Lace II (22 page)

*   *   *

“Naturally, you can’t expect everything that you would get in a new model, but our own guarantee accompanies every car we sell,” said the fat salesman in ginger tweed. “How about this MGB GT—a collector’s item now, Madam.”

“No,” said Lili, looking around the showroom at the array of battered agricultural vehicles, decrepit sports cars and ancient saloon cars that had been carefully maintained by old ladies. “I want the cheapest car you’ve got.”

“That would be the Riley, then.” Just another lady customer, they never laid out on a car. “Totally reliable model, this one, Madam.”

Lili shook her head.

“We’re expecting a very fine Ford Granada in tomorrow.” The salesman sucked on his pipe, to imply trustworthiness.

“No, this is my only morning off.” Lili’s makeup call was at 5
A.M
. “How about that?” She pointed to a tiny Morris painted with pink and orange flowers, cabalistic signs and the
words “love” and “peace,” none of which disguised the rust on the doors.

“Frankly, Madam, you would be taking your life in your hands. That’s a trade-in we accepted from the hippy commune in Uttoxeter and it’s only fit for scrap.” No profit on that one, the salesman thought, he’d better scare her. “We could not give it our guarantee, Madam.”

“Perfect,” said Lili. “I’ll take it.”

*   *   *

Ten miles out of town, the little Morris gave a despairing clank, shuddered and stopped. Delighted, Lili walked another mile to the nearest telephone booth.

Within an hour, Gregg was fiddling under the battered hood. “We’d better give it a run.” He pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “But I don’t think this clutch will last much longer.”

They jerked in silence along wet country lanes until Lili saw a painted sign swinging in the breeze at the roadside beside a white-thatched building. “The Magpie and Stump! We don’t have pubs in France.” Dropping a hint was a new experience for Lili.

Picking up a hint was a new experience for Gregg. “Want to go on Sunday?”

Next Sunday, after visiting the pub, they sat in the tinroofed country cinema and watched
Spartacus
. It was raining and there was nowhere else to go. On the following Sunday, Gregg hired a fishing boat and they caught two evil-looking black lobsters. “Let’s take them back to my hotel and have them cooked for dinner,” said Lili. She found it uphill work. At this rate they would not be holding hands before Christmas. But she sensed that, surprisingly, this gawky Englishman did not know how to make the next move.

“Your leg okay now?” Gregg asked, as they drove past high, honeysuckle-entwined hedges.

Lili pulled up her chamois skirt and thoughtfully felt her thigh. “Almost.”

“Good.” He did not take his eyes off the road.

They crossed the hotel lawn and approached the kitchen door. As they reached it, a shower of pink-tipped white petals fell around them. Lili stopped and looked up into the lichen-covered branches of the apple tree.

“Oh, the poor thing—it’s trapped!” She pointed up to a terrified ginger kitten stuck on the tip of a fragile branch.

“Stupid moggy. Shouldn’t have climbed up there in the first place.” Gregg, like most country people, was not sentimental about animals. “Can we get into that room?” He pointed up at the mullioned window close to the struggling kitten.

“Yes, it’s the staircase window. I pass it every morning,” said Lili.

They clattered up the uncarpeted oak staircase and Lili opened the window. but Gregg could not quite reach the kitten. Every time he leaned out the window a little more, the kitten retreated a little further back on the branch, then mewed more loudly. “Cats always back off if you grab at them.” Gregg thought he was damned if he was going to risk his neck for such a dumb animal.

Slowly, he twiddled his fingers as he withdrew his hand from the branch.

Slowly, the kitten followed the fingers.

Then Gregg grabbed.

“There, there, kitty, panic’s over.” Holding it by the scruff of the neck, he handed the ginger scrap to Lili, who plonked down the eerily-moving bag of lobsters on the staircase and cuddled the kitten to her breasts, where it promptly hooked its claws into her white cotton sweater.

“Stroke it,” she said, pulling Gregg’s hand to the kitten. His hand was much bigger than the little animal. Lili stood on tiptoe, shut her eyes, and kissed him full on the lips.

