Blessed Are the Cheesemakers
Page 21
Kit said nothing. This was not going to be a story with a happy ending.
Lucy’s bravado had disappeared again and Kit was reminded once more of what a perfect baby-sister she would have made for Jacey.
“He was with some girl, and he was telling her about me, calling me a groupie and a cling-on. He said I was a poor little rich girl with nothing better to do than spend my money on buying pints for him and the band.” Her voice got very small. “They were laughing at me,” she said. “And I think maybe they were in bed together. You know, bonking.”
Eamon Casey sounded like a class act, thought Kit. “I am so sorry, Lucy,” he said. “The guy sounds like a real asshole.”
“Oh, but I loved him,” Lucy answered with feeling. “I’d been with loads and loads and loads of guys before but I really loved him. He wrote a song for me,” she said sadly, “called ‘Crapcake.’”
It didn’t seem appropriate to laugh.
“He told me that he loved me, too,” Lucy continued, “but I know that you would never say mean things about someone that you love.”
Or sleep around with someone else, thought Kit. “So what did you do?”
“I went out that night, drank seven Red Bull and vodkas and then I shagged Gordy Wilde, Oktober’s lead singer,” Lucy answered. “I knew it would drive Eamon mad because he hates Gordy. Gordy’s gorgeous-looking but he can’t really sing and he doesn’t write any of the songs or anything but the fans go ape-shit over him. He’s gas. Anyway, he dumped me after the Chili Peppers for some seventeen-year-old knacker who said she was a cousin of the Corrs.”
Jesus, thought Kit. My life may be in the crapper but thank God I’m not nineteen again.
“What happened with Eamon?” he asked.
“Gordy told him but he didn’t even care,” said Lucy. “He told Gordy he could have me. Then the band voted that I couldn’t hang out with them anymore.” She turned her face again to Kit. “I spent weeks phoning Eamon and trying to get him to see me but he wouldn’t. He didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Do you know whose baby it is?” Kit asked, although he supposed it didn’t make much difference.
Lucy shook her head. “I think it’s Gordy’s,” she sniffed. “We did it six times.”
Okay, Kit thought, some aspects of being nineteen weren’t so bad.
“But I don’t really know,” she cried, bursting into tears again. “All I know is that I don’t want it but I don’t want it to know that I don’t want it.”
She fell into Kit’s T-shirt again and he let her, thinking of his own lost baby, which would have been due in a couple of months’ time had Jacey not . . . Kit wondered what sort of a father he would have made. He’d never really thought about kids until Jacey came along. She was the first woman he had ever wanted to marry, to have a family with, to hold and never let go.
There’d been “significant others” before her, of course, two in particular. Ellen had been a friend of Ed’s with whom he had very nearly moved in before her overbearing mother got the better of her and convinced her to go looking for a nice Jewish boy instead. Ellen was great fun, but the fact that he hadn’t minded in the least when she broke it off suggested they were probably better off going their separate ways.
Sal had been more difficult to part with. A ferociously ambitious magazine editor working for a publishing company specializing in rag-trade titles, they had taken on New York together. She was so upwardly mobile it was all he could do to keep in her jet stream, and for a while their dedication to their separate careers had bound them together so tightly he could not imagine life with anyone else. They’d shared an Upper West Side apartment for nearly two years before they took their first two-week vacation together, to Paris. It all came tumbling down around them among the bars and cafes of the Latin Quarter where they were staying. Without the stimulus of work and the buzz of Manhattan, he realized they didn’t have a single thing to say to each other. Sal realized it, too.
“We’re boring,” she had sobbed into her frites. “How did that happen?”
But they weren’t boring, they were bored. With each other. And when they got back to New York, Kit packed his bags and moved out. They’d stayed friends, though, and probably always would. Sal had gotten married, about the same time as Kit in fact, to the publisher of her magazine group. The wedding had been featured in all the right places and she had looked absolutely beautiful and happy beyond belief. He’d be surprised if she succumbed to the ticking of her biological clock any time soon, though. Too much work to be done. He sighed and felt Lucy nestle closer into his side.
