Pillow Talk

by Freya North

  ‘Oh darling, I am sorry. Friends are up there for the next week or so,’ Charlton said. Petra looked crestfallen. ‘It's free for most of July though,’ he added because July was only a fortnight away. Petra just about managed to muster a thank-you before she fled the gallery.

  She looked about her and suddenly hated London, felt trapped. Ignored Mrs McNeil when she heard her voice saying, Everything happens for a reason.

  I can't pursue my dreams if I'm stuck here in sodding London.

  And then she thought, Who needs Charlton when I have Jenn?

  ‘Of course you can come!’ Jenn said. ‘That's bloody marvellous, that is. Nige is doing Saturday morning tomorrow and some poncey school thing tonight so you and I can paint the town red, girl. Or we can have a takeaway washed down with plonk and do our nails and watch crap TV. But there again, it's karaoke night at Chapters and I am not known as the Dancing Queen for nothing, you know. When does your train arrive? I'll collect you from Northallerton – I'm visiting a client in York anyway, so I'll be passing.’

  When Jenn finally paused for breath, Petra managed to slip in that Arlo didn't know she was coming.

  ‘Will you be wanting to see him tonight, then?’ Jenn sounded bereft already.

  ‘He doesn't want to see me at all,’ Petra told her.

  Although it lasted just a second or two, Petra could feel how thoughtful Jenn's pause was. ‘Oh.’ She paused again. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Petra, ‘I think you very possibly can.’

  * * *

  It was on seeing Jenn that all the fighting spirit Petra had experienced on the train crumbled into the need for a long hug and a short, sharp sob.

  ‘Come on, chuck, let's get you home,’ Jenn said. ‘Plenty of tea and sympathy. Or, if you prefer, wine and a whine.’

  Petra had been to Jenn's house in Yarm a couple of times before. It was small, but stylishly done, with white walls and knocked-through rooms giving a sense of space and calm; expensive scented candles, silk scatter cushions, luxurious cream tufted rugs and framed Joe Cornish photographs giving the atmosphere of a boutique hotel. Petra compared it to her own flat. Yorkshire pounds obviously went much further than London pounds. But what was the point mulling over such a fact when Petra couldn't afford to buy in London nor, it seemed now, was there any reason for her to be even thinking of property up here.

  ‘I need to phone the office, pet – you run yourself a bath and have a good old soak. Have yourself a glass of wine. Go on! It's Friday night. I am.’

  There were two bedrooms upstairs. The master double looked out to the front and had its own door to the bathroom. The spare bedroom looked out over the back-to-back courtyards, Jenn's having a table, four chairs and a bright pink parasol squeezed amongst pots of flowering annuals. After her bath, Petra lounged on the bed, running her hand over the crisp white linen, admiring all Jenn's touches: soft voile panels, creamy velvet curtains, little girly knick-knacks, limed oak furniture, everything spick and span. Petra had to admit that actually this was preferable to the Old Stables. She knew that too much navel-gazing was not good for a person and that while Jenn would happily navel-gaze alongside her for a while, she'd probably end up suggesting Petra pierce hers and offer to do it for her after another six glasses of wine. No. The Old Stables would be a step backwards. This trip up north was to be about finding ways to move forwards.

  They didn't go to Stokesley. They didn't go out at all. Jenn had crept upstairs to find Petra asleep and had let her rest until 9 p.m. when she woke her with a Hurry up, love, ours teas are getting cold.

  Clearing away the takeaway cartons – with Jenn decanting leftovers onto a plate and shamelessly admitting it would be her breakfast the next morning – they took their wine into the front room and flopped, replete, onto the sofa. Jenn burped under her breath. Petra matched it with a belch of her own at which Jenn clinked their glasses and said, That's my girl.

  ‘Do you want to tell me the nitty gritty?’

  Petra shrugged. ‘There was someone else,’ she said, wondering how she could be ambivalent without either hurting Jenn's feelings, doing a disservice to Helen, compromising Arlo's confidence or making him seem like a sod.

  ‘Not that old slink at the school? She's leaving anyway.’

  ‘No, not Miranda,’ Petra said. ‘Someone else – a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh God, the ghost of first love?’

