A Sudden Engagement. Penny Jordan

The bed was narrow and lumpy; an old-fashioned wardrobe far too large and dark for the small room. No cooking was allowed in the rooms, but despite that Kirsty had managed to smuggle in a toaster, which together with her electric kettle meant that at least she could always have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. But she was going to do better than toast and coffee tonight—much better! Now, what was she going to wear?

      She opened the wardrobe and surveyed its contents thoughtfully. Thanks to her aunt she had several attractive outfits. One of them in particular caught her eye—a soft cream silk dress. Her mother had protested that at barely twenty she was far too young to wear anything so sophisticated when she had seen it, but she had fallen in love with it, and had refused to be placated with anything else.

      She was lucky enough to find the bathroom unoccupied and the water almost warm—tonight she would lie for hours and hours in her very own bathroom, she promised herself, simply soaking in lovely hot, perfumed water. The silk slid softly over her newly washed and perfumed skin, the front dipping almost to the waist, revealing the swelling curves of her breasts, the cleverly draped neckline making the plunge alluring rather than obvious. The deep vee was repeated at the back before the dress teased and tantalised with full-length, close-fitting sleeves and a skirt that moved against her skin in silken ripples, caressing her body from hip to knee.

      It was a dress that to another woman was instantly recognisable as very sexy, but to a man, conditioned to equate ‘sexy’ with ‘little black numbers’, it was quite plain, until it was seen on, preferably on a woman who knew how to walk properly, as Kirsty now did.

      Her dark hair curled naturally and normally she left it down on her shoulders, but tonight she swept it upwards into a softly flattering style, adding the pearl and diamond earrings and the matching necklace that had been a bridesmaid present to her on the occasion of Chelsea and Slade’s wedding.

      Kirsty smiled impishly as she thought of her aunt—nearer her own age than her mother’s and a close and valued friend. She wished they weren’t quite so far away, but her small godson’s arrival had left his mother a little tired and her doting husband had swept mother and baby off to Italy for peace and quiet before ‘the whole family descend on us for Christmas’, as he had put it succinctly to Kirsty before they left.

      Kirsty liked Slade. Her aunt needed a man strong enough to curb her wilful streak and compassionate enough to understand her more vulnerable side, and in Slade she had found one. She and Chelsea were very alike, Kirsty admitted. She too had that same impulsive wilfulness that could flare up out of nowhere, and sometimes change the whole pattern of planned events. Like the time Chelsea and Slade had first met, and Chelsea had mistakenly thought that Kirsty was in love with him, and had decided to rescue her. A grin curved her mouth, bringing warmth to the sparkling brown depths of her eyes. Her skin, naturally matt and smooth, needed no foundation, but her training had taught her the importance of good make-up, so she applied blusher, and added mascara and the merest hint of coffee eyeshadow to add a mysterious allure to the slightly Oriental slant of her eyes, darkening her lips with a pretty gloss before slipping on slim-heeled leather shoes and picking up her red coat.

      The taxi arrived on time, and Kirsty had to repress another grin as she saw the betraying movement of the lace curtains at the front window as she was driven away.

      No doubt the rest of the cast would be in the pub now discussing the débâcle of the latest performance; even if they decided to go on she knew she could not. Playing a punk teenager, disenchanted with life, delivering lines in heavily interspersed with four-letter words and possessing very little other merit, had lost its appeal. Putting to use the secretarial skills her parents had insisted she learn would almost be a relief, and there would be other parts, she promised herself as the town centre was left behind and they began to drive from the more exclusive suburbs.

      Winton was a small seaside town, close enough to Bournemouth to consider itself ‘select’ but yet somehow lacking the flair and panache which would have made it so. It was a town of retired schoolteachers and ex-soldiers, and surely the worst possible place on earth to launch a play dealing with the raw reality of life in Toxteth and the effect of environment on upbringing, which was the theme of the play, and one which Kirsty thought was very worthwhile, but somehow Bernard Wray’s interpretation of it lacked impact. Kirsty wasn’t too happy with his reliance on violence both in language and in actions to get across his message, but then she hadn’t written the play and he had, and the others seemed quite happy. She was too romantic, Kirsty acknowledged as the taxi took the coast road. All through her schooldays she had dreamed of the great Shakespearean roles, the Restoration comedies, the wit and laughter that lingered in these and the Noël Coward plays like the sharp, clean scent of lavender. Who amongst the modern playwrights could rival those giants?

      Lost in her thoughts, Kirsty suddenly realised that her taxi was turning into the approach to the hotel.

      Built in the full flush of Edwardian splendour, it had a shrub-lined drive, and the early September dusk hid from her the lawned gardens and golf course which the hotel boasted. A uniformed commissionnaire opened the taxi door for her, and suddenly throwing herself into her new role, Kirsty tipped the driver recklessly, bestowing on him a smile that transformed her gamin features and made him stare at her in stunned appreciation.

      The hotel foyer was thickly carpeted; several business-suited men wandered about, mingling with the older guests who were obviously hotel residents. Kirsty gave her name to the smiling receptionist, who indicated the way to the dining room and its intimate bar, where several couples were already enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The Edwardian ambience of the hotel was underlined by the bar and dining room, referred to by the receptionist as the ‘Palm Court Suite’.

      Clever lighting emphasised the skilled and effective trompe l’æuil work on the walls and ceiling—if she hadn’t known better Kirsty could almost have been persuaded that beyond the delicate trelliswork on the walls actually lay that perfect blue sea and matching sky, so persuasive was the illusion of a Mediterranean shore depicted on the walls. The theme was carried through with attractive white ‘terrace-style’ furniture, and as she ordered a pre-dinner cocktail from the mouthwateringly tempting selection Kirsty started to study her fellow diners.

      Studying human nature was a fascinating pursuit, and as always the actress in her was searching eagerly for mannerisms and expressions to add to her repertoire.

      When her cocktail arrived it tasted delicious, worth every penny of the exorbitant price she had seen listed beside it; a pale banana-yellow frothy delight that reminded her of a grown-up version of her favourite milk shakes. It was also extremely potent, and by the time the head waiter appeared discreetly at her side to tell her that her table was ready Kirsty was beginning to feel distinctly lightheaded.

      She had been skipping lunches recently; a reminder not to drink when she was doing so, she told herself as she studied her menu avidly.

      Selfconsciousness had never been one of her faults; no one aspiring to be a successful actress could be, and consequently she felt no embarrassment at dining alone, oblivious to the appreciative looks she was getting from the male occupants of other tables as she pored over her menu, totally absorbed in the difficult task of making the right choice.

      At last she decided on a seafood platter followed by tournedos Rossini, always one of her favourites. Her waiter’s smiling approval of her choice amused her, and she allowed herself to be persuaded into glancing over the wine list and selecting a modest half bottle of a sharp white Burgundy, shaking her head over the red he suggested, explaining that she found it too rich.

      ‘No… honestly, I couldn’t manage another mouthful,’ Kirsty pronounced with regret, waving aside the proffered second helping of Californian strawberries.

      Once they realised that she was on her own, the waiters had vied with one another to serve her, and she had entered into the rivalry in a lighthearted way. Despite their evening suits and formal expressions, most of them were only boys, similar in age and outlook to her own friends, and Kirsty had never been tonguetied or embarrassed in the presence of the opposite sex. Curiously enough, despite this, neither had she ever fully experienced passion or desire. Until she left home for drama school her only boy-friend had