The Paying Guests (26 page)

‘What have you done to me?’ she whispered, gazing into Frances’s eyes.

‘Come to the bed,’ said Frances. ‘Lie down with me.’

This time, Lilian did not pull away to say
Stop
or
Wait
. They climbed on to the bed together, and kissed again; she let Frances untie the belt of her wrapper and ease her arms from its satin sleeves. But as Frances was tugging at those pearl buttons on her nightdress, she caught at her hand. With a mixture of shyness and boldness, she said, ‘Take some of your things off, too.’

So Frances slid from the bed, unhooked her skirt and wriggled out of it. She took off her corset, her stockings, her drawers, and laid herself down at Lilian’s side dressed only in her shift-like cotton camisole.

Lilian ran a hand over her bare shoulder and freckled upper arm. ‘You’re beautiful, Frances.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘You are. You are. I can’t stop touching you.’ She stroked the line of Frances’s collarbone as if fascinated by it. She touched Frances’s throat, her jaw, the lobe of her ear. She said, ‘It’s like a dream, isn’t it? It’s like I’m dreaming. It’s like a spell.’

Frances, shivering with pleasure at the creep of her fingers, said, ‘No. It’s just the opposite. I’ve woken up after – I don’t know what. A hundred-year sleep. You woke me, Lilian.’

Lilian’s eyes shone. ‘I woke you.’

‘That’s why you came to Champion Hill. I should have guessed it, straight off. Perhaps I did. When I followed the heels of your stockings across the floor – do you remember? When I followed your heels that day, I thought it was only so that I could point out the towers of the Crystal Palace through the window. When all the time – Did you ever kiss a woman before?’

Lilian laughed, looking scandalised, but moving her fingers again. ‘Of course I never did! I’ve hardly ever kissed anyone. Only two or three boys before Len, and they meant nothing.
You
did.’

‘Yes.’

‘How many times?’

‘Oh, dozens and dozens. Red-headed women, and fair-headed women, and dark ones too. But none like you.’

‘Oh, you’re just fooling. Stop fooling.’

‘Did you ever hear of such a thing, before you met me?’

Lilian was blushing, still stroking, following her fingers with her gaze. ‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so. But as something indecent. Or as something a hard society woman might do; not as something real. Len used to have some picture postcards he’d got in France. One of them was of two girls – But they were awful things, meant for soldiers. I only saw them once. I made him put them on the fire.’ She looked up into Frances’s eyes. ‘This isn’t like that, is it?’

‘No, this isn’t like that.’

‘There’s been a – a sort of romance to it, all along. Hasn’t there? When we went to the park all that time ago, and you chased that man away – it was such a funny bit of gallantry. If Len had ever done something like that, he’d have done it for himself. When you did it, you did it for me, didn’t you? And then we stood on the landing, and you asked if you could call me Lilian. You said you wanted to call me a name that no one else did.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then, when I cut your hair —’

‘What did you think, about what I told you? Were you shocked?’

‘I was cross with you. I felt a fool.’

‘A fool?’

‘For not knowing. For supposing there had been a man. I felt you had tricked me into liking you as one sort of person, when all along you’d been another. But – I don’t know. I kept thinking about it. I wondered why you’d told me.’

‘I wondered that, too.’

‘I thought it showed that you liked me – for a friend, I mean. But then I thought, Oh, but she doesn’t like me as much as she liked
her
. And that made me even crosser. It made me furious!’ Her fingers were back at Frances’s collarbone. ‘The feeling frightened me. It didn’t seem right… I wanted you all to myself, I suppose.’

Frances said, after a pause, ‘I think you like to be admired. By men, by me, by everyone. Isn’t that the truth?’

Lilian shook her head, smiling. ‘No.’

‘I think it is. I might be anyone, anyone at all.’

Lilian shook her head again, and a lock of hair fell across her eyes. She gazed at Frances through it, her smile fading. ‘No. Only you.’

Frances’s heart suddenly felt too full for its socket. She caught hold of Lilian’s hand and held it above the stir of feeling. Their faces were so close now that all she could see was a giddying blur of features: damp dark eyes, brows, lashes. The lashes fluttered, and she felt the movement of them against her own.

Lilian spoke softly. ‘What you said the other night. About being in love. Did you mean it?’

