by Georgia Rose
See what I mean? Two feet right in there.
Its fine, it’s not something I think about that often, she says, and she honestly does seem okay with it. I watch her for a moment as she eats. The candlelight wavers, contrasting planes and shadows on her face that turn and move as she does. I want to know more.
As it’s my turn to ask the questions this evening, I say, I’ll carry on with this line, if you don’t mind?
I don’t mind, ask whatever you like. I’ll soon tell you if you’ve gone too far, she responds, and I know she means it.
Okay then…do you know how your parents died? Nothing like getting right to the heart of a subject, I think.
They died in a car accident, she says, then, occasionally prompted by me, she goes on to tell me about her life in foster care. Women want you to be interested in them, don’t they? And I find I am, but it’s getting heavy and I’m relieved when she tells me she was moved on so often between foster homes because she was a difficult child, because it gives me an opportunity to lighten the mood.
Ahh, now we’re getting it! I joke. You, difficult? I find that hard to believe.
Very funny, she says in that way which means it’s not, but she smiles and seems to be enjoying the fact that I’m entertained by this early description of her familiar behaviour. I guess you’ll be pleased to know that you’re not the only person in my life that I’ve been difficult with, she continues, as it turns out you’re nothing special.
Ouch, that’s a bit harsh, and I can see she thinks this too.
Thanks for the reminder, I reply, and I keep my eyes on hers, not letting her off for an instant before continuing with my questions.
What did you do after the foster care ended?
Before I had to leave care I was already with Alex (Tosser! Still, his loss…) so we got married at eighteen and I went straight from one to the other. We were able to buy a house because I’d been left an inheritance from my parents’ estate.
That was very young to get married, I state.
Yes, and as it turns out quite foolish, she replies, and she sounds sad about it too. Then she smiles and turns the question right back on to me. When did you and Zoe marry?
Early twenties, quite foolish too, I reply. This is another point on which we have trodden on similar ground and I hesitate for a moment, looking away as I gather my thoughts and wonder if I dare say what I want to say – and I find I do.
He hurt you badly, didn’t he?
Yes, he did, she mutters, before adding in a falsely bright tone, but now you have gone too far. I suggest we agree not to talk about our failed marriages or before long we’ll be wallowing in our mutual misery.
Okay, I agree. Filling our glasses up, I move on to safer territory, winding her up about her rather singular film tastes. She then confesses to having a drawer full of other films – old black and whites, love stories and romcoms – and gives me the chance to choose something from this collection should I wish, but I suggest we finish the trilogy we started.
I clear away dinner and I know she is watching me as I wash and she dries. I take this as a good sign that she wants to be near me as much as I enjoy being with her.
We watch the film, I run her a bath and we go through the same routine as the previous evening. But something has changed. I can feel it: the charge between us is crackling, but I make nothing of it. Keep calm, keep cool, I decide.
I sleep no better than I did the night before, but this time I don’t dare go into her room. I stand for a while, leaning against her doorway, and she is restless. I watch as she tosses and turns in an effort to find some comfort, but I don’t know if her discomfort comes from her injuries or her thoughts.
I have stuff on my mind and I wonder if I should come clean with her and tell her about Zoe – everything about Zoe and my chequered history in the RAF. I worry that she finds me too serious, but I can’t be the life and soul of the party anymore. Maybe once I was like Carlton, but the grief I’ve suffered over the loss of Zoe, my marriage and my career has taken its toll. We’re not so very different, I think. I don’t feel good not telling her, particularly about Zoe, but it’s not like we’re together, is it? Would she expect me to tell her before we have even become anything? I didn’t think so, and besides it might put her off. This is proving to be challenging enough already. I make the conscious decision to keep all the bad stuff to myself and agree to tell her if – no, when (think positively) we get together.
And if I feel the flames licking at my soul at this moment I choose to ignore them.
I return to my own bed and eventually drift off sometime on the approach of dawn.
You look tired this morning, I comment as I deliver breakfast then sit on the bed again.
I didn’t sleep well, she replies.
Perhaps you can have a nap later on to catch up, I suggest.
Yeah, maybe, she says as she makes a start on breakfast, but she looks like she’s struggling from the first mouthful. I allow myself the luxury of imagining her lack of appetite is down to me, my presence, but I don’t know if that’s the reason or how to press my case any further without being bloody obvious.
Sorry, I don’t know what’s happened to me, she says feebly as she hands me the other piece of toast, which I devour. No problem with any of my appetites.
She shoos me out of the room so she can shower and dress, and I wish I knew what’s going on in her mind because today I leave and I’m never going to get the chance to be this close and have this influence over her again.
I’m watching the news when she comes down and then I go off for my own shower. When I finish I see she’s over in the yard talking to Carlton, which doesn’t help my mood. It annoys me that he’s the most capable one around here to take over with the horses and I wish I could get someone else in instead. I have to go back to work today and I don’t want to leave him here with Emma. I know I’m being possessive, and I know that’s not a good trait, but I want her so badly I cannot face the thought of her being with anyone else.
