Garden of Stars: A gripping novel of hope, family and love across the ages. Rose Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ Once more, the old cliché.

      “Great stuff.” A swallow of water and a long exhalation followed.

      Sarah folded her left arm across her body and rested her elbow on it as she held the phone tightly to her ear. “He was more than a friend, really. He was my first boyfriend. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. And yes, it was great to see him, catch up, reminisce.”

      Now she had caught Hugo’s interest. “Oh, that Scott. Boyfriend Scott.”

      “That’s the one.” How many Scotts did he think she knew? “He’s asked me to dinner tomorrow night, so that’ll be nice.” She paused, then added hastily, “Along with a few other people.”

      The lie was pointless and unnecessary but spilled forth regardless.

      “Well, just don’t get too friendly!” Hugo laughed, as if the idea were preposterous.

      Is it that unbelievable for you to think that another man might find me attractive? Sarah wanted to say, but didn’t. And then a sad voice of her own answered, Maybe I can’t believe it either.

      The time of youth and beauty, the whole world at her feet and anything possible, seemed to belong to someone else, someone utterly different. It was all so far away from the Sarah of today, with the husband and children, the mortgage and the bills. Now she felt like an orange that has sat too long in the bowl, the colour dulling, the skin hardening and cracking whilst the moisture dried up inside.

      Hugo yawned, his tiredness echoing through the ether.

      “Your mum’s been great – she even ironed the girls’ socks and underwear today!”

      “Gosh.” Sarah couldn’t think of anything to say about such a demonstration of domestic devotion. She was frankly amazed that her mother had found the iron; she herself had no idea where it was.

      “And she cooked spaghetti Bolognese for everyone’s supper and I’ve got to say it wasn’t bad – almost as good as mine!”

      Sarah laughed despite herself. “Thank goodness I’m not there!”

      Spaghetti Bolognese was one of their shared jokes; when they had first met, it was the only thing that Hugo knew how to cook. After a few months of death by minced beef and tomatoes, she’d become so desperate for him to expand his culinary repertoire that one of her first gifts to him had been a Delia Smith cookbook. It hadn’t been used for many years; Hugo never cooked these days and Sarah knew the recipes she habitually used off by heart.

      “OK, better go. Love you lots.” Hugo was clearly walking up the stairs; Sarah could hear his heavy footfall on the wooden treads. “Kiss, kiss.”

      She said goodbye, then pressed the ‘end call’ button and put the phone slowly and deliberately down onto the desk.

      She knew she should go straight to sleep but couldn’t resist re-opening the journal. It might calm her down, provide distraction from whatever madness it was that she had stepped into.

       Estoril, 1935

      We arrived at the hotel in Estoril late in the afternoon, as the sun was setting into the ocean. Immediately I laid eyes on the Palácio, I gasped in astonishment. The building is almost brand new and is famous for its white façade and beautiful grounds and I must say, I have never before seen anything like it. John pulled up by the main entrance and immediately a porter sprang forward to open the car door for me. I tried to behave as if I were completely familiar with places such as this and accustomed to being waited upon, hand and foot. Perhaps I’m finally mastering that elusive sophistication! John gave the car keys to another uniformed man who took it away to park, and then he ushered me to the door. It really was just like being in a Hollywood movie.

      Inside, the cool, tiled foyer echoed to the sound of cosmopolitan voices – I could hear English, French and German being spoken. Amongst those speaking Portuguese were many Brazilian accents. The women, adorned with galaxies of gold and precious stones, were a sight to behold. The cars waiting beyond the revolving doors to spirit them away to wherever very, very rich people go in the evenings were invariably the largest and shiniest on the forecourt. Apparently they find things cheap here in Portugal, compared to Brazil, and they are said to enjoy showing off their money. Now I can certainly vouch for that being the case; I had never seen such ostentatious displays of wealth as are on display here. It all seemed a million miles away from our sleepy little town close to the montado.

      I told John how beautiful it all was. I think he was pleased with my reaction because he squeezed my hand and smiled before attending to the questions of the receptionist. Once we were in the room, it seemed an age before the porter arrived with the luggage and arranged it all to John’s satisfaction. We were both a little weary after the journey and the long day and I, for one, wanted to kick off my ‘clodhoppers’ and sit down. John, too, seemed keen for the porter to be on his way and gave him rather a large tip as soon as he started to head towards the door.

      Once he was gone, the atmosphere became rather awkward for a few moments. I told John that I would have a bath but before I had a chance to move towards the bathroom he was standing in front of me and I had a sudden feeling that I had never met him before, that I had no idea who he was and couldn’t think of anything to say to him. There was a look on his face of such intensity as I had not seen in him previously, and even though his smile was as broad as usual, it had a firm determination to it that was quite unfamiliar to me.

      “A bath can wait a minute,” he said. “There’s plenty of time.”

      It wasn’t how I had imagined it all. His hands on my body, my breasts, between my legs, didn’t feel at all like when I have explored those places for myself. I had never contemplated, either, how hard his penis would become, a rigidity that took me completely by surprise, with a veiny feel that at first I wasn’t sure I liked. It seems incredible that something usually so small and flaccid can change so much, grow so much in size. At first I instinctively drew my hand away but he took it gently and placed it upon himself. He held my wrist and moved it up and down, and whilst he was doing this, he bent his face towards my breasts and took my nipple in his mouth. This felt so good I gasped aloud but then stifled my cries. He stopped and lifted his head and smiled at me and whispered in my ear, “Don’t be silent - I like to hear you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you’re supposed to enjoy it, too.”

      I began to realise how much my mother had left out when she had a little chat with me before the wedding! Perhaps the biggest surprise of all was how long it took once he had put himself inside me. I grew up watching the animals on the farm during the mating season and had somehow got it into my head that this is what it was – a few intense seconds before it’s all over. Now I know that it is not like that at all – John seemed to be thrusting inside me for minute after minute, until finally he gasped, and I felt his entire body tense and saw all the veins on his neck stand out as he cried out “Yes, yes” again and again in English, and then slumped down on top of me, exhausted.

      I lay underneath him, not sure what to do. He was heavy and his right shoulder was crushing my left breast, but he seemed completely immobile and was utterly silent, so much so that I felt it would be rude if I said anything. I shifted my position as much as I could to get comfortable, and soon John was snoring rhythmically and sonorously, and I thought, so that was it. That’s what all the fuss is about. Finally, John rolled over in his sleep, enabling me to wriggle out from under him and get up to write this momentous entry.

      And to find that, as I pick up my pen, I can’t think what I wish to record. It is an act so primal, СКАЧАТЬ