Читать книгу Freya North 3-Book Collection: Secrets, Chances, Rumours - Freya North - Страница 28

Tess reverberated between feeling relieved and yet miffed that Seb would be away for a week. She told herself, when she awoke the next morning, that if he hadn't gone away, she'd've phoned him that very day to say, yes, please, fish and chips and a DVD and more of that snogging. But she acknowledged that the brazenness of the thought came only because she knew to implement it was not possible. And anyway, hadn't she gone to bed the night before, early, a few hours after he left, feeling ambivalent? Seb was a nice guy, he looked good and he tasted good and he'd made her body fizz. But she had to concede he didn't measure up to Joe. Then she told herself that to harbour thoughts of Joe was ludicrous and to carry feelings for him was stupid. So that brought her back to thinking about Seb again. She wasn't sure what to think, she couldn't quite place him in fanciful daydreams – if she tried to, he appeared like a cardboard cut-out that she had to move from scenario to scenario. Whereas she frequently had to put up a No Entry sign in the places in her mind where Joe appeared enticingly whether or not she'd conjured him.

But kissing Seb had released thoughts of herself, about her self. Her body felt her own once more, finally distinct from the eighteen-month baby it had nurtured. It was back to being the sensual body of a healthy thirty-year-old. It didn't matter that she was by herself with only a dog and a toddler as an audience, post-kiss Tess felt sexy. For the first time since halfway through her pregnancy, she sought the space and privacy to invest in herself. Plying the dog and child with snacks, she sat in front of the mirror, looking and looking. Her hair now had a gloss and bounce that counteracted its need for a cut and style. Simply tucking it behind her ears, with a couple of Em's lilac slides, looked good and served to reveal the glow of her skin and the glint in her eyes. She winked at herself, she smiled at herself – and then she winked and smiled as if she was doing so for someone else's benefit.

I'm all right I am, she said quietly. She liked what she saw. It was a look she'd like to put to good use because it felt good to have.

A quieter voice whispered a thought before she went to bed that night. And the quieter voice said, if Seb was here you know you wouldn't have phoned him. She thought how the fun was in the memory, how there was safety in his distance. But then she wondered whether it had nothing to do with shyness or insecurity on her part – perhaps she wouldn't have phoned Seb because it was Joe she was holding out for. The friendly young surfer and the tetchy bridge builder. However, going on pure facts, if she was a sexy mama to the former and simply a house-sitter to the latter, oughtn't she to revaluate on whom her sights were set?

So, Seb's kiss hadn't actually settled a day and a night later. Certainly, it had made her body feel very good, cranking those long-dormant cogs of concupiscence back into motion. But it hadn't filtered through to her soul. And she had to admit to herself as she went to sleep that his kiss had stuck slightly in the back of her throat.

It had been a conscious decision of Joe's not to phone home which wasn't to say that he hadn't thought about Tess. He had. Often. And had intended to phone, early on particularly. But at the same time, absence began to do strange things to his heart – if initially it had made it fonder now with a little distance, it was also making it befuddled. Phone her and say – what? Phone to hear – what? Didn't phoning run the risk of long-distance silences? Might that not lead to those peculiar but customary snipes? He could have kissed her, that night on the Transporter, or at home later. He'd badly wanted to and he'd thought back over it since. But now he asked himself what indication if any had she given that she'd kiss him back? Of course, that wasn't a reason for not kissing her, but it was reason enough not to phone. Joe thought about it, about the kiss that hadn't happened; if it had, then what – after an impromptu kiss, then what?

Much as he liked impromptu and he was accustomed to impromptu, it had always been in his control, it had always been his choice and always slotted in well with his life. He really could do without any further complications. There was an almighty fuck-up on the project (they were his calculations but he couldn't work out how the error had occurred), so the straight sex on offer from Nathalie provided a perfect antidote to the problems on site. Crucial respite from daily headaches came between the sheets, between Nathalie's great legs where he could empty his mind along with his balls. He was accustomed to the way he'd set up his life, it worked for him. Why fix it if it ain't broke. He already had a broken bridge to fix and that was his priority. Tess and Saltburn, even Wolf, faded from the forefront quickly. What dominated his mind were complex issues of torsion and endless miles of steel cable. The presence of Nathalie helped him sleep at night; an orgasm being a shortcut to a few hours of dreamless brain-rest.

