Redemption Song (17 page)

She stopped again and turned to face him. ‘I can’t go back to being the person I was before.’

He didn’t know what to say. He knew exactly what she meant but he couldn’t tell her that. It might lead to questions. Questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever. ‘Are you hungry?’ he said, holding up the bag. Grease had seeped through the paper, creating shiny, transparent patches.

‘Doesn’t exactly look appetising,’ she said, screwing up her nose and looking considerably less noble than earlier. More cute and sexy and approachable.

‘There’s a sandwich too. Brown bread. Cheese and piccalilli.’

‘The yellow stuff? Yuck.’

‘Ever tried it?’

She shook her head.

‘Then you must. It’s surprisingly good, despite the radioactive shade.’ He moved to the promenade wall, crouched, and placed the bag on the shingle. He smoothed pebbles and marine debris with his palms, creating a flat area on which they could sit. The exposed sand was ever so slightly damp.

‘I’m really not all that hungry.’

‘But it’s lunchtime and you’re thin. That part of the new you, too?’ He parked himself on the spot.

‘You’re very personal, aren’t you?’ She stood above him, staring down at him, through him, and he began to regret starting this conversation. He went to reply but before he could apologise, she bent, took hold of the bakery bag and sat down. From her pocket she pulled out an anti-bacterial handwash and doused her hands. She offered him the bottle of gel. ‘Old habits. Always carried these on the ward,’ she shrugged. She handed him the sausage roll and picked open the plastic sandwich container, pulled out half and took a large bite. She didn’t take her eyes from his as she began to chew.

It was clearly an effort and as she swallowed, he said, ‘Not your favourite? Something to take the taste away?’ He pulled the ring off the can, the hiss of escaping gas incongruent against the sound of the lapping waves, gulls, and the breeze gusting round his ears.

She took a large swig and shuddered as she swallowed. ‘I’m not keen on fizzy drinks either.’

‘What do you like? Apart from cheap wine and the occasional cigarette?’

‘Neither of those things really. I don’t know. I liked blackcurrant cordial as a child and snakebites as a student. And I used to love shepherd’s pie and roast chicken.’

‘I’d have had you down as a veggie.’

‘What about you? I’ve told you all about me and I know almost nothing about you.’

It was bound to come to this. He could hardly have expected her not to ask questions. He wasn’t prepared to lie. Not to her.

‘I like meat, video games, history, bats, and art. Sculpture, mostly.’ He pushed himself upright and took a drink from the can. ‘Sand’s wet.’ She noticed he didn’t wipe the rim as Ben would have done.

‘Most blokes I know like video games. Let me guess,
Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto
. Bats? That’s weird.’

He laughed.

‘History. That’s interesting. Any particular period? And sculpture. Favourite artists?’ She’d found history quite dull at school, though she’d got an A* like the other nine subjects she’d studied at GCSE. History was too much like a story for her liking and so it reminded her of the Biblical fables she heard over and over as a child. She’d been hopeless at art, though she’d enjoyed visiting exhibitions.

He brushed sand from the seat of his jeans. ‘You know lots of blokes then? You must have done at medical school.’

‘Actually, more women study medicine right now and don’t change the subject. Which period?’ She clambered up. It was obvious he wasn’t going to sit down again and she supposed she should think about making a move. Wynne’s called.

‘The usual. The wars and all that.’

She raised her eyebrows in mock disapproval, though she was a touch disappointed. How predictable.

‘But I’ve a new book on the Celts. Boudicca and all that. Looks great.’

Had he sensed her disappointment? He wanted to please, she thought. She hoped. ‘You like strong women?’

‘Yeah.’ He extended the vowels as if unsure where she was leading him. ‘Though not axe-wielding, murderous types.’

She laughed but inside a little part of her shrivelled. She wasn’t strong, she was anything but.

‘Look, this is fascinating, but I have to get back to work,’ he said.

Why did he do this? Withdraw just when she thought they were getting somewhere? Perhaps he didn’t like her. Perhaps he was being nice because he had to be, because he was working for her mother. But she’d seen the look he gave her from the roof. Had she really got it so wrong? ‘Yup. Me too, I guess.’

As they returned to the high street, Joe asked if she’d spoken to her mum about Ben. Ashamed at her cowardice, she fudged her reply, and said that she’d not really had any time alone with Rain. ‘Our house has a constant stream of visitors and she’s out a lot.’ She was about to expand on this when a familiar voice cut through her excuses.

