C O U P L I N G

CHAPTER 1

`Right, this is it!' the tractor-driver shouted as he swung left off the road, then phut-phutted laboriously through the elaborate wrought-iron gates. A heraldic crest soared overhead and proud stone lions reared on either side. `I'll take you up to the house, shall I? It's still a fair old haul, by the looks of it.'

`No, I think I'd better ...' Beattie's words were shredded by the wind. She abandoned all attempts to speak and clung grimly to the side of the trailer as it bumped and rattled up the drive. Her other hand clutched her makeshift hood - an old fertilizer bag the man had offered her as protection against the elements. The rain was drumming down as relentlessly as ever, drenching her best clothes; her once-blue skirt now darkening into black.

A sudden hooting made her jump. A chauffeur-driven Mercedes, immaculately white, had nosed up behind them and was trying to overtake. She ducked down out of sight, but was pretty sure its passengers had spotted her. They were bound to gossip about the dishevelled girl they'd seen, delivered at the Grange by trailer, like a bale of sodden straw.

Once the car was safely past, she raised her head and peered out at the formal landscaped gardens, sweeping down to an ornamental lake, complete with statuary and fountain. Ashley Grange was grand - which made it all the more ridiculous to turn up draped in plastic sacking with a weatherbeaten yokel as her chauffeur. She kept wanting to laugh - or cry.

The tractor negotiated the final bend and spluttered to a halt outside the house. It was every bit as imposing as the grounds: row upon row of windows, a green-domed roof, and an entrance flanked by fluted marble columns. A second set of supercilious stone lions stood rampant at the bottom of the steps and another pair guarded the front door - lean and sinewy beasts, looking as ravenous as she was, as if about to devour the heraldic shields they held. Perhaps they'd come as a job-lot, she thought - a whole pride of lions going cheap. Nothing else was cheap, least of all the cars, parked in snooty rows outside the house: Rolls-Royces and Range Rovers, a vintage Jaguar and several long, low, restless sports cars chafing at the bit.

The man clambered down to help her out of the trailer. `How the other half live, eh?' he muttered, with an attempt at a smile.

She leaned on him and jumped, landing with a thud, feeling the hardness of the gravel through her flimsy white suede shoes. She was dressed for this morning's sunshine, not the Noah's Flood which had erupted after lunch.

The man heaved her suitcase down for her, shaking the rain from what little hair he had. `Want a hand with this inside?'

`No, honestly, I'm fine now.' She wasn't a snob - far from it - but she was already very late, and the last thing she wanted was to walk into this mansion accompanied by a tattooed and balding chaperone in streaming oilskins and mud-caked rubber boots. She was being observed as it was. A scarlet Lotus had pulled up alongside and its two female occupants (impeccably turned out - and dry) were staring at the tractor in astonishment. Hurriedly, Beattie hunched over her bag, unearthed her purse and pushed a five-pound note into the tractor-driver's hand. `Thanks - you saved my life!'

Before he could respond, she was running towards the entrance and up the marble steps. As she reached the top, she heard the tractor revving up to leave, and for a moment she was tempted to dash after it.

No way, she told herself. Don't be so pathetic. Get in there and go for it!

Decisively she walked inside; cold greyness giving place to bright lights and near-tropical heat.

She found herself in an elegant reception hall with floor-length velvet curtains and a marble fireplace surmounted by a flamboyant antique mirror. A bevy of gilt cherubs beckoned from its frame. She took a step towards them, caught sight of her reflection and quickly looked away. Her suit was clinging wetly to her body, and her expensive hair-do had been reduced to dripping rats' tails. Self-consciously she wiped her feet, aware of a group of women lounging on a sofa, talking with that loud assertive confidence born of wealth and breeding. And mounted on the wall behind them was a display of large signed photographs: celebrities who had stayed at Ashley Grange. Perhaps you had to be rich and famous to be admitted here at all.

She edged towards the reception desk. `Beattie Bancroft,' she mumbled, aware that the name sounded bogus - which it was. `I ... I'm sorry I'm so late. My car broke down, miles from anywhere, and I couldn't find a phone-box. Is there a garage I can contact?'

`Don't worry, madam. We'll take care of that. If you could just tell me where you left the car and let me have the keys ...'

