Sara Craven - The Garden Of Dreams

Lissa would have liked another drink, several drinks in fact to nerve herself for the rest of the ordeal ahead, but instead she murmured, ‘Yes,’ submissively and allowed herself to be steered to the door, where her coat appeared as if by magic. She waited for a moment while Raoul Denis made his farewells, then they walked together towards the stairs.

‘I have arranged for us to take a taxi to the theatre,’ Raoul Denis said.

‘But why aren’t we going in your car?’

‘I prefer not to cope with your English parking problems. I’ve ordered it to meet me at your appartement later tonight,’ he said. ‘We will have dinner after the theatre.’

Lissa’s heart sank. She had intended to plead a headache after the theatre, and leave him to his own devices for the rest of the evening. But it looked as if she was going to be robbed of her early night, after all.

‘Courage, ma belle.’ Was she just imagining that note of malicious amusement in his voice? ‘The night is yet young.’

Eternal would be a better word, Lissa thought, as they walked through the glass doors into the coolness of the early summer evening.

TO Lissa’s amazement, Raoul Denis seemed to undergo a kind of sea-change as the taxi drew away from Fontaines. He did not plague her with any more barbed remarks as they sped through the West End, and when he mentioned the play he had selected for them to see, she was delighted.

‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to see that for ages.’

She had tried to persuade Paul to go with her on several occasions, but he claimed that straight theatre bored him, and he preferred the intimate cabarets in the night clubs to which he usually took her.

It was an excellent production and the play itself was stimulating and thought-provoking. During the interval, Lissa found herself in the bar and realised with a start that she and Raoul Denis had been arguing for fully ten minutes about the effectiveness of the confrontation between two of the major characters which had led to the first act curtain. She also realised that during this argument she had totally forgotten how much she disliked him. She faltered with what she was saying and looking up, found he was laughing, and wondered uneasily if he could read her thoughts.

‘Have another drink,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have time. The bell hasn’t gone yet. I think that little one who plays the daughter has a future, don’t you?’

Lissa, sipping her vodka and tonic, agreed.

‘Do you go to the theatre much in Paris, monsieur ?’ she asked.

‘Very little, I regret,’ he replied. ‘Most of my spare time is spent in the country at my house there. My mother is to some extent an invalid, and I like to be with her as much as I can. Tell me,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘does your English reserve and conventionality insist on this formality, or could you not bring yourself to call me Raoul?’

Lissa nearly choked on a mouthful of her drink. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that the formality of the evening to date had been imposed by him, but she overcame her resentment.

‘I’m not as prim and conventional as all that,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll call you Raoul.’

‘Splendid,’ he approved. ‘And I call you what? Lisse?’

‘It’s Lissa—short for Melissa, actually. My mother felt very poetic when I was born,’ she said, talking nonsense to cover her embarrassment as he gave her another of his searching looks.

‘And have you inspired no poetry since? I cannot believe Englishmen are so lacking in soul,’ he said.

Lissa, feeling herself blushing again, was thankful when the bell rang at that moment signalling them back to their seats.

During the second act, she knew he was watching her most of the time, and she concentrated all the more fiercely on the stage. It was this scrutiny and the general oddness of his behaviour during the evening that was making her so nervous and on edge, she told herself.

As they moved through the crowded foyer after the performance, Raoul Denis asked, ‘Have you any particular preference in restaurants, or are you prepared to leave the choice all to me?’

‘Quite prepared,’ Lissa smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I enjoyed that so much that I shall expect nothing but the best.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a swift glance. ‘I trust you will find the remainder of the evening even more enjoyable.’

Again Lissa had a sense of vague unease, but as she looked inquiringly at him, he began once more to talk of the performance they had seen, and they were soon involved in a discussion which occupied the taxi ride to the quiet but very expensive restaurant he had chosen. The tables were set in alcoves round the walls, and the entire room was lit by candles, which lent an air of mystery and intimacy which immediately appealed to Lissa.

‘Though it makes me feel as if I should whisper all the time,’ she said, leaning back on the luxuriously upholstered bench seat.

‘Why?’ Raoul, sitting close beside her, sounded amused.

‘Well, you can’t really see who else is here,’ she explained. ‘It’s the sort of place where people have trysts and exchange secrets.’

Raoul bent towards her until his mouth brushed her ear. ‘If you have a secret to confide, ma belle , consider me your confident. ’

Lissa, disturbed by his proximity, moved hastily, and her hand caught a glass, sending it clattering across the polished table on to the thickly carpeted floor. A waiter hurried to retrieve it—luckily unbroken—and brought her another glass, while she sat, flushed and angry at her lack of poise.