Redemption Song (12 page)

So she has a sense of humour after all. She’s mocking herself.

The tide was in so they sat on a promenade bench on the far right-hand side of the bay. As far away from the manse as possible, Joe noted. Saffron led the way, almost skipping along the prom, gaining speed as she went. It was the child in her surfacing again and it made him smile even though he was glad of the seat when she finally stopped. She unscrewed the cap of the wine, raised the bottle, and said, ‘Cheers,’ before drinking from it.

She passed it to Joe. He shuddered as he swallowed. The wine was tepid. He’d checked the fridge at Bargain Booze but the spotty teen in charge had forgotten to restock it. ‘Bleugh. Tasted better lighter fluid,’ he gasped as he offered her the bottle.

‘What did you expect for £3.99?’ But she smiled as she spoke. She’d insisted on paying her way and didn’t have much cash; she’d scrabbled half the amount together from loose change at the bottom of her bag, which seemed to contain almost everything a woman could need aside from a purse. ‘No point,’ she’d said, shrugging, ‘can’t use my card anyhow. No money until my first wage packet from Wynne’s.’ Joe didn’t own any plastic, not any more, not since he’d moved here.

‘This,’ he held the wine aloft, ‘is almost undrinkable.’

‘Are you used to the finer things in life? A delicate Sancerre, or a passable Pinot Grigio?’ she said.

He pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. Had he given that much away already? ‘Actually, I prefer beer.’

‘Figures.’

So maybe she hasn’t got me sussed after all.

‘Suppose you’re used to roughing it, being a student and all.’ He took another swig; it didn’t taste quite so bad this time and the alcohol running through his veins was taking the edge off the chill in the air. He’d offered his hat to Saffron and though she’d refused, he’d not put it back on, aware it didn’t suit him as much as others he owned. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wishing he’d shaved.

Saffron took the bottle from him and drank, long and deep. Clouds drifted across the horizon revealing a scarlet sun, low in the sky, its reflection warming the pewter sea. Wet with wine, her lips gleamed as she pulled the bottle away from her mouth.

‘Oh, I could use a cigarette right now,’ she sighed, gazing over the water.

‘No chance.’

She turned and raised her eyebrows.

‘So it’s true what they say about medics. Heard the rumours at college but was never sure if that’s all they were: rumours. There was a medical school next to the university but I never mixed with the doctors,’ he said, aware he’d revealed a whole host of detail without thinking. He couldn’t explain why, but he trusted her.

‘What’s true?’

‘Work hard, play hard. Doctors drink more than average, smoke more. Live dangerously. Suppose it’s being surrounded by death.’ He lifted the bottle to the light to see how much was left. Just under half. Christ, they’d necked it quickly. She’d be sick again if he wasn’t careful.

‘You’re not going to believe me – after last night and now this – but I’m not much of a drinker.’ She tried to suppress a smirk.

‘You’re not much of a doctor.’ He could hardly believe he’d said that. What an idiot. Did he really want her to hate him?

She laughed again. Her face softened and glowed, and those blue eyes sparkled, and he wanted to make her laugh again and again. But he didn’t know any jokes and wasn’t often witty. That was a one-off, a fluke.

‘Actually,’ she said, wagging her finger at him, ‘I went into a hospital today. First time in … aw, Gawd knows ’ow long,’ she said in a fake cockney accent, voice slurring a little.

‘You’ll make a medicine woman yet.’ He shifted closer. A waft of patchouli blended with the iron tang of the sea.

‘You make me sound like a witch.’ She slugged from the bottle and he’d meant to suggest she took it easy but she was too fast and he didn’t want to sound boring.

He pointed at her hair. ‘Why do you dye it?’

‘I don’t.’ She shook her head, pouted, playful and flirtatious. ‘I dye the roots to confuse people.’

‘Must be a pain.’

‘I like pain.’

The urge to kiss her was powerful. She was smart and sexy, and no matter how much he told himself she was messed-up and dangerous and nothing but trouble, he was drawn to her. Impossibly so. At first, he’d thought it was as simple as straightforward lust. It had been a while. She was good-looking and young and around. He’d not been near a woman, let alone touched one, since … forever. And he’d not wanted to, till now. It had been easy to axe all thoughts of women and sex – OK, easy-ish – but no more. There was something about Saffron he found hard to resist, and it irked him.