Beattie suppressed a grin. She couldn't quite imagine her battered, fourth-hand 2CV, with its dented bumpers and rusting bodywork, sitting intrepid amidst the pedigree cars outside. Still, she had no wish to leave the poor thing stranded in some lonely country lane all night. She handed over the keys, then filled in the registration form.

`Thank you, Miss Bancroft. You're in the Bluebell Room - just off the Grand Staircase. The porter will show you up. I'm afraid you've missed your consultation, but we can slot that in tomorrow.'

`Consultation?'

`With Matron.'

Beattie pushed a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. Had she come to the wrong place - a boarding school or hospital?

`We like our guests to have a brief medical check-up on arrival, to monitor their blood pressure and so on, before we schedule any treatments. And talking of treatments, I see you were booked to have a massage at five, with Julie, but I'm afraid you've missed that too. All the staff will have left by now.'

`Oh bloody hell! I could really use ...' Beattie broke off in embarrassment. Bad language seemed a crime in these surroundings. Two haughty-looking women were standing just behind her and must have overheard. Max might have done better to have given her a subscription to the RAC, rather than a weekend at an exclusive health farm.

`I'll see what I can do for you, Miss Bancroft.' The receptionist glanced up from her appointments book with a lacquered smile which failed to reach her eyes. `If you'd like to go to your room and change, I'll phone the treatment suite to see if anyone's still there. You might just be lucky, you never know.'

`Thanks, that's great. I really would appreciate it.'

She followed the porter - and her damp-stained case - along a stretch of corridor and up a curving staircase. Everyone she passed seemed to be female and in pairs. She wished she had come with someone, but none of her friends could have afforded the inflated prices, and Max himself would never fit in here. Max was to blame for her language: he swore all the time and she had picked up the habit almost without noticing. She didn't actually disapprove of swearing (it was only words, after all - a combination of syllables which meant nothing very much), but it annoyed her that he should influence her so strongly. He had also paid for her new slinky suit, which she now realized was out of place. The Ashley Grange dress-code was studiously casual: designer tracksuits; no make-up beyond a natural healthy glow.

The porter stopped to unlock a panelled door and ushered her inside. She wondered if she should tip him, and how much. Health farms were probably a law unto themselves. She slipped a pound-coin into his hand, quickly scrabbling for a second coin when his inscrutable expression failed to thaw into a smile.

Once he'd gone, she stood gazing at the room: bluebells everywhere - and frills. The frilled bluebell-patterned bedspread matched the ruffled bluebell curtains, and there were more bluebells on the wallpaper and more frills on the lampshades (which were mercifully plain blue). The room was so large it was a fair trek to the window, which looked out over miles of mist-swathed countryside - majestic, even in the rain. What an ungrateful bitch she was, turning her nose up at the bluebells, when this was the most luxurious place she'd ever been in - a world away from her London flat, where nothing matched at all and which overlooked a row of dreary garages. Perhaps she should ring down to Reception and order an improvement in the weather. It was only the first week of September, and only ten to six, but instead of golden lushness it was as murky as a wet November night.

She rubbed the misty windowpane and watched the wind slap the shivering poplars, freckled with their first brown leaves. She had seen Christmas cards already in a shop in Westbourne Grove. Ninety-six shopping days to Christmas. No, she mustn't think of Christmas - it posed too many problems, such as how to put the `happy' in it, where to spend it, and who with.

She walked briskly back to the bed and unlocked her case. This was meant to be a break, for heaven's sake, and anyway it was pretty pointless worrying about Christmas four months in advance. Far better to unpack and change her clothes.

Her stomach rumbled suddenly as she kicked off her wet shoes. She should have brought emergency supplies: a litre of Bacardi, a crate of Crunchie bars. She hunted through her handbag, but found only a lone toffee, which she unwrapped guiltily. Sweets were bound to be forbidden at a health farm - as were alcohol and smoking, according to the brochure. What if there were hidden video cameras, spying on her right now? Well, one Creamline toffee was hardly an indictable offence.

She drifted into the bathroom, wincing at the array of mirrors. No cherubs here to recoil from her; just that unflattering reflection staring back again. Her hair still looked unspeakable and she'd clearly overdone the henna. It might be an idea to have a shower - wash off some of that vulgar red; wash off the last two hours.

