Chloe (45 page)

William steps towards her, she turns her gaze back to the basin. Slowly, he approaches. Her breathing is fast but silent. She gazes at her hands underwater, distorted a little, at the base of the sink. He's here. Behind her, William presses his body very gently against hers, encircling her waist with his dream-worthy forearms, brushing the side of her neck with his nose, tasting the tip of her ear lobe with his tongue. He unwraps his arms and, while he kisses her more fervently on her neck which she has now instinctively thrown back, he runs his fingertips up and down her bare, damp arms. Up and down. She has goose-bumps. Her fast breathing is audible. She can't reach any part of him to kiss so she presses her neck strongly against his face. While he murmurs his lips against her neck, he feels down the length of her slender arms, from shoulder to wrist, until both sets of hands are deep in the basin. His fingers are distorted too, but they are also interleaved with Chloë's in the warm, limpid water.

She makes a little gasp, involuntary, unaware of how seductive it sounds. William takes his hands from the sink and swiftly to her breasts. Sudden sound and movement. The drag and splash of water. Chloë wet but hardly breathing. William twirling her towards him. He brings his face in line and takes her mouth first with his eyes and then with his lips. He is holding her wrists and she is kissing him back. She frees an arm and grasps the back of his head so that she can kiss him more deeply and taste him better. She finds she is starving. Never has she been so hungry. He has swooped her tight close to him.

They stop a moment to regard each other. Her pupils are huge, her cheeks are rosy and her sweet, short breathing whispers over him. Her arms are still damp, her chest rises and falls. She cannot know how alluring she is in her damp, funny, sensible vest which both hides and heralds her breasts. William places his hand softly on her shoulder and then lets it slip down in a simple, fluid movement. The journey to her breasts may be short but it is exquisite. He feels her body pitch as he cups his hand over one, a perfect pip of a nipple pushing through cotton to be at the centre of his palm.

A small smile at one corner of her mouth accompanies her swift removal of the garment. And so Chloë stands before him, semi-naked, her upper body slim and milky in comparison to her lower half, jean-clad and enticing. William sweeps his hands over her torso, so lightly, all over. He watches her close her eyes and swoon. Another dusting of goose-bumps prickles over her arms. Lips part imploring to be kissed. Nipples stand to attention and crave it.

My pleasure.

Mine too.

As William encircles Chloë in his arms, she brings her hands to her breastbone, as if in prayer. No, not in prayer but to unbutton William's shirt. His chest immediately. No T-shirt. No vest. Isn't it smooth! A bloom of hair over his stomach and down into his trousers. So masculine. Never seen; only imagined. William runs his hands from her neck, down her arms to her fingers; lightly, he pulls her towards him while he steps backwards. He is sitting on the edge of the bath and gathers her to him, between his legs. His hands at her buttocks. Her hands either side of his neck. Again she kisses him; letting him have her tongue, then taking it away so she can graze the side of his mouth. She has a hand enmeshed in his hair, the other unbuckles her belt. William unzips her jeans and pushes them down.

Chloë is wearing blue-and-white stripy knickers. Never seen; never imagined. They turn him on. Her stomach is flat but her waist dips and her hips curve. Everything about her is sinuous and beautiful, his desirous eyes tell her so. She looks at him, sitting on the edge of the bath, his leg muscles clearly defined under his trousers, his chest wide, his stomach rippled, no ounce of fat. A bulge in his lap. It excites her. She reaches her hand out tentatively but stops midway; he grasps it and they complete its course together. They feel his hardness and desire through the fabric; their breathing quickens and gazes glaze. William stands up.

He's so much bigger than me.

She's so small and precious.

