The Debutante by Kathleen Tessaro

back. ‘Married? Divorced? Widowed?’
    She looked up sharply.
    ‘Or shall we leave all that?’
    She stared at him a long time. ‘I’m … I was involved with someone.’
    ‘You have a boyfriend?’
    ‘It wasn’t quite so clearly defined.’
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem a little vague, Miss Albion.’
    ‘That’s my intention, Mr Coates.’
    ‘Do you instinctively balk at being defined, or simply in matters of the heart?’
    ‘Who said this was a matter of the heart?’
    ‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘isn’t it?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’ She ran her fingers lightly along the rimof her glass. ‘There are so many more territories in the heart than one expects.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Possession, power.’ She spoke slowly, softly, lifting her eyes to meet his. ‘It’s confusing sometimes, isn’t it?’
    He felt his pulse quickening, the surface of his skin alive with increased sensitivity. ‘In what way?’
    ‘To tell which is which. They are intimacies, not so polite as love, but compelling just the same. Not everyone longs for tenderness.’
    ‘And you?’
    ‘I long for all sorts of things. Some of which I understand and some which I don’t.’
    ‘Are you saying you don’t know your own mind?’
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘I like to think I do.’
    ‘You’re deceived.’
    ‘And you’re presumptuous.’
    ‘What does the mind have to do with it anyway?’
    ‘I’m not referring to intellect but to intention,’ he clarified, aware that he was overcompensating with a certain loftiness of tone. She was clever and provocative. But it was the speed of her that was most thrilling.
    Her lips widened in a slow, teasing smile. ‘And are all your intentions transparent and worthy?’
    ‘Isn’t that possible?’
    ‘Possible, perhaps. But not natural.’
    ‘And why not?’ He shifted, recrossing his legs. ‘Whycan’t you be aware of your actions before you take them? Set your own course for your heart rather than blundering in blindly?’
    ‘My, you really are a rare breed!’
    The wind tossed the thick boughs above them, elongated black shapes stretching towards them across the lawn.
    ‘That’s not fair. You make me sound like a prude!’
    ‘Well, let’s see. A man whose motivations and desires are completely known to him at all times and absolutely under his control, who never stumbles into the murkier depths of human relations, whose affections only follow his pre-sanctioned plans … No, you’re not a prude. You’re a statue. Something Olympian. Definitely marble.’
    ‘And what about you?’ he countered. ‘A woman who doesn’t know her own mind, can’t even tell if she’s having a relationship or not, but is only certain it doesn’t involve love. What does that make you?’
    In the dimming light, a shadow fell across her, bathing her in darkness. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it makes me.’
    The air felt suddenly cooler.
    He tried to think of a way to backtrack without losing face. ‘Cate …’
    But before he could, she pushed her chair back and stood up.
    ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day. Do you mind if I…?’
    ‘Yes, go on.’ He said it a bit too quickly; his mindracing to figure out exactly how he’d offended her; certain that he was likely to do it again if he pursued the matter. ‘I’ll look after this.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She crossed the lawn, retreating from him, into the house, through the open French windows where the wind gathered and released the gauzy white sheers with invisible fingers.

    The old house changed with the encroaching darkness. Rooms that were open and inviting in the daylight took on an unfamiliar coldness; shadows loomed and uneven floorboards sent her stumbling along the hallway. Although they were too far away from the shoreline, she thought she could hear the sea; surf crashing into cliffs.
    Suddenly, her body felt leaden with exhaustion; her mind numb. The stairs groaned as she climbed up to her room. Without turning