  ‘I think she made things very difficult for Arlo,’ Petra said carefully, ‘because she really wanted things to last.’

  ‘Silly cow.’

  ‘Well, not really. I mean, they were actually engaged. But he called it off. Please don't tell Nigel. Ever. Whatever happens.’

  Jenn marked an ‘X’ over her heart with her index finger. ‘Is she still on the scene?’

  Petra looked at Jenn and thought, What do I say now. If I say no, that's true enough but is it enough truth? ‘No.’

  ‘Is she a bunny boiler?’

  Petra had to smile. And then it vanished. My new best friend. It's so much worse. ‘She died.’

  ‘Bloody hell, bloody bloody hell.’ Jenn thought about this as she replenished their glasses. ‘It's a commitment issue,’ she announced. ‘He'll be thinking, Oh God, I love this woman but look what happened last time. So he's doing what all little boys do best – running away and hiding in a flipping tree with his hands over his flaming eyes. Daft bastard.’ Jenn paused, her eyes glinted, she lowered her voice theatrically. ‘He may even be worrying that you'll die.’

  Petra's face told Jenn that she hadn't considered this.

  ‘You did the right thing belting up here, pet,’ Jenn said, chinking their glasses. ‘You know, in my vast and colourful experience, I have come to the conclusion that all boys are daft bastards. It's actually down to us to tell them how they're feeling. Bless them – they wouldn't know otherwise. They wouldn't have a flaming clue.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Petra borrowed Jenn's bike and promised she'd update her by text or a phone call at the earliest opportunity. Jenn had managed to subtly find out from Nigel which teachers were on Saturday morning school. Arlo's name was not mentioned and Petra wanted to intercept before he made headway into any plans he had for the day. The first part of the route, from Yarm to the school, was unfamiliar and was thus easier, somehow, for Petra to ride. The latter part was the same as from Stokesley, and though the road was straight and relatively flat, pedalling felt arduous. Petra's body seemed to be putting more energy into adrenalin production than into powering her legs or her lungs.

  The gate. The intercom. She knew her way around it. In the distance, a Walley Brother, skulking around with a wheel-barrow heaped with God knows what under a tarpaulin flapping about like a dead bird's wing. Boys washing the mini-bus. Boys playing cricket. Howzat! I don't know, I don't know at all, I don't know what I'm meant to say or what he's going to say when he sees me. I don't know how it's going to go.

  She knocks at the folly.

  ‘It's open,’ comes the reply.

  In she goes. She closes the door. She's alone in the sitting area. She loves this place. Don't look – not just yet. Don't tempt fate. Don't muck this up.

  Arlo comes through from the bathroom, bare-chested, a towel around his waist, another towel in his hands, wiping his face dry though he's inadvertently missed a glob of shaving foam on his jaw. He continues to wipe his face as if he's unsure what expression will alight there if he stops. He's wet, little rivulets coursing a crooked path between the hairs on his legs.

  ‘Hullo,’ says Petra and she gives a shy wave, for emphasis.

  ‘What are you—?’

  Petra shrugs. Turns her head to look through to the kitchen because she can't quite look him in the eye and she fears he might not be looking back at her anyway. The light glances off her face. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I don't know.’ And she shrugs her shoulders and says, I don't know again. Then she stops thinking, releases her lips from her teeth and looks bluntly at
Arlo. ‘I came because you're not getting rid of me that easily, mister.’ He's stopped wiping his face; the shaving cream remains. ‘I feel how much you love me – and I know you know how much I love you. And it would be very very bad – and also pretty dumb – to let such a good thing go to waste.’

  Arlo slings the towel over his shoulder, he strokes his head pensively. In a week, his hair has grown, it looks nice so fuzzy. ‘Petra – I. You deserve more.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Petra says, ‘but I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much. I'm a stubborn old thing and all I want is you.’

  ‘This isn't about you,’ Arlo attempts to say.

  ‘I know,’ says Petra, ‘I agree. It's about you.’

  He comes over towards her but veers left to flop onto the sofa. He turns his head and looks through to the kitchen and the light catches his face.

