But everything that had been missing when she was with Owen – real attraction, curiosity, constant conversation, physical longing, yes, longing – was all she was feeling with Tom. She’d felt it from their first minutes together that afternoon.
She stood up abruptly. She’d been gone long enough already. Perhaps she was imagining this. Perhaps she was a little bit drunk. Perhaps it was just that it was Tom, Tom Donovan, who she’d known for so long. He was just an old family friend come to stay. She was confusing familiarity with something else. That was it.
She knew she was fooling herself from the moment she saw him again. As she walked into the living room with the wine, he turned from where he’d been putting some more wood on the open fire. She was instantly aware of every detail of him. His dark hair was damp. He was barefoot. He’d changed into faded jeans, a blue T-shirt, his arms bare, tanned, muscled. He smiled at her and her breath caught. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t imagining any of it. Something was happening to her, with him, between them. Something amazing.
‘Gracie? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She smiled at him. ‘Really, really fine.’
He smiled back. ‘That’s good. Really, really good.’
From that second, she knew what was going to happen. She longed for it to happen. It was as if all the conversations they’d had as children, the games they’d played, the kindness he had shown her, the letters they’d written in the years since, the photographs he’d taken especially for her, everything, all of it, had been leading to this moment when the two of them were there alone in the room, illuminated only by the firelight.
Did she sit down on the sofa first, or did he? Did he open his arms or did she? Afterwards, she couldn’t remember the detail of that exact moment, though she remembered every second of what followed. The first beautiful slow, soft kiss, every touch, every caress that followed, the unhurried, gentle slipping off of clothes, her top, his shirt, her skirt, his jeans …
She gasped when he first kissed her bare skin.
‘Will I stop?’ he whispered.
‘No, don’t. Don’t stop.’ She’d already decided. She wanted this to happen tonight, to make love with him now, tonight, his first night, their first night. It was soon, but it wasn’t too soon, not for them. More touching, more kissing, more sensation. Waves of it, building inside her. She tried to find words, could only tell him again, ‘You’re so beautiful.’
She felt the smile on his lips as he kissed her neck, her breasts, lower. ‘Handsome and rugged, Gracie, not beautiful. You’re the beautiful one.’
If she’d imagined the way she’d feel the first time she made love, it had never been as good as this. If she had ever dared to imagine something happening with Tom, she’d never pictured it being like this, like a slow dance, gentle movements, then the tempo increasing, each caress becoming more urgent, more important, a soundtrack of their soft voices underneath. They moved from the sofa on to the floor, on to the soft cotton rug, warmed by the fire. ‘Is this okay?’ ‘Does this feel all right?’ ‘Are you okay?’ Step by step, touch by touch, as if they were leading each other towards that final moment together, an explosion of feeling, of warmth, closeness, something wonderful. It hurt her only a little. He noticed, asked her was she okay, then asked her something else. ‘Gracie, was that your first time?’
She nodded, shy. She had to ask. ‘Was it yours?’
He hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. ‘But it was the best.’
The second time that night it didn’t hurt. The third time the next morning there was only pleasure, ripples, then waves of it. By the time Eleanor arrived home in the early afternoon, his bed looked as if he’d slept in it, though he hadn’t. Her bed looked slept in too, though they hadn’t slept there either. There seemed to be no time or no need for sleep. All she’d wanted to do all night was talk to him, touch, kiss and hold him.
It was like a hunger, Gracie discovered over the next few days. A longing. A secret. Their secret, their special knowledge. Just a touch of his skin, the sound of his voice, the feel of him close by sent a kind of shimmer through her. As though there was a kind of current linking them, humming between them.
Eleanor noticed.
‘It’s that obvious?’ Gracie said, mortified and delighted at the same time.
‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd. Are you being safe?’
‘Mum!’
‘Are you?’
