Chapter Eight 3 страница

'Maybe we could try again? I could show you I'm different to how you think?' he suggested, looking hopeful. 'We have so much in common.'

'We may do. But I'm not interested,' I said. Could I be more frank about it? Still he stood there looking at me. Time to strike the final blow. I'd not considered it before, but as he gazed at me, I realized it had to be done. 'And anyway, I've met someone else I am interested in.'

His face turned red. I wondered if he was going to shout. He looked more angry than wounded, and instantly I wished I could retract my last statement.

‘I see,' he said quietly. His eyes seemed to look right through me. 'Who is he?'

I wasn't going to put him straight about that. Nor was I likely to even hint at who I might be interested in. 'It isn't any of your business,' I told him, hostile to the idea that he had even asked.

‘I see,' he said again. Still, his face spoke of repressed anger more than any other emotion. He made me nervous, as though he might explode at any moment. 'Then I'll leave you alone.' His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, then he turned and went back into the Victorian prison. I retreated across the yard, in the opposite direction to him. He'd left me unsettled. I hoped I'd seen the last of him. Maybe it was the experience of the storeroom earlier, perhaps it was that last look he'd given me, maybe it was misplaced instinct, but somehow I knew I'd see him again. And that notion worried me in a way I couldn't justify even to myself.

I ate take-away pizza for my dinner that evening and immersed myself in music until I fell asleep on the sofa. I finally crawled into bed at about two in the morning, thoroughly glad the next day was my day off. I was looking forward to seeing Aly too. I made the admission to myself with no reservations, a warm glow suffusing me as I drifted back to sleep.

I tried not to think during the time I spent getting ready and traveling on the bus to meet her, the next morning. When I tried to consider my feelings, they swirled around and around in my head and twisted themselves into contorted notions. Yes, the maybe was there again, the haunting question, floating with all the other ideas. But I knew I needed to see her. That was simple enough. Let everything else wait until then.

She was waiting at the bus stop when my bus pulled in with a dramatic hissing of brakes. She waved as it approached, to make sure, I assume, that I saw her and actually got off the bus. I noticed some of the other passengers looking at her, and it gave me an odd thrill to think she was waiting for me.

I felt shy again, walking towards her as she waited. She wore blue jeans today, a studded black leather belt, and a black shirt open over a white T-shirt. Even the loose shirt did not disguise her figure entirely, and the fierceness with which my body responded to the sight of her caught me by surprise. A touch of make-up at her eyes again. For me? I wondered, a smile of excitement twitching at my lips. I went over my appearance again in my mind: black jeans, sleeveless jersey top with an embroidered slash neckline. It had an ethnic feel about it that I liked but I'd not wanted to seem like I'd made an effort. Yes, I'd done my makeup too. So I'd made an effort. I just didn't want her to know it.

'Hi,' I said, smiling at her.

'Hello.' She grinned back. There was a new tension between us, but I had expected it to be there and it didn't frighten me. I only hoped to keep my composure and not reveal the turbulent emotions I had no chance of suppressing.

‘I made it,' I said, meeting her gaze for the first time, catching my breath as her eyes looked directly into mine.

'Not too hard, was it?' She seemed to mean far more than simply following the directions to the correct bus stop and I was sure both of us were aware of the implication in her question.

'No, not since it was the same bus,' I said simply. 'So, where are we going for lunch?'

'Hungry?'

'Yes, actually.' I was also keen for us to move on from the greeting, the standing facing each other on the pavement, wondering what to say next.

We walked silently awhile, down what was a largely residential street, with leafy beech trees at intervals along the pavement. Both of us were thinking, but the silence was companionable enough, despite the knots my guts were tying themselves into.

'Good few days?' she asked eventually.

'Eventful, actually,' I told her, 'especially yesterday. He came back for a start.' I saw her glance across at me for a moment.

'The one from the pub?' she asked. Did she sound slightly anxious herself? I wondered what it was that could have made that slight strain intrude into her normally laid-back tone. Concern for me? Maybe more than concern for me? I was conscious that I liked the idea. It was easy, I found, not to be so confused when I was by her side.

'Yes, and I sent him on his way. I'll tell you the whole story later,' I said, hoping she was reassured. She was quiet for a few moments as we walked.

