A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

  ‘Yeah.’ His smile was sheepish.

  ‘Have you tried the more conventional solutions like hot milk?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, listen, if you have to go out on your bike late at night again could you maybe keep the noise down until you get away from the woods? So you don’t scare the wildlife. Or me.’

  ‘I did this last night. I was as quiet as possible,’ he said defensively. ‘I wheeled the bike away from the cottage before I started the engine.’

  She couldn’t hide her surprise because she hadn’t heard him go out at all. ‘I appreciate that. Thanks. Have you always suffered from insomnia?’

  Now she glimpsed bleakness in his eyes. ‘My shoulder is painful. I injured it when I crashed earlier this year. For some reason it’s most painful at night when I’m trying to get to sleep.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ she asked.

  He laughed unhappily. ‘Yes. Several.’

  ‘Can’t they help? Give you painkillers?’

  ‘They did but I’ve run out.’

  ‘You should see Dr Hartwood. Jake. He’s my boss’s boyfriend and a great doctor. He’ll help you.’ He didn’t answer, so she went on, ‘This weather can’t be helping, either. My mum used to get arthritis in her hips when it was cold and damp like this. She found a hot-water bottle helped.’

  He remained tight-lipped, but she could tell from the scepticism in his eyes that he didn’t buy into hot-water bottles.

  ‘How does going out on your bike help?’ she asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘It takes my mind off the pain and helps me relax.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose you like to go fast on the main road. You do know what the speed limit is, don’t you?’

  ‘Speed limit? What speed limit?’ His eyes sparkled, and she got the feeling he was teasing her again.

  ‘Very funny. There are speed cameras all along the main road, you know.’

  ‘Are there?’ His casual tone made her hands ball into tight fists. She’d heard him revving the engine of that enormous machine: she was in no doubt that it could easily reach top speeds. ‘Yes, there are. And if you’re caught speeding, you’ll get a fine. You might even get a prison sentence. That happened to one guy last year. The judge said he wanted to make an example of him.’ She wished he’d lock away more people who drove dangerously and put innocent people’s lives at risk.

  Alex’s teasing smile vanished. ‘Why do I get the feeling you disapprove of my bike, Liberty? Or is it just me you don’t like?’

  Thrown by his questions, she battled the anger that flashed through her and the jagged memories of Carys’s accident. Yes, she did disapprove of his bike and people like him who raced around, scaring everyone and everything around them. Her spine stiffened. ‘Do you ever think about others when you’re speeding? Do you ever think about all the people who would be hurt if you crashed? You put everyone else on the road at risk of being hurt or worse, just so you can get a few cheap thrills from going fast.’

  A long pause followed before he said quietly, ‘It’s usually the person on the bike who comes off worst.’

  Their gazes met and locked, but she wouldn’t back down.

  He studied her closely. ‘Why are you so angry, Liberty? What have I done to you?’

  ‘You haven’t done anything,’ she snapped. She wasn’t angry, she just felt strongly about this. Memories hooked at her heart like barbed wire.

  He said nothing. She folded her arms and glanced at him. He kept his expression neutral and waited.

  Seconds passed. Her heart beat rapidly.

  Then she swallowed and admitted quietly, ‘My friend Carys was hit by an idiot speeding – he was in a car, not on a bike, but even so. He hit her head-on. She didn’t stand a chance.’

  Hot colour rose in her cheeks. Suddenly her words sounded foolish. Emotional. He wasn’t responsible for Carys’s accident. It was irrational of her to tar everyone who drove fast with the same brush. Yet she knew if she looked out of the window at his bike she’d feel the same rage. It wasn’t fair that Carys had been hurt like that. It wasn’t fair that, while her life had stopped and she lay in a coma, the guy who’d hit her was serving a ridiculously short prison sentence and in a couple of years he’d go free.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Alex said.

  She was completely wrong-footed by his gentle, sympathetic tone.

