Zumba didn’t thrill him, although he could keep in time OK – unsurprising as he shared genes with the instructor radiating rhythm and presence from the front of the room. But if he’d known that Honor would show up, he would definitely have stayed at home. He’d almost forgotten – no, disregarded – Honor’s husband when he’d kissed her on her doorstep on Friday night. Until Ace had made him see, with painful clarity, what it felt like to be the husband whose wife was getting it on with someone else.
Bad.
He’d decided he’d better keep away from Honor in case he suddenly found himself undressing her.
And now, here she was, a couple of rows ahead of him and wearing so little that he was getting the idea of how undressed would look. Oh mannnn … why did she have to throw off her top and dance in her sports bra? She was a great mover and those two vertical lines that ran up her abdomen, the sure sign of a taut body, were mesmerising. He’d follow those lines in either direction and like where they took him.
Wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm, he tried to look away.
But she was right in his line of sight. And her wiggle and swing was a class apart. Her fingers flexed and pointed, her back stretched and arched and her tidy little behind was poetry. Real salsa hips. By the third routine she was beaming and laughing, glowing with the fun of dancing, and he’d worked out that she was able to follow the routines so easily because Clarissa was indicating changes of direction with a pointing finger, or the leading foot by placing her hand on the appropriate thigh. That Honor could interpret placed her on a higher level than the rest of the class.
Clarissa’s shouts of ‘Zumba!’ were usually greeted by self-conscious silence but Honor was quite at ease giving exuberant ‘Zumbas!’ of her own. The energy level climbed with every ‘Whoo!’ and ‘Yeah!’ and Zoë, Nicola and Bev, who generally treated the class as something they played at doing for Clarissa’s sake, were joining Honor in a dancing fury. For once, they really needed the drinks they brought in shiny bottles with spouts on top.
Actually, he was glad for Clarissa. He watched her glow with pleasure as she demonstrated – not for the first time, he had to admit – the difference between Cuban motion and waggling your bum. ‘Ball-flat,’ she called, ‘not heel-flat. Tiny steps and then your hips will sway away from the side that’s taking the step.’ And suddenly, not just Honor’s hip action was following Clarissa’s. The whole class ‘got’ it and Clarissa’s face was one big grin. ‘Yeah! Great! Now, we need to practise our break back. For a break back step, we never put down the heel of the foot that is breaking back–’
Clarissa and Honor seemed set on outdoing each other in the pizzazz department and Clarissa had to keep dropping back into tutor mode to collect the class up and put the less able of them on track. But it seemed as if every one of the women was concentrating hard on keeping up.
Whereas he was concentrating hard to not get hard, with Honor’s rolling round behind in constant Cuban motion and the lycra no more than a second skin over her breasts. He’d never sweated so much in a class. Or been so out of breath. He could hardly wait for the cool down and final stretches so he could call a brief goodbye and slide out of the door as he zipped into a fleece and got himself and his aching groin the hell out of there.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Hey!’ Honor smiled at Ru who was at the sink, where he seemed to have spent most of the last week. Covering off days had morphed into a full-time job, washing steaming dishes, baseball hat reversed and a spike of hair sprouting from the front.
‘Hey.’ His hands didn’t pause in their mechanical repetition and his attention remained on the gleaming white dishes.
She tied her apron with rapid movements. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ He shoved a plate into the drainer.
Honor paused. She recognised deeply pissed off when she saw it. She checked that Robina was out of the room and Sophie was at the other end of the kitchen, flipping scones off a baking sheet. ‘Still not enjoying working at the Teapot?’
His hand clenched around the dish mop. ‘Hate it.’
She checked in her pocket for her pencil and pad. ‘At least it’s self-defence class tonight – that ought to be fun.’
His hands reached for more plates from the stack. ‘I’m supposed to be going into Brighton.’ He still didn’t look at her.
‘That’s a pity.’ She spoke lightly but her mind flicked to ‘close attention’ mode. Ru had been getting quieter and more morose as the week had worn on. ‘The class gave me a lot of confidence, last week. I was intending to go again tonight but I’m not sure I want to – alone.’