Gracie nodded. They were now. They hadn’t been that first time, there in front of the fire when it had only been about making love then, there, quickly, now. Neither of them had wanted to stop, or been able to stop. She’d done some calculations since and knew that, fingers crossed, all was fine.
‘It’s taken me a bit by surprise,’ Gracie said to Eleanor, glancing at the door. Tom had gone out to get ingredients for the dinner he was cooking for the three of them. Eleanor was impressed when he offered. He’d smiled shyly at her praise. ‘Nina said I wasn’t leaving home until I knew how to cook ten proper meals,’ he explained.
‘Enjoy every minute,’ Eleanor said to Gracie. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’
Gracie had to ask something else, before he came back. ‘Is it okay with you?’ She meant so much with that one simple question. Did Eleanor mind it had happened so quickly? Was it okay with her if Tom slept in her room … ?
‘Gracie, you’re nineteen years old. An adult. I think you can decide that for yourself.’
She was still blushing when Tom came back from the shop.
Gracie discovered over the next week that Tom could do more than kiss her and touch her so gently, so beautifully that every part of her, her whole body, her skin, her bones felt like they were melting. He could do more than cook well. He could do more than make her laugh. She felt like he got her. He wasn’t just her sudden, beautiful unexpected lover. He was the friend she hadn’t been able to make until now. She’d often seen girls of her age walking with their boyfriends, talking and laughing, so happy and comfortable with one another, and she’d wondered how that would feel, how they knew what to say to each other. Now she knew. She didn’t even have to think about it. It just came spilling out. It was the most natural thing in the world to want to hold hands, to want to share what was on her mind, to know how he was feeling, to want to be physically close – to revel in the closeness – of each other. She’d never felt a connection like this with another person. It made what was already special even more special.
On holiday from university, she was free to spend each day with him. They explored different parts of London, taking bus trips, Tube trips, walking across bridges, visiting galleries and museums, sitting hand in hand in Trafalgar Square, taking a picnic to Hyde Park, strolling beside the river. He listened, he asked her questions, he challenged her. He liked reading as much as she did. They discovered a mutual love of crosswords and spent a whole day doing one after the other together.
One afternoon in her room, she was at her dressing table, tying her hair back into its plait, while he lay on the bed reading through the pile of postcards from her father that she’d given him, wanting him to see them. There were more than fifty, sent from the dozens of cities and countries Henry had visited in recent years through his work. Each of them began with the same line: Having a wonderful time, dearest Gracie, wish you were here, before listing a quick geographical fact about each place and then an extravagant sign-off in his large, looping handwriting, With love as always from your Dad xxx.
Tom had asked her a lot about Henry, about his antique-selling, the vintage car business, all the different fields he was now – by all accounts, very successfully – involved in. He asked her whether she missed him, if it had been upsetting for her when her parents separated. It had been, at first, she told him. Especially when it became obvious her parents couldn’t bear to be in the same room together. ‘I don’t see him often, but I love his postcards. They’re almost the next best thing. We all get them, dozens of them. Charlotte say
s he sends them out of guilt, of course, and that Dad’s problem is he can’t handle any of us now we’re adults, and Spencer says he doesn’t even bother reading them any more, but I love them. I know it means he’s thinking of us. Audrey says it’s not enough, that he should make more of an effort to visit us, but he does his best, and it’s not like he’s just disappeared into thin air or he’s died – oh, Tom, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, Gracie.’
It was a moment she’d been waiting for. The opportunity to apologise for something that had been on her conscience, ever since she’d realised the mistake she’d made, all those years before.
She came across to him now, took his hands in hers, her face serious. ‘I should never have been the one who told you about your father dying, Tom. I’m sorry.’
She knew from his reaction that he’d always remembered it was her. He squeezed her hand. ‘It would have hurt no matter how I found out.’
‘I’m still sorry.’
He reached up and touched her cheek. Even then, his touch sent an immediate ripple of desire through her. He smiled. ‘It’s okay, Gracie.’