Then the time came when Joe was needed back in England. And that's when Tess returned to his mind, with the unexpected suddenness of a spring bulb suddenly punctuating the dark monotony of bare winter earth. It wasn't so much an image of her, but the notion of her and it sent a pang through him – not a lift, not a buzz, but a shot of emotion he couldn't readily identify. A longing to be back. A feeling that his home fires had been kept burning, that his house would be warm, that supper might await him, with its awkward hors d'oeuvres of polite conversation settling in to a relaxed main course of nattering and laughter, the likes of which he'd never known prior to Tess – certainly not in that house. Chatting with mouths full, elbows on the table, licking fingers to dab up spilt salt and excess gravy. Seconds, even thirds. And then lengthy desserts, appetite already well sated, but feeding an excuse to stay at the table and maintain the convivial communication, the comfort of company, the warmth before bedtime. He'd never drunk so much tea in his life.

It was odd, the way the desire to be back swooped through him. Prior to this trip, though he'd thought about Tess, he hadn't missed her. He hadn't spent much time thinking about those meals or about the house – he'd been far too preoccupied to do so. Anyway, over the years, he'd carefully trained his affection to steer clear of home because home had not been a constant in his life since he was old enough to leave. It had been little more than a storage facility for his belongings, a place to stay when he was in England, on a par with apartments or hotels elsewhere but without the added extras of the Nathalies and Rachels and the rest.

However, thoughts of home now came with a picture of Tess in them, Wolf too of course, even Emmeline. And no longer was that picture in a drab palette, it was a freshly painted new scene, in mould-resistant paint in the heritage colours on offer at the DIY store. His books and music painstakingly alphabetized. And the kitchen ordered and always warm. Bathrooms bright. Bedrooms aired. A growing bonfire heap, piled with stuff he wouldn't miss but had never thought of ejecting. The house felt cleansed and a new side of it had been revealed. Cracks hadn't been painted over, they'd been systematically Polyfillaed and sanded smooth. New paint had released a latent energy from those silent old walls. And though Joe ridiculed himself for wondering if the pang had anything to do with homesickness, he couldn't deny that the sensation of it made him want to hasten his journey back.

He phoned.

‘The Resolution – hullo?’

How could he have forgotten her elevation of his house to semi-stately! Daft girl. He now wished he'd phoned before.

‘Tess.’

‘Joe?’

‘It is indeed. The return of the native. Almost. Tomorrow – I'll be back tomorrow.’

‘Goody,’ said Tess, though she quickly changed it to ‘very good.’

‘Must go, see you then.’

‘Safe journey – see you tomorrow.’

When Joe stared at the screen on his mobile until it darkened into standby mode, he thought to himself how only Tess could say goody. He could visualize her, standing in the hallway wearing some crap sweatshirt, saying goody! Probably giving Wolf the thumbs-up. She'd be telling the dog and the baby that he'd be home tomorrow, unconcerned by their inability to reply. Joe mused on her self-sufficiency, how she seemed quite content with the one-way conversation that living with a dog and a baby surely brought with it. Who says goody these days? Nathalie says bien sur – and that has a whole different ring to it.

And then Nathalie came into the room. And Joe thought, home tomorrow but tonight I'm here.

And he thought, very briefly, of his mother. How he wasn't allowed down from the dinner table of his childhood until he'd eaten everything up. The kitchen of those years was a place he didn't much like. And he thought, very briefly this time, of sharing supper in his kitchen tomorrow night. A very different place now Tess had whipped through it with her cleaning fluids and ruthlessness and artistically arranged condiments. And before Joe focused on the semi-naked marvel of Nathalie he did wonder, fleetingly, who's cooking tomorrow night?

Then he blinked away thoughts of home to feast his eyes on Nathalie instead. She looked appetizing in that minuscule shimmering thing she was wearing and Joe thought, it would be a shame to let it go to waste – if it's handed to you on a plate then eat it all up.