Ru scrubbed violently at a burned-on raisin. Rinsed. Sighed. ‘Yeah, OK. I’ll do the class with you first.’
‘Great, thanks.’ She slid her pencil and pad from her pocket. When she’d accomplished a circuit to check status at both inside and outside tables, she cleared up after a few early birds, scraping the plates and carrying the stack over to Ru. ‘Have you had more trouble with Frog?’
‘Not yet.’
Honor moved on to the other likely source of friction. ‘So, where’s your mother?’
He scowled. ‘Upstairs. Arguing with Crusty.’
Aha.
He yanked on the chain to the plug, the grey water running away as if being gulped down by the drain monster. Finally, he looked up, eyes hard. ‘She’s trying to get Kirsty to look after the Teapot while she goes to the Global Gathering.’
Honor felt her brows shoot up. ‘Isn’t Kirsty still too sick? When is the Global Gathering? It’s just a music festival, right?’
Ru laughed, rinsing the sink with the tap’s trunky hose attachment known as ‘the elephant’. ‘Yes, she’s way too ill because the Global Gathering starts tomorrow – and there’s no “just” where my mum’s concerned, about music festivals. We all realised weeks ago that Crusty wasn’t going to be well enough to look after the Teapot but Mum seemed to think that there was a miracle on the horizon. She’s all packed up, ready to go. So now she’s sulking and whinging because the miracle hasn’t happened.’
Watching the fresh water pour into the sink, creating white suds and a million spherical rainbows from the sunlight streaming through the window, Honor frowned. ‘Are you disappointed because it means that you can’t go, either?’
Eyes saucers of amazement, he laughed. ‘No! I don’t want to go, I’ve had enough of tents and queuing for disgusting pooey toilets. But Mum will give everyone stress because she can’t go if Crusty won’t run the Teapot. Even Mum knows the Teapot has to be open to pay the bills so she can’t just shut up shop because she’s keeping that in reserve for the end of August, in case Crusty doesn’t get better in time for Reading Rock Festival. It’ll hurt her to miss the takings from the whole bank holiday weekend but if Mum has to miss Reading she’ll probably throw herself off the cliff.’ To demonstrate, he dropped a stack of plates into the water, flopping water and suds everywhere.
‘So where is this Global Gathering. Here in England?’
He nodded. ‘Stratford. They have it in other countries, too.’
‘Stratford where William Shakespeare came from?’
He looked vague. ‘Dunno. Did he?’
It was another half hour before Robina flew back into the Teapot with a face of thunder and a tongue full of spite. Ru kept his eyes on his washing up and Honor glided off amongst the tables, taking care not to get any closer to the kitchen than the counter.
Poor Sophie looked ready to burst into tears at being trapped between a Robina who spat like the coffee machine and the silent back of Ru as he jabbed and scrubbed with his washing-up brush. It was a tense morning.
At two, Honor took her break, grabbing a scone and spreading it with jam. The Teapot didn’t do coffee ‘to go’, so she took a bottle of chilled water and prepared to put some distance between herself and the Teapot. But Robina caught her as she tried to swing out through the door and head for a bench on the cliff top. ‘Honor, I’m
really stuck for some extra help this weekend–’
‘I know and I’m sorry I can’t help,’ said Honor, quickly. ‘It would mean me working three twelve-hour shifts, at least, when it’s meant to be my weekend off, and I’ve never run the place.’ And she gave Robina’s arm an apologetic squeeze and skipped out.
‘No freakin’ way,’ she muttered, rounding the corner of the shops at Starboard Walk and dodging the Marine Drive traffic, rather than pressing the button at the crossing, intending to jog on across the grassy cliff top to an iron bench to watch the sun dancing on the waves and let her back relax.
It was only as she popped out between a bus and a truck that she saw Martyn on the pavement, waiting to cross in the opposite direction. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’ he demanded.
Honor had had about enough of other people’s bad temper. ‘No. I could find much more efficient ways. What’s it to you?’
