Angel Avenue

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “It’s early yet. Why don’t we explore, you know?”

  “Explore?” he asks suspiciously.

  “You have the smallest pub window in Europe, a plotting room, the home of the abolition of the slave trade… explore. This is all right on your doorstep.”

  “I know. Guess I took it all for granted,” he whines.

  More regrets cloud his features.

  We leave the pub and purchase a huge bag of pick ‘n’ mix from a nearby shop. I get him to hold them but only so I can pinch sweets from the bag when I want. Gives me an excuse to lean over his shoulder. I feel more confident with every minute more I spend with him.

  We tour the museums quarter and Warrick is ‘educated’ on William Wilberforce. We take a simulated carriage ride in the Streetlife museum and I almost throw up, high on sugar and hormones, I think. We stare at the smallest pub window in Europe for a while, me educating him while we stuff our faces with flumps, and then I run down the cobbled streets while he chases after me shouting, “Wench!!!”

  For a city that was flattened in World War Two and bulldozed to make car parks, and a place that was ravaged by the diminishing dockyard trade, it still maintains its historic significance. We leave a strawberry lace on Amy Johnson’s statue. Maybe she will know. Maybe a child will come and steal it soon after we leave it there.

  We finally end up in Ye Olde White Harte, with two half pale ales and a bag of pork scratchings between us. The place is black panelled wood everywhere, low ceilings and two small bars in two nooks. We sit by a roaring fire and I gesture to a staircase cut off with a rope barricade.

  “Up there, that’s where the Plotting Room is. Rumour has it, it may have been where the English Civil War began. Kind of. And look at the tiles beneath the inglenook fireplace, one of them is turned the wrong way, on its side… see? It’s the mark of the masons. There is history pulsing from these walls, can’t you feel it?”

  “Poppycock,” he says in a hysterical voice. He really is a lightweight. “Has anyone ever told you, you sound like a teacher?”

  I smirk and throw him a less-than-pleased glare.

  “Will you be alright driving?”

  “I honestly dunno. What have you had?”

  “Same as you. A half.”

  “Guess you’ll be driving then,” he says and burps.

  I shake my head. I don’t want to drive his pile of junk. The gears are stubborn.

  “Thank you for taking me to that garden,” I say, “I know it means a lot to you.”

  His face softens and he turns his head to hide his smiles. I snuggle into the nook of his shoulder and he squeezes my arm.

  “No problem wench. Now, about that coat…”

  Damn, I thought I had made him forget about that…

  In House of Fraser, I pick out a navy-blue, velvet, double-breasted trench coat. I love it so much. When I try it on, I stroke the lapels against my cheek. In the changing rooms, I can’t help but strut and do my own little catwalk show in the aisle. It’s nearing the end of the day and there is nobody about. In the background, Filthy/Gorgeous plays and I do a little dance in front of the panoramic mirrors at the back of the changing area.

  What was in that fucking beer? I reckon it was 10% ABV and we just didn’t realise.

  “Cos you’re filthy… ooh… ya gorgeous… you’re dis-gus-tin’… ooh ya nasty,” I sing, thinking nobody is looking. When damn it, I see him peering round the corner with a smirk on his face.

  “What? The woman said nobody else was in here. I was just wondering if you like it… guess I got my answer!” He bursts out laughing.

  “That beer was spiked,” I say in a huff, and charge back into my changing room, throwing the curtains shut so hard, the rings screech along the wooden pole. I hear him laughing and I burst out laughing too. I hold myself up against the wall and laugh so hard my sides hurt.

  We get to the counter and I cannot look him in the eye. He insists on paying even though the coat is designer and costs almost £200. He argues he has a bit of money, saved for a rainy day, he tells me. Afterwards, he takes my hand again and we walk back to the shopping centre he parked the car in. He makes me feel safe and reassured and I like his presence.

  “We’ll get supplies and then go back to yours,” he tells me.

