The Yuletide Child. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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him a man any woman would find compelling and any man would find a threat.
‘What’s your name?’
He smiled and her ears beat with a hot pulse. ‘Ross Jefferson. Is Dylan Adams your real name?’
She nodded. ‘What do you do? You aren’t in the theatre, are you?’ He looked as if he spent all his time out of doors, but then she, of all people, knew how deceptive appearances could be!
‘No, I am not,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I’m a forester—I work in a commercially managed forest, way up north—all conifers, of course.’
She gave a sigh of relief—at least he wasn’t a journalist looking for a gossip story!
‘I had a holiday in Norway once, when I was at school. There were forests of fir trees everywhere we went.’ They were making polite conversation on the surface but underneath something very different was happening. She barely knew what she was saying, she was so intent on what she was feeling: a sensuality which was entirely new to her and left her in a state of shock.
She had had a few boyfriends in the past, but her career took first place in her life: there wasn’t time to get seriously involved with anyone. Except Michael, of course; he was always there. They saw each other every day, most of their waking hours, but their relationship was not a sexual one. They were more than friends, less than lovers. Partners, necessary to each other on stage and off, working together, eating together, spending their spare time together. How could she ever have fallen in love with anyone else? Michael left no room for any other man.
At that instant, right on cue, Michael tapped on the door. ‘Are you coming, Dylan? I’m not waiting much longer; I’m starving. Come on!’
‘Will you have supper with me?’ Ross Jefferson quickly asked.
‘I always eat with Michael after a performance.’
His eyes focused on hers intently, his face hard, set. ‘Are you two lovers?’
The direct, flat question made her flush.
‘No, just very good friends.’ Yet more than that; the answer was too simplistic. What else could she say, though? There were no words to describe how close she and Michael were.
‘Then eat with me tonight!’ Ross said urgently, moving closer to her, but not touching her. ‘I want to get to know you. I’m only in London for a week. I’m here on holiday and have to get back to work by next Monday, at the other end of the country. God knows when I shall be able to come to London again. I’ve no time to waste.’
‘Dylan!’ Michael shouted again. ‘Our table is booked for eleven! Come on!’
Still staring into the dark, hypnotic eyes, Dylan called out, ‘You go on without me, Michael. See you tomorrow at rehearsal.’
A silence, then the door was pulled open and Michael stared in at her, at both of them. There was incredulity, alarm, wariness in his elegant face. This had never happened before. She had never shown any sign of preferring another man’s company to his. Something new had entered their magic circle, something dangerous to Michael, and he immediately sensed it. He had powerful intuitions, especially where his own security was involved.
‘I need to talk over tonight’s performance. It won’t wait.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning far more than that she was sorry she couldn’t eat supper with him. She was saying she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to talk through the way they had danced, analyse any mistakes, discuss the audience reaction to this movement or that, the way they always did after each performance, while it was fresh in their minds. Each night was so different, each audience responded differently; you learnt so much from studying them. Added to all that, they had to talk themselves down from the fierce excitement of the night.
And tonight Dylan was changing all that. Tonight Michael was no longer the centre of her universe. A new element had entered the equasion.
‘I’m having supper with Ross,’ she said.
Michael stood there, very still, intensely concentrated on her, staring into her eyes and reading everything in them.
They knew each other so well. She couldn’t hide anything from him. She didn’t even try.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ he said at last. The door slammed again; he was gone but she was trembling.
Ross stared at the door, then down at her; she stiffened, waiting for him to question her again about Michael. His eyes were hard and narrowed, dark with thought, but all he said was, ‘Shall we get away before he comes back to argue some more? My car’s parked in the next street.’
The fans were outside the stage door, clustered around Michael, who was signing autographs. Ross took her hand and hurried her away, around the corner, before they were noticed. The crowds had all gone now. The streets were silent; their footsteps rang out in the stillness. This part of London did not have as much traffic at night as the busier parts of town. It was mostly city offices, very few people worked at night around here, and the shops and restaurants were all closed. The air was warm, a faint breeze blew her silky skirts around her legs.
‘Where are we going to eat?’
‘You suggest somewhere.’
‘I know an Italian trattoria not far from here—they stay open until midnight. Do you like Italian food?’
‘Love it.’ He stopped walking, looked down at her. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said abruptly, still holding her hand. Raising it to his chest, he splayed it over his shirt-front. ‘Can you feel my heart beating?’
Her palm flattened, she stood still, the heavy thudding right under her warm skin, and nodded, unable to speak.
Ross looked at her with a passion that made her quiver. ‘Do you feel it, too? It’s as if I’ve been struck by lightning. I think I’ve fallen in love with you at first sight, and I never even believed in such a thing.’
‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and then he bent his head, his warm mouth moving against hers, sending the world whirling crazily around them.
They spent the next two hours talking in a corner of the trattoria, eating their way through melon and prosciutto, the swordfish cooked in tomatoes, olives and garlic, with a green salad, followed by green figs.
‘Are you dieting?’ he asked her, and she laughed.
‘I don’t need to—I use up so much energy every day. I’m underweight for my height. But I love swordfish, don’t you?’
‘I’ve never eaten it before, but it’s good. Tell me about your usual day. When do you get up? Can we have breakfast together?’
‘You’re going too fast!’
‘I have to—there isn’t time to take it slowly. I live hundreds of miles away and I don’t get much time off.’
He told her about his forest, talking passionately about his trees, how he worked among them, the life he led in the northern area between England and Scotland which was his home.
She told him how hard and fiercely she had to work each day, how much she loved to dance, but how tired she often was.
He asked her again about Michael. ‘Has he ever been your lover? Is he in love with you?’
‘No,’ she said to both questions.
‘Don’t tell me you’re just good friends! He’s far too possessive for that to be true!’
‘We’re partners. It’s hard to explain. We need each other. It isn’t love.’ Nothing so easy to define, nothing so simple. Michael threatened the back of her mind like a bruise, darkening her skin, worrying her. How would he reaact to what was happening to her?
‘Never has been?’ insisted Ross, and she shook her head.
‘No. Michael has