His snow-white shirt hung out over his jeans and his hair streamed from one side of his head then the other on the whims of the wind. Honor willed herself not to colour up – just because Martyn had kissed her on Friday night as if he was going to drag her off for wild, nightlong sex. But hadn’t. And had then apparently forgotten that she existed.
Today was Thursday, which was awkward. Last Thursday, he’d given her and Ru a ride to and from self-defence class and he’d kind of talked as if that’s what he’d meant to do this week, too. So, if she took the bus then he turned up it would be really rude. But if she mentioned that she was going to take the bus then he might think she was hinting for him to drive her.
His eyes fell on the napkin-wrapped package in her hands. ‘Lunch?’
‘Got to be some perks to the job.’ She smiled politely and began to move on by. She’d take the bus. Chill and Remote Martyn had probably forgotten about the classes.
She trod across the rippling grass, the wind rushing in her ears. At the bench she tried to juggle with the scone and the water to free a hand to brush the seat without dropping anything or letting the wind mix her ponytail up with the jam oozing out of the sides of the napkin. A hand descended over her shoulder and took the water. ‘Let me.’
‘Oh!’ She turned to look at Martyn. The wind must have drowned out the sound of him following. ‘Thanks.’ With a hand freed up, she was able to tuck her ponytail into the back of her black T-shirt and settle the scone on the napkin, on her lap.
Martyn sat down and perched the bottle on the bench between them. He looked out over the cliff. The tide was in and the ocean was its most beautiful blue.
She broke the scone in half and offered one half to him.
Slowly, he turned to look at her. He’d shaved. Really close shaved so that he looked smooth and touchable. If anything, he was more mouthwatering without the GQ stubble. His jawline was a blade. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I guess life would be more comfortable for us all if we were never tempted.’
He snorted a laugh and took the proffered half. ‘Or if we were better at resisting things. This is your lunch.’
She shrugged, licking her fingers. ‘I know the tree that these grow on and I’m going right back to it when I’ve taken a few minutes in the fresh air.’ She stifled a sigh at the thought. Her idea of a job without stress didn’t include a boss that acted like a premenstrual pitbull.
After wiping her hands, she offered him the napkin, then the bottle of water. Then they watched the gulls, beady black eyes fixed on tourists to mug for food, as the waves glittered and shushed on to the beach below.
Ten minutes, she promised herself. Ten minutes to chill, to refill her emotional well, before returning to suffer under the black clouds that had rolled into the Teapot. Ten minutes to be aware of Martyn lounging, unspeaking, beside her.
At the end of that time, she climbed reluctantly to her feet. ‘Better get back to it.’
He didn’t move. Or look at her. ‘Shall I pick you up for your class?’
She hesitated. ‘I could get the bus.’
‘No need. Tell Ru.’
I thought that all I wanted was to get a message from you but, now you finally decide to talk … Babe, I said I’m sorry. Don’t you care how I’m hurting? When are you coming back? This is crazy. Maybe you’ve gone crazy. It can’t be the end. I won’t let it be. I don’t believe you’re quitting, Honor, because you just never quit.
Honor stared at Stef’s words, wondering why she didn’t feel worse for him. Maybe it was the distance. She thought about Connecticut and found it unexpectedly hard to remember living in their apartment with the view of Main Street, because Stef liked to be in the middle of town where they both worked and he could get around the bars and clubs on foot, rather than living out on the lake, as she’d wanted. She tried to walk her mind through the furniture they’d picked out – the chaise with a broken leg from when Stef tried to prove he could still back flip, the rug with the red wine stain after his birthday party, his end of the sofa splashed with beer from when he got excited during ball games.
Yes, she had no trouble picturing Stef on his end of the sofa.
And, yup, she was in the frame, too – bringing home most of the bacon and picking up the groceries on the way, running the household and battling to undo the Stef effect to make the apartment look nice. A reasonable housekeeper. Not a bad wife – Stef had never stopped reaching for her in bed.
Her response was where her imagination got unco-operative. For there to be want there had to be trust.
