The Dangerous Years Read Online Free PDF

still didn’t say anything until in his confusion he tried to ease the dress down over her hips, then she gave a little sigh.
    ‘The other way,’ she said, and lifted her arms.
    He drew the dress carefully over her head, anxious not to ruffle her hair, and laid it neatly on a chair. In the light coming through the window her bare shoulders gleamed beneath the straps of the slip she wore. They looked fragile and almost transparent in their whiteness. She still said nothing, waiting, continuing to hold up her arms so that he assumed that the slip was to come off in the same way. He did the job meticulously, as if he might tear it, terrified of touching her. Now that he’d arrived at the critical point in their lifelong affair, he found his courage was barely up to it. Even with his blood hammering in his veins, he felt inexperienced and uncertain.
    Her eyes met his and, somehow, what moved him most was the honesty in them. As he began to remove the rest of her clothes, she looked down at him. ‘We don’t wear as much since the war as we used to,’ she whispered.
    He was still careful not to touch her skin, but it was difficult because his breathing was quick and shallow and his hands were awkward. As she stepped out of her shoes, he was surprised how small she seemed, standing with her feet flat on the floor, her arms folded across her breasts.
    The rain was spattering against the window so that the darkened room, lit only by the street lights outside, seemed to be full of small unspoken urgings. He began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, tearing one off in his haste. She watched him for a moment then she walked to the bed and sat down, her feet and knees close together, her arms still across her breasts, her eyes on him, solemn and huge. He stared back at her, unable to speak, and she lay back on the counterpane, punctiliously straight, both feet together, her arms by her side, the curve of her breasts catching the light from outside.
    There seemed to be a stone in his throat and he swallowed with difficulty, his face as hot as if he’d just returned to his cabin from the bridge on a bitter day at sea. Suddenly he became scared. This was Charley! This was the girl he was going to marry! You didn’t do this sort of thing with the girl you were going to marry! This was something you saved until afterwards!
    ‘Charley,’ he said hoarsely.
    If he’d touched her or if she’d giggled a little or pulled his leg, there would have been no question of hesitation. But she’d been composed, as silent as if she were some sacrifice. Then she lifted her hand to reach out for his and he knew he was lost. All his good intentions went whistling down the wind in a great wave of desire but, as he snatched again at his shirt, he heard a taxi draw up outside with a squeak of brakes and immediately he recognised the sound of Mabel’s voice, then her mother’s, and finally, worst of all, Verschoyle’s.
     
    Charley sat up abruptly. ‘They’ve come back,’ she gasped.
    For a second they stared at each other, horrified, then she came to life. ‘Oh, God!’ She was on her feet at once. ‘Go to the bathroom. Get dressed there. I’ll go down the back stairs to the kitchen.’ As she spoke, she was flinging her clothes on as fast as she could. Because they’d not embraced each other, her hair was undisturbed. ‘Hurry,’ she said, and as she pushed him out of the room he saw there were tears in her eyes.
    Furious, frustrated, yet curiously relieved that nothing had happened that they might later regret, when he appeared downstairs she was standing by the range in the kitchen as if nothing had happened and he could hear voices in the drawing room.
    ‘Charley,’ he murmured.
    She didn’t answer and refused to meet his look. She was feeling cheap and tawdry, yet knowing she never would have if what they’d intended had taken place. It was being caught that placed the occurrence in another category altogether – shifty,