The Benefits of Passion (8 page)

‘If you edit the language out,' said Edward.

‘Oh, it's just a habit some young doctors fall into,' replied Muriel. ‘You get used to it.'

A pleasant young man? What about a foul-mouthed misogynist? An arrogant bastard? But the image of his hand laid kindly on Ingram's shoulder returned to challenge her. Hmm. She left Barney and Isabella to journey endlessly out of Cambridge while she thought about William instead.

CHAPTER 7

‘Yes,' said Barney, after a long pause, as though agreeing with her, ‘that's definitely the nicest pair of legs I've ever had in my car.' He'd seen her admiring them.

As ever with Isabella, a reproof – even a mild one – acted as a goad. She draped a leg over the gear stick and across his lap. At once his hand was on her knee, sliding up her thigh. It stopped halfway. She sat frozen in surprise for the next mile.

Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘I've got a problem, Isabella.'

‘A big one?'

He ignored this. ‘I've just been wondering what on earth I'm going to put on the insurance claim form if I crash.' He patted her thigh. ‘Shift.'

After a moment she complied. He was quite capable of turning round and driving back to Cambridge. The road was skirting along the foot of the Chilterns. She sighed. ‘It's so beautiful.'

‘Mm,' he said. ‘We could go for a walk, if you like.'

‘I'd love to.' A short silence. ‘I'm on the pill, by the way.'

‘I said
WALK
.'

‘Sorry sorry sorry!' She'd been meaning to let this piece of information fall for a while now, just in case he ever found himself holding back for want of a condom. He struck the steering wheel angrily with both hands. She giggled. ‘Hee hee. You've been thinking about it.'

‘And you never think about anything else.'

‘How dare you!' She stretched her legs out and admired them afresh. ‘My mind wanders to other matters occasionally.' He turned off the main road slightly too fast. They roared up a steep hill.

‘Listen very carefully,' he said. ‘I'm going to park the car. We're going to get out and walk to the top of that hill. We'll stop and enjoy the view, then we're going to walk straight back to the car again.'

‘OK,' she agreed cheerfully.

‘Don't push me, Isabella.'

‘As if.' She saw his lips twitch.

He parked the car and they got out. A lark was singing in the sudden silence. They began to climb the hill. The short grass was slippery and Isabella's soles had no grip. Barney took her hand and they climbed in silence past may trees heavy with blossom. Grass and nodding harebells tickled Isabella's bare legs. The sun was so hot that she could feel it scorching her head along the parting. Not a cloud in the sky. No rough winds to shake the darling buds. What bliss to be climbing like this, she thought, higher and higher into the blue, with Barney's strong hand to hold her if she slipped.

They were at the top. A breeze stirred as Isabella gazed round at the fields and farms and villages stretching off into infinity.

‘A view over three counties,' said Barney. ‘See that spire over there?'

‘Where?' she asked, spotting it immediately. His hand was on her shoulder, head bent down beside hers. A hint of Imperial Leather. She followed the line of his pointing finger. If she turned just slightly her lips would brush his cheek.

‘There. See that clump of trees? Just beyond it.'

She acted dumb for as long as she dared. ‘Oh,
there
. I see it.'

He straightened up. ‘That's where I'll be curate.'

‘Yeah? Will you take me to see it?'

‘Later.' He sat down. She remained standing. The tiny spire looked like a toy church in a model village. So that's where he'll be working. It all felt a bit like a game. She turned and he patted the ground beside him.

‘You're sure you trust me, Vicar?'

‘No. I'm just finding those shorts a bit distracting.'

She sat next to him. ‘Guess I got a bit scissor-happy.'

‘You're impossible.' She could smell the wild thyme. The lark was still filling the sky with its song. They sat rapt in the paradise of one another's gaze.

‘You love me,' said Barney for her as she opened her lips.

‘Sod you.'

He lay back, chuckling, hands behind his head. The sun was gleaming on his golden hair. She slid down beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. For a while she contented herself with watching him as he lay with his eyes closed, but before long his self-containment began to provoke her. She tickled his face with a feathery grass. He waved it away like a fly several times before he saw what she was doing.

‘Don't spoil it, Isabella.' He shut his eyes again and she stuck her tongue out. Sanctimonious git. But maybe he was right. Just enjoy what you've got, she told herself. Don't jeopardize it by being greedy.