Had she meant it? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Does that frighten you, too?’

Lilian nodded. ‘But it frightens me most because —’ She couldn’t say it. She shut her eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I feel. I feel it’s all an enchantment! All the time we were at the party, I was longing for you to kiss me. I don’t think I’ve longed so much for anything ever in my life. It didn’t seem strange, it didn’t seem wrong. I didn’t think of Len, not for a moment. I know it’s wicked of me, but I didn’t. It doesn’t seem anything to do with him. It doesn’t seem anything to do with anyone but us, does it?’

‘No,’ said Frances simply, ‘it doesn’t.’

She still had Lilian’s hand held flat over her heart, but now, as they gazed at each other, something shifted, something changed. She moved the hand a few inches lower, so that it was cupping her breast; and a moment later she moved it lower again. Shyly, Lilian began to touch her through the thin, worn stuff of her camisole. But then she drew the hand back. ‘Put yourself against me,’ she said, tugging up the camisole as she spoke, then rolling on to her back and doing the same with her own nightdress.

The curls between her legs were darker and tighter than the loose brown curls between Frances’s. The flesh of her stomach and her breasts was textured with silvery, irregular lines: they took Frances aback for a moment, until she realised that, of course, they were the marks of her unhappy pregnancy. She dipped her head to kiss them, then pushed the nightdress higher and slid forward – then caught her breath, as their bodies came scaldingly together. For a minute or two they lay still, seeming to drink each other in.

But once they were kissing again there came another of those changes. They began to shift and nudge at the hips, to strain after pressure and motion. Frances moved a little to the side and, as it had on Saturday night, Lilian’s thigh slid between her legs; still kissing, they fitted themselves neatly and wetly together, began to push and rock. Push by push, the pace of it quickened. Their stomachs and breasts grew slick with sweat. Their mouths parted, met again; the rhythm grew more urgent, then broke down in a confusion of movements, almost a tussle, inelegant, exciting. Lilian stiffened and gave a cry, the sound blurting out like a gush of water, and the thrill and the release of it made Frances’s own crisis start to come. She ground herself against Lilian’s thigh while Lilian held her and kissed her and gazed in astonishment into her face: ‘My dear! Oh, my dear!’

When they finally separated and looked at the clock they were amazed to discover that it was after eleven. Frances had done none of her morning chores. Lilian had to bathe, and tidy her rooms; she had promised to pay a visit to Walworth. They stood, and drew each other close again – but with a pang of frustration this time. For what would they do? How would they manage it? It would be hours before they could see one another again. They had to be careful. Frances’s mother mustn’t guess. Lilian’s sisters mustn’t get wind of it. Len mustn’t find out! No one must know.

‘But I can’t let you go,’ said Frances, as Lilian began to move out of her arms. ‘Can’t you come to me later? Tonight, when Leonard’s asleep?’

‘I daren’t. I daren’t! Oh, but I’ll want to.’

‘I’ll want it too.’

‘Will you?’ Lilian gazed into her face. ‘I can’t believe you really mean it. I can’t believe it’s the same for you as it is for me. Oh, what have you
done
to me!’

They tore themselves apart at last. Lilian returned to her own room; with a wobble, Frances lowered herself on to the edge of her untidy bed. She had that wine-glass feeling again. It was as if all her senses had been wiped clean of a layer of dust. Every colour seemed sharper. Straight edges were like blades. A bit of silk trimming on the bed-clothes was marvellous to her touch. Had it been like this with Christina? She recalled a night, right here, her parents in the next room; they’d made love in silence, by inches, stealthily, like thieves. But had it really been like
this
? It must have been. No, it couldn’t have been! She would never, surely, have been able to give it up.

She remembered the housework. She washed, dressed, went down, took care of her mother’s bedroom, saw to the drawing-room and the stairs – doing it all at maniac speed, whirling the feather-broom like a dervish. Even so, when her mother returned at lunch-time she had not quite finished the hall floor.

‘Oh, dear,’ said her mother, seeing her there on the kneeling mat.

She answered with appalling glibness. ‘Yes, I’m running late today. One thing after another going wrong. How’s Mr Garnish?’

‘He’s very well. Oh, dear.’

‘Now, don’t mind about this. I’ve very nearly finished.’

