“Miss Simonovich has organised something very special for you all, seeing as though you are coming up to your finals. An added bonus for your curriculum, so pay attention.”
I grin at Vernon, who really is my saviour. Since tagging along with him and his luvvies, I have regained my love of public speaking and I have also begun dancing, in my own time. I don’t do it for anything other than fun.
Having already stretched and warmed, I scare them with a demonstration, dropping into the splits.
“Whoa, oh my god!” I hear someone shout.
They all cheer.
I stand akimbo and stare at them all with a smirk.
“Not many of you know I can dance. In fact, I had forgotten until recently. I thought today, it might be useful to calm some nerves before your exams, and also, demonstrate my interpretation of one of the most popular books on the curriculum, which you’ll all of course be examined on within the next two weeks…”
I think they know to which text I am referring. It’s not The Inspector Calls nor Great Expectations, that’s for sure.
“This is my interpretation of Wuthering Heights. I want to know afterward, what piece of the book I am portraying with this dance…”
The lights of the room go down and the spotlights on the stage flare. I nod at Vernon and he presses play.
Evanescence’s Bring Me To Life blasts out quietly to begin with and I come alive with the piano, pitter pattering my feet in a sequence of improvised bourree, not on pointe in these shoes but nevertheless in fifth position, my arms arched upwards. I fall into attitude several which ways, extending my legs, my arms, showing them how I can move, lean, balance, control my body. I pivot and twirl, I bounce up onto one tiptoe for a millisecond until lyrics are added to the track.
I fall into a hunched position, limbs folded as I curl into a ball on the floor, my arms and legs gradually re-extending until I open like a flower. When the drums crash through our ears, I begin. I pulse with the roar of my audience, clapping and screaming for me to give them a show. My veins flood with adrenalin and I am no longer me.
My arms reach out dramatically to grab, to bring him back, to yank him from wherever he has gone. I run and jump into the air, flying in the splits. I fall on the ground, peer up from all fours, like a cat seeking prey. I roll over and I kick the air and I lift myself off my back with the swift elevation of my elbows.
I then take the rock portion of the track and run with it.
I am chasing, grabbing, shaking him back to life. Willing him to be alive. To not have died of a broken heart. I am stretching my arms up into the heavens to seek help. I am kicking and punching for a way out, for a lifeline, for escape.
I am clawing at a bubble surrounding me. I am seeking, still, battling the force in my muscles and bones, those that contain me, energise me. My arms are rigid, swinging, arcing and dramatic. My legs kick and thrash uncontrollably.
I let the music and the story take me and I am the female Heathcliff, searching, hoping, yearning and lost. I adopt a fighter’s pose and squat, swinging my fists and kicking out, trying to batter down an invisible ghost that’s endeavouring to tackle me. I let the rhythm take over and it rushes through me, willing my limbs to burn with the fire of his/her spirit.
I am moving fast on my feet, performing a medley of Spanish tap and French ballet, quick, succinct, fiery, mellow, exaggerated, heated, restrained and uncontained, all mingling. I am Matador and woman, all in one, all fighting for supremacy. I continue until I feel my body burning with lactic acid – with the force of this dance, that book and the track’s power to take me into another headspace.
I fall on my back, I have Fallen, and I hear the room quiet. The music drones dead. I pant my spent energies away and I hear a loud, “Whoop, whoop, whoop,” from the crowd.
I stand and bow and wipe the sweat out of my eyes. I see the children are in awe, a new respect for me has come alive. I roil and writhe inside, wishing I could let myself carry on with this fiery passion burning from within me, but I never will. It’s a drug I dare not take.
“Heathcliff! Heathcliff! Heathcliff!” they all chant. They know I was he, trying to dig her out of the ground, trying to search and save her, find her and hold her to me.
I hope the heavens heard my cries and realised it was Warrick I was dancing for. He’s the only thing I live for now, for him – to love him again.
