It’s gone two in the morning.
I hold up a hand. ‘I’m done.’
Flick pouts. Then her eyes light up. ‘Though an early night might be nice.’ Full of meaning, they laser past me and fix on Noah.
He meets her gaze steadily. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
I feel myself flush. Certainly no lack of chemistry there.
‘We might as well all go up,’ Harry says.
‘I’m going to play for a while longer.’ Art pulls the bottle towards him. ‘Plus there’s still brandy in here.’
‘Oh,’ Harry says. ‘Might just stay and have another little snifter.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ I warn.
What I mean is, ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?’ But Harry has long since started to ignore my coded words, my school-marm looks.
Ella stands up first. ‘Night, then,’ she says. ‘It’s so lovely having everyone here together. I’m sure we’re going to have a great week.’
She heads upstairs.
‘I’m struggling to keep my eyes open too,’ I confess. ‘I can’t do late nights any more. And I certainly can’t do late nights and too much alcohol.’
Noah stands and Flick comes over to join him, slipping her hand in his.
‘Night, all,’ he says. Then he turns to me. ‘Night, Grace. It’s been nice talking to you.’
Flick follows him up the stairs and I trail behind, trying to stem the flow of misery that’s threatening to engulf me. Halfway up, she turns back to me, winks and licks her lips lasciviously.
This could be a long week, I think. A very long week.
Chapter Twelve
Oh, God. I can’t believe that I’m going to be sleeping in the room right next to Noah and Flick. I sit on the bed and don’t move. I can hear every creak of the floorboards. Supposing they’re at it all night? Every night? Of course they’re going to be at it! This is Flick, remember. And I know just how they’re going to be at it, as she’s regaled Ella and me with tales of her bedroom antics often enough. Not that she needed to. In our shared flat with paper-thin walls, you could hear her halfway down the corridor, let alone in the next room. Flick always liked to make sure everyone knew that she was having a good time. Oh, no. I wish I’d brought sleeping tablets. Or industrial-strength ear defenders.
I open the Velux windows in the ceiling and listen to the soothing sounds of the sea. It’s going to have to be a darn sight louder than that to drown out the sounds of passion from next door. Perhaps there’ll be a convenient Force Nine gale or storm overnight with howling winds and crashing waves. I might be in with a chance then. I sigh to myself. All my visions of a relaxing week are crumbling before my eyes. With Flick and Noah being here and all loved up, it’s only throwing into sharp relief the weaknesses in my own relationship. Of course it’s made ten times worse with me going goo-goo-ga-ga over Noah when I am really not that sort of person at all. I could count on one hand the amount of times I’ve even done a double take at a man over the last ten years. I just want to put a pillow over my head and die.
At this end of the cottage, the four of us are sharing the bathroom, so I listen carefully, trying to work out when both Noah and Flick have finished their ablutions in there. I promise myself a shower in the morning, as I don’t want to keep everyone awake with the noise at this hour, and I slip into my pyjamas. As it’s hot, I’m wearing a strappy top and shorts. I wish I’d thought to bring a dressing gown with me, but I have only a winter-weight one, nothing light or floaty or remotely sexy enough to make me happy about bumping into strange men on the landing.
I sit and sit and sit, blanking out the soft giggling, the creaky floor, the opening and closing of doors, the running of taps, the flushing of the loo. Eventually, I can hear no noise. Nothing. I wait a bit longer. Still nothing. Then, when I think the coast is clear, I creep out of my bedroom, across the hall, and slip silently into the bathroom. I close the door with the quietest of clicks and stand with my back to it, breathing heavily. Made it. I’m not sure my heart will stand all this tension.
‘Hey,’ a voice says and I nearly jump out of my skin.
‘Noah!’
‘I’m nearly done,’ he says, clearly unfazed by my presence. ‘Just a minute.’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘No need.’
But there is need. The man I most hoped to avoid in all the world in my pyjamas is currently standing at the sink wearing a small white towel and a winning smile. I’ve come over all hot and silly again. I’m trying not to acknowledge the fact that he is half naked and that I’m in a very small room with him, but I can’t help it. Noah seems to be filling more of the space than he physically should. He has muscles. Lots of them. Everywhere. There are thighs. Lovely strong thighs. Shoulders. Big shoulders. And abs. Abs on abs on abs. Abs that make you want to touch them. Did I mention the thighs? Touchable, too.
His body is bronzed, toned. A result of working outside, I’d say, now that I’ve had the opportunity to examine it more closely. Those are muscles that come from wielding an axe and lifting very heavy things. The only hair on his torso is a dark line from his waist that disappears tantalisingly below his towel. Stop looking at it, Grace. Stop looking.
A toothbrush is sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he shifts it, which brings me back into the real world.
‘Oh, my. I’m sorry. Very sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I guess we’re going to have to get used to being up close and personal this week.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes.’
My nipples are showing him just how much they like being up close and personal. Surreptitiously, I try to position my hands over them in a foldy-arm sort of way.
‘I’m done now,’ Noah says.
