Chloe (44 page)

As she came through the stone, the sunlight clung to her and caught on something shiny, shooting liquid silver into William's eyes. Her brooch. Familiar. Why not! But he didn't have time to think on it now. Chloë pressed her back against the stone and closed her eyes so that the sun could embrace her face fully. It defied the pervasive scent of winter and brought with it the reminder of summer, the promise of spring. She could feel just a whisper of breeze breathe over her cheek, lifting a lock of hair and gently laying it down again. She felt beautiful.

Do I look beautiful too? Does he find me so?

She opened her right eye and saw William.

He does. And he is lovely himself.

He came close to her, his gaze swallowing her whole.

He is now going to kiss me.

Cautiously, William stretched out his hand until his fingertips rested lightly on her shoulder. He came a step nearer and moved his hand to course the curve between collar-bone and breast. Closer still; with his forefinger, he traced the lines of her brooch. Lightly, quickly and deftly. He stepped towards Chloë once more, until his feet stood either side of hers. His heart seemed to be pounding in his throat but he had forgotten how to swallow. Then he let his hand drop further until it quite covered her left breast and he left it there for a tender, delicious moment. Chloë's soul surged and she could discern her heartbeat deep between her legs. William could feel it too, but under his hand, through her clothes, beneath her breast.

The instant he eased his hand, he saw her eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. They told him: please, leave your hand, touch me still, touch me there!

I want to.

I want you to.

He knew then that she wanted to be touched as much as he wanted to touch her. Her lips were parted, his eyes were glassy and burning.

Kiss me, William.

I am going to kiss you, Chloë.

Now.

Right now.

The gesture was as spontaneous as it was long awaited; a moment's desire that was momentous, an instinct that was far-reaching.

William's face nears Chloë's, the sun is blocked yet her beauty is not compromised. Eyes are open; they press their lips against each other and the relief that courses through William mixes with the delight that fills Chloë. They are saturated with emotion and share it at once. Soft lips lightly against each other, the sensation of another's breath on the skin, eyes so close that focus goes, cold noses touching. Instinctively, the kiss changes from one of tenderness to one of passion and, opening their mouths, they gorge themselves on each other's taste.

Chloë knots her fingers around the belt loops of William's jeans and guides him close against her. She feels abandoned and comfortable. Oh, how he fits! William places one hand on her neck, the other is enmeshed in her hair and holds her as close to him as he can. His erection presses against the seam of his trousers, and against Chloë's stomach; the sensation is fantastic for them both. Their tastes are distinctive and they find each other delicious. They hear sounds, involuntary expressions of warmth and desire. They are hungry and they have never been so full. The rock supports them and the sun allows them to kiss on, despite the diminishing afternoon. Deserted November affords them the privacy; the spirituality of the place, the prayer. One kiss against an ancient rock will give shape to their foreseeable futures. They knew it to be so before it happened. And after, they are content that it should be.

W
illiam blamed Barbara. And then he blamed Mac. If Barbara had only shown her customary distaste and accompanying aggression, he could have denounced Chloë as just-another-woman. And if Mac had not propounded the theory of blissful happiness, William could have remained blissfully unaware of its existence and all the panoply that went with it. And though he blamed them both and cursed them liberally, he did so with an easy smile and a glint to his eye.

It was all their fault, bless them.

Their fault entirely and oh! was he grateful.

Only, he couldn't work under such pressure, with such a distraction, and it wasn't long before this nagged him.

‘You can't
work
? Dear boy, that's not like you,' exclaimed a startled Mac on seeing William at his doorstep three days in a row; offering, predictably, a bag of Good Life goodies.

‘I know,' William growled, flouncing down in a chair and holding his head in his hands.

‘How's that Chloë girl?' Mac asked with a carefully contrived edge of innocence, not telling William that she'd visited him the day before. William's face shone and his eyes danced. Much in the same way as Chloë's had, Mac observed.

‘She's fine.'

