One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [127]
‘Is she all right?’ Laura whispered urgently, crossing the landing and coming towards us down the corridor.
‘Fine,’ said Hal, as I straightened a picture behind me where my head had leaned. ‘She’s sleeping soundly,’ he said, as Laura quietly opened the Green Room door a fraction and put her head round. ‘Nothing eight hours’ kip won’t cure, I’m sure.’ I think we all knew this wasn’t true.
‘Poor thing, what a nightmare.’ She shut the door softly. Sighed. ‘Well, there’s nothing else we can do for her tonight. She’ll just have to sleep it off. You’re down that way, Hal.’ She indicated further on down the corridor. Ran a hand through her hair. ‘Hugh sweetly told me to go to bed too. I’m shattered. He says he’ll deal with the Rankins. Hang them out to dry when they’ve drained the cellar. Come on, Hattie. Night, Hal.’
‘Night.’
There seemed nothing else for it, but to allow my arm to be linked by my sister’s as she moved off towards the main part of the house and our bedrooms. But as I raised my eyes to Hal’s to say good night, I was aware of such a light, such a force, indisputably matching the intensity of that kiss, it fairly took my breath away. There was no doubt who he’d thrown his beautiful French girlfriend of six years over for: no doubt where his heart lay – had lain, slumbering, all these years. I felt myself on the receiving end of such passion, I felt humbled. I flashed him an inadequate look in return, then fell into step beside Laura, amazed she couldn’t feel the heat on the back of her legs.
Once in my room I instantly went to the mirror, wanting to see what he’d seen. Pink cheeks, shining eyes: so we’d both lit up. I smiled. And what now? Might he – and this was truly thrilling – corridor creep?
I brushed my teeth thoroughly, took my make-up off, but not my mascara. Chose, not an old T-shirt, but a rather lovely white cotton nightshirt I’d bought in France. I got into bed and lay there, heart pounding. Hang on. Might just have a quick wash. Pits and parts, as Mum would say. I hopped back into bed, still a bit damp. Would he think it odd? That I’d washed? Was damp? I nipped out and dried very thoroughly.
The minutes passed. Ticked on. Don’t be silly, Hattie, he’s not that sort of man. He’s mature, sensible. He’s everything your life lacks, everything it should have: everything you need. I gave a great sigh of relief in the dark. After all those years of being Out There. Come in, Hattie Carrington, your time is up. I felt so warm, so cosseted, it wouldn’t surprise me if I finally fell asleep with a beatific smile on my face, like a lost soul who’s been anointed. Either that or the cat who’s got the cream.
I was woken, an hour or so later, by a certain amount of giggling and whispering outside. Was it him? Instantly awake, I slipped in one fluid movement to the door: opened it in time to see the shadowy figure of an indeterminate male disappear around the gallery, and then Maggie’s door shut softly. Right. Corridor creeping wasn’t off her agenda then. I fell back into bed and, instantly, into a deep sleep.
The following morning dawned bright and chilly. A faint mist was already lifting from the hills, the sun breaking through and peeping in at the windows. It was Saturday, the day of the shoot. Breakfast was laid in the dining room – the kitchen deemed too small when a house party gathered – and as I came downstairs and went into the great panelled room, Hal was striding around in Mr Darcy breeches. I nearly fainted with excitement. Biba and Daisy were serving breakfast to a clutch of quiet, hung-over guests at the table, faces hidden behind their newspapers, whilst Hal helped himself to bacon from the sideboard, closing a silver domed lid.
‘Morning.’ The smile he gave me as he returned to the table with his kidneys flipped my heart right over.
‘Morning,’ I breathed.
What, all for me? my brain said. I took in his height and stature as he sat down. This handsome, well-put-together man, clad in expensive Harris tweed and moleskin;