Here let me.’ Kit extracted Daisy’s crocodile dressing case from her grasp. ‘The stewardess can deal with it.’
‘Goodbye, New York,’ said Daisy, relinquishing the case into Kit’s care.
‘Exactly,’ said Kit, ‘you mustn’t miss a second.’ He went off to see to the disposing of the luggage and left Daisy to make her way through the crush on the gangway up to the first-class deck. He rejoined her there within ten minutes and informed her that at least five bouquets were already in her cabin and more arriving.
‘The wages of flirting,’ she said, with a delicious laugh. ‘How nice.’
She lifted her face to the sky in an effort to gain some fresh air. New York had been as hot as hell, so hot that Daisy fancied the marrow had boiled in her bones. But fun. New York had been fun.
It was early morning, and already the haze around the Empire State Building and across the famous skyline was shredding. On the river, at least, there was the pretence of a breeze. Kit drew Daisy towards the rail and manipulated a space for them both in the crush. ‘OK, as they say here?’
‘OK.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Look. There’s Sally Allsop and Monty.’ Daisy pointed at the spectators lining the quay. ‘Beside the woman in the yellow dress.’
‘And, if I’m not mistaken, your admirer the Gurney chap is loitering in the hope of attracting your attention.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Daisy. ‘I gave him strict instructions not to come.’
The Île de France’s funnel emitted a shriek and Daisy jumped. In her cotton dress and jacket and white straw hat she looked every inch the fashionable woman, but Kit, watching her from under the brim of his panama, knew from the way she held her head that she was very tense. ‘Don’t you want to go home?’ he asked suddenly.
Daisy rubbed at the deck rail and left a smear. ‘Not much, if you must know. There are things that need sorting...’
‘Tim Coats?’
She glanced at Kit, raising an eyebrow. ‘I suppose so. I owe it to him. I’ve kept him waiting too long.’
‘I don’t like him.’
She went quite pale and twisted her head away. ‘Stop it, Kit, and say goodbye to New York.’
Kit did as he was told, and watched luggage being wheeled on board, passengers clogging the gangways. A few cars had edged close to the ship, and their horns mingled with the chorus of farewells. It was a noisy scene: brash, cheerful, with the high gloss of American efficiency.
‘You shouldn’t be here with me, you know.’ Daisy waved at Sally Allsop. ‘Mrs Guntripp might leap to conclusions.’
‘Hardly. Where is she?’
‘Settling the daughters in their stateroom.’
‘Then she won’t know.’
Daisy sighed and lowered her eyelashes, hiding her expression. ‘No.’
Kit fastened on details: a strand of hair had escaped from behind one ear and lay on Daisy’s cheek, and one sleeve pressed into a tiny fold of flesh under her arm. Daisy’s beauty was growing more assured and settled, and although he hankered for the wilder Daisy with whom he had fallen in love in France, it still maddened him. She shifted, cupped her chin in her hands, and crossed one long leg in front of the other. Kit returned to his contemplation of the quay.
Neither had intended to meet up with the other. But they did, at a Mary Sopwith’s weekend houseparty at Great Neck where they drank cocktails on a terrace overlooking the sea. Mary was rich and liked new faces and Kit, fresh from the unfriendly reception of his Boston cousins, accepted her invitation to go south with the same houseparty to visit Charleston and New Orleans where he had drunk too much planter’s punch and danced to a Creole band under the dripping Spanish moss. Nevertheless, he and Daisy behaved in exemplary fashion, and never held a conversation alone. Looking back over the games of golf, sailing expeditions, cocktail parties and dances, it had been an intensely aware time – the stretched glove waiting for the hand, the senses climbing to a pitch of acute sensitivity.
Like New York, the week had been fun... fun – but painful, and, if he analysed it truthfully, addictive.
Daisy marched white-gloved fingers along the rail and touched his wrist lightly.
‘I’m pleased you’re here, Kit.’
Kit forced himself not to return the gesture. It might trigger the unstoppable. For here was Daisy: a breathing canvas of skin, pores, hair, of secret, folded flesh and blue vein and he wanted to devour her as once he had devoured sugar mice. He was afraid it would take only the flick of the beautiful mouth for him to hustle her to his cabin, spread her wide and use her until he was quiet.
