by Sharon Jones
She smiled contentedly. ‘Oh Danny boy-o-boy-o-boy.’
As the two guys helped her over the chain fence and back onto the icy pavement, the girl smiled in Poppy’s and Michael’s direction.
‘Goodnight, sweet poet,’ she said, blowing Michael a kiss before being dragged, stumbling, down the road.
‘OK, this place is seriously weird. Are you sure you want to come here?’ Poppy said, watching them go.
Michael didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the students who stumbled down the road like characters from one of the old movies he and Poppy used to watch when they were kids.
For a second he seemed so very far away, as if a little bit of him had gone with them.
Michael swallowed and suddenly turned to her. ‘We should get inside and find your dad.’
‘Yeah,’ she agreed, and forced her lips into a smile.
As they headed for the open door, Poppy heard the girl’s voice singing: ‘I’m lovin’ angels instead’. Michael turned to look in their direction, and Poppy couldn’t help wondering if, in his head, Poet Michael was waxing lyrical about the angel in the red dress.
CHAPTER TWO
‘You wait here, miss, and I’ll give your dad a call,’ the porter said, giving Poppy a kind smile and edging back around the polished wood counter.
Michael caught her eye. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
She couldn’t see how it could be. The last time Dad had visited she’d made a point of telling him that it would never be all right between them ever again. It was true, she’d been a bit on the dramatic side, but she was angry with him. He’d shown up for a visit after changing the date twice, expecting everything to be like it used to be. Just because Mum had married Jonathan didn’t mean everything was OK now. Didn’t change the fact that he’d bailed to the other end of the country, and for what? So he could prance about in a black cassock? Surely he could do that closer to home. Unless he just didn’t want to see her any more.
She fingered the flat, smooth stone that hung around her neck – the piece of obsidian that a Lakota medicine woman had given her. It was supposed to keep away negative energies. Maybe it worked on pesky parents too.
The snow came down so heavily that the world beyond the arched doorway looked to be shrouded in a heavy lace curtain. She almost didn’t recognise the figure that ran into the porter’s lodge. Then again, she’d never seen Dad in a dinner suit and bow tie before.
He brushed the snowflakes from his shoulders and reddish-brown hair and nodded to the porters before turning his gaze on her. He hesitated. The eyes that were practically the mirror of her own searched hers, as if trying to judge her mood, then he smiled, leaned down and kissed her cheek.
‘Hey, Pops,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder as if they’d seen each other earlier that night, rather than three months ago.
His sideburns bristled against her cheek. She swallowed back the tight feeling in her throat and caught Michael staring at her. He was holding his breath as if praying that she wouldn’t screw this up. And she wouldn’t. She’d be civil to Dad. Not because he deserved it, but because Michael’s interview was important and she didn’t want him worrying about it.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she forced herself to say. ‘Sorry we’re late, Michael got us lost.’
‘Easily done,’ Dad said, before Michael could protest. ‘Good to see you, Michael.’
As they shook hands, Michael narrowed his eyes at her over her dad’s shoulder.
Poppy allowed her lips to smile. A smile that died on her face the second Dad turned back to her. Just being in the same room as him seemed to stir such a ferocious mixture of emotions that she felt seasick.
‘So…er…what’s with the penguin suit?’ she asked.
Dad glanced down at himself. ‘Just a dinner – formal thing – you know what this place is like.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Poppy said, before she could stop herself.
Michael cleared his throat – a gentle reminder. Yeah. C’mon, Poppy, get it together! She swallowed and forced her face back into an expression she hoped resembled that of an attentive and forgiving daughter.
Dad gazed steadily back at her and then nodded. He was far from stupid; he could see through the little charade she was trying to put on for him.
‘Right, do you want to go straight to your rooms or would you like to come back to my place for a coffee?’
‘I’m tired,’ she said, in case Michael tried orchestrating a bonding session. She really couldn’t cope with any more tonight. And besides, she had plans.
‘OK. We can meet in the morning for breakfast and then I’ll take you on a tour of Cambridge, if you like?’
‘That’d be great,’ Michael said, leaping in.
It was weird seeing the two of them together. She always thought of Dad as this towering giant of a man, who had somehow produced a Hobbit-sized daughter, but now Michael was just as tall as him.
Dad put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘What time’s your interview?’
‘I have to be at King’s by twelve. There’s a lunch.’
‘You must be nervous.’ Dad gave Michael his serious look. ‘Don’t be. Any college would be lucky to have you. Don’t be intimidated by this place. It’s just another university. Right?’
Michael sucked in a deep breath and nodded. ‘Right.’
Dad smiled, and then turned to her. ‘I thought we could hit the Fitzwilliam, Pops?’
Great. Another museum trip. That’s all their relationship consisted of these days. But maybe that’s where their relationship belonged – in a museum along with all the other extinct creatures and civilisations. The tightness in her throat was back.
‘Yeah, OK. That sounds great.’