After a bit, she said in a wobbly voice, “My suite is just along the corridor.”

Lili’s bedroom had an oak-beamed ceiling which sloped down toward the diamond panes of two small, stone-framed windows. The chintz curtains matched the yellow-flowered rug on the dark, polished floorboards; a copper warming pan hung on one side of the stone chimneypiece, while a row of hunting prints hung on the other. All this tourist-trap, Manderley kitsch was spoiled by the cheaply made, flimsy, standard British hotel bed, covered by a slippery, green satin quilt.

Gregg pushed Lili’s lips apart with his tongue and explored her mouth. She felt the muscles move in his back as she slowly slid her hands down his spine and an ache of desire tugged
between her legs. Gregg’s soft dry lips brushed her throat, then Lili heard him murmur her name as his lips moved downward.

Once in bed, Lili noticed, Gregg lost his awkwardness, but he wasn’t very experienced, she thought, gasping as he nibbled a little too hard. I mustn’t come on too strong, she thought. She felt the tremor in his fingers as he parted her pearl-pink lips and moved his fingers softly, cautiously inside her.

Ought I to be doing this with firm thrusts, or three fingers? Am I going to hurt her? Gregg wondered, as with small purrs she moved slowly against his hand. Where the hell is it? wondered Gregg, groping hopefully for the tiny seed-pearl lump. The tips of his fingers found a firm tip, like the point of a pencil under the soft, slippery skin. Lili arched like a leaping trout as he touched it. Got it, he thought with relief, no need to ask for directions.

After a bit, Lili gasped, “Now, now,” and he rolled carefully on top of her. With a sigh of joy, Lili welcomed him into her body and he began moving with slow, deep thrusts. The bed swayed and creaked with every thrust, releasing little clouds of dust from its chintz flounces.

Lili felt as if she were floating, falling, slipping unconsciously into a new incarnation, as Gregg thrust steadily, his lips brushing the pale blue veins of her neck. The erotic smell of his fresh sweat grew stronger as Lili pulled him into her at every stroke, clenching her muscles around his shaft to suck him into her body. The gasps and groans and odd little birdlike cries grew louder in the quiet room.

Then suddenly Gregg arched his back and shouted. “That bloody cat!” he roared.

The frightened kitten had first hidden under the bed, then adventurously it had jumped onto the night table, where it had purred like a little sewing machine. Then, with bared claws, it had dived onto Gregg’s naked back.

Gregg swatted at the kitten and half fell off the bed. The green satin quilt slid to the floor, and the kitten skittered under the carved oak linen press.

Lili sat up and licked the tiny spots of blood on Gregg’s back. “Forget Ginger,” she murmured. Sensuous and eager, their bodies joined again. “Lili, Lili, oh, Lili,” Gregg
breathed as the rhythm of his body became urgent and inexorable. Lili realized that he was gone, he could not stop, he could not hear her, he was unaware of everything except that he was cresting that wave which … With a crash, the bed fell apart.

“I think the earth just moved,” said Gregg from among the wreckage.

*   *   *

The sea was gunmetal, the sky was purple-gray, and black clouds collided overhead as they battled through the rain toward the end of the jetty. “No chance of taking a boat out today,” shouted Gregg, through the lashing rain and sea spray.

“Why is it that all the things Englishmen like to do, make you cold and wet?” Lili yelled above the gale.

“Be fair, there are some things I’d rather do in the warm.” Gregg hugged her and their raincoat buttons tangled as he kissed her salty, wet lips.

“Okay, I can take a hint. Let’s get back.”

They turned and, heads down, battled against the shrieking wind toward the rocky beach.

There was a curse as the photographer slipped on the seaweed-covered rocks. “Over here, Gregg,” he shouted. “Just one shot—who’s your ladyfriend?”

Early June 1979

L
ILI’S FACE TENSED
as she looked at the photographer, but Gregg calmly turned to pose, his arm still around Lili’s shoulders. “Better make it just one shot, Eric,” he said pleasantly, “I’m off duty today. This is Elizabeth Jordan.”

