Part 47 (2/2)

She was aware of being warm. But when she stretched like a cat in the morning suns.h.i.+ne, she instantly realised where her limbs were lying. In his bed. Again. She opened her eyes and found his face only inches from her own, watching her. Again.

'Good morning,' he said softly.

'h.e.l.lo. How did I get here?'

'You needed sleep. Not in a chair. You feel better?'

'Much. And you? Did you sleep well?'

'Yes.'

She knew he was lying, but it felt so odd to be having this conversation with him while she was flat on her back in bed with him that she didn't contradict him. He reached across and touched her ear for a brief second. She noticed that the swelling in his fingers was less and she wanted him to touch her ear again. Her ear, her face, anywhere he wanted. This close to him she could see a slight stubble on his jaw but it was only light, not like Alfred's. Chang's chest was hairless, and she decided she liked that. That smoothness.

They lapsed into silence, just staring at each other, but the silence was easy, not stiff or stilted. It felt as natural as the sunlight that spilled under the curtain, so that when she leaned toward him after a while and gently kissed his lips, there was no embarra.s.sment, just a sense of wholeness. And a fierce sense of wanting more. The wanting was so strong it made her body ache. But just when she least expected it, he closed his eyes and shut her out. The disappointment made her swallow hard, but she reminded herself he was ill, seriously ill, and needed rest. When she slid out of the bed, he did not try to stop her. He lay there breathing hard, as if his chest hurt, his dark head immobile on the pillow that still bore the imprint of her own.

She gathered together some fresh clothes and went to the bathroom. Gospodi! Gospodi! She must stink. She ran a bath and emptied a stream of her mother's bright green bubble bath into it, plunged in, and scrubbed herself hard. To scrub the ache away. Afterward she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on her other dress and the new lambswool cardigan Valentina had bought her, all soft and primrose yellow. She must stink. She ran a bath and emptied a stream of her mother's bright green bubble bath into it, plunged in, and scrubbed herself hard. To scrub the ache away. Afterward she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on her other dress and the new lambswool cardigan Valentina had bought her, all soft and primrose yellow.

She looked in the mirror above the washbasin, trying to see what Chang would see, but she couldn't. There was some flesh on her bones these days, which was an improvement. And it seemed that her mother was right because in the last few months the good eating, which was thanks to Alfred, had filled out not only her cheeks, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s too. They weren't as good as Polly's but they were getting there.

She smiled. At the mirror. And was surprised by what she saw. It was a whole new smile.

When the doorbell rang this time, Lydia was half expecting it.

'It'll be Polly,' she said and went down to open the front door.

'h.e.l.lo, Lyd, I've come to see how you're getting on. Bit lonely?'

'Oh Polly, now is not a good time actually. I'm just . . .'

'h.e.l.lo, Lydia, dear. My word, you are looking well. Positively blooming. And that colour really suits you.'

'Thank you, Mrs Mason. No need to check up on me, honestly. I'm doing fine.'

'I'm just making sure you are managing all right, as I promised Mr Parker I would. We were worried the bomb might have frightened you yesterday, weren't we, Polly?'

'I wasn't. I thought it was exciting.' Polly grinned. 'I told Mummy you wouldn't be scared.'

'Have you time for a few of your favourites?' Anthea Mason held up the cake tin in her hand and smiled enticingly. 'Macaroons.'

Lydia was not exactly in the mood for macaroons.

'Mummy made them specially,' Polly said pointedly and beamed when Lydia stepped back into the hall, allowing them to enter.

She seated them in the drawing room.

'Isn't this a pretty room?' Anthea Mason said cheerily. 'Adorable colours.'

Lydia gave it a glance. 'The colours are Mama's and the furniture is Mr Parker's.'

The c.o.c.ktail cabinet and leather chesterfield were a bit dark and gloomy for Lydia's taste but her mother had already started to soften their impact with her own personal touches, warm textured cus.h.i.+ons and curtains. But at the moment Lydia's mind was on other things. She remained standing, s.h.i.+fting from foot to foot, pus.h.i.+ng a toe into the thick Chinese carpet.

'How's Sun Yat-sen?'

'Fine.'

'And the cook? Is he looking after you?'

'Yes.'

'So you're eating well?'

'Yes.'

'But I'm sure you have room for one of these, don't you, dear?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'A cup of tea perhaps?'

'Oh. Right. I'll go and make one.'

'Ask the cook to do it, dear. I know you've dispensed with your houseboy, though for the life of me I can't understand why.'

'I won't be long.'

She headed quickly for the kitchen, made a hurried pot of tea, carried it on a tray back into the drawing room, and froze.

'Where's Polly?'

'Oh, I think she popped upstairs to take a peek at your bedroom, dear. You don't mind, do you?'

Lydia dumped the tray and ran.

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