Chloe

by Freya North

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Might she not be the reason for your lack of motivation? Subconsciously at any rate?’

  ‘Mac!’ William exclaimed, off his guard and suddenly wanting to be back on it.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Mac declared, ‘but she is your girlfriend, isn’t she? And aren’t you, er, rather more than just fond of her?’

  What? Girlfriend? Who?

  William felt suddenly rather compromised; half wondering how Mac knew, half doubting whether he wanted it to be public knowledge. After a careful silence though, he confided in Mac that he was pretty happy. Mac slapped him on the shoulder and ruffled his hair.

  ‘Good,’ he declared, ‘jolly good.’

  As he watched William walk – no, that was more of a swagger – to his car, Mac remarked to himself that it would not be long before the boy was using a far stronger adjective.

  Girlfriend? thought William later, mesmerized by a winter sunset. What sort of a word is that!

  A rather descriptive one, surely.

  ‘Girlfriend,’ he said tentatively, seeing if it fitted his tongue. How it tasted. He laughed sheepishly. It tasted sweet.

  ‘But it sounds so corny!’

  The surface of the water way below swelled and glinted. A gull bobbed along.

  ‘Bird!’ he said.

  ‘Babe!’ he said.

  ‘Chick,’ he cried sarcastically.

  Better than ‘lover’, William, isn’t it?

  ‘If I have a girlfriend,’ he reasoned later with Barbara, thawing his hands under her coat, ‘if she is known to others as my girlfriend, it means that I’m having a relationship. A proper one.’

  So?

  ‘Am I ready?’

  The thought of not being ready, of losing what was coming into focus the more he saw of Chloë, made him shudder and decide he was more than ready. He went directly to his studio and decided to make her a teapot.

  William and Chloë, however, did not acknowledge between themselves that they were now a couple, an item, that they were seeing each other, dating, that they were in a relationship, going steady. They were taking things very steady indeed; just spending time together, enjoying simply kissing. There was a newness for both of them, a beam of light magic they had not experienced in their previous entanglements. Neither wanted to rush through this stage. There was so much to talk about, so much to find out. So much to savour. It was fun to grow.

  I’m not going to waste too much time on bloody Morwenna.

  I don’t think it’s necessary to tell him about Ronan’s sculpture.

  Chloë and William had taken to settling into the kitchen chairs at Peregrine’s Gully, taking sips from great mugs of scalding, sweetened tea in between telling each other more about themselves; listening without prejudice to one another and imparting unchecked. Such sessions invariably started with them sitting upright and conversing animatedly, mugs cupped in their laps and ears peeled. They usually ended with Chloë resting her head on the table in the crook of her arm, while William propped his face in his hands though it squashed his features and slurred his speech.

  ‘Morwenna really wasn’t a big deal to me – I was a bigger deal to her, she and her thirty per cent.’

  ‘You toy boy, you! Is this teapot really for me, William? It’s gorgeous. Ronan made a sculpture for me, well, for Ballygorm; rather funny actually, in retrospect.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Chloë, however, always returned to her digs, whatever the time and usually by bicycle. William invariably accompanied her by car; little toots and the full beam from his headlamps lining and lighting the way. She did not speak to the Andrews as regularly; Gainsborough had finished the portrait and November saw the couple spending more time indoors in front of the fire in the library. Similarly, her letters to Jasper and Peregrine became shorter and fewer. Not that they minded.

  ‘Must fit in with her life now,’ Jasper commented.

  ‘Now that she has such a full one down in Cornwall,’ Peregrine furthered, holding a single page of paper with writing only on the one side.

  ‘She doesn’t say much about her boyfriend,’ Jasper rued, ‘just that he’s a “tremendously nice fellow”.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to – and with this much space left in her letters,’ Peregrine declared, brandishing the piece of paper again, ‘we can read all we wish between the lines with ease.’

  Back in her bedsit, Chloë would gaze out over the sea, ebony and silver, and ask it what to do next.

  I adore him, I do. And I desire him. I want to sleep with him, heavens I do, but I know I’m holding back. Why is that? I can’t seem to let go. Why can’t I? Is it that the slip-road from Cornwall might disappear if I do?