'You know, you're going to have to suggest where we go next time,' she said at last.

'Yeah, sorry,' I agreed, pleased to think there would be a next time. I'd not thought much beyond today. It seemed oddly decisive, as though everything depended on the next few hours.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said, 'just I'm sure there're places you'd prefer.'

'I'm happy either way,' I assured her. I enjoyed seeing the places she liked, learning something about her through them.

'Well, it's just here,' she said, as we came to a shopfront. I saw it was a delicatessen sandwich bar, and I looked at the name above the door.

'A French cafe and an Italian sandwich place?' I asked her, raising my eyebrows. 'You're very Continental.'

'I just like places that are a bit different,' she explained. T guess I got used to the variety in London while I was there.'

Unintentionally reminding me of her worldliness compared with my own lack of it made her vaguely intimidating to me again. I smiled past it. 'Looks good,' I said.

Inside, there was a long counter, with a glass front, and all manner of sandwich fillings and salad, all very fresh and appetizing, set out to choose from. There was a delicious scent of garlic and herbs. Aly greeted the small dark man behind the counter as though she came in here often.

'Usual?' he asked her.

'Of course,' she replied.

'What's the usual?' I whispered to her, bewildered myself by the range on offer.

'Are you ready?' she asked, eyes laughing. 'It's an olive and rosemary focaccia, with smoked soft cheese, sliced tomato, basil, garlic mayonnaise, and parmesan slivers.' She looked at my expression. 'It took me some time to perfect the combination,' she confided. 'To begin with, I just went for tomato and mozzarella on ciabatta, with a drizzle of mayo.'

I watched as the man gathered up the ingredients to make her sandwich. He made it remarkably quickly, and handed her a plate. I wondered how on earth she was going to eat such a mountain, then felt flustered as he asked me for my order. 'Er,' I hesitated, 'I think I'll try the herb focaccia, with mozzarella, tomato, basil, and garlic mayonnaise, please,' I managed.

'Nice choice,' Aly said by my shoulder. I smiled and relaxed, finally.

Aly insisted on paying for lunch, since she'd invited me, she said. We took our sandwiches to one of the four round red-and-white gingham-covered tables set up in the small space in front of the counter. I was glad the cafe owner disappeared into the back of the building somewhere as we ate, since it was quiet in the cafe and everything I said and every movement I made left me feeling conspicuous while he was present.

'How the hell are you going to eat that?' I asked her as we settled.

'Just watch and learn,' she retorted. I did watch, as she crushed the bread between her fingers. A small amount of mayonnaise oozed from the side, but she merely turned the sandwich to eat that section first. How she opened her mouth wide enough to take a bite was a mystery to me, but somehow she managed, and then put the sandwich down, her mouth full and mayonnaise at its corners. I laughed at her, more at ease than at any other time in her company, and turned my attention to my more delicate sandwich.

The necessity of chewing the focaccia bread and managing the dribbles of delicious garlic mayonnaise kept us pretty much silent as we ate. Though I was forced to concentrate on my food, I couldn't help glancing up at her continually, looking away just when there was any danger of her eyes meeting mine. She seemed to make the air vibrate with invisible waves, I was so acutely aware of her presence across the short distance of the small table. When we'd both finished, and wiped at our mouths with the paper napkins, Aly took our plates to the counter. She waited there a moment, as I watched, apparently considering something, and then she came back to the table.

'You know,' she began, her eyes unexpectedly animated and her manner less relaxed than previously, 'I was going to order coffee. But then I thought, well, my place is only ten minutes' walk from here. Do you want to get coffee there?'

'Oh, the old coffee cliché?' I joked, before realizing what I was implying and turning red, a wave of embarrassed heat sweeping through me.

'I mean, if you don't want to, it's fine,' she added hastily, seeing my color.

'No. I mean, it sounds good to me. I'd like to see your place,' I said. My heart beat a little faster at the thought, and my stomach flip-flopped once or twice. But I did want to. The protective wall of my confused emotions seemed to have disappeared. I rose on slightly shaky legs and followed her into the street.