I notice at the assembly hall door, Jack is there also applauding. He must have heard the ruckus and seen it too. This performance will be passed down now, not my reputation as a ball buster. Thanks Mum.
Still, screams of surprise ring out from my audience and I jog over to Vernon, whispering, “Going to shower,” and I run there, get in the cubicle of the staff shower room, and struggle to contain how good that felt.
I hope my passions translated, that is all I wish.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jules
A couple of weeks later and I am on my umpteenth blind date. I joined an Internet dating site. What the hell, eh? He’s getting the cold shoulder, whether he knows it or not. I will live on. However, now I wish I never got myself into this. Each one has been a disaster. I am rattling through them. I rack them up on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, hoping at least one might be suitable, but they just don’t get me. I don’t know why. They look at me and think I am a sure thing, that I want to be wined and dined, and they neglect the art of conversation. Baffling. More and more I am realising how bloody lucky I was to have Warrick.
So I am feeling desperate enough to do something a bit naughty. It’s a Saturday and I’m going to risk it. I know he may be there and I’m taking one of my dates with me…
This guy I am with, Bazza he calls himself, works in advertising and seems nice enough. He dresses well and yet, he has the most bizarre fragrance. He seems to have poured the whole spectrum of Boots on his body. It’s really quite strange and it is not just me that has noticed. I think about Sex Panther from Anchorman and have a chuckle to myself. As we stand at the bar, all the other punters are sticking their noses in the air and wondering what the heck it could be. The old gits in the pub Warrick frequents are perturbed to say the least.
Bazza and I sit down in a corner with our pints and we don’t really talk. He watches the screen and mutters occasionally, commenting on the football scores. I nod and appear interested.
When Warrick and his dad walk in, I cower. I realise this could be bad. But, like I said, I am desperate. A girl in love can do desperate things when she’s forced to. I immediately cuddle up to pungent Bazza and I whisper something a bit naughty in his ear. His vile hand strokes my denim covered knee and he suggests we take it elsewhere.
“Hop it, mate.” Warrick arrives out of nowhere and stands over us, looking murderous. He’s raised himself to his full height so he looks a presence.
“Pardon me? Is this a stalker of yours?” Bazza asks innocently, turning to me.
“You could say that,” I comment, and place a hand over his clammy one.
Take that Warrick.
Warrick sees it and hits me with his blazing gaze. I see it and I respond.
“Be a darl and leave us, will you, Bazza? I’ll call you later. Honest. Just have to deal with this cretin.”
“Sure?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply, and he kisses me on the cheek before leaving.
Warrick sits next to me and huffs and puffs. He is so angry. I notice his dad watching with interest and I speak.
“You should get back to your dad.”
“You shouldn’t invade my territory with dickheads like that, Jules.”
“What do you mean? You don’t know the man!”
I am angry now and I take a massive gulp of my pint. It almost makes me choke and I spill half of it down myself. He hands me a hanky and we have a moment. A moment where he looks at me wiping my chest and our eyes meet. I see the longing in his. I soften and try to tell him with my gaze that I love him.
I am dy
ing with anticipation.
His dad wanders over and asks in a gruff voice, “You coming to watch the footie, son?”
He’s Warrick but older. They are identical. His father gives me short shrift and I wonder what has been said about me. I envisage they have sat in this pub many an hour, watching me across the street. Perhaps his father thinks I am some common prostitute. Maybe I am leading his pure son astray or maybe, he just thinks I will shit all over Warrick, just like his ex-wife did. I just sense something and it makes me want to cry. It makes me furious.
I gather my things and make to leave.
“Sorry for spoiling your precious time,” I mumble.
I slam the front door of the pub open and start chasing away from that bloody place. It is damned. It’s cursed. I am never going back. What was I thinking? Honestly. I know what, I wanted to make him jealous. Make him see sense. Make him realise. I feel sick with myself.
I am desperate.
I am shameless.
I am in love.
Still, I love him.
Madly.
Relentlessly.
Excessively.