She slid along the bench and leant forward. Their faces only centimetres apart. She was definitely drunk. ‘I bet you like your women all natural. Blonde and tanned, small and curvy. Feminine. All woman.’ His chest tightened at the mention of small women. But desire overrode the discomfort. He ached for a kiss, to be able to turn back the clock to the night before, when they’d leant against the railings a little further along the promenade, staring out to sea. When she’d pressed her lips against his. When he’d frozen, unable to respond.

He could smell the wine on her breath, sweet and warm. What an idiot he’d been. And now she was toying with him, taunting him. He knew it; she knew it. And it was almost fun. Almost. A blurred line between pleasure and pain.

‘How did you guess?’ he said, looking directly into her eyes.

‘I’m psychic. I’m a witch, remember.’

They were so close, only the bottle between their thighs kept them apart. The air was thick with desire and temptation and dropped barriers.

It would be so easy. Lean forward, cup her chin and place your lips on hers.

He was stuck. Unable to move to her or away from her. ‘Wicked witch? Or good?’

‘Bad. Most definitely bad.’

He moved towards her face.

With only a hair’s breadth between them, she leapt to her feet, snatched the wine, and declared, ‘To the beach!’ She raced to the gap in the railings, to the crumbling concrete steps to the beach, stumbling and weaving. He staggered after her. It was a bad idea to let her go near the water, she was drunk, tipsy at best. The tide had retreated but the water was perilously close. A gust of wind seared his ears.

At the bottom of the shingle-covered steps he caught her arm. She leaned away from him and they were trapped in a rope-free tug-of-war. ‘It’s not safe,’ he cried, the wind whisking his words out to sea.

‘Live dangerously, you said,’ she laughed, her hair swept across her cheeks, blown up off her forehead, tendrils silhouetted against the horizon. Her forehead was smooth and broad. Aristocratic. Like a princess.

And that was it. He propelled her, hard, towards him, and kissed her salty, wine-sweet lips.

Live dangerously, he thought, waiting for the slap.

It never came.

Instead she folded into him as he did into her, even the sound of the waves fading to nothing as he lost all sense of time and place. Everything except this moment, right here, right now, the taste and smell and feel of her.

Her lips parted and she kissed his top lip, his bottom lip, slipping a hand round his neck, raking her fingers through his thick hair. He wrapped an arm round her waist and they pressed each other into their bones. A wooden toggle on her coat jabbed into her hip bone. The wine bottle thumped against her thigh.

He pulled away suddenly. Saffron longed to grab him by the collar and heave him back, but she was disorientated, unsteady on the shingle and dizzy with wine and desire. She toppled. He caught her with both hands, steadying her, before releasing her. She rested against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing. Too embarrassed to look at him. Why had he kissed her and then pushed her away? Did her breath stink? Was she a useless kisser? The silence that had felt so comfortable earlier was now unbearable.

‘What did I do?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She opened her eyes – a chink – and gazed at her feet. She could see his boots in her peripheral vision, round-toed, steel-capped no doubt, the hem of his jeans folding on the brown leather. He wore his jeans low on the hip, she recalled, remembering the shape of him from the back – the slim hips and shapely backside that even a pair of baggy jeans couldn’t disguise. Disappointment strangled her; she could not speak.

‘I shouldn’t have done that. It’s taking advantage. You’ve necked that wine, in a short space of time. Even if you’re not actually pissed, your judgement isn’t as it should be.’ He paused, hoping for a response, she imagined. Well, she wasn’t going to give him one. He was wrong.

He tried again. ‘I’d be lying if I said I’d not be happy with a rebound kiss … whatever … I would. But in the end, I don’t think you’d be happy. It would make you miserable.’

She looked at him, the clawing in her belly stealing throughout her body, scratching away at muscle, tendons, sinew, nerves. ‘So you’re doing this for me? How very gentlemanly. How very generous and selfless. How do you know I wouldn’t be grateful for a pity shag? Sorry, kiss.’ She saw him flinch and wanted to retract her vulgar, unkind words. But how could she? How could she explain that she liked him,
really
liked him? She’d been unfriendly almost every time they’d seen each other.

How could she explain that she wasn’t grieving; at least not in the way everyone thought she was?

