Phoenix (3 page)

My heart lifts. “You will?”

He nods.

“Thank you so much.” I smile, feeling like hugging him, but I don’t.

He glances from the road to look at me for a moment. “What I said about
apologising applies to thanking people, too. Don’t thank me. I am fixing a
problem that I caused. Your thanks only makes me want to ask for something in
return.”

I shiver at how his voice dips low on that last sentence. “Something in
return?”

His eyes darken as he breathes out a long, leisurely breath. “Use your
imagination.”

I do and the things that spring into my head make me clench my thighs
together tight. Those images of him practising his martial art the first time I’d
seen him are there again, this time causing my face to grow even hotter.

When we get back,
Phoenix drops me at my door and then goes over to his house to retrieve the
trolley. I go inside and leave a message to cancel the movers I booked for tomorrow.
I change my stained top and make some tea. Then I hear Phoenix knock on the
door. He has brought the trolley; it looks like kind you might see in a
factory. Perhaps he uses it at the carpentry shop that Margaret mentioned he
owns.

“Do you have a door stop?” he asks. I nod. “Good, use it to hold the door
open for me.”

I do as he asks and he goes to fetch the piano.

I decide to stay inside to drink my tea and not watch, afraid he’s going
to end up doing his back in or something. The poem incident lingers in my
thoughts. It’s the elephant in the room that he has not yet mentioned, and that
I want to forget about more than anything.

I hear him shuffling about in the doorway and it sounds like he’s making
progress. I begin to remember the time when Harriet and I decided to rearrange
the furniture in her living room.

“I want it to be the opposite of
feng shui
,” she declared.

I put the sofa facing the wall, about two feet from the door. Then I went
and put the television set facing out the window. I was still only a child at
the time and I thought it was the most fun ever. All of my worthy memories are
of times I spent with Harriet. I was lonely before she came. And I’m lonely now
that she’s gone.

A few minutes later Phoenix has successfully gotten the piano into the
living room and I ask him if he would like some tea. At first he looks like he
is going to decline, but then his face softens fractionally and he says yes.

Silently, I pour him a cup. I can feel a heavy tension in the room that
gets stronger and stronger the longer the silence goes on for. I hand him his
tea and he takes a sip, still saying nothing. He looks about the room, taking
in the higgledy-piggledy piles of boxes and furniture that I have yet to sort
through.

Looking at his face more closely now, I can see there is a scar on his forehead
about an inch long slanting downwards. It looks like one of those painful cuts
that was deep and possibly got infected at the time it was inflicted, but is
now silvery smooth.

Under his jaw line there is another scar that’s longer than the one on
his forehead, but less deep looking. The funny thing is, none of the scars
detract from his distinct handsomeness. He catches me staring and I quickly
look away. I struggle to think of something to say, but he is clearly feeling
no discomfort with the silence.

The best I can come up with is, “Phoenix is a very unusual name.”
Pathetic.

“I don’t remember telling you my name,” he replies, smiling crookedly.

I blush. “Oh, yeah. That old lady Margaret who lives down the road told
me.”

“Right.” His crooked grin grows wider.

“I’ve never met someone named Phoenix before. It reminds me of the
mythical fire bird.”

“Ah yes, the Phoenix with a tail of scarlet and gold,” he replies, with a
mournfully nostalgic look in his eyes. Huh.

“Do you know much about mythology?” I ask, a gleeful flutter in my chest
at the possibility of a topic of conversation.

Unfortunately, I think he senses my geeky enthusiasm when he says flatly,
“Not much.”

“Oh…I once had a friend who was really into it. She was a history
professor. Her love of the subject is what inspired me to study it at
university. I’m a teacher now, at St. Paul’s.”

He smirks at my volunteering unasked for information. His silence and the
way he sits so confidently on my chair somehow causes me to babble on. I let
out a quick breath and glance away, picking at a loose thread on my top. I’ve
run out of words.

Phoenix seems to notice I’m at a loss and takes pity on me. “What’s her
name, your friend?”

 “Harriet. She’s dead now.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes. I never could quite get used to anyone else. Nobody ever lived up
to her standard.” Ha! Like there have been so many other friend possibilities
in my life.

 “You’re not from here, are you?” he questions with curiosity.

 “Well, no. I’ve just moved in, obviously,” I say, gesturing toward the
unpacked boxes.

“No, I mean your accent. It’s different.”

“That’s right. I’m Welsh. Can’t you tell?”

“Ah, yes. Wales. It’s a lovely accent. Soft and musical. Very appealing
to listen to.”

 I blush at the unexpected compliment.

 “Thank you. You mustn’t get out much if you didn’t recognise it.”

