Two Shades of the Lilac Sunset

by Rosen Trevithick

  Two Shades of the Lilac Sunset

  By Rosen Trevithick

  1st Edition (1.0.0)

  Text Copyright © Rosen Trevithick 2015.

  Published by Trevithick Press.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Thanks to:

  TextMender Editing Services

  www.textmender.com

  This book contains graphic depictions of sex, including scenes that some people might find distressing.

  Two Shades of the Lilac Sunset

  Evening of Saturday 18th April – inside the Falmouth Hotel

  Painting the sky throughout the generations, the lilac sunsets had seen it all – young love, lost love, kinky love and those who used ‘love’ as a smokescreen for something entirely different.

  “It’s a lilac sunset,” enthused Willow, as she poured herself a glass of white. On clear days the ocean gave the setting sun an attractive lilac hue – from this hotel, where silhouettes of Cornish palms framed the scene, she found it hard not to gaze out across the bay. She turned back to her sister. “At least if my one’s a cock, I can stare out the window.”

  “It’s not like that,” Demi insisted. “We’re not on a date or anything. Nat just asked if I’d like to join him here for cocktails and mentioned that he’d invited an old friend from school.”

  “Sounds like a double date to me,” teased Willow.

  The two half-sisters couldn’t look more different. Willow’s flowing, wavy, brown hair framed a long, soft face, whereas Demi’s choppy, golden bob accentuated striking, angular features. Willow wore a rockabilly dress made from vintage-railway-poster fabric whilst Demi was in fitted black trousers and a cream halter neck. But one obvious likeness was their large, chestnut eyes, inherited from their father.

  A jazz band plinked in the corner and a chap in a black waistcoat began to sing ‘Georgia on My Mind’.

  Willow beamed. “I hardly ever get to go to anything like this.”

  “I go to things like this all the time,” replied Demi, in a long-suffering tone. She was seven years older than Willow and the events manager for a seafront hotel, a considerable establishment, if not quite as grand as this; she’d attended more than enough swanky soirées. However, she made a mental note to get the band’s contact details.

  After a further hour of drinking, Demi began to wonder whether Nat was coming. He’d said to be there at eight and it was gone nine. The arrangement had been fairly informal; in hindsight, she wished she’d asked for his number. She just wasn’t accustomed to strangers proposing drinks, least of all whilst she was out grabbing lunch in her bland work clothes.

  A stocky, rusty-haired chap at the bar had noticed Demi and was smiling. He had a charismatic face with a round, almost snub, nose. “You’re the lady who organised the slut walk around the seafront.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Demi replied in her usual fruity voice.

  “I’d like to buy you and your friend a drink. If that’s allowed? Offering you a drink is allowed, isn’t it?” he joked with a twinkle in his eye. He had a rich, expressive voice.

  Demi smiled at him kindly. “It’s allowed. This is my sister, Willow. She was the one who painted the corsets on.”

  “They were amazing, those corsets – so effective.” The chap offered Willow his hand and shook appreciatively.

  “My grandmother was Lamorna Ferris, the painter,” Willow informed him, her soft voice betraying a faint Cornish twang.

  “Oh, so you’re local?”

  “Born and bred.”

  “You were at the protest, then?” asked Demi.

  “In a professional capacity. I’m a reporter.”

  Demi tensed, breathing in sharply through her whitened teeth.

  “Not that reporter,” he replied, catching her eye. “I write for The West Briton so my piece was fairly neutral. But it did take a while to find a family-friendly photo.”

  “That guy who wrote the scathing article for The Daily Mail did us a favour, really. Hardly anybody knew about the protest. Then he did his piece and suddenly, for good or for bad, everybody was talking about victim blaming.”

  “I did see some of the tweets people sent you – horrendous.”

  “Yup. But I knew what I was getting into. Slut walks always get a strong …” Demi trailed off.

  A breath-taking man sucked the gaze from everybody in the room. He was remarkably tall, with a brooding face and a lean figure. The suit he wore was well tailored, and hung flatteringly from his shoulders and hips. And he was just as striking as she remembered from the cafe: the strong jaw, intense chocolate eyes and thick black hair waxed into a bedhead quiff. His short sideburns completed the look.

  Admittedly, he wasn’t Demi’s usual type but who could not be drawn towards somebody who looked as though he’d been sculpted by some sort of virtuoso?

  Willow clocked him too. Catching herself staring she quickly averted her gaze to her empty glass.

  Nat didn’t look towards the bar where they were sitting. Instead, he strolled over to a man by the window and grabbed his hand, shaking it firmly.

  “Is that him?” whispered Willow.

  Demi nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “Wow.”

  The reporter surprised them. “Nathaniel Gordon?”

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “We went to school together, backalong.”

  After settling whatever business he had with the man by the window, Nat headed their way. Demi shot him a welcoming smile, feeling shyer than she expected.

  “What a glorious dress!” he said, greeting not Demi but Willow. Then, without taking his eyes off her, he added, “What drink am I going to get for you?”

  Demi was taken aback, but hid her shock.