Chloë helps him unbuckle his belt, not that he needs assistance but just because she wants to knit fingers again. As he bends to remove his trousers, she does the same. She leaves her knickers on because he stands before her resplendent in his. Boxer shorts. Thank heavens! Plain, crisp and white. They fold into each other again, her skin has cooled and he is lovely and warm. She can feel his cock pressing against her and she opens her legs a little so she can push her crotch against his thigh. All the while, they kiss. They can hear the noise it makes and it increases the fervour they feel. Now Chloë is sitting on the edge of the bath and William notices how her stomach curves a little. Like a beautiful vase; porcelain. Or perhaps she is carved from marble. No, she is too warm and soft to the touch. She is drawing him towards her. She is easing down his boxer shorts. He sees his cock spring out into the air and it excites him. And her. She bends her face over his groin. He is unsure where her mouth is, behind all her hair, but he hopes it is near. He cradles her head against his stomach and sees the tip of his cock appear through a tangle of russet ringlets. He steps away a little. She is looking up at him. He holds her face in his hands and strokes her, from her forehead, over her cheeks, down to her chin. She takes his hands away and holds them. She holds on to his gaze too, until her head is too low. She kisses his cock tenderly and lightly. Licks a little, here and there. He gasps and groans softly. The sound of him emboldens her. She sucks more deeply, more of it. He grasps her shoulders and lifts her away, pulls her up from the bath and bites the apple of her cheek gently.

‘I want you,' he murmurs. She can't reply. She is near delirious with lust and too full of excitement. William leads the way from bathroom to bedroom. Bare and clean, uncluttered and conducive. Chloë can see the sea. Oh, what a room! She goes to the window and gazes away, hearing William throw back bed covers somewhere in the distance.

‘Chloë.'

His voice is soft, low. She turns. He sees her silhouetted, her contours classical and more beautiful than ever he had imagined. More perfect and flowing than he could ever hope to throw in clay. He slips down between the sheets and holds a corner open for her. She walks over to him. He steadies her arm as she removes her blue-and-white stripy knickers. He rummages under the covers and presents her with his boxer shorts, white and crisp, warm too. She places them with care, together, on the bedside table and sidles into the bed, next to him. She's home.

T
he soup burned. The pot was ruined. The kitchen smelled strangely of caramel. Toast and marmite was nice enough, fortifying too. As timetabled, they ventured once more to Carn Galver, just a little later than they had planned. Once again, they didn't quite reach it. They strolled back with apologetic glances to the mountain. A brave entourage of pony-trekkers snaked into the distant hillside. Chloë pointed and said nothing.

‘Wish you were in Wales?' asked William, moving his hand in from her shoulder so that his thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

She shook her head adamantly but clasped his hand against her face as she did so. The memories were sweet to her, but old. Past.

‘Rather be on horseback?' he suggested, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand before returning it to her shoulder.

Chloë smiled and shook her head again. They walked on quietly.

‘And Men-an-Tol more than suffices,' she said suddenly but only half aloud, concluding a long conversation she had just had with herself.

‘Hey?' asked William, making her stop.

‘Sculpture!' she declared, wide-eyed and artless. ‘No need for Ireland and sculpture trails – Cornwall seems to be one vast sculpture park! From the granite boulders lining the way from Zennor to St Ives, to the standing stones. From the forsaken mines to the giant masonry of the cliffs –'

‘Wicca Pinnacle!' interrupted William.

‘Zennor Quoit!' agreed Chloë.

‘The Tate at St Ives,' reasoned William.

‘Hepworth's garden!' settled Chloë.

She walks on, holding out her hand that he might take it. He slips his hand into hers and her fingers fold around his, like daisy petals at dusk.

‘So,' he summarizes, ‘no to Wales and to horses; no need for Ireland and no call for sculpture gardens.'

‘No,' says Chloë.

‘Scotland?' he asks.

‘Scotland!' she sighs mistily. He falls silent and they walk on. He daren't press her. He needn't.

‘Too far,' she says kindly. He looks puzzled. ‘From you,' she whispers while her eyes dance and she touches his lips with her gloved hands.

‘From others?' he pumps.

‘Others?' she asks.

‘Nearest and dearest?'

‘
You
are but two feet away from me!' she laughs, a little embarrassed. His smile and his sparkle tell her she needn't be.

‘Those dear are not near,' she explains, ‘but they could not be dearer were they nearer. They live in the four corners of a kingdom united by Jocelyn. Even if they were all in one place –' she hovers, ‘and if that place was not here – still would I stay.'