Instead, he concentrated on the ropes being uncoiled from the tenders by the crew, and listened as goodbyes tuned up to crescendo. The woman next to Kit began to cry noisily and the child beside her jumped up and down, screaming, ‘Daddy!’ The pilot tug bucked its way towards the river mouth and, with a second eerie hoot from her funnel, in which was distilled a history of departure, the Île de France burst the forest of streamers between her and the quay and eased away from her berth. A ribbon of water between land and ship widened into a canal, a river, then a channel.
The engines made the deck hum underfoot. Daisy put up a hand to shade her eyes and watched as the cityscape was lost to the mist. Past Battery Park the breeze sharpened, and Daisy pulled her jacket round her shoulders and stood with her arms folded over her breasts.
‘I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel cold,’ she said.
‘Goodbye, Statue of Liberty.’ The child had stopped crying and bounced up and down in front of his mother. The statue loomed close and then drifted away. New York was behind them.
Daisy pulled her jacket even tighter so it strained the material, and flashed Kit a determined smile. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said. ‘You’d better say hallo to Mrs Guntripp and Chloë and Peggy. They’ll expect you to dine with them. Beware Chloë. She’s terribly nice and innocent.’
‘I’m a respectable married man,’ said Kit.
Silence.
‘Married, yes.’
They stared at each other for a full five seconds. In the end, it was Daisy who pulled away her gaze. ‘What are we waiting for?’
At the Guntripp table during the first-night dinner, Kit played up, with the right degree of skill, to the Guntripp daughters’ expectation, which was to be treated as adults. Freshly shaven, hair sleeked back, and folded loosely into a chair ready to talk, he was a debutante’s dream. As Daisy had warned, Chloë was at the awkward stage: too innocent to check her enthusiasms and not clever enough to mask her inexperience. But she was charming and pretty, with a hint of an inner life, and Kit listened as she chatted on to the accompaniment of silver clattering on porcelain. Particularly as artless Chloë supplied him with titbits about Daisy.
‘Miss Chudleigh was so kind to us when we met in New York. She arranged outings, and never let us get stuck with difficult people. And all when she was so busy herself.’ Chloë’s tone was a compound of how-does-she-do-it? and will-I-ever-be-like-that? (No, thought Kit.) ‘Miss Chudleigh’s cabin is awash with the most exquisite flowers, some of them quite rare. Orchids and lilies and things. Mother says if we’re ever half as popular... doesn’t she, Miss Chudleigh?’
Kit may have been talking but he was also watching. Every move of Daisy’s acquired significance: the way she drank or picked up her fork, turned to her neighbour or wiped her mouth with the napkin. Across the maidenhair fern in the table centrepiece Daisy said, ‘Chloë is exaggerating. Chloë, I do think by now you know me well enough to call me Daisy.’
‘Have you enjoyed your trip to the United States, Mr Dysart?’ Mrs Guntripp was dressed in eau-de-Nil satin with a matching turban pulled low over her forehead. Her plump fingers scuttled over the glasses at her placement and selected the water tumbler.
‘Weren’t you on business, Mr Dysart? You probably had no time to enjoy yourself,’ Chloë cut in, earning a reproving frown from her mother.
Kit began to light a cigarette and realized it was too early in the meal. ‘Yes, the trip was for business but I’ve also enjoyed myself.’
‘Was it successful? The business? Should we drink to it?’ Daisy raised her wine glass.
‘Not really, no.’ Kit thought there was no point in disguising the results. ‘I thought some property shares I held might be valuable. Still, I’ll hang on to them for the moment.’
Mrs Guntripp was surprised. Everyone knew that Kit Dysart was bankrolled by his wife, so why the bother of a trip to the other side of the world? But she raised her glass and smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Well,’ said the irrepressible Chloë, who had no idea as yet of the Machiavellian reflections of Society mothers, ‘you can make up for the business bit with pleasure during the next few days. The band is supposed to be simply something.’
Sitting beside her sister, Peggy blushed for Chloë’s forwardness.
Watching Daisy’s fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass and the fascinating way her upper lip stretched over the rim, Kit was, at last, at liberty to smoke a cigarette.