She listened to the lark and watched his beautiful mouth. It's enough. I'm happy. These sentiments sustained her for some four or five minutes. Bugger this for a game of tin soldiers, she thought suddenly. She placed a hand on his chest. He made no move. She slid it down and felt his stomach muscles tense.

‘Isabella, you lay one finger on my tackle and we're going straight back to Cambridge.' Her hand paused. He meant it. Then a happy alternative occurred to her. She slid her leg across him. For one glorious moment she felt the imprint of an erection burnt into her inner thigh, then he tumbled her roughly away and stood up.

‘Right. Back to Cambridge.' He set off down the hill.

‘Wait! Barney, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Promise.' But he strode on. She scrambled up and slithered after him. ‘Please, Barney. Don't be mean. I'll behave.' Her feet shot out from under her and she sat down hard on a thistle. Her screech brought him back.

He stood shaking his head at her. ‘Isabella, what am I supposed to do with you?'

‘Fuck me!' she yelled, losing the last shred of control. ‘Fuck me! Fuck me, you stupid bastard!' Her voice carried away across three counties. He turned and started walking again. She wrenched off a shoe and hurled it at him. Some instinct warned him, and he glanced round and caught it just before it struck him on the head. She hopped her way between the thistles, cursing him. Eventually he relented enough to hand back her shoe. The moment she was within range she slapped his face.

‘What are you? Impotent or something?' She aimed another slap at him, but he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She struggled and sobbed and pummelled him all the way back to the car. ‘I hate you, I hate you!' He tipped her unceremoniously over the side and got into the driver's seat. The engine started and he headed back to Cambridge without a word.

For the first few miles Isabella, conscious that she had nothing left to lose, called him every name she could think of. After five miles she had run out of ideas. He drove on in quiet resignation as her curses gave way to violent tears. She covered her face and wailed with complete abandon for the next ten miles, like a two-year-old who has started crying, forgotten why, and doesn't know how to stop. Cambridge began to appear on the signposts. She fell silent from exhaustion, shaken by the occasional stormy sob. Gradually she admitted how appallingly she had behaved. It was way, way beyond apology. Her head began to throb. She felt sick. After another five miles she had forgotten everything in the all-consuming knowledge that she was about to throw up. I'm going to die. Sweat stood out on her face. She yawned and yawned.

‘Barney, I'm going to be sick!'

He pulled over at once. She got out and threw up horribly into the grass verge, dimly aware he was rubbing her back and saying kind things. ‘Oh, God!' She puked again. They were beside a rape field. The dirty honey smell of the flowers filled her nostrils. Lorries were rumbling past. Eventually she straightened up, trembling.

‘All done?' She nodded. Her head throbbed viciously. ‘It's probably the sun.' She got back in. He was pulling the car roof up. ‘Are you all right to go on? I'll get you a drink at the next garage.' His hand rested briefly on her arm and they set off again. Isabella had no energy for anything but staying alive.

At last she was in her room. He had gone. She collapsed on the bed and fell asleep, too wretched to care if she never saw him again.

By the next morning she cared very much indeed. She remembered in dismay that he'd been going to take her to see his church. He'd started to grow fond of her, and now she'd wrecked it all beyond repair. She cringed at every fresh memory. He'd think she always threw embarrassing tantrums when she was thwarted. No sane man would want such a silly spoilt bitch. How could she explain that he was the only one who had ever made her act like that? It would sound as though she was trying to blame him. And how could she, when she remembered how patiently he had put up with her dreadful behaviour? Oh, Barney! It was all my fault. I must write to him. Even if he never speaks to me again, I owe him an apology.

She sat down at her desk in her dressing gown and scribbled
Dear Barney, I can't begin to say how sorry I am
, then screwed up the page. Ten minutes later the bin was full of crumpled pages and she was in tears. She looked round in despair. The room was like her life – a total, unmitigated, disastrous mess. She stood up and vowed to mend her ways. I'll go and have a shower and then I'll tidy everything up.

She came back along the corridor, fresh and clean and ready for a new beginning, and there he was.

‘Barney!' She stopped in scarlet mortification. He smiled his wonderful smile, and she flung herself at him and sobbed into his shirt. ‘Oh, Barney! I'm so sorry!'

‘That's all right.'

‘How can you say that? I –'

‘Um . . . Could we go in?' He was trying to extricate himself without dislodging her towel. She pushed open the door.

‘Oh, God. It's a real pigsty. I'm sorry.'