Chapter Twelve

Ben wasn’t the love of Saffron’s life. She had been infatuated, for a time, flattered, and she certainly loved him, but not in the way she should if she was to spend the rest of her life with him. She had never been
in
love with him and while they might have spent a long and superficially contented life together, she wasn’t prepared to settle for that. Not at twenty-something, maybe not ever. This uncomfortable truth had revealed itself only weeks before the accident, when, with finals out of the way, wedding preparations had gathered pace and a distant event with a mirage-like quality was fast becoming a reality. It was early June, and the wedding was booked for late July, before Saffron was to begin her foundation year.

As a scientist and pragmatist, she knew Ben was a perfect mate. He was healthy and strong and intelligent; he radiated alpha-maleness. Good hunter, good provider, good father. His gene pool was faultless, aside for a lack of faith, Rain had said; only half-joking, Saffron suspected. All her friends were attracted to him and men admired him. Her parents, especially Rain, adored him. Both rational and level-headed, Ben and Saffron rarely raised their voices at each other, let alone argued. Theirs was a perfectly balanced, harmonious relationship.

Doubts first stole in during the choosing of the venue for the reception. Ben had suggested a room above a pub. It was cheap and convenient, and they were running out of time. But Rain had spoken with a friend from church, a congregation member with an enormous house on the common in Dulwich. This friend had offered her garden, and marquee, and when, under duress, Saffron and Ben had gone to take a look, the daughter was there with photographs of her own wedding reception held in the garden. It was decorated like a fairy glade and afterwards, as they wandered back to the station, Ben had mocked the overblown romanticism of the affair. ‘Jesus, it looked like something a glamour model would have gone for! And that dress! Fuck! She looked like she’d stepped into a candyfloss factory explosion. And what a total knob-end in that top hat and tails!’

Saffron sniggered in agreement, but inside she’d been thinking about the joy in the woman’s face when she’d shared the photographs, the love in her voice as she spoke of the day, her husband, the arguments they’d had over the colour of the flowers and which drinks to serve. Saffron couldn’t imagine ever feeling the same way about her and Ben’s day, feeling as much love for Ben as this woman did for her husband. She radiated it, even just looking at photos of the man. Saffron had thought the image of someone radiating love clichéd and unbelievable, but there it was. Saffron had turned to gaze at Ben. He was a prime specimen and Saffron observed him in much the same detached manner she would a jar in a science lab, or a body on an operating table.

Over the weeks, these feelings grew. She began to notice how friends behaved with boyfriends and lovers. How husbands and wives reacted to news of their loved ones, good and bad, in the hospital. She questioned if she had ever felt such depth of emotion for Ben, and concluded that she hadn’t. They were a habit. At almost twenty-three? Anxiety gained purchase. She spoke with Rain, obliquely, about her concerns. ‘Pre-wedding jitters, that’s all, Saffy. We all get them,’ her mother had said. But Saffron felt sure it wasn’t and she could ignore it no longer.

They’d been invited to a party, out in the sticks – somewhere in Kent – and the last train was the thirty-three minutes past eleven. During a visit home, Saffron had mentioned their dilemma. Stephen offered to collect them but Saffron was insistent. ‘Dad, it’s miles. It’s a Saturday night. It might be late, and you’ll have to drive us up to my place and then back here. We’ll take Ben’s car. I’ll drive. No problem.’

‘I don’t mind, Saff. Do anything for my favourite daughter.’

‘Your only daughter.’

She hadn’t planned to speak with Ben that night, but there was a fight, in the garden, boyfriend and girlfriend, a couple she didn’t know. They went for each other like a pair of wild cats. Screaming, shouting. Like most people Saffron left them to it and went inside for another orange juice. She was sick to death of the stuff but tap water was the only alternative. She searched for Ben who she’d not seen in a while. Sure he wasn’t inside, she pulled on her cardigan and drifted out to the garden again. All was quiet.

The garden was huge, more like the grounds of a stately home than someone’s house. She plodded across the lawn, her uncomfortable heels sinking into the spongy grass (why on earth had she worn heels? Had Ben insisted? He hated her boots) and walked through the arched doorway in the wall, past raised vegetable beds, and towards what she had been told was the pond. ‘More like a lake,’ Ben had whispered in her ear.