It was as he was putting the postcards back on her bookshelf that he noticed it. The silver whistle he’d given her as a child, lying on one of the shelves. He recognised it immediately. ‘You’ve still got it? After all these years?’
She nodded, embarrassed. ‘It’s my good luck charm.’
He picked it up, held it in his hand, smiling at her. ‘Has it worked?’
‘Better than I expected,’ she said, blushing more. From that afternoon, she started carrying it with her all the time, tucked carefully away in her handbag.
Eight days after Tom arrived in London, Eleanor casually announced to Gracie over breakfast that she needed to go up to York on a work trip. ‘Will the two of you be okay here on your own?’
‘Of course,’ Gracie said, too quickly. ‘We’ll be fine, Mum.’
‘Spencer might turn up yet too. I’ve left another message at Hope’s house to remind him Tom is in London.’
‘It’s fine if he doesn’t.’ She blushed. ‘I mean, Tom wants to see him, of course, but —’
Eleanor smiled. ‘First love is a wonderful thing, Gracie. I’m envious.’
She hurried to try and make her mother feel better, said how sorry she was again about all that happened between her and Henry, until Eleanor held up her hand.
‘Gracie, it’s your turn, not mine. Enjoy yourself.’
‘You like Tom, don’t you?’
‘I like him very much. I always have. Do you like him?’
‘I love him,’ she said.
She told Tom that night. She’d read in magazines that the last thing a woman should do is be the first to say she was in love, that she should play it cool, be assured and aloof, keep the man guessing. She didn’t want to keep him guessing. She didn’t want to keep anyone guessing. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops. She was in love with Tom Donovan, kind, gentle, funny, clever Tom Donovan.
She’d pictured telling him in a romantic, dramatic way. She never thought she’d just blurt it out. They were in Camden, at a comedy venue. He’d gone to the bar and was coming back towards her, a pint in one hand, a glass of wine for her in the other. Someone turned and bumped into him and he just smiled and told them not to worry. That was all it took for Gracie to be sure.
‘I love you,’ she said, as he came closer.
‘What?’
‘I love you,’ she repeated.
‘Why?’
‘Because of the way you are. Because of the way you were with the spilt drink and that person just now.’
‘You love me because I’m clumsy?’
‘You’re not clumsy.’
‘Because I can carry two drinks at once?’
‘Yes, but that’s not why I love you. I just do.’
He sat down beside her, passed her the wine, then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. ‘That’s a happy coincidence,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Because I love you too.’
The next day, Spencer turned up.
It was early afternoon. Gracie and Tom were in bed together when she heard the front door open. She stopped Tom from kissing her neck, went still, lay there and listened. There was a kind of dragging sound, a door slamming and then a loud ‘Fuck!’ as something fell from the hall table and landed with a crash onto the floor.
‘It’s Spencer,’ she said, leaping up. ‘Quick, Tom.’
He didn’t move, just watched her with an amused expression. ‘Quick, what? Finish what I’d started?’
‘No. Yes.’ She stopped. ‘Why am I panicking?’
‘You tell me.’
Gracie knew why. Because Tom was Spencer’s friend. Because she was naked in bed with Tom. Because any minute now Spencer would come charging up here and she didn’t want him to know about this yet. She didn’t know why not. She just knew she didn’t.
She heard his steps on the stairs, heard him shout, ‘Mum? Gracie? Where is everybody?’
‘I’m in here,’ she shouted back. ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move.’
‘Why? Is this a stick-up?’ Spencer called back.
She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and slipped out the door. Spencer was standing there with his hands in mock hold-up style. He was dressed in a grubby T-shirt, faded jeans, his unruly curls almost dreadlocks these days. He grinned. ‘Not very terrifying, Gracie.’
She reached for the doorknob behind her and pulled it shut.
‘Sleeping in?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Where’s Tom?’
‘Asleep. Out.’
Spencer looked at her. She looked back.
