The Paying Guests(75)

‘Yes.’

‘And then, when I cut your hair —’

‘What did you think, about what I told you? Were you shocked?’

‘I was cross with you. I felt a fool.’

‘A fool?’

‘For not knowing. For supposing there had been a man. I felt you had tricked me into liking you as one sort of person, when all along you’d been another. But – I don’t know. I kept thinking about it. I wondered why you’d told me.’

‘I wondered that, too.’

‘I thought it showed that you liked me – for a friend, I mean. But then I thought, Oh, but she doesn’t like me as much as she liked her. And that made me even crosser. It made me furious!’ Her fingers were back at Frances’s collarbone. ‘The feeling frightened me. It didn’t seem right… I wanted you all to myself, I suppose.’

Frances said, after a pause, ‘I think you like to be admired. By men, by me, by everyone. Isn’t that the truth?’

Lilian shook her head, smiling. ‘No.’

‘I think it is. I might be anyone, anyone at all.’

Lilian shook her head again, and a lock of hair fell across her eyes. She gazed at Frances through it, her smile fading. ‘No. Only you.’

Frances’s heart suddenly felt too full for its socket. She caught hold of Lilian’s hand and held it above the stir of feeling. Their faces were so close now that all she could see was a giddying blur of features: damp dark eyes, brows, lashes. The lashes fluttered, and she felt the movement of them against her own.

Lilian spoke softly. ‘What you said the other night. About being in love. Did you mean it?’

Had she meant it? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Does that frighten you, too?’

Lilian nodded. ‘But it frightens me most because —’ She couldn’t say it. She shut her eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I feel. I feel it’s all an enchantment! All the time we were at the party, I was longing for you to kiss me. I don’t think I’ve longed so much for anything ever in my life. It didn’t seem strange, it didn’t seem wrong. I didn’t think of Len, not for a moment. I know it’s wicked of me, but I didn’t. It doesn’t seem anything to do with him. It doesn’t seem anything to do with anyone but us, does it?’

‘No,’ said Frances simply, ‘it doesn’t.’

She still had Lilian’s hand held flat over her heart, but now, as they gazed at each other, something shifted, something changed. She moved the hand a few inches lower, so that it was cupping her breast; and a moment later she moved it lower again. Shyly, Lilian began to touch her through the thin, worn stuff of her camisole. But then she drew the hand back. ‘Put yourself against me,’ she said, tugging up the camisole as she spoke, then rolling on to her back and doing the same with her own nightdress.

The curls between her legs were darker and tighter than the loose brown curls between Frances’s. The flesh of her stomach and her breasts was textured with silvery, irregular lines: they took Frances aback for a moment, until she realised that, of course, they were the marks of her unhappy pregnancy. She dipped her head to kiss them, then pushed the nightdress higher and slid forward – then caught her breath, as their bodies came scaldingly together. For a minute or two they lay still, seeming to drink each other in.

But once they were kissing again there came another of those changes. They began to shift and nudge at the hips, to strain after pressure and motion. Frances moved a little to the side and, as it had on Saturday night, Lilian’s thigh slid between her legs; still kissing, they fitted themselves neatly and wetly together, began to push and rock. Push by push, the pace of it quickened. Their stomachs and breasts grew slick with sweat. Their mouths parted, met again; the rhythm grew more urgent, then broke down in a confusion of movements, almost a tussle, inelegant, exciting. Lilian stiffened and gave a cry, the sound blurting out like a gush of water, and the thrill and the release of it made Frances’s own crisis start to come. She ground herself against Lilian’s thigh while Lilian held her and kissed her and gazed in astonishment into her face: ‘My dear! Oh, my dear!’

When they finally separated and looked at the clock they were amazed to discover that it was after eleven. Frances had done none of her morning chores. Lilian had to bathe, and tidy her rooms; she had promised to pay a visit to Walworth. They stood, and drew each other close again – but with a pang of frustration this time. For what would they do? How would they manage it? It would be hours before they could see one another again. They had to be careful. Frances’s mother mustn’t guess. Lilian’s sisters mustn’t get wind of it. Len mustn’t find out! No one must know.

‘But I can’t let you go,’ said Frances, as Lilian began to move out of her arms. ‘Can’t you come to me later? Tonight, when Leonard’s asleep?’

‘I daren’t. I daren’t! Oh, but I’ll want to.’

‘I’ll want it too.’

‘Will you?’ Lilian gazed into her face. ‘I can’t believe you really mean it. I can’t believe it’s the same for you as it is for me. Oh, what have you done to me!’

They tore themselves apart at last. Lilian returned to her own room; with a wobble, Frances lowered herself on to the edge of her untidy bed. She had that wine-glass feeling again. It was as if all her senses had been wiped clean of a layer of dust. Every colour seemed sharper. Straight edges were like blades. A bit of silk trimming on the bed-clothes was marvellous to her touch. Had it been like this with Christina? She recalled a night, right here, her parents in the next room; they’d made love in silence, by inches, stealthily, like thieves. But had it really been like this? It must have been. No, it couldn’t have been! She would never, surely, have been able to give it up.