A Winter's Child by Brenda Jagger

Author:Brenda Jagger [Jagger, Brenda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

Chapter Thirteen

Polly Swanfield set out, deliberately and exuberantly, on New Year’s Eve to create a sensation; to drink more champagne, eat more Russian Caviar or foie gras or anything else that was rare and expensive, to steal more kisses, arouse more desire in the loins of men and more jealousy in the breasts of women than anyone else in Faxby. Wearing a slip of orange satin covered in gold and silver butterflies with a transparent overskirt of gold-spangled orange tulle, her long bare arms jangling gold bracelets from wrist to elbow, a rope of gold beads swinging wildly around her neck, the stroke of midnight found her on the little postage stamp dance floor of the Crown Hotel, dancing alone with a circle of men around her, improvising her own tipsy ballet to a blare of smoky jazz, her eyes glazed with alcohol and an inner vision of her own glorious, still virgin body as it bent and swayed to each man in turn, her movements amorous and coy both together; ‘making an exhibition of herself’thought Miss Sally Templeton from the table where Roy Kington had once again abandoned her; ‘looking for trouble’thought Miss Adela Adair from her piano stool; ‘quite likely to find it’thought Claire from behind the bar where, the whole raucous night long, she had been assisting MacAllister with his cocktail shaker.

‘Happy New Year.’ Polly flung her arms into the air in a gesture that cried out ‘Look at me. Look at me’, paused a moment under the light so everyone – absolutely everyone – could see the sparkle of her gold butterflies, the rich sheen of the satin as it clung to her splendid, supple – still virgin – limbs, the daring, audacious new tint of her hair, bleached several shades lighter by some ‘miracle of nature’according to Miriam, and then fell into the arms of her admirers one after the other – Rex and Roy Kington, Roger Timms, a trio of Peters and Anthonys and Stephens, even MacAllister, the barman and Arnold Crozier emerging spider-like from his corner – giving them all long, noisy kisses, biting ear-lobes, throwing back her sensational, platinum head and listening to her own laughter.

Tonight she wanted to be kissed. For whatever one happened to be doing on New Year’s Eve as the clock struck twelve one could expect to do all year – wasn’t that so? – and 1920 was to be just not her year but a pattern for the years to come. Kisses, new clothes, everybody being kind to her, a wedding ring. And if she had not precisely made sure of Roy Kington yet – what with Sally Templeton still running after him in her shameless fashion and putting about rumours that he was thinking of going off to Ireland to join the Black and Tans – she was relying on 1920 to take care of that.

‘MacAllister darling – why aren’t you a millionaire instead of a barman and then I could fall in love with you?

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