  “I’ll have whatever Demi is having,” replied Willow.

  “Good evening, Demi,” said Nat, finally, in his low, gravelly voice. “I see you’ve already met Ross.” He acknowledged his friend with a quick nod then returned to Willow, asking her whether she was interested in railways or just happened to like the vintage posters.

  Demi decided to brush it off. The man might look like a work of art but his lack of courtesy greatly diminished his appeal. She turned to Ross, “So you’re the one that Nat went to school with.”

  “Yes. Well, way back. Until yesterday I hadn’t seen him for years.”

  “Did you go to school in Cornwall?”

  “No, Eton, for my sins.”

  Demi studied Ross, who’d turned up to a cocktail party unshaven; with messy, unkempt hair; wearing Rip Curl jeans and a crumpled short-sleeved shirt. In contrast with Nat, he was certainly not the stereotypical public school boy.

  “Nat tells me he’s going to move down here,” said Ross.

  “Let’s not talk about Nat.” Demi reached for her diamanté purse. “What are you having?”

  “I was getting the round, remember?”

  Demi noticed that when Ross smiled, he popped dimples. When he caught her staring, she grinned. “Nice dimples.”

  * * *

  At the first opportunity, Willow turned to her sister. “I am so sorry.”

  Demi looked at Nat, who was busy sweet talking the barman. “Don’t be. I must have just read the signals wrong, that’s all.”

  “So you don’t mind if I get to know him a bit better? He was so assertive that I couldn’t find a way to refuse a drink without sounding rude.” Willow nodded towards her glass of champagne.

  Demi hesitated; the champagne was rather OTT.

  “Demi?”

  “You go for it. I’m happy chatting to Ross – he’s a hoot.”

  As Ross returned from the loo, Demi found herself admiring his physique. He wasn’t espe
cially tall, perhaps just two or three inches taller than she was, but he had presence. She wasn’t sure whether it was his broad shoulders or his strong stride, but she could imagine him picking her up and pinning her against a wall.

  “So are you from Falmouth itself?” he asked, perching on the stool next to hers.

  “Me? No. I’m not even Cornish.”

  “Oh. I thought Willow said …”

  “Willow’s Cornish. We’re half-sisters.”

  “Oh right. I see. So you didn’t grow up down here?”

  “No, I lived with my mother in Surrey until she remarried, about when I went to uni.” She recollected her step-father and grimaced. “So it worked out quite nicely for all of us.”

  “You don’t like her new husband?”

  “I don’t dislike him, but my mum only really has the capacity to focus on one thing at a time.”

  “Did you come to Cornwall for uni?”

  “No, I went to Warwick.”

  “What brought you down here, then?”

  “Willow.” Demi took a deep breath. “Her mother was dying and our father’s a heap of shit … She was only fourteen.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one? So, after uni?”

  “During, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “To be honest, I was flunking.”

  Ross studied her for a few moments, his green eyes alive with interest. “And how is Willow now?”

  Demi looked at her sister twiddling her hair for the most handsome man in the bar. “She’s doing well.” Demi took a sip of her drink. “Do you have siblings?”

  “One brother and two sisters.”

  “Must have been a houseful, growing up. Do you get on well with them?”

  “In the main, yes. We have our spats like all brothers and sisters, but I’d say we’re fairly functional, as families go.”

  “Ah, but can you survive Monopoly at Christmas? That’s the real test.”

  Ross smiled. “You know, sometimes when you talk, you have a giggle in your voice.”

  “A giggle?”

  “It’s hard to describe. It’s like there’s some bright pink in there.”

  “Are you trying to say I sound like I have a throat infection?”

  “No. Your voice sounds the way I imagine bright pink would sound if it were a noise – only in the middle. though. It’s ordinary coloured around the edges.”

  “And what’s an ordinary colour for a voice?”

  “Oh, it varies.”

  “Um … right. Are you trying to chat me up?”

  “That wasn’t a line. Your voice definitely has a ‘fun’ track. I like it a lot.” Ross studied her high cheekbones, sharp nose and the subtle slant to her chestnut eyes. “But yes, I am trying to chat you up.”

  * * *

  Whilst Demi and Ross were deep in conversation, Willow was finding Nat somewhat harder to pin down. They had moved to a table in the corner, and sat with a bottle of the hotel’s most expensive white.

  “You don’t want to know about me,” Nat demurred.

  “But I do. That’s why I asked. Surely it can’t be that bad.”

  “I’m retired.”

  She laughed. “Retired?”

  “See, I told you.”

  “You can’t be retired, you’re what … thirty?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “What do you do for a living really? I’m just a student, so I’m hardly in a position to judge.”

  “What do you study?”

  “Fashion design.”

  “Then you’re not just a student. Creativity is a super power. Hey, without fashion we’d all be naked.”

  Willow’s eyes flitted, unsure where to look. “How can you be retired at thirty-two?”

  “I’m a hedge fund manager. At least, I was until last week.”

  “You quit?”

  “The money and the city got tedious, so I’ve decided to retire to the coast.”

  “You’re moving here?”