When the phone rang around the time Joe was due back, Tess's spirits plummeted as she anticipated a delay or, worse, cancellation. She'd already shopped – dinner for two despite it decimating the contents of her purse. And she'd scrubbed, hoovered and spritzed; flinging open all the windows so that the keen spring breeze could breathe into the house from the woods over the road. But the phone continued to ring and Tess knew it could only be Joe which meant there was a problem. Reluctantly, she answered it, eschewing her more usual formal greeting for a simple hullo.

‘'ullo?’

It wasn't Joe. It was just some foreign 'ullo. Hurray! It's not Joe! Joe is coming home, Joe will be here any minute. Joe is on his way.

‘The Resolution – can I help you?’

‘Joe Saunders – he is there?’ A French woman. Tess took exception to the way she pronounced his surname. Sow – like a female pig. Sow'n Dairs. She also objected to the slightly accusatory tone – he is there? Even a thick accent and scant English wouldn't preclude such a caller rephrasing it as, may I speak with Mr Saunders? or, hullo, is Joe Saunders there?

Why the presumption? And how about a little less familiarity? And just as Tess was about to wonder who on earth this woman was, she suddenly thought, oh Shit, is this Kate? But she quickly summoned her schoolgirl French and appeased herself that Kate is not a name indigenous to the Gauls. This must be someone from the French office, that's all.

‘He hasn't arrived back,’ Tess said and she made sure her voice was warm because then this woman could report back to Joe how amenable the lady at his house had seemed. ‘I'm expecting him any minute. May I take a message?’

There was a long pause. ‘Who are you?’

Tess was taken aback that the question had been asked of her before she'd had the chance to pose it to the caller. But more disconcerting was the inflection. Someone from his office wouldn't have asked. They'd've said who they were instead. Zis is Marie-Claudette from ze office. Zis is Celestine from Le Pont du M. Saunders; I av a fax for Mr Sow'n Dairs.

But here was a voice demanding to know who Tess was. This accusatory but undeniably sexy French voice wanted to know what she was doing there. This voice was probably expecting her to say, I'm Tess the house-sitter. I walk Joe's dog. I work for Mr Saunders. I'm taking his messages for him.

‘This is Tess,’ she said instead, slowly and clearly, as if she considered the question slightly preposterous and somewhat impertinent.

‘Tess – who?’

Tess thought about it. She didn't need to give her surname to answer that question. If the conversation was ever to have any comeback, Tess could just claim her intention had been lost in translation. ‘I'm Joe's Tess,’ she said.

There was a snort. ‘Well, Tess, please when Joe arrives, you will tell him he leave his BlackBerry at my apartment.’

‘BlackBerry. Apartment,’ Tess said as if she was jotting it down.

‘You tell him he leave it here. In my bed.’

And there was no time for Tess to be stunned into silence or to think, shit, shit, parry back – quick! or even to repeat it as if she was taking notes, because the caller had hung up. The grandfather clock tocked but time had stopped for Tess. He has a girlfriend. The notion, the reality, slammed into her with such force that she sat down hard and fought for breath. With the air silent but still charged, she wanted to shout, to vent, to wail, but Em had come toddling up to her, striking a stab of reality. What Tess wanted most was something she just couldn't have. She couldn't have Joe. She couldn't even have ten minutes all to herself, to think, to brood, to practise a soliloquy in front of the bathroom mirror. Just ten minutes, that's what she wanted. In fact, she'd settle for five. But Em allowed her just a few seconds.

‘What is it, Em?’

The toddler could only grouch back her inability to explain.

Eventually, Tess found out that grapes would appease her daughter and, as she peeled and deseeded them, she snatched back moments to reflect. The outcome was somewhat melodramatic.

I am here and I am taking messages for Joe. I'm here because he isn't – and that's the point of me. That's my job.

She tried briefly, unsuccessfully, to equalize the score by deciding that the caller was some landlady who goes in to clean the apartment when Joe leaves.

A French version of me.

She doubted it, though. But, worse, she doubted herself now.

Tess put herself on autopilot; singing row-row-row-your-boat, letting Wolf out and then back in again, hanging out a white wash, going to the toilet. She knew it was ridiculous but everything she did was underscored by a silent chant. Stupid French cow, stupid French cow. French Sow. Sow'n Dairs. Joe leaving his phone in an apartment was one thing. In this woman's bed, with her velvety guttural emphasis on the possessive pronoun, was quite another. Who is she? Is she Kate? Can you be French and be called Kate?

