by Freya North
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Michelle, ‘enough of the questionnaire information. And then what?’
‘What?’
‘Action – not words.’
‘Well, we did some more kissing.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then he went.’
‘He went? What about coming?’
‘Michelle!’
‘Did you not jump his bones?’
‘It’s not like that! I don’t want it to be like that. Not yesterday.’
‘What do you mean? After all that talk of handcuffs and heart-to-hearts and all that snogging? You can’t just hug trees and talk about wasps.’
‘I can’t wait to sleep with him. But I am going to wait – because we will. I know we will. And that thought is sexier than if we’d got deep down and dirty last night.’
‘Blimey.’
‘I know.’
‘Well – what’s next?’
‘Sunday. We’re seeing each other tomorrow. He said he’d pick me up at midday.’
‘And?’
‘Today I’ve booked in for a wax and polish.’
‘You make yourself sound like a car.’
‘Well, hopefully by tomorrow I’ll be a bit of an old banger.’
‘That’s better, filthy cow – I do love you.’
‘A wax. A pedicure.’
‘I got that, dear. I twigged.’
‘Very drole, Mrs Sherlock. You’ll like him, Michelle. He’s strong, he’s upright.’
‘Enough of the tree analogies. Let’s just hope he has a great big trunk of a schlong too.’
‘Michelle – you’re incorrigible.’
‘I’ll let you go. Have you phoned Candy?’
‘I’m just about to.’
* * *
‘Candy?’
‘Wait! Wait! Hang on. OK – cup of tea to hand. Sitting down in favourite chair. Plonked baby on husband. Wait – OK! I’m all ears. Did he make the earth move?’
‘He made the leaves on the trees whisper and glint.’
‘Good God, woman – what did you do? Does he live in a tree house too?’
‘I’m talking metaphorically. But he did take me into this yew tunnel.’
‘Is that a metaphor?’
‘He kissed me under a redwood tree – a Sequoia some-thing-or-other. With the scent of cedar and the flutter of the handkerchief tree in the background.’
‘OK, OK – enough of the Thomas Hardy bollocks. What about his trunk?’
‘Honestly – you and Michelle – you’re dreadful.’
‘Come on! We’re living vicariously through you. We need details – the more gory, the more squelchy, the better.’
‘No gore or squelch last night – but my God, he can kiss.’
‘Tell me you went beyond First Base? You’re both – you’re both grown-ups, for God’s sake.’
‘Taking it slowly, Candy. The pace feels right.’
‘Will I like him, Vita? If he doesn’t pass muster with me and Michelle – he’s out. You know that, right?’
‘You’ll love him. I promise.’
* * *
‘Mum?’
‘Darling.’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m very well. I had a lovely few days with Lorna – Northumberland is very beautiful if somewhat remote.’
‘Was the hotel nice?’
‘It was luxurious, darling. And I brought you back some of the toiletries.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And how have you been?’
‘I’ve been fine.’
‘And work?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘And home – the cockatiels, the hornets?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘They’re fine?’
‘They’re – being looked after.’
‘Oh?’
‘The tree man. The tree surgeon. The arboricultural consultant.’
‘The scoundrel who dobbed you in to the council?’
‘He was just doing his job. And he’s not a scoundrel.’
‘Vita?’
‘Mum?’
‘Everything OK? You sound . . . different.’
‘Mum – he took me out. We went out on a date. For a walk, and he talked to me about trees and life and love and he had proper travel sweets in his car. He made me giggle, Mum, really had me giggling. My stomach muscles can feel it today – they hadn’t been used like that in a long while.’
‘Bless you, darling. Why do I sense there’s a “but” coming?’
‘He’s a widower.’
‘Gosh, is he terribly old?’
‘How old were you when Dad died?’
‘I was forty-five – you know I was. Because you were fourteen.’
‘Well, Oliver’s forty-six. It’s just – I want to ask you – I want to know. I mean – I am nervous. I am nervous about my own heart – after Tim. And Oliver’s heart – after DeeDee.’