 “I don’t,” he states, deadpan.

I laugh gently now and admit, “Me neither.”

For a short moment we stare at each other in mutual understanding. We are
so very different, yet the same.

 “I must go,” he says then, rising from his seat.

“Okay,” I reply. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He gives me a regretful look. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? You could come over for dinner.”

His eyes soften with sympathy. I must project my loneliness as though it
were a flashing sign on my forehead.

“No, darling. I can’t.”

“I don’t know anybody here. I’d be glad of the company,” I say as a last
ditch attempt. All of a sudden, I don’t want to spend the entire weekend by
myself.

He sucks in a deep breath and takes a step towards me. “Do you know, you
haven’t even told me your name yet,” he says, reaching forward and tucking a
strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is a comfort I didn’t even know I
needed. All too soon it’s gone. I want him to touch me again.

My breathing quickens. “Eve. My name is Eve.”

His eyelids lower as he focuses his attention on the rise and fall of my
chest. “Are you trying to tempt me, Eve?”

“No,” I whisper throatily. “I just want to be friends.”

“I don’t do friends.”

His hand is on me again, this time moving tenderly down the side of my
neck. I stifle the urge to moan as I list toward him. My face almost falls
against his hard chest.

“Can you make an exception?” I breathe.

Now the pad of his thumb brushes back and forth over my collarbone.

“Perhaps. Would you like me to?” he says and trails off. His thumb
travels down to the uppermost swell of my breast. I have always been very
well-endowed chest-wise, but I’ve never had a man touch me here and make me
feel so on the verge of coming undone like Phoenix does.

“I would,” I manage to get out finally.

“Alright then. The way you blush is quite something,” he says, all
gravelly. “What time would you like to have dinner?”

 “Um, is six o’clock okay?”

 “Perfect. See you tomorrow, Eve.”

And then he pulls his hand away. I feel like begging him not to, but I
don’t. Instead I stand there and watch as he walks out of the house. Tomorrow
can’t come soon enough.

The next day I go
grocery shopping. It’s extremely sad how excited I am about my first dinner
date. And Phoenix, well, I was tossing and turning nearly all night trying to
figure him out. I can’t tell whether or not he likes me, feels sorry for me, or
finds me vaguely annoying/amusing. There is something so intense, though, in
the way he regards me, and it makes me shiver, makes me want to know what lies
beneath his surface.

All this runs through my mind as I purchase my groceries. I’ve decided to
make chicken stew and lemon cheesecake for dessert. I bump into Margaret at the
shop and she asks me if I would like to have Sunday lunch with her and her
husband Thomas tomorrow. I tell her I’d love to.

When I get home I prepare the stew and then take a bath. I carry the
stereo upstairs and set it up outside of the bathroom so I can listen to Leonard
Cohen sing about the Chelsea Hotel. I’ve had this CD for three years and all I
ever listen to is this song on repeat. It’s that one line that always gets me.

You told me again you preferred handsome men, but for me you would make
an exception
.

I’m not sure why, but it reminds me of Phoenix. He’s the most handsome
man I’ve ever met, yet I sense a darkness inside of him. I imagine he sees that
darkness as ugliness.

I adore being able to leave the bathroom door open while I bathe. There
is just so much space here, space that I’ve never had before. In the house
where I grew up there was always someone shouting and making noise or imposing
on your personal space. Scratch that, personal space did not exist in the Pound
household; emotional space didn’t either.

Harriet was the only person I ever told about how my brother Maxwell
treated me. It was his torturous bullying that in some way created the anxious
mess I’ve become. Nobody ever tried to stop him. There were so many children in
my family that my parents were too stressed to pay much attention to any one
child. They were never at home during the day either.

Maxwell was the eldest. I was the youngest. He was fourteen and I was
seven or thereabouts when he first began bullying me. It started with little
things like punching me in the stomach for no reason and progressed to him not
allowing me to use the bathroom when I needed to go. If I needed to go at two o’clock
in the afternoon I couldn’t, because Maxwell wouldn’t allow it. The only time I
got the chance was when my parents got home at seven or eight in the evening.

That’s at least five hours of holding it in.

Some days he wouldn’t allow me to eat. Others I wouldn’t be allowed to
speak, and if I did he’d hit me so hard I lost consciousness.

I try to push these thoughts from my mind. Nothing good can come from
re-living such things. The delicious smell of the boiling stew wafting up the
stairs makes me feel a little better. I am free from Maxwell and my family now.
I have to remind myself of this every once in a while, because there are times
when I forget. Like when I wake up in the morning and I forget I am in Cornwall,
more than a hundred miles from home. Maxwell has no idea where I am. I could be
halfway across the world for all he knows.

