Jilly Cooper - Harriet

‘I’m all right,’ she gasped. ‘It was my fault. I should have rubbed the snow off my glasses. I couldn’t see where I was going. I’m most terribly sorry.’

The words came out in a rush. Often, when she spoke, she had to hang on to a word to steady herself.

‘No-one usually comes down this road,’ he said.

‘It’s a short cut. I was going to a tutorial. Oh God, where are my glasses?’

‘Here they are.’ He picked them up and polished them for her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone awfully white. Can you walk?’

He took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet, and, when she swayed slightly, put his arm round her. Harriet put on her spectacles and, looking at him, suddenly realized it was Simon Villiers and blushed scarlet.

‘Where’s my essay?’ she muttered.

He retrieved it from a hollow in the verge.

‘Pity you had it in a folder! The ink would have run in the snow. Been a marvellous excuse not to hand it in. Look, I really think I’d better take you to hospital.’

‘I’m all right. I must go to my tutorial.’

Simon looked at her buckled bicycle. ‘Well you won’t get there on that,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ll get the garage to come and pick it up.’

There were flakes of snow gathering in his blond hair.

‘What you need is a slug of brandy. I’ve got some in my digs. Come back, and I’ll ring up and say you’re ill.’

He helped her into his car.

‘You don’t have to bother, really you don’t.’

‘Shut up,’ he said gently. ‘Women are always being silly about inessentials.’

Inside the car he lit a cigarette and gave it to her. Harriet thought this was such a smooth gesture, she hadn’t the heart to tell him she hardly smoked. The cigarette was very strong and made her cough. The heat was turned up overpoweringly, so was the wireless.

‘Do you really have to go to this tutorial?’ he asked, when he’d finally got the car out of the snow.

She nodded.

‘Where is it?’

‘Hallerton Street, № 44.’

‘Theo Dutton?’

‘You know him?’

‘He tutored me my first year, until he realized I was past redemption. Not surprised he snapped you up; he always corners the pretty ones.’

He sat lazily beside her, driving with one hand. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a black shirt, and a pale blue velvet coat like Peter Rabbit. His eyes ran over her in an amused, speculative, slightly condescending way.

‘I wish you’d take your glasses off again,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are far too sexy to be hidden. I must say it’s a most unorthodox way to meet, but I’m very glad we have. What college are you at?’

‘St Hilda’s.’

She noticed he didn’t introduce himself. He assumed rightly that everyone knew who he was.

‘Why haven’t we met before?’

‘I’ve been working.’

‘Theo keeping you to the grindstone?’

The car skidded slightly. Harriet jumped out of her skin. Simon laughed.

‘Better keep my eyes on the road. Mind if I stop for petrol?’

As he got out to speak to the petrol pump attendant, Harriet surreptitiously turned the driving mirror and had a look at herself. Not too bad; thank God she’d washed her hair.

She couldn’t believe it. Simon Villiers picking her up. She stole a quick glance at him, marvelling at the blond hair falling on the collar, the delicate aquiline features, the slightly cruel, beautifully shaped mouth, and tawny complexion without any trace of pink in it. Most amazing of all were his eyes, sleepy, and bluey-green with the dark lashes so thick and close together that they gave the illusion he was wearing eye-liner.

She was so dazed she forgot to put the mirror back and Simon nearly backed into a passing car.

‘This journey’s becoming pure Marx Brothers,’ he said, replacing the mirror.

She didn’t look at him, feeling that beastly blush staining her cheeks again.

‘Come and have a drink after your tutorial.’

‘Oh I don’t. . I mean you don’t have. .’

‘There’ll be other people there,’ he said.

Oh God, she knew what they’d be like, models and actresses down from London. He read her thoughts.

‘No-one very alarming. I’ll look after you. Please,’ his voice dropped, caressing and husky, ‘let me make some reparation for nearly killing you.’

They drew up outside Theo’s house.

‘You’ll come.’

‘Yes, I’d like to.’

‘Don’t mention me to Theo. He’ll give me a lousy press.’

As he drove off in a flurry of snow, she realized once again that he’d automatically assumed she knew where he lived.

