The Awakening of Poppy Edwards Read online

  He pulled my shirt out of my trousers. They call them pants over here. Even after five years, that still sounds terrifically rude to me. He touched me, with just the silk of my chemise between us now. His hands sliding flat over it, spanning my waist, up to my breasts again, teasing them into such an agonising delight. Then one hand down, sliding past the wide waistband of my trousers, under the silk of my knickers, and it was my turn to close my eyes. Just for a second. Then I opened them. I wanted to watch.

  I was amazed at how wet I was. He slid into me so easily. Stupid, but my knees really did buckle. His hand on my breast supported me. Then the assault began. On my nipple and inside me, sliding, stroking and teasing. And I watched, fascinated, as if it wasn’t me. My face was flushed; my eyes seemed huge. His were fixed on me, watching, intent, as he touched me, as if he knew exactly how to touch me, just as he’d known exactly how to kiss me.

  I wanted it to go on forever, that hot wet slide, that mesmerising stroking, so soft, so sweet, such a contrast with the sharper tightening when he teased my nipple, and the spark seemed to run all the way down through my belly to the spot between my legs, which started to throb. More insistent now. Did he read it in my face, that I wanted that? I don’t know. I was watching, but I wasn’t thinking as he touched me, stroked me, making me pant and clench and heat, as though I was melting around the hot core of me that he touched, and when I came my eyes closed and I heard myself, a harsh cry, and I felt him picking me up, and I clung onto him like some helpless maiden, the kind that’s always getting rescued from train tracks in the movies.

  He set me down on the bed. ‘Have you got…?’ I asked, and he nodded, leaving me briefly to get the preservative from the bathroom.

  ‘You sure?’ His face was set. Flushed like mine.

  ‘Yes.’

  His hands were shaking as he dragged off his clothes. Mine, too, as I fumbled with what was left of my own, kicking off my trousers, my shoes, my stockings, my underwear, shivering, my fingers icy, all of me icy except inside.

  Naked, he looked even more impressive than with clothes on. Hard-packed muscles that rippled under the skin. I’d remember that later, when I replayed it all in my head. The contrast of tanned arms and pale shoulders. The rough hairs on his chest. I touched all of him. Ran fevered hands over all of him. I must have, or I wouldn’t have remembered. But at the time it was all hot skin and rough and smooth textures. Hard, and silky soft. I wrapped my fingers around his erection. Stroked. But only for a moment. I wanted him inside me. Same as he did.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, and I smiled, or laughed or something, because he smiled or laughed, too, and it made my insides clench again, that smiling-laughing thing, and made me realise that it wasn’t over, far from over, and he must have seen that in my face.

  I fell back on the bed. He entered me slowly, but not too slow. Sliding. Opening me up. Making me cling to him, and my clinging making him groan. In and in he slid, and when he thought he was done, I wrapped my legs around his waist and he slid in farther, his eyes widening, his mouth curling. Not smiling. Curling. He held me like that and I held him, just looking at him, for seconds. Then he began to rock. The smallest movement, just rocking, and I began to clench, and I didn’t want it to be over, so I dug my fingers into his shoulders.

  ‘You like that,’ he said, and it wasn’t a question.

  I tilted under him. ‘You like that,’ I said, and that wasn’t a question, either.

  He kissed me, his tongue sliding into my mouth, and he thrust at the same time. A tiny movement, but almost enough. Almost. I dug my fingers in farther. ‘Yes,’ I said, though he hadn’t asked me anything.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and I knew what he meant.

  Another kiss. His tongue. The hard, hot thickness of him thrusting. And ‘Yes,’ I said again. And ‘Yes,’ this time the words a hiss of pleasure as he thrust harder. ‘Now.’

  It wasn’t an order—it was a plea. He ignored it. ‘Wait,’ he said, and that was an order, his hands sliding under my behind, tilting me higher. ‘Not yet.’

  I moaned. I clung. I tensed. I could feel it and I didn’t want to resist it, though I didn’t want it to happen. ‘Not yet,’ I echoed, like a prayer.

