Falling In Love. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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felt the same about him, but sensed that she didn’t. There was some sort of irony in that for Patrick, who had all his life been able to bowl women over and make them his devoted slaves.
He was twenty-nine, and until he’d met Laura he had had a wonderful time with a constantly changing succession of pretty girls. He had liked them all, but never fallen in love with any of them. Why, when he did fall in love, had he fallen like a ton of bricks for someone who was so cool and in command of herself? At times he almost felt Laura treated him more as a brother than a lover. Oh, she was affectionate, loving, almost indulgent with him, but the passion he felt for her was never reflected in her eyes when she looked back at him.
He wished she would agree to fix a date for their wedding. Once they were married he might feel more secure. He might stop being scared she would meet someone else.
The following morning Patrick woke up late, with all the symptoms of flu. He was shivering, his throat hurt and his head ached. After taking aspirin and deciding to skip breakfast, since his appetite had vanished, he gloomily rang Laura.
‘Oh, poor darling,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘Shall I come round?’
‘Better not,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t want you to catch it. But it means I shan’t be able to come to see the cottage.’
‘Never mind, I’ll go, and report back to you later. Sure you don’t want me to come and hold your hand when I get back?’
He laughed hoarsely. ‘I’d love it, but I’ll probably sleep all day; I’m having trouble keeping awake.’
‘Best thing for you!’ she agreed. ‘Look after yourself, take plenty of liquids, and stay warm.’
She rang off after blowing him a kiss and ruefully looked out of the window. Typical. The weather was glorious, wouldn’t you know it? They could have had such a wonderful day. She took another look at the cloudless blue sky. Well, it would still be a very pleasant drive; far better to be out in the countryside on a day like this, instead of sitting around in an office!
Laura lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a modern block of flats a short walk from York Castle. She had a good view of the river from her sitting-room window. Her tiny bedroom looked out over roof-tops but gave her a glimpse of the world-famous medieval Minster.
She liked uncluttered rooms, with lots of space, so there was a minimum of furniture—only what she really liked and felt she needed. Most of it had been bought in antique shops or at sales over the years she had lived there, or had been given to her by a relative. Laura preferred to live with graceful old furniture which had been well loved for years before she owned it. Fortunately, she had generous relatives, most of them living in Yorkshire. Hers was a very close family; she saw them all often: her parents, who lived in a tiny village fifty miles away, her married sister in Harrogate, or one or other of her grandparents. Sometimes they came to York to visit her, especially her parents, who loved their visits to the city.
Laura always put them up in her flat, insisting on giving them the bedroom while she slept in her sitting-room on a couch, and she took them out to restaurants, to the theatre or a cinema. It gave her pleasure to see them enjoying themselves, but she knew that they were happy to get home again, back to the village where they had lived all their lives.
Laura missed the village, too, and the moorland landscape she remembered waking up to each morning. When she had inherited a large sum of money from an uncle a year or so back, she had decided to buy a cottage within easy driving distance of York so that she could spend weekends in the countryside. Of course, the landscape would be different—softer, less rugged than the one she had grown up with—but she wanted to hear birds singing, escape the everlasting sound of traffic and the smell of petrol fumes, go for Sunday morning walks across fields, through woods.
When she and Patrick had got engaged, he’d been delighted with the idea of a country home after they were married, because he was tired of living in the city, too, but since he worked from home, as a freelance artist, he wouldn’t be driving to York and back each day, and somewhere in the real countryside would also suit him better. He would sell his flat, and live entirely in the country, but Laura had decided to keep hers. It would be more convenient for her to live in York during the working week and her family would still be able to make their occasional visits to the city.
‘I can do any redecorating necessary. I prefer to do it myself—most decorators don’t have any taste,’ Patrick had predictably said.
‘That will save us money,’ she had agreed, and had been teased for her Yorkshire sense of thrift. ‘Well,’ she had defiantly retorted, ‘that’s how I was brought up! To count the pennies. You wouldn’t want a wife who chucks money around, would you?’
‘Certainly wouldn’t,’ he had grinned, then said, ‘Oh, it will be fun, Laura! During the week, in between doing my work, I’ll have lots to do around the house and garden, so I won’t be lonely, or miss you too much, and then at weekends we can make love and talk by the fire or in the garden! We’re going to have a wonderful life.’
Whenever Laura met old girlfriends she was usually appalled by the men they had picked. Most of them had husbands who, however attractive or pleasant they might seem, were stuck in the conventional male path—spoilt, thoughtless, domineering, expecting to be waited on hand and foot, to have a well-cooked meal on the table when they came home from work, their perfectly laundered shirts hanging in the wardrobe ready for them to put on each morning.
Her friends were always complaining about them. Yet they stayed with them, almost seemed proud of their behaviour. Laura found it baffling. Thank heavens Patrick wasn’t like that. He was a partner, not a master: good-looking, charming, but kind-hearted and easygoing too. He had a delightful personality and Laura had never met anyone, male or female, who didn’t like him, but he was also intensely practical and hard-working. He could cook better than she could, he loved to see his home looking spotless and spent hours every week doing housework, doing his own washing, ironing, even sewing on buttons if he lost one from a shirt.
She suddenly caught sight of a clock on a table; good heavens, was that the time? She ought to be on her way; traffic coming into York would be quite heavy soon.
She paused at the front door to check her reflection in the mirror hanging there. Her blonde hair was a tossing cloud of curls, her skin was smooth and dewy, her full mouth softly pink—but it was on her slanting green eyes that her stare stayed. Why was there that look in them? She couldn’t even define it, but she didn’t look like a rapturously happy woman, and she ought to! Life was showering her with everything she had ever wanted, so why did she feel so restless?
But she knew why! Patrick was everything she wanted a man to be, and yet...and yet she had never once felt the sort of overwhelming desire for him that she knew he felt for her.
Well, so what? she defiantly told her reflection. Did you have to feel like that to be in love? That might be one aspect of love, but it wasn’t everything. But her green eyes silently held the answer: isn’t it? Why did she feel this restless, unsatisfied need if it wasn’t important?
Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I want Patrick the way he wants me? When he made love to her she always felt a sensual enjoyment, pleasure in the stroking hands and warm mouth, the gentle physical contact, but she had never once gone crazy, lost her head, ached for him, and it disturbed her. She knew it disturbed Patrick, too; and it hurt her to know she was hurting him, because she loved him. But was loving him enough?
If only she dared talk to her sister, or had a friend she trusted enough to ask, Am I just cold by nature? I’m not frigid, am I? What is the matter with me?
But maybe she had let herself get wound up over nothing; maybe she would change after she and Patrick were married, when they were alone all weekend in their cottage and the tensions of their engagement were over?
The telephone rang; she ran to pick it up. ‘Hello? Laura Grainger speaking.’
‘Laura, we’ve got a crisis!’ It was Barry Courtley’s voice, sounding agitated.
‘What