‘They’re very sweet,’ Daisy said later, meaning the girls, when she and Kit were walking round the deck. It was midnight and the lights of the liner shone like gold coins in the blackness. ‘Do be careful – they’ll develop a frightful crush on you.’
‘No harm in that. All’s fair, etcetera, etcetera.’ Kit was amused. ‘I’ll dance with both tomorrow.’
‘You’re in danger of becoming very conceited,’ said Daisy mildly. ‘Are you going to flirt with them all the way to Southampton?’
‘Probably.’
Daisy wandered across the bleached deck to the rail. ‘What will you do when you get home?’
‘Pick up the reins. What else?’
‘No trips with Max to somewhere no one has heard of?’
Kit laughed. ‘Maybe.’
In the dark her voice floated back to Kit, seemingly careless and dreamy. ‘Is Matty happy, do you think?’
She did not deceive Kit, who propped himself against Number Six lifeboat and felt for his cigarettes. ‘Matty?’ He had forgotten about his wife and the sound of her name gave him a jolt. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if she is or not.’
‘That is honest, at least.’ Daisy’s pale green dress shimmered as she swung round. The rail pressed into her back and she curved her body against it, which emphasized the full breasts. Kit wondered if she was doing it on purpose. He drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
‘Would you know if I was happy?’
He joined Daisy at the rail, keeping three feet or so between them. ‘I don’t know. But I like to think I might because I would recognize it from my own experience.’ He finished his cigarette, threw the stub overboard and then said, ‘I shouldn’t be saying these things to you.’
‘Do you know what I think, my Kit? I think you rub along nicely with your wife and your home.’
‘Rubbing along is quite different from being happy.’
‘It’s what most of us do,’ she said, surprising him. ‘Some people are grateful to rub along because they don’t like hurricanes and tempests. I suspect you might be one.’
An entwined couple walked past. The man had his arm around the girl and she was whispering to him. They did not notice Kit and Daisy. As they rounded the lifeboats, the breeze hit them and the girl gave a soft shriek. Her lover drew her even closer and they disappeared. Watching them, Kit felt a pang of envy to be like that again. ‘And you, Daisy?’ he asked. ‘Are you rubbing along?’
With a jingle of bracelets, Daisy reached up and brushed her fingers across Kit’s mouth, and he found himself snatching her hand and pressing kisses into the palm.
‘Kit,’ she said, low and anguished, and retrieved her hand. ‘I have to ask you again. Why did you marry Matty?’
He considered a long moment before he answered. If he was absolutely truthful, Kit was not sure. ‘Why did I marry Matty? Drink? I went on a blinder that night and I wasn’t thinking properly. I believed you when you said you had someone else. I was angry with you. Fear of my father...’
‘I’d just thought I’d ask,’ she said. ‘To see if the answers were the same. Can I have a cigarette?’ She bent over Kit’s lighter. ‘I’ve thought and thought about this, Kit. You hesitated over me, who you said you loved, but jumped at Matty, a virtual stranger.’ She inhaled smoke with a gasp. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand.’
The water slapped loudly against the ship’s side and Kit had to confront the extent of the wound he had inflicted on Daisy – and himself.
‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’
She turned away, and he watched the glow of her cigarette tip in the gloom. ‘I forgive you, Kit. Of course I do. I was to blame as well, you know. But I want to tell you something which is very selfish. I don’t want to bury our love affair... so it’s conveniently forgotten.’
‘No chance of that.’
‘Of course there is. It’s the easiest thing to do and everyone likes things smoothed over, including you, my darling.’
‘Daisy...’
She shook her head at him. ‘I think you broke my heart, Kit, and at one point I thought I’d never recover. In a sense I won’t. But I’ve learnt. Life is about broken hearts and disappointment. Everyone has to deal with those from time to time. With a bit of luck...’
‘Yes?’
‘With a bit of luck you come out stronger.’
The Île de France ploughed onwards. A light swung towards them and illuminated the davits holding the lifeboats. A gull screamed into the night. Heavy with guilt and appalled at his mistake, Kit said, ‘We must leave it alone, Daisy.’
She moved away from him, but she had drunk a quantity of champagne at dinner. ‘No. For once we will say what we really mean, Kit. I am tired of thinking about you, of hurting. Of puzzling at it. Of hating you. And you might have the decency to explain. Really explain.’
‘I have.’
