Night Over Water - Ken Follett [166]
She had succeeded in going against his will only with the help of others. Monica had introduced her to sexual pleasure, and he had never been able to take that away from her. Percy showed her how to shoot; Digby, the chauffeur, taught her to drive. Now perhaps Harry Marks and Nancy Lenehan would help her to become independent.
She already felt different. There was a pleasant ache in her muscles, as if she had spent a day at some hard physical work in the fresh air. She lay in her bunk and ran her hands all over her body. For the past six years she had thought of herself as a thing of ungainly bulges and unsightly hair, but now suddenly she liked her body. Harry seemed to think it was wonderful.
From outside her curtained bunk came a few faint noises. People were waking up, she guessed. She peeped out. Nicky, the fat steward, was taking down the opposite bunks, the pair in which Mother and Father had slept, and remaking the divan seat. Harry’s and Mr. Membury’s had already been done. Harry was sitting down, fully dressed, looking out of the window meditatively.
She suddenly felt bashful, and closed the curtain quickly, before he could see her. It was funny: a few hours ago they had been as intimate as two people can possibly be, but now she felt awkward.
She wondered where the others were. Percy would have gone ashore. Father had probably done the same: he generally woke up early. Mother was never very energetic in the morning: she was probably in the ladies’ room. Mr. Membury was nowhere in sight.
Margaret looked out of the window. It was daylight. The plane was at anchor near a small town in a pine forest. The scene was very still.
She lay back, enjoying the privacy, savoring the memory of the night, recalling the details and storing them away like photographs in an album. She felt as if last night was when she really lost her virginity. Previously, with Ian, sexual intercourse had been hurried, difficult and quick, and she had felt like a guilty child disobediently imitating a grown-up game. Last night she and Harry had been adults taking pleasure in one another’s bodies. They had been discreet but not furtive, shy but not embarrassed, uncertain without clumsiness. She had felt like a real woman. I want more of that, she thought, lots more; and she hugged herself, feeling wanton.
She pictured Harry as she had just glimpsed him, sitting by the window in a sky blue shirt with such a thoughtful look on his handsome face; and suddenly she wanted to kiss him. She sat up, pulled her robe around her shoulders, opened her curtains, and said, “Good morning, Harry.”
His head jerked around and he looked as if he had been caught doing something wrong. She thought: What were you thinking about? He met her eyes, then smiled. She smiled back, and found that she could not stop. They grinned stupidly at one another for a long minute. Finally Margaret dropped her eyes and stood up.
The steward turned around from fixing Mother’s seat and said: “Good morning, Lady Margaret. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, Nicky.” She probably looked a fright, and she was in a hurry to get to a mirror and brush her hair. She felt undressed. She was undressed, whereas Harry had shaved and put on a fresh shirt and looked as bright as a new apple.
However, she still wanted to kiss him.
She stepped into her slippers, remembering how she had indiscreetly left them beside Harry’s bunk and retrieved them a split second before Father would have seen them. She put her arms into the sleeves of her robe, and saw Harry’s eyes drop to her breasts. She did not mind: she liked him to look at her breasts. She tied her belt and ran her fingers through her hair.
Nicky finished what he was doing. She hoped he would leave the compartment, so that she could kiss Harry, but instead he said: “May I do your bunk now?”
“Of course,” she said, feeling disappointed. She wondered how long she would have to wait for another chance to kiss Harry. She picked up her bag, shot a regretful look at Harry,