the whole plate swimming in juices and fats, which Tom eagerly mopped up with his chunks of fresh-baked bread. Afterward there was a cup of scalding hot tea to wash it all down.

Lola scooped up his plate. “You want
more?
”

“Good God, no!” Tom struggled out of his chair. “That was more than enough to last me the whole day, thank you. I’ve never tasted a breakfast like it!”

“So, you come back another time, yes?” Lola’s round face was a picture of joy.

He nodded. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Just try and keep me away!”

A few moments later, as he donned his wool coat and hat and left the café, he turned to wave; quietly amused when Lola blushed crimson.

His offices were only a short distance from the café. For a moment he debated whether to take the trolleybus or walk. He had been a minute at the bus stop when he decided against it. “On second thoughts, I’d best walk!” He patted his stomach. “It’ll do me good.”

As usual the office was a hive of activity. “Nice to see you back.” As he walked through the gauntlet of typists and clerks, he was greeted with genuine affection.

Turning into his own office, he was not surprised to see the vase of flowers on his window-sill; it was a kind of ritual on his return from a trip. “Welcome home.” Invaluable assistant and secretary to two of the architects here, Lilian was of pleasant appearance with pretty dark eyes. As always for work, her long auburn curls were neatly pinned back in a bun. She had been a good friend to Tom, he reflected.

Coming into the office, she placed the tray on his desk. “Like the flowers, do you?” That very morning she had taken ages choosing them.

“They’re splendid, as always.” He took another glance at the vase full of yellow carnations. “Thank you, Lilian, that was really thoughtful of you.”

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he smiled down at her. “What would I do without you, eh?”

He observed his office with its neat filing cabinets and long, polished desk, the sun pouring in through the window, and for one aching moment he wondered if he had made the right decision after all. “Everything in order as usual … but then I shouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

He and the young woman had worked together these past eight years, and never a cross word. “You do tend to keep me at it, though.” He glanced at the desk, its entire surface bedecked with neat piles of papers and rolls of plans. “You’re not about to let the grass grow under my feet, are you, eh?”

She smiled confidently. “You’ll find all the schedules typed up for your current projects; your ‘urgent’ messages, and a dozen appointments for this coming week.” Her smile broadened. “Enough to keep you out of trouble, I’d say … Oh, and I’ve brought you a pot of tea to keep you going.” She crossed the room but paused at the door. “Give me a call when you’re ready to start dictation. Is there anything you want before I get on?”

He shook his head. “Not right now, Lilian.” He meant for her to be one of the first to know of his decision. “Look, I think it might be a good idea for us to talk –” he glanced at the desk and groaned – “after I’ve waded through this little lot.”

She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Talk? What about?”

“Not just now, Lilian … Like I said, when I’ve dealt with a certain matter.” Which wouldn’t be easy, but it had to be done.

“Okay.” She turned to leave but then remembered. “Oh, and the boss asked to see you the minute you got in.”

“Tell him I’m on my way.”

With the door closed behind her he poured himself a tea. Taking a gulp, he scanned briefly through the papers on his desk, then another gulp or two, and he was out of the office and running up the stairs to John Martin’s more private offices.

A tap on the door and straight in; though with caution when he saw that the “boss” was talking on the telephone. A big man with a big heart, John Martin had started these offices some ten years ago and never looked back.

On seeing Tom he quickly concluded the conversation. “Well, of course we want the contract, but there’s more talking to be done before I sign on the dotted line. You know me, Arthur, I won’t accept anything until I’m absolutely satisfied everything’s in order, and you’ve a way to go before I’m satisfied on this one. Yes. Right. Talk to me then. Thanks, I will, yes, don’t worry. You too!”