by Fox Brison
Chapter 2
Skye
I was wakened from my reverie by the crunch of wooden hull on shingle; Tommy nimbly hopped over one side of the boat, whilst Natalie did the same on the other, and together they pulled it out of the water and further up the beach so that Stacy and I could keep our feet dry. However, Stacy, so desperate to disembark, barely waited for the boat to stop moving before she stood and headed towards the prow. In her haste, anger, or whatever emotion was driving her to escape, her inexperience at navigating her way from one end of a fisherman’s boat to another showed. She stumbled over the netting I’d carefully negotiated earlier, and almost somersaulted with pike into the water. Only Tommy’s quick reflexes and meaty hands grasping her waist stopped her from taking an early seaweed bath, and he swung her easily onto the beach.
She wobbled on the pebbles, her high heels doing little to help her balance, all the while pushing off Tommy’s hands and trying to straighten her clothes; she really was quite remarkable at times and I held back a choked laugh at the absurdity of it.
Like that would have helped anything.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“It’s on me,” Natalie took my hand and helped me from the boat.
“Thanks,” I muttered, still holding her hand which was soft – surprisingly so - and staring down at her long shapely fingers I quickly dropped it before I did something even more embarrassing, like caress her knuckles with my thumb, “but I can afford to pay my way.” Pride reared its ungrateful head, an excellent sanitiser of unclean thoughts. I didn’t know if it was the location, circumstances, or seeing Natalie and Tommy again, but I was swiftly transported back to school when most of my clothes were third-hand, my white sports shirt grey (hence the goosey grey shirt moniker) through years of washing by a mother who’d checked out of my life. Natalie had been there and seen it all.
Yeah.
That was a passion killer right there.
“I’m sure you can,” she smiled, “but I owe you one. Call it for services rendered.” Natalie’s smile was much broader now, revealing two adorable dimples.
She winked, I frowned, and Stacy glared
“Services rendered?” Stacy stopped marching, or rather tottering, up the stony beach and spun around. “Skye, do you know this,” she looked Natalie up and down, “this woman?” Stacy had a way about her, not a nice way, of judging people by their looks alone. Whereas I found Natalie intensely attractive, Stacy wasn’t into women who were even the slightest way butch (she even had an aversion to me putting up my own flat pack furniture.) But… How could Stacy not see it? Although Natalie’s navy knitted jumper was baggy, it pulled tight against her breasts as she bent to help Tommy manoeuvre his pride and joy further up the beach. Her body was perfect. And her lips… her lips looked so soft and full you couldn’t help but imagine how good they would feel. And. Those. Dimples. For chrissakes, they should come with a health warning. How could Stacy be so blind?
Stacy stood at the top of the beach, one hand on her hip in what she thought was the perfect angry pose. I’d actually caught her practising it in my bedroom mirror once. It had made me laugh; back then I thought it was adorable now I knew better. The salty air was doing little to improve her temper, and I could see Tommy and Natalie holding back matching grins. “My skin’s a mess, my hair is a mess,” she whined, “and it’s going to take weeks to remoisturise.” My girlfriend was not only a clothes horse, she possessed more toiletries and make up than Boots the chemist. She also liked to be well-coiffed, her shoulder length blonde hair (dyed, of course, she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing her au natural dirty brown) straightened to within an inch of its life. Usually. Right now the sea air was playing havoc with her natural curls and they’d become springy and uncontrollable.
A bit like her temper.
“I’ll buy you some of that miracle cream you love,” I said. Even though it cost more than it would to feed a small African country for a week, I would have paid twice the amount to first shut her up, and second get her home without further embarrassment.
“Yes, you damn well will!”
“Skye and I went to school together,” Natalie interrupted our domestic. “She tutored me in algebra. If it hadn’t have been for her, I would never have passed maths and made it into the sixth form.”
“Oh, please, I’m not even sure you needed my help,” I argued, incapable of taking a compliment. Once Stacy understood there was nothing more salacious in my past than nights pouring over quadratic equations, she’d quickly grown bored with the conversation and went back to her own personal struggle with the shingles.
“Oh, I needed your help,” Natalie said quietly, “more than you realised.”
I was about to have a coronary. Was she flirting? I know it was awful of me, but for those few seconds I forgot about Stacy and the row we were going to spend the next four hours having until she calmed down. It fleetingly crossed my mind that I’d deliberately sabotaged my relationship; subliminally of course, I wasn’t that Machiavellian. But seriously, a tour of Alnwick Castle and Gardens followed by a nice dinner in Newcastle would have cost me a lot less financially and, more importantly, emotionally.
But then I wouldn’t have seen Natalie. Small mercies.
I was a coward but I eagerly stole those few moments of pleasure as Stacy walked further away and I stood mesmerised by Natalie’s eyes. And her lips. But mainly her eyes. I had forgotten how hypnotic her gaze was and I could have just crawled right into those bloody dimples and set up home. I pictured seeing that smile first thing in the morning, or last thing at night. That smile and those eyes focussed only on me.
I didn’t like myself very much at that moment.
Okay, I was only daydreaming, but daydreaming about another woman wasn’t acceptable, not in my book. It was only a short leap from fantasy to reality, in my experience anyway. I’d been cheated on before and it was not a nice feeling. So yes, even though Natalie Jeffries was sex on legs, I felt sick to my stomach that I’d allowed my relationship to disintegrate to such a degree I would disrespect someone who had meant a great deal to me. Christ, I was practically drooling which was so not cool. Yeah and I suppose getting stuck on the causeway was? I taunted myself.
“See you later then?” Natalie asked.
“Maybe.” I didn’t mean to whisper my reply. I certainly didn’t mean for it to sound quite as throaty as it did. Wow. And in other news… ‘humiliation reached atomic levels on Holy Island this morning when a woman was caught with licentious thoughts about her best friends’ kid sister.’ I needed to get away from this woman. She was becoming a hazard to my health, not just because of what Stacy would do to me, but seriously, I was having palpitations. I wonder if Tommy has a defibrillator on board?
Thankfully nature intervened, the rain in the air becoming far more than a fine mizzle.
“Skye!” Stacy screeched. At least I think it was Stacy. It could have been the gulls, I was hard pressed to tell them apart. “I’ve broken my heel! On me Jimmy’s! You’d better get up here and help me home. Now!”
No it was definitely Stacy.
Chapter 3
Natalie
Hey Sis, guess who I ran into at five am this morning? Skye Donaghie. She was stranded on the causeway. She looked really good – considering she’d been stuck in a hut all night.
Nat
Nat, ffs, do you know what the bloody time is? Andy’s looking after the kids this morning so I could sleep in.
Sara
Sorry, I didn’t realise the time. I was just excited at seeing Skye again, it’s been quite a while. Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you about it later
Nat
No, I’m awake now and curious. Skye got stranded? What happened?
Sara
She read the tide tables wrong and her whiney girlfriend’s precious little red convertible is on its way to Holland as we speak.
Nat
Shame Stacy wasn’t in it.
Sara
I thought you said they’d split up?
Nat
Oh you know Skye. The split will be procrastinated, but mark my words, it’s imminent. The only thing the two of them have in common is that they’re both lesbians.
Sara
I don’t understand that friend of yours. If things are so bad, why go on holiday together?
An extremely confused Nat.
It’s a last chance saloon type of thing, and believe me, prohibition has arrived. If I’m wrong I’ll clean your boots for a year.
Sara
BTW lose the new moniker. Extremely confused. Really? You’re not writing into a 60s agony aunt. ‘Dear Abby, I’m in lurve with an old school friend…’
Sara
Be careful you don’t stab yourself with that rapier wit. But seriously, a romantic getaway here? What was Skye thinking?
Nat
She wasn’t, that’s the problem. Look I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but you’ll probably find out sooner or later anyway, Skye’s taken a twelve month sabbatical from Durham.
Sara
What? Why? Is she ill?
Nat
No. It’s the ten year anniversary of her mother’s death. She needed some time out.
Sara
Christ, has it been that long?
Nat
I know, right? Plus she’s been put under a lot of pressure, what with the job offer from the Beeb. Stacy was really pissed about that, let me tell you.
Sara
Whoa, back up. What job offer? From the BBC? Why am I just hearing about this now?
Nat
It was all hush hush. You remember the series of books Skye wrote about the Viking invasion? Well the Beeb wanted to do an adaptation of them.
Sara
Wow, and she turned them down?
Nat
Yep. Skye loves her job at the uni too much to walk away from it completely, and you know how she hates any kind of attention.
Sara
No wonder Stacy was pissed. Just think how many pairs of Jimmy Choos she could have bought!!!
Nat
I’m guessing she’s more pissed about her car being under six feet of water. You coming to the pub tonight? Mum’s got the kids.
Sara
And cramp your date night? Nah, I think I’ll pass.
Nat
No cramping, date night is later on in the week. I bought some sexy new undies from Marks especially for it. Want a lift?
Sara
There are so many things wrong with your last message I don’t know where to start. First… sexy undies from Marks and Sparks? More like granny pants. ; )
I’ll have you know they are extremely hot.
Sara
Eww. I do not want to think of you and Andy and sexy underwear, thanks for that image now burnt on my retina, it’s almost as bad as…
Nat
Don’t you dare mention Mam and Dad in the same breath as me and Andy!
Sara
I didn’t but you did! As for a lift, I think I can manage the three hundred yards from Mam’s to the Smuggler’s.
Nat
So let me get this straight; it’s alright for you to parade around in front of the whole world wearing less than nothing, but I can’t talk about wearing my lacy green knickers for my husband? And what about your knee?
Sara
I was wearing a sports bra in Women’s Fitness not in Playboy. Totally unsexy, unless you are a teenage boy on hormonal overdrive. My knee is fine. I’ll see you tonight.
Nat
Chapter 4
Skye
We’d only been on the island for a few days, but the small fisherman’s cottage already felt like home, to me at least. Whenever I walked up the pebbled drive, I somehow felt a weight lift from my shoulders, the whitewashed walls reflected the glowing sun, and the ivy climbing the gable end felt like it held everything together, including me. The bright yellow door was open and although the darkness beyond was ominous, after all Stacy was lurking somewhere in the gloom, it was a welcoming presence that I’d come to embrace. I kicked my feet against the wall before I entered, trying, and failing, to keep the sand, which had become an invasive parasite, from entering with me.
The cramped sitting area was chilly. Normally I was up at the crack of dawn lighting the small black enamel stove which was the only means of heating, a serious bone of contention between Stacy and myself. She complained, and complained, and then complained some more for good measure, about how nippy it was and it being the twenty-first century and seriously? How could a house in this day and age not have central heating?
The tan leather sofa, soft and worn in places, was whispering my name, seductively, and who was I to resist the call? I flopped down, laying my compact frame along its even shorter length. My legs hung over the arm and I swung them freely as I tried to dissemble the sounds emanating from the bedroom. A couple of thumps followed by the rattling of bottles. I assumed Stacy was heading for a shower.
I’d spent the last few weeks bringing things from my Durham flat to the island, surrounding myself with the familiar in order to make my writing flow easier. I hold my hand up and admit to being a control freak. I won’t admit to being OCD, even though I guess most people would accuse me of being afflicted. I wasn’t particularly good with change, hence the replication of my Durham home. I really didn’t need my collection of snow globes from famous museums, nor my thirty seven volumes of notes on everything I’d ever written. But psychologically, the familiarity, instead of breeding contempt, bred comfort.
I clicked the remote and was surrounded by the less than soothing sounds of some boy band. I swear if I do nothing else on this trip I’m going to erase every one of Stacy’s playlists. I quickly flicked to something more to my liking, Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Bliss. All that was missing was a strong coffee and a bacon roll. Or chocolate cake. Or both. I had, after all, just spent the night in a wooden hut above the dark waters of the North Sea, so a hot breakfast followed by a huge hug of chocolatey warmth was definitely the least I deserved.
Followed by about eight hours of grovelling to my girlfriend.
You know what they say about assume? No, not assume the worst, although that was what I frequently did. I assumed Stacy was showering. I was wrong, very wrong. I had made an ass out of you and me. “So, instead of lazing on a lounger next to a crystal blue swimming pool, the rolling hills of Tuscany providing the backdrop,” Stacy said, with an air of resignation, “we’re here in this hovel, my car,” her voice hitched, “sailing merrily to Holland.”
“I’m really sorry,” I began contritely but my apology only succeeded in riling her up for some reason.
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time,” she said angrily.
“Stace…”
“No, Skye, no more. I want to go home. I hate this place. It’s cold, wet, and utterly miserable. I can’t understand a word most of the locals say, not that they say much to me anyway. Most of the time they ignore my presence, small minded hicks.”
“They’re not like that, well the majority of them aren’t anyway.” I pulled her into a hug and kissed her forehead. I didn’t explain that the locals didn’t particularly take to people who looked as if they were in a permanent state of olfactory overload. Seriously. Stacy walked around as if the whole island had just been spread with manure. Part of it was a nervous reaction. For all her beauty and achievements Stacy had self-esteem issues, and when faced with a new environment, with people she could not easily relate to, she went into cold-hearted, stuck up bitch mode. “Darling, I’m sorry, but I need to be here. My thesis is about early Christian saints, particularly Oswald and Cuthbert. I can’t do the research in Italy, much as I’d love to. What about Christmas? We could go to the markets in Florence?”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Stacy whispered and stepped out of my arms.
“What? What do you mean? What can’t you do anymore?” Stacy caught me completely off guard. Th
e talk was starting and I wasn’t ready. I slumped back onto the sofa.
“This,” she waved a tired hand between the two of us. “Don’t get me wrong, the sex, the sex is amazing.” I smiled; if anything was going to soften the blow of being dumped, it was the appreciation of my sexual prowess. “But it’s not enough, we’re just too different.”
“But,” I began again.
“No, Skye, no buts. I’m leaving. When you get back to Durham I’ll have my things out of your place.” Stacy returned to the bedroom and I remained where I was, stunned into immobility.
Part of me was crying. We’d been together for nearly a year now and I was going to miss her, but another part, a significantly larger part, was relieved that she’d been the one to call it. She’d done me a huge favour and all it had taken was a portion of fish and chips and a submerged car. I watched her carry her three large Louis Vuitton suitcases into the living room; it hadn’t taken her long to pack. There was only one chest of drawers and a small wardrobe in the bedroom of the cottage, and so Stacy hadn’t bothered to unpack most of her clothes.
It was as if she knew.
She hadn’t even complained, much, about the lack of suitable storage. She’d evidently realised, long before my pathetic attempt at a romantic getaway, that this last ditch attempt to rekindle our relationship was futile at best. The cavernous holdall which carried her make-up and weapons of beauty torture took even less time to fill than her suitcases and soon joined them at the front door. There was a sharp rap and I looked towards it and then back to the bedroom.