She would have been impressed how much effort had gone into decorating the room before she actually got there. Although she did not specifically mention it in her application and further email communication, it did not take a between-the-lines reader genius to figure out the best approach would be to treat her like a princess. A Victorian bedroom, then.
The room they prepped for her and Ron was dominated by a large four-poster king-sized bed. The posters were dark-brown mahogany with drawn-back turquoise curtains at each side. Under the canopy, the bed was covered with white embroidered duvets, hiding white sheets beneath them, and at the back laid were four large pillows with beautiful blue floral patterns on them. On both sides of the bed there were small bedside tables with dimly lit lamps with azure-painted marble bases and beige lampshades. All that sitting on top of a thick, fluffy pastel-colour floral-design rug covering most of the room.
Opposite the bed, on the other side of the sizeable room was a log fireplace, the sounds of cracking wood pleasantly breaking the silence of the interior. The mantelpiece had a few vases with roses on it and two framed photos -- one of Helena and the other of Ron. In the corner of the room was a dining table. The dark rosewood two-seater was covered by a white tablecloth. On the surface, three candles at precisely the same distance from one another were flickering their flames at a height just low enough not to obstruct the view and conversation. A small bouquet of red roses graced the table, too, in a small white ceramic vase. Each guest had a wine glass and a water glass, and the dinner was a heart-shaped pizza: perhaps simple but aimed at Helena's wishes.
Everyone's
heads had turned when she arrived at the hotel. Helena's online photos simply did not do her justice. It wasn't just her Greek facial features -- the hazel eyes deep enough to be oceans, her impossibly delicate nose and a pair of soft, thin lips as though out of a Raphaelite painting -- or even her slim, gracefully slender figure, clad that night in a light-brown flowing silk-and-sateen empire line dress, her long shapely legs and feet in delicate white dress sandals. Not just that -- it was the innocent, shy and polite look that went with it. Joanna at the reception immediately realised that the girl had absolutely zero notion of how astounding and striking she really was. She had not recalled anyone quite like that having come through their revolving doors.
Once Helena was on her way to upstairs, with Katie accompanying her, Joanna turned back to Hollie, who stood in the door of her office behind the reception, watching. "Oh. My. GOD!" was her comment.
"Wow." Hollie's voice was just a whisper. Nothing much more needed to be said. Just, wow.
Even though Ron had thought this experience would be "amazing", he wasn't quite prepared for this level of connection. They had been talking over their exquisite meal for over half an hour now, easily finding new topics for conversation, ranging from favourite movie stars, passion for long walks in the countryside and reading books (he was not particularly surprised to find she was a huge fan of Brontë's books, specifically
Jane Eyre
and
Pride and Prejudice
; he was more into Terry Pratchett himself!) to sharing views on their favourite Holborn cafes and the most despicable London Underground stations. She had an enchanting, melodious and shy laugh that was entirely natural -- no nervous titter or anything, only exuding captivating purely-feminine charm. She was angelic on so many levels. Perhaps "shy", he thought to himself, was not quite right. "Modest" and "unassuming" described her better -- she clearly had no issues talking to him, being very chatty and witty about it. She did look admiringly at him, too, often looking him straight in the eye, the only indication of the unmentioned undercurrent of sexual energy in the room: they did not speak about
why
she was there at any point in their conversation -- it had been clear from her original application message that that was not what she would've wanted. Nonetheless, it was very obvious she was quite attracted to him; Ron shifted in his seat several times as her hazel eyes sought his eyes, her eyelids fluttered and her soft lips smiled. Truly, he was getting the attentions of a Juliet out of Verona and didn't quite know how to react, particularly given the context of where they were and what they were about to do. To him just now, she was both a girl to be cherished and to remain untouched because of her obvious feminine fragility and elegance and a girl he wished to strip of her clothes there and then and hear her moan.
They'd do the latter anyhow, of course, he knew that. Now, she was already breathing more heavily, each heave punctuated by the delicate rustling of her dress. He let her take the first step, thinking however hard he would try he would not get the timing right. She shifted her hand over the table, touching his and intertwining her long slender fingers with his. "Darcy." It was a whisper and she said nothing beyond that, but the single word vibrated between them and meant she had now committed herself to him. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him the entire time, she got up from her chair and so did he. Electricity held them together now.