  At the supermarket we stock up on herbs, mince, spaghetti and other fresh ingredients. Ready-made tiramisu and pizza bases to make garlic bread. Claret and one singular beer for him. For some reason, I have to be the one to take it off the shelf for him, though when it’s finally in the basket he carries it like it weighs a tonne.

  I manage the gears but he winces every time I crunch from fourth to second. We get back to mine and he insists on cooking while I get changed into something more comfortable. I really don’t know whether I might give him the wrong signals but I take a woollen red dress from my wardrobe and pair it with some black leggings. We eat in front of the sofa and afterward, we watch the sequins. We scoff chocolate and I drink wine and when I am sleepy, I head to bed. He switches to some late night horror and declares, “Be there soon.”

  When he crawls into bed later, he’s only in his boxers and I am only in my nightie. I roll onto his body and feel his chest hair beneath my cheek. He’s strong and vital. His arms surround me and I thread one of my legs between his.

  “We’re both lonely, and I don’t fancy you,” I tell him drunkenly.

  “Of course,” he responds, his hands in my hair and around my back.

  Secretly, I know, the day has been better than that I shared with Laurie. Warrick allows me to be myself.

  I wish I could fall asleep in his arms and never wake up. This is the way I always want to be ‒ warm and resting, on top of his body.

  ***

  I sense he’s awake already because we have our early morning problem flying down south.

  “Warrick, can I speak honestly?”

  I realise I sound on edge but I don’t care. I need him to know how I feel.

  “Course you can.”

  I sigh when I get confirmation that he is actually awake.

  “Hold me then,” I ask, and his arms strengthen around me. I hold my hands tight at his shoulders and shudder with desire.

  “I am frightened about what’s happening between us. This is better than anything I have experienced before.”

  “I‒I,” he begins, but I shift a hand to press a finger to his lips and I feel certain he pouts a kiss against it. I shift my head and kiss his chest. His arms tighten.

  “I don’t want to be a perpetual tease to you, Rick. I just don’t think I am ready for anything more than what we have been letting ourselves enjoy up until now. By that I mean, friendship and company. Do you know what I am saying?”

  “I am not sure, Jules,” he says, passion in his voice.

  “You make me happy just being with me, so happy, so happy it hurts‒”

  Tears fall and cascade over his chest.

  “Jules,” he calls, and pulls me up so my face rests in the nook of his shoulder and neck. Our fingers entwine and he holds me, using his other hand to stroke my hair.

  After a long time of lying there holding each other, he says in a strained voice, “I feel the same.”

  “I wish I could be stronger for you; more, better, a woman worthier.”

  “You’re wrong,” he insists.

  Warrick is a man who needs a good woman to put his tea on the table and love him dearly. I wouldn’t be able to provide that. I’d be in constant need of him and his strength. I feel already too dependent. He’d have to stand in and play so many roles that have been missing in my life all too long.

  “I’d love nothing more than for you to make love to me right now. Nothing more.” My admission burns my eyes and my heart. “But we have to be sure. I was hurt so badly before. I know you are nothing like him and I am not tarring you but please understand, I can’t cope with anything more right now.”

  “You’ll let me sleep beside you then, like this, na
ked. You’ll leave me going out of my mind with hunger for you?”

  “Hunger?”

  The word makes my stomach leap.

  “Yes. I am madly in love with you. Head over heels. I want you and I want your body naked, in my arms. Pleasuring you. Kissing you all night long. I love you.”

  He rolls me and I see a fierce look of desire in his eyes. He reaches down to kiss me and we embrace, tongues duelling and rolling.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  ***

  When I wake and realise it was a cruel dream, I ache inside. I find I am drooling on his chest and I retract my hold on him immediately. It’s early but I roll away and let myself out of bed. I look back on him and see he’s still fast asleep so I leave him there and head to the bathroom, where I look in the mirror and see my cheeks are crimson.

