Missing You (15 page)

‘Fen . . .’

She turns towards him and it is as if it was always meant to be. He reaches out to her and they kiss and something ignites inside him, that’s how it feels. It’s like throwing a match into a field of dry grass – no, more than that, a sea of oil. There’s a huge, intense longing blazing inside him. His hands cup her face. He kisses her and she kisses back and it’s tender and sweet and he knows, he can feel, how much she wants him, how much she has wanted him for months, and her desire arouses him almost beyond anything he’s known before. She kisses him with honesty, her lips are gentle but she does not try to disguise the depth of her feeling, and Sean is turned on almost to the point of unconsciousness.

Her breathing is heavy, that deep, shaky breathing of a woman on tenterhooks. He moves away, licks on his lips the salty taste of her, then he takes both her hands, her cool, small, slender hands.

‘Come with me,’ he says.

He puts the candle on the mantelpiece, and in its light he lies Fen down on the old settee that’s covered with mismatched, cheap throws, and he unbuttons her shirt, watching her face, not looking at her body, holding her eyes.

He parts the front of her shirt, and leans down to kiss the space between her breasts. Her fingers are light on the back of his skull and she murmurs: ‘Please.’

She wriggles out of her shorts and pants; he unzips the fly on his trousers, and then pauses. She’s shaking like a leaf.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

She nods.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God,’ he says, for he does not know how he could stop now.

She lies back gazing at him and he strokes the cup of her belly with the back of his fingers and she is taut as a drum beneath his hands. Her skin trembles and her hips are arched, very slightly, towards him.

‘God,’ he whispers, ‘you’re lovely!’ And he is full of the newness of her, the slightness, the way her fingers touch her lips, the sweetness of her. She is as tentative as a virgin and she keeps trying to hide herself with her hands, her fingers; she is a mystery to him, different, unknown.

He climbs onto the settee and looks down at her, smoothes back her hair, and again she says: ‘Please.’ He kisses her again, and she lies there, trembling, as he uses his hand to make a way between her thighs and to find the right place.

It is the sweetest, gentlest, quickest fuck. She comes in an instant, almost on the first stroke, and her response is so unexpected, so thrilling, that the moment she comes he is flooded with the sex rush, the rise in the bloodstream, the tingling in the nerves and the urgency in the groin, and he comes too. He puts his lips on her shoulder, and he comes and he comes and he comes, holding her tight, feeling the aftershocks inside her. The unaffected, unselfconscious release of her fills him with tenderness. He rests his forehead on the cushion beside her and she says: ‘Thank you.’

Afterwards she cries. Or she laughs. He can’t tell which.

She lies beneath him on the settee and he does not want to lose the intimacy, so he stays above her but takes his weight on his elbows, and he wipes away her tears with his knuckles.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m just so . . . it’s just too . . .’

‘I know,’ he says gently. ‘I know.’

They make love again, more slowly. She is bolder, he takes his time. He feels the shape of her, the inside and the out, the way the muscles cleave beneath her skin. His fingers explore her, the shape of her chin, her ears, her breasts, and her fingers work their way around his body too. They are a mystery to one another. They fit one another very well.

The candle flickers, Fen shivers. She covers her breasts with her elbows.

‘You’re amazing,’ says Sean.

He helps her into his fleece. He turns on the gas fire set into the far wall and it makes a reassuring whumph as its line of flame gradually thaws from blue to red and the room warms. He does not know how to thank her. He could not begin to explain how her desire for him has restored so many of the parts of himself that he thought he had lost forever. He feels alive again. He feels powerful and potent. He feels like a man.

He pulls his guitar out from behind the settee, and takes it out of its case.

He sits beside her, naked, and curls over the guitar. His feet cross at the ankles, his knees are wide apart. He plays a chord.

‘Do you know what that is, Fen?’

She shakes her head. She pulls her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms around her legs.

‘That’s D. What about this?’

‘No.’

‘E minor. My favourite chord.’

He plays a little show-off tune. Fen smiles. She is twirling her hair.

