Читать книгу Freya North 3-Book Collection: Secrets, Chances, Rumours - Freya North - Страница 34

Tess sat up in bed, in the dark, with the curtains open so she could sense the black nothingness of a countryside night uncorrupted by streetlamps or sirens. She pulled her knees up and linked her arms around them under the quilt, laid her cheek against them – it really felt as though she was giving herself a hug. To smile in the dark felt somehow safe; as if she wouldn't be tempting fate if she couldn't be seen. She pondered the reasons for her contentment; it wasn't as if specific things had been said or any overt gestures given – it hadn't been a special evening, if special is defined by specifics. On the contrary it was the lack of specifics – it was instead the things in general that made it so affirming. No declarations of intent, no mulling over what had passed, no discussion of the issues that had arisen – yet no active avoidance of them either. It was just an evening during which they had both been at their ease.

She went over to the window, pressing her face against the glass, looking out into the night garden. They probably could have gone over the whole Kate business and likewise, they could have talked through the issue of Mary. But these things seemed somehow trivial compared to the bigger picture of enjoying the here and now, of feeling comfortable in trading chit-chat and falling into step alongside each other again.

Do you think it needs pepper? No, not really. I think I added pepper too early in the cooking – did you know it loses its potency? No, I didn't. Oh yes – it does, that's why you should always add pepper right at the end. I heard that a squeeze of lemon juice added at the end really brings out the flavours without adding its own. That's news to me – I'll try it. I wonder if Calpol works for dogs. What's Calpol? It's children's paracetamol – it's strawberry flavour. You know, Tess – the vet's given him pretty heavy-duty meds. I know – but they look horrible whereas Calpol is pink and sweet and soothing. Poor old Wolf. Yes, poor old thing. He seems OK in himself, don't you think? All things considering, yes. And he loved the liver. He did, didn't he? He won't want to go back to Pedigree Chum! It'll cost you a fortune, Joe. So you're sure you don't mind being head nurse then Tess? Not at all – though I wouldn't have you down as squeamish. I can't even deal with splinters. Actually, I've become much more capable with all that stuff since becoming a mother, I used to be an utter wuss before that. Are you saying I'm an utter wuss? Yes, Joe, I am – can you pass the water, please?

Replaying the minutiae again a couple of times, Tess thought how the ease of their communication was as important as the topics themselves. And they weren't topics, really, not in the sense that they were deliberately chosen for interesting discussion. Joe and Tess were two people who, when together, could just talk. Banter, blether, chinwag, natter – when they were together, there was no shortage of what to say. She opened the window. It was chilly and there she was, in the draught in a vest and knickers at God knows what time. But it was invigorating and grounding and the physicality seemed to imprint this specific night on her soul. She thought, here I am. I'm still here, at the Resolution. I'm here on the night of the day that Wolf and Joe came home. She breathed in the air, it was sharp and bracing. She ran her hands lightly over her arms, liking the sensation of goosebumps against her fingertips, enjoying the feel of her touch on her own skin. Could she remember her sister stroking her arms when she was little? Or did she just make up that memory? She wasn't sure, knowing full well how it is easier to invent a past than acknowledge memories that aren't particularly happy. And, for a moment, Tess regretted that it was hardly the kind of thing she'd ever ask Claire now. But she bolstered herself with thoughts of Em, sound asleep in her very own room just yards away. And she smiled when she remembered those very first months utterly alone with the baby, feeling that the world could collapse around them and they'd be OK, in fact they probably wouldn't even notice. Week after week in a cocoon of insane exhaustion softly lined with utter awe, when the baby would be in her arms and she would stroke and stroke and stroke.

The pull to Em was intense and Tess left her room to check on her daughter. She didn't touch, she just gazed, thinking to herself, oh God, I love her so much I could roar. And then she thought, I'd better not, I'll wake the household. And then she thought, I must nip down and check on Wolf. It was gone one in the morning. She last checked on him a good two hours ago, just before she went to bed. And as she descended the stairs, she thought to herself, I've just spent two hours really happy.

The first creak on the stairs glided into whatever it was Joe was dreaming about so he didn't notice. The second creak broke his sleep wave. The third woke him up. At the fourth he thought, what's she doing? And because all was then quiet, he deduced she was now downstairs on solid flagstones, rather than upstairs on the uneven corridor. She's checking on Wolf, he thought. He looked at his clock. It seemed to him that he'd been deeply asleep for far longer than two hours. He thought about yesterday; how he'd decided in the small hours that he'd return to the UK. Everything then dovetailed so seamlessly it just served to affirm that he was doing the right thing. No one gave him a hard time, the flight was there – cheap too and fast. He'd really wanted to see Wolf, and actually, when he thought about it now, he'd had a real urge to be home. Not homesickness – he wasn't pining – more it was a drive, a draw that there was one place that he should be and he was going to go there without delay.