When I get out of the bath I put on my new silver ankle bracelet. I don’t
like to wear shoes when I’m in the house, so I go barefoot. Years of
ill-fitting hand-me-downs as a child gave my feet a phobia of footwear.

Next I put on my black sleeveless shift dress. Looking at the clock, I
note that Phoenix should have been here five minutes ago. With a sinking
feeling, I wonder if he’s decided not to come. Now that would be lonesome.

I go downstairs and set the table anyway. About ten minutes later there
is a knock at the door. My chest swells with relief. I’m glad I haven’t been
stood up. Answering the door, I find Phoenix standing there wearing a grey shirt
and a nice pair of slacks.

“Eve,” he says, eyes scanning my dress. “You are a sight.”

A good sight or a bad sight?
I want to ask, but I don’t. Instead,
I swallow and move aside so that he can come in.

“I brought you this,” he says, handing me a bottle of red wine. “That is
the custom for dinner guests, is it not?”

“Yes, thank you. I don’t normally drink but I’ll have a glass with
dinner,” I reply taking it from him.

I lead him into the kitchen, asking, “Shall I pour you some?”

“That would be nice,” he answers, sitting down at the table I’ve set.

I fumble in the cupboard, searching for where I put the wine glasses. When
I find them I grab the cork-screw and it takes me a while to figure out how to
use it. I’ve had wine before, but have never actually opened a bottle myself. I
can hear Phoenix chuckle softly from where he sits. It’s the first time I’ve
heard him laugh, and it makes my heart thump for no apparent reason.

“Do you want me to do that?”

I sigh and mumble. “If you don’t mind. I never really got the hang of how
to open these bottles.”

Rising from his seat, he comes and stands close to me. However, instead
of just opening it, he decides to teach me how. He hesitates as he hovers over
me, and for a second I think I hear him suck in a breath to smell my hair. If I
were to move less than an inch we would be touching, just like he touched me
last night.

He instructs me on what to do and my hands visibly shake. I actually have
to put the bottle and the opener down for a moment to try and gather myself. He
must think I’m insane.

I feel him move closer and place his hand on my arm.

“Breathe, Eve,” he urges gently, his fingers massaging me softly.

I pick the bottle back up then and after four tries I finally get it
open. I smile at him in delighted triumph, giving a little fist pump.

He shakes his head with a small amused tilt to his mouth, muttering something
like, “Too innocent,” and pours us each a glass.

“The food smells good,” he comments.

“It’s chicken stew,” I inform him, before going to dish it up.

Sitting at opposite sides of the table, we eat silently for a few minutes.
Every once in a while he pauses eating to stare at me. My eyes flicker
routinely from him to my plate, not staying on either one for longer than a
handful of seconds. He leans forward, resting both of his elbows on the table.
Chewing on a piece of bread, he smiles at me in the quiet room. Why do I feel
like prey all of a sudden?

“How long have you lived here?” I ask to deflect from his unnerving attention.

“About ten years now.”

“That’s long. You must have only been a teenager when you first arrived.”

“I was twenty.” His eyes bore into mine.

“Hmm, that makes you six years older than me,” I observe.

“Too old for you,” he says quietly.

I scrunch up my brow. “Not really.”

He grins, showing his teeth. “You don’t think so?”

Flustered, I shovel some food into my mouth, then reply, “Six years isn’t
a huge gap, in my opinion. But anyway, we don’t need to be the same age to be
friends. Harriet was almost sixty years my senior and she was the best friend I
ever had.”

Something shifts in his expression, something close to heat. “Ah, yes, friends.
I forgot that’s what we are doing.”

“What did you think we were doing?”

He shrugs. “You’re not the first woman in this town who has tried to
befriend me, Eve.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. But you’re not like the others, are you?”

“I’m not sure. Who are the others?”

His mouth tilts up at one end. “Bored housewives, mostly.”

“Oh,” I say, confused. Then realisation hits me. “
Oh
. Eww. That’s
awful. I’m definitely not like the others.” A small voice in my head tries to
disagree, but I ignore it. I may find Phoenix attractive, but at least I’m not
married.

“When I saw you leave that poem in my letterbox the other morning, I
thought you were like them, but using a quirky ploy to get my attention. Now I
see I was wrong.”

Ah, the poem. I’d been dreading him bringing that up. The fact that he
saw me leaving it at his house is even more embarrassing.

“I know it was a weird thing to do,” I admit sheepishly. “I just like
giving poetry to people.”

He doesn’t say anything. I really wish he’d disagree with me about it
being weird. I’m coming to learn that Phoenix isn’t good at reading certain
social signs, like when someone needs you to relieve them of their
mortification. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care enough to provide relief.

