Midnight is a Lonely Place - Barbara Erskine

Barbara Erskine

Midnight is a Lonely Place

© 1994

PROLOGUE

Her hair was the colour of newly frosted beech leaves; glossy; rich; tumbling from its combs as he pulled her against him, his lips seeking hers. His skin was tanned by the sun and the wind, hers, naked against him, white as the purest marble.

The heavy, twisted silver of the torc he wore about his arm cut into her flesh. She did not notice. She noticed nothing but the feel of his body on hers, the strength of his muscular thighs, the power of his tongue as he thrust it into her mouth as though he would devour her utterly.

Claudia

He breathed her name as a caress, a plea, a cry of anguish, and then at last a shout of triumph as he lay still, shaking, in her arms.

She smiled. Gazing up at the sky through the canopy of rustling oak leaves she was utterly content. The world had contracted into the one small clearing in the deserted woodland. Child and husband were forgotten. For this man in her arms, she was prepared to risk losing both; to risk losing her home, her position, life itself.

He stirred, and, raising himself onto his elbows, he stared down at her, his face strangely blank, his silvery eyes unseeing.

Claudia he whispered again. He rested his face between her breasts. It was the little death; the death a man sought; the death which followed coition. He smiled, reaching his fist into her hair, holding herprisoner, tracing the line of her cheek-bones, her eyelids, with his lips. What would this womans husband, a son of Rome, an officer of the legion, say if he ever found out? What would he do if he learned his wife had a lover, and that the lover was a Druid Prince?

I

I hate being famous! Kate Kennedy confessed as she sat on the floor of her sister Annes flat. They were sharing a takeaway with a large Burmese cat called Carl Gustav Jung.

When her biography of Jane Austen was published Kate had found herself a celebrity overnight. She was invited onto talk shows, she was interviewed by three national daily newspapers and two Sundays, she toured the libraries and bookshops of Britain and she met Jon Bevan, described by the Guardian as one of Englands most brilliant young literary novelists and poets. The reason for all this interest? What the Times Literary Supplement called her sizzling exposé of Janes hidden sensuality; her repressed sexuality; the passion in those well-loved, measured paragraphs.

Three weeks after meeting Jon she moved into his Kensington flat and her life changed forever.

Her elder sister and former flatmate, Anne, had remained philosophical about being deserted. (My dear, it was bound to happen to one of us sooner or later.) Herself a writer a Jungian psychologist whose library, especially the Freudian bits, Kate had ransacked when writing Jane she had watched with amusement as Kate coped with fame. And found it wanting.

If you hate it so much, bow out. Become a recluse. Decline to appear, my dear. Cultivate a certain boorishness. And wear a veil. Anne licked soy sauce off her fingers. Your sales would double overnight.

Cynic. Kate smiled at her fondly. Jon says Im mad. He loves it, of course.

I can see Jon giving up writing in the end to become a media person, Anne said thoughtfully. She wiped her hands on a paper napkin stamped with Chinese characters and, wrapping her arms around her legs, rested her chin thoughtfully on her knees. Hes bad for you, you know, Kate. Hes a psychic vampire. She grinned. Hes feeding off your creative energy.

Rubbish.

Its true. Youve slipped into the role of housewife and ego masseuse without even realising it. Youre besotted with him! Its months since you got back from Italy, but you havent even started writing the new book yet.

Startled by the vehemence of the statement Kate was astonished to find that she felt guilty. Im still researching.

What? Love? Anne smiled. And does Jon still think youre mad to write about Byron at all?

Kate nodded fondly. Yes, he still thinks Im mad. He thinks Byron is too well known. He thinks I should have plumped for someone obscure and not so attractive, she added as an afterthought. But Im glad to say my editor doesnt agree with him. She cant wait for the book. She shook her head wearily, giving Carl Gustav the last, carefully-saved prawn. She had been secretly pleased and not a little flattered to find that Jon was jealous.

Is that why you chose Byron? Because hes attractive? Anne probed further.

That and because I love his poetry, I adore Italy and hes given me a chance to spend wonderful months travelling round Europe to all the places he lived. Kate gathered up the empty cartons from their meal. And he was a genuinely fascinating man. Charismatic. She was watching Carl Gustav who, having crunched his prawn with great delicacy, was now meticulously washing his face and paws. Actually, I am ready to start writing now. My notes are complete at least for the first section.