‘Darling, I would say that, for what it’s worth, the heart is a very big strong muscle and if you’ve treated it well – and I don’t mean by holding off the booze and cigs, I mean by nurturing its other more spiritual purpose – it will in turn look after you. I know you – and I would say, Don’t you worry about your heart. I would say, Use your head. Think about things – think about how you feel and if your head tells you this feels right and you feel happy, then your heart will accompany you.’
‘But while I now know I was dealt a bad card – in Tim – Oliver had the best wife. They were happily married.’
‘Then she looked after his heart well. People who’ve loved well – and lost love, through whatever misfortune – tend to be those who go on to make other very good relationships.’
‘But Mum – you? After Dad – there hasn’t been anyone. And your marriage was great.’
‘I practise what I preach, Vita. My heart’s in good nick – thanks to your father. And I have met men. But my head told me not to go climbing trees with any of those I’ve met. Shall we have Sunday lunch together? We could go out – my treat.’
‘Can we make it next Sunday? It’s just Oliver’s picking me up at midday tomorrow.’
‘Then you can tell me all about it next week. Or the parts that won’t make me blush.’
* * *
‘Candy?’
‘Michelle! Have you spoken to Vita?’
‘Yes – we had a long chat.’
‘Me too. So – what do we think?’
‘It’s a tricky one, isn’t it. I’m thrilled for her, excited for her – who wouldn’t want a gorgeous burly bloke with fantastic forearms and a natural tan. But – and there’s a great big but.’
‘But he has a Dead Wife.’
‘And there’s a teenage son too.’
‘And that’s a complicated enough age with or without dead mothers and new girlfriends.’
‘I don’t want to burst her bubble – but are widowers prone to shagging around on the rebound? Or are they just needy for someone to look after them? I don’t know – we have no experience of this in our circle. It’s a terrible thing, poor man. But Vita’s my first concern and she’s done so well so far – a shag she can laugh about, time on her own which no longer terrifies her, a cool head and padlocked heart when it comes to Shit for Brains. Now she just deserves something lovely and someone – good.’
‘Do you know something, Michelle, for once I don’t think this is about karma – I think it’s about timing. Timing is everything – it’s about time Vita met someone nice. But you’re right – how do we know if it’s the right time for this Oliver to meet someone as nice as Vita?’
Sunday
‘Do you have a spare towel? You really should take a spare towel in a—’
‘—in a plastic bag all knotted up. Dad – yes, I have one.’
‘And batteries – spare batteries, for the torch.’
‘Dad!’ Jonty gave his father an exasperated pat on the shoulder. ‘Chillax.’ He knew how his dad detested the word
.
‘What about your mobile – is it charged?’
‘Mobi – check. Towels – check. Torch and batteries – check. Dog tag with all my vitals on it – oops, don’t have one of them.’ Oliver raised an eyebrow. ‘Dad – Ed’s parents are staying at the hotel which owns the campsite.’
‘And they’ll tuck you up at night and read you a bedtime story?’ Oliver knew he had to lighten up. But this was Jonty’s first unsupervised camping trip. That’s what summers are for, he kept telling himself. And I camped out on my own, a hell of a lot younger than Jont. And I’ve spoken to Ed’s parents. And actually, I think it’s a brilliant idea. ‘I just want to be sure you’ll – have a great time.’
‘We’re going to have bangers on the fire. And marshmallows. And hot chocolate. And Tom’s bringing camouflage facepaint so we can play daft buggers in the woods pretending we’re in a Vietnam movie.’
Oliver laughed. ‘Watch it, kiddo – sounds such fun I may turn up and join you.’
His son tipped his head to one side and Oliver knew that actually, Jonty would be OK with it if he did. ‘Back Monday by supper, then? Ed’s parents can drop me off. Come to work with you on Tuesday this week too?’
‘Sounds good to me. Oh – remember to brush your teeth. And try and wash.’
‘Dad – there’s a shower block.’
‘In my day, I had only a freezing cold brook.’
Jonty grinned.