Chapter Ten

She had actually overestimated how far her home was from the cafe. It took barely five minutes of fairly rapid walking for us to arrive there. It was just as well, for as we walked, too quickly for much conversation, the sky turned heavy, promising a summer shower would soon fall. Her house was down a cul-de-sac of late-Victorian terraces. It was at the very far end, red brick and stern, though neat, with a pot of deep pink petunias in the small front yard. I hung back near the red-painted front gate as she took out her key and unlocked the front door. The click of the key in the lock sounded very loud. Everything met my senses more loudly or with a greater intensity than it should have done, as my legs weakened at the thought of actually being in her home. Alone with her.

'Come in then,' she said, leading the way, 'before it rains. Don't expect it to be very tidy though,' she added flippantly over her shoulder.

The front door opened directly into the living room of the house. I pushed it closed behind me and looked around with interest. I couldn't have imagined what her house would be like, but I wasn't sure this was it.

'It's rented, by the way,' she informed me as she saw my gaze travelling around the room, 'so please don't think magnolia walls and beige carpets are really my thing. I'm not allowed to decorate.'

'I wish someone would paint the walls of my flat,' I returned, glad she cared about the impression her home presented to me. 'Any color would be good. Landlord couldn't care less though.' I paid less attention to the decor, and looked instead at the elements in the room which seemed more to reflect her personality. A large, comfortable sofa, in crimson, with a navy fleece throw over one side; a tall bookcase, stuffed with books and bending magazines, in no apparent order; a stereo with a haphazard scatter of CDs surrounding it. The coffee table was of dark wood, with a plain clear glass vase filled with red tulips, their fleshy pale green stems left long, allowing them to droop gracefully, alluringly. There was a photographic journal resting near it, and a book with a creased spine open, face down. On one of the walls was a framed Impressionist print—my artistic knowledge was not good enough to tell me by which artist. A lingering scent of sandalwood incense pervaded the room.

Above the pine fireplace, the top of which was loaded with candles of varying colors and heights and a statue of a graceful black cat arching its back, was a very large photograph, vivid against its black background and dark oak frame. My gaze was drawn irresistibly to it: a broken string of pearls in the foreground, becoming blurred towards the back of the perspective, much larger than life; one or two crimson rose petals, with drops of water glistening on them, resting on the same white surface as the pearls, casting dark shadows; and behind them all, slightly out of focus, a red apple, with a bite taken out of it, a trickle of juice running from the white wound in its skin. An old-fashioned metal key, brown and rusted with age, rested close to the apple. It was such a simple picture, and yet so sensual, vaguely disturbing.

'Did you take that?' I asked turning to her, the impression it had made on me evident in my voice.

'Yes,' she said, and I saw the pride in her smile.

'It's beautiful,' I breathed. It was a word I rarely used, but nothing else would do it justice.

'I'm glad you like it,' she said softly, her eyes shining.

'What does it mean?' I asked, tearing my gaze from her face and back to the photograph, wondering if it could give me some further insight into her personality.

'What do you think it means?' she asked, coming to stand a little closer to me and regarding the picture with me, her head tilted to one side, as if looking at it for the first time, as I was.

‘I don't know,' I replied, worried that I wouldn't do the intrinsic meaning of her photograph any justice.

'Tell me what it makes you think about,' she prompted.

'Well, the apple makes me think of Eve and the forbidden fruit, you know...' I said tentatively. 'Or Snow White and the poisoned apple. But it's blurred, so maybe the meaning isn't certain.'

I looked nervously at her and found her smiling at me, an expression of pleasure on her face. 'Go on,' she said.

'I don't know...' I paused to consider. 'The rose petals and the pearls make me think of love and romance, and, well, femininity, but the pearls are broken and the petals look like they've got tears on them. They're blood red, which could be frightening or just romantic. And I'm not sure if the key is a bad thing, in that it could lock something away, or a good thing because it represents freedom...'

I turned to her again. She wasn't looking at her photograph at all now, only at me, her expression reflective. 'How did I do?' I asked with a nervous laugh.

'Perfectly,' she said softly before seeming to collect herself. T mean, you picked up on the whole point, things can always have more than one meaning. Something can be good and bad. Eve ate the apple and it gave her knowledge, an understanding of the truth even if she was expelled from Eden for it. Snow White found true love through being poisoned. A key can lock or unlock something.'

'So nothing is certain?'