Dad insisted on taking Poppy’s backpack from her before leading them out of the porter’s lodge. The storm was worsening. Howling gusts of wind chased thick flakes of snow around the domed fountain at the centre of four blanketed lawns like a flock of circling birds. Cold yellow light flooded out of doorways and upper windows, and by it Poppy could just about make out the whitened roofs surrounding them on all sides. To her right a tower, framed by turrets and topped with ramparts, caught her eye. It reminded her of the picture of a knight’s castle contained in one of the fairy tale books she’d read over and over again when she was little.
Dad followed her gaze. ‘That’s the chapel,’ he shouted, his voice barely audible over the howl of the wind.
Dad pointed out various other places, but it was hard to hear him above the wind. Besides, she couldn’t help staring at the place where Dad spent much of his time. Beneath the ramparts a line of two-storey tall windows were black against the stone, as if they were made of enchanted mirror that sucked light in rather than reflecting it. Poppy buried her hands deep into her coat pockets. That’s what it felt like the church had done: sucked Dad away, changing him into someone she didn’t really know any more.
Realising Dad and Michael had started walking again, she hurried to catch up. They dodged past a group of drunken students just as one stuffed a snowball down another’s neck and the whole group went pelting off towards the main gate. She turned to watch them go, but again her gaze was drawn to the chapel and she shuddered.
Dad stopped under an archway marked ‘M’.
‘This is it.’ He led them up a few flights of worn stone stairs and unlocked a door that opened onto a short, narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with yet more doors. Poppy rubbed her stinging hands together as the blood returned to her fingers and took in the institutional brown carpet and peeling paintwork.
‘There are a couple of bathrooms. One here and…’ Dad pushed open another door. ‘Yup, one there. But I think that’s just a toilet. The guest rooms were booked so I’m afraid we’ve had to put you on what is normally a girls’ corridor, Michael. But the student who lives in the other set said that she didn’t mind as it was only for a couple of nights.’
‘Oh, he won’t mind sharing with girls,’ Poppy said, suppressing a
smile and shaking melting snowflakes from her hair.
Michael rolled his eyes at her.
‘I imagine not. Try to keep him under control, will you?’ Dad winked at her. For a second it was just like before he’d left: the two of them winding Michael up. It was so easy to fall back into old ways. But times had changed. Their relationship was different now, as was hers and Michael’s. And it was about to change again, if everything went to plan.
Poppy pressed a hand to her chest, glad they couldn’t see how hard her heart was beating.
After pacing the small bedroom until she was dizzy, Poppy shoved a hoodie and jeans over her nightclothes, pushed open the bedroom door and stepped into in the study that the set of rooms they were staying in shared. Staring at the door of Michael’s room for a moment, she chewed her thumbnail.
Maybe it was too soon. God, it would be awful if he said no. But he was a guy being offered sex. It was a no-brainer, right? Yeah, but this was Michael. There was a reason why her parents trusted him. Mum and Dad hadn’t even questioned whether it was a good idea for them to stay so close… She’d expected Dad to put Michael in a totally separate part of the college, but no, there they were, in two rooms isolated from prying eyes by the shared study.
Maybe Dad was testing her, or trying to show how much he trusted her – there would be a reason. But she would bet the reason wasn’t so she and Michael could…
Poppy swore under her breath. This standing around wasn’t going to make it any easier. And besides, she wanted this, didn’t she?
She knocked quietly on the door. No reply. Poppy took a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. Calm down, she told herself. It wasn’t like they’d never been in the same room before. The kissing might be new but, hell, they’d practically lived in and out of each other’s houses since they were five. She knocked again, louder this time.
There was a clicking noise – the door being unlocked. She stepped back as Michael appeared in the doorway.
His pale cheeks were still reddened by the wind and his hair, damp from the snow, fell over his eyes, making him look more than ever like one of his 1970s punk band idols. He smiled. ‘What are you doing here?’
Was this the time to tell him the real reason she’d come to Cambridge?
‘Umm – I – er – couldn’t sleep.’ Obviously not.
Michael stepped back and Poppy scooted past him into a room that looked exactly like hers, except everything was the opposite way around. She gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and shoved her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, kicking herself for not thinking to wear something slightly more alluring. Her Winnie the Pooh nightie, over jeans, topped off with a Fat Face hoodie, didn’t exactly scream come and get it!
When she looked up, Michael was leaning against the door, observing her with a slight smile.
‘What?’ she asked, warily.
‘Exactly what I was thinking.’
Poppy shot to her feet. ‘If you’re tired I’ll just go, I can listen to some music or something.’
Michael stayed where he was, blocking the door. And his slight smile had turned into a full-on heart-stopper that made her insides melt like ice cream left out on a summer’s day. It wasn’t fair that he could do that to her with a look.
‘We could watch a film,’ he said, still guarding the door.
‘OK.’ She felt like the biggest dope in the world. What the heck had made her think that she could pull this off?
Michael peeled himself away from the door and went over to the chair where he’d deposited his backpack. While he set up his laptop, Poppy wandered over to the window. She couldn’t see a damned thing because of the reflection from the ceiling light, but she pretended to admire the view just to give herself a minute. She pressed her hand to her stomach. There weren’t just butterflies in there, but a whole menagerie of fluttering and squirming creatures. Was that normal? The ceiling light flicked off and she spun around, bumping right into Michael.