I cough. “So, um, how did you come to the conclusion that I’m not like
them?”

I really want to know the answer to this question.

“I watched you when I recognised you in Montgomery’s. You wear your every
emotion on your face, Eve. Believe me, you are nothing like them.”

Okay, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so eager for that answer.

“I hate being that transparent,” I say, glancing at him. “You must be my
opposite. You give nothing away. I envy that.”

“You don’t want to be like me, darling.” Looking away, he picks up his
glass of wine and takes a sip. I do the same.

“What are you like?”

“Many, many unenviable things. Dangerous. Bad news.” Another sip of wine.
“Do you still want to be my friend now?”

I have no answer for that, so I quietly continue eating. His lips turn up
at the ends.

The tone of the conversation becomes serious when he asks, “What happened
to you?”

“Huh?”

“I said, what happened to you? I recognise a runaway when I see one.”

“I’m twenty-four years old, Phoenix. I’m not a runaway.”

“You’re running from something.”

“I’m starting afresh, not running.”

“You’re not comfortable around people, either. Sometimes when we speak it
is almost as though you are in physical pain. Who made you that way?”

I blink several times to keep the tears from falling. Good God, he sees
right inside of me. And he has no qualms about putting such personal questions
right out there. “Nobody,” I whisper at last.

 “When I saw you come into Montgomery’s last night you looked like a
cornered animal,” he states.

I scrunch up my face at his description. I find it uncomfortable knowing
that someone like Phoenix can see me so clearly. My comfort zone is
invisibility. Unfortunately, I’m coming to learn that Phoenix can read others as
though they are an open book, and if I really want to give this friendship a
shot I’m going to have to allow myself to be read. “Yeah well, I’m not a fan of
packed pubs. I have a touch of claustrophobia,” I tell him defensively.

“I wasn’t being critical.”

“I know,” I reply, unable to prevent the snappy tone to my voice.

“I wasn’t criticising you, Eve.”

“Okay.”

“You are at ease with yourself in this house.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your breathing is relaxed.”

Our eyes lock then, because the fact he’s mentioned my breathing feels
sensual. I think he knows it, too. His gaze falls to my chest for a very brief
second.

I cough and look away. “I like it here. I’ve never had this much space to
myself before. Living alone calms me.”

“You don’t find it lonely?”

“Do you?” I ask back, picking up the wine and taking another small sip.

His expression sobers at my throwing his own question back at him. “I am
no good for company anymore.”

“I like your company,” I disagree.

It’s true. Being read by him aside, I find him a fascinating person to be
around. He is mysterious enough to put me on edge, but at the same time that mystery
makes me want to know more. His gaze heats up at my comment and I return my
attention to finishing the meal. When we are done I take the plates to the sink
before going to set up the dessert.

“I made lemon cheesecake. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, sitting back in the chair now with his legs
spread wide, watching me move about the kitchen.

Before I make it to the fridge I step on a sharp piece of plastic that
cuts into the heel of my foot.

“Ouch,” I yelp, hopping on one leg.

There’s some blood coming from the small wound. Maybe I
should
wear shoes around the house.

“What happened?” Phoenix asks, rising to come to my aid.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I cut myself on a piece of plastic. It must have come
from the furniture packaging.”

“Come and sit down, let me check it for you.”

I sit on a chair across from him, while he takes my foot in his hands and
holds it up to look at the wound. Whoa. I almost forget about the sting as his
warm hands encapsulate my small foot. I actually gasp and his eyes come up to
meet mine. For a moment he toys with my ankle bracelet, smoothing it between
his fingers.

“Do you have any anti-septic?” he asks, his voice husky. Can he tell how
much his hands turn me on?

“There’s a first aid kit in the cupboard to the left of the cooker,” I
tell him.

He gets up to look for it and I mourn the loss of his touch.

“Really, I’m fine. It’s only slightly stingy.”

Returning, he replies, “I better disinfect it for you just in case.”

He lifts my foot up again and places it on his knee. I realise my dress
has ridden up my thighs when he stops moving and falls silent. His eyes linger
on my bare skin, on the curve of my outer thigh. He lets out a long, almost
shaky breath. I pull the dress down as far as it will go, while he drags his chair
closer to me so he can dress the cut.

I feel like I can’t get enough air into my lungs with him so close. When
he finishes dabbing my cut with cotton wool he slips on a Band-Aid with his
practiced fingers. Then he doesn’t do anything for a moment. It seems like he’s
keeping my foot within his grasp for longer than necessary when I see his eyes
wander up my legs again. I tingle in every spot his gaze touches.

His voice sends shivers up my spine when he asks, “Have you ever been
fucked, Eve?”