Rumours (35 page)

Being with someone about whom he cared, someone who mattered – that it mattered to him what they thought. Sex was easy – with Siobhan it had been so easy it was facile, indelicate. Here, today – Stella right here, it all seemed portentous. Sex with someone he hadn't cared for had been a great way to end an evening. You come – they go. But now, about to make love with Stella for the first time, he anticipated a beginning – that something which had been germinating for a while, would now break through the surface and grow.

‘What are you thinking?' Stella asked shyly.

‘That I want you – that I'm really ready for this.' And his words carried her upstairs to her bedroom.

He let her see to her room, to close the curtains and take the scatter cushions from the bed, placing them in a little pile on the chair. She folded the throw and draped it over the top of the cushion stack, then she took the top two pillows and put them on the floor, revealing another two underneath. And Xander thought, I bet she does this every night, all methodical in her ways. Four pillows, plumped daily, though she sleeps with only one because she sleeps alone. And it's been a while for her.

She shrugged – as if there was no more faffing to be done and could he possibly remind her what came next. He went over to her, running his hands down her arms till he held her hands and drew her close to kiss, slipping one hand up under her T-shirt and along her back. God, her skin was whisper soft. She pulled her top off and Xander drank in the sight of her, thinking to himself how misguided all these lingerie manufacturers were because, to him, a plain white bra was it. He sat on the edge of her bed and, with his hands at her hips, pulled Stella towards him and brought his lips to her skin. And Stella thought, I am well and truly ready for this. And then she thought how there was nothing else to think about.

Getting naked. At first, a gentle fumble with each other's zips and buttons but as more flesh was revealed, the greater the urgency and they resorted to undressing themselves and be done with it. Folding into each other for the first time, skin against skin, all the scents, every sense wired. Standing for a while, just tracing fingertips up and down each other while kissing gently. So far, so chaste. But as tongues probed, and Xander's fingers discovered Stella's nipples erect, and Stella felt him grow against her, their touch changed to eager fondling and delving and they fell on to the bed. The intoxicatingly perfect contradiction of the softness of a woman, the hardness of a man creating a heady impatience. So when Xander, tactfully, slowed the pace of his hand as his fingertips skimmed over her pubic hair, Stella parted her legs and pushed herself into his touch. Moist and warm, her mouth, her sex; fingers, tongues, deeper. His cock was straining for her, her grasp so tantalizing because as good as it felt, it served only to imply that her pussy would be even better.

It's been a long time for her.

Xander on his back, Stella on top, his hands in her hair, holding her face away, smiling at her. She dipped her face to his to kiss him awhile before locking eyes and lowering herself slowly until finding the tip of him. Pushing down just a little, a little more. Xander's hands – one cupping her breast, the other fondling the curve of her buttocks, tracing the split in between them. His cock now deep inside her, the intensity of the sensation stilling them both for a caught moment, before releasing them into companionable writhing and shared desire. Her orgasm was soon building and he could sense it, not just from the familiar clues of hastened breathing but from the feeling of being sucked into her, a snugness enclosing him, pulling him deeper as the gasps she made correlated to the intense pulsing around his cock. Spent, she softened, her body fitting against his, her face buried in his neck, her heart still racing, her breathing fast. Her skin a-tingle and damp, every now and then a little involuntary squeeze from her sex.

As Stella lay there, in a small heaven of Xander's making, he ran his hands up and over her body, every dip and curve increasing the commotion charging a straight pathway from brain to heart to stomach to balls and back again. Jesus, he needed to come. Slowly at first, he began moving into her again, soon enough feeling Stella join him, both of them pushing and bucking, hands everywhere, lips and tongues and teeth. She could sense Xander's build-up, that his come was imminent. There hadn't been time for mention of condoms. Timing it instinctively, Stella exchanged her sex for her mouth and as Xander came he thought how his future did too.

‘Good God, woman,' was his opening gambit, a while later, when the power of speech returned.