She was just unzipping her wet skirt when the phone rang. Max! He said he'd ring at six. She ran to pick up the receiver, her skirt sliding to her ankles. `Darling,' she said, speaking indistinctly through the toffee. `This place is quite amazing! I've even got ... Oh, sorry. I thought ...' She dislodged the toffee from her teeth, hastily spitting it into her hand. `Gosh, thanks. Where do I go? And - oh - what am I supposed to wear?'

A robe? She hoped her towelling dressing-gown fitted the description. Slippers she'd forgotten, so it would have to be bare feet.

Ask for Steve? A man? She hadn't thought in terms of male masseurs. In fact, she had never had a massage in her life, but had assumed it would be given by one of that glamorous breed of females who staffed most beauty parlours - all hair and bones and eyelashes. The idea of Steve was somehow disconcerting, as if he were appraising her already, judging her too fat, too naff.

`I thought you said you'd booked me with ... er, Judy?'

`Julie. Yes, but I'm afraid she left at half past five. Don't worry, Steve's absolutely first rate - one of our best masseurs. You'll be in very good hands, I assure you.'

`Okay,' she said nervously, reaching for her `robe' and sucking the last sinful trace of toffee off her teeth. `I'll be right down.'

CHAPTER 2

`Relax!' urged Steve. `You're incredibly tense.'

`Sorry,' Beattie murmured, her face pressed into the couch. Though why should she apologize for a stiff back and knotted shoulders? Anyway it was impossible to relax when she kept worrying that her body might smell sweaty. She should have had that shower.

`Just let go. That's better. If you tense your muscles, it's more difficult for me to work.'

She shifted on the couch. Odd to think of it as work. Steve might be working - battling with her recalcitrant muscles - but she just had to lie there beneath thick white fluffy towels. The room was frilled again and blue again (though delphiniums this time, not bluebells) and partitioned into cubicles, each lit with blue-shaded lamps. All the other cubicles were empty; the only sound Steve's soothing voice and some schmaltzy music playing in the background.

`How long are you here for, Miss Bancroft?' He accompanied the question with a slow sweeping movement down her spine.

`Just the weekend.'

`And have you been to Ashley Grange before?'

`No. Never.' It sounded rather abrupt. He was only trying to be friendly, after all. `Actually, it was a birthday present,' she added, her voice muffled by the couch. She needn't say which birthday. She dreaded being thirty - the official end of youth, that terrifying watershed dividing the successes from the failures. If you hadn't made it by thirty, you probably never would. She wondered how old Steve was. It was difficult to tell. His formal manner and starched white uniform were at odds with his boyish figure and exuberant fair hair.

`Aha!' he laughed. `A present from your boyfriend, I bet.'

How on earth had he guessed? Why not from her mother? Except her mother was dead, and would have given her bath salts, or a box of `useful' notepaper, not a weekend of indulgence.

`Sort of,' she hedged. Max was far too old to be called anybody's boyfriend. He said he was forty-nine, but she suspected he'd been forty-nine for a couple of years at least. He seemed touchy about his age, so she didn't like to question him too closely, especially as she'd only known him three months.

`Is that painful?' Steve was asking, as he pressed a knobbly bone in her spine.

`Ouch! Yes.'

`I'm not surprised. You've tensed again. Do try to relax.'

`Look,' she said irritably, `it's not easy to relax. I've had a hell of a day. I got hopelessly lost on the way here and landed up in the back of beyond. Then my car broke down and ...' Suddenly she was pouring out the whole demoralizing saga.

`God! It sounds horrendous.' His hands had moved to the back of her neck, and were slicking deftly out across her shoulders. `Never mind - now you're here, you can take it easy. This is the perfect place to unwind.'

Obediently she let her body sink into the couch; tried to stop herself from thinking altogether and just enjoy the first massage of her life. (It could well be her last, if things didn't work out with Max.) She closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensations: the fragrant smell of massage-oil, the soft-blue glow of light, Steve's firm, confident touch. She wished he wouldn't talk so much - it was an effort to keep having to reply - but masseurs were presumably trained, like hairdressers, to avoid silence at all costs.

`Have you come far, Miss Bancroft?'

`No, only from London. Just off Westbourne Grove. I've always lived in London - well, except for my first sixteen years, which I spent in dreary old Croydon. Mind you, I suppose even that's considered part of London now.'