‘But you know that already,’ Oliver said. Jonty shrugged. He didn’t mind his dad telling him his stories over and again. It was cool to have a dad who’d learned to skin rabbits when he was a teen, who knew how to make a fire, how to sterilize water, which mushrooms weren’t poisonous.
‘What are you going to do, then, the rest of this weekend?’ Jonty asked.
‘Oh,’ Oliver said nonchalantly, ‘nothing much.’
Jonty looked at him. ‘Why don’t you see if the Pear Tree Woman is around?’ He knew her name was Vita. He didn’t feel he could be so familiar just yet.
Oliver thought about it quickly. ‘Actually – yes. I have already.’
‘Cool,’ said Jonty, not really wanting to know the details. It was enough. She was nice. He loved his dad. He didn’t want to think of his dad rattling around the house on his own eating crap takeaways while he was toasting bangers on a campfire having a brilliant time. Actually, he didn’t want to think of his dad with another woman – not because of his mum. But because the thought of it was a bit – well, you know, bizarre.
‘Come on, kid, they’ll be here any minute. Just double-check your backpack, would you. Just humour your old man.’
That evening, Oliver’s mobile went. His first thought was Jonty. But it wasn’t Jonty. It was Vita. And Oliver thought, Please don’t cancel tomorrow. But she wasn’t phoning to cancel tomorrow. She was just phoning to say hullo, it seemed. To say yes, she had a picnic rug but had he heard the weather forecast – there could be summer storms.
‘Does that mean you’ll be bringing that cagoule?’
She laughed. ‘It’s multi-purpose. It’s a tent, it’s wasp resistant, it’s waterproof.’
‘What are you doing? Just now?’ He wanted to be able to envisage her.
‘I’m just at home.’
‘Where are you, at your home? Are you in the kitchen?’
‘No, in my front room. I was going to watch TV but there’s nothing on.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m going to have a baked potato. Have you eaten?’
‘A microwaved ready meal.’
‘That’s dreadful.’
‘I know. But Jonty’s gone camping – there seemed no point cooking for one.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘A text.’
‘Does the house seem . . .’ She paused. ‘Are you all right?’
Oliver smiled at the phone. ‘I’m very all right, missy,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She paused again. ‘I had a lovely evening yesterday. I’ve been looking at trees today – whenever I pass one, I have a long look. I probably can’t tell my elm from my ash – but none of the trees seemed plane. Ha ha.’
‘Plenty of Platanus, I assure you – hispanica, acerifolia, orientalis.’ Oliver laughed. ‘Does this mean I ought to be visiting all the gift shops in the locale, and wow you with my knowledge of trinkets and tutt? Ought I to know my jasmine candles from my tuberose?’
Vita laughed back. ‘You’re funny.’
‘So are you,’ Oliver said. ‘You’ll like tomorrow.’
‘I’m going to have an early night – because I’m looking forward it. Rain or shine.’
‘Goodnight, Vita.’
‘Night Oliver.’
‘Ha! You silly weatherman you! You’re so wrong! It’s a beautiful day!’ Vita was darting around the house talking to herself, making the bed, hanging out washing, eating a proper breakfast in case Oliver was planning a late lunch, washing her hair, dumping her cagoule back in the cupboard, hoovering – because for the first time she hadn’t done so on Thursday. She liked her house very much today. When she woke up, the light had been beautiful and she’d felt content to just lie there, listening to the soft silence, liking the way she had her bedroom now. It was feeling homely, it really was. She’d even unpacked the box of CDs and found space for them in the living room.
Oliver could hear the hoover as he made his way to Vita’s door. He thought back to when she’d been hoovering that evening he’d summoned the courage to return the cagoule. When she’d called him Mr B for the first time. How odd that it should seem so long ago. Stop thinking! He rang the bell, squinting up at the cloudless sky, wondering whether he should sluice out the wasp traps before they went.
‘You’re early!’
‘Your watch is slow, missy.’
‘You’re right!’
‘I’m going to do your wasp traps for you, before we go. Would you like to watch and learn?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, you can mix up the jam and beer then.’