  ‘Arlo – nothing that you told me makes me feel any the less for you. If anything, it's made me love you more. To be party to your pain is a privilege.’

  He raises his eyebrows but won't meet her eyes.

  She sits next to him, turns her body towards him though he continues to look straight ahead, or straight into the nub of the matter.

  ‘All these years, Arlo,’ she says, ‘all these years you've felt that you're keeping this dreadful secret but actually I think that secret's been keeping you.’

  His brow furrows, but she sees that it does so in grief not disagreement.

  ‘And it's not a dreadful secret, Arlo – what happened was terrible. Almost unfathomably so. But it was a terrible accident. It was not your fault. You don't need to do penance. You don't need to be celibate. You don't need to punish yourself any more. You're a good man, Arlo. Otherwise you wouldn't have felt it to the depth that you have.’

  The knot between his eyebrows remains. Petra takes her thumb and gently tries to iron out the crease. ‘You didn't kill Helen, Arlo,’ she whispers. ‘She died. She just died. A horrific accident. A very real tragedy. But if she hadn't died, you still wouldn't have married her. You did the right thing. Her death was not punishment. It was a tragedy, it was an accident. It was not your fault.’

  ‘I've been living a lie,’ he says. ‘I'm a coward. I don't even have the courage to tell the truth.’

  Petra feels a little cross with him. ‘This is not cowardice, Arlo Savidge,’ she says sternly, ‘it's utter selflessness. The truth, in this situation, would have added unnecessary hurt to so many who were suffering so much. I think you're amazing. You did the right thing – by everyone, at the expense of yourself. Do you hear that? You've done the right thing. You're that kind of man. That's why I love you. You know what's the right thing to do.’

  She puts her hand over Arlo's and slumps a little. She doesn't know what else she can say, really. Even if he truly does not want to continue his relationship with her, she's still glad to have been able to tell him that he's OK, that what he did was right, that he must stop blaming himself and punishing himself.

  ‘Is leaving you the right thing to do?’ he asks. As he turns to her, his eyes swim into hers. ‘Tell me that's not cowardice.’

  Petra waits for her moment. ‘It is utter cowardice, you silly sod,’ she says softly. Then she pokes him on the arm. ‘Tell me you don't really need me to tell you that leaving me was the wrong thing to do.’

  ‘Well – perhaps you could just tell me instead what's the right thing to do?’

  Petra thinks she can tell that he does know the answer but that he needs to hear it from her. ‘Let me love you with all that I am, Arlo – and I'll let you love me right back.’ It's not enough, she can see that. ‘Let me in – and let yourself out, just little by little. You've incarcerated yourself for these long five years. I am telling you that you can now begin to come out.’

  He is silent. Distant. ‘That's a tall order, Petra. And it's easier said by you than done by me. I've become accustomed to the grief and the guilt. They've shaped my life.’

  ‘I'm sure,’ she says. ‘But will you let me be here for you?’

  ‘Amor vincit omnia?’

  She considers this. ‘I don't know if love does conquer all, Arlo. But it certainly provides us with the blanket to comfort our woe and the armour to face our battles.’ Oh, lovely man. She lays her arm gently around his shoulders. ‘It's OK,’ she tells him.

  ‘But it hasn't been OK for such a long time.’ And his face crumples as he cries.

  Petra can blot his tears, kiss them away, whisper hope into his heart, but finally she acknowledges that she can't make it all better in a single day. It will take time. The road ahead might be rocky in places but it stretches way beyond the horizon to the future. And, from the way Arlo has finally let himself sink into her embrace, she knows they're in this together.

  * * *

  ‘I should get dressed,’ he says. He smiles at her. His blotchy eyes and snotty nose. ‘Are you busy today?’

  ‘Nope,’ she says, scooping that glob of shaving foam from his jaw and tapping it onto her nose.

  It makes him smile and behind their redness his eyes do shine. ‘Shall we go for a walk then? A long one?’

  ‘Yes. Let's.’

  Chapter Fifty

  What made Petra's return to London all right wasn't merely the tangibility of Arlo's planned visit the coming weekend, it was the knowledge that there was no urgency to the future, the future didn't have to be in one place or the other, it was now located firmly between the two of them. The train journey back south was thus easy to make – though she very nearly did an about-turn back to King's Cross station when she came across the unbelievable mess at her flat.