I get home and through my front door, slamming my bag and coat on the hallway floor. I sink onto the parquet floor and curse under my breath. When I hear a mad pounding on the door, it shocks me so my heart jumps into my throat. Through the glass of my UPVC door, his face peers through and he sees me, slumped like the sad little girl I am. Sad and stalking him now.
“If you don’t let me in, I will smash this door down!”
I don’t want to face him. He’ll reject me. He’ll never want to see me again. He’ll ban me from the pub and my life won’t be worth living. I bring my knees to my chest and hide my face in the denim. I am hurting so much. I never thought love could hurt this much, but it does. I feel sick inside. It’s been like this for months. I have missed him every day.
“Jules, open up! Now! I am so mad with you.”
“Go away. Go away!” I shout. I am so glad I bought detached. Neighbours would be calling round otherwise to tell me to shut my noise up.
“No, I won’t go away. You’re absolutely mental, do you know that!”
I refuse to look at him but he pounds on the door some more. “Open up, damn it!”
I scream, “Why? Why? So you can tell me to piss off out of your life. So you can run off to be with someone else. Someone better than me! Go! Go! I’ve had enough of you. I won’t return to that pub, don’t worry about it!”
Silence.
He doesn’t answer. He seems to walk away but a few moments later, he crashes through the door. He stands like a desperate gorilla, panting and hoarse, and he gathers himself. He shoots me those furious eyes and curses under his breath.
“Don’t underestimate the will of a copper wanting to gain entry! Bloody, stupid, woman!”
He slams the futile door behind him and I know I am going to have to call someone in for that. He did it on purpose!
He strides into the living room and paces about. Make yourself at home. You cock. He cannot even look at me. Why is he here?
“She wasn’t my girlfriend, exactly, just a woman. You know. Someone like that pratt Bazza or whatever you called him.”
He’s jealous. I smile inside.
“Are you seeing her then?” I ask cautiously.
“No, not anymore.”
“Why not?”
He stares through the doorway separating us. He glares. I wish he wouldn’t. It makes me fizz between my legs. I want him so badly.
“When she saw me run after you, she questioned me. She sensed… something. She asked whether there were feelings… I needn’t have said a word… she could see them plastered all over my face.”
“Have you slept with her?” I desperately need to know.
“No! And that’s unfair. You don’t get to ask questions like that.”
“Unfair?” I fail to cover my delight.
“I could ask you the same thing, but I won’t. I am a gentleman.”
He smirks with mock control. He is anything but controlled. He is fuming.
“Well, I haven’t slept with anyone! Not since you!” I scream in defiance. “You, who have ruined my life. Made me want to do things I never would have done before! You’re a bloody… nuisance!”
I heave myself off the floor and stride into my living room. Yes mine. I throw him a disgusted look and take back my territory. This is my house. What makes him think he can come into my house and start throwing his weight around?
“You may as well go back to your dad and continue bitchin’ about me. It’s fine. Yeah, go ahead.”
I slam papers around on my dining room table and wave him away. I now have a table big enough for six.
“You need to sort out that door,” he barks and strides away.
He runs off down the street. I see him zoom past the front window and he’s gone. Disappeared into the ether. My heart sinks and I immediately ache for his return.
I turn my body and look out of the French patio doors. I stare into my back garden and shake. Why is he doing this to me?
I forget time has passed as I stand there contemplating a life without him. When I hear tremulous footsteps behind me, I almost decide it is a burglar.
Until he whispers, “I can’t leave you alone either.”
My heart thunders in my chest. I slowly turn and he’s stood right behind me.
He’s angry and his chest is heaving. He is staring at me with hatred. I don’t know what to do, what to say. Why does he hate me? Why couldn’t we just stay friends? It would have been so much simpler. We stare each other out and I consider he feels the exact same way as I do. Perhaps he does and he can’t bear it either. The thought of what we could lose. The entirety of that. It doesn’t bear thinking about. He’s still glaring and I want to slap that frown off his face. I walk toward him and I go to hit him, but he catches my hand. He grips it between his fist so tight I hear my skin being wringed. He looks fierce. Mad. Rage is filling his bloodstream. This man is different to the one I met. That’s what love can do.