‘Blimey,' Stella agreed, snuggling into the crook of his arm, stroking the dark hair which was lightly sprayed over his chest and tapered becomingly down his stomach. He encircled her wrist, his other hand enmeshed in her hair, his lips pressing gently against her forehead. He felt not simply replete physically but so comfortable. Sleepy and yet not sleepy – just a level of cosiness and comfort which was at once energizing and yet calming. Alert, alive, peaceful. Romantic, he thought, that's what I'm feeling. And then he thought, you soft bastard. And he smiled at himself and thought, so what.

‘Beautiful arms,' he told her. She looked up at him, obviously chuffed. ‘Nice tits, too,' he added and her laughter was joyous and contagious.

‘It's not even six o'clock,' Stella marvelled. ‘How decadent.'

‘I know what you mean,' said Xander. ‘Good planning, though – we can do it all over again later on.'

‘You'll be up for that, will you?'

‘Cheeky bitch. Feed me well, I might make it your lucky night.'

Stella laughed. ‘Arrogant sod.'

‘Stroppy cow.'

‘You
always
say I'm stroppy.' Stella thought about it. ‘And I'm not always stroppy.' She pouted becomingly and he kissed her nose. She settled against his chest and listened awhile to his heartbeat. ‘You were bang out of order that day at Longbridge.' She recalled him belting towards her.

‘I know,' he said. ‘Looking back, I fancied you even then – though you infuriated me. Or possibly because you infuriated me.'

‘It wasn't me infuriating you – just what you assumed I stood for.'

‘I know. I'm sorry.'

‘It's OK,' Stella said.

‘Obviously,' said Xander, running his hand down to her bottom and giving it a squeeze. ‘Otherwise I doubt you'd have just let me do all those unmentionable things to you.'

She giggled. ‘I have to admit, I felt like some self-possessed nympho in my eagerness to palm off my son to my best friend so I could leap into bed with you.'

‘You were rather bloody good – for someone who claims to be out of practice.'

‘You weren't too bad yourself,' said Stella.

And Xander thought, would I ever tell her about Siobhan? Would it be necessary? How utterly inconsequential all that now seemed to him. It almost bemused him how, at the time, he thought he had one up on all his conventionally married or shacked-up friends. Actually, thinking about Siobhan now – the situation they manufactured – it wasn't just unsavoury, it was a little sad too. He regretted it. He couldn't imagine Stella doing that. And, with her in his arms, he was pleased about this. Happy that it was this type of set-up he wanted most. He kissed her.

‘What's in your fridge?' he asked.

‘Is that a euphemism?'

He laughed. ‘If memory serves me correctly, fridges are cold and you –' He ran his hand over her body, down between her legs. ‘You are hot.'

‘Why do you want to know what's in my fridge?'

‘Because we were meant to be buying the ingredients for dinner – only you dragged me off to bed.'

‘– with you protesting all the way.' She laughed. ‘I'll rustle up something. Or we could call for a takeaway. Or go out if you like – though nowhere near here is as nice as the Black Ox.'

‘For what it's worth, nowhere tonight would be as nice as simply staying here.'

Stella soared. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you – when I was at Longbridge the other day, guess who I met! Verity!'

And in an instant, she felt Xander stiffen as if his blood had not just run cold, but had momentarily stopped flowing altogether.

‘
What?
'

‘I met Verity?' She felt suddenly uneasy. Xander had pulled away from her and was staring at her. ‘She was at Longbridge,' said Stella. ‘On the swing. I hadn't a clue who she was – no one else was around apart from this consortium who were viewing.'

‘You only tell me this
now
?'

Stella was stumped. Xander practically leapt out of bed and was rushing into his clothes. What had she said to cause this reaction? ‘What are you doing? Xander?' She sat up, gathering the sheets to her.

‘I'm sorry,' he muttered, only glancing at her. He was distracted, irritated. There was a sense of unease, of urgency. He was going. He was missing a sock. ‘I have to go.'

‘I didn't –' Stella was audibly upset.

‘I know,' Xander said, as he made for the door. ‘I know. You wouldn't know. But I have to go. Sorry, Stella – I'll call you.'