Their faces were almost touching. Kit felt Daisy’s breath on his lips and smelt clean skin and face powder, overlaid with expensive perfume. He closed his eyes and imagined taking her lower lip between his teeth and worrying it until her mouth opened under his.
‘All right,’ he said, sounding so anguished that Daisy almost made him stop. ‘I suppose I must have married Matty for her money. I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
She let out her breath with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Kit,’ she said, regretting her belligerence. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘Don’t.’ He grabbed one of her wrists, then backed her against the rail. A satin shoulder strap fell down over her arm.
‘What do you think I feel?’ he said, bending to kiss the white hollow between shoulder and breast. ‘How do you think I like my own stupidity?’
Terrified yet exalted with emotion, Daisy moved her hand up to cradle the back of his head and held it for a second to her breasts.
Almost immediately, Kit straightened. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Kit...’
Very slowly he adjusted the fallen strap. Daisy made no move to prevent him. Unable to stop there, Kit ran his finger over her collarbone to her breast, and she shivered uncontrollably at his touch. Suddenly afraid to lose control, she said, tough and flippant, ‘Making up for lost time?’
‘Now it’s you being stupid,’ he replied. ‘You must see, I didn’t understand the power of you and me. I also thought I had no choice, but of course I did.’
‘Ah...’ Daisy’s unhappiness folded round her like a cloak, and with an odd little sound, she began to cry.
‘Daisy, you’re only twenty-three. There will be others.’
Angry with herself, she wiped a hand over the tears, then, because she did not have a handkerchief, held it awkwardly in front of her. ‘There have been others.’
Kit dug in his pocket for his. ‘Real lovers?’ he asked, and dried her hand, regretting the question.
A door opened onto the deck from the first-class saloon and band music filtered into the night: a sweet, spun-sugar confection.
‘Yes, real lovers,’ Daisy said. ‘One or two. And you?’
He thought of his wife and of the bed he occasionally occupied with her. ‘No. I owe Matty that much.’
‘Damn and blast Matty,’ said Daisy suddenly. ‘Damn and blast her.’
The big ship pounded and strained through the water, travelling between two shorelines and liberated from both. In the saloon the band played on.
‘Goodnight, then, Kit,’ said Daisy, and anchored her shoulder straps firmly back into place.
Infinitely gentle, infinitely tender, Kit wiped away the residue of tears on Daisy’s cheeks.
‘Goodnight, Daisy.’
‘Tell me, does Mrs Guntripp always arrange her hair to resemble a doormat?’ Kit nodded in the direction of the well-upholstered figure sitting under the awning.
Daisy giggled. ‘Kit, don’t be so rude.’
‘I was only asking.’
‘Go and get me a drink for a penance. I’m parched.’
Daisy dropped into a deck chair and let her arms flop over the sides. Tennis in this heat sapped energy and she and Kit had played hard. During the night the wind had freshened, dropped at dawn and left the sea running a swell. It was now afternoon and Daisy was getting used to the movement. The air was clean and fresh and the sun was burning her cheeks, comfortably so. Daisy closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Kit was standing above her. He squatted down beside the chair.
‘Drink up. Fresh orange juice.’
Eyes narrowed against the dazzling light, she looked at Kit over the frosted rim of the glass. Gone was the contained, older — married – Kit of the previous evening, replaced by a suntanned youth in shorts that had seen better days, a cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves and hair stuck to his forehead by sweat. Daisy had a disconcerting vision of what he must have looked like as a boy, somehow vulnerable, with the power that little boys have to tug at the heart.
‘You look like you did in France,’ she said.
‘So do you.’
She drank the rest of her juice and sighed with pleasure.
‘That was a good game,’ Kit said as he drew up a chair beside Daisy’s.
The breeze lifted the hem of her tennis skirt and tugged at the orange scarf she had tied round her hair. The ocean seemed bluer than ever: an enamelled, impassive expanse that ran into the horizon. Two other couples were playing tennis.
‘Makes me tired to watch them,’ Daisy commented, hardly bothering to move her lips. Without lipstick, they were pale pink and dry-looking from sunburn and spray.
‘Indolent creature.’
The sun was still high, and the swish of backwash from the liner settled into a regular rhythm. Rocked by its comfortable roll, both Kit and Daisy fell asleep.