‘I've got sisters.' He picked his way through the discarded knickers and Tampax boxes to the chair and sat down.

‘Coffee?' She caught sight of a suspender belt dangling from the desk lamp inches from his head. How the hell had that got there? She filled the kettle quickly.

‘Feeling better this morning?' he asked.

‘Barney, don't be nice to me. I don't deserve it.'

‘I've told you it's OK.'

‘You can't
just
forgive
me.'

‘I'd be in big trouble if I didn't.' She was about to ask who with, when she spotted God loitering on the edge of the conversation. She blushed and muttered something about getting dressed.

‘Of course,' he said politely. He turned the chair round, picked up a book, and sat with his back to her apparently absorbed in Jane Austen. Isabella hesitated. She'd expected him to retreat hastily from the room. Well, suit yourself. She dropped the towel and waited. He turned a page. She shrugged and hunted around for clean underwear and an uncrumpled dress. Each time she glanced up he was deep in
Emma
. It wasn't until she was fully dressed and approaching the mirror over the desk that she noticed he could have been watching her reflection the whole time. He met her accusing stare with a bewildered look.

‘What?' She was wrong. He was too chaste to ogle. But then the glimmer in his eyes set her wondering again.

After a discreet sniff at the milk carton she made them black coffee. They drank in silence. Isabella was still feeling too raw to vamp him, but her small talk had got a little rusty after all this time.

‘So,' she began, ‘you've got sisters, then?'

‘Three.'

‘Older or younger?'

‘Older.'

‘You're the only boy?' He nodded. No wonder he was proof against wheedling and hysterics.

‘What about you?' he asked.

‘Just an older sister.'

‘And is she very, very well behaved?'

‘Horribly.' They grinned at one another.

‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?'

Her heart leapt, and she mentally stood up three different people. ‘No. Why?'

‘I wondered if you'd like to come to the Latimer ball?'

‘Would I!' She hugged herself in glee.

‘Don't get too excited, Isabella. It's a very small, tame affair.'

‘I can't believe you're asking me after yesterday, Barney.'

‘Nor can I, frankly.'

‘I promise I'll behave. I'll wear a demure smock with a Peter Pan collar, or something.'

‘That sounds lovely.'

‘Unless you'd rather I wore something tight and black and sexy?'

‘Mm. Much rather.'

‘Barnaby! I'm surprised at you! What will everyone think?'

‘They'll think, Hardstaff, you jammy bugger.' He got to his feet, smiling at her shocked expression. ‘I'll pick you up at quarter to eight, provided . . .' He paused, having just caught sight of the suspender belt. She saw him eye it thoughtfully as though he knew he'd seen one before but couldn't remember off-hand what it was. ‘. . . provided you promise not to seduce me.'

‘We-ell . . . So long as I don't have to stop you if you try to seduce me.'

‘I
think
I can handle that.'

‘Yeah. I'd noticed.' She sighed. ‘So what are the rules, then?'

‘Clothes on and hands off.' With that he was gone.

‘So, Annie,' said Dr Tuckerman, ‘where does the shoe pinch?' Before she could answer, his phone rang. He apologized and cantered away to answer it, leaving her sitting in his kitchen. They should have been in his office in college. Would Annie mind awfully coming to the house instead? Oh, good show! We can have some of Megs's barm bread. Megs was out and they were expecting a man to come and service the Aga. Or woman, added Dr Tuckerman. Or woman. He was always so conscientious about inclusive language that Annie thought of him as Dr Tuckerperson. She was waiting for the day when he forgot himself in the Creed: ‘By the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate of the Virgin Mary and was made man – or woman, of course, or woman.'

Annie stared round the kitchen at the examples of small Tuckerpeople artwork. Bits of egg carton stuck on to cornflake packets. Gummy collages of pasta and string. She reflected that she did mind being there, actually. Perhaps it was because the house reminded her of her own parsimonious upbringing. A cupboard door was open and Annie could see that it was full of cardboard boxes labelled
Wool, Dress fabrics, Tights, Cards
and so on. Carrier bags of yoghurt cartons and silver foil hung from doorknobs. The cards were presumably old Christmas and birthday cards ready to be cut and stuck on to recycled sugar paper. But what would the tights be for? Stuffing soft toys
?
Annie could remember getting a blister from hacking up tights with blunt scissors when she had been in the Girls' Brigade. She'd been making a knitted sausage dog draught-excluder, only she'd never finished it. Like that pegbag.