‘Lovely girl.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Might she not be the reason for your lack of motivation? Subconsciously at any rate?'

‘Mac!' William exclaimed, off his guard and suddenly wanting to be back on it.

‘Forgive me,' Mac declared, ‘but she
is
your girlfriend, isn't she? And aren't you, er, rather more than just
fond
of her?'

What? Girlfriend? Who?

William felt suddenly rather compromised; half wondering how Mac knew, half doubting whether he wanted it to be public knowledge. After a careful silence though, he confided in Mac that he was pretty happy. Mac slapped him on the shoulder and ruffled his hair.

‘Good,' he declared, ‘jolly good.'

As he watched William walk – no, that was more of a swagger – to his car, Mac remarked to himself that it would not be long before the boy was using a far stronger adjective.

Girlfriend
? thought William later, mesmerized by a winter sunset.
What sort of a word is that!

A rather descriptive one, surely.

‘Girlfriend,' he said tentatively, seeing if it fitted his tongue. How it tasted. He laughed sheepishly. It tasted sweet.

‘But it sounds so corny!'

The surface of the water way below swelled and glinted. A gull bobbed along.

‘Bird!' he said.

‘Babe!' he said.

‘Chick,' he cried sarcastically.

Better than ‘lover', William, isn't it?

‘If I have a girlfriend,' he reasoned later with Barbara, thawing his hands under her coat, ‘if she is known to others as my girlfriend, it means that I'm having a relationship. A proper one.'

So?

‘Am I ready?'

The thought of not being ready, of losing what was coming into focus the more he saw of Chloë, made him shudder and decide he was more than ready. He went directly to his studio and decided to make her a teapot.

William and Chloë, however, did not acknowledge between themselves that they were now a couple, an item, that they were seeing each other, dating, that they were in a relationship, going steady. They were taking things very steady indeed; just spending time together, enjoying simply kissing. There was a newness for both of them, a beam of light magic they had not experienced in their previous entanglements. Neither wanted to rush through this stage. There was so much to talk about, so much to find out. So much to savour. It was fun to grow.

I'm not going to waste too much time on bloody Morwenna.

I don't think it's necessary to tell him about Ronan's sculpture.

Chloë and William had taken to settling into the kitchen chairs at Peregrine's Gully, taking sips from great mugs of scalding, sweetened tea in between telling each other more about themselves; listening without prejudice to one another and imparting unchecked. Such sessions invariably started with them sitting upright and conversing animatedly, mugs cupped in their laps and ears peeled. They usually ended with Chloë resting her head on the table in the crook of her arm, while William propped his face in his hands though it squashed his features and slurred his speech.

‘Morwenna really wasn't a big deal to me – I was a bigger deal to her, she and her thirty per cent.'

‘You toy boy, you! Is this teapot
really
for me, William? It's gorgeous. Ronan made a sculpture for me, well, for Ballygorm; rather funny actually, in retrospect.'

‘Yes?'

‘Mmm.'

Chloë, however, always returned to her digs, whatever the time and usually by bicycle. William invariably accompanied her by car; little toots and the full beam from his headlamps lining and lighting the way. She did not speak to the Andrews as regularly; Gainsborough had finished the portrait and November saw the couple spending more time indoors in front of the fire in the library. Similarly, her letters to Jasper and Peregrine became shorter and fewer. Not that they minded.

‘Must fit in with her life now,' Jasper commented.

‘Now that she has such a full one down in Cornwall,' Peregrine furthered, holding a single page of paper with writing only on the one side.

‘She doesn't say much about her
boyfriend
,' Jasper rued, ‘just that he's a “tremendously nice fellow”.'

‘She doesn't have to – and with this much space left in her letters,' Peregrine declared, brandishing the piece of paper again, ‘we can read all we wish between the lines with ease.'

Back in her bedsit, Chloë would gaze out over the sea, ebony and silver, and ask it what to do next.

