Cooper Jilly: Emily

He’s absolutely poisonous, I decided. How does anyone put up with him?

Picking his way disapprovingly over the broken pieces of glass, the little stockbroker came over and asked me to dance.

‘I told you he was a menace, did I not?’ he asked in an undertone.

He then proceeded to make the most ferocious passes at me on the dance floor. I can never understand why little men are so lecherous. I suppose it’s more concentrated. Fortunately, one of my safety pins gave way and plunged into him, which cooled his ardour a bit. But two seconds later he was back on the attack.

A quarter of an hour later, black and blue and as mad as a wet cat, I returned to collect my bag. I was really leaving this time. I found Rory Balniel was sitting on the sofa — Tiffany and the blonde on either side of him. Both girls were holding hands with each other across him, but were so tight, neither of them realized it.

‘Rory, darling,’ whispered the blonde.

‘Rory, angel,’ murmured Tiffany.

It looked so ridiculous I burst out laughing. He looked up and started to laugh too.

‘I think they’re made for each other,’ he said. And extracting himself, got up and came over.

I leaned against the wall, partly because I was slewed, partly because my legs wouldn’t hold me up. The impact of this man, close up, was absolutely faint-making.

‘Hullo,’ he said.

‘Hullo,’ I said. I’ve always been a wizard at repartee.

He looked me over consideringly as if I was a colour chart and he was selecting a shade.

‘The drink has run out,’ he said, taking a final slug of whisky from the bottle.

He had very white, even teeth, but his fingers were quite heavily stained with nicotine.

‘What did you say your name was?’ he said. His voice had lost its earlier bitchy ring — it was soft and husky now.

‘I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but since you ask, it’s Emily.’

‘Emily — pretty name, old-fashioned name. Are you an old-fashioned girl?’

‘Depends what you mean by old-fashioned — prunes and prisms Victorian or Nell Gwyn?’

He took my hand.

He’s drunk, I said to myself firmly, trying not to faint with excitement.

‘You’re like a little Renoir,’ he said.

‘Are those the outsize ones, all grapes and rippling with flesh?’ I said.

‘No, that’s Rubens. Renoirs are soft and blonde and blue-eyed, with pink flesh tones. It’s funny,’ he added, shooting me an Exocet look, ‘you’re not my type at all, but you excite the hell out of me.’

I looked down, and to my horror, saw that my fingers were coiling around his, and watched my only unbitten nail gouging into the centre of his palm.

Then suddenly I felt his fingers on my engagement ring.

I tried to jerk my hand away, but he held on to it, and examined the ring carefully.

‘Who gave that to you?’ he said.

‘Cedric,’ I said. ‘My — er — fiancé. It’s a terrible word, isn’t it?’ I gave a miserable, insincere little giggle.

‘It’s a terrible ring, too,’ he said.

‘It cost a lot of money,’ I said defensively.

‘Why isn’t he here?’

I explained about Cedric being in Norfolk and furthering his political career.

‘How long have you been engaged?’

‘Nearly eighteen months.’

The smile Rory Balniel gave me wasn’t at all pleasant. ‘Does he make love on all four channels?’ he said.

I tried, but failed, to look affronted. ‘He doesn’t make love to me much at all,’ I muttered.

Rory Balniel was swinging the empty whisky bottle between finger and thumb.

‘He doesn’t care about you at all, does he?’

‘Cedric and I have a good thing going.’

‘If you’re mad about a girl, you don’t let her out of your sight.’

Instinctively my eyes slid to Tiffany, who was now sleeping peacefully, her head on the blonde girl’s shoulder.

‘I’m not exactly mad about her,’ he said.

‘She’s stunning looking,’ I said, wistfully.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Rolls-Royce body maybe, but a Purley mind.’

I giggled again. Suddenly he bent his head and kissed my bare shoulder. I could feel the ripples of excitement all the way down to my toes. Any moment my dress, safety pins and all, was going to burst into flames. I could have died with excitement.

I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a bottle of whisky at home,’ I said.

‘Well, let’s go then,’ he said.

I wasn’t proud of my behaviour. I knew I was treating Cedric abominably, but then I’d never before in my life encountered such a personification of temptation as Rory Balniel. And, like Oscar Wilde, I’ve always been able to resist anything except temptation.

We wandered along the King’s Road, trying to find a taxi, and giggling a great deal as we tried out all the baths sitting outside the bath shop. Then we passed an art gallery. Rory peered moodily through the window at the paintings.

‘Look at that crap,’ he said. ‘There but for the gracelessness of God go I, the greatest genius of the twentieth century — which reminds me, I’ve got to see a man about my painting at eleven tomorrow. You’d better set your alarm clock when we get home.’

Presumptuous, I thought. Does he think I’ll succumb so easily?

Rory suddenly saw a taxi and flagged it down. We kissed all the way home.

God — I was enjoying myself. I’d never felt a millionth of that raging, abandoned glory, the whole time I’d known Cedric. As the taxi chugged along, and the orange numbers on the meter rocketed relentlessly upwards, so did my temperature. Rory had such a marvellously lean, broad-shouldered body. It must have been something to do with both being an artist and having Gallic blood, but he was certainly an artist at French kissing.

All the same, somewhere inside me, an insistent voice was warning me to call a halt. I was backsliding at the speed of light, doing all the things I’d done before I’d met Cedric, giving in too quickly, losing too quickly and feeling just as insecure and unhappy as I’d been in the past. I’ll say goodbye to him firmly at the door, I told myself. Then when we got to the door I thought: I’ll just give him a very quick drink to be sociable and then out he goes.

No sooner had we entered the flat and I’d given him some whisky, than I rushed off to the bathroom, cleaned my teeth and emptied half a bottle of Nina’s scent over myself. I then went and removed the Georgette Heyer novel from my bedside table and replaced it with a couple of intellectual French novels.

I went into the drawing-room.

‘Where did you learn to pour drinks like this one?’ he asked.

‘I once worked in a bar,’ I replied.

‘This is a septuple,’ said Rory, draining the glass.

‘I’m seeing septuple,’ I said. ‘After all the booze I’ve shipped, I can see at least seven of you at the moment. A magnificent seven, admittedly.’

‘Then we can have a gang-bang,’ said Rory with a whoop. ‘Annie’s orgy is going to materialize after all.’

Primly, I sat down on the sofa. He sat beside me.

‘Well? Orgy on?’ he asked, staring at me, but making no move.

I hunted around nervously for something to say.

‘Keep still,’ he said. ‘You’ve got something in your hair.’

I never knew if I had or I hadn’t. But he removed whatever it was and then, unsmilingly, he came closer and kissed me.

After a while, I had a pang of conscience and tried to push him away. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ I muttered. ‘Really, I am engaged to Cedric and he wouldn’t approve at all.’

‘Shut up,’ he said gently. Very slowly, he undid all the safety pins holding my dress together — first the one joining the bodice and shoulder-strap, then the little gold pin just below the zip top, and finally the two securing my strapless bra.