Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male (2 page)

He grinned, rubbed the side of
his jaw. 'I think I've entrapped myself here. Something tells me you wouldn't
like it if I suggested myself. But then—' he paused deliberately '—I wouldn't
like it if you chose someone else.'

He kept his eyes on her as he
spoke, watching to see how she would take it, but Tasha only laughed and
finished the wine in her glass. 'I want to dance.' She rose and headed for the
stairs, to his chagrin not looking to see whether he followed her or not.

But he caught her up on the edge
of the dance floor and took a firm hold of her hand as he pulled her into his
arms. Tasha stiffened, and for a moment he thought she was going to resist, but
then she relaxed and let him lead her. It was a slow number and the floor was
crowded; there was room only to smooch around, held close against each other.
Several people spoke to Tasha, both men and women, and all seemed pleased to
see her, but no one greeted Brett.

'You don't seem to know many
people here,' she commented.

'I don't. Guy's the only one. We
don't really see each other much now—just occasionally for a drink or
something.'

'Is it a very solitary life—being a
writer?'

He shrugged. 'When you're
working it has to be, but the rest of the time you can be as sociable as anyone
else.'

'Do you live alone?'

'Yes.' He wondered if that was a
loaded question, whether it meant she fancied him.

But evidently it wasn't, because
Tasha gave a small frown and said, 'When you live alone you need friends, but
friends take a lot of work, a lot of time.'

'That sounds very
philosophical.' He glanced down at her, but he didn't have to lower his head
too much, she came up to his chin. Just the right height for
kissing. The soft aroma of her perfume, like the tantalising scent of an
orchid, filled his senses and Brett wanted badly to kiss her.

'Not really. It's just that—'
she gave a small shrug '—sometimes you need time for yourself, to be alone to
do what you want to do—like write. Don't you find that?'

Tasha glanced up and found Brett
gazing at her intently. There was a look in his eyes that she recognised, a
look she had seen in many men's eyes before: hungry, concupiscent. Their eyes
met and she raised a mocking, slightly derisive eyebrow. Brett laughed, in no
way embarrassed at being caught out, and not at all ashamed of the way he was
feeling. But he said, 'Yes. Writers can be pretty insular people. Even when I'm
not writing I spend a lot of time walking around, thinking out plots,
characters, that kind of thing.'

'Do you
have lots of friends who interrupt you all the time?'

'I can
shut them out. Just turn on the answering machine and ignore the doorbell.'

'That's
the quickest way I know to lose your friends.'

'You have
to live your life the way you want to live it, not for other people.'

Tasha
gave an ironical laugh. 'Now who's being philosophical?'

'Yeah.' His mouth twisted a little as he smiled down at her.

He had,
she noticed, a very attractive smile, and his brown eyes were warm and
caressing. The band began to play 'Lady in Red' and Brett's arm
slid further round her waist as he drew her closer. 'This should be your
tone,' he murmured, touching the strap of her red dress, his fingers briefly
stroking the bare skin of her shoulder.

Tasha
smiled inwardly but didn't resist. He was right in thinking that she'd find him
interesting, and he seemed different from most of the men who seemed to come
her way. There was an inner strength in him which she could sense but which he
deliberately seemed to want to hide behind his casual manner. That alone would
have aroused her curiosity, but the fact that he was a published writer had
also intrigued her. And he fancied her, of course, but she'd realised that from
the first moment he'd spoken to her.

That she
was attractive to men, Tasha knew; she had come to look on it as just one of
those things you were born with, like having red hair and being five feet eight
inches tall. But she had learned how to handle it, how to use it to her
advantage when she wanted to, and how to squash flat men she found boring. It
had also got her into a few tight corners when she was younger, experiences
she'd prefer to forget, but she had learned from them and now, at twenty-four,
was pretty confident of her ability to take care of herself.

The music changed to a hotter
beat and they danced apart. She was pleased to find that Brett moved well, that
he danced as loosely as the surface impression he gave, but the alertness was
still there, as he proved when he caught her hand to pull her quickly out of
the way of a couple who'd drunk too much and were all wildly gyrating arms and
kicking legs. Keeping hold of her hand, he shouted in her ear, 'Why don't we
get out of this?'