Chloë breathed in the coconut scent of the gorse and implored William to do the same. She ruffled his hair and stroked his back as he bent tentatively to the flowers.

‘You see,' she said, ‘I had to stand up straight and all by myself here – possibly for the first time ever. I'm not overconfident, or very ambitious, certainly I'm not that sociable. I've always quite
liked
to be told what to do, where to go. Oh my Jocelyn! And to an extent, she did just that – right up until Cornwall. She sent me to the Gin Trap, who asked me to accompany small children on horseback. She told me to go to Gus, and he ordered me to phone these people, type this letter, order this, organize that. Then she sent me to Fraser, and he told me to take drinks out to the wedding party in the garden; then what colour to paint which room! And though I feel I began then to see a way to express myself, I'd invariably turn to Mr and Mrs Andrews for guidance in moments of even the slightest doubt.'

‘Mr and Mrs Who?'

‘Andrews,' said Chloë in a matter-of-fact way.

‘The only couple I know by that name are a pair of Gainsborough toffs residing on a wall at the National Gallery!'

Chloë smiled to herself and then over to William. ‘I thought you might,' she said fondly, ‘and they are the very same.'

William interrupted her with a kiss.

‘Chloë-Chloë-Chloë!' he chanted like a sea bird. ‘The Girl Cadwallader!' he declared. He shook his head in amazement and gave a little snort, as if crediting some great coincidence or remarkable revelation. She was so sincere, and that she spoke from her heart solicited his own even more. He slipped his hand into the back pocket of her jeans and gave a little squeeze.

‘What?' she laughed, skipping in front of him and then walking on, backwards.

‘That you should have an eighteenth-century couple, albeit painted, as your confidantes,' he caught up with her and touched her nose with his, ‘and that I should have a goat as mine!' They walked on, marvelling at their eccentricity, their affinity.

‘Anyway,' she recapped easily over the interlude of goat and Gainsborough, ‘Cornwall and no one. Nothing to do! But I found a little job, all by myself. My comfortable digs. All on my own. I began to make friends with strangers; making my own introduction. And then I found that I had Number Three. The kaleidoscope was still for once, and presented me with a lovely pattern that I really liked.'

She kissed William. He kissed her back. She raised her eyebrow and he winked at her.

‘And what'll you do with Number Three? Any ideas?'

‘Loads,' she laughed, ‘but only one that I think is really feasible.'

‘And what's that?'

‘To enable people to venerate the coving and admire the skirting-boards, of course.'

‘And how'll they do that?'

‘In a comfortable chair with a mug of coffee or a cup of sweetened tea!'

‘What? Just sit there and stare at the walls?'

‘No, silly! Well yes, if they want! I thought, in the true tradition of St Ives, that Number Three should share its pleasing proportions with people who will be nourished by them. I'll do the garden too, so they can sit outside in the summer. And have a think. Or a day-dream. Whatever!'

‘So, a Tea Shoppe,' said William, unable not to sound disappointed.

‘Heavens no!' scolded Chloë, ‘just Number Three. I'll sell coffee and books, tea and tables.'

‘Tables?'

‘To write on – poetry, letters, music, fiction – whatever their calling!'

‘A space conducive to those of artistic sensibilities!' William mused, delighted.

‘Precisely,' said Chloë.

‘Rather than to those in search of fat scones and clotted cream!' William continued, grasping the idea and not wanting to let go.

‘Exactly.'

‘Niche in the market,' he congratulated, his beam telling her he thought her quite brilliant.

‘But,' said Chloë slyly, ‘they
can
buy the mugs from which they drink!'

‘Don't tell me,' William groaned jovially, ‘bedecked with pixies and glazed in Cornish sludge.'

‘But of course,' she defended, ‘anyway, Mac's behind me all the way.'

‘I bet he is,' laughed William, ‘and what's his cut?' Chloë wrinkled her nose and her eyes sparkled. William pressed her nose gently with his thumb. Inside, she danced.

‘New books?' he asked, plucking some marram grass and tucking it behind her pretty ear where it became as beautiful as any flower might have been.

‘Not practical,' she reasoned, ‘coffee blotches and tea stains would render them second-hand before they were even bought first time around.'