Daisy awoke to a tight feeling across her nose and cheeks. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said. ‘I’m burnt.’ Only then did she realize that Kit was watching her with a mixture of tenderness, possessiveness and baffled fury. Unguarded from sleep, she smiled at him and Kit was shaken by an onrush of desire so strong that he was forced to look away.
‘Did you know that you mutter in your sleep?’
Daisy sat up. ‘No. I don’t, do I? Nothing incriminating, I hope.’ She touched her sore nose experimentally. ‘Kit, is it bright red?’
‘Ships could steer by it.’
‘Kit!’
‘If you come with me, I’ll give you some cream I’ve got in the cabin. It’s good for sunburn.’
She got up groggily, shot an exploratory look in the direction of Mrs Guntripp who was also dozing, and rubbing her nose, she followed Kit.
After the brightness outside, the corridor leading to Kit’s cabin was dim. The ship lurched and, staggering, they clutched at the rail and groped forward.
‘Steady.’ Kit grabbed Daisy as he unlocked the door and, as the floor rose, they fell through it together. He closed the door. Suddenly, they were cut off from everything else.
It was hushed and quiet in the cabin. Kit went into the bathroom and rattled among various pots. ‘I was ill in Damascus once and my friend Prince Abdullah ordered a medical arsenal from his doctors designed for every contingency and gave it to me. I must say, it’s been very useful. Here you are.’ He held out a glass jar.
‘Thank you.’ Daisy was sitting on the bed looking through Kit’s reading on the bedside table. ‘Arabia Deserta, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom...’ she read out the titles. ‘Escaping?’ she teased. ‘Shouldn’t it be Husbandry in Hampshire?’
‘Ever heard of the armchair traveller?’ He opened the pot and scooped out some of the ointment. ‘Here.’ He rubbed it into her nose and cheeks. ‘Does that feel better?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as it soaked into her skin. ‘Will you do my arms? They’re burning too.’
He obeyed and concentrated on his task. When he had finished he looked up. Daisy was watching him and a smear of ointment remained on her cheek: icing on the hot skin beneath. It was too much for Kit.
‘Daisy.’ Kit jerked her roughly to her feet, took her head between his hands and kissed her mouth. Then he licked away the smear, savouring the texture of her cheek. Daisy remained absolutely still.
‘Say something,’ he begged. There was no marker in her eyes to Daisy’s thoughts, no light to guide him, nor invitation to her body, only an intense blue in which he could read neither acquiescence nor encouragement.
She disengaged herself and, as a form of defence, wrapped her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want me to say, Kit? That I want you? Of course I do. But that’s not enough, and I have Tim to consider, and you Matty.’
‘Daisy. Come here.’ Incensed by the mention of Tim, Kit pulled her to him, picked her up and dropped her onto the bed, sweeping Arabia Deserta and the pot of ointment to the floor.
She struggled hard for a moment then, suddenly, went limp. Kit caught her legs and tore off one tennis shoe, then the other. They fell with a thud into the silence in the cabin. Then he wrestled with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her blouse. Underneath she was wearing a soft cotton chemise through which were visible the curves of her breasts. With a groan, he pushed her tennis skirt up her sweat-glossed thighs, hooked his fingers into the elastic of her knickers and dragged them down.
There was no partnership in what happened next. On the bed in the hot, dim cabin it was Kit, only Kit, demanding that his need be met. He was not prepared, could not wait, for Daisy.
Later, when Kit was beyond caring, she gave a cry which he was to remember for the rest of his life. Afterwards there was silence, except for the slow, rhythmic roll of the pot of ointment over Daisy’s orange scarf on the cabin floor.
Daisy lay with her skirt crushed around her waist, her blouse spread over the pillow and her arms stretched out over the crumpled sheets. ‘Oh, Kit,’ she said, lit up both by love and despair. ‘I love you.’
Kit propped himself on an elbow. ‘You lied to me, Daisy.’
She laughed and touched his cheek. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’
‘Why?’
‘Because... because...’ Daisy could not tell him – she did not understand herself.
Kit gathered her into his arms. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Daisy? Why didn’t you tell me?’ he murmured into her hair.
