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Why had she never realised before how stuffy and pompous he was? Tamara asked herself.
Knowing Malcolm’s fetish for punctuality she was ready well in advance of eight-thirty. She had packed enough clothes to take her through the weekend—a silk jersey dress for dinner on Saturday—the Mellors always dressed for dinner. The dress was a new one; a silver lilac shade which did things she had never dreamed possible for her eyes and figure.
Taking Pierre’s advice, she had started to wear her hair loose and had even paid a visit to the hair-dressing salon favoured by some of the other girls at work where the ends had been trimmed and some of the excess weight removed, leaving her hair to curl softly in a gently shaped bell. She was even beginning to master the intricacies of her new make-up, and felt justifiably proud of herself as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
The Caribbean sun had bleached her hair slightly; her new misty mauve eyeshadow added haunting depths to her eyes, the soft iced raspberry lipstick outlined the warm curves of her mouth.
To travel in she was wearing something completely different for her, a pair of casual cotton trousers cut in the latest style—a pretty shade of lilac with a toning striped blouson and a matching reefer jacket.
Malcolm arrived sharp on the dot of eight-thirty, the expression of disapproval in his eyes as he looked at Tamara almost ludicrous.
‘You can’t mean to travel dressed like that?’ he complained.
‘Why not?’ Tamara retorted coolly. ‘It’s comfortable and I like it.’
‘You look like a teenager,’ Malcolm accused, but she refused to be swayed. Women far older than her dressed equally casually, and after all, didn’t she have the right to rescue what she could from those flat sterile years when living with Aunt Lilian had stolen from her the natural spontaneity of youth?
In a disapproving silence Malcolm carried her case down to his BMW. Tamara knew that he hated her to talk while he was driving, and as the powerful car ate up the miles she found her tension steadily increasing. If only she had been able to tell him in London that she wanted to end their engagement! If only she wasn’t going to be forced to tell him while they were at his parents’. She had toyed with the idea of waiting until they returned, but her innate sense of honesty compelled her to tell him as soon as she could; she could not stay under his parents’ roof under false pretences, and besides, now that she had made up her mind she longed for the whole thing to be over and done with.
The Mellors’ house was set in the Cotswolds, ‘Young Royals Country’, as Mrs Mellors was snobbishly fond of describing it.
Malcolm’s parents were waiting to greet them when they arrived. There was the normal ritual of sherry in the drawing room. Tamara had not missed the way Malcolm’s mother had examined her reflection and it gave her an impish sense of amusement to guess that she was thinking how unsuitable Tamara was as a wife for her son. No doubt she would prefer the elegant Karen who came from the ‘right’ background.
‘Well, we’ll leave you young things together,’ the Colonel said with a heavy gallantry that grated on Tamara’s nerves. Of the two she preferred Malcolm’s father, but it was a daunting thought to realise that in thirty years’ time Malcolm would be almost an exact replica of him. ‘No doubt you’ll want to tell Malcolm all about your holiday, Tamara.’
‘Such a dreadful experience for you!’ Mrs Mellors exclaimed. ‘I remember when Humphrey was stationed in Ceylon one had to be so careful. Personally I’ve never cared for hot climates—so unhealthy and unhygienic. I never thought it was wise your going off on your own like that. And walking in that rain forest …’
‘Come along, my dear,’ the Colonel interrupted hastily. ‘We’ll see you both in the morning.’
The drawing-room felt stuffy and oppressive. Tamara could smell the lily of the valley scent Malcolm’s mother used and she longed to suggest that they walk in the garden. Perhaps there she would find it easier to say what had to be said.
‘I think Mother is quite right, you know,’ Malcolm began in aggrieved tones, as he poured himself another glass of sherry. ‘I never cared for the idea of you going off like that, but you would insist.’
‘In other words, being bitten by a spider served me right, is that it?’ Tamara asked him dryly. Why had she never realised before how spoiled and at times downright childish he was?
‘Well, you must admit it wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed at home.’
‘Like a dutiful fiancée?’ Suddenly the task ahead of her didn’t seem anywhere near as daunting as it had, and she mentally thanked Malcolm for unwittingly making it easier for her.
‘Malcolm, there’s something I have to tell you.’ She slid the solitaire off her finger, noticing that it had become quite loose—a result of her illness, no doubt. ‘I think we should break off our engagement. I don’t think it’s the right step for either of us. You need a wife who will be a social asset—someone like Karen. I don’t really fit in.’
‘Perhaps not, but you could learn,’ Malcolm told her with a tactlessness that astounded her. ‘Mother will be able to give you some good pointers.’
‘Malcolm, I don’t think you understand,’ she told him with weary patience. ‘It isn’t a question of whether I could “learn” to be the sort of
wife you want, it’s simply that I no longer want to be that sort of person.’
He had started to go a dull red.
‘You mean you’ve met someone else—indulged in some cheap shoddy affair while you were away, is that it?’
He was close enough to the truth for it to be painful, although Tamara managed to say valiantly, ‘It was neither cheap nor shoddy on my part, but yes, if you want to put it that way.’
‘You’ll regret it. We could have had a good life together,’ he told her, but Tamara noticed that he no longer attempted to dissuade her.
‘There’s just one thing,’ he added.
Tamara waited.