As she walked up the snowy path, her feet made no sound. The wonderful softening of the snow gave her a feeling of great irresponsibility, as though her reactions were blurred by alcohol. Hoods of white lay over the yew trees and turned the lavender bushes into white hedgehogs. Snakes of snow lay on the branches of the monkey puzzle.

Her brain was reeling, that she should have met Simon Villiers in this way. Ever since she’d seen him playing Brick in the OUDS production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she’d known moments of exquisite unfaithfulness to Robert Redford. She knew Simon was a playboy with buckets of money and a frightful reputation. She knew that even her friends at St Hilda’s, who happily slept with their boyfriends, still disapproved strongly of the Villiers Set. Harriet pretended to disapprove too, but she was secretly excited by their double-barrelled names, their fast cars, their frequent appearances in the gossip column, their ability to get chucked out of smart restaurants, their reputation for sexual ambiguity, and drugging and drinking.

‘The downward path is easy, but there’s no turning back,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled the doorbell. Theo Dutton’s children fell on her.

‘Hullo, Harriet. Harry ate a lamb for breakfast. It’s a joke: Harriet a lamb for breakfast.’

‘I’ve heard it before,’ said Harriet.

‘What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?’ said the eldest.

‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet.

‘Time to get a new fence,’ the children exploded with laughter.

She often babysat when the Duttons went out.

‘We’ve made a snowman in the garden. Come and look at it. What does it remind you of?’

‘It looks like your father,’ said Harriet.

‘Waiting for the BBC to ring,’ said the youngest.

Harriet giggled.

‘Isn’t the snow lovely?’ she said.

‘Will you take us tobogganing this afternoon? Daddy’s working on a broadcast, which means he’ll go to sleep.’

‘And Mummy’s got a cold.’

Three expectant faces gazed at her.

Euphoria at meeting Simon overwhelmed her.

‘All right. I’ll come and pick you up at 2.30,’ she said.

‘This is much better,’ said Theo Dutton, lighting another cigarette.

Harriet watched the snow thickening on the roof opposite.

‘The style leaves a lot to be desired. I want to shake it and plump it up like a pillow, but your ideas are good. You’ve used your imagination.’

His shrewd, yellow eyes gleamed at her behind his spectacles. He tugged at his beard.

‘You’re very abstracted today,’ he said. ‘Someone’s switched a light on inside you. What’s happened? Boyfriend not coming down?’

Harriet laughed.

‘Lack of sleep — and I just love the snow. I’m sorry if I seem a bit dopey. I got knocked off my bicycle on the way here. I didn’t get hurt but it shook me a bit.’

She hoped she wouldn’t be too terrified of the people in Simon’s flat. She ought to go home and change into something better, but into what?

Theo looked at her speculatively, admiring the full breasts, the puppy plumpness, the long slim legs, the huge grey eyes with their heavy lids. One didn’t normally realize the beauty of them hidden behind glasses. She was terribly shy, but through the shyness one could feel the vitality. She’ll fall like a ripe plum any minute, he thought, with all the wistfulness of the happily married. There was nothing like a young, full-blooded girl suddenly introduced to the pleasure of the bed.

He sighed. Harriet wondered if she ought to rush out and blow the last of her month’s allowance on a new sweater. It would do her good not to eat for a fortnight.

‘This week,’ said Theo Dutton, ‘we’ll look at the sonnets. “With this Key,” said Wordsworth, “Shakespeare unlocked his heart.” When my mistress walks, she treads on the ground, and don’t forget it.’

At a quarter to twelve he got out the sherry bottle.

‘There are two kinds of sherry in Oxford: one you cook with, the other you use for drinking. Usually the two get muddled, but not in my house. I think after this, you’d better go back to bed — alone.’

He poured the sherry into smeared glasses.

‘I promised to take your children tobogganing,’ said Harriet.

She came out of Theo’s house to find a long, dark green car waiting for her. A man got out; he was smoking a cigarette and had auburn hair and the wild careering good looks of a red setter. Harriet recognized him immediately as one of Simon’s cronies, Mark Macaulay.

‘Simon sent me to fetch you,’ he said. ‘He thought you might get cold feet; as if anyone could get anything else in this bloody weather. Are you all right?’ he added, as she got into the car. ‘Simon said he sent you for six.’

Physically and mentally, thought Harriet.

‘I’m a bit sore at the bottom of my spine,’ she said.