“How’s the Spear coming along, Gregg?” The man reached inside his grubby duffel bag for an even grubbier notebook.

“Pretty good, we’ll be racing at Silverstone next week.”

“I expect Sir Malcolm’s over the moon, then. Are you going to run at Le Mans?”

“He’s very pleased, yes,” said Gregg. “But whether we qualify for Le Mans depends on how we run at Silverstone.”

To Lili’s amazement, the man picked up his camera case, stowed his notebook, and floundered back up the beach as Gregg said, “Sorry, darling, I’m afraid I’m the only celebrity in town most of the time. That photographer was from the Dorset
Echo.”

Then Lili remembered that on the hotel bed he had called her Lili.

“Gregg, you recognized me!” she said accusingly, her
secure happiness starting to crumble, like a child’s sand castle, washed by the sea. He had been lying to her.

“Of course, Lili. You’re a household face. Anyone would recognize you, in spite of the headscarf.”

Lili sighed. “I thought we might have more chance of a relationship if you didn’t know who I am. Any nice guy runs for cover when he sees me coming, and the creeps come out of the woodwork.”

“I guessed it was something like that, because in a minor way I have the same problem myself.” Gregg helped her scramble back to the beach over the slippery, seaweed-draped rocks. “I lied to you as well, for the same reason. My name is really Eagleton, not Templeton.”

“Oh,” said Lili. “So you own the garage?”

“Yes.”

“What did he mean by the Spear?”

“I nearly ran you over in it. I’m a racing driver and I also design cars.” They tramped up the pale, pebble-covered beach to the car park, where he helped her into his battered black XK 150. “I took over Eagle Motors last year, when my father retired. The firm was headed sharply downhill, but we’re managing to turn it around.” He drove out of the rain-gray town and headed into the open country. “The Spear’s the first new car that we’ve launched for a long time. We’re producing a racing model first, in order to attract the maximum publicity. Then we’ll go ahead with the road version; that was the car with which I nearly ran you over.”

“But that was just a tin can on wheels!” Lili remembered her first, bone-shattering ride with Gregg. A look of annoyance flashed over his face, as hastily she continued, “What’s it going to be like when it’s finished?”

“That ‘tin can’ will perform better than a Porsche and have more prestige than a Mercedes.” They were driving through a gloomy, dripping beech wood. “She’s basically a four-liter, V8, turbo-charged engine which can produce 800 horsepower with four-wheel drive. She’ll do about 210 mph.”

There was a pause. “What color is it going to be?” asked Lili.

“Black, because the sponsors like it.” Gregg swerved to overtake a cattle truck. “When I appear on the track, I’m just
a human advertising board. Sponsorship finances our entire operation.”

The car darted through heather-covered countryside. “In the fifties, Eagle Motors was one of the leading European specialist manufacturers.” They swooped round the bottom of a sugar-loaf hill. “My dad was once the European Sports Car Champion, but you can’t eat fame, Lili. I must have been about three years old when Pa went bankrupt. My first memory is of the bailiffs taking my tricycle away from me; they took everything we had.” Gregg slowed down behind a hay truck, then added, “I’m determined to take us to the top again—only this time the accounting system will be as up-to-date as the maintenance log.”

They shot ahead of the hay truck. “Once I’ve reestablished our name on the racetrack, I’m going to launch our new sports car on the market. It looks as if we can get financial backing from the government. But first I’ve got to prove that I can deliver the goods.” The rain stopped as they turned into a gravel drive that wound between tall elms.

“Where are we going?”

“My home,” said Gregg. “I live over the shop.”

*   *   *

The Eagle development workshop was a converted stable block at the rear of a large, ugly Edwardian house built of red brick. Inside the spacious workshop, a number of black sports racing cars, in various stages of assembly, were lined up against the whitewashed brick walls. With careless pride, Gregg waved a hand toward a wedge-fronted, sinister machine. “This one was sprayed yesterday.”

“It looks far more glamorous than the one you nearly killed me in,” said Lili, as he opened the door of the glossy, panther-black car.