  ‘What happened to your friend is very sad.’ He appeared to choose his words carefully before he continued, ‘My friend Thomas died in a crash, too. But he was a racer, doing what he loved, and knew the risks. It was a tragedy, but it must be a hundred times harder for you because your friend was just going about her life.’

  ‘She was driving to school where she teaches. Taught.’

  He nodded. ‘Thomas was young, too. He was talented, he had so many plans. It’s difficult to accept when someone dies so young.’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ she said quickly. ‘She’s in a coma.’

  ‘I know, and I sympathise with what you must have been through.’

  His sympathy was genuine – she could see it in his eyes. She couldn’t speak because her throat was a tight knot.

  ‘I was teasing you before. I never speed on the road. Never have.’

  ‘No? Most bikes do. Especially round here on the quiet country roads.’

  ‘I love to go fast, but I save it for the track where we’re all in the same … galley.’

  ‘The same boat, you mean?’

  ‘Oui, voilà.’ There was a long pause. Then, ‘I’m sorry for your friend. You care deeply for her, I see this, but being angry won’t change anything. It will only make you bitter. You are punishing yourself this way.’

  She knew he was right. And suddenly she saw how angry she’d been with him – irrationally so – for having a bike that went fast. He said he didn’t speed, and he’d lost a friend too. It felt like a fragile bridge had narrowed the distance between them.

  Yet she still couldn’t fathom why he enjoyed something as dangerous as motorcycle racing. ‘When you’re on the track, aren’t you afraid? Of the speed? Of crashing?’

  He laughed. ‘Life would be dull if you only focused on what could go wrong. I’m aware of the danger, but I concentrate on what I need to do. I memorise the layout of the track and anticipate each bend and straight so I’m always thinking about my next move, my position, and so on. I don’t have time to think about anything else.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’ She peered at him, curious to understand because she genuinely couldn’t see the appeal.

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.’ A stricken look flashed through his eyes and his gaze slid away from hers. He must hate it here – he must be so bored.

  ‘What do you enjoy about it?’

  He considered this. ‘The adrenalin rush, the speed and the power, the thrill of winning and coming first. It’s about pushing the bike and myself to the limit.’

  He looked so animated talking about it, and she contrasted this with what she enjoyed most: sewing quilts. She wasn’t bothered one jot about going fast or coming first in anything. All the things he’d just described – speed and adrenalin – made her shudder with dread.

  ‘I could take you out on the bike, if you like,’ he said. She glanced up, surprised. ‘Then you could see for yourself what it feels like.’

  ‘Me?’ She choked a laugh. She wanted nothing to do with anything that went fast or could take a life. ‘No, thanks. I can’t think of anything wor—’

  The word died on her tongue as she remembered her challenge.

  Oh, damn. She was meant to say yes to everything. Everything. No excuses.

  But a motorbike? Her hands became clammy just thinking about it. She fiddled with the skirt of her dress. Alex was apparently amused by her indecision. It was a simple yes-no question, and the easy answer, her instinctive answer, had been no.

  Therefore … she had to say yes, didn’t she?

  Drat.r />
  She swallowed. ‘Yes, please.’ Her words were a tiny squeak.

  He peered at her, lips curving. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m really scared, but I – I feel I ought to do it.’ Her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen just thinking about it.

  ‘Ought to?’

  ‘I’m doing a challenge for the month of December. Saying yes to everything.’

  His eyes lit up. It was the first time she’d seen them so animated. Until now he’d had such a desolate air about him. She could tell he liked this idea. It was probably the kind of thing he’d find fun and not challenging at all. ‘You have to say yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘This is all?’

  Ouch, that hurt. She wished she hadn’t told him now. Her chin went up. ‘One challenge each day, yes. But they have to be things I wouldn’t normally do. Things I’m nervous about or scared of doing.’ Like riding a motorbike. That would be a big, scary ‘yes’. Positively terrifying.