She took away the pail of water, then flung together a salad lunch. They ate it outside, beneath the linden tree. She kept up a lively conversation with her mother throughout the meal, all about Mr Garnish’s charity, which found seaside homes for sickly boys and girls of the parish. But once their plates were cleared they sat in a companionable silence, and she gazed around at the flower-beds with that new clarity, that new wonder. The blue of the delphiniums, for example: she’d never seen such a blue in her life. The marigolds and the orange snapdragons glowed like flames. Bees clambered in and out of velvety hollows, dusty with pollen: she seemed to see every clinging yellow grain, every wing-beat of every insect. Then she happened to look back at the house just as Lilian, dressed for Walworth, went past the staircase window, and she felt a rush of muddled excitements, a physical fluster – was that love? If it wasn’t, then – Christ, it was something very like it. But if it was – oh, if it was —!

‘You’re very thoughtful, Frances,’ her mother said mildly. ‘What are you thinking of?’

Beginning to gather the lunch-things, Frances answered without a pause. ‘I was thinking of a man I met at Lilian’s sister’s party, as it happens.’

Her mother looked interested. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘We talked of making a day-trip to Henley some time. I dare say it won’t come off, though.’

It was as easy as that, to give a fillip to her mother’s mood. A few days before, she would have despised herself for doing it; now the two of them returned to the house, and once she had taken care of the washing-up they spent a pleasant afternoon together in the drawing-room, sitting in their chairs at the open window. Lilian returned from Walworth, but Frances didn’t go out to her. Her blood leapt at the sound of her step. She felt that physical fluster again, in her breasts and between her legs. But she nursed the feeling, in secret – like cradling a suckling child, she thought.

Then Leonard came home. He came later than usual. She was in the kitchen, putting plates to warm, alert for the sound of his key in the lock, when, glancing out at the garden, she was startled to see him letting himself in through the door in the wall at the end of it. She barely had time to arrange her expression before he had picked his way up the path and was in the kitchen with her, wiping the dust from his feet. Yes, he’d come by the lane, he told her, rather than by his regular route, because he’d been down at Camberwell police station, telling them all about his ‘little spot of fun’. A sergeant had taken down the particulars, but didn’t hold out much hope of catching the fellow. He’d said what Leonard had said himself: London these days was so full of criminal types that looking for one would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack.

He yawned as he spoke, and against his tired, yellowish face the bruises beneath his eyes looked darker than ever. He stayed for ten minutes, however, describing the ribbing he had got from the chaps at the office; he made a point, too, of mentioning the dinner that had ended so disastrously on Saturday night. But he gave a slightly different account of it this time, she noticed. The assurance men he had previously described as a lot of snobs he now dismissed, scornfully, as a ‘bunch of chinless Old Boys’. He and Charlie had made their escape, he said, as soon as they decently could. No, there were better ways of doing business than getting into bed with a load of wets…

He was plainly trying hard to forget the humiliations of the evening; and, oddly, the very hollowness of his boasts filled Frances with pity.
It isn’t anything to do with him
, Lilian had said earlier, and that had seemed true, that had seemed vital, with her face an inch from Frances’s, with her hand pressed hard over Frances’s heart. But he was her husband after all… He went off at last, twirling his bowler, whistling ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’, and,
We can’t
, thought Frances, with a plunge into desolation.
We can’t!
Surely Lilian would think the same?

But when she went up to bed that night she found that a scrap of folded paper had been pushed beneath her door. The paper had an X put on it, that was all: a kiss. One of Lilian’s full, wet kisses. The sight of it brought on a return of that wine-glass quiver. For twenty minutes or more she waited for Lilian to emerge from her sitting-room; hearing her step at last she called out to the landing, pretending that she wanted her opinion on the trimming of a gown. They stood inside the partly open door, pressed silently together – mouths, breasts, hips, thighs, even their slippered feet tangling – while, just across the stairwell, Leonard mixed up his indigestion powder and belched. It ought to have been squalid, but somehow it wasn’t squalid at all. Frances no longer thought,
We can’t
. She thought,
We have to!
She thought,
I’ll die if we don’t!
She got into bed in the darkness, wondering if Lilian would, after all, come to her once Leonard was asleep. She lay there willing her to do it – lifting her head at every creak of every cooling floorboard, imagining that the sound was Lilian’s step; then sinking back again, disappointed.