'Something like that. Or more like things appear differently, depending on the perspective you're looking at them from. I keep this photo in here because I like to ask people what they see in it. Some people think it's entirely positive. Other people feel sort of threatened by it, like it's something sinister. One of my friends thinks it's about nothing but sex,' she laughed easily, 'which is exactly what I would expect of her.'

I smiled and found myself wondering just how many friends she had, and what they would think of me. I expected to meet them, at some point, I realized then.

'You're one of the only people who saw the double meaning in it,' she said. 'You saw what my intention was.'

'Oh sorry,' I said, T should have just gone with my first impressions, I guess.'

'Don't be sorry,' she replied. 'I like that you saw right through to what I was trying to achieve. You didn't just see the photo, you saw me too.'

Her expression became more serious and when our eyes locked the intensity was too much and I turned quickly back to the photograph, my throat tight, and unsure what to say anyway. I wouldn't have trusted any words at that moment.

'I can show you more of my photos later, if you want.' Her tone was dismissive, but I knew she was keener than that.

'That'd be fantastic,' I replied as casually as I could manage. I wasn't really seeing the photograph at all now, though I still stared at it. I was only aware of her, feeling her proximity as she stood close to me.

'But now, coffee?' she asked, more matter of fact than I felt, moving away from me slightly.

'Er, yes, please,' I said, pulling my gaze away from the photograph but not quite able to look at her.

'Milk and sugar?'

'Just milk, thanks.'

'You can come through, or take a seat here, up to you,' she told me. Not wanting to be apart from her, and not trusting my thoughts if I waited for her alone, I followed her through the doorway to her kitchen, where a window faced her small back garden, and there was a wooden door to access it. The house was really quite tiny, but the kitchen, with its pine units, seemed almost spacious.

I sat at the round table in the middle and watched as she filled the kettle and reached into a cupboard to find two mugs. As she stretched up, her shirt and tee rose with her arms, and I glimpsed the flesh of her back, smooth and quite pale. I looked away, uncomfortably aware that my hands were growing hot. I found a heady feeling of suspense pressing on me, as the silence between us grew. Even before I'd realized it, my eyes were back on her. I watched the movement of her fingers as she unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar and spooned coffee into the mugs. She paused and pulled at her loose shirt sleeves, revealing the skin of her forearms and that familiar cluster of bangles which jangled with every movement. I looked to her other unadorned wrist, noticing she wore no wristwatch, and was oddly fascinated for a moment by the structure of the bones where they were visible beneath the slightly tanned skin. My gaze slid over her hand to her fingers as she secured the lid of the coffee. The veins in the back of her hand were blue and close to the surface, as if she was warm and her body attempting to cool itself. Those hands looked so strong, so capable. I pulled my focus away from her to the surface of the table and drew a deep breath, trying to dispel feelings that were quite clearly out of all proportion. But they wouldn't be banished, and I couldn't help but look at her again as, with a rattle of bracelets, she reached up and pushed at a stray hair.

My eyes lingered on the back of her neck, watching the slight rise and fall of her square shoulders with her breathing, which struck me as a little labored. She did not turn to face me even when she had finished with the coffee cups, and I could not help but think she was hiding her expression from me, conscious that I was watching her. I knew, for both our sakes, I should break the silence between us, which by now felt as though it had stretched eternally, but I could think of nothing to say. She leaned on the kitchen counter; her stance appeared awkward, different from her usual relaxed pose. She drummed her fingers as though impatient, as the kettle began to hiss and gurgle, the water approaching boiling point.

She turned abruptly and I felt myself blush, as though she had caught me in the act of doing something illicit. I was almost frightened of what she might say. She looked at me and smiled slightly. I noticed her cheeks were colored too, and her gaze was less direct than I had become used to.

'You said just milk, right?' she said, as though it was an effort to say anything at all.

'Yes,' I replied. The tension between us was undeniable, and in our inability to say more than these simple phrases we both acknowledged it. She looked away from me and crossed the kitchen to fetch the milk from the fridge. She did not look at me again as she turned back to the empty mugs. Blue jeans looked damn good on her, I reflected. She adjusted her shirt sleeves again, as though she was uncomfortable, as the kettle boiled in a cloud of steam.

