Cruel Angel. Sharon Kendrick
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of the bedroom.
A week went by, and, if not exactly forgetting about the man, then at least Cressida had put him out of her mind as she concentrated for the end-of-term production, in which she was playing Cleopatra.
It was a gruelling rehearsal, and she was glad enough to finish, sitting in the cramped dressing-room cleaning her face and trying to decide whether or not to go to her speech coach’s party that night. But she was strangely reluctant. And let’s face it, she thought, as she dragged the brush through her thick red hair—it’ll be the same old faces, the same old jokes. No one will notice if you aren’t there.
A long bath, a cool drink on the plant-filled patio and the flat to herself seemed an infinitely preferable option.
It was a warm, balmy night, with the setting sun gilding the clouds pink as she walked the short distance to the flat. She had been lucky to have hit it off with Judy so well in their first few weeks of term, and had been delighted to be asked to share the flat with her. Judy’s parents were rich. Rich, rich, rich, as she cheerfully admitted herself. And they loved indulging their only daughter—thus the spacious flat in a prestigious area of London. Otherwise, Cressida—with her elderly aunt her only relation in England—would have been living in some grotty little flat, goodness knew where.
Her only bone of contention was that Judy had refused point-blank to accept any rent money. ‘My parents have already paid for it,’ she had pointed out. The only way round this was for Cressida to buy new things for the flat—so that every month a new vase, pretty dishes or colourful scatter cushions were introduced into their home.
Cressida had her bath, and pulled on a filmy wrap patterned in soft shades of green. Her hair dried into a cloud of fragrant dark waves shot with fire. She had just poured herself a glass of weak Pimm’s and added lemon and a sprig of mint when there was a ring at the doorbell.
It must be Judy, she thought, back early and disenchanted by the party, but she opened the door to find the man from the park there, silently watching her, not a flicker of emotion on the implacable olive-skinned face.
She opened her mouth to say all the things which she knew one should say in such circumstances, from, ‘What are you doing here?’ to, ‘How did you find out where I lived?’ But she said none of these, just stood regarding him with the same intense interest as she saw reflected in his own eyes.
There was a mocking look in the quizzical way in which he surveyed her, one dark eyebrow arched, the trace of a smile touching the firm mouth. ‘You knew I would come.’
She looked into those dark velvety eyes and was lost. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, dry-mouthed, recognising the truth in his words immediately. ‘I knew.’ And, without another word, he had taken her in his arms and begun to kiss her.
Cressida groaned as she turned her head away from the pillow and lay staring at the wall. She had been so young, so naïve. Anyone who had ever doubted the veracity of the phrase ‘she was like putty in his hands’ had only to look at her relationship with Stefano.
She sat up, her hand going to her hair and encountering the thick lacquer which clogged it, her eyes going to the small clock on the rickety bedside table. It was gone seven, and David was due here at eight—and she hadn’t even cleaned her face properly. If she didn’t remove the heavy stage make-up soon, there would be hell to pay with her skin. Her head had begun to throb alarmingly. The last thing she felt like doing was going out to dinner, being forced to make polite conversation—even with someone as charming as David—not when her mind was spinning round like a Ferris wheel gone crazy.
She dialled his number with a shaky hand, and to her relief it was answered on the second ring. At least he hadn’t already left.
‘Hello, David—it’s me, Cressida!’
‘Well—hello to my favourite actress!’ came the cheery reply. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’
‘I wondered,’ she said apologetically, ‘if I could take a rain-check?’
The cultured voice sounded anxious. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
She liked him—she owed him more than a flimsy excuse, but not the truth; she couldn’t face that. ‘No, I’m not ill. It was just a—hard day. Tough rehearsal—you know.’
The anxiousness in his voice was magnified. ‘Everything going all right with the play, I hope?’
She hastened to reassure him. ‘The play’s fine—you know it is. Hasn’t everyone said that you’re the best playwright since—?’
‘I know. Since Shakespeare. Just not so prolific, nor so acclaimed.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to a date with my favourite actress all week, and now she’s turning me down for no reason other than it’s been a long day. I’ve had a long day, too, you know.’
‘Oh, David—don’t make me feel bad. It isn’t that I don’t want to see you—just that I don’t feel up to going out for dinner.’
‘Then we won’t!’ he said, sounding triumphant. ‘And if Cressida won’t go out to the restaurant then the restaurant must come to Cressida. We could eat a take-away—no problem. What do you fancy? Indian? Chinese? Pizza?’
‘Oh, no—honestly. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ he insisted.
She was fighting a losing battle here. ‘But I’m not feeling very good company tonight.’
‘You’re always good company to me, Cressida,’ he said quietly.
And after that declaration, she found it impossible to say no to him, agreeing that she would see him at eight-thirty, and that they would choose what they wanted from a local restaurant, and he’d go out to buy the meal.
As she replaced the receiver, she thought how ironic it was that David should make his first hint at something approaching seriousness at precisely the wrong time. They had been dating now for almost four months, and he was the first man she’d seen regularly since Stefano. The only man, apart from Stefano, she realised.
It had taken a long time for her to even consider going out with another man after the breakup of her marriage, but David had seemed the perfect partner, the balm she needed to soothe her troubled spirit. He was everything she liked and respected in a man—and everything that Stefano was not. They liked the same things—primarily the theatre, but they also liked loading up their bicycles on to the roof-rack of David’s estate car and escaping from the rat race into the country, where Cressida would sit quietly reading, while David indulged his hobby of photographing birds. Most importantly for her, everything they did did not end up with them in bed together. Her face flamed, and a pulse began to throb insistently as she recalled Stefano’s idea of recreation. David was a gentleman. He was prepared to wait. But then a memory intruded—jarred and disturbed her—because so, too, had Stefano—at the beginning . . .
His kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced, on or off the stage. There had been no one special in her life—and at just nineteen that hadn’t been so very unusual. And even the on-stage embraces, where the current breed of up-and-coming actors prided themselves on simulating realism, kissing you with an intimacy that Cressida had found slightly repugnant and definitely unnecessary—none of them had even remotely resembled what this man was now doing to her.
His mouth cajoled her into instant response, so that she found herself somehow knowing that he wanted their tongues to lace together in erotic dance—the result of which sent her heart-rate soaring, and made her insides melt. She felt a tingling awareness in the tips of her breasts, a growing warmth in her groin. She found that she wanted to explore the substance of his taut, muscular body, so that when he pushed her up against the wall and ground his hips into hers, like a man who was out of control, she did not cry out her protest, but urged him on with a slurred and exultant, ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ and his answer was to lightly brush his hands over her breasts, gently stroking each one in turn until he had