Tasha hesitated only briefly
before nodding. 'OK. But I want to say goodbye to Guy first.'

They found him propped up
against the bar, literally propped up by a couple of friends as he looked in
danger of sliding to the floor. He gave them a huge grin as they came up. 'Tasha, my darling!' He pulled one arm free and put it round
her.

'Thanks, Guy,
it's been a great party.'

'You're not going? You can't go! It's
still early.'

'I'm afraid so. Every success in Hong Kong, Guy. Don't lose too many
billions on the futures market, will you?'

'No, I can't let you go.' A look
of great tragedy came into his face. 'I'm going to tell them I'm not going. I
can't leave all my friends like this.'

'Nonsense,' Tasha soothed.
'You'll love it there. And we'll all come out and visit you. Or else you can
phone.'

She managed to get away, but not
until Guy had kissed her with maudlin sentimentality. Brett shook his hand and
wished him well and then they made for the door. But when they reached it they
met up with half a dozen other people who were also leaving, friends of
Tasha's, who insisted they go along with them for something to eat. Brett would
have refused but Tasha cast a laughing glance at him and agreed at once. Piling
into a couple of taxis, they drove to a backstreet cafe, a place of metal
tables, wooden floor and condensation running down the windows. 'Have the
all-day breakfast,' Tasha urged him.

'It's three o'clock in the
morning,' Brett pointed out.

'So what
better time to have it? You'll be ahead of yourself. Go on, the food
here is fantastic.'

They ordered and pushed a couple
of tables together, drank beer with their bacon and eggs and sausages, which
were, Brett had to admit, excellent. There were other customers in the cafe:
taxi drivers having a break, workers from the nearby mainline station and a
couple of nurses from the private hospital down the street. One of the latter
asked Tasha for the salt cellar and she passed it over with a sympathetic
smile, saying, 'You poor things, you look worn out. Have you just finished
work?'

'Yes. Ten hours we've been on.'

'Really?
Surely you shouldn't have to work that long?'

'We do if we want to keep our jobs.'

Tasha started chatting to them, then moved over to sit at their table, Brett and the others
forgotten.

'She's always doing that,' one
of her friends explained to Brett.

He nodded, unworried. Soon they would
leave and then he would get her alone. He watched her with a slightly amused
look in his eyes. She was a good listener and the nurses were really opening up
to her as she smiled and nodded in sympathy, asked a question or gave a
horrified gasp at an answer. Watching the play of emotions in her face, he
became fascinated all over again. He was reminded of an old song, something
about falling in love across a crowded room. He didn't know if what he'd felt
when he first saw Tasha was love but she had certainly had a devastating effect
on his senses. But maybe she made that impression on all men. A 'honey-pot'
effect, he thought. Something that drew men to her.
He'd met a couple of other women like that in the past and had been attracted,
but only briefly because there was no substance beneath the sexiness. But he
rather thought that Tasha was different.

The others rose to leave and he
stood up, holding out his hand to Tasha. She glanced up. He stood very tall
beside her, but there was nothing looming about it, and the extended hand was
an invitation not a command. With a small smile she put her own in it, said
goodbye to the nurses, and went outside with him.

Dawn was breaking. The misty
pink glow of the rising sun brushed the deserted streets and sleeping houses,
softening any harshness, giving warmth and light to the darkness. They all
gathered on the pavement for a few minutes to say goodbye, then peeled off in
couples to search for cabs to take them home this early on a Sunday morning.

'Where to?'
Brett asked her.

Tasha looked round, then said, 'I don't really want to go home. I'd like to walk
by the river.'

'Aren't you tired?'

'No. Oh, dear! Does that mean you
are?'

'No.' And
it was true; tonight he was on such a high that it was impossible to feel
tired.

She slid her arm through his
in a completely natural gesture. 'Good. Where do you live?'

'I've got a place in Docklands.'

'And is that where you write?'