  The sea never spoke to her. But it was always there for her, swelling and moving, in and out, high tide and low. Consistently, constantly. Lovely; how she loved it.

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Chloë!’

  ‘Mrs Andrews – it’s been an age. How are you?’

  ‘Freezing, my dear. We’ve – I mean, I’ve been getting intimate with the fire in the study – I can’t bear to be apart from him. Er, it. Tell me your news – how’s the potter fellow?’

  ‘He’s well. I – Mrs Andrews, I’d love to talk, truly I would. Only I’m late as it is. I’m on my way to see him, William. My potter fellow. We’re going to have a quick bowl of the soup we made yesterday and then we’re off on a walk. Can I catch up with you later?’

  ‘Oh please do. I’m dying to know. I crave details, my dear, you know how I crave details.’

  Chloë Cadwallader’s bicycle, hitherto her metaphorical trusty steed, today let her down. Not gently, but with a rather uncompromising lurch and crash. With all those gears, and those sturdy tyres, she had decided to cycle cross-country. It was against National Trust rules. She should have known. In fact, she did; so it served her right.

  Why? she chastised herself as she found herself in a heap, precariously close to a large thatch of gorse, her cycle on its side a few feet away, its front wheel spinning futilely.

  Why? It was hardly much of a short cut anyway.

  Perhaps you just wanted to get to Peregrine’s Gully as quickly as was logistically possible?

  Possibly. But now look at me. I’ve torn my jeans and scratched my knee.

  And you’ve got bits in your hair too. Never mind, it won’t matter to William.

  William caught sight of Chloë trudging up the path. He left the soup burbling away and walked briskly towards her, Barbara in tow.

  ‘Oh Chloë! Crikey – you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Chloë said clearly, brushing away William’s concern and Barbara’s inquisitive nose.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, taking the handlebars from her and gently pulling a leaf from her hair. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘I had to walk the last two miles,’ she explained, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his trousers.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, scouring her face and laying the back of his warm hand against her chilled cheek.

  ‘No, just cross,’ she assured. ‘Bloody bike. Silly me.’

  William propped the errant cycle against the side of the cottage.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ he said, ‘the soup! Listen, you pop upstairs and put yourself back together. There’s TCP in the cupboard under the sink, plasters too – or there should be.’ He sent Chloë on her way with a gentle pat to the bottom, returning his attention to their soup, whistling merrily.

  The TCP stung but there was no need for plasters. Not that there were any; Chloë had a good rummage. She was hot, but no longer bothered, and flung off her jumper and T-shirt while she ran a basin of water. She plunged her arms into the warm water. And then stood very still. And somehow knew she should just stay there. Just as she was. And wait.

  Downstairs, William stopped his whistling. He looked into the saucepan and gazed at the surface of the soup phut-phutting without really seeing or hearing it. He felt as if somethi
ng, some force, was pulling him; he was drawn out of himself though his head was clear and he knew himself very well. He left the soup, left the wooden spoon in it too. Almost in a daze, he left it, still simmering, and made his way measuredly to the bathroom.

  Chloë in a vest. Her face hidden by her hair. Stooping over the basin, sponging her neck while the water trickles over her arms like tiny rivers running their course. Chloë in a vest. Nipples defined. Jeans cinched in at the waist. Water on her arms. Her face hidden. Arms slender, pale. Porcelain? Perhaps.

  The sound of William clearing his throat. Chloë turns. His handsome, brawny face; hair tousled. Wicker basket. Her hair falls away from her face, one or two auburn swirls catch and remain there. The sight of her. And of him.

  Chloë and William observe each other. In silence, rock steady, intently. The only movement comes from a rivulet of water coursing from Chloë’s neck, across her shoulder, over her chest and under her vest. Has it stopped? Where? Between her breasts? More than likely. Let me see. Come and check.