‘Did you know, there are eighteen items on the breakfast menu in third class?’ Peggy Guntripp had been busy with the ship’s literature in order to woo Kit’s attention at dinner. She attacked her lobster with the subtlety of a blacksmith. Opposite her, Chloë, struggling to engage an elderly gentleman in conversation, clattered her fork in suppressed frustration.
‘No,’ said Kit, amused despite himself. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Bathrooms are available at all times.’
‘Thank heavens,’ said Kit.
‘What’s more, the Île de France represents the face of victorious France reborn and the glory of France personified.’
‘If only I had known when I booked,’ said Kit.
‘Her three hundred and ninety first-class staterooms are each furnished differently—’
‘Peggy,’ interrupted her mother, ‘would you pass me the salt?’
‘Only two more days,’ said Daisy, who wanted to keep on staring at Kit. She addressed Mrs Guntripp. ‘What are your plans when you return?’
Mrs Guntripp patted her fringe. ‘We’ll spend some time in the country and then we’ll be coming up to town to prepare for Chloë’s coming out.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘The thought exhausts me.’
Peggy was made of stern stuff. She did not relinquish her hold on Kit’s attention for the entire dinner and he, touched by her perseverance, rewarded her efforts by dancing with her twice, and once with Chloë.
The band struck up ‘Hot Nights’ and Kit turned to Daisy. ‘At last,’ he said, and held out his hand. She took it.
‘Since we have been on the subject, do you like the decor?’ Kit indicated the tubular lighting and blond wood veneer, a style that could only be called advanced Odeon.
‘I don’t notice that sort of thing, really. But I like the way it creaks. My bathroom is a perfect orchestra.’
It struck Kit that Matty would have noticed the decor of the ship. The thought made him feel ashamed. ‘At least you haven’t got monkeys painted in yours,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Nobody could ever repeat that mistake.’
The ceiling over the dance floor was low and suited the intimate atmosphere. The Île de France was a popular ship whose passengers, preferring her elegance to the speed of the P&O liners, were faithful and the saloon was crowded. Tonight, ostrich feathers predominated, in fans, sewn round waistlines, drooping off hemlines. Silver, gold lame and eau-de-Nil shimmered, and the panelling, which was painted in soft colours, was reflected in the mirrors. Rising above the cultivated English voices were the swooping French tones, and an occasional American drawl. For a while, Kit and Daisy danced in silence, and although they did not look at one another her body was pressed into his.
‘Remember France?’ she asked.
‘What do you imagine?’
‘Do you think that that Bill woman is still there? Propping up the bar and dishing out dubious cigarettes?’
‘Probably. She had, as they say, the habit.’ He moved his hand so that it lay in the curve between waist and hip. Daisy’s hand rested on Kit’s shoulder and her bracelets rattled gently in his ear. Uncontainable joy swept over Kit. He looked down at Daisy, at the chestnut hair and sunburnt cheeks, and remembered his passion of a few hours ago.
‘Daisy,’ he said into her ear. ‘About this afternoon.’
At that she twisted closer into him, an intimate gesture that delighted him.
‘Shush,’ she said.
There were red patches on her thighs where Kit had rubbed her, her chin was sore from his beard. When she dressed for the evening, Daisy discovered a bruise on her arm, and was aware of an unaccustomed ache between her legs. When she considered the theorizing about love, the books that had been written and the poetry composed, Daisy concluded how strange it was that in the end, it was condensed to physical sensation: soreness, wet thighs, a bruise.
‘I want to say I’m sorry,’ said Kit. ‘For acting like I did.’
‘Hallo,’ said Chloë, circling past them in the charge of a youth who looked out of control. ‘Isn’t this fun?’
Daisy roused herself. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’
Kit waited until Chloë was out of earshot. ‘Daisy,’ he said, ‘this is serious. I want you to know that what happened this afternoon isn’t what usually happens.’ An image of Matty’s small, willing body in the bedroom at Hinton Dysart forced its way into his mind, and shocked him. He bent over Daisy. ‘Listen... I... I don’t know that much about it...’ His confession touched Daisy in a way that nothing else had. ‘I haven’t been a great lover for all sorts of reasons, but I do know it can be better for you, Daisy. I was wrong to make you...’
The music switched to a slower tempo. It was hot and smoky in the saloon, and the crush was uncomfortable.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kit. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Swim?’
