The Sun in Her Eyes (17 page)

My blood thunders through my body as our tongues frantically lock and mesh, a current zapping and igniting between us. But it’s not enough. I want more.

He wrenches his mouth away and presses his forehead hard against mine to a point where it’s almost painful. He pants hotly and heavily against my lips.

‘Don’t stop,’ I beg.

To my relief, his mouth crashes back against mine. I slide my hands around his waist and under his T-shirt, feeling the firmness of his muscles. I want him to get closer, but I have nowhere else
to go. My fingers move to his waistband.

‘Amber.’ He says my name on a rush of breath, slamming his body against me, his fingers tangled in my hair.

‘I want you,’ I whisper hoarsely as the scorching northerly wind blows against my face, keeping the blaze downhill – for now.

In a millisecond, the pace shifts. His hands slide tantalisingly slowly over the curves of my body, his fingers brushing my thighs and prompting sparks of electricity to zip across my skin as
they reach the hem of my dress. With his mouth still locked against mine, he lifts my dress, bunching it up at my back with one hand as he unbuttons his shorts with the other. He breaks our kiss,
but doesn’t take his eyes from mine and his penetrating gaze has my heart skipping and skittering against my ribcage.

Then he hooks his thumb into the waistband of my knickers and draws them down my legs. He pauses a moment, I don’t know why – to give me time to back out?

Not a chance. I’ve daydreamed about this moment for years. This feels so right – like it was meant to happen.

I grasp at his waist and draw him into me.

It’s fast, it’s hot, it’s urgent. Our mouths barely part, and when it’s over, his loud cry resonates right through me. We stay like that for a while, our bodies heaving
against each other as we try to catch our breaths, with sore, singed lungs.

Eventually he slips out of me and kisses me gently on the lips before fastening himself back up. I bend down and pull up my knickers, neither of us saying a word. He smooths my dress over my
curves, his hands resting on my hips as he kisses my forehead.

I realise that it is still raining.

‘Come on,’ he says, taking my hand and tentatively leading me out from behind our rocky stronghold.

I breathe in sharply at the scene on the plains below us. On the surface, the rain appears to have done little. Dozens of trees are still on fire, towering infernos rising out of the charred and
blackened land. Steam or smoke, I’m not sure which, drifts upwards from the once-grassy stretches. It’s a hellish, awful landscape.

It feels appropriate.

I do a double take at what I had thought was a fallen tree, and discover it’s Ethan’s Jag, still burning brightly with angry orange flames. It’s unrecognisable from the car
that held so many happy childhood memories. I place my hand on Ethan’s taut stomach and stare up at his anguished face.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say softly.

He shakes his head, lost for words.

The rain has dampened the ground enough for us to walk out of there, but we have to take a wide berth around the blazing trees, treading carefully so as not to step on not-quite-dead venomous
snakes. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying at the sight of the charred carcasses of sheep who just couldn’t run fast enough.

I don’t know how anyone could have run fast enough. I’ve never seen anything more frightening than the speed of that fire. If the wind had blown it up the hill, I’m certain we
wouldn’t have survived.

Finally we make it to the road, dirty with soot and soaked through to our skin with rain.

Ethan lets go of my hand to run forward and flag down a passing car, which stops and reveals a middle-aged American couple. They’ve been visiting the nearby wineries and are distraught at
the sight of us. They insist on driving us wherever we need to go. The kindness of these strangers breaks down the last of my defences, and I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my
cheeks as I sit in the back with Ethan, our limbs intertwined and my face pressed against his neck as he tries to make polite conversation. I don’t know how he does it.

The closer we get to home, the further he withdraws. Physically the distance is minute, but emotionally I feel as though a chasm is opening up between us. When our kind chauffeur turns into
Dad’s street, Ethan takes my face in his hands one last time and gives me a firm, final kiss. I feel like he’s saying goodbye.

‘Will you be okay?’ I ask him.

He nods bleakly as he stares back at me. He’s going to go to the fire station to deliver an eyewitness account – he’s sure the lightning was the cause of the fire. His parents
are meeting him there.