I adore him, I do. And I desire him. I want to sleep with him, heavens I do, but I know I'm holding back. Why is that? I can't seem to let go. Why can't I? Is it that the slip-road from Cornwall might disappear if I do?

The sea never spoke to her. But it was always there for her, swelling and moving, in and out, high tide and low. Consistently, constantly. Lovely; how she loved it.

‘C
hloë!'

‘Mrs Andrews – it's been an age. How
are
you?'

‘Freezing, my dear. We've – I mean, I've been getting intimate with the fire in the study – I can't bear to be apart from him. Er,
it
. Tell me your news – how's the potter fellow?'

‘He's well. I – Mrs Andrews, I'd love to talk, truly I would. Only I'm late as it is. I'm on my way to see him, William. My potter fellow. We're going to have a quick bowl of the soup we made yesterday and then we're off on a walk. Can I catch up with you later?'

‘Oh please do. I'm dying to know. I crave details, my dear, you know how I crave details.'

Chloë Cadwallader's bicycle, hitherto her metaphorical trusty steed, today let her down. Not gently, but with a rather uncompromising lurch and crash. With all those gears, and those sturdy tyres, she had decided to cycle cross-country. It was against National Trust rules. She should have known. In fact, she did; so it served her right.

Why?
she chastised herself as she found herself in a heap, precariously close to a large thatch of gorse, her cycle on its side a few feet away, its front wheel spinning futilely.

Why? It was hardly much of a short cut anyway.

Perhaps you just wanted to get to Peregrine's Gully as quickly as was logistically possible?

Possibly. But now look at me. I've torn my jeans and scratched my knee.

And you've got bits in your hair too. Never mind, it won't matter to William.

William caught sight of Chloë trudging up the path. He left the soup burbling away and walked briskly towards her, Barbara in tow.

‘Oh Chloë! Crikey – you OK?'

‘I'm fine,' Chloë said clearly, brushing away William's concern and Barbara's inquisitive nose.

‘You're late,' he said, taking the handlebars from her and gently pulling a leaf from her hair. ‘I was worried.'

‘I had to walk the last two miles,' she explained, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his trousers.

‘Are you hurt?' he asked, scouring her face and laying the back of his warm hand against her chilled cheek.

‘No, just cross,' she assured. ‘Bloody bike. Silly me.'

William propped the errant cycle against the side of the cottage.

‘Oh bugger,' he said, ‘the soup! Listen, you pop upstairs and put yourself back together. There's TCP in the cupboard under the sink, plasters too – or there should be.' He sent Chloë on her way with a gentle pat to the bottom, returning his attention to their soup, whistling merrily.

The TCP stung but there was no need for plasters. Not that there were any; Chloë had a good rummage. She was hot, but no longer bothered, and flung off her jumper and T-shirt while she ran a basin of water. She plunged her arms into the warm water. And then stood very still. And somehow knew she should just stay there. Just as she was. And wait.

Downstairs, William stopped his whistling. He looked into the saucepan and gazed at the surface of the soup phut-phutting without really seeing or hearing it. He felt as if something, some force, was pulling him; he was drawn out of himself though his head was clear and he knew himself very well. He left the soup, left the wooden spoon in it too. Almost in a daze, he left it, still simmering, and made his way measuredly to the bathroom.

Chloë in a vest. Her face hidden by her hair. Stooping over the basin, sponging her neck while the water trickles over her arms like tiny rivers running their course. Chloë in a vest. Nipples defined. Jeans cinched in at the waist. Water on her arms. Her face hidden. Arms slender, pale. Porcelain? Perhaps.

The sound of William clearing his throat. Chloë turns. His handsome, brawny face; hair tousled. Wicker basket. Her hair falls away from her face, one or two auburn swirls catch and remain there. The sight of her. And of him.

Chloë and William observe each other. In silence, rock steady, intently. The only movement comes from a rivulet of water coursing from Chloë's neck, across her shoulder, over her chest and under her vest. Has it stopped? Where? Between her breasts? More than likely. Let me see. Come and check.