Page 41 of Searching for Mr Tilney

March 1976

It’s been three months since I picked up my journal, and I find myself in the middle of March in a mood for contemplation and picking up where I left off. I haven’t felt like writing, and trying to adjust to my old life has been more difficult than I thought it would be. I’m trying to work out what on earth happened to me when I was in Bath, and can only come to the conclusion that the combination of being ill, of being obsessed with my favourite author and the experience of falling in love for the first time all had the most peculiar effect on me. My “experiences in the past” I’ve put down to the fact, as Jane Austen would say, that “I was in a very interesting state” - my mind and sick body colluded to make me feel I’d had some kind of supernatural experience. I decided just a couple of days before Christmas that I didn’t want to read any more of Jane’s journal because of the strange dreams I’d been having, and I’ve decided to put my interest in the author aside while I try and get back into my work. The journal is locked up safely in the writing box, which now has a place on the bookshelves in my room. I feel much happier and safer now my mind is not deluding itself, and I’m learning to leave everything that happened in Bath behind - even if Harry still has a way of creeping into my dreams when I least expect it.

We had a lovely Christmas, just Mum and me. She managed to bat off several well-meaning relatives who offered to invite us for Christmas dinner, in favour of spending it by ourselves. I’d missed her so much, and I realised I’d missed home very much too. I loved returning to find the Christmas tree waiting to be decorated, and all the traditions I love - wrapping up presents, carol singing at midnight mass, opening presents, stuffing ourselves with turkey and all the trimmings before falling asleep in front of the television.

Ellen and Roger invited us over on Boxing Day, and I wore my locket with a black jersey dress that Mum made for me when I was away. We had a fun time with the Applebys and some of their friends, and in typical fashion everything was luxurious and sparkling, from the sumptuous furnishings and chandeliers in the drawing room to the champagne flutes and porcelain in the dining room. There were expensive table presents for everyone. Mine was a beautiful bracelet, not Georgian this time, but Victorian, in heavy silver, and chased with leaves and flowers. I thanked them again for the wonderful trip they’d given me, and Ellen said she hoped we’d have many more together. My painting was lovingly displayed in the drawing room and everyone made such lovely remarks I felt very embarrassed. When we were going home, Ellen had tears in her eyes and said how much she was going to miss me when I returned to my flat in Fitzrovia. I suggested we should meet up regularly in town, and she seemed very happy with that.

It’s been difficult trying to catch up on all the work I’ve missed, but I’ve loved being with my friends again, and living a more independent life. To have a flat in Fitzrovia sounds really glamorous, I know, but though the house is vast, and looks out across the square and its beautiful gardens, for which we’re not allowed a key, my rooms are up in the attic space where skylights give me no views except that of other rooftops, and the criss-cross of wooden beams take up far too much space. It’s freezing in winter, and stiflingly hot in summer, but it’s a good size for being creative in, and the dressmaker’s dummy I call Nelly, has already had several changes of costume this term.

I haven’t heard from Harry - call me old-fashioned, but I decided I wouldn’t write to him unless he wrote to me. I’ve thought about every excuse for him that I can possibly think of from the postal service in Wales not being very good at Christmas to there being some sort of postal strike in Bath, but the fact remains I have not had a letter. He’s probably been working hard too, like me, or maybe he’s simply forgotten my existence.

I’ve seen Piers a few times, and we went to see Simon in his show, which was fantastic, and such a treat because I hardly ever get a chance to go to the theatre. He’s invited me round to his flat tomorrow for a party, and he’s said Simon and lots of his theatrical friends will be there. My friend Imogen from art school, has been invited too, so we’re looking forward to getting dressed up and going out - a rare occurrence while I’ve been trying to catch up with my work. I never thought I’d do it, but I’m almost back on track. My tutors are very kind, and have given me an extension on the handing-in date. I may just get it all done and finish the year successfully.

***

I knew as soon as I walked into the large drawing room overlooking Hyde Park, that it was going to be a lovely evening, and almost instantly when Piers introduced me to his friend Dante, that I’d been set up. Tall and dark, Dante was the very image his Pre-Raphaelite name conjured up with flowing curls waving back from a tanned face and divine features - an aquiline nose, generous mouth smiling in obvious amusement at the tactics of his friends, and striking green eyes. Bohemian, yet expensively dressed, I couldn’t imagine he’d be interested in me for a moment. He was in his late twenties and seemed so sophisticated, that I immediately became a bundle of nerves and lost my tongue. Piers and Simon had even found Imogen a man too, all cheekbones and slicked back blonde hair with more than a hint of Rudolf Nureyev about him - though he immediately apologised for his inability to dance, so any romantic notions of him moving balletically in a performance of Giselle quickly evaporated. We later found out he was nothing short of being a real prince, related to one of the aristocratic families mentioned in Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

‘Dante is a fashion photographer,’ Piers said, and I realised just why he thought we’d get on. Piers held my gaze with such a look of encouragement, as he handed over two glasses of champagne and told Dante what a marvellous fashion designer I was going to be, that I hadn’t the heart to be cross with him.

I was tongue-tied at first, but Dante seemed genuinely interested in finding out about me. He reminded me of Harry in so many ways I couldn’t help thinking about him or comparing the two of them. It’s so rare to find any guy who isn’t self-obsessed, chauvinist or both, I’ve found, and while he couldn’t match Harry in every way, I liked talking to him. He listened attentively to everything I said, asking question after question about my life and passions, that we talked for almost an hour before I found out anything about Dante or what his work involved.