  He kissed me again. There was sweat on his chest. His eyes were so dark, his face strained. He tasted of salt. Of heat. Of sex. I kissed him back, touching my tongue to his, and he gave a long groan. ‘Now,’ I whispered, insistent.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and pushed high into me. I started to come. He thrust again, harder. I cried out. I pushed, arched, clung, and he thrust again, harder, faster, urgent now, and when he came, he cried out, too, his chest heaving, his arms straining as he pulled me up, tight against him, so that I felt him pulsing not just inside me but against me, our skin sticking, our breath harsh, our eyes glazed but still watching, wide. Still seeing.

  Lewis

  I thought my heart might actually break out of my chest, it was hammering so much. Sensational. A very overused word, but that’s what it was. I told her so, when I came back from the bathroom. I don’t usually. I mean, I say all the right things, you know, but I don’t usually mean them. That makes me sound like a jerk. I’m not a jerk, but I’m careful not to give the wrong impression. I think about what I say, what I do, how it will sound. And that makes me sound manipulative, contriving, unfeeling. I’m not any of those things either, except maybe I don’t feel much, but I am—like I said, I’m careful.

  The fact is, I’m not so easily moved. You’ll say it’s hardly surprising, after what I saw in the war. Most probably everyone who was in France is the same, you’ll say. Maybe, but it’s not an excuse I like to use. I wasn’t even fighting. Sure, driving those ambulances you see things you never want to see again. My point is, I won’t make excuses. It happened, it’s over, you learn, you move on, which is what I’ve done. I told you, I know I’m lucky. Was I like this before? Heck, how do I know? Am I cold? If that means do I know not to let anyone get too close, the answer’s yes. Another thing I learned in France. People die, even people who aren’t supposed to. Even when they don’t carry guns, but stretchers. People die, and they leave behind lots of people who think they can’t get by without them. You don’t just see the mangled mess that guns and shells make of men in the trenches. In the hospitals, you see the mangled mess the war makes of the ones they left behind. So no, I don’t think I’m cold, just pragmatic. I’m focused. Independent. I know what I want. I know what I don’t want, too. Uncomplicated—a big yes to that. Involved, needy—big no. But great sex? Who doesn’t want that? If only it was easier to find without all the strings. That night I’d found it, though, and I told her. ‘That was goddamn amazing,’ I said.

  She laughed, though it was more like a kind of low growly noise. ‘Yes, it was.’

  I sat down on the bed beside her. She was still sprawled on her back, the sheet only just covering her. She was so slim, she could have—what is it they say—yeah, she could have walked through rain.

  ‘Really, I mean it,’ I said, running my hand down the outline of her leg, my body already recovering, already thinking that it might be an idea to start again.

  But she rolled away from me. ‘I have an early start. In fact, I really should be going.’

  She was already out of bed, already pulling on her underwear, picking up her shirt. I watched her for a moment, enjoying the view, my mind still sluggish, too concerned with what we’d done, what I’d like to try next, to realise what was happening until she was pulling on her pants, sitting back down on the bed to tie her shoes. I got up, began to look about for my own clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own, thank you very much.’

  The way she said it kicked off alarm bells. Defensive. Very defensive. Funny, I didn’t think about it at the time, but I should have been pleased, not—hurt’s too big a word, but it will do. ‘I’ll come down with you,’ I sa
id. ‘At least let me make sure you get a cab.’

  She stood up, shrugging into her jacket and waistcoat at the same time. ‘There’s really no need. I can make a far more discreet exit on my own.’ She smiled a tight little smile and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Lewis.’

  Goodbye, not good night. Her accent had become decidedly English. Her expression decidedly cool. And that’s when it finally hit me, the full stupidity of what I’d done—as she was holding out her hand, making it perfectly clear that however amazing the sex had been between us, there would be no more. I stared at her, speechless for a few endless seconds, as I tried to work out what to do, and more importantly, what I should be feeling. Because what I should have been worried about was business, and what I was actually thinking about was pleasure.