But I have someone else to win over first and I find her in the sitting room, stretched out on the carpet. I get down on the floor and we’re head to head. Suspicious of my intentions, she rolls from her side onto her front, her head on her paws, and studies me intensely. Nose to nose we stare at each other and I know I will never win that battle. I hear the back door and the sounds of Emma moving about in the kitchen, boiling the kettle. I hope for coffee. Susie hasn’t taken her eyes off mine, in a battle of wills neither wants to lose. Emma comes into the sitting room and stops as she catches sight of us.
What’re you doing? she asks.
I’m trying to make friends with your dog, I reply. I have the feeling she doesn’t trust me because we got off to a bad start, and I’m still not taking my eyes off Susie. I start to blow gently at her, trying to get her to play, but she’s having none of it – she growls once in warning, gets up and walks off, giving a couple of huffs as she makes her way out of the sitting room, making it clear she thinks I’m an idiot.
That’s a work in progress, I mutter for Emma’s benefit, letting her know I’ve not given up yet. Susie could be the key to the future of our relationship, I think. If I can break Susie, then who knows? I roll onto my back and stretch before I get up and join Emma for coffee.
Will you be okay if I pop out for a bit? I’ve got an errand to run, I ask a little later, having got her comfortable on the settee where she is reading a book.
Of course, she replies.
I grab my keys from the table and leave.
I’m back within the hour, mission accomplished, and for some reason as I enter the cottage I’m humming. I’m not sure of the inspiration behind the level of contentment that makes me do this, but it might be because of the potential source of conflict I hold in my hand, showing that, pathetically, I’m willing to grab any opportunity for interaction.
I ask if she wants any tea, and when she doesn’t I wander in. Carrying my large paper bag casually, I
stop right in front of her. She closes her book and puts it to one side. I don’t think she will be able to resist asking, and she doesn’t let me down.
What’s that?
This is the errand I mentioned – it’s a little present for you. There’s something in the tone of my voice that makes her eye me suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. I sit down on the other end of the settee and hand her the bag.
Open it, I say, and I raise both eyebrows at her, grinning.
She sits up a little, reaches into the bag and lifts out a large box. I sit back, observing her keenly. I’m eager to see her reaction. She lifts the lid and finds inside a bulky red and black object that resembles something you see the police wearing during a riot. I get the distinct impression she knows exactly what it is, but she plays the game. Good girl.
What is it? she asks sweetly, inclining her head to one side and looking straight at me. I am delighted to be given the opportunity to launch into an explanation.
Grayson, I’m glad you ask. This is the Point Two Pro Air Jacket…and she gets the full sales spiel. Once I’ve stopped spouting, I look at her expectantly, trying to gauge what her reaction will be, though deep down I think I already know.
I see, she says. And you’re expecting me to wear this? Her voice rises, and for all its breathy undertones I can sense a very definite edge to it. I could back away now, but I don’t.
Absolutely. In fact I insist on it, I say, then add, as if to challenge her, you could almost say it’s an order.
I don’t have to accept orders, I’m not in the forces, she snaps.
No, they would never have you. You’re far too defiant, I retort, and I see the colour rise in her cheeks as she takes a deep breath. And she looks magnificent.
Whether you insist on this or not, I don’t want to wear it. I’ve never liked these body protectors, I find them too constricting. And I would not have fallen off in the first place if it hadn’t been for that wretched woman coming at me out of the undergrowth.
Though I flinch at that, I reply that we’ve found no evidence that is what happened. But her saying it has taken the wind out of my sails and suddenly I’m weary.
Grayson, I’m tired of having this argument, I say. I feel protective of you. That’s just the way I am and I’m doing what I need to do.
She must be able to see that it is my job; it is important to me to keep her safe.
She’s quiet, and for a moment, just a brief moment, I think she’s going to relent, though deep down I know she won’t. But I get more than I expect – I get an offer.
How would you feel about a compromise? A rich patina coats her voice with its glossy lacquer and I can already feel myself giving in to whatever it is she is about to ask of me. All she has to do is keep talking. I mentally shake myself free of that influence.
You want to negotiate? I think about this. Playing the game. Hmm…what are you offering? It is now my turn to look suspicious.
How about I agree to wear this whenever I ride out of the yard? So I needn’t wear it when I’m schooling in the arena or the paddocks.
Okay, I think we can work with that, I say, although if you’re jumping anything over three feet in height in the arena or paddocks I want you to wear it.
I keep my gaze on her steady, then smile as she exhales with frustration. Clearly she realises I’m not going to give up and she is going to lose this round.
Okay, she agrees, and she sighs wearily but seems reconciled to her fate. I smile briefly and with relief until she continues, and it’s red because…? and she leaves the question hanging.
I respond, explaining I reined back on getting the hi-vis one as I didn’t think I’d get her to go for that – probably a step too far – so I got the next most violent colour available to make her stand out.
Well, of course you did, she replies with resignation.
At this I give her my broadest smile which she can’t help but respond to. Then I announce that I’m going to go and pack my things and I feel my heart sink. If I’m not mistaken it feels like it brings down the whole mood.