‘Do you know why guitars are so sexy, Fen?’

‘Because you play them with no clothes on?’

‘There is that. But also, a guitar is both woman and man.’

Fen laughs.

‘It is so. We have here, you see, the up-thrust of the neck, which can only be described as proudly, majestically phallic, contrasting with the female shape of the body. The hourglass, see?’ He strokes the outer edge of the guitar, its perfect curves.

She nods.

‘To make beautiful music,’ says Sean, putting on a mid-European accent, ‘both the male and the female parts of the guitar must operate harmoniously. One hand –’ he holds out the relevant hand – ‘slides up and down the neck, which is grasped by fingers applying various pressures to the different frets and strings. This, I believe, is a process with which madam is familiar?’

Fen smiles. She bites her lip.

‘The fingers of the other hand, at the same time, work the strings over the sound hole, like so. Erotic, no?’

‘Yes.’

‘The beautiful noise is achieved by the vibration of the strings, controlled by the fingers, echoing in the sound board. Male and female working together. Beautiful.’

He plays more music. She rests her head on his shoulder and they stay there, together on the settee, until the sky beyond the curtains begins to turn pale, and then they wrap themselves in each other’s arms, and he waits until she sleeps so that he can watch her. He spends a while enjoying the warmth of her beside him then, sometime during the early morning, Sean too drifts into sleep.

twenty

Everything has changed.

Fen knew things were getting better and she thought she was all right, but she wasn’t, not compared to how she is now. Now the world is a wonderful place, every moment of every day is filled with potential; she is entirely grateful to be alive, to be living in Bath, to be working in the bookshop and living in Lilyvale, to be Connor’s mother and Sean’s lover. She looks at herself in the mirror and she realizes that she is pretty. She thinks how lucky she is to be healthy and still young and pretty. She has a new energy with her son and she thinks of new ways to help him with his speech and his motor skills. She has more fun with the boy; he has a great sense of humour which Fen wasn’t bringing out in him before. It was a kind of neglect and she is ashamed of herself.

She is enjoying her life – all of it, or almost all of it. Only her memories interfere with her happiness.

Sean has not just made a difference to her waking hours; she’s now sleeping better too. Before, Tomas and Joe were often in her dreams, and mostly, strangely, they were good dreams, dreams of how it was when they were younger, and they would be out in the fields playing football or fishing in the river or they would be queuing outside the cinema or sometimes even fighting. Or she would dream of Tomas as he was just before he left, and he was OK, he was his normal, sarky, self-deprecating, funny self, not the prowling, scratching, secretive person he was when he was taking drugs. And Joe, Joe was always fine, fit and well in her dreams, always laughing, sometimes draping his arm around Tom’s shoulder, sometimes leaning his face towards Tom and the two of them sharing an intimacy that was exclusive.

Whenever Fen dreamed of the two young men in a good way it was as if Joe had never died and Tomas had never gone away, and she would, in her sleep, chide herself for her anxiety. Then, when she woke, she’d be confused for a while. She would not remember whether the dream was real or not, and she’d have to experience anew the horror of confronting the reality that Joe was dead and Tomas was gone and that she was responsible. It was as if she could never come to terms with the situation and so had to keep reliving it in her dreams. A million times she thought the accident had never happened; a million times she had to wake up and accept that it had. And this emotional see-saw exhausted her and coloured her every waking moment. Always Joe and Tomas, Tomas and Joe at the front of her mind.

It’s different now, and although Fen feels slightly guilty and disloyal, these days she craves the erotic, happy, flying, swimming and dancing dreams that suffuse her sleep, and neither Tomas nor Joe is in these dreams.

Now when Fen wakes, the blood is already streaming through her veins and her heart beats in anticipation of the pleasures of the day ahead. She cannot wait to be up. She looks forward to drawing the curtains and going in to wake Connor, but the first, most intimate thing she does is listen to hear if Sean is already out of bed, moving about in his room or running the taps in the bathroom or downstairs, making tea.