  Her smile became a frown. She withdrew her hand, tucking it behind her back. ‘What’s wrong?’

  What was wrong was that I never mixed business with pleasure. What was wrong was that she had no idea who I was, and absolutely no idea that I knew who she was. What was wrong was that tomorrow—strike that, today—I planned to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse, but she most likely would refuse it now, because she’d think it came with all sorts of conditions. And what was really, really wrong was that despite all this, I still wanted her. What had I done?

  I should have told her right there and then, but I was pretty certain that would have put an end to it. If I could buy myself some time, I thought, I could come up with something. So that’s what I decided to do, not thinking for a moment that what I’d be doing was digging myself in deeper. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I said. ‘Let me give you some money for the cab.’

  The look she drew me then! ‘Just so that we’re as clear as crystal,’ she said, and her voice pretty much tinkled like crystal as she spoke, ‘I don’t want anything more from you than I’ve had. I don’t need to be recompensed or rewarded. I don’t need to go through the charade of one or other of us saying we’ll call, and I certainly don’t need you to pretend that it meant anything more than it did. I might not have your experience, but I’m neither an innocent nor an ingénue.’

  See, no strings, just exactly what I’d wanted. Only suddenly I didn’t. She fastened her coat and crossed to the mirror to smooth her hair, which I realised must be a wig, and was amazed had stayed in place. She was cool as the proverbial English cucumber. I was impressed, I have to say. Acting or not, she was good. I wanted to applaud her. I wanted to kiss her. So help me, I wanted to kiss her, and it took every bit of self-control not to as she turned, gave me a theatrical little wave and sauntered out of the bedroom. I waited until I heard the click of the outer door closed, and then I dropped back onto the bed, where the sheets smelled of us, and I lay there for the rest of the night, wondering what on earth I was going to do in the morning.

  Chapter Three

  Poppy

  I must be a much better actress than I thought, I was thinking to myself as I quit the Ambassador, sneaking past the desk clerk downstairs while he was on the telephone, then out onto Wiltshire Boulevard, which I know after all these years I should just call Wiltshire, but that would be like calling Regent Street Regent, or Drury Lane just plain old Drury. There is Piccadilly, mind you.

  I know, I’m what do you call it—procrastinating. All the way in the cab home—see, I said cab and not taxi—I was congratulating myself on how coolly I’d made my exit, and how I’d managed to head him off when he looked as though he might suggest meeting up, though actually I wasn’t sure that was what he’d been going to suggest. And I hadn’t for a second thought he’d really been offering to pay me with the offer of a cab fare either, but it had been easy, you see, to pretend offence when half of me was wanting to get right back into bed with him and the other half was telling me to get out fast.

  I thought about that when I got home. It was too late to go to bed, so I squeezed myself some orange juice and sat out by the pool. I love the oranges in California. I love that I can say casually, I squeezed myself some juice and sat out by the pool. My pool. My house. When I came out here, I was kind of famous, in an English sort of way, for being one of the Edwards Sisters. But on my own—I was starting from scratch. Daisy’s a better actress than me. When she walks on-stage, the audience go still. But I have the kind of face the camera loves. Movies are not the same. Nothing’s the same without Daisy, but since I had no option but to be without Daisy, I’m lucky I did have the option to make movies.

  To someone practically brought up on the stage as we were, it’s not real acting, mind you. For real acting you need an audience and a voice. It was Daisy’s idea to run off to the theatre. We lied about how old we were. They must have been glad to get rid of us, the orphanage, or they’d have looked harder. We must have had something or they’d have sent us back, that first company we joined. I wonder sometimes if any of that first company ever see my pictures. If they did, they’d probably think them a joke. It’s hardly acting when you don’t use your voice.