‘Have you been a photographer long?’ I asked at last.

‘Seven years now … I started doing the usual portraits and weddings, but managed to get introduced to some incredibly talented fashion people and the rest is history. I’ve been very lucky; some of my clients have included Zandra Rhodes, Bill Gibb and Barbara Hulanicki, though I’m as happy to find new talent. An up and coming designer is just as exciting to me as a seasoned one.’

He smiled, and I was aware he’d stopped talking and was really studying my face. His green eyes were kind and twinkling in the soft light, and for the first time in three months I felt a flicker of feeling, as my heart beat just a little faster. He put his hand out to touch my arm briefly.

‘Piers suggested I might like to take you under my wing. I’d be very happy to show you a slice of life in the fashion world. As a matter of fact, I’m photographing a collection for a brand new designer tomorrow. There’s a lot of sitting around, and it’s not all glamorous by any means, but I’d love you to join me.’

I almost said no, but I knew it would be silly to miss such an opportunity of meeting other people who might be interested in the work I was doing. I really wanted to know what Dante thought of my work, too, and when he suggested bringing my portfolio I couldn’t help but show my excitement.

‘I would love to have your opinion, thank you, though I must admit I’m very nervous at the thought of showing you my work. I don’t usually allow myself to have nights out because I’ve still got some catching up to do … I was ill last term, but I’m making good progress.’

‘Well, hopefully after tomorrow you’ll be feeling more inspired. Hey, perhaps you’ll even find tonight stimulating enough to wake up tomorrow aroused to new revelations.’

I didn’t understand just what he meant, but he leaned in to whisper in my hair, saying he’d love to dance with me. I felt that fluttering again, and as he took my hand and led me out of the room and down the hallway to another, set aside for dancing, I didn’t resist. The room was lit only with candles and reminded me very much of those other dances I’d been to in another time, yet I couldn’t help thinking what Cassy or Jane would have thought if they’d seen me being pulled into the arms of a man I’d only just met. The champagne was making me feel rosy inside and my mind seemed happy to blur the past with the present. It was easy to imagine I was dancing with Harry so that when the music slowed and Dante drew me closer, it felt completely natural to rest my head against his shoulder and give in to feelings I’d thought were completely buried. I allowed myself to be totally lost in the music and the moment.

***

When Dante offered to give me a lift home I didn’t hesitate, especially as Imogen had disappeared into the night with her new friend. I’d been worried, but Piers promised me that Imogen was in the company of a perfect gentleman who would see her home safely.

‘And let me assure you, Dante is one of the loveliest people I know,’ he added, kissing me on my cheek when I said I was leaving. ‘Just enjoy yourself, and make the most of his connections. He’s well worth knowing, and I can tell he really likes you. I’m sure he’ll grow on you too.’

I didn’t say anything in return, just kissed him back, trying to ignore the looks passing between him and Simon. It was a little too obvious that they wanted something to happen with Dante, but I couldn’t blame them. I must have been really miserable company for the last few months.

When we walked out under a perfectly magical night sky sparkling with diamond stars, it came as no surprise to see Dante’s pillar box red, Porsche 911 gleaming in the moonlight. As if he’d be driving anything else, I thought. He opened the door and I settled myself inside on the soft leather seat, feeling a little like I’d been elevated to the status of royal personage and would wake up to find I’d been a princess all along. And as we roared through the London streets, it felt very exciting to be with someone so urbane and stylish. I glanced sideways at him and liked what I saw. Dante was almost too good-looking, his hair perfectly waving down to his collar, his white shirt dazzling against his tanned skin. He turned to smile at me, but he didn’t speak, just turned up the volume on the music, so I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes to enjoy it. My head was spinning a little with the effects of the champagne, but I was feeling so relaxed. I hadn’t felt truly happy for a long time and in that moment I felt something near happiness. When we reached my flat, he turned off the engine and shifted in his seat, turning to face me.

‘Piers said you were just my type,’ he said. ‘He was right; but you’re so much more than just a stunning looking girl. I see a beautiful soul too.’

I was feeling light-headed from the champagne, but even so I couldn’t believe what Dante was saying. No one had ever called me stunning or beautiful like that before.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said, and thought how awkward I must sound.

‘You don’t have to say a word … just be yourself. Let me look at you and soak you up.’

I sat there feeling very self-conscious, and couldn’t look at him for a moment. When I did, he was looking at me so intently that I felt completely overwhelmed. His eyes flickered from my eyes to my mouth, and when he leaned forward, still gazing intently, I knew he was going to kiss me.

But, suddenly everything was moving far too quickly and it all felt so totally wrong. His fingers were in my hair and his lips on mine. His mouth was soft and gentle, as he coaxed me into kissing him back, waiting for me to respond, but I just couldn’t kiss him properly and I broke away as soon as I could. I just kept thinking about Harry - I couldn’t get him out of my head, and how very differently I felt about him, remembering our first tender kiss that came at a time that felt just right. It made me feel sordid sitting in that smart car, and I knew I’d been completely won over by Dante for all the wrong reasons. I’d been so impressed by his appearance of sophistication, his photography career and his car, that I’d let myself get into a situation I didn’t want to be in. I wished then that I hadn’t danced with him or let him hold me so closely, and I realised I’d made an utter fool of myself. How could I have let my guard down so much, and how on earth were we going to have a professional relationship if I’d allowed him to kiss me? And I knew that just wasn’t going to be possible.