To ease the tension that threatened to suffocate me, I gripped my hot hands together and forced myself to look around me, away from her. Behind me was a door which clearly led to the stairway. Beside it hung another photograph, this time simply a close-up of an eye, the iris deep brown, with an indistinct reflection at the centre of it, which seemed to be something and yet nothing at all. It had a similar unnerving quality to the other photograph. I wondered if all of her photographs had that same indefinite edge to them. It was fitting, I decided, since Aly herself defied any attempts at precise definition.

I was contemplating this when suddenly she was beside me and I almost jumped to find her so close. She put a mug of steaming coffee on the table in front of me. I thanked her in a barely audible murmur, as she placed her own beside it, and flicked on the radio quietly.

'You don't mind do you?' she asked. 'I always have the radio on when I'm in the kitchen.' In her words I sensed a renewed effort to dispel the tension that had arisen between us, and, hearing that casual tone I had become accustomed to, I found I was able to turn my attention back to her without too much difficulty.

'No. I like to have music all the time too,' I assured her, forcing myself to speak more than one or two words and, in doing so, growing more relaxed myself. I was only sharing a cup of coffee with her in her kitchen after all. For God's sake, what was wrong with me?

She came to sit opposite me and wrapped her fingers loosely around her mug of black coffee. 'So, why was yesterday eventful then?' she asked.

'Long story,' I answered, rolling my eyes.

'The creepy guy came back?'

'Yes, he did.' I remembered the way she had tensed at that information earlier and studied her reaction for any sign of tightening, resolving to explain right away that I had no interest in Owen whatsoever, if she appeared dubious at all. However, she was merely looking back at me, waiting for an explanation, her expression casually interested. 'But that wasn't the first thing that happened,' I said, deciding to start the story from the beginning and thus make Owen a less significant part of it. I told her about the incident in the storeroom, even including how frightened I had been, and the mysterious pain I'd felt. 'You know,' I said, as I concluded the tale, 'if what we were saying before is right, and time is, well, layered on top of itself, then I'd say someone, in some time, is very unhappy.' I'd pondered this earlier, and dismissed it as illogical rubbish. Spurred on by her apparent interest, I wondered what Aly thought about it.

'That's not really surprising, since you're in a prison,' she reflected.

Then she grinned. 'Hey, maybe you're psychic or something, and you can sense these things, you know like the guy on telly.'

I laughed at the suggestion. 'I think it's all in my imagination, personally,' I returned, 'though, I must admit, I wasn't so sure then.'

'Perhaps someone's trying to tell you something from across the centuries,' she suggested lightly.

'Yeah, I'd consider it, but what? That they're in pain? To be frightened of something?'

'You'd think it'd be clearer, wouldn't you? If they were going to make all that effort,' she agreed. 'You'll have to see if anything else strange happens.'

'I'll keep you posted.' I laughed and, watching her reaction, went on. 'But I tell you what, I was on edge enough from that, really jumpy, I really didn't need a visit from Mr. Creepy.' She looked more interested in what I said now. I wondered what she was thinking, what signs she was searching for. It struck me suddenly that she had insecurities of her own, and my uncertainty thus far had done little to soothe them. I wanted her to understand that, when I was with her, my doubts disappeared, but I had no idea how to voice it.

'Did you bump into him in the library again?' she asked.

'No. Believe it or not, I caught him sneaking around right down in my part of the museum.' I related the whole story to her, from how I'd sensed he was there, through the details of our conversation, to his disturbing parting gaze. I only left out the fact that I had told him I was interested in someone else, since that was far too frank an admission of my feelings towards her than I was ready to make in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely.

'He's more than creepy,' she concluded as I finished. 'Do you think he'll be back?'

‘I really hope not,' I said emphatically. 'I mean, I'm sure I'm being too sensitive, but there was something not quite right about him, you know? And when he said he liked me in my costume, it made my skin crawl.'

'You think he got the message?' she asked.

'Seemed to. He looked pretty upset about it.' I shrugged. She was taking the whole thing rather seriously, when I just wanted to forget about him. 'Maybe he's a reasonable guy after all,' I added, hoping to ease the tone of the conversation slightly, 'just...misguided.'

She laughed gently, a mellow sound deep in her throat that my whole being responded to. Then she raised her coffee cup. 'Here's to escaping from misguided creeps!' I lifted my own mug and clanked it gently against hers. Our eyes met and stayed fixed for a moment longer than was comfortable.