And with Stella still in bed, in as much of a confused scramble as the sheets around her, Xander left her house. She was utterly bewildered, having absolutely no idea what any of it meant, whether any of it was her fault. Something was deeply amiss. She was on her own on the one night she believed she wouldn't be and she felt wretched. After two years alone and a prolonged period of hell before that, the recent glimpse of what might now be her due had been nothing but a mirage. It had all gone belly up and she couldn't fathom why.

Fuck you, Xander! Don't you bloody dare dick me around.

For an hour, Stella kept her mobile phone to hand; checking the screen, checking that it wasn't on silent mode, that the volume was on max, that she hadn't somehow missed a call or a text. At half past eight, she switched it off in disgust. She toyed with the idea of not just phoning Jo but driving on over, knowing that her friend would be there for her, with Doritos and houmous, wine and wise words to say about all of this. But Stella stayed put. There was something humiliating about what had just happened – she'd misread a situation horribly. What an idiot. Told you so. But she also felt hurt, and dreaded telling all those who were in the wings, rooting for her. She didn't want their sympathy or their support because actually she'd rather they didn't know. What distressed her most was what she perceived to be her own inability to correctly read the situation. Truly – and slowly, sensibly – she'd allowed herself to acknowledge Xander as lovely, trustworthy, normal. It turned out she was wrong. All that nonsense her friends and family had spouted that, post-Charlie, she'd be older, wiser and more adept at telling princes from frogs. She was rubbish at it. Even now, sitting in on her own on a sorry Saturday evening, she just couldn't see where the warning signs might have been posted.

Feeling piqued was better than feeling blue. And, in a right old strop, she sat there thinking everything was crap. Apart from Xander: he wasn't just crap – he was a shit. Yet it just didn't feel cathartic, nor did it bring with it any empowerment because somewhere, deep down where she refused to look, something simply didn't add up. The Xander she'd come to know, whose company she enjoyed, whose personality she clicked with – and the intrinsic messages he'd given her through his own shyness, the tenderness of his kisses, the power of his lovemaking – just didn't sit well with the Xander who had bolted from her bedroom just over an hour ago. But there again, she chastised herself that she couldn't trust her own judgement so, for the time being, she was best left stomping around and muttering.

I could have fallen in love with Xander. Thank God I didn't.

But perhaps you already have – and that's why it feels as bad as it does.

When her doorbell rang at ten o'clock, she knew it was him but she remained on the sofa, determined to place a thick-skinned layer of stubborn defiance over the stupid scatter of deranged butterflies which had suddenly taken wing in her stomach.

The letter box flapped up.

‘Stella. It's Xander.'

His voice tired, grave.

Don't answer! Don't you bloody dare!

She didn't hear the lid flap down.

Don't look, don't turn, don't even look to see if the front door is reflected in the television screen.

‘Stella.'

He's still there. Stupid bastard man.

The lid flapped down.

Shit.

No! Don't let that be your reaction! Think, good! Think, good riddance. Think, sod off.

The doorbell rang again and up flapped the letter box.

‘Stella, for God's sake. Your phone is off – I've been trying you for an hour.'

So what. Go away.

‘Go away.' She wasn't sure she intended to say it out loud.

‘I understand.' His voice was a little hoarse. ‘I understand. Look, it's not simply that I can explain – and that of course I want to, for my own ends. It's that I want to share something with you because you, of all people, might just understand. And want to know.'

What is he going on about?
So
full of crap.

‘Stella?'

She told herself, he has been trying to phone. She told herself: he has come all the way back. She thought, he is grovelling at my front door. She told herself, you ought to hear him out. Then she thought, no – done that before. It doesn't work, it's the first weave of what soon becomes an entire doormat to be walked all over. No. Never again. Go away.

‘Jesus. Please. I've bought a curry.'

I'm not hungry. The saliva, the rumbling stomach – it's Pavlovian, that's all. Because we mentioned a curry earlier on, that's why. That's what we were planning. Before he behaved like a bloody bastard sod.