'Most of the
time. But I've also got an old cottage by the coast in Cornwall;
sometimes I go down there and shut myself away.'

'Oh, I envy you that!' Tasha
exclaimed. 'How marvellous it must be to get up when you feel like it, work
without any interruptions and… Do you have a phone there?'

'A mobile,' Brett admitted.
'But I switch it off most of the time.'

'So you can shut the world
out,' she said with satisfaction. 'How about a computer?'

'A lap-top'.

'So you do take
twentieth-century technology with you?'

'Did you imagine I'd be
bashing out the stories with two fingers on an old typewriter?'

Tasha shook her head. 'Not
really. I suppose we're children of the computer age. I'm often stuck in front
of one for days at a time. But it would be wonderful to be able to shut
yourself away.'

'Don't you like people?'

'Oh, yes, of course.' She
paused, looked as if she was about to say something, but then shook her head.

Brett, feeling that this was
important, that what she might have said would have given a clue to her
character and very much wanting to know her better, said persuasively, 'Tell
me.'

Again she
shook her head. 'No, I don't know you well enough.' And she moved to take her
arm from his.

They had
come to the river and were walking along the Embankment. They were completely
alone. Brett came to a halt in a shaft of sunlight and turned her to face him.
The sun caught her hair, turning it into a stream of molten gold. She looked so
lovely his breath caught for a moment in his throat. But then he pulled himself
together and said firmly, 'That's very strange—because I feel as if I've always
known you. All my life.' Reaching out, he took her
hand. 'You can trust me, Tasha. I think you know that.'

'Do I?'
She looked up into his face for a long moment. Then gave a
small, awkward laugh. 'Please don't get serious.' There was a note of
pleading in her voice.

Immediately
sensing it, Brett grinned, lightening the moment. 'I'm not. But you're hiding
from me.'

Nearby
there was one of the ornate wrought-iron bench seats that were placed at
intervals along the Embankment. Tasha drew her hand out of his and went to sit
on it. She leaned forward pensively, her elbow on her knee and her chin
balanced on her fist. Brett leaned back against the parapet, watching her,
waiting.

There was
mist still hovering over the river but it was clearing rapidly as the sun rose,
grew warmer. A solitary working boat chugged downstream towards the estuary and
the sea, with a black cat that sat on the stern, washing its fur, completely at
home on the water. It made Tasha smile and she suddenly felt good. The cat, the
morning sun, and Brett—yes, she had to admit he made her feel pretty good, too.
He certainly looked good, leaning back like that, his hands in his trouser
pockets, the material stretched tight across his hips. Her throat felt dry for
a moment and she quickly lifted her eyes to his face. And she liked the firm
set of his jaw, its square determination, his
lazy-lidded eyes. But could she trust him as he'd said?

Tasha was a creature of instinct,
although instinct had proved to be wrong in the past and she'd learned not to
trust it. But, impulsively, she did so now, saying slowly, 'Do you ever feel
that life is like a long corridor—a corridor of closed doors?'

'Is that
how you feel?'

She nodded. 'Sometimes the doors
are opened for you; sometimes you open them yourself.'

'And when you go through them?'
Brett asked, his eyes fixed intently on her face.

She gave a small shrug.
'Sometimes it's bright and sunlit and you're glad you opened the door. But
sometimes it's dark and cold.' She was silent for a moment, lost in thought,
lost in past memories, then she looked up at him.
'After you've opened those kinds of doors it makes you more careful. Instead of
opening every door you choose to walk past some of them, leave them closed.'

He came to sit beside her, put
his hand on the back of the seat as he faced her. Softly he said, 'But how do
you know which ones to open and which to leave closed?'

'You don't; that's just the
trouble.' For a moment her beautiful eyes became very vulnerable. 'That's why
you're always afraid.'

'Of what?'

'Of not opening the door that
might lead you to—' She stopped abruptly.

Instead of pushing her to tell
him, he said gently, 'To the ultimate door?' She didn't answer so he guessed. 'The one that leads to happiness for the rest of your life?'