‘Better?’ he asked, running a hand down her arm.
A long, slow shiver worked its way up her spine. ‘The light, you mean?’ The warm glow from the bedside lamp softened everything. Was he trying to be romantic? ‘Oh, yeah – we’ll be able to see the screen better.’
Michael looked away, not quick enough that she didn’t catch his smile. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Why don’t you pick a film? I just need to…’ He nodded to the sink in the corner of the room.
‘Sure you trust me?’ She flopped on the bed and opened iTunes. Her attention was drawn away from the screen by Michael yanking his shirt over his head.
‘Not normally,’ he said, dumping his shirt on the chair and running his hand through his hair. ‘But seeing as your choices are limited to what’s on my hard drive, I’m pretty confident you’re not going to force me to sit through any more of that vampire crap. I like my vampires slain, preferably by a blonde.’ He went over to the sink, carefully took out his contact lenses, dumped them in the bin and then scrabbled around in his wash bag before loading his toothbrush with paste, turning on the tap and beginning to brush his teeth.
She watched his shoulder blades moving beneath his skin, the muscles in his back tensing and releasing as he brushed vigorously. He had a really nice back. Not that she’d made a study of backs, but his was…nice. Suddenly he turned.
Poppy shifted her gaze to the screen as the heat rose in her cheeks.
‘Found anything you fancy?’ he asked, through a mouthful of toothpaste.
‘Not yet.’ Not film-wise anyway.
Poppy took a deep breath and tried to concentrate but it was hard to ignore the nervous buzzing sensation in the pit of her stomach. She scrolled through the list of films. None of them were what you’d call romantic. In fact, most of them were dominated by car chases, exploding buildings, gangs or gangsters.
She was about to click on The Godfather – at least it was a classic – when she heard a zipper being pulled down. She nearly choked.
‘You OK?’ Michael asked. ‘Do you need some water?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Just a tickle.’ She forced her gaze back to the screen while silently screaming at herself to get a grip.
She clicked play and the sad trumpet theme swelled out of the speakers. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Michael pulling off his jeans, leaving him wearing nothing but his black boxer shorts. He was getting ready for bed.
Bed.
‘Is that your nightclothes you’ve got on under there?’ he asked, coming to stand in front of her.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then why don’t you take off the jeans? You might as well make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here half the night if we’re watching The Godfather.’
‘OK,’ she said, without moving.
Michael grabbed the zipper of her hoodie and pulled her to her feet. Slowly, he inched it down.
Poppy’s breath hitched in her throat. ‘I can do that,’ she said, stepping around him.
‘Ooookay.’
She quickly undid the hoodie and shucked it off while Michael pulled back the covers on the bed and lay down.
Nearly naked. In bed. With Michael. The words whizzed around her head, as dizzying as the snowstorm outside. She turned away from him, kicked off her shoes and yanked down her jeans. She tried to step out of them but her foot caught in the leg and she pitched over. She only just managed to save herself from crashing to the floor by catching hold of the sink.
‘Do you need some help?’ he asked. She could hear the laughter in his voice.
‘No. Thank you.’ She took her time folding her jeans then turned back to him.
He patted the mattress. ‘Come and get under the covers before you get cold.’
Her legs took some persuasion to move, but somehow she managed to force herself over to the bed. She perched on the edge and Michael’s arm hooked around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. He yanked the quilt over them both and wrapped h
is arm around her, locking her in place.
‘Comfy?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
After a moment punctuated by gunfire and screaming – and that was just what was happening in Poppy’s head – he squeezed her. ‘Is there a reason why you’ve turned monosyllabic?’
‘What?’
She heard him shuffling, the mattress rocked, and a hand on her shoulder rolled her onto her back. Michael propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her.
‘What are you doing here? Really?’
When she didn’t answer he placed a soft kiss on the end of her nose and grinned. ‘Let’s watch the film.’
The film?! ‘Yeah – er – sure.’ Poppy rolled over onto her side and Michael slipped an arm around her waist.
This was not going to plan. Didn’t he know what she was saying by turning up at his room? Really, did he not get it? Maybe he didn’t want to. She’d assumed that like any teenage male of the species, he barely thought about anything else. But maybe there was a reason he didn’t want to go there.
As the killing started on screen she replayed the last few months in her head. She was so caught up in trying to understand his behaviour that she didn’t notice that Michael’s hand had slipped under the covers and was edging its way over her hip. His fingers stroked her stomach, catching a ticklish spot. She squirmed away from him.
He snorted. ‘Poppy, is it going to take all three Godfathers for you to tell me what you’re doing here? Because personally, I think the third one’s a bit of a snooze.’
She twisted her head so she could see him. ‘Are you really going to make me say it?’
His gaze burned into her and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in her lungs. He took a deep breath, swallowed and whispered: ‘Now? Are you sure?’
Was she? This had seemed like a good plan when she was alone in her room at home. Now…
But when else were they going to be together for a whole night? Logistically, this was probably the best opportunity to be together and it was bound to happen at some point, right?
She nodded.