Act Of Possession. Anne Mather
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one had less reason to buy expensive outfits, and Antonia’s needs were not extensive. She generally wore a suit or a tailored dress to the office, and casual wear at other times. In consequence, what choice she had was limited, and she doubted there was anything to completely suit her purpose.
A pretty green batiste dress was appealing, but it seemed too summery for an April evening. A cotton two-piece was discarded for similar reasons, and the dark brown corded trouser suit, which always looked good, was dismissed on two counts: it was too warm to wear indoors, and it didn’t have a skirt.
Sighing, Antonia eventually pulled out the only item she might regard as wearable. It was a cream shirt-waisted dress, with full sleeves and a narrow skirt, that ended just above her knees. Made of Thai silk, she had bought it in a sale in Newcastle the previous January, and since then, she had simply not had an occasion to wear it. Even in the sale, it had not been cheap, and her mother had thought her quite mad to spend her money on one item when she might have had two. Now, however, Antonia knew it was exactly what she was looking for, and stripping off the bathrobe, she put it on.
She had never realised how flattering the colour was, she thought, lifting her hair out of the neckline and turning this way and that. The low vee in front drew attention to the enticing swell of her breasts, and for once she did not deplore their fullness. Since having Susie, her breasts had become heavier, and she had seen no advantages in the contrast they posed to the narrowness of her waist. Now, however, she saw that the dusky hollow just visible above the buttons of the dress was not unappealing, and her lips parted a little wryly at her unwarranted enthusiasm. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She wasn’t going to the party in the hope of attracting some man. Nevertheless, there was a certain satisfaction to be found in knowing she was looking her best, and she was still woman enough not to want Celia to go on feeling sorry for her.
When she left her flat at eight-thirty to climb the stairs to the apartment upstairs, she joined several other young people, evidently with the same destination. But they were not on their own, as she was. They were in groups of two or three, all laughing and talking together, with the easy cameraderie of long practice. They cast faintly speculative glances in Antonia’s direction—not unfriendly actually, but not specially kind—and one or two of the young men eyed her with a more than passing interest. But generally they all regarded her with some curiosity, and Antonia became increasingly convinced she should not have come. Perhaps if she turned round now, she thought, having reached the first floor landing where the buzz of music and conversation coming through the open door of the apartment was quite overpowering. Who would notice? she asked herself. Who would care? But the realisation that she would have to run the gauntlet of several more people climbing the stairs behind her drove her on, and because she had no alternative, she was obliged to take the plunge.
At least, what she was wearing was acceptable, she mused, with some relief. Although it was raining outside, it was not a cold evening, and she had seen one or two girls wearing dresses similar to her own. There were girls in trousers, but not as many as she might have expected, and the men’s clothes reflected their girlfriends’ casual tastes.
It soon became apparent that the apartment Celia and her friend occupied was approximately twice the size of Antonia’s. Unlike the floor below, which was divided into two flats—the other being occupied by the caretaker and his wife—the first floor was given over entirely to the apartment leased by the two girls. Halting on the threshold of a warmly lit entrance hall, Antonia was immediately impressed by an atmosphere redolent with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, Havana tobacco, and fine wines; and she didn’t need to see the banks of flowers or feel her feet sinking into the Persian carpet to know that everything Mrs Francis had hinted must be true.
Ahead of her, the young men and girls who had preceded her up the stairs were soon absorbed into the welcoming surge of people swelling through the matching doors that gave access to the living room. The amplified projection of the song that was presently topping the popular music charts made any formal introductions impossible, and the couple behind Antonia were compelling her to move forward. Almost without her own volition, she was propelled through the doors, and was soon engulfed by that noisy jostling throng.
The room was literally full of people, spilling over the arms of brocade-covered sofas and squashy leather armchairs on to stools and bean-filled cushions, and even the floor. The living room was large by anybody’s standards, but although Antonia had heard of its silk-hung walls and high moulded ceilings from Mrs Francis, it was difficult to appreciate its elegance tonight. The rhythm emanating from the hi-fi system and its accompanying speakers created a constant vibration, and the smoke from more than a dozen cheroots and cigarettes was sending a hazy cloud drifting irresistibly upwards. Those people who had just arrived, or perhaps those who simply preferred to circulate, made up the relaxed gathering that swelled from the entrance into the middle of the floor; and Antonia found herself a part of that gathering; anxious, and decidedly not relaxed. Where was Celia? she wondered, turning on heels that were a little higher than she usually wore. Surely she had to be here somewhere! But where?
‘Are you looking for somebody in particular, or will I do?’ enquired an attractive male voice close to her ear, and Antonia swung round with incautious haste to face the questioner. Incautious, because her heel caught in the shaggy pile of the carpet, and had her inquisitor not been there to grab at, she might easily have disgraced herself completely and landed at his feet.
Instead, she clutched rather wildly for his arm, her grappling fingers barely registering the subtle softness of his suede-covered sleeve. As she struggled to disentangle her heel from its infuriating cohesion with the carpet, she was scarcely aware of him using his free hand to help her regain her balance until, in doing so, he brought her up against the lean hardness of his body. Then, as her heel came loose, she was able to look up at him, and the humorous gleam in his grey eyes made her quickly put some space between them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, colouring hotly as she apprehended what had happened. ‘I caught my heel …’
‘I know.’ The amused grey eyes were regarding her with frank appreciation. ‘But I guess I was responsible. I did attract your attention.’
‘It was you …’
‘… who spoke to you? Yes, it was.’ He smiled, his lips parting to reveal even white teeth. ‘You looked—lost. I wanted to help you.’
‘Not bring me to my knees?’ countered Antonia wryly, the humour of the situation restoring her composure. ‘Well—thank you, anyway. I’m all right.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ But he did not move away as she had expected. Instead, he collected two long-stemmed glasses of a beige, bubbling liquid, from a tray being held by a passing waiter, and handed one to her. ‘Be my guest!’
Antonia took the glass reluctantly, but a surreptitious glance about her assured her that their exchange was not attracting any unnecessary attention. On the contrary, the music and the buzz of conversation was going on as before, and it was only in her mind that she and this man who had rescued her from instant ignominy had isolated themselves from the rest.
Licking an errant drop of champagne—for that was what it was, she realised—from her lips, she cast covert eyes in his direction. Disconcertingly, he was watching her, but that didn’t prevent her hastily averted gaze from noticing how attractive he was. Straight dark hair, rather longer than was fashionable; a lean, narrow-boned face; skin that still bore the tan of a winter holiday; even without the fact that he could look down at her from the advantage of at least three inches, notwithstanding her high heels, he was a disturbing man. But it was his eyes that really disrupted her carefully composed indifference; grey, as she already knew, they were fringed by thick straight lashes, that gave a wholly sensual appeal to an otherwise ascetically handsome face.
‘Do you like it?’ he enquired lazily, and Antonia controlled her colour with difficulty.
‘Like what?’ she asked, rather too sharply for politeness.
‘Why—the champagne, of course,’ he replied smoothly, and Antonia concentrated on the wine in her glass to avoid his knowing gaze.
‘It’s—very