‘Hiya!’

Ceri waved from across the road and yelled, ‘How you doing? Nice to see you, it’s been ages.’ She leaped into the road, stopping the traffic with an aggressive wave of her arm, as if it were the drivers who were in the wrong rather than her.

‘I love the way she pronounces “you”. Eifion, the labourer, does the same,’ Joe said, waving back at Ceri.

‘Me too,’ Saffron whispered.

‘Fancy seeing you here. You not hot in that coat, Saff? Flippin’ boiling it is, today.’ She fanned herself and Saffron wondered how Ceri fared in the summer when she assumed it genuinely did get warm. March wasn’t even out and it snowed in April, occasionally, according to the locals. Barely stopping for breath, Ceri continued. ‘I am SO glad I bumped into you. I’ve got a job – I know – incredible, isn’t it? Looking after a couple of brats three days a week.’

Saffron wondered what kind of a parent might leave Ceri in charge of their children, lovely though she was.

‘I know, I couldn’t believe it. Offered it to me straight away. References and CRB check dependent, of course. I did a trial – took ’em down to the play park, whizzed ’em round on that wheel thing, pushed ’em on the swings, played tag, bought ’em an ice lolly. Bloody knackered I was but they liked me!’

Joe was laughing. ‘I bet they did,’ he said.

‘I didn’t take any shit from ’em either.’ She beamed at Joe. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is let’s go out for a celebration drink. All of us? My treat. Tonight.’

Saffron paused, wondering if Joe would agree.

‘I’m not sure. You two probably want to catch up? Girl talk and that?’

‘Bollocks. We’re not girly girls. Nice to have a man about.’

Saffron glanced at Joe. She didn’t want to share him, but if it was the only way to see him again … And she wanted to see Ceri, very much.

‘Maybe,’ he said.

Ceri beamed. ‘Great. Eight o’clock. Y Castell. Be there.’ And off she skipped.

‘OK. I have to run,’ he said. ‘Have this. You might get hungry later.’ He passed Saffron the bakery bag.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘See you later then.’

‘Maybe.’ He smiled and walked away.

She drifted towards the shop wondering why he wouldn’t commit. She threw the bag in the bin by the entrance, flattened her windswept hair, and prepared for Mrs Evans.

Chapter Sixteen

‘Right, get that down your neck.’ Ceri plonked a pint of lager in front of Saffron.

‘Not sure I can drink all that. A half would have been fine,’ she said, eyes darting round the pub, settling on the door. He wouldn’t come, she knew it. Might as well accept it and enjoy the night. Ceri was great company.

‘Do your best. All I ask. Cheers.’

Saffron raised her glass, beer slopped over her fingers. ‘Congratulations. Here’s to a long and successful career in child-minding.’

Ceri spluttered, spraying lager over the table. ‘Bollocks to that. I want the low-down on our man with wood before he arrives,’ she said with a glint in her eye. ‘What is going on with you two? I’m mad jealous, of course, but as a friend I have to say well done, he’s bloody gorgeous, he is.’

‘There’s nothing going on.’ She took another sip, the beer tasted bitter and harsh, the slight fizz shooting up her nose and into her brain. She shuddered.

‘That’s rubbish, that is. I see the way he looks at you. Have to be blind not to.’ Ceri emptied almost half of her glass in one long gulp.

Unable to reply, Saffron stared at her drink, heat rising from her breast, creeping up her neck. So she hadn’t imagined it, after all. Pleasure and guilt stole to the back of her throat. She tried to take another drink. The smell made her heady. She forced it down, allowing the rush to dizzy her mind further. She didn’t deserve such happiness, did she?

The feeling of joy didn’t last. Though she had expected it, Joe didn’t show, and her disappointment was crushing. Friends of Ceri’s turned up shortly after ten and though Saffron knew this was a perfect opportunity to make new connections, friends even, she used it as an excuse to bow out of the evening. Ceri was too drunk to make a concerted effort to persuade Saffron to stay, but wobbled to the door with her to say goodbye.

‘Sure there’s a perfectly good reason why he’s not here,’ Ceri slurred, an arm draped over Saffron’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you fret. Love is in the air, I know it.’

‘Thanks, Ceri. You’re a pal.’ They were both mistaken; Joe didn’t like her. She suppressed an urge to cry.