  William steps towards her, she turns her gaze back to the basin. Slowly, he approaches. Her breathing is fast but silent. She gazes at her hands underwater, distorted a little, at the base of the sink. He’s here. Behind her, William presses his body very gently against hers, encircling her waist with his dream-worthy forearms, brushing the side of her neck with his nose, tasting the tip of her ear lobe with his tongue. He unwraps his arms and, while he kisses her more fervently on her neck which she has now instinctively thrown back, he runs his fingertips up and down her bare, damp arms. Up and down. She has goose-bumps. Her fast breathing is audible. She can’t reach any part of him to kiss so she presses her neck strongly against his face. While he murmurs his lips against her neck, he feels down the length of her slender arms, from shoulder to wrist, until both sets of hands are deep in the basin. His fingers are distorted too, but they are also interleaved with Chloë’s in the warm, limpid water.

  She makes a little gasp, involuntary, unaware of how seductive it sounds. William takes his hands from the sink and swiftly to her breasts. Sudden sound and movement. The drag and splash of water. Chloë wet but hardly breathing. William twirling her towards him. He brings his face in line and takes her mouth first with his eyes and then with his lips. He is holding her wrists and she is kissing him back. She frees an arm and grasps the back of his head so that she can kiss him more deeply and taste him better. She finds she is starving. Never has she been so hungry. He has swooped her tight close to him.

  They stop a moment to regard each other. Her pupils are huge, her cheeks are rosy and her sweet, short breathing whispers over him. Her arms are still damp, her chest rises and falls. She cannot know how alluring she is in her damp, funny, sensible vest which both hides and heralds her breasts. William places his hand softly on her shoulder and then lets it slip down in a simple, fluid movement. The journey to her breasts may be short but it is exquisite. He feels her body pitch as he cups his hand over one, a perfect pip of a nipple pushing through cotton to be at the centre of his palm.

  A small smile at one corner of her mouth accompanies her swift removal of the garment. And so Chloë stands before him, semi-naked, her upper body slim and milky in comparison to her lower half, jean-clad and enticing. William sweeps his hands over her torso, so lightly, all over. He watches her close her eyes and swoon. Another dusting of goose-bumps prickles over her arms. Lips part imploring to be kissed. Nipples stand to attention and crave it.

  My pleasure.

  Mine too.

  As William encircles Chloë in his arms, she brings her hands to her breastbone, as if in prayer. No, not in prayer but to unbutton William’s shirt. His chest immediately. No T-shirt. No vest. Isn’t it smooth! A bloom of hair over his stomach and down into his trousers. So masculine. Never seen; only imagined. William runs his hands from her neck, down her arms to her fingers; lightly, he pulls her towards him while he steps backwards. He is sitting on the edge of the bath and gathers her to him, between his legs. His hands at her buttocks. Her hands either side of his neck. Again she kisses him; letting him have her tongue, then taking it away so she can graze the side of his mouth. She has a hand enmeshed in his hair, the other unbuckles her belt. William unzips her jeans and pushes them down.

  Chloë is wearing blue-and-white stripy knickers. Never seen; never imagined. They turn him on. Her stomach is flat but her waist dips and her hips curve. Everything about her is sinuous and beautiful, his desirous eyes tell her so. She looks at him, sitting on the edge of the bath, his leg muscles clearly defined under his trousers, his chest wide, his stomach rippled, no ounce of fat. A bulge in his lap. It excites her. She reaches her hand out tentatively but stops midway; he grasps it and they complete its course together. They feel his hardness and desire through the fabric; their breathing quickens and gazes glaze. William stands up.

  He’s so much bigger than me.

  She’s so small and precious.