The bathroom is small and there’s not much room for manoeuvre. He puts his hands on my hips while he eases around me to the door. There is just one thin layer of cotton between our flesh. I gulp. He smiles as he shifts me. Now I’m at the sink.
‘Sleep tight, Grace,’ he says and then, with a backward glance and a wink, he’s gone.
I look in the mirror. My normally pale face is red with embarrassment. It looks as if I’ve run a marathon – and not one of the people who train regularly and finish in respectable times. No. One of those at the back who wear Superman costumes and have to be helped over the line an inch away from death. Bugger.
I need to get a grip. I so need to get a grip.
Chapter Thirteen
Back in the bedroom, Harry has finally come upstairs too. He’s currently standing on the bed in his underpants, waving his phone at the windows in the roof.
‘Thought I might get something up here,’ he slurs.
It’s obvious that Harry is very drunk. But why wouldn’t he be? He hasn’t had a glass out of his hand from the minute we arrived here.
I look up at him. His body is white as it hasn’t seen the sun for some time. Because he drinks so much now and never exercises, other than to lift his drink to his mouth, his stomach has gone slack and flabby. Where is the man I once knew? I wonder. We may not have had a marriage based on high romance, but we’ve had our moments. Harry has done his fair share of romancing me over the years. He would, occasionally, whisk me away to Paris for the weekend, organise a beautiful dinner at my favourite restaurant or buy me a diamond as a surprise. And I loved it. I loved to feel so cherished. But that man seems to be long gone.
‘Get down,’ I say as if I’m speaking to a child and not a responsible adult. ‘It’s nearly three in the morning. You’ll wake the whole house. Twitter can surely live without you for one night.’
What has he got to tweet about anyway? Or is it that his life is so dull now that he has to live it vicariously through a bunch of people that he doesn’t even know?
Harry topples on to the bed with an ‘ouf’ and I bite down my irritation. Within seconds he’s asleep. With an ease that has come with years of practice, I turn him on to his side so that he doesn�
��t snore, and I cover him with the duvet. I climb in beside him. There was a time when I’d cuddle up, spoon into his shape. Now I lie on my back and listen to the ocean crashing against the rocks. It sounds lonely.
Then, ten minutes later and even though I’m trying to tune out every noise except the sea, I hear Flick moan with pleasure through the wall from the room next door. Wonderful. Then comes the rhythmic creaking, slow, slow, deliciously slow. More soft gasps from Flick. My imagination is too good. I can picture exactly what is going on next door now that the little white towel has been removed. The vision of those muscles burns itself inside my eyelids. I can even feel those strong hands on my skin. Next to me Harry snores and I kick him. I want to be making love – with someone, anyone. Another pleasured moan. Flick is clearly in the throes of ecstasy. The movements from next door, become faster, more urgent. My hands start to move on my body of their own accord, echoing the rhythm. They move over my breasts and down, down. My hands reach between my legs. Then I stop dead. What on earth am I doing? I want to touch myself because I can hear Flick and Noah having great sex? That is so wrong. Too pervy by half. Instead, I slap my own traitorous fingers and fold my pillow round my head. But that’s not good enough, as I still can’t block out the noise. After a few more minutes of torture, I can stand it no longer and I get up.
Pulling a cardigan from my suitcase, I slip it on and then add some socks. I look at Harry’s face, puffy in the moonlight, and know that I won’t be missed. Flick’s gasping is becoming more regular. Time for me to leave. I certainly don’t want to be here for the finale. I pad downstairs, being as quiet as I can.
In the sitting room, a few embers are still glowing in the fireplace and I huddle as close as I can, but it’s not emanating much warmth. I pull the cardigan around me and cuddle myself. What am I going to do? I’m having lustful thoughts about a man who’s not my husband. And murderous thoughts about the one who is. Harry and I need to sit down and have a serious talk while we’re here. He’s turning from a person that I used to love so stoically into one that I don’t actually like very much any more.
We’ve been married for only seven years and we had a year together before that. I wonder how it can all have gone wrong in such a short time. Is it me? Is it something I’m doing? I’m not normally a demonstrative person. Is that what Harry’s problem is? So, again, that leaves me wondering, what is it about Noah that’s sparked such a strong and instantaneous attraction? I have to put my feelings for him into context. I’m unhappy at home: that can be the only rational reason he’s turned my head. In all the years I’ve been with Harry, I’ve never looked at another man. I’ve had no reason to. But lately?
Because my job is soul-destroying, I’m always tired, run-down and, as I need my wits about me to stay one step ahead of my staff, I like to go to bed early. Harry doesn’t. He prefers to stay up until the early hours, drinking wine and tweeting to God knows who. We have to put a stop to that. If we actually went to bed at the same time and Harry wasn’t too pissed to… respond, then we might have a chance of regaining some intimacy. Should I perhaps think about changing my job? Should Harry perhaps think of changing his? If our careers are dictating what goes on in our lives, that can’t be right. Whatever happens, something needs to be done. We can’t go on like this.
