about Ben Frobisher made her feel acutely unsure of herself; acutely aware of him as a man, and of her own reactions to that maleness.
She moved uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t like this unwanted awareness of him, this sudden and totally unexpected schism in what she had believed her sexuality to be: controlled, tamed and of no real force in her life, and not what she had experienced on first seeing him.
She had gone through all the usual sexually experimental stages in her teens, but had never been promiscuous, either by inclination or peer pressure. After all, when you lived in a small town in which your father was something of a prominent figure, you felt almost honour-bound not to indulge in a variety of involvements and affairs.
In this part of the world respectability was still considered to be important and a virtue. Couples might live together, but in most cases they eventually married.
Since in the years when her peers were settling down and marrying she had had no wish to follow suit, she had chosen to remain celibate rather than indulge in a series of relationships. Rather happily celibate, if she was honest, and when she contemplated the thought of any kind of intimacy with men like Ralph Charlesworth it was revulsion that made her body shudder, not desire.
No, she had never considered herself a highly sexually motivated person, and she didn’t now, which made her illogical reaction to Ben Frobisher all the more unnerving.
Had she actually, really, this afternoon, fantasised about how it would be to have him kissing her?
She did shudder now, horrified to remember just how easily and intensely she had been able to imagine what it would feel like to be taken in his arms and—
‘I’ll drive up to the door so that you can get out, and then I’ll park the car,’ her father was saying, thankfully forcing her to concentrate on the present and the blessedly mundane activity of getting out of the car.
The golf club and its course had been donated to the town in the twenties by a wealthy and benevolent local resident, who had hired an architect to design the club-house after the style of Sir Edwin Lutyens’s designs for small country houses, so that it was vaguely Tudoresque in style. As the three of them went inside to wait for her father while he parked the car, Miranda acknowledged the greetings of several of her father’s cronies, registering as she did so the speculative, curious looks she was getting from their wives. No need to ask herself why; the answer was standing right beside her, all six-feet-odd of manhood of him.
Why, she seethed inwardly, were there still in this day and age women who still believed that no member of their own sex could be complete without a man in her life? It was all nonsense, just the same as suggesting that no woman could be complete without having had a child. Her thoughts floundered to an uncomfortable halt as she recalled her own vulnerability in that particular direction. But then, it was not as though she considered herself incomplete without a child, it was just … just—
‘Aunt Helen … not long now until the wedding, is it?’
Miranda tensed as she heard the soft hesitant voice of Susan Charlesworth, and she knew even before she had heard Ben acknowledging briefly, ‘Charlesworth,’ that Ralph was with her. She had almost been able to feel his presence from the atavistic reaction of her body, from the way the tiny hairs on her skin had risen in physical protest at his nearness.
It galled her unbearably sensing that Ralph was fully aware of her aversion to him and that for some reason this only caused him to increase his pursuit of her.
She didn’t know how on earth poor Susan could tolerate him. In her shoes … but, then, thankfully she would never have allowed herself to be trapped in that kind of situation, married to a man who was flagrantly and frequently unfaithful, who treated her so contemptuously and inconsiderately, who humiliated her in public and, Miranda suspected, in private as well.
She was glad that her father joined them before she could be drawn into the small flood of exchanges passing between the other three as Ralph introduced his wife to Ben, and Helen explained her relationship to Susan.
Miranda excused herself on the pretext of wanting to go to the Ladies, gritting her teeth in rage and revulsion as Ralph leered at her and told her fulsomely, ‘Going to check up on the old makeup, are we, then, Miranda? Shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. A good-looking woman like you doesn’t need any warpaint, although I must admit there’s something about a woman’s mouth when it’s painted with lipstick that makes a man wonder what it would be like to kiss it off.’
As she turned her back on him, red flags of rage flying in her cheeks, Miranda heard Susan saying uncomfortably, ‘Ralph! Really.’
Horrible, revolting man, Miranda seethed as she walked quickly towards the corridor and the Ladies. The language he used was almost as offensive and demeaning to her sex as the intent behind it.
As she stared at her flushed face in the mirror, she was half tempted to wipe off the discreet touch of lipstick she was wearing, but then she decided that to do so was to give in to his bullying, demeaning tactics and would allow him to see how much his words had affected her, and to a man like Ralph Charlesworth the fact that he had affected her, even if it was with revulsion, would be something he would consider to be a triumph.
No, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had disgusted and offended her.
She stayed in the Ladies for as long as she could, praying that when she rejoined the others he and his wife would have left them.
When she eventually walked back into the bar, she was relieved to see that her father was in discussion with the president of the club and his wife; and that there was no sign of Ralph and Susan.
As Miranda rejoined them, Helen murmured sadly to her, ‘Poor Susan; I don’t know how on earth she puts up with that lout Ralph. I’m sorry if he embarrassed you, Miranda.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Miranda told her, adding, ‘I can’t understand why Susan stays with him either, but, then, I suppose with three children …’
‘Well, yes, although she claims that she does love him.’ She gave a faint sigh. ‘Poor girl; I have a horrid feeling that sooner or later he’s going to leave her, and that it will probably be sooner.’
THROUGHOUT THE meal Ben Frobisher conversed mainly with her father. He had made several attempts to draw Miranda into their conversation, but she had resolutely refused to respond with anything more than cool politeness. The man had charm, she had to give him that, she admitted reluctantly to herself, but she wasn’t going to be swayed by it.
Even so, she discovered that she was listening rather more intently than she would have wished when Helen questioned about his background and family.
She was surprised to discover that he was one of four children—somehow she had imagined him being an only one—and that the other three were all married with young families, something which made him the butt of a great deal of family teasing.
‘You don’t approve of marriage, then?’ Helen hazarded, smiling at him.
He laughed. He had a nice laugh, Miranda acknowledged; it was both warm and spontaneous, crinkling his eyes at the corners and doing the most peculiar things to her insides.
‘Quite the contrary,’ he assured Helen, obviously not minding her questions.
‘But I do believe that it’s