`Croydon? Really? That's where my parents live.'

`Gosh, I'm sorry - I hope I didn't sound rude. Which part?'

`Highfield Road.'

`Oh, yes, I know it. We weren't quite so grand.' She could see the house quite clearly in her mind: a poky terraced house which seemed always to be dark and cold, even in the summer. And somehow always empty - her father away, her mother ill upstairs. As a child, she had invented her companions; transforming the bad-tempered kitchen boiler into a rumbustious grandfather, spitting words and flames, and then cancelling him with a candy-floss-haired grandma who made her currant buns. Weird how she could remember tiny details - her mother's china chamber pot with its yellow crusted scum inside; the purple knitted tea-cosy coddling the brown teapot; the way the bathroom door squealed, as if it were constantly in pain.

`Right, Miss Bancroft, if you'd like to turn over ...'

She opened her eyes, annoyed with herself for wasting time in Croydon, breathing in boiler fumes instead of scented oils. Steve held the towels discreetly over her while she rolled over onto her back. All along he'd been meticulous about covering the parts of her body he wasn't actually working on. None the less, it was rather an unsettling experience to be lying completely naked, alone with a strange man in a remote wing of an unfamiliar house. The massage must be halfway through, yet still she hadn't managed to let go. She took in a deep breath, exhaling with a long yawning sigh.

`Tired?' Steve asked sympathetically.

`Yeah, I must admit I am. I've been working late all week. And last weekend. And I got up at the crack of dawn this morning, so I could leave the office early.' Dammit - she was here to forget the pressures. There were two delicious days ahead without a deadline in sight. She wrapped the thought around her like a luxurious goose-down duvet and at last felt her body relax. It was more comfortable in any case lying on her back. Her face was no longer squashed against the couch, and the crick in her neck had gone. She hardly even cared now about not having had a shower, but simply lay contentedly, savouring the sense of peace, the cosseting. Steve was massaging her foot, gently kneading the ankle, devoting time and trouble to each toe. Bones she didn't know she had were being discovered and defined; her whole body stirred by his expert touch. Max never touched her like this - he was too concerned with his own pleasure - but Steve was a professional. He was also damned attractive, in a different league from Max; his body lean and muscly, and conspicuously defined by his closely-fitting jacket and white trousers.

`And what work is it you do, Miss Bancroft?'

`Look, do call me Beattie. It makes me feel so ... ancient when people use my surname.' She blushed, wondering if she had sounded over-familiar, but it was hard to keep up the formalities now she was beginning to see him not just as a masseur but as a man. She noticed the fair hairs glinting on the backs of his hands, and tiny drops of perspiration beading his top lip, which she found peculiarly exciting. Once, she caught his eye, and looked away, embarrassed. His eyes were slatey-blue, with a serious expression, as if he saw his work as some solemn sort of ritual.

He completed the right foot and folded back the towel to start on her leg - firm kneading movements up and down the calf. His hands moved higher still, gliding up the inside of her thigh. She felt her nipples stiffen; her legs ease surreptitiously apart. God! She mustn't react, or it would show on her face. Massage had nothing to do with sex (well, in Soho strip-joints, maybe, but not in a genteel place like this). Besides, it was disloyal to Max, who was paying for this treatment; paying for the entire weekend. Determinedly she switched her mind to mundane things - stalled engines, rainswept roads - but Steve's hands were only inches from her groin and the tension was electrifying. She let out an involuntary sound: a sort of muffled gasp of pleasure, which she tried to conceal with a laugh. `I ... I'm feeling better already, Steve.'

`I'm glad to hear it, Beattie. But do relax. I can feel your muscles tightening again.'

How could she relax? She was caught in an impasse, simmering between indulgence and frustration, tension and release; her mind saying one thing, her body another. And anyway she wasn't used to lying back, just accepting and enjoying. Her normal role - with Max, at least - was to give pleasure, not to take it. Yet those ingenious fingers on the inside of her thigh were weakening her resistance. And so was the whole atmosphere: the soporific heat and lulling music, the warm caress of the towels. She wished her face was covered. Surely Steve could see the effect he was having? Her eyes had closed and her neck curved languorously back, as if she were abandoning all control.