Before I leave the room she says, thank you, Trent, for staying here with me. It was kind of you to give up your time. And she is polite, her words strangely formal and not what I am wanting at all.
I know being helped is something you abhor, but I’ve enjoyed looking after you, I reply. And we’re so frustratingly proper, so fucking British about it all. Then I hesitate for a moment and gaze at her. I’m standing there, wondering if this is when I should declare myself. Surely I’ve made my intentions clear, so maybe the signals I think I’m reading are not there at all and all I’ll make is a fool of myself and I think better of it because I leave to go and pack.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want this, that I do know; I don’t want to leave and be no further forward with her. Maybe I haven’t made my feelings for her obvious enough, even though I feel I’ve been wearing a flashing banner across my chest declaring all. Maybe it wasn’t enough; maybe I should have made a move on her. But I thought that would scare her off. I wanted to be respectful; I wanted to let her come to me, but on her terms when she was ready, and now that is looking like it was a mistake.
Anyway, what if I am wrong and she doesn’t feel like that about me? I don’t want to be left looking like a complete idiot. However, I know I can’t leave it like this. I want to say something; I want to tell her how I feel, and while I’m afraid of looking like a fool, afraid she will reject me, just the thought of that making me feel sick, I know I can’t let this go.
As I go downstairs to leave she gets up and meets me in the kitchen.
I hope you have a good trip, she says as she starts to busy herself, looking in the fridge to see what to have for lunch. Lunch? For God’s sake, you’re driving me crazy, Emma. We have matters of life and love to deal with here and you’re looking for what to slap between two slices of granary.
I mutter something about hoping she continues to improve as the week progresses. Then I glance out of the window towards the empty yard, but I imagine Carlton there, waiting, and add with a grimace, no doubt once I’m gone you’ll have the oh-so-attentive Carlton hovering around you, attending to your every whim, and with that I turn to the door.
What is it, Trent? she says. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to want me either?
At last…
I stop dead, take a deep breath and turn back to the woman I worship – to the one who has brought me to my knees.
And I say, who said I didn’t want you, Emma? Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I want you very much, but not until you’re ready for me.
I don’t take my eyes off her as I wait. I’ve bared all of myself to you, Emma, now it’s your turn. So come to me; give yourself up to me.
I feel my stomach clench. I can see her internal struggle, but whatever’s going on it’s clearly not enough to break her, and I close my eyes and shake my head as despair closes in. I start to turn once more to the door.
Then as if from nowhere, I hear, I am ready for you…
I can hardly believe it. I stop, my heart is beating so hard I can feel it physically pounding in my chest. I look back at her, relief and elation flooding through me, warming as I smile at her, seeing her anxiety dispel as I do so. Before she catches her breath I turn, cross the kitchen and wrap her up in my arms, closing my eyes as I relish the feeling of holding her so close.
Oh God, I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for some indication, any indication, that you feel about me even a fraction of what I feel for you, I murmur in her ear, loosening my arms slightly so I can bring my face up to look at hers. I can see what I hope are happy tears gathering as she looks at me, and as they overflow I bring my hands up to each side of her face and wipe them away with my thumbs. Dropping one hand back to her waist I hold her close as I continue to run my other thumb down her cheek, then gently across her lips, those lips that promise eternity – so full, so ready for me; they distract me and I str
uggle to swallow. I know if I kiss them I will be going nowhere. For they are the gateway, the threshold over which I must not tread. Not today, not yet…
Do you think this is wise, she says softly, getting involved with someone as messed up as me?
I kiss her cheek, my lips lingering on her skin as I inhale her scent.
I have no choice, I reply. I don’t have the strength to keep away from you any longer even if I wanted to, and anyway there are things about me which are just as screwed up. You just don’t know about them yet.
I hesitate then, feel myself frown before I continue. Actually, I hadn’t thought about that before now, but you’re probably taking the bigger risk here, which might not be good for you. You should think about that and decide if this is the wisest thing for you to do.
I have no choice. I don’t have the strength to keep away from you any longer, even if I wanted to, she echoes back at me, and she smiles a smile that lights me up inside. I kiss her cheek again, then release her, and sigh as I do so.
I can’t believe I have to tell you this now, but I do have to go, I say in a voice filled with regret, and she nods and smiles back.
I know, go on, she says, and I leave, promising to be back as soon as I can. I don’t want to go, I really don’t, and my mind’s buzzing. I curse the fact we’ve spent so much time here alone and yet not been together, wasted time, but I won’t dwell on that now. We have the rest of our lives and I focus on that thought, but everything I still need to tell her comes to the fore, and again I push it to the back of my mind and ignore the flash of anxiety it brings.
I feel her eyes on me as I walk down the path, and while I hate every step I take away from her I am so filled with elation I’m no longer walking, I’m flying, and feeling fucking invincible. I want to punch the air and yell our news to the world, because when I drive off I catch her smile as she returns my wave and I know this is only the start, the very start, of something that’s going to be glorious.