She let her eyelids fall and flutter in an incredibly romantic display of longing and girly submission to the magnet of man. It certainly looked like love, even if the entire event had been pre-arranged. For now, it simply did not matter anymore. It was just the two of them and she was making herself available to him.
He was standing upright, one of his hands leaning on the back of his chair, dressed in black suit, trousers and shoes and well-ironed white shirt, watching, his heart racing now, as she took a few steady but demure steps towards the four-poster bed. It took just three seconds in reality, but for Ron it felt like centuries. She sat on the edge of the bed, slowly -- excruciatingly slowly for Ron -- taking off her sandals and placing them carefully next to each other on the floor.
Then, eventually, in what appeared to Ron an excruciatingly drawn-out second, she shifted up onto the bed and knelt in the centre of the mattress, gazing coyly directly at him. Her voice was soft, welcoming, with a tinge of relief, "I am ready for love, darling."
It seemed to him that the pounding thuds of his heart were louder than the clicking of his leather shoes against the floor as he was approaching her to sit next to her on the edge of the bed to kiss her willing lips.
III
Lily loved Regent's Park. It was her kind of place, particularly Queen Mary's Rose Gardens. Now, with flowers in full bloom, it was simply exquisite and it nourished her soul. Roses, tulips, chrysanthemums and all other manner of beautiful plants she didn't quite know the names of -- and of course those perfectly-trimmed English hedges. The kings of old might have been very mean, particularly to women, she thought, but they certainly knew how to do their gardens right and pamper the senses!
The Park was getting quieter and more serene at this time of day -- the sun was setting and the sky morphing into an outrageously dazzling crimson blanket. She had been sitting on a bench for the last 30 minutes. The search for a job was not going that well -- she had sent off two more job applications that afternoon with little hope of success. She dreamed of supporting somebody in need -- being a nurse or a caregiver to people with autism or elderly lonely people, but after so many rejections she was losing her hope. Also, at 18 years old, she was feeling apprehensive about it all. A part of her just wanted to be a housemaker, but certainly no longer be the florist like now. Boring and unfulfilling.
And then there were these thoughts and dreams that kept nagging at her. After that first morning, she struggled to repel these -- push them out, think about other things -- like roses, pretty views and job applications. But the more she tried, the more they would come back, pester her and frighten her. Over the last week, she kept waking up from these fantasies, sometimes in the middle of the night, distressed, shaking, although not in as bad a shape as she was the first time around. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists sitting on the bench just now; she'd taken this walk today to get away from that, clear her mind. But it was of no use -- the dirty filthy images of the same man would arrive and her mind brought forth the unclean images of her moaning, holding onto a headboard. She wiped the sweat off her brow, frantic to shift her thinking to something else, attempting to find a way from the subconscious to the conscious. In the conscious, she was safe from all that. Ashamed and feeling horrid yet again, she rose from the bench and began walking. She didn't understand what was happening and did not wish to know. The ground under her feet was shifting -- was this test against sin? Was she rotten deep down?
She wiped off a single tear that rolled down her cheek. Brisk walking helped. She decided to walk to Westbourne Park Underground from where she'd be able to take the train to Bromley, where she lived. She tried as well as she could to keep her mind on places she was passing and take advantage of all the sun coming her way and leave her troubles behind her. The quick walk took her swiftly to Elgin Avenue past the Maida Vale station. It was here, to her left, where the building she hated the most in this area was located. In some sick sign of the times, the
Dreams
building rose high up into the sky, pretending to be respectable while what went on in there, she was sure, was everything but reputable. She shuddered, realising that it was probably the kind of thing that went on in her subconscious head. She chased the thought away.
To turn onto Chippenham Road leading to Westbourne Park, she needed to cross the street and go past the wretched building. Then she saw her -- she instantly wished she hadn't -- and froze.
It was Jill. Her sister that had evaded contact with them for the last few months.