‘Roger.’
‘Will you stop calling me Roger.’
‘Can I call you Ollie?’
‘Not if you expect me to answer.’
He pulled faces for her as she watched from the kitchen window. Inspecting the traps as if he was a mime artist handling Ming vases or grenades. It was funny. She watched him as he moved more fallen pears to the back of the garden and then he came right up to the window, goading her with a wasp trap full of its putrid gunk while she made him laugh with her extravagant fake vomiting. She thought to herself, I must change my top. This is my hoovering top. My mint-coloured halterneck is laid out on the bed.
Oliver came into the kitchen with the cleaned wasp traps.
‘I’ve washed everything away,’ he said. ‘They’re certainly working – but there’s still a lot in the land of the living.’
‘Here.’ She showed him the jug in which she’d mixed the jam and beer.
He came to inspect, took the spoon from Vita and dipped it in, assessing the consistency.
‘Too gloopy. You need to add a little more beer.’
She did so. He tested it.
‘Too runny – add more jam.’
She sighed theatrically and, as she was dolloping in more jam, he came up behind her, resting his hands lightly on her hips, brushing his lips against the nape of her neck. She thought, Shit, I still have my hair in a pony-tail, I planned to wear it loose. She thought, Add more jam. She thought, I must change my top. She thought, Actually, I needn’t think at all.
‘Too gloopy again,’ Oliver said, Vita against his chest and between his arms as he dipped his spoon into the jug. ‘Do it again, missy.’
Vita was still holding the jammy teaspoon. Slowly, she dipped it into the jam jar. She tried to ignore him running his fingertips up her bare arms. She tried to ignore the T-shirt she didn’t want to be wearing. And her hair in a messy pony-tail.
‘Beer, woman – the wasps need more beer.’
The spoon was loaded with glistening, deep red jam. What else was she meant to do? She turned in a flash and flicked it straight at him. It landed in a splat on Oliver’s cheek, some of it dripping off onto his shoulder. He looked at her in disbelief, not remotely enraged, just stunned. Her defiant grin. She was sparkling. He experienced a surge, as if joy was physically lifting him.
‘Miss Whitbury,’ he asked, deadly serious, ‘did you just flick me with jam?’
‘That’ll teach you not to be so finicky about your effing wasp potion.’
Effing. Who the fuck says effing. This Vita, that’s who. This Vita, whose waist his hands still encircle, whose eyes are holding his, whose hand is reaching up to his face, whose fingers are lightly wiping at the jam. This Vita, who’s stupidly scared of wasps and says effing and flipping. She’s putting her sticky fingers to her lips, into her mouth and she’s sucking them, staring at him, with a grin that is as cheeky as it is warm. Her fingers are at his face again, stroking the jam off his skin. Now she’s giving her fingers to his lips. It’s raspberry. So sweet, really delicious. Her fingers touching and pressing his mouth. He holds her wrist and licks her fingers, sucking each in turn to the knuckle. It’s no longer the jam he’s sucking. This isn’t about the effing jam.
She’s pressed herself against him, standing on tiptoes, reaching her lips to his cheek, kissing away the last traces of jam, bringing her mouth to his. And it’s still raspberry, just as sweet – but it really isn’t about the jam. It’s about her. It’s the taste of her.
In the kitchen, Vita is standing with her back to the window, her body held tight up against Oliver, kissing and being kissed. The pony-tail, the T-shirt. Nothing matters. What time is it? How long have they been kissing? Who knows. His hands at her waist, pulling her in close, the fabric of her top riding up, his touch becoming tantalizing light as, for the first time, he makes contact with her bare skin. Her waist, her back. A bra strap. Back down her back to slip beneath the waistband of her cargo pants, his fingertips alighting on the elastic of her knickers. His hand travels back up; up and down the side of her body, the beautiful undulation of her waist, around to the front, up her stomach, to quickly, deftly, cup her breast. There’s a bra in the way. Suddenly, there’s way too much clothing in the way. He stops kissing her, keeps his face very close.