‘It’s this house on the left,’ he directs the driver, pulling away from me as the car creeps to a stop. He gives my hand a last squeeze and the action echoes all the way to my
heart. ‘I’ll call you,’ he vows.

I manage to say a heartfelt thank you to the American tourists before climbing out of the car. Then I stand on the pavement in a bedraggled state and watch as they drive away.

Doris reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes as she looked at the letter in her hands. She hoped she had written the right thing. She didn’t want
to scare the poor girl, but she thought it best that they meet in person.

And she so wanted to see Amber again. She wondered what sort of woman she had become. Doris hoped that this encounter would be therapeutic for both of them. She wished it from
the bottom of her heart.

Her eyes ran over the words before her. Had she struck the right chord? It was so difficult to put into words what had happened, and Doris had not even relayed the half of
it.

For a moment, her aged mind swam with images from the scene of the crash – the shattered glass, the mangled metal, the blood,
oh, the blood
… The
woman’s face was deathly white, her lips and hands cold and shaking as Doris begged her to conserve her energy.

But she would not be quiet.

Doris winced as she folded the letter into thirds and slid it into an envelope. If only Barry would hurry up and track down that address…

I wake up with a start on Monday morning, my pulse racing and my heart pumping fast with adrenalin.

I sit bolt upright in bed. My throat feels sore as I draw in fast, hurried breaths. I clench my hands into fists and try to calm down.

Flashbacks from the day before slam into my mind: Ethan and I kissing, Ethan and I having sex…

A hot flush washes over me and my face burns as I remember the details.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

I’ve been unfaithful to Ned.

The horror of this thought doesn’t entirely sink in. What happened yesterday feels raw and unreal. I experience a twinge of guilt, but it’s not nearly potent enough.

I get up and grab my shower things in a rush, then set off for the bathroom.

I had a shower last night, but I can still smell the fire on my skin. And not just the fire, but Ethan, too, however unlikely that may sound. I need to get clean.

As I stand under the blistering jets of water, my head is full of images of him – of us. His face, his body, his kisses, his hot, urgent claiming of my body…

I should go to the doctor to get the morning-after pill. We didn’t use protection, and I came off the pill after getting married, when both Ned and I assumed that children would be the
next step.

I scrub at my skin and my hair until it hurts.

Dad and Liz were gobsmacked when I walked in yesterday evening, my skin and clothes blackened with ash. I think I was still in shock. Everything felt so strange and nightmarish. I remember Liz
making me sweet tea before ushering me off to the shower. She brought clean clothes to the bathroom and cooked dinner. I told them about the lightning and the blaze and Dad was horrified, while Liz
acted almost motherly.

It doesn’t occur to me to check the time until I’m fully dressed and ready for the day, and to my surprise I see that it’s only seven o’clock. Liz comes down the corridor
on her way to the shower, looking half-asleep. She stops suddenly, noticing me at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.

‘You’re up already.’

‘Yes. Would you like a coffee?’ I ask, feeling detached from my surroundings.

‘I didn’t expect you to get out of bed today,’ she comments, looking slightly flummoxed. ‘I was going to take the day off.’

‘I’m fine. Really,’ I say. ‘There’s no need.’

‘Are you sure? Because I think you could do with resting up.’

‘Honestly, Liz. That’s very kind, but I’m okay.’

She gives me a suspicious look and nods reluctantly. ‘Okay. Well, then, I’d better get a wriggle on.’

She leaves me to it and I stare for a long moment at Dad’s mobile on the kitchen table. I pick it up and scroll through the last few messages from Ethan, feeling a tightness in my chest as
I delete them, one after the other.

The phone buzzes in my hand and I drop it with a clatter. Tentatively, I pick it back up and disappointment surges through me when I see that it’s only a message from Dad’s school
head. He’s asking if he can visit at lunchtime.

Was I really expecting Ethan to contact me today, after the way he looked when he said goodbye?

No.

What we did was bad. We made a terrible, dreadful mistake.

So why doesn’t it feel like one?

I’m still waiting for the guilt to kick in.

Sighing, I reply to Mr Fletchley to say that I’ll check with Dad. I don’t tell him that I’m not hopeful after last time.

He writes back seconds later to say that he’ll come alone, and he promises