And he'd come back and the house had been empty. He hadn't expected Wolf, of course, but he'd imagined Tess. The empty building, though echoey and still, was full of them – Tess, Wolf, even Emmeline: the folk that made his house work. That make my housework – he laughed at this, recalling the little jammy handprints low down on the kitchen door, Tess's bizarre arrangement of what appeared to be verge-side grasses in a stained old bottle she'd found God knows where which unbeknownst to her had left a ring mark on the mahogany console, the scatter of buggy and boots and rusk crumbs in the entrance hall. But then he thought to himself, that's unfair of me, the house has never seemed so bright and homely and fresh.

It was colder here than in France. Not because the weather was that different this time of year, but because in France he spent his time in a modern apartment with communal, regulated heat and also a body in the bed. Here he was in a high-ceilinged stone building over 130 years old, with windows that didn't close and gaps under the doors. He left his bed and pulled on boxers and a T-shirt. What's she doing down there? he wondered. Perhaps I'll go and see.

Tess thinks she knows the stairs pretty well – which treads cause a cacophony of creaks, which ones have a milder groan that won't wake Em or make Wolf bay. However, she's not aware that those have woken Joe. Down in Wolf's sickbay, she's not aware that Joe is making his own way down, that he knows a route along the stairs that is utterly soundless, a route he perfected during his childhood in the silent watches of the night when he'd creep soundlessly downstairs and stand by the front door and wonder how to run away.

Joe, though, is far from Tess's mind just now. As he makes his silent passage down the stairs, she's already engrossed in tending to Wolf.

And the sight of her causes him to crave invisibility.

Appropriately enough, there's a full moon for Wolf. It's sufficient for Tess to nurse the dog without the need for artificial light. Joe sees how the moonlight glances off the flagstones and reverberates from the white walls to bathe everything in soft silver. She's sitting on her heels on one of the blankets, with her back to Joe, bending forward, whispering to the dog.

Tess in a vest and knickers. A plain white vest and white cotton knickers. Between the two, as she leans forward, a small but compelling ellipse of skin – like a shy, pink smile. He thinks, that really can't pass as a camisole and panties, that really is just a vest and knickers. No frills. The simplicity, combined with the light and the time of night, is peculiarly stunning and Joe is perturbed how aroused it's made him. She's sitting on her heels and she's leaning forward and her bum, demurely covered in white cotton, is really so peach-shaped that Joe has to admit the cliché is both perfect and yet does her an injustice. The soles of her feet under her bum. The pads of her toes, becoming rounder as they become smaller, like little buds. Shoulders bare and shapely, as if carved from alabaster by the lick of moonlight. Her hair she has scrunched up to keep it away from her face, inadvertently revealing the elegant curve of her neck for Joe.

What's she doing exactly? Joe wonders as he watches her soak a flannel in a bowl of water, her face in profile. It strikes Joe that, unseen, Tess's prettiness can reveal itself. It's as if it hides when she's in company, as if she draws it into herself and says, don't come out until no one's looking. Like that day when he watched her hanging out the washing. Like this morning, when he saw her in the playground. Like this evening when she thought he was engrossed at the stove but he turned and just looked at her while she was busy writing some list or other. And like now – her features in profile as delicate and defined as a Victorian cameo silhouette. But what's she doing with that flannel, dipping it in the bowl, wringing it out a little? Whatever it is, he's pleased for her to continue because he gets to see the sweep and delineation of her arms.

He must have shifted because Wolf has clocked him and has made a brave attempt to voice a greeting. Tess turns quickly – but she settles because it's Joe, it's only Joe.

‘Sorry, did I startle you?’ he whispers, walking over.

‘No,’ she says, ‘I'm used to far stranger creaks and shadows when you're not here.’

He comes to stand by her, looking down on her and his dog. She looks up and sees boxer shorts and looks away quickly. His knees are at her eye level and she's never seen his legs bare and they are athletic with a smattering of dark hairs. She drops her gaze and sees his feet; they are shapely and strong and she is pleased she's dipping the flannel in the bowl because otherwise she'd be tempted to trace the tendons of his foot with her fingertips. He squats down, one arm relaxed over his knees, his other hand down on the floor for balance.

‘What's with the flannel?’

‘Well, don't laugh – but I wondered if Wolf was thirsty but feeling a bit incapacitated to drink from his bowl. So I'm just dipping the flannel and doing a bit of a drip and sip for him.’

‘Seems he is thirsty.’

‘Actually, he probably just likes the attention. I'm a muggins.’

‘You're Florence Frigging Nightingale, my love.’

And Tess's heart lurches and she thinks, oh, call me ‘my love’ again.

‘I was awake anyway,’ she shrugs, ‘so I just thought I'd pop down and see how he was doing.’

‘A model patient, I'd say.’

‘Nothing seeping or bleeding. His nose is nice and cold and he feels good and warm. I just wish he had his tail to wag.’

‘That tail,’ Joe laughs. ‘The number of times I cursed it – one wag and oops! another glass broken, or another pile of papers scattered to the floor.’

‘He whacked me with it one time,’ Tess tells him, ‘hard across my thigh. It hurt!’

Joe pauses. ‘Thanks, Tess – seriously.’