“You’re thinking about things a lot of the time, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I suppose I am,” answered Kit.
“Are you thinking about your wife?” Lucy asked.
“Mostly, I guess,” he said uncomfortably.
“What did she look like? Was she pretty?”
Long blond hair down past her shoulder blades, a smile that could melt butter, legs like a thoroughbred racehorse.
“She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my entire life,” he answered, pulling himself away from Lucy and standing up. He didn’t want to talk about Jacey. He wanted peace and quiet. “I’m going to go take a nap now—I feel kind of whacked—but I want you to promise me that you will come and talk to me whenever you want to, Lucy. Whenever you need to. You know where to find me. Will you do that?”
Lucy looked at him with an adoration he failed to notice was far from little-sisterly.
“I will,” she said. “Definitely.”
Kit trudged up to Fee’s cottage and flopped down on his bed, his belly full of cheese and his head spinning with images of Jacey and babies and Lucy. His eyelids drifted down toward his cheeks and, mercifully, he slept.
His dreams were not of his wife or the troubled Dublin teenager, though. They were of Abbey. No sooner had he closed his eyes than images of his fellow cheesemaker filled his head. In the dream, Abbey was riding a bicycle and laughing, her head thrown back in delight, her face radiating joy. Eventually he realized the bike had turned into a horse and her legs were bare underneath a see-through white dress, as she urged the stallion on with her thighs. His dream had all the makings of a crappy chocolate commercial and even in his sleep he was aware of trying to make it about someone other than Abbey, and less cheesy, but failing. Instead, Abbey lay on her side in long warm grass, spreading gooey Coolarney Blue on chunks of farmhouse bread and licking her glossy lips with anticipation. Her dress had ridden up to reveal the curve of her hip and she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
He walked toward her and all of a sudden she rolled over and was lying on her back on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Kit knelt down in front of her, her big dark eyes pleading with him as he leaned toward her and bent his head, undoing with his teeth the buttons bursting over her breasts. She was wearing the sexiest bra he had ever seen in his whole entire life. It was pale green with pink roses embroidered on it and had tiny cups over which her breasts, blue and milky in the half-light of the abandoned Exchange, burst as the buttons popped open.
“Kit,” she said in a voice that seemed to clash with her “come hither” body language.
“Kit,” she said again, her clipped tone grating on his subconscious.
“Kit!”
His eyes flew open and he realized with alarm that the object of his dream was standing in his doorway calling his name.
“Are you awake?” Abbey asked stupidly.
“Yes,” he replied equally stupidly, trying to squash the lust that had him in its grip. He was hot and sweating and throbbing in places that he didn’t want Abbey to see. He didn’t even like her. Not in that way. Not in any way. She was too small and sad and not at all his type. She was the opposite of his type. She had too-long hair and a woman’s hips; no straight edges, just soft round curves and a full heavy bosom that seemed out of place on the rest of her.
“Can I help you?” he croaked out, realizin
g that his dream was still staking claim to part of his brain—and other body parts. Snapshots of Abbey, naked and writhing beneath his touch, crept into every crevice of his concentration.
“It’s just that Fee wants to know . . .” Abbey was saying, but when Kit looked at her mouth he couldn’t hear the words, he could only imagine those lips on his belly, his thigh, his— Suppressing a groan that was equal parts embarrassment and ardor, he sat up straighter in his bed and surreptitiously pulled a pillow onto his lap.
“He thought that maybe if you and I . . .” Abbey went on, but still Kit wasn’t listening. He was transfixed instead by the way her T-shirt had ridden up just a couple of inches and was now exposing a slice of smooth firm stomach as it dipped to and from her belly button. He felt spellbound. Bewitched. Dumbfounded. He hadn’t felt like this since, well obviously, Jacey, and even then—he stopped himself going further down that trail and squirmed on the bed.