  ‘Who set you this challenge?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hesitated. ‘Because I’m hoping it will make me braver. Shake things up a bit.’ She deliberately kept it vague, not wanting to confess that she was a coward stuck in a routine of dog walks and cosy nights in. She was still feeling stung by ‘This is all?’ and had a feeling that he, with his powerful motorbike and leathers, would definitely not understand.

  ‘What have you done so far?’

  She pulled out her notebook and showed him what she’d written on page one. ‘Took in a lodger.’ She didn’t mention the sandwich fillings. He’d find that ridiculous.

  ‘Me? I am part of your challenge?’

  She nodded. ‘I’d never had a lodger before.’

  He took a moment to absorb this. Her gaze lingered on his beautiful long lashes. They lifted and he met her gaze. ‘You were scared?’

  ‘Not scared, exactly. More apprehensive.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘This is my home. I’ve only ever shared it with my mum and my best friend.’

  ‘What’s tomorrow’s challenge?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go along.’

  ‘So you want to go for a ride on my bike as part of your challenge?’ he asked.

  ‘“Want” is a little strong.’ She gave him a weak smile.

  ‘Should we go now?’

  Cold white fear filled her. ‘No! I – I mean I can’t.’ She checked her watch and hurried into the hall where she grabbed her coat. ‘There’s no time. I have to go to work and I’m late already.’

  ‘How about tonight, then?’

  She wound her scarf around her neck. ‘I’m going out.’ Funny how going to sew with a stranger had seemed out of her comfort zone – until the prospect of riding a motorbike had put that completely into perspective.

  His lips twitched. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be at work.’ She scooped up her car keys, then stopped. Even to her ears it sounded like she was making excuses.

  ‘Where is your shop? In the village?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could take you there, if you like? Tomorrow.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I suppose. And I could walk home at the end of the day.’

  ‘Or I could pick you up.’

  She smiled. ‘I think one journey would be enough, thanks.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me what time you need to leave and I’ll be ready.’

  So now he knew why Liberty McKenzie had disliked him – and his bike – from the start, thought Alex, as he spread generous amounts of marmalade on his toast. He’d never tasted anything like this deliciously sticky stuff. He had to admit, he understood her point of view. And although her anger had been irrationally directed at him, it showed how deeply she’d been affected by her friend’s accident.

  He thought of his own crash. The tilt, just a fraction of an angle too far, then the spinning away from his bike, whirling across the tarmac, his hands outstretched, grasping at thin air. And the endless seconds before the final impact. The crunching stop.

  It had taken months for him to recover, months of gruelling physio, rehabilitation and pain. From the start, the doctors had been pessimistic. They’d all told him the same thing – that he might never fully regain the strength in his wrist.

  But he’d refused to believe them. He’d vowed that he would recover through sheer determination. If he’d known then how futile it would be …

  The dog trotted into the kitchen and watched him with soulful eyes. ‘Hello, Charlie. And, no, don’t even think about it.’ He hurriedly ate his toast.

  But when he’d finished the dog was still staring up at him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Charlie went to the back door and began to claw at it.

  ‘You want to go out?’ Would Liberty approve? She’d let the dog out the other day and told him the garden was safe. ‘Okay then.’ He gave in.

  The dog scampered out and Alex closed the door against the chilly winter air. He sipped his coffee while checking emails.

  Then he heard a clawing at the back door. He frowned, and opened it. ‘You want to come in already?’

  Charlie bounded inside. Alex shrugged. Maybe he’d needed the toilet. He returned to his emails. But as soon as he sat down, the dog was back at the door, clawing and whining unhappily.

  ‘Again?’ The dog made big eyes at him. Alex sighed and got up a second time.

  He sat down. Immediately the clawing started again. ‘I’m not playing this game any more,’ he called. ‘You wanted to go out, now you live with it.’

  But guilt crept in. What if he was cold out there? Or hurt?

