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‘Tara?’
This time there was a husky urgency in the way he said her name that brought new sensations washing over her. She looked up just in time to hear James swear suddenly as he released her, and Sue came rushing into the room.
‘It was Ma,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘She’s sending me a cheque for my birthday.’ She pulled a face. ‘Big deal—it’ll take her all of two minutes to write it out and have her secretary post it.’
‘Didn’t your mother want to speak to James?’ Tara heard herself asking in a shrilly challenging tone that surprised herself as well as Sue.
‘Hilary never did have much time for talking to the men in her life,’ James responded drawlingly, to Sue’s surprised ‘No,’ the smile he gave Tara mocking as he added, ‘Shocked? How young you are, Tara!’
The way he said it wasn’t complimentary and there was a closed-up bitterness about his face that warned Tara from pushing the matter further. Sue started to talk about her birthday. She wanted James to take her out for a meal; to take them both out, Tara realised in dismay as the younger girl’s excited chatter burst in upon her own private thoughts.
‘No, really, she protested. ‘There’s no need to invite me, Sue… I…’
‘It will be my pleasure to escort you both,’ James interrupted calmly. ‘I’ll book a table for us. Don’t refuse,’ he muttered softly to Tara under cover of Sue’s eager enthusiasm. ‘Can’t you see how bitter she feels that her mother can’t be bothered? She thinks a lot of you, Tara—and with good reason, don’t let her down now.’
Sue’s anxious, ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ only underlined his comment, and Tara heard herself saying weakly, ‘Of course I am,’ even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was playing with fire.
Tara’s mother, when she told her, made no secret of her disapproval. ‘Dinner at a hotel for a fourteen-year-old? Foolish nonsense!’ she snorted, and Tara had to plead with her to be allowed to accept the invitation. Her clothes were chosen for her by her mother, and apart from the jeans and tee shirts she favoured out of school hours Tara had very little in her wardrobe other than her school uniform and one or two sensible and staid outfits which she loathed wearing.
Sue, in contrast, had more clothes than she knew what to do with. Her mother gave her a generous allowance—conscience money, Sue called it scoffingly—and when Tara confided her doubts about dining at the prestigious Davenport Arms, which was the town’s most expensive hotel, in the childish ‘best’ clothes which were her mother’s choice, Sue dragged her upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open her wardrobe doors to announce, ‘Take your pick—there’s sure to be something here that will fit you. You’re taller than me, I know, but you’re so slim…’ She rummaged through the tightly packed cupboard, ignoring Tara’s protests.
‘Here, try this,’ she mumbled, flinging half a dozen outfits onto the bed and reaching into the depths of the wardrobe to produce a crinkle cotton dress in a cool shade of green, the colour deepening to jade at the hem.
The dress was similar to several Tara had seen in Hillingdon’s shop windows—at least at first sight, but when she picked it up from the bed where Sue had flung it, she realised instantly that it was a far more expensive model than anything Hillingdon had ever stocked. The cotton was soft and fine, the full skirt banded with rows of handmade lace dyed to match the fabric, a peasant-style neckline with tiny puffed sleeves was trimmed with satin ribbon, and when she held the dress against her Tara knew instinctively that it might have been made for her. Later she was ashamed of how little persuading she needed to try the dress on. As Sue had suggested, it fitted her perfectly, causing Sue to say blithely, ‘There, I told you, and it suits you far more than it ever would me. I’m too plump for such a full-skirted style. There’s a flounced petticoat to go with it,’ she added before Tara could speak, ‘and a toning cotton waistcoat. Here, take them.’
Tara tried to protest, but Sue wouldn’t listen. ‘If you don’t take them they’ll never be worn,’ she insisted. ‘Ma bought them for me—another conscience-easer.’
Tara dressed for Sue’s birthday meal without enthusiasm. To her surprise her mother had made no comment about the dress Sue had ‘loaned’ her. As Sue’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday and there was no school Tara had the whole day to get ready. She had never spent so much time getting ready to go out. She washed her hair, letting it dry naturally, and grimacing a little over its stubborn tendency to curl. Most of the girls at school had short hair, but she preferred to keep hers long. A touch of green eye-shadow emphasised the colour and size of her eyes, mascara darkening her thick lashes. Wriggling into Sue’s dress, Tara studied her reflection in the mirror and pulled a wry face. She had forgotten that the style was meant to be worn slightly off the shoulders and the neckline re
vealed the straps of her bra slightly.
After experimenting for a few minutes Tara was forced to the reluctant conclusion that it would be better to do without her bra altogether rather than risk everyone catching glimpses of her straps. She shuddered to think of James’s reaction to such gaucherie; no doubt in the circles in which he moved women thought nothing of a little thing like not wearing a bra. Having removed it, Tara studied her reflection critically. With the waistcoat on she looked perfectly respectable. She refused to think about the softly provocative thrust of her breasts beneath the fine cotton fabric without it.
She had just finished applying a delicate coat of pale lip-gloss when she heard James’s Porsche draw up outside.
Sue was seated in the back, but when Tara reached for the door, James emerged from the car and opened the front passenger door.
‘Sit in the front with James,’ Sue insisted. ‘Doesn’t she look fantastic?’ she demanded of her stepfather. ‘That dress really does something for her, doesn’t it?’
Tara was glad of the falling dusk to conceal her flushed cheeks. Was it merely her imagination or had James’s eyes lingered deliberately on the taut curve of her breasts?
It was barely ten minutes’ drive to the hotel. The car-park was already quite full when they arrived. A uniformed commissionaire unbent enough to smile warmly at them, plainly recognising James.
They were shown to one of the tables set apart from the main body of the restaurant in one of the window alcoves. Beneath them the river flowed smoothly, its banks illuminated with coloured lights. A re-vamped longboat was tied up at the hotel’s mooring and there was just sufficient light for them to be able to pick out the intricate designs painted on it.
‘What a fantastic life,’ Sue said dreamily. ‘Always on the move, new faces, new places.’
‘What about you, Tara?’ James asked. ‘Do you yearn for change and excitement?’
‘I’d like to see something of the world,’ Tara admitted slowly. ‘But people are the same the world over; problems don’t disappear simply because one changes one’s surroundings.’
‘Very true—and a very profound statement for a girl your age. What do you know of life’s problems?’ James scoffed lightly.
The mockery in his tone inflamed Tara’s already over-stretched nerves. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, but it seemed to her that James constantly referred to her age—or lack of it, to be more precise, and always in that same tone of sardonic mockery.
‘It isn’t always necessary to personally experience something to know about it,’ she retorted angrily. ‘There’s such a thing as imagination…’
‘Nothing that’s worth experiencing can ever be truly experienced second-hand,’ James told her softly, and something in his voice brought the colour surging to Tara’s cheeks, forcing her to realise that with James she was way, way out of her depth and that it was folly to treat him as she might a boy of her own age.