“Well?” asked Abbey, stepping unsurely into the tiny room so that she was barely more than an arm’s length away from him. “What do you think?”
“Yes, yes,” Kit croaked, trying so hard not to think about his tongue on her skin that his face was contorted in pain. Jesus. He felt like some badly written character in a Harold Robbins novel.
Abbey faltered. “Are you okay, Kit?” she asked, worried for him. He looked ill.
“Fine,” Kit gasped, pushing the pillow harder into his crotch and praying to God that she would leave. “I’m fine. Please. If you could just—” He was about to explode, he was sure. He pulled his knees toward his stomach and twisted away from her, to hide the humiliating throb in his chinos.
“Kit?” Abbey said, alarmed now as she moved even closer, so close he could smell her. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. For just a moment he stopped fighting his lust and concentrated on her scent. She smelled of green grass and passion fruit and limes and it was utterly intoxicating. Vodka, thought Kit. I need vodka.
“Abbey,” he heard himself whispering, and her sweet citrus smell loomed closer. He felt the weight of her on his bed and the damp warmth of her hand on his forehead. For a heartbeat, he did nothing. Then he turned slowly toward her and opened his eyes. Her lightly freckled nose was just inches away from his, her dark lashes ringing the inky pools of her dark, dark eyes.
“Abbey,” he whispered again.
She looked at him.
The moment was there.
It hovered, tantalizingly.
It waited.
And then he took it. With his heart hammering in his ears, he strained forward and pressed his desperate mouth to Abbey’s, a groan of knowing it wasn’t the right thing to do escaping him as he did. His tongue slipped through her lips and sought out the ridges of her teeth as he felt her hand slip from his forehead to cup his cheek as she pushed her mouth hard against his.
She was kissing him back.
In one movement he pulled her toward him and tugged her onto the bed. Wordlessly he watched her eyes grow bigger and her lips wetter as he pushed one hand up under her T-shirt, under her clinging sports bra, so his thumb could toy with the nipple of his dreams. She closed her eyes and parted her lips with a sharp intake of breath that Kit halted with his own mouth as he felt the full beauty of her delicious breast in his hand. She pushed her pelvis toward him and he ground his own erection into her hip, feeling her buck underneath him. He lifted himself off her and moved his hand down her belly to the fastening of her cargo pants, which he undid with one deft movement, slipping his hand under her knickers and tracing the line of her hip, then her groin, to the warm, wet, juicy part of her abandoned for so long and crying now for attention.
He’d never noticed before but she had a perfect neck, and as his fingers worked their magic below, he dived gently into her nape and licked an outline with his tongue from her shoulder to her ear. Abbey’s eyes were open but her look was far away. The feeling of hands on her body, in her body, was indescribable. It had been so long. She couldn’t imagine it had ever felt this good before. Her breathing was getting quicker, she was sweating as Kit lifted her T-shirt and kissed his way down her cleavage, his tongue darting from breast to breast. She pushed herself into his hand, then felt him lift himself up on one arm and fumble with his zipper.
This is it, she thought. What am I doing? This is it. What am I doing? Oh, my God! This is it!
She felt Kit stiffen and gasp and closed her eyes in anticipation of the climax. But instead of a host of heavenly angels singing a glorious chorus to her nerve endings, eighty-nine kilos of Kit collapsed heavily on top of her.
“Jesus,” he said, looking at the doorway where Lucy was standing with a face like thunder. She spun around, her dreadlocks whipping around her face like tree branches in a twister, and raced down the stairs in a clomp of Doc Martens—but not before Abbey caught sight of her murderous face.
The moment that before had seemed so magical stopped hovering and suddenly packed up and went, taking Kit’s erection with it, leaving him lying on top of Abbey wondering how the hell he was going to explain himself.
“Shit,” he finally said, rolling off her and fumbling again with his zipper. “Shit.” He closed his eyes and cursed himself for his stupidity.