  Chloë helps him unbuckle his belt, not that he needs assistance but just because she wants to knit fingers again. As he bends to remove his trousers, she does the same. She leaves her knickers on because he stands before her resplendent in his. Boxer shorts. Thank heavens! Plain, crisp and white. They fold into each other again, her skin has cooled and he is lovely and warm. She can feel his cock pressing against her and she opens her legs a little so she can push her crotch against his thigh. All the while, they kiss. They can hear the noise it makes and it increases the fervour they feel. Now Chloë is sitting on the edge of the bath and William notices how her stomach curves a little. Like a beautiful vase; porcelain. Or perhaps she is carved from marble. No, she is too warm and soft to the touch. She is drawing him towards her. She is easing down his boxer shorts. He sees his cock spring out into the air and it excites him. And her. She bends her face over his groin. He is unsure where her mouth is, behind all her hair, but he hopes it is near. He cradles her head against his stomach and sees the tip of his cock appear through a tangle of russet ringlets. He steps away a little. She is looking up at him. He holds her face in his hands and strokes her, from her forehead, over her cheeks, down to her chin. She takes his hands away and holds them. She holds on to his gaze too, until her head is too low. She kisses his cock tenderly and lightly. Licks a little, here and there. He gasps and groans softly. The sound of him emboldens her. She sucks more deeply, more of it. He grasps her shoulders and lifts her away, pulls her up from the bath and bites the apple of her cheek gently.

  ‘I want you,’ he murmurs. She can’t reply. She is near delirious with lust and too full of excitement. William leads the way from bathroom to bedroom. Bare and clean, uncluttered and conducive. Chloë can see the sea. Oh, what a room! She goes to the window and gazes away, hearing William throw back bed covers somewhere in the distance.

  ‘Chloë.’

  His voice is soft, low. She turns. He sees her silhouetted, her contours classical and more beautiful than ever he had imagined. More perfect and flowing than he could ever hope to throw in clay. He slips down between the sheets and holds a corner open for her. She walks over to him. He steadies her arm as she removes her blue-and-white stripy knickers. He rummages under the covers and presents her with his boxer shorts, white and crisp, warm too. She places them with care, together, on the bedside table and sidles into the bed, next to him. She’s home.

  FIFTY

  The soup burned. The pot was ruined. The kitchen smelled strangely of caramel. Toast and marmite was nice enough, fortifying too. As timetabled, they ventured once more to Carn Galver, just a little later than they had planned. Once again, they didn’t quite reach it. They strolled back with apologetic glances to the mountain. A brave entourage of pony-trekkers snaked into the distant hillside. Chloë pointed and said nothing.

  ‘Wish you were in Wales?’ asked William, moving his hand in from her shoulder so that his thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

  She shook her head adamantly but clasped his hand against her face as she d
id so. The memories were sweet to her, but old. Past.

  ‘Rather be on horseback?’ he suggested, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand before returning it to her shoulder.

  Chloë smiled and shook her head again. They walked on quietly.

  ‘And Men-an-Tol more than suffices,’ she said suddenly but only half aloud, concluding a long conversation she had just had with herself.

  ‘Hey?’ asked William, making her stop.

  ‘Sculpture!’ she declared, wide-eyed and artless. ‘No need for Ireland and sculpture trails – Cornwall seems to be one vast sculpture park! From the granite boulders lining the way from Zennor to St Ives, to the standing stones. From the forsaken mines to the giant masonry of the cliffs –’

  ‘Wicca Pinnacle!’ interrupted William.

  ‘Zennor Quoit!’ agreed Chloë.

  ‘The Tate at St Ives,’ reasoned William.

  ‘Hepworth’s garden!’ settled Chloë.

  She walks on, holding out her hand that he might take it. He slips his hand into hers and her fingers fold around his, like daisy petals at dusk.

  ‘So,’ he summarizes, ‘no to Wales and to horses; no need for Ireland and no call for sculpture gardens.’

  ‘No,’ says Chloë.

  ‘Scotland?’ he asks.

  ‘Scotland!’ she sighs mistily. He falls silent and they walk on. He daren’t press her. He needn’t.

  ‘Too far,’ she says kindly. He looks puzzled. ‘From you,’ she whispers while her eyes dance and she touches his lips with her gloved hands.

  ‘From others?’ he pumps.

  ‘Others?’ she asks.

  ‘Nearest and dearest?’

  ‘You are but two feet away from me!’ she laughs, a little embarrassed. His smile and his sparkle tell her she needn’t be.

  ‘Those dear are not near,’ she explains, ‘but they could not be dearer were they nearer. They live in the four corners of a kingdom united by Jocelyn. Even if they were all in one place –’ she hovers, ‘and if that place was not here – still would I stay.’