‘Oh God, Joe – it's the least I can do.’

‘You're not blaming yourself, are you?’

‘No – but that's not to say I wish I'd loitered when he went out for his pee.’

‘The vet told me – about how you took him there.’

She looks down and doesn't comment.

‘Thank you,’ says Joe.

Wolf gives a grumble, as if he's been happy to listen to them witter on but he's tired now and could they go.

‘Sleep's the best medicine – that's what my grandma used to say,’ Tess says and she sits up off her heels and stands. And now it's Joe who's low, looking at her feet and thinking, you've painted your toenails since I last saw them. They are pale turquoise and they remind him of Tess's sense of humour.

At his eye level, her thighs. He decides it would be prudent not to look higher – he's only in his boxers after all.

‘Well, night then, Joe.’

‘Night, Tess,’ he says without turning – he doesn't want to lose his balance. He's still squatting down. He's not as young as he was, you know. It's not just his floorboards that creak. Especially when flagstone chill has just infiltrated his limbs. He waits a moment or two, listens for the sounds on the stairs before he rises. He smiles at Wolf and turns for bed.

Ethereal, like a ghost, Tess is passing along the landing after the first flight, the white of her vest and pants almost luminous. He's now reached the top of the stairs; his door is a little way down the corridor, in the opposite direction.

‘Night then,’ he says, holding onto the newel post.

She's about to climb the stairs to her floor.

She turns. ‘Night, Joe.’

And motion fails them at first because they find themselves rooted to where they stand, facing each other at either end of the landing, yards apart, both of them in the direction opposite to the one they'd intended to go. And then suddenly, motion liberates them, releasing their bodies without them having to think about putting one foot in front of the other. They have no awareness of bridging the distance of the landing. All they know is that they're gliding, they've floated in close and their lips are going to touch any second now. Joe's fingertips have found her jaw, her neck, and Tess's hands have alighted on his forearm, the centre of his chest. There's less light up here than downstairs, it's diffused but it's sufficient for them to see eye to eye, for Joe to dip his face as Tess raises hers, for their noses to gently nudge against each other until their lips whisper the overture of a kiss.

Then they have no further need of moonlight or sight because touch takes over. As the kiss deepens, as lips part to welcome in tongues, so featherlight fingertips change to probing, clasping, all-feeling. His hands hold her close in the small of her back, then flow up to her neck, along her collarbone, her cheek, her head, his fingers snagging on her scrunched-up hair. Her hands are sweeping up his arms, over the dip below his biceps, the rise and run of his shoulders, the strong curve of his back and up and over the band of muscle either side of his spine. She can sense his erection and drops her hand to touch it fleetingly through the cotton of his boxers. They pull apart and stare at each other; in this light their eyes are uniformly dark and glinting, in this light there's a sheen on their lips from each other's kiss.

Tess in a vest. Tess in a vest. Tess's nipples springing behind that vest. Joe is transfixed by them, he puts his hands over them and just keeps them there. In the cup of his hands, he can sense how her breathing quickens and it makes her breasts swell and fit themselves perfectly into his palms. He breaks off to kiss her again, holding the back of her neck and pulling her in close and sinking his mouth, his tongue down deep. Tess in a vest. He's as enthralled by the sight as by what the white cotton keeps out of sight. He tugs the vest down, not at the shoulder straps, but from the neckline. He pulls the cotton down until it's looped underneath her breasts and they are exposed. They are round and perky and, as he caresses one he sips the nipple of the other between his lips. And while he does so, Tess takes his head in her hands and pulls his hair through her fingers and she closes her eyes and thinks, I could stop right here for ever.

He takes his mouth away from her breast and kisses her again. Then he speaks, without breaking the bond between their lips, and it means she can actually feel his words as she hears them.

‘Will you sleep with me, Tess? Can I take you to bed?’

He takes her hand and leads her to his room.

She thinks, he sleeps with his curtains open.

He pulls his top over his head to reveal a torso that is manly but not intimidating. He sits on the edge of his bed and pulls her between his legs. He lifts her vest off and takes a moment to just look at her before he starts to kiss her stomach. His hands travel up and down the backs of her thighs, his tongue-tip dips into her belly button. He's feeling around to the fronts of her legs, up to the undulation of her waist, higher to her breasts; down again. As they lie down, they don't take their eyes off each other and they fold themselves into each other and wrap the covers around them. Tenderness and lust intermingle. The soft stroking soon enough leads to the ripping down of knickers and boxers and condom pack. Their breathing is audibly short, the instinct is primal and Tess suddenly wants to roll on top of Joe, open her legs and welcome him in deep. She cries out. It's insanely exquisite. Joe is abandoned to the pleasure, moving into her, tasting her, feeling her sex closing around him, sucking him deep as she comes, pulling his own orgasm out to mingle with the receding throbs of hers.

They stay there, fused, exhausted and exhilarated. They are spent and speechless but they continue to kiss. Joe and Tess have discovered they kiss each other with the same ease with which they talk and they find there's so much to say.