‘I don’t!’ declared Helen hotly, deriving a certain amount of courage from the strength of her convictions. ‘And I don’t believe all girls do either. That—that’s just a rumour put around by those who do to excuse themselves!’
‘Oh, yes?’ His eyes were lazily mocking. ‘Do I take it then that you and Barry—don’t?’
‘You can take it whatever way you like!’ she retorted shortly. ‘And now, if you’ve finished your coffee, I’ve got some shopping to do.’
The baiting light went out of Morgan’s eyes, and without another word he thrust back his chair and got to his feet. But when she went to pass him, his hand caught her wrist, his fingers closing over it tightly.
‘Wait,’ he said, his warm breath fanning her forehead. ‘Don’t go rushing off like this. Perhaps we could have lunch together. Allow me to make amends for embarrassing you. Will you?’
Helen’s breathing felt constricted. Because of the narrowness between the tables, her body was close to Morgan’s, the muscles of his legs hard against hers through her skirt and the suede pants he was wearing.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she got out jerkily, and because they were beginning to attract attention, he let her go and she made her way outside with air-gulping relief.
But in the narrow street outside, the question had to be answered, and although she knew she ought to refuse him she found herself agreeing to meet him in a couple of hours outside a pub they both knew.
For the rest of the morning she tried to justify her actions, but without much success, and by the time she had dumped her shopping in the boot of her Mini, parked on the outskirts of town, and walked the quarter mile or so to the Bartlemy, she was as taut as a violin string.
It didn’t help when Morgan kept her waiting almost ten minutes only to find that the restaurant was closed and the bar already full to overflowing with people wanting snacks.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan as they came out into the wintry afternoon again. ‘I got held up at the bank.’
‘The restaurant would still have been closed,’ replied Helen tartly, and then, realising she was being shrewish, she added: ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘I suppose we could go somewhere else,’ he suggested thoughtfully, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. ‘Or should we just—forget it?’
Helen’s heart gave a curious lurch at his words. ‘Oh, no,’ she found herself saying desperately. ‘We can go somewhere else. We could even buy some food and have a picnic by the river…’ But as if to destroy even this nebulous suggestion, a few spots of rain blew into their faces.
Morgan turned his face up towards the lowering skies. ‘No picnic’ he said ruefully, looking down at her again. ‘Perhaps we’d better try somewhere else.’
Most of the popular eating places were crowded, and Helen didn’t much fancy sharing a table with a crowd of students. Morgan was beginning to look weary of the whole idea, and almost without considering the ethics of the situation, she said: ‘Let’s buy some food and take it to the flat. I was going there anyway this afternoon.’ And as her face betrayed the sudden guilt that swept over her, she added defensively: ‘You’d like to see where Barry and I are going to live, wouldn’t you?’
Morgan hesitated, a frown creasing his brow. ‘That’s not really the point, is it?’ he asked. ‘What is Barry going to say when he finds out?’
‘Barry’s not my keeper,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘But if you don’t want to go—–’
‘It’s not that,’ he muttered, and then, as if a pain had suddenly made itself unbearable, he nodded, raking back his hair with an impatient hand. ‘Why not?’ he agreed shortly. ‘How do we get there?’
Helen almost lost her nerve, but she managed to say quite coherently: ‘My car—is parked on that lot near the river. We can go in that.’
‘Where is the flat?’
‘Gainsborough Crescent.’
‘Gainsborough Crescent.’ She could see him trying to place the vaguely familiar name. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I know it. But my car—or rather my stepmother’s—is nearer. We can buy what we need on the way there.’
‘All right.’ Helen had no objections. No one in Gainsborough Crescent would recognise Mrs Fox’s yellow Volkswagen, whereas her blue Mini might incite attention.
Morgan bought some eggs and cheese and butter, and some rolls still warm from the oven. He also added a bottle of wine to the steadily increasing load in Helen’s basket, and then they made their way to where he had left the car.
‘You drive,’ he said, after unloading their possessions into the back, and with a puzzled shrug of acceptance, Helen climbed behind the wheel. Morgan got in beside her, supporting his head with evident relief against the padded rest, and she gave him an anxious look before starting the engine.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘Just a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve got something I can take for it when we get to the flat.’
Helen didn’t waste any more time. The Volkswagen was easy to handle, and she swung out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic with the expertise born of experience. She had been driving since she was seventeen, and even Barry had had to concede that she was good.
It only took a matter of five minutes or so to reach Gainsborough Crescent, and she parked the car at the kerb before reaching into the back for her basket.
Morgan’s hand closed on her arm, however, preventing her from reaching it. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, thrusting open his door and getting out, and reluctantly she went ahead into the building.
Gainsborough Crescent was a terrace of tall Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into flats now. Families were no longer so large as to require half a dozen bedrooms, and the rooms on the attic floor were snapped up by students wanting an economical bed-sitter.
The flat Helen and Barry were to occupy was on the first floor. It was small—just a bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom, but at least it was all their own. The furnishings were the prime drawback. Nearly all the furniture had done service for more years than Helen would have liked to have guessed, and she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they could buy and furnish a house of their own.
Leading the way into the living room, she realised that this was the first time she had ever actually invited anyone there. Her mother had seen the flat, of course, but Barry’s parents were waiting until they returned from their honeymoon and they could have a proper flat-warming.
Morgan closed the door behind him, glancing about him appraisingly as Helen bent to light the gas fire. The room was chilly, but the fire created a warm glow, casting enveloping shadows over the worn patches on the hide-covered couch.
Morgan walked straight through to the kitchenette, and when she followed him she found him taking two tablets with a mouthful of water direct from the tap.
‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we have some glasses!’ But he shook his head and straightened, saying:
‘It’s okay, they’ve gone. Now—do you have a frying pan?’
They ate in the kitchenette, seated on stools beside the breakfast bar. Morgan had grated the cheese while Helen beat up the eggs, and then while she made light, fluffy omelettes, he opened the wine. His headache seemed to have disappeared as suddenly as it had come and she was relieved, aware that ridiculous as it might seem she had been concerned about him.
Although the wine was unchilled, it had never tasted so good and they drank the bottle between them. Helen felt quite reckless, drinking so much in the middle of the day, and she hoped that by evening the feeling of lightheadedness