Instead, she thought about the big clapboard house she grew up in, pale blue with sparkling white trim, the sloping lawns bounded by field stone walls, the heavy colonial furniture, Karen hosting dinner parties or barbeques, Garvin working on one end of the long kitchen table. The house that her dad bought for Karen, which Karen had made a home for Zach and Jessie. And for Honor – not so much, though she’d tried.
This English bungalow would probably fit into her father’s spacious lounge. The sitting room was bijou – frankly? She’d had bigger closets – but she felt more at home here, looking out to the ocean, than she had in any other place. She counted up on her fingers. Not even six weeks since she had moved into Eastingdean and she connected as well with Ru, Robina, Sophie and Martyn’s thoroughly English lives as with anyone back home. Even compartmentalising her inopportune crush on Martyn, she cared whether Clarissa’s Zumba class folded. She cared whether Robina would have got over her snit by tomorrow or if she was making life unbearable for Ru. She even cared that Kirsty looked like a walking horror movie.
She clicked on reply. Life is peaceful, here. I’m tired of your chaos. I said everything I had to say back in May. And then, It’s better this way.
Send.
After that, Honor was glad of the chance to relieve her frustrations in the self-defence class, practising snapping kicks to the front or the side of knees and slamming the palm of a curled hand into vulnerable noses.
As last week, Martyn perched on the stage at the end of the room, but Honor tried to put him out of her mind as she concentrated on joking Ru out of his doldrums. Ru managed the occasional smile but, at the end of the class when she suggested, ‘Want to come home for coffee and soup?’ he gave her a startled look, grabbed his backpack from the side of the room and shot into the men’s room, casting back, ‘Can’t. Staying in Brighton.’
He sprinted out two minutes later, transformed by shirt, trousers and proper shoes, a strong smell of deodorant and his hair over his eyes like a windblown dog, making for the door. He had to pause as Martyn intercepted him, jingling his car keys, but Ru, muttering something as he pointed to his watch, just wriggled past.
Honor grabbed her jacket and crossed to where Martyn was frowning after Ru. ‘Where’s he flying off to?’
‘I think he said Spangles.’
She felt a spasm of alarm. ‘Spangles? Does he mean Ali Spangles? The nightclub?’
Slowly, Martyn nodded. ‘I’m rather afraid he might.’
Honor started off in pursuit down
the corridor to the stairs. ‘But he’s way too young to get into a nightclub, isn’t he? And I’ve been to Ali Spangles – it’s a dive.’
Out in the street, there was no sign of Ru. Kemptown was a grid, providing any number of corners for Ru to have disappeared around. Honor felt her heart hurry uneasily, in a way that had nothing to do with the exertions of the class. ‘Ali Spangles is a dive,’ she repeated, frowning up and down the street.
‘I’m surprised you know.’ Martyn regarded her curiously.
‘A guy took me there when I was pretty much fresh off the plane,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t stay long.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t know what Ru’s up to but I’m going to go after him. That kid can get himself in a fix way too easily.’
‘You won’t get in dressed like that.’
Impatiently, she glanced down at her sweatpants. ‘Right. If you could drop me straight home, I’ll change and get a cab over there. I don’t know what Ru’s doing because he surely can’t get into a nightclub, but I don’t have a happy feeling about this.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
They turned for the X5, parked on the side of the road. ‘I’ll be OK–’
He glared as if she were a giant pain in his rear as he slammed the door and turned the key. ‘Like you said, it’s a dive.’
In the half hour that Honor had between jumping out of the X5 and climbing back into it, she showered at top speed and wriggled into the only vaguely clubby clothes she had in England, exactly what she’d been wearing when Aaron had taken her to Ali Spangles – the short, stretchy, black dress shot with gold and the rainbow shrug that tied high in front. So as not to feel any tinier beside Martyn than she needed to, she slid quickly into black, spike-heeled mules.
Her hair would take too long to put up, so, with wet hands and a little conditioner she smoothed out the worst of the frizz and then combed it down either side of her face, letting it ripple on to her shoulders. It looked like somebody had been at it with a crimping iron but, hey, people paid good money for that look and she could have it for free. And it left her time to apply blue-green eyeliner and black mascara.
Love & Freedom Page 17