Evening visits to Paul’s bedside became regular events. Even had there been no spark of attraction between them, it would have been a pleasant change for her. But there was no way she could have failed to observe the effect she had on him right from the start and by the end of the week, when he had been released, it was taken for granted that their relationship would continue.
But Paul had been housebound until now, and the tenor of her visits had changed. On his territory — even though ‘his territory’ was currently an impersonal, rarely-used UN flat downtown — she had been shy and defensive. He was uncertain whether this was because she did not return his obvious regard or because she did and could not trust herself to reveal the fact.
He had come out into the world today with the express intention of finding out. He had come out earlier than his doctor advised, motivated by his need to know and supported by luck as well as crutches. He had managed to book a table at the only local restaurant she had spoken of with approbation — Kampung, blessedly serving Malay cuisine — and was making what, in his long-gone teenage years, would have been his big move.
Inga glanced up from her work as he staggered through her office door and her long eyes widened with surprise. The door slammed back against the wall on his left. His right crutch pushed a padded chair back from the jamb so that it threatened to topple a small table nearby. Her square face blushed a vivid red, seemingly deepened by her fair hair and her usual pallor. She did not blush prettily. A red tide rose up her neck from her high collar and flooded out to the tips of her ears before vanishing under the golden helmet of her braids. He gave her his most insouciant grin and hopped forward, thrusting the bedraggled flowers towards her.
‘How did you get up here?’ she demanded breathlessly, half rising, her eyes checking her desk top for sensitive material. Her accent, miraculously soft Germanic, reminded him of a Brahms lullaby, but her tone was cold.
He refused to be put off this early in his campaign. ‘I work for the UN too,’ he reminded her.
‘Why—’
‘I’m inviting you to dinner.’ He took another hop forward, still holding the flowers out to her. ‘I’ve booked a table for eight o’clock. Please say yes.’
At the mention of the hour she automatically glanced at her watch. ‘But it’s only five now!’
‘I thought you might want to change. I didn’t know.’
She paused, obviously calculating. The door banged shut behind him and the little table decided not to fall after all. Such romance as he had wished into the moment was rapidly seeping away. He looked around the neat, Spartan room for somewhere to put the flowers she seemed reluctant to take. There was a tall ornamental vase on a windowsill further to the right and he turned to cross towards it. At once, the crutch currently bearing his weight slipped out of control. He hopped once and his automatic systems cut in, trying desperately to protect his injured leg. The flowers sailed lazily through the air and the second crutch hit the carpet. It had held him erect for just long enough to complete one full turn so that when he lost his balance at last he fell back into the soft safety of the chair by the door. The table went west, scattering magazines all over the floor. The chair legs creaked dangerously but held firm and he sat safely, a still point in a whirl of cascading magazines, fluttering papers and flying flowers.
The posy hit the desk top immediately in front of Inga and exploded. As though the blooms had been a grenade, Inga herself fell back into her very much more substantial chair and raised her hands to protect her face from a wave of long-stemmed roses.
Silence and stillness returned to the room, but they took awhile to do so. A connecting door opened and Indira Dyal’s head peered round it. ‘Inga,’ she began, ‘what on earth…’ But something in the German woman’s expression put Indira’s mind at rest. Her almond eyes swept round the room once, then she withdrew and closed the door behind her.
Paul sat still, his heart thudding and his thigh throbbing. He was suddenly gripped by the enormity of the loneliness that was facing him now that he had failed with Inga Kroll. He looked across at her, as nervous as a boy, a wave of frustrated despair sweeping over him very much as the wave of roses had burst over her. Roses hung in her slightly dishevelled hair and clustered on her shoulders. Their sharp thorns clutched the fine cloth of her jacket. Three lay lengthwise in the valley of her breasts as revealed by the surrender of several blouse buttons, their leaves spread across the white silk of the blouse. She presented a slightly ridiculous and utterly irresistible figure to the smitten man.
He noticed first that the roses were trembling. The three in the cleavage trembled most and were in any case holding his attention absolutely. Such was his concentration on these as they shook and began to heave, that he hardly heard the sounds she was making. He thought it most probable that she was sobbing in any case.
But she was laughing. Her laughter gathered, grew, and it soon became obvious that she was not hysterical but genuinely amused. Suddenly the future looked brighter to Paul. He summoned up a chuckle, and at the sound she gasped, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Nothing wounded but my dignity. But your leg …’
‘It’s fine. Honest.’
‘Good. Then get over here and remove your roses please, Doctor,’ she commanded softly, swinging her chair slightly to the right so that she was more easily available to him.
It was easier said than done, but he was more than willing to make the effort. Lifting green stems from her shoulders was no problem, but disentangling the sharp hooked thorns from the cloth of her jacket required him to lean close to her. Far closer than he had ever come before. She exuded an unexpectedly powerful warmth and a faint, dizzying scent which added mysteriously to the odour of the roses. Next he freed the roses entangled in her soft, golden hair. By this time his hands were trembling, and his breath was short.
The last of the roses nestled in the warmest, most intimate place of all and he looked up into her eyes before he dared reach down for them. Her expression was faintly challenging. There was a slight smile on her full lips which extended the shallow crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She had stopped laughing now, which was, perhaps, fortunate, for his hands were trembling so much he could hardly grasp the stems where they lay between the soft slopes. The tiny thorns along the spines of the leaves lifted the silk of the blouse and his gaze fell inevitably upon the skin revealed by the action.
He lifted the roses one at a time and the removal of each revealed more and more to his dazzled eyes. Curves of white flesh contained in delicate white lace. The warmth of her burned his sensitive fingertips. The perfume of her went into his nostrils like smoke from the finest opium.
When the last rose was gone, he stood there, transfixed, until her long, elegant fingers moved languorously to fasten the buttons which had popped wide and close the cloth like curtains where the tiny mother-of-pearl discs had torn off altogether.
‘Well, I suppose that settles the time difference anyway,’ she observed softly, huskily. ‘We will have to do a little tidying up here and then I shall have to return home to change my clothings.’ This was the first incorrect use of English he had heard from her; the first hint that she was not, in fact, as cool and calm as she seemed. She got up and slid past him in one liquid motion. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked as she righted the little table.