  I douse my face in cold water but nothing is helping to rid me of this heat all over my body. Instead, I walk to the kitchen and down a tumbler of cold water. I still feel as hot as hell. When I walk by the bed and see his curly chest uncovered by the duvet, I stare at what is before me. Yes, I admit, he’s a man I want and I want him more than anything else in the entire world. He’s utterly beautiful. He makes me feel safer than I have ever felt before in my entire life. I love him, I know it.

  Phew. Getting that out there with myself is a relief.

  When he rolls over and pulls the blanket up around himself, I watch the expressions he makes in his sleep. His nose twitches and he grunts. A smile falls across my lips and I don’t feel too bad then. It’s just the same old Warrick, growling and snoring. One of my secret behaviours these days is to smell his pillow when he’s not here.

  I sit at my desk and do the only thing that will occupy my mind ‒ marking. I congratulate myself that if I do it now, I shall have the rest of the day to relax.

  When I get bored after the first batch are done, I get up and head to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. I fill two cups and put one by his bedside.

  He hears the stamp of the mug and his eyes twitch open.

  “Tea for you.”

  I turn and sit at my desk and place my own cup down. I try to keep working but the mirror of my desk/dressing table is reflecting his image. He sits up and stares.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just marking. Is that a crime?”

  “You seem odd.”

  “All normal then.”

  I hear him take a big sip and he puts the cup back down and rolls over to stretch, but the duvet shifts with him. In the mirror I see the whole length of the back of his body, on show.

  He’s tight. No hair where there shouldn’t be any. Muscles in his shoulders and arse, thighs and arms. I love him and his body is an added bonus. Christ! If only I can get my act together and stop being a cock tease.

  Next thing I know, he leaps up to dash to the loo and I watch his body as he walks. My eyes peel wide open.

  He returns and openly sups from his mug, standing there in only his boxers still. I fight every impulse to look and I end up just randomly ticking every page of the books I am marking!

  “I have a thing today.”

  “What thing?”

  “My voluntary work. You know, the thing I dragged you to that time.”

  “Ah, rule me out then.”

  “I promised Joe I would drop in for Sunday lunch too. I do that about once a month.”

  “Fine.”

  I don’t know why he’s fishing for my approval. He pulls on his jeans and a vest he must have been wearing beneath the mustard jumper yesterday.

  “I’ll just go then?” he huffs.

  I turn in my chair to face him, biting my pen. “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his wild hair out and his eyes look manic. “Guess I just feel a bit like I am getting the brush-off here.”

  “Look, I woke early. I often do if I have had an early night.”

  He hops on his feet and I stare him out, refusing to get as irate as him.

  “Stay. Make yourself breakfast. Watch telly. This is just my life, you know. I mark all the time.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed and drinks the rest of the tea.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “No,” I murmur, making random ticks still.

  “What do you want then?”

  “There’s eggs. I like mine poached.”

  “More tea?”

  “Yep.” I hand him my now empty mug.

  He calls me for breakfast soon later and we eat at the tiny table, which he has laid properly and garnished with a flower from my bouquet of carnations in the kitchen.

  I seat myself, though still in my nightdress and robe. I chomp through the food in my usual fashion and I see him watching me. He wants to know whether he outdid my day with Laurie.

  I am not going to tell him that he most certainly did, nor in being here for breakfast and doing it all himself, he’s winning by miles.

  “I have a favour to ask.”

  “Yeah?” he cheers.

  “We go on a half-term dash to Bruges every autumn, me and the girls. Betsy and Ruby. They’ve pulled out this year because, well, they hate me now I have implemented all the changes that Dickhead Jack imposed on us.”

  “That’s sad,” he remarks.

  “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I don’t work there to be liked. Look, anyway, I booked mine and can’t get a refund. My cabin was booked, you know, ages ago. It was a two for one thing, so if you want to come, you’ll go free but it’ll be with me, in a tiny cabin, for two whole nights. Otherwise I will be going alone. I mean, I don’t mind,” I swing my fork around, looking anywhere, “but I thought, well, you seem stressed from work and it would be free… for you. Seems a waste.”