Abbey, suddenly exposed in a trouserless fashion, felt the sheer lightweight happiness of the past few moments drain away to be replaced by humiliation. As it seeped into every pore, she wondered how the hell she had gotten from a polite inquiry at the doorway to lying underneath Kit with his hand down her knickers. With shaking hands she fastened her cargo pants and, without looking at Kit, sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“I’m so sorry,” Kit said, reaching for her arm to slow her down. “I don’t know what got into me. I shouldn’t have—”
“Not at all,” Abbey said quickly, with frightening politeness. “It’s my fault. I—”
“No, no, it’s not you,” Kit said vehemently. “It’s just—” He wanted to tell her why it was not right. Why it was too soon. Why he should really thank Lucy for stopping it. But he didn’t want to hurt her.
“Let’s just forget about it, shall we?” Abbey said, as Kit floundered on the bed. “I didn’t realize that you and Lucy were—” She stood up and straightened her T-shirt. “Whatever.”
“We’re not,” insisted Kit, wondering if the situation could be any worse. “I told her to come talk to me. She thinks she’s going to be a bad mother like Jesus. Abbey, can we talk about this?”
Abbey didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to have sex. Not so badly that she would steal Kit Stephens away from the arms of a pregnant nineteen-year-old. But badly enough all the same. So, they really were all bastards. And she’d thought it was just the two she’d met so far. Well, if Kit Stephens thought she was going to be hurt by this rejection he could think again. There was a queue a mile long in front of him.
“I think all it’s safe to say,” she said, turning toward him but not meeting his gaze, which was anyway lingering on a spot on the bedspread, “is that it’s too soon for both of us and we’re hardly a perfect match, in the circumstances.”
Kit tried not to look at her neck and nodded. He agreed. Completely. Wholeheartedly. Or at least his head did. His nether regions, inspired no doubt by mere thoughts of the neck, were not so easily convinced.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Of course, even a Coolarney Gold will taste like shite if you don’t give it enough time to mature. Sure, it’s only a matter of weeks but why drink vinegar when you can have Merlot?”
JOSEPH FEEHAN, from The Cheese Diaries, RTE Radio Archives
Lucy was milking as fast as “So Long, Farewell” would let her.
The Marias were unimpressed by her ill humor and her fellow milkmaids were not far behind in that consensus although less inclined to kick the bucket. She’d been in a filthy mood for three days now, ever since discovering “that wrinkled old tart,” as she called Abbey, fornicating with Kit.
If Lucy had been capable of putting words to her feelings, she would have argued that she wanted Kit to be free to fornicate with her, given that he was the one human being on the planet on the same level as her and she needed him desperately. Instead, she said nothing, but her face spoke for her.
“You’ve got the hots for him, haven’t you, you silly cow?” Jack had roared. “He’s too old for you, Lucy. And why would he want a pregnant nineteen-year-old when he can have, um, anyone else?”
She hadn’t meant her words to be hurtful but they seared Lucy like a red-hot barbecue grill plate. Jack was right. Who would want a pregnant nineteen-year-old? No one she knew, that was for sure, she thought, wrenching on Maria’s udder.
“Lucy.” She felt a tap on her shoulder and Avis’s face was suddenly in hers. “How would you like it if someone pulled your teats like that?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “As long as The Sound of bleeding Music wasn’t playing in the background it would be all feckin’ right,” she said.
“Well,” said Avis, standing up and pulling her fawn-colored cardigan over her middle in a gesture of indignation, “such a rude and unfeeling young woman probably wouldn’t want the sort of news I was about to deliver. So, I’ll leave you to it. I just hope it’s not me that has to come and pick bits of gray matter off the dairy floor when one of these fine expensive good-hearted animals of ours decides to trample your little head into the dust for being so bold.” Avis turned on her heels and strode out of the dairy, leaving Lucy glowering at Maria’s hind leg, trapped in her nastiness.