  The ceiling had fallen in.

  Upstairs's floor was in her front room, on top of all the furniture and her possessions.

  Sodding bloody clodhopping elephants, thought Petra. Bloody leak, said her neighbours, We're surprised you didn't notice any bulge in your ceiling.

  Eric came to the rescue. Petra was packed and ready for him.

  ‘Is that all?’ he said, looking at her one suitcase and two carrier bags.

  ‘My clothes, my tanzanite and the food from my fridge,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, the cab's waiting.’

  Though he gazed out of the window as if fascinated by the scenery of Finchley, Eric listened thoughtfully while Petra rabbited to Arlo on her phone. There was no plea for sympathy, no dramatizing of the situation, no little-girl-lost working the heart-strings of her beau. What Eric heard was his friend Petra chattering away. And it made him laugh hearing her tell Arlo to sod off after some obviously snide comment in response to all her Robbie Williams CDs being ruined.

  ‘She can listen to mine,’ Eric eavesdropped in.

  ‘Tell Eric to fuck off,’ he could hear Arlo laugh.

  Eric liked it that Petra giggled, liked to see her eyes sparkle as she listened. He liked to see her so happy that she was really relaxed and truly herself. He'd never seen her that way when she'd been with someone in the past, he'd only ever seen her that way in the periods in between. This Arlo, Eric thought, He's all right. This Arlo has brought out the best in Petra and he's making her very happy.

  Kitty was slightly miffed that Petra had turned in the first instance to Eric and not to her.

  ‘You won't find Dannii Minogue posters in my flat, and it's a Shirley Bassey-free zone,’ she said. ‘My spare bed has an orthopaedic mattress and I have every candle in the Diptyque range.’

  ‘But you're in New Cross,’ Petra explained, ‘and my passport is under the rubble. At least the Brondesbury postcode starts with an “N”.’

  ‘God – you and all things North,’ Kitty said. ‘Soon you'll be telling me there's no “R” in bath or laugh.’

  Actually, Eric was a very good host. He and Petra had lived together as students and he'd kept the shared house ordered and clean back then. His own flat now was in a quiet street, near the park. Decorated not by the Minogue sisters but with framed black-and-white photos on neutral-coloured walls. Two voluminous
sofas placed perfectly for the plasma television, his vast DVD collection (without a single Marlene Dietrich film) concealed behind flat matt touch-spring cupboard doors. He had a fair few Diptyque candles of his own. His kitchen was small but high-tech and the plentiful fresh produce in his fridge was all but colour coordinated. His spare bed may not have been officially orthopaedic in the mattress stakes compared to Kitty's, but it was very comfortable and if Petra was to sleepwalk, she'd have to creak over the bare floorboards past Eric's bedroom first and he'd wake up and find her. Just like he used to do ten years ago. He really was as close as Petra would ever come to having a protective older brother.

  She did sleepwalk. On the second night. But Eric heard her fiddling with the chain on the door. He found her wearing his dressing gown – she must have been into his bedroom to get it – and she'd stuffed the pockets with fruit and the remote control.

  ‘It's very important that we get there in good time,’ she told him while he guided her back to bed and told her, Yes, that's right, of course we will, don't you worry, come this way, Eric's here, Eric's here.

  ‘I wonder where I was going,’ she said the next morning while Eric brought her a glass of melon-and-pomegranate juice, freshly made by one of his shiny gadgets.

  ‘God knows,’ Eric said. ‘Do you ever know where you are going?’

  ‘I can never remember a thing. Although occasionally I think I think I'm in my childhood home. But there again, maybe that's in dreams. I don't know.’

  ‘But I wonder why you'd imagine yourself back there? It was years ago for a start – and a place about which you feel indifferent at best.’

  Petra shrugged. Eric shrugged back.

  ‘Who knows,’ she said. ‘Not I.’

  ‘One of life's great mysteries,’ Eric said, ‘your late-night sorties. What does Arlo think?’

  Petra thought about this. ‘He's like you, Eric. He wakes up for me and makes sure I'm OK.’