The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven
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Tell me,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘does your English reserve and conventionality insist on this formality, or could you not bring yourself to call me Raoul?’
Lissa nearly choked on a mouthful of her drink. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that the formality of the evening to date had been imposed by him, but she overcame her resentment.
‘I’m not as prim and conventional as all that,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll call you Raoul.’
‘Splendid,’ he approved. ‘And I call you what? Lisse?’
‘It’s Lissa—short for Melissa, actually. My mother felt very poetic when I was born,’ she said, talking nonsense to cover her embarrassment as he gave her another of his searching looks.
‘And have you inspired no poetry since? I cannot believe Englishmen are so lacking in soul,’ he said.
Lissa, feeling herself blushing again, was thankful when the bell rang at that moment signalling them back to their seats.
During the second act, she knew he was watching her most of the time, and she concentrated all the more fiercely on the stage. It was this scrutiny and the general oddness of his behaviour during the evening that was making her so nervous and on edge, she told herself.
As they moved through the crowded foyer after the performance, Raoul Denis asked, ‘Have you any particular preference in restaurants, or are you prepared to leave the choice all to me?’
‘Quite prepared,’ Lissa smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I enjoyed that so much that I shall expect nothing but the best.’
‘Soit.’ He sent her a swift glance. ‘I trust you will find the remainder of the evening even more enjoyable.’
Again Lissa had a sense of vague unease, but as she looked inquiringly at him, he began once more to talk of the performance they had seen, and they were soon involved in a discussion which occupied the taxi ride to the quiet but very expensive restaurant he had chosen. The tables were set in alcoves round the walls, and the entire room was lit by candles, which lent an air of mystery and intimacy which immediately appealed to Lissa.
‘Though it makes me feel as if I should whisper all the time,’ she said, leaning back on the luxuriously upholstered bench seat.
‘Why?’ Raoul, sitting close beside her, sounded amused.
‘Well, you can’t really see who else is here,’ she explained. ‘It’s the sort of place where people have trysts and exchange secrets.’
Raoul bent towards her until his mouth brushed her ear. ‘If you have a secret to confide, ma belle, consider me your confident.’
Lissa, disturbed by his proximity, moved hastily, and her hand caught a glass, sending it clattering across the polished table on to the thickly carpeted floor. A waiter hurried to retrieve it—luckily unbroken—and brought her another glass, while she sat, flushed and angry at her lack of poise.
He did that deliberately, she thought, but why? And she wished with all her heart that the evening was over.
As the meal proceeded, Lissa realised that Raoul Denis’ knowledge of food and wines far outweighed even Paul’s, whom she was used to regarding as something of an expert. The meal was delicious, and the service was swift and unobtrusive. Lissa leaned back in her seat feeling warm and relaxed, as coffee and brandy were served.
‘A cigarette?’ Raoul asked.
‘No, thanks. It would spoil that wonderful food.’ She turned to smile at him and found to her surprise that he seemed to have withdrawn to a distance. But that was idiotic. He had not moved. She closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them again he was watching her.
‘I think the time has come for our departure,’ he said softly, and signalled to the waiter.
‘This is the perfect place to end an evening,’ Lissa said dreamily.
‘Or even to begin it,’ he said, helping her to rise and putting her coat round her shoulders.
As they crossed the pavement to a waiting taxi, Lissa stumbled slightly, and Raoul’s hand was instantly under her elbow.
‘Take care,’ he warned, and helped her into the cab.
Lissa collapsed on to the seat and again closed her eyes. The cab felt stuffy and the list of fares and regulations which faced her was oddly blurred.
‘Oh, God,’ she thought. ‘I’ve had too much to drink. This is terrible!’
‘Are you all right?’ he asked as she pulled herself together and sat up.
‘Fine,’ she lied, smiling carefully. As her mind raced back, she realised she had unwittingly drunk far more than her usual modest amount—sherry before dinner and a glass of wine with a meal. There had been drinks at the party, she recalled, and the vodka at the theatre, and wine in the food at the restaurant as well as with it, not to mention that last brandy.
Coffee, she thought. Black coffee and bed as soon as possible.
Maggie would certainly look a little askance if her secretary turned up for work the next day with an obvious hangover.
The taxi drew to a halt in front of the terraced house where the girls had their flat, and Lissa quailed at the thought of the two flights of stairs to her front door. Raoul paid off the driver and glanced up the street.
‘My car does not appear to have arrived,’ he remarked. ‘Is there perhaps a telephone in the house?’
‘Mrs Henderson doesn’t have one, but there’s a call box just round the corner.’ Lissa hoped that she was not slurring her words. She waited for him to say goodnight and go and look for the phone box, but he showed no signs of leaving. Eventually, she felt forced to ask, ‘Would you—er—like some coffee?’
‘Merci bien.’ He took the latchkey from her unresisting hand and fitted it into the lock. ‘En avant!’
Lissa was thankful to find herself at last alone in the peace and quiet of the kitchenette. Raoul had left her to make the coffee while he telephoned. She set out pottery mugs on a tray and plugged in the percolator. Her head was beginning to clear as she carried the coffee through and set it on the table in front of the gas fire.
‘I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind.’ Raoul Denis was standing by the table. He was holding Mrs Henderson’s magazine, but as Lissa started pouring the coffee, he put it down and came to sit on the sofa.
‘No, it was a good idea. It always gets chilly up here late at night, even if it is officially supposed to be early summer.’ Lissa helped herself to sugar and passed the bowl to Raoul, who declined it with a slight gesture.
‘Did you arrange about your car?’ she asked.
‘Yes, a tiresome misunderstanding. It will be here presently.’
‘That’s good,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Je suis désolé. Do you wish the evening to end so soon?’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Lissa began, leaning forward to put her mug back on the table. She was determined that he should not needle her again. Certainly he seemed very much at his ease, stretched out on the sofa.
‘More coffee?’ she asked.
‘I thank you, but no.’ He replaced his own cup. ‘It was delicious, however.’
‘So I’ve been told,’ she smiled, thinking of Paul, who invariably expressed his appreciation in extravagant terms.
It was as if that smile lit a fire in Raoul.
‘Mon Dieu!’ His voice sounded suddenly hoarse, but whether it was anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. Before she had a chance to protest, he had reached for her, drawing her roughly into his arms and silencing her with his mouth.
When