But I thought he wanted to kiss me.

So Joe arrived back with Tess wanting to belt him. And she knew if she told him about the call straight away, she might very well do that. But she bit her tongue so she could just soak up a little of him first; absorb the warmth from his expansive smile, fill her ears with his voice, come close to him so she could brush by, accidentally on purpose, as she went to make tea, collecting a little of his physicality like it was magic dust that could seep through her clothes, through her skin and deep into her, carrying with it a cure. She just needed a little time to act as though she was fine, time to enjoy the ritual of making two cups again. Just five more minutes of him asking her this and that. Time to glance over at him leaning casually against the wall, or relaxing at the kitchen table, or giving his head a scratch, stifling a yawn, having a stretch. The hair on his stomach. How long had it been since she'd seen that? She'd only seen it the once.

‘What's for supper, then?’ he asked. ‘I'm looking forward to a home-cooked meal.’

Tess felt peculiarly triumphant – as if he'd been underfed or poorly nourished whilst he'd been away. Ha! Kate's obviously a shit chef! But then Tess thought, shit! I bet they eat out every night in romantic little bistros. And then she thought, why am I fretting? Why does this hurt? She could neither justify the feelings – yet nor could she deny them either.

It was only when she began to cook, with Joe wittering on in a friendly, anodyne way, that Tess was consumed with an invasive sadness. An intense and private remorse that there was indeed nothing going on. Because Kate was real. And Tess had been so happy to delude herself with daft little daydreams this last fortnight. Must get a grip. Must not be sad. What would my grandmother say? She told me to cook with love. She said, happiness is like seasoning, tiredness dulls flavours, anger turns food sour but sadness can kill a dish completely while love can flavour a dish to perfection.

So Tess added a lot of garlic and a pinch from every herb jar to counteract this. She didn't have the stomach to taste it. But Wolf gazed up at her expectantly and Joe kept saying, wow, smells great, when do we eat? And she kept thinking to herself, who am I cooking for? Who am I cooking for?

They ate. It was easy enough to laugh when Joe said something funny, to smile when he smiled at her, to be captivated by his bridge talk and appalled at the extreme hassles of the particular project. But it wasn't easy to strike up the conversation herself.

‘You're not very chatty, Miss Tess,’ he remarked, thinking she'd say, oh, I'm just tired – Wolf/ Emmeline had me up in the night. He certainly wasn't expecting the monotone response when it came.

‘Miss Tess?’

‘Kate called. She has your BlackBerry.’

It made no sense.

‘Kate?’

‘Yes, she called – about half an hour before you arrived home.’

‘My BlackBerry?’

Tess sighed. ‘Yes, Joe, your BlackBerry. You left it at Kate's. At her apartment. In her bed.’ And she scraped back her chair and dumped her plates beside the sink and walked out of the kitchen saying she was knackered, she was going to bed, goodnight.

Joe remained at the table wanting to laugh and groan simultaneously. Laugh because there was something so compelling about Tess when she was stroppy – the effect it had on him was the polar opposite of that which she intended. He just wanted to stop her and tuck her hair behind her ears and cup her face in his hands and call her a mad woman and tell her she was extremely attractive when she was pissed off and kiss her. But he had to groan because he had left his BlackBerry in France; groan because Nathalie had phoned here and got Tess and from Tess's reaction and the fact that she reported the sodding thing was in her apartment in her bed, Nathalie had obviously made it plain to Tess that though this wasn't a business call, she meant business. Groan because why did Nathalie call herself Kate? Groan because it complicated things with Nathalie – he didn't want to have to explain away Tess but nor did he want to relinquish the easy sex. Not yet. And how the fuck could he call Nathalie anyway – she had his BlackBerry and the only record he had of her number was in the bloody thing. He knew he should have synched the bloody thing with his computer. And then Joe realized in all of this there were more groans than laughs. He'd been travelling all day, for God's sake. He was tired, he had a lot on his mind far more pressing than angry lovers changing their names and petulant house-sitters stomping around his home. More groans than laughs, then – that was not what he wanted in life, it went coarsely against the grain of all he'd spent the last twenty years cultivating.

Bedtime.

The difference between men and women.

Oblivion in an instant for Joe.

A sleepless night for Tess.