He yanks me toward him and his grip is harsh and painful. His fingers dig into my back and the others claw at my scalp beneath my hair. I have no time to blink or react before our mouths crash and he is taking me, possessing me. He is demanding and needy and he abuses me with his tongue and teeth. Taking and tasting. His stubble hurting me. Arousal flies straight between my legs.
He smells like my man, the familiarity calming me. Musky deodorant beneath medicated shampoo and clean cologne. His hair is very soft beneath my fingers and I tug at it. He’s madly kissing and pecking away at each of my lips. I grab him and yank him hard into me and he wraps my hair around his hands, growling while we kiss with open mouths. His tongue and taste send chills down my spine.
He pulls away, breathing heavy and hard. My chest feels so tight and painful. I desire him more than I have ever desired anything before. He moves all the stray strands of hair away from my face and holds my cheeks in his palms. He appears momentarily quelled. He brushes my lips with his and I quake with longing. He strokes his nose against mine and my ears pop with the blood rushing through every vein of my body.
“Warrick… I’m sorry,” I breathe, panting.
“I love you, Jules,” he tells me painfully.
His eyes close and his mouth softens into a curve of a tiny smile.
“I love you too. Please, come back to me. I don’t care anymore. I can’t live without you!”
He kisses his way across my cheek and our mouths meet. I feel every perfectly soft inch of his mouth while he lightly presses his lips against mine. He pushes my mouth apart and I moan when his tongue slowly massages mine. He is all man and I love him. It burns my insides out. I pull back to nip his top lip and his eyes darken with lust. I pin my arms around his head and press my boobs against his chest.
I pant into his mouth and tell him, “I need to be made love to. My B.O.B. broke down on me because of you. Deprivation forced my ha
nd.”
“Umm,” he groans, and reaches down to kiss my neck before tantalising me with a gentle lick between the top of my cleavage. “I assume that wench talk refers to a naughty bedside toy.”
“Yes, hell yes, you’ve driven me to some things, let me tell you.”
“I’ve driven you to some things?” He howls with laughter.
“Shut it, plod,” I demand.
He is measuring me with his hands, sweeping all over my back and behind. He grunts in response to my need and pulls me tight against his body. My hands are still in his hair. Soon he is taking, taking everything. He can have it. He is hungry, so hungry, and his tongue charges around my mouth. He pulls back again. His eyes are darker than night.
“Tell me again,” he demands.
“I love you, Rick.”
He groans and it is the greatest sound I have ever heard. It is arousal and love personified. I grab at the hair on his neck and pull myself into his hard body. Our mouths are a machine of swimming entities colliding and fighting, taking and giving. His hands claw at my buttocks and push me into his hips, his erection evident. My insides are molten and slack. I could cave at any moment with just his kiss and his hands on me. My groin pulses with arousal. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. He takes me upstairs to the bedroom and while we climb the stairs, he lifts my sweater and pops a breast out. I scream at the sensation of his breath against my bare flesh. He leans down and takes a long, delicious suck of my nipple. I yelp in agony and the burning between my legs is like nothing else.
“Jesus,” he moans.
Five minutes later, there is a pile of torn clothes at the bottom of my bed, tossed aside in our desperate need to be as one. He is spooning me with his arms fastened tight around me, protecting me. I hardly know what has just happened.
“You drive me mad.”
“Yeah, I know, feeling’s mutual,” he swoons, still breathing heavily.
It was quick, fierce and I came harder than I ever had done before.
“Bloody git.”
I turn my face backwards to see him and he cracks that crazy-sexy-smile that makes his cheeks dimple and his eyes crease. He looks so fine and so at one with me. He reaches down and smothers my lips with a silken kiss.
Angel Avenue Page 24