She willed him never to stop, to inch his sensuous fingertips higher and higher up her thigh, until they slipped beneath the towel. In her mind it was happening - her legs edging further apart, her whole body arching up, as she whispered `Yes, go on, Steve.'

Then suddenly she realized that he was no longer working on her legs at all. He had moved from the foot of the couch and was now standing by her head. She opened her eyes, to find him looking at her. She didn't glance away this time; instead held his gaze for what seemed dangerously long. It was he who broke the contact, as he transferred his hands to her shoulders and began smoothing out the stiffness there.

`You're very knotted up, Beattie. I hope this isn't hurting.'

`Yes, it is a bit.' She smiled at him - a suggestive smile. `I prefer the ... gentler stuff.'

He gave one last sweeping movement along her shoulders, then placed his hands on her collarbone, just above her breasts, pressing firmly against the skin. It felt almost more tantalizing than if he'd touched the breasts themselves. Yet his expression was still solemn and intent, and the towel still irreproachably in place (though she longed to push it off, to seize his hands and force them against her nipples). The same steady pressure continued - provocative, exquisite. Was this a standard part of the massage, or was he arousing her deliberately?

`Steve,' she whispered. `You're making me feel ... wonderful.'

He appeared not to have heard. She could see the tip of his tongue just showing between his teeth - he was obviously absorbed in what he was doing; totally preoccupied. More seconds passed, until she was exploding with the tension, then finally, unbearably, he removed his hands and stood upright, with a quick glance at his watch.

`I'm afraid we have to finish now, but your back and shoulders need a lot more work. I haven't managed to break down all those bad adhesions.' He traced a line with his finger from one shoulder to the other, to indicate the problem. `But I could fit you in later on this evening, for' - he paused - `a more intensive treatment.'

`I... intensive?'

`Yes.'

Was she imagining the come-on? His voice was as professional as ever, but that pause had undermined it; a tiny lethal bombshell still reverberating in her mind.

`I think you'd find it helpful, Beattie. You see, we can only do the basics here, but I've got these special oils in my room ...'

`No, really, Steve, I ...'

`You actually need a longer treatment. I could tell as soon as I started.'

The blood rushed to her cheeks. `Look, you mustn't think ...'

`And especially after that frightful journey. Breakdowns are so stressful, aren't they? And if you say you've been overworking, on top of everything else, well you see, all that chronic tension causes acid wastes to build up in the muscles, and you're left with shortened fibres ...'

She felt thoroughly confused. He was giving out contradictory messages: part lecher, part masseur. Perhaps she did need extra treatment. Yet ...

`So I'll see you tonight, then, Beattie?' His voice was soft, persuasive.

`No. Well, yes ... I ... I'm not sure.'

`Shall we say nine o'clock?'

She hesitated a moment longer, not daring to meet his eyes, then nodded guiltily.

`You're doing the right thing,' he murmured. `With a bit more work, we can get rid of most of that tension. And it'll be more relaxing in my room. It's just across the courtyard in the stable-block. Go out of the main door, turn immediately left, and you'll see a ...'

Suddenly the phone shrilled, cutting off his words. Beattie clutched the towels in panic, pulling them right up to her chin. Someone must have heard - Matron, or ...

Steve seemed unperturbed. `Excuse me,' he said coolly, picking up the receiver. `Yes, Miss Bancroft's just about to leave. I'm running a little late ... Oh, I see ... Yes, of course. I'll tell her. Thanks, Lorraine.'

Beattie lay rigid beneath the towels. They must be going to kick her out. For agreeing to a private session with one of their masseurs. Of course he'd intended more than just a massage. And she'd agreed with barely a second's hesitation; practically begged for it, for Christ's sake. Word would get around - it was bound to - once Steve had sniggered with his colleagues about the randy girl who could hardly keep her hands off him. The whole of Ashley Grange would know of her disgrace by the time she'd been banished into the night.

Steve turned to her again. `Someone's been trying to get you on the phone, Beattie. A Mr Max Gillespie. He's rung three times, but says he can't ...'

She sprang up from the couch, scattering the towels. `I ... I'll phone him now. Thank you, Steve - for everything.'

`Beattie, wait!' he called. `What about our appointment?'

Without replying she grabbed her dressing-gown, fled to the door and went pounding up the stairs, back to the chaste safety of her room.

Coupling is published in Flamingo paperback

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first two chapters of "Coupling"
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