  That’s why I sing. Partly why I sing. You’re probably thinking I’m a bit of a drama queen, going on about how tough it’s been when I didn’t lose my husband, and compared to what I had on the stage as one of the Edwards Sisters, I’ve got real fame and fortune now. I have it all, you’re probably thinking. I agree. But you see, I thought I’d had it all in London. This was a very different all. I miss the bit that I’d had to cut out. The bit that wasn’t so much left behind, but dead. So I sang and it helped, a bit. A little bit. I thought it was more than a little, until I met Lewis. But that’s jumping ahead.

  Sitting by the pool, drinking my freshly squeezed orange juice that morning, I was deliberately not thinking about Daisy or Lewis. I was reminding myself how lucky I was to be here, to have found such an excellent agent, to have a face that fits. I’m rich, I was thinking. It’s fun being rich, though not as fun as I thought it would be. I’m not really that keen on the parties, and it cuts you off from the real world, the combination of money and a famous face. That’s why Randolph and I work so well together.

  I fell asleep on the sun lounger, thinking about poor Randolph. I woke up with the sun coming up, thinking about Lewis, and I had that jangly feeling, the too-much-coffee feeling, though, ironically, it was probably because I hadn’t had any coffee to drink at all that morning. Another Californian habit I’d acquired, drinking coffee and not tea. I put the percolator on. I have help, but not full-time. I like to look after myself, even if everyone thinks I’m rather strange for doing so. I like to cook, too. My kitchen is everything I never had growing up. I know, I know, but you have to make what you can of what you’ve got, right?

  I headed upstairs to shower—another American habit I have now, showering instead of bathing. I stood there under the stream of water, enjoying the way it tingled over my skin, enjoying the way it reminded me of last night. And then not enjoying that, because that was one of the things that were making me edgy, that wanting. Wanting more before I’d even left. I didn’t like to be distracted. I didn’t like the idea that Lewis was a distraction. I never allowed any man to be a distraction. It was one of my rules. One of the reasons for my success. At the risk of repeating myself, it was one of the main reasons I was happy.

  * * *

  ‘And cut. That’s a wrap. Thank you, darlings.’

  ‘And thank the Lord for that.’ Randolph rolled his eyes at me as he straightened up from our trademark clinch. He was dressed in flowing Arabian robes for this picture. I wasn’t wearing very much, lying on the divan under the canopy that was supposed to be under the desert stars. You can get away with a lot if you set a movie in some make-believe exotic location.

  Randolph held out a hand to help me up. He’s always a gentleman, even when the cameras aren’t rolling. ‘Word on the grapevine is that our next is to be a pirate. What do you say to a bit of swashbuckling, Poppy Poppet?’

  I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t signed the latest contract, even though my agent swore it was one of the best deals in
Hollywood. I would sign, of course I would. In fact, I had a meeting with him in half an hour to go over it. I fluttered my fingers at Randolph and headed off the set calling toodle-pip. He loves that. So English, he says. I don’t tell him I never said it back home. I was reminding myself that this deal was exactly what I wanted, to be one of the top-paid actresses in the movies, even if the movies I made were becoming tedious, when I opened the door of my dressing room.

  And there he was. ‘What the—’ I stopped, mouth hanging open, door wide open, too. ‘I thought I made it clear last night…’ I thought, you see, that’s all it was. I didn’t think about the implications of him being there, not only in the studio, but in my personal dressing room, not until he spoke.

  ‘Close the door, Poppy.’

  Poppy! I felt sick to my stomach. ‘Get out.’

  ‘I’m not a reporter, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  It was, but I wasn’t going to let him think he could read my mind. And it wasn’t what he’d write that was making me feel sick. It was—I felt let-down. ‘You lied to me,’ I said.

  He raised his brows at that. ‘Vera?’ he said, and closed the door, pulling me into the dressing room, and I let him. I let him lead me over to the couch, sit me down, let him sit down beside me, because I was so stunned.

  ‘Did you follow me last night?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Did you know then, last night?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How did you know? Did someone at the club tell you? Or—wait—are you from the studio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because if you are, I’m not in breach of contract. You can’t sue me. I don’t use my own name. I don’t even get paid.’