Sean makes tea for Fen every morning and he brings it up to her, then kisses her before he leaves for work. He kisses her on the lips, like a lover, not on the cheek, like a spouse. He always squeezes her hand. Sometimes he reminds her of some small commitment: ‘Don’t forget I’m going to be late,’ or ‘Could you pick up some stamps for me, if you have time?’

They are still respectful of each other’s privacy, but they are comfortable with each other, the two adults. Their familiarity has bred content. On evenings when neither has anything to do, they sit together in the living room. Sean has become proprietorial over the television remote control. He no longer asks Fen whether she minds if he changes channels. In other people, Fen would have found this lack of consideration annoying, but she is so grateful to him for bringing her back to life – and for being with her in her life – that everything he is, and says, and does, is beautiful in her eyes.

Once Sean fell asleep on the settee, his head on a cushion on the arm, his legs tucked up behind him, and his socks, thick, woolly, working-man’s socks, filled Fen with a pang of tenderness so exquisitely sharp that she had to double over to contain it.

Every day she knows him a little better, every day she loves him a little more. She has slept with other men, of course, but they were all a long time ago, before Connor, and she has never been in love with a man before. She is finding the whole process intoxicating and enchanting. It is the most wonderful, natural thing she has ever experienced. It colours every single aspect of every moment of her life. It has changed every molecule in her body. It affects everything. And Fen appreciates it, she realizes how lucky she is; she knows some people go through their lives without knowing how it feels to love somebody as she loves Sean and to be, apparently, loved back.

She finds everything about him erotic, from the little scar beneath his eye to the way he stands with his legs just slightly apart and his feet square on the ground. The smell of him turns her on, his voice, his eyelashes, the mud on his boots.

He relaxes with her now. He comes in from work and he talks about his job. He tells her where he’s been, who he’s spoken to, what he’s done. He explains the ins and outs of restoration, the chemistry of composites, the physics of load-bearing structures. He washes his hands in the sink and as she watches the soap slipping between his palms, and the lather as he brushes the dirt from beneath his fingernails, inwardly she sighs and swoons with pleasure like the heroine of a romantic novel.

And it’s not just that. No, it’s the things he does for her. He looks after her, in big ways and small. Nobody has looked after Fen since she was a child. Yet Sean drives her to the supermarket, pushes the trolley, packs the bags and refuses to let her pay, or else he drops her off outside Sainsbury’s and takes Connor and Amy to look at the quirky shops in the old Green Park station so she can shop in peace. He carries her bags. He puts out the bins. He goes back to his old house and comes back with the car loaded up with gardening tools. He mows her lawn and digs up the old flower beds, which have, for years, grown only weeds. He plants potatoes. He puts up two lines of canes and Connor helps him start the beans off in little pots. He comes home from work one day with a tray of seedlings: tomatoes, courgettes, peppers, salad.

What gives Fen the most pleasure is to see how Sean is happier too.

She checks under his mattress every now and then, but he has written nothing in the notebook for weeks.

He hardly ever mentions Belle and the shadows have left his eyes.

She hasn’t told anyone what’s happening. In truth, she wants to talk about Sean all the time because she wants the whole world to know that she is in love. She would like to wear a T-shirt, carry a banner, charter a plane trailing a streamer, shout it out across the city, but she says nothing at all, to anyone. She is afraid of jinxing the situation. She believes – oh, it’s superstitious madness, she knows – but still she believes that while their love is a precious secret then nobody else can come between them. No one can damage it.

Besides, there isn’t really anyone she can tell.

Fen does not think about the future. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen; neither of them has spoken of it. They have fallen into this intimacy almost by accident. They have never been out together, they’ve never had a date as such. Neither of them has attempted to categorize or analyse this precious closeness they share.

Fen does not think of Sean as her boyfriend or her partner.

He is far more to her than either of those words would imply.

He is her lover.

He is the man she loves.

And this loving has changed her so fundamentally that already she knows there is no going back.

twenty-one