good looks had hardened into a perpetual expression of self-regarding pomposity.
But Jonah was beautiful. Beautiful, with the lithe grace of a panther or some other exotic jungle cat. When he moved, he didn’t walk as ordinary men did: he glided, almost as though he were on wheels.
Marigold loved to picture his face, sculpted and lean, with impossibly high cheekbones and those deep, deep eyes. She wished she were an artist so she could draw that face, paint it, fashion it in clay or marble or wood. Sometimes she thought she was obsessed with his face.
There was more, though, and it was even more shameful.
In the sleepless hours of the night, in her solitary bed, she thought about him, and it was not his face which obsessed her then.
Beneath his cassock he was not just a priest, but a man of flesh and blood. If someone – if she , God help her – were to unbutton those thirty-nine buttons and free the man beneath, what would happen? She imagined that it would be like unstopping a flood, unleashing a torrent of passion all the more uncontrollable for having been kept so tightly in check.
Marigold Underwood knew that life had been good to her in every material way. She had been born into a life of privilege, and she had never been denied anything she really wanted. With that in mind, if a genie had magically appeared before her and offered to fulfil one wish, she would not have been greedy. She wouldn’t have asked for the secret of eternal youth, or true love that would last a lifetime.
No, she wouldn’t have been greedy. She would have asked for just one night. One night – free from guilt, free from inhibitions and free from consequences – with Jonah Adimola.
By Tuesday afternoon, in spite of Leo’s encouragement and her own bravado, Frances still had serious misgivings about her promise to act as deacon for him at the Eucharist before the Clergy Chapter meeting. She was used to facing hostility from a certain type of male clergy; at times she had even courted it. But she did not underestimate the capacity for venom from the likes of Vincent Underwood and Jonah Adimola, especially when they had not been warned. And she was feeling a bit fragile as the result of something else entirely: a telephone conversation with her daughter Heather.
Frances had always known that Heather was a restless sort of girl, who would take more time than most to find her place in the world. Heather had never had a clear idea of what she wanted, except in the short term; she followed her enthusiasms and whims without heed to their consequences. To her parents’ disappointment, she had refused to go to university, although she was a very bright girl who could have had a place at any university she’d fancied. Instead she had thrown herself into a series of deadend jobs and no-hope relationships.
She was almost twenty-five years of age, yet she showed no signs of settling down, either with a permanent job or a permanent man. By the time she was Heather’s age, Frances reflected, she had a husband, a baby, and a job which was a vocation. Heather hadn’t even decided what she wanted to be when she grew up.
For over a year Heather had been travelling round the world, stopping for a while whenever she needed money for the next leg of her journey and working at whatever menial job she could find – waiting tables, cleaning hotel rooms, operating the till at a supermarket. She’d been to Australia, New Zealand, and India; at the moment she was in America. She had, she’d just told her mother, taken a job as a fund-raiser with an animal rights charity in which she believed passionately. She was on a three-month contract, which she hoped might be extended – especially as she had fallen in love with one of her co-workers. As a result, she would not be home for Christmas. She was sure, she said, that her parents would understand. There was always next year.
Frances did understand. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t bitterly
But Jonah was beautiful. Beautiful, with the lithe grace of a panther or some other exotic jungle cat. When he moved, he didn’t walk as ordinary men did: he glided, almost as though he were on wheels.
Marigold loved to picture his face, sculpted and lean, with impossibly high cheekbones and those deep, deep eyes. She wished she were an artist so she could draw that face, paint it, fashion it in clay or marble or wood. Sometimes she thought she was obsessed with his face.
There was more, though, and it was even more shameful.
In the sleepless hours of the night, in her solitary bed, she thought about him, and it was not his face which obsessed her then.
Beneath his cassock he was not just a priest, but a man of flesh and blood. If someone – if she , God help her – were to unbutton those thirty-nine buttons and free the man beneath, what would happen? She imagined that it would be like unstopping a flood, unleashing a torrent of passion all the more uncontrollable for having been kept so tightly in check.
Marigold Underwood knew that life had been good to her in every material way. She had been born into a life of privilege, and she had never been denied anything she really wanted. With that in mind, if a genie had magically appeared before her and offered to fulfil one wish, she would not have been greedy. She wouldn’t have asked for the secret of eternal youth, or true love that would last a lifetime.
No, she wouldn’t have been greedy. She would have asked for just one night. One night – free from guilt, free from inhibitions and free from consequences – with Jonah Adimola.
By Tuesday afternoon, in spite of Leo’s encouragement and her own bravado, Frances still had serious misgivings about her promise to act as deacon for him at the Eucharist before the Clergy Chapter meeting. She was used to facing hostility from a certain type of male clergy; at times she had even courted it. But she did not underestimate the capacity for venom from the likes of Vincent Underwood and Jonah Adimola, especially when they had not been warned. And she was feeling a bit fragile as the result of something else entirely: a telephone conversation with her daughter Heather.
Frances had always known that Heather was a restless sort of girl, who would take more time than most to find her place in the world. Heather had never had a clear idea of what she wanted, except in the short term; she followed her enthusiasms and whims without heed to their consequences. To her parents’ disappointment, she had refused to go to university, although she was a very bright girl who could have had a place at any university she’d fancied. Instead she had thrown herself into a series of deadend jobs and no-hope relationships.
She was almost twenty-five years of age, yet she showed no signs of settling down, either with a permanent job or a permanent man. By the time she was Heather’s age, Frances reflected, she had a husband, a baby, and a job which was a vocation. Heather hadn’t even decided what she wanted to be when she grew up.
For over a year Heather had been travelling round the world, stopping for a while whenever she needed money for the next leg of her journey and working at whatever menial job she could find – waiting tables, cleaning hotel rooms, operating the till at a supermarket. She’d been to Australia, New Zealand, and India; at the moment she was in America. She had, she’d just told her mother, taken a job as a fund-raiser with an animal rights charity in which she believed passionately. She was on a three-month contract, which she hoped might be extended – especially as she had fallen in love with one of her co-workers. As a result, she would not be home for Christmas. She was sure, she said, that her parents would understand. There was always next year.
Frances did understand. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t bitterly
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