  “Yes. I’ve just bought myself an apartment a bit further down the seafront. I’m here sorting out a few things.”

  Great! Willow’s imagination filled with happy aspirations. “Why did you choose Falmouth?”

  “I came here with my mother as a child. I have very few happy memories from back then, so I cherish that one.” He looked off into the distance, then quickly turned back to Willow. “Do you fancy taking a little walk?”

  “It’s dark.”

  “Just across the front lawn. I need some air.”

  It was dark, but she could see two or three couples strolling around out there already. She loved the sea air. “All right then.”

  Nat beamed.

  She grabbed her purple shawl and made her way to the exit with her new … dare she say it? … admirer. Out in the bay, three ships twinkled like distant fairy lights, but the sky was devoid of moon and she felt thankful for the light of the hotel bar spilling onto the lawn.

  “It’s lovely and clear for April, don’t you think?” Nat began.

  “I hope it holds. I’m racing tomorrow.”

  “Racing what?”

  “Myself. It’s only a 5K, but it’s cross country, so I’m hoping the rain stays away.”

  “Creative and athletic – a woman of many talents.”

  Willow felt her face prickle. She wasn’t a stranger to compliments, but never delivered by somebody quite so suave. His attire, the fancy hotel and the four glasses of wine made her feel as though she were in a historical-romance novel. With the sea as the backdrop, Willow cast herself in a chapter of The Chamomile Lawn.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Willow froze – the most ominous sentence in the history of the English language.

  “There’s a reason why I came over the moment I saw you.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s an oil painting that’s been handed down through my family – a beautiful woman with long waves of brown hair surrounding a soft face with huge, soulful eyes, just like yours.”

  Willow glowed. “Who was she?”

  “Nobody knows. I somehow assumed that my father did, but just before he died he told me that he had never known. It was handed down from his father, and he hadn’t known who she was either.”

  “Not an ancestor, then?”

  “An expert I’ve consulted said it’s from the nineteenth century. I researched our family tree and she’s not one of the women on my father’s side. I’m beginning to think a distant grandfather took a fancy to one of the maids.”

  “Oh?”

  “I rather like the idea – an aristocrat forced into a loveless marriage by societal expectations, keeping a painting as a memory of the life he could have had.”

  “Very bittersweet.”

  “Exactly – but beautiful. I’ve always found the woman in the painting intriguing, so when I saw you, I knew that I had to find out more.”

  * * *

  Demi seized Ross by the front of his shabby, white shirt and dragged him into the laundry room. He accepted her tug with such enthusiasm that he accidentally knocked her, small as she was, over backwards.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, trying to get up.

  Unperturbed by having landed in a pile of other people’s bedding, Demi seized the back of Ross’s head and drew him towards her so that there could be no doubt that she wanted to kiss him.

  They kissed, they scratched, they grabbed – ten minutes of exploring each other, all the while adhering to the unwritten rule that they should savour this ‘getting to know each other’ phase.

  Frustrated by the pressure of holding back, Demi dug her nails into Ross’s back. He snarled then gripped her slender wrists and jerked them above her head.

  Demi squealed with delight.

  He held her down and began kissing her smooth, elegant neck. She moaned, squirming excitedly.

  “You like being dominated, then?”

  Demi
grinned. “Apparently so.”

  Ross growled and tightened his grip on her wrists. He began grinding his groin against hers, denim on satin.

  “Not here,” she whispered.

  “Argh!” he growled, bashing the laundry in raw frustration. Then he pulled himself together and said sheepishly, “Whatever you think is best.”

  “I’d love to go back to yours.”

  Ross gave a toothy grin and kissed her again. This time the kisses were different, as each of them was smiling too much to match the passionate clamps of the moments before. Demi giggled and Ross met her laughter with a satisfied smirk, staring into her chestnut eyes as he savoured the anticipation.

  They pulled themselves to their feet.

  “I have to check on Willow, first.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know she’s a grown-up, but she’ll always be my kid sister. Besides, she’s woefully naïve.”

  As they walked back into the bar together, Ross caressed Demi’s shoulders; she loved how delicate his strong fingers made her feel.

  Unexpectedly, they found Willow sitting alone, staring into a martini. Her sullen expression suggested she’d been sharing her thoughts with that martini for far too long.

  “Where’s Nat?”

  Willow shrugged. “How should I know?”

  Demi saw how glassy her sister’s eyes were. “I’m ready to go home if you are?”

  Willow took one last dejected look around the bar, sighed and hopped down from her stool.

  “I’m sorry, Willow; I thought you were with Nat.”

  “I was, but then he had to go out to take a phone call and I haven’t seen him since.”

  When Demi was certain that Willow was no longer looking, she shot Ross a look of lustful regret. He nodded, his disappointment clear but tempered by understanding.

  “What do you reckon: taxi or walk?” Demi asked her sister.

  Willow looked at her heeled shoes. “I’m running in the morning. I’d rather not risk my ankles.”

  Demi offered Willow her arm, noticing that her sister looked distinctly wobbly – how much had she had to drink? She sat Willow down in the lobby, and reached for her phone.