Follow Thy Desire

‘Yes.’ He tipped the front legs of his chair back and regarded her through narrowed lids. ‘I shouldn’t have invited you to join me. But I selfishly felt like some company.’

Helen didn’t know how to reply. ‘I—it was very kind of you invite me—–’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t do it out of politeness anyway.’

Helen licked her dry lips. ‘Wh—why did you do it, then?’

Morgan’s chair dropped back on to all four legs with a protesting creak. ‘Because I find I like talking to you,’ he said, and the ready colour that never seemed far away in his presence poured back into her face.

‘I—I shouldn’t have thought that was something to apologise about,’ she murmured awkwardly at last, but when she ventured a look at his face she saw the wry cynicism in his expression.

‘Something makes me think Barry wouldn’t agree with you,’ he remarked dryly. ‘He made his feelings very clear the other evening.’

‘Oh, Barry says a lot of things he doesn’t really mean,’ exclaimed Helen, moving her shoulders protestingly. ‘He’s very glad you’ve come home.’

‘Is he?’ Morgan sounded unconvinced. Then as once before, he changed the subject, saying abruptly: ‘My father tells me you’re a physiotherapist. Do you like working with old people?’

Glad of the respite from personal matters, Helen said: ‘Not all my patients are old. There’s a fair percentage of children, too, and in any case, I like the work.’

‘Very commendable,’ he remarked, raising his coffee cup to her. ‘Have you ever thought of working outside the hospital system? In schools for handicapped children, for example?’

‘I’d like to,’ she answered frankly, ‘but I still have my training to complete.’

‘You didn’t go to university.’

It was a statement and she shook her head. ‘No. You did, though, didn’t you? What made you decide to be a doctor?’

Morgan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. An interest in humanity, I guess, combined with a lucky ability to remember anatomical terms.’

Helen smiled, relaxing somewhat. ‘I don’t believe that. Your father said you got a double first.’

‘My father talks too much,’ he retorted without rancour, and Helen sipped her coffee, thinking affectionately of the man who had made her feel so welcome in his home.

‘I suppose he told you about my marriage breaking up,’ Morgan said suddenly, and Helen’s new-found relaxation fled.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There’s no need to look so flabbergasted—it’s no secret. Pam and I separated two years ago. We were totally incompatible.’

Helen cleared her throat. ‘He—I believe he did say something about it. Does—I mean—your daughter lives with you, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ Morgan finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. ‘Pam never wanted children. I don’t think she’d have married me at all if Andrea hadn’t already been on the way.’

‘Oh!’

Helen’s embarrassment was plain, and Morgan’s lips curved teasingly. ‘Oh?’ he echoed. ‘Is that all you can say? Oh? That doesn’t shock you, surely. Not these days when every girl you meet accepts going to bed as part of the deal.’

‘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.