  “When?”

  “Friday next week? Sails late afternoon.”

  He chomps down on some egg and toast and consults with his memory.

  “I will have to do some begging but I don’t see why not. Just means I might have to work overtime in the evenings next week.”

  “Oh, don’t put yourself out. It’s not essential.”

  I toss off my disappointment.

  “I’ll come,” he smiles.

  “You will?”

  “Course,” he replies.

  He stands and collects the plates. I hear him washing up while I finish my marking.

  When he comes back into the bedroom, he’s dressed and ready to leave. A hand drops on my shoulder and he kisses my cheek.

  “I’ll text.”

  I grab his hand and halt him, “Thank you, for yesterday.”

  I know I am blushing. I hate myself.

  He smiles and the next thing I know, he’s out of the door and then the building. I miss him already. I’m falling heart-screamingly in love with him. That dream is going to be the undoing of me!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jules

  I’ve been irrationally pissed off since the moment he picked me up an hour ago. We passed through check-in and now we’re at our cabin, dumping our bags in the puny space of our living quarters for the next two nights. The traffic on the way here annoyed me, finding somewhere to park the car was a nightmare and all the people in the queue for check-in aggravated me, and now he’s annoying me because he’s chirping about looking forward to this.

  “I just need a drink. Don’t ask.”

  I raise my hands in a gesture of I am so not going into this right now.

  We close the cabin door behind us and head up to the restaurant deck, where we exchange our dinner vouchers and eat cafeteria food. One glass of wine is extortionate but I have three, one in the restaurant and two in a lounge downstairs. I need them. I just broke for autumn half term. It’s time to let my hair down.

  We watch as the ferry pulls out of the estuary and I see the orange-amber lights of the docks fade behind us.

  “Going for it, tonight, are we?”

  “Yep. I said don’t ask.”

  I contemplate a fourth when I decide, “Whenever I am li
ke this, I find sleep helps.”

  His eyes are sparkling like diamonds. How is that possible when they are black?

  “That’s fine,” he tells me gently, his eyes bright with the possibilities of our trip, “but if you don’t mind, I want to stay and watch the sea. I might hit the shops, too.”

  I grunt and hand him the spare cabin key.

  “See you.”

  Later, a break in the darkness of our cramped plastic cabin wakes me and I find him pulling off his boots and jeans before launching himself up on top.

  “Night.”

  “Night,” I mumble.

  When we wake to a call from the captain the next morning, I stretch and yawn and throw myself out of bed. I have a wee and clean my teeth.

  “You awake?”

  “Yeah,” is the response.

  “Turn around while I dress.”

  “Okay.”

  I peel myself naked and slip on some underwear, then a nice pair of new jeans I treated myself to for the occasion. Just pulling them on makes me feel a hundred times better. There’s nothing sexier than the smell and feel of new denim and the way it holds you. I slide a belt through and pull on a cream, cashmere jumper. It’s bound to be freezing today and I shall be prepared.

  “Done.”

  He rolls and rubs his eyes, his arms escaping the pathetic duvet he’s laid under.

  “You feeling better then?”

  “Only just.”

  I brush my hair and pull it into a high ponytail. I wash my face in cold water with the bathroom door open. I feel too claustrophobic with it shut. I slap on a bit of make-up and I don’t feel worried knowing he’s watching. I never put make-up on for him anyway, I put it on for me. I use an added bit of eyeliner because I am on holiday.

  “What have you done differently?” he asks when we’re having breakfast in the cafeteria.

  “Nothing.”

  “You have. Your eyes look huge.”

  “Maybe ’cos they are.”

  “You look beautiful today,” he remarks.

  I give him a look over and try to think of a compliment that might equal that.