I sit in the dark, mulling it all over. I’d like to have a cup of hot chocolate or something, but I don’t want to make a noise and wake everyone up. Time ticks by. I’ve nothing to read as I forgot to bring my book downstairs, and thinking too deeply about the meaning of love and life is starting to give me a headache. Eventually, my toes – even in socks – are starting to get cold and the fire has died. If I don’t want to die of hypothermia in Ella’s sitting room, I should go back to bed.
Tiptoeing up the stairs, I quietly let myself into the bedroom. The moon is shining full through the window. Harry has rolled on to his back and is snoring loudly. I climb into bed next to him and roll him over. He stops. When I lie down, I put my ice-cold feet on him as a punishment. Still he doesn’t flinch. All I can hear is the sea. Thank God.
Then, just as I’m starting to feel myself drifting off, I hear an ecstatic moan from Flick and the rhythm starts up again. Oh, fuck. Fuckity-fuck.
Grabbing Harry’s shoulder, I pull him on to his back. He grunts and grumbles and, mercifully, starts snoring again. I lie there with my eyes screwed shut and my fingers in my ears and try to sing la-la-la in my head.
Chapter Fourteen
In the morning, the sun is high in the sky. Harry’s fast asleep. I lie still, listening to the waves and trying to prise my eyelids from my eyeballs, which feel as if they’ve been superglued together.
I can hear the sound of women’s laughter coming from outside so, eventually, with much huffing and puffing, I haul myself out of bed. Standing under the shower, I let the hot water run over me and turn me into a human being again. I must have dozed off before dawn, but I don’t think I slept for more than a couple of hours last night. But then neither did Flick or Noah. More’s the pity. Sigh.
Pulling on the nearest clothes to hand, I head downstairs. In the kitchen, there’s no one about, so I try the teapot, which is nestling under its cosy. Sure enough, it’s still warm and I manage to squeeze out enough to fill a mug. Out on the terrace I find Flick and Ella sitting at the picnic table. It’s another glorious day. The sea is blue, sparkling, and its white foam tips tickle the rocks below the cottage. There’s nothing else to see but the immense, unending sky. The air, sharp with the tang of salt, is warm, comforting.
I let out a long, lingering sigh. ‘It’s so beautiful out here.’
‘Morning, sweetie,’ Ella says. ‘There’s tea in the pot.’
I hold up my mug. ‘Already done.’
Flick has her knees hugged up to her chest on one side of the bench, so I sit down next to Ella. Nursing my tea to me, I come to the realisation that I’m going to need about ten cups to get me going this morning. Every time I blink, my eyes want to close again. It’s been a long time since I’ve partied until past midnight. Today is going to be a struggle.
Opposite me, Flick lights up. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t look as if she’s slept much either. Her hair is tousled and she still hasn’t put her make-up on, and Flick is not usually one to be seen without her full slap. Both of them are still in their dressing gowns. Ella in fluffy, pink and white polka dot. Flick in a silky, sexy, Chinese-print kimono that barely covers her thighs. It falls open at her breast, showing that she’s wearing nothing beneath it. I feel overdressed in my jeans and T-shirt.
Flick drags her cigarette smoke deep into her lungs.
‘I thought you’d given up,’ Ella says.
Flick looks accusingly at the cigarette. ‘So did I.’
‘I could hear you both laughing,’ I tell them as I sip my tea. ‘I just wanted to see if I was missing anything.’
Flick leans in conspiratorially and lowers her voice. ‘I was just telling Ella that I have been shagged ragged all night.’ She takes another drag on her cigarette as if she’s trying to kick-start herself. Which she may well be. ‘I hope we didn’t disturb you.’
‘No,’ I say disingenuously. ‘Didn’t hear a thing. Slept like a baby.’ God strike me down dead for lying.
‘He’s something else,’ Flick adds, letting out a contemplative breath and a long stream of smoke.
‘You say that about them all.’ Ella shoots a look at her. ‘I seem to remember you telling me exactly the same thing about someone else not too many months ago.’
Flick looks away from her. ‘I am trying very hard to untangle myself from that particular person, believe me.’ There’s a sadness in her voice that I’ve never heard before. ‘Sometimes relationships are too complicated and you have to move on.’
Must have missed the lowdown on this one, but from the undercurrents there’s no doubt that means he was married again with no intention of leaving his wife. Flick’s flings follow very much the same pattern. She’s mad
ly in love one minute and then forgets them as quickly the next.
‘Did I miss something?’
Flick waves a hand dismissively. ‘It’s over,’ she says. ‘It never should have begun.’
‘Amen to that,’ Ella says and fixes Flick with a cool stare.
I’m definitely missing something.
‘Noah’s different.’ Flick is suddenly serious. ‘This one’s a keeper.’
‘You’ve only just met him,’ I point out. My voice sounds crisper than I intend. But, in my defence, I’ve heard this a dozen times before from Flick.
‘You’ve seen him, Grace,’ she counters. ‘Look at him. He’s handsome. He’s got a body to die for.’
I use all my strength to push away the image of Noah in the bathroom, clad only in his small white towel, which springs immediately to mind.
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