‘No,’ he said emphatically.
Daisy took two seconds to make up her mind. ‘Come with me.’
This time, it was Daisy who led Kit into her cabin and shut the door behind her, feeling light-headed with her own daring. Then she held out a hand and said, more to herself than to Kit, ‘What am I doing?’
Kit took her hand and bent to kiss her. Frightened by what she had initiated, she turned away at the last minute and his mouth fastened onto a corner of hers.
The music had followed them down to the cabin and filtered in through the porthole. The lilies in Daisy’s bouquets seemed very white, and with each movement of the ship indelible orange pollen rained onto the carpet.
Daisy reached up and tugged at Kit’s tie. He allowed her to do so – both of them thinking about Matty which, paradoxically, intensified their desire. Tentatively, she undid the studs that secured his shirt.
That night Kit, the outsider, was not alone. For the first time in his life, he breached the barriers between himself and another and found the completion he had been seeking. Riven with gratitude, he buried his face in her neck and whispered, ‘I love you, Daisy.’
Daisy’s face hovered over Kit as she said, ‘I love you,’ back to him. Moonlight played over her shoulders and full breasts bestowing on her an unearthly beauty, and Kit ran his hands up the white body in a frenzy to keep it so for ever.
‘I love you,’ she said, intoxicated by passion.
The smell of lilies permeated their sleep, sweet, disturbing. Kit dreamt of the garden at Hinton Dysart with its ravages and despoliation and woke to an overcast dawn. Daisy stirred and turned over, puzzled by the unfamiliar arms wrapped around her. Kit stroked her cheek.
‘I’d better go.’
‘It’s all started again,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Kit, and sat up. He leant over and brushed his hand down the long, lovely shape lying beside him. ‘The same but quite different.’
What have I done? Daisy silently addressed the dawn and the aftermath of the night. She reached up and traced Kit’s eyes and nose with her finger. He kissed the sunburnt lips and each breast.
‘What have I done?’ she said aloud.
That day the weather changed, bringing rain and a strong wind. The deck was no longer inviting, the swimming pool, abandoned, sloshed on the swell, and passengers consoled themselves in the bars.
At the Isle of Wight, the Île de France turned and ploughed through grey seas past the Calshot coastguard station towards Southampton where it docked in a fanfare of hoots, and shrieks from spectators.
‘Goodbye, Kit.’
Their party had come on deck to watch the proceedings. Daisy was once again dressed in her smart dress and jacket. Her hair was tucked under her hat and she held her crocodile dressing case tightly to her chest. She looked exhausted and distant.
‘Goodbye,’ said Kit.
This is worse, he thought, far worse than he had imagined, and he could tell from the taut line of her lips that she was thinking that too. Last night, after hours of talking it over, they had agreed to end the affair, to consider it an episode that happened between America and England, not to be repeated in either. Although it was a mutual decision, despair and regret drifted between them.
‘Daisy.’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t deal with it very well,’ said Kit, ‘but I love you.’
‘Nor did I,’ she said. ‘Deal with it, I mean. And I love you.’ She bit her lip. ‘I do, Kit.’
The bustle of docking intensified. He moved forward as if to gather her into his arms, but stopped himself. She took an involuntary step towards him and Kit, catching a whiff of jasmine scent, felt the back of his throat tighten.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said with difficulty.
‘Didn’t know what, Kit?’
‘I didn’t know what it was like to feel...’ She gave him one of her quick, slanting looks, a question in her blue eyes. ‘... so intensely,’ he finished. ‘Such joy.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and smiled. ‘I wanted to thank you for that.’
Kit swallowed. ‘I wish...’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said quickly. ‘I know.’
For the last time he traced every line, every fold, every warm, beating part that was Daisy and breathed in the essence of what lay between them, as if to imprison the ecstasies of willing flesh now burnt into his memory.
The wind ruffled his hair and Daisy almost cried out with longing to hold him.
‘I’ll see you in September.’ She turned away because she was not going to let herself cry. ‘Mother wrote and told me we’re coming for a Friday to Monday.’ She hesitated for a second. ‘Tell Matty I’m sorry about the baby.’ Kit picked up his briefcase. ‘Yes.’
The future stretched out and neither of them could bear to think about it.