‘I meant to ask. Have you met my dad yet?’ Ceri leant against the door frame, propping the door open. Saffron heard cries of protest from inside the pub. The night air was cold. ‘He’s working on the chapel. First job in ages. He’s so grateful to your mother I think he might convert!’ Ceri laughed.

‘How bizarre. What a coincidence.’

‘Not really. Small place. Everyone knows everyone, and their business. See you!’ She fell back into the pub.

Everyone except for Joe, thought Saffron. No one seems to know much about him. Or me.

As Saffron turned the corner, tears pooling, a combination of the sharp breeze and childish disappointment, she caught the outline of a figure sitting on a garden wall up ahead. A figure she’d recognise anywhere.

‘Joe?’ Her voice quivered.

‘Hope I didn’t make you jump.’ He stood.

‘How long have you been there?’ She moved towards him, swallowing back her tears, determined he should not notice.

‘A while.’

She stood before him, his face half lit by the street lamp.

‘A long while. Walk with me?’ He extended his hand.

She took it.

Weaving through the twisty back streets of pastel-coloured houses, they climbed the rise into Upper Coed Mawr in silence. There were no words to describe the feeling between them, no words Saffron could find. She focused instead on the sensation of his hand wrapped over hers and was glad she hadn’t worn gloves. He felt hard and warm and tender; calluses on his fingers rubbing against her untarnished flesh. Every now and again, he would give her hand a small squeeze, one of reassurance, or encouragement, but for what Saffron didn’t know, or care. She just liked him pressing himself into her finger bones.

A fox’s cry jolted them from the magic of the walk, the floating up the hill. Joe turned to look over his shoulder and whispered, ‘There he goes.’ A dog fox slinked across the road, following the call of the female. Saffron gazed up at Joe, a tug in her belly, a weakening in her spine. Kiss me, kiss me, she longed to say. But he wasn’t watching her, instead he looked beyond her and she wondered what he thought, what he felt, his inscrutable features giving nothing away.

Joe couldn’t look at Saffron. He felt her gaze, like the sun on cold cheeks, but he didn’t dare turn and lower his eyes in case they revealed too much. Instead, he allowed himself to be swallowed up by her scent – musky, heady, sexy, unmistakably her – to be consumed by her presence. Intoxicated and woozy, he closed his eyes.

‘Look at me,’ she urged.

And it was impossible to resist her demand.

He swept her ragged fringe from her forehead and ran his fingers from her temples to her chin. He bent forward and his mouth met hers in a kiss. A kiss like he’d never kissed anyone before. A first kiss. No, his first kiss was a let-down. Sixteen years old, at a party held at Freddy’s parents’ house while they holidayed in St Tropez. A girl: beautiful, heavily made-up, drunk, she’d tasted of vinegar and nuts. Saffron’s touch promised passion, peace, danger, release. Contradictory, unpredictable, irresistible. He wanted it to last for ever.

She craved Joe like nothing and no one before. Was this what love felt like? Was this what people meant when they spoke of an almost unbearable ecstasy? Or was she confusing it with infatuation? And how did people tell the difference? She was falling from a cliff, out of control. Unstoppable.

No. She could not lose control.

She pulled away and embarrassment enveloped her. Was he able to sense her need, her fear? He hadn’t let go of her hand. He rubbed his thumb between the metacarpal bones.

‘Let me show you my home. Let me cook for you. Feed you,’ he said at last.

‘What, now?’

He laughed, quietly, and let go of her hand. Cold air brushed her palm, but like an amputee who claims to feel the missing limb, she imagined he was still there, like a glove, shielding her. ‘Tomorrow. About eight. I need time to get the ingredients … Decide what to cook.’

‘I don’t know where you live.’

‘I’ll draw a map. Drop it through the letterbox tomorrow morning, before you go to work.’

‘An address? A telephone number?’

‘I’ve only a work phone. Don’t use it for anything else.’

‘You could make an exception?’ Why didn’t he want to give her his number?

‘Not yet.’

She didn’t ponder on his foibles. He’d asked her to dinner – like a date – and she wanted to jump up and down, squealing, like a kid on their birthday.

Stay cool, Saffron, stay cool.

‘You’ll find my place. Don’t tell anyone.’

‘I won’t.’

He kissed her again, chastely, on the cheek and said, ‘I’ll walk you to your door.’

Her mum was already in bed, reading her Bible, as she always did before she fell asleep. Saffron popped her head round the open door and offered to make camomile tea, knowing she would find it hard to sleep. Rain thanked her but declined.