Anne shook her head. I suppose I can think of worse ways of earning a living! She stood up and went to rummage in the fridge for a jar of coffee beans. Tell me, are you and Jon still happy? she asked over her shoulder. Really happy.

Kate nodded.

Getting-married happy?

No. Thoughtfully. Then, more adamantly, No, I dont think either of us are the marrying type. At least not at the moment.

But you can see yourself living with him for a long time.

There was a moments silence as Kate regarded her sister with preoccupied concentration. Why do you want to know?

Ive been offered a job in Edinburgh. If I take it Ill have to give up the flat.

I see. Kate was silent for a moment. So, it was burning bridges time. What about Carl Gustav?

Oh, hell come with me. Ive discussed it with him at great length. Anne bent down and caressed the cat lovingly. He had always been more hers than Kates. Hes quite pro-Edinburgh, actually, arent you, C.J?

And he approves of the job?

Its a good one. At the University. A big step up that dreadful ladder we are all supposed to mount unceasingly.

Kate turned away, astonished by the pang of misery that had swept through her at the thought of losing Anne. Have you told Mum and Dad about this? she said after a minute.

Anne nodded. They approve and I can see them just as often from Edinburgh. Its not as though its the end of the world, Kate. Its only four hundred miles.

Kate smiled. Well, if C.J. approves, and Mum and Dad approve, it must be OK. Get rid of the flat with my blessing and Ill try and hang on to Jon for a bit!

But she didnt.

It was sods law, she supposed, that the day after Anne moved into her new flat in Royal Circus she and Jon had their first serious row. About money. Hers.

How much are they going to pay you? He stared at her in astonishment.

She pushed the letter over to him. He read it slowly. Its an American contract! You must have known about this for months. He was hurt and accusing.

I didnt want to tell you until it was definite. You know how long these things take - She had saved the news as a surprise. She had thought he would be pleased.

Christ! Its iniquitous! Suddenly he was on his feet. I get paid a paltry few hundred dollars advance for my last book of poetry and you - he spluttered with indignation, you, get that! He threw the letter down.

She stared at him, shocked. Jon

Well, Kate. Be realistic. You write bloody well, but its hardly literature!

Whereas your books are?

I dont think anyone would dispute that.

No. Im sure they wouldnt. She took a deep breath.

Oh, hey, come on. Suddenly he realised how much he had hurt her. Silently he cursed his flash-point temper. He put his arm round her shoulders. Look, you know me. All mouth. I didnt mean it. You are bloody good. You do enough research! Take no notice. I was just miffed. No, lets face it, jealous. He gave her a hug. I might even go so far as to swallow my pride and borrow some of that money off you.

It was the first time she had heard even a hint of his financial problems.

He managed it by making her feel guilty. She saw that later. It was a subtle manipulation; a masterpiece of manoeuvring. She pushed the money at him; threw it at him; gave it to him and lent it to him, with every cheque tacitly apologising that she made money while he did not. When the end came she had less than a thousand left in the bank and no prospect, though he had promised faithfully to repay her, of any more until her next royalty cheque in the summer.

Even so, it was not the increasing pressure over money which came between them in the end. It was something sudden and quite unexpected.

It was a cold, miserable day in early December when Jon found her in the Manuscript Gallery of the British Museum standing looking down at the flat glass case where an open book stared up at her, Byrons crabbed, slanting hand, much crossed out, flowing across the page of the dedication to Don Juan. The atmosphere of the gallery, the air conditioning, the strange false light with its muted hum were giving her a headache. She had been concentrating too long and the unexpected tap on her shoulder had given her such a fright she let out a small cry before she turned and saw who it was and remembered Jon had said he would meet her for a quick coffee.

The restaurant was, as usual, packed and as they sat down at a table near the wall she had no idea that this would lead to the outbreak of war. A couple of Japanese tourists, hung with cameras, inserted themselves, with bows and apologetic smiles, into the two spare chairs next to them. Coffee slopped into Jons saucer. A tall man, his own legs had folded with difficulty beneath the table as he pushed himself into the corner opposite Kate. His tray balanced in one hand, a letter in the other, his long, lanky frame and floppy hair lent him an air of languid elegance, something to which one look at the keen darting of his eyes as he stared around the room immediately gave the lie.

Still thinking about Byron, she had not immediately sensed his excitement. Youre coming with me, Kate! He picked up the letter which he had put on the table between them and waved it at her. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.