  Eventually, he got up and let him in. ‘That’s it now. You’re staying in and that’s final.’

  He tried to sound authoritative, but as he left the room he felt the dog’s gaze follow him and had the distinct feeling he’d just lost another round of a game he hadn’t asked to play.

  ‘Do you have a helmet I can buy?’ Alex asked.

  The garage was just beside the turning for Willowbrook village, and although it wasn’t the most modern, Alex had noticed it had a workshop for repairs and hoped someone there might be able to help him. As he went in, he inhaled the familiar smells of oil and grease.

  The mechanic wiped his oil-stained hands on a rag. ‘A helmet for a motorbike?’

  They both looked at his bike. The orange paintwork gleamed in the rain, like a shimmering sunset. ‘Yes, for a motorbike.’ Alex tried to hide his impatience. He was hardly going to be seen riding a pushbike, was he? ‘It’s for a woman,’ he added.

  The man’s brows lifted and deep grooves creased in his forehead. ‘Liberty?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He grinned. ‘There aren’t many French motorbike riders in Willowbrook. Friend of Luc’s, aren’t you?’

  Alex hesitated, but the man clearly knew who he was already. ‘Yes, I’m Alex.’

  ‘Guy. Pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand for Alex to shake. ‘I take it Liberty’s only going to be needing this helmet for a few weeks while you’re here.’

  ‘Maybe not even that long. One day.’

  ‘In that case I can lend you one, mate.’ The man beckoned him into the back of the workshop.

  Alex sidestepped tyres and spanners scattered across the floor. An old bike in the corner – a Triumph – caught his eye. But Guy had moved on already.

  ‘I’ve got this one here, or if you prefer I’ve got a pair with inbuilt radios. Might be useful for reassuring a nervous passenger.’ Guy winked.

  Alex smiled. ‘You know Liberty well, then?’

  ‘Put it this way, I’m surprised you’ve managed to persuade her to go out on your bike at all.’

  He’d been surprised too. But he’d be happy if it helped break down her prejudice. ‘The pair would be good. Thank you. How much will it cost?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no cost, not for Liberty.�
� He pulled out a stepladder and reached for the helmets, passing them down to Alex one at a time.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t mind—’

  The mechanic shook his head. ‘She’s a good girl, is Lib. I’ve known her since she was a baby.’ Alex was surprised. The only people who’d known him all his life were his family. ‘Make sure you take good care of her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She won’t like it if you go too fast. You know what happened to her friend, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘I won’t go fast,’ he promised. Did everyone around here assume that because he owned a motorbike he had no respect for speed limits or other road users? He’d meant what he’d told her: he kept the adrenalin rush for the racetrack and never broke the speed limit on the road. It simply wasn’t worth the risk of losing his licence. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than not being able to ride at all.

  ‘Thanks for these helmets. When do you need them back?’

  ‘There’s no rush. They’re only gathering dust in here.’

  As they walked back through the workshop Alex stopped beside the old Triumph. ‘She’s a special piece of history. Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Alex inspected the bodywork, which was sound, but she was missing a few key parts. ‘Needs a bit of work, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She does. Dr Hartwood bought her – have you met him?’ Alex shook his head. ‘You’ve probably seen him driving an old Bentley. He collects classic cars, but this bike caught his eye and he asked me to restore it. It’s taking longer than I’d like, mind, because I’m having trouble sourcing the parts.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  As Guy explained, the two men crouched to examine the bike more closely.

  ‘Are you looking for new or used parts?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Either. Ideally New Old Stock, but it’s rare.’

  Alex nodded. He’d heard of New Old Stock. Boxes of unused original parts, which occasionally came to light when an old garage or warehouse was cleared. Collectors of classic vehicles pounced on them, making them extremely valuable. Clearly Jake Hartwood was restoring the bike properly, using only authentic parts. He straightened up, and tucked one helmet under his arm so he could shake the other man’s hand for a second time. ‘Thanks again for the helmets.’