'Jen?' she asked, placing her mug back onto the table, a level of emotion in her tone that was new to me.

'Yes?' I said in return, lowering my own mug, my eyes following it, wanting to look anywhere but at her. Slowly, she reached out a hand and touched it to mine, where it rested on the table. Again, her touch burned my skin but this time I did not move away. Her fingers moved against mine. I let them, heat pulsing from the place she touched and through my entire body. I felt sick and ecstatic in one moment. My breath quickening, I looked across at her, felt the draw of her dark eyes, saw the pink of her lips. There was a question she did not quite dare speak in her face, in her touch. The surge inside me was too powerful and something changed in an instant. I felt the release, an almost painful relief that made me dizzy for a moment.

'Oh God,' I said, pulling my hand away from hers and holding both of my palms to my burning cheeks. She was quiet, watching me. T don't know what to think anymore,' I said, voicing in one sentence the tension of six years, or longer. 'You make me feel like this,' I said, accusingly. Tears welled in my eyes. 'And I don't know what to do with it. I've always just ignored it, and now you're sitting there and I can't. I want it to go away, but I don't really.' My voice cracked and a tear fell, but I couldn't stop the flow of words, of emotions, I wanted to pour them into her, let her deal with them for me.

‘I know I was wrong, but I'd got used to being wrong. Until I met you. It's only been a few days, not even a week, which is stupid, how can I know? I hardly know you! But I feel like something's changed in me. And I want you'—I paused, shocked by the frankness of my admission, before going on—'and I don't know how to deal with it. I've never felt quite like this before and I want it to be a secret again. But I can't make it go away. I've never felt so fucking uncertain about anything and so sure about it at the same time.'

She listened to me patiently through this. Now she reached for my hands and took them both in hers. This time, they did not burn me; their warmth was soothing. 'Jen,' she breathed, 'it's not easy. Believe me or not, I know what you're feeling.' She stroked my fingers with hers and my skin tingled, the sensation spreading along my arms. 'And, if you ask me, you're more certain than you think you are. But it can take time. You have to come to terms with it.' Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. I felt less like she was advising, more like she was confiding. She gripped my hands more tightly. 'But it doesn't have to be so complicated,' she said, 'if you don't want it to be.'

Her words were alluring in the gentlest sense. Her long lashes were black against her cheek as she closed her eyes for a moment, as if a thought had crossed her mind that she was uncertain whether to share with me or not. She raised her gaze to me and smiled. I tried to return the smile, though my lips trembled. Now she took one of my hands and enclosed it, warm in both of hers, and brought it up to her mouth. I was paralyzed, my eyes fixed to her face, barely daring to breathe as she kissed the tips of my fingers with the slightest contact of her lips. I felt her breath against my skin and I shuddered. She must have felt it through my arm. Then she released my hand and I missed the warmth of her touch instantly. I ached for her in all of my body. But the ruins of the walls that had held me back so long were still there, cold and hard inside me, just enough to stumble over. I looked past her and out of the window.

'It's raining,' I said unevenly. The drops were large against the pane. She turned to look.

'So it is,' she replied. A moment's pause, then—to my surprise— she stood up and shrugged her way out of her shirt. My gaze followed the angles of her shoulders, the movements of the muscles in her arms. Her arms were more tanned than the skin that stretched smoothly over the hollows of her collarbones and the base of her throat. She wasn't wearing a bra and I saw the shadows of dark nipples beneath the white fabric of her top. It had risen a little way above the waistband of her jeans and that studded belt, revealing the slightest hint of the pale skin of her hips and toned stomach. I forced my eyes back to her face and saw her eyes shining. I watched, hypnotized and curious, as she opened the back door and looked out at the rain. She took two or three steps outside, face turned upwards to the sky. The heavy drops made darker blotches on her clothes, ruffled her hair, streaked silver over her bare skin. She stretched out her arms and I was transfixed by the movement of every muscle and tendon beneath her skin as she did so, by the contrast between the pale skin on the inside of her forearms and the more tanned skin outside. I watched her, sitting motionless in my chair, not questioning the eccentricity of her actions, simply captivated by her.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14