‘He’s asleep and he’s out?’ Spencer said. ‘Or he’s asleep outside? Or you don’t know where he is and you’re pretending you do? Or you’re feeling guilty about not telling me that you and Tom have got it on and he’s probably in there, in your room, right now?’ He leaned past her and called through the closed door. ‘Hey, Tom. Welcome to London. Get up, you lazy bugger. We’re going on a pub crawl.’
Gracie hit him. ‘You know? How do you know?’
‘That lady who lives here too. What’s her name? Oh, yes. Mum. She rang me last night.’
‘Mum told you?’
‘Why? Was it a state secret? She asked me to show some sensitivity, not to come charging in on you both.’
‘Like you just have?’
‘I’m being sensitive now, aren’t I?’ He pulled an exaggerated sensitive expression. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Gracie. He’s a lovely, lovely man. I hope you’ll both be so happy together.’ He changed his voice back to normal and shouted through the door again. ‘Get up, Donovan. We’re wasting valuable drinking time. I’m practically eighteen now. I’m practically legal. Let’s celebrate.’
‘He can’t,’ Gracie said. ‘We’ve got plans for this afternoon. A film —’
Behind her, the bedroom door opened. Tom appeared, in jeans, barefoot, a blue linen shirt not quite buttoned. ‘Spencer.’
Spencer grinned. ‘Mate! Welcome, welcome. Come on, let’s go. You might want to put some shoes on, though. It’s raining again.’
Gracie frowned. ‘Spencer, I told you —’
Tom unself-consciously put his arm around her. ‘Maybe we’ve time to go for one, Gracie.’
‘One?’ Spencer said. ‘Better than nothing, I guess. It’ll have to be your round, though. I’m skint.’
Two hours later, she, Spencer and Tom were still in the pub two streets away. Spencer was in high-octane form. He’d been away with Hope and Victor, he explained. Touring Wales with them, as they searched for a possible location for another of their rehabilitation clinics.
‘I’m kind of Hope’s pet, Gracie, aren’t I?’ Spencer said.
‘That’s one word for it. Charlotte’s word is parasite.’
‘Gracie! Don’t listen to a word Charlotte says.’ He
turned to Tom. ‘Hope had an epiphany, Tom. Did Gracie tell you? A true miracle. The skies opened above her one day, a large hand appeared, a finger pointed and a deep voice said, “Never drink again, fall in love with a very rich, very old ex-alcoholic called Victor and spend the rest of your days spoiling your favourite and only nephew Spencer.” And like magic, that’s exactly what happened. Neither of us have looked back since.’
‘Congratulations to you both,’ Tom said.
Gracie just rolled her eyes.
Spencer laughed. ‘Gracie, just because Hope appointed me the Chosen One, there’s no need to be so scornful.’
‘The Chosen One? Spencer, you bleed her dry and I’m amazed you get away with it.’
‘Bleed her dry? I’ll have you know I work hard for every penny she gives me. I’m her Voice of Youth. I keep her in touch with what the young people of today are thinking, what drugs they’re taking, what they like to drink too much of. You think those clinics of hers are so successful without that kind of insider knowledge? She needs me as much as I need her. It’s the perfect relationship.’ He lifted his pint, took a big swallow, then grinned again. ‘Enough about Hope and me. Let’s just talk about me.’
At first Gracie laughed alongside Tom at all the stories Spencer told of misadventures in his social life, calamities in his occasional work life. Officially he was taking a gap year before doing his A levels and going to university. Unofficially he had no intention of doing either. He told Tom – Gracie already knew – that all he really wanted to be was rich, as quickly and easily as possible. So far, though, it had been all pain and no gain. His attempts to get work in share trading had failed. The music business was his next goal, he’d decided. Not as a performer but as a manager, where the real money was. Unfortunately the closest he’d got to any musicians was picking up glasses in a nearby venue, and he was already on a warning there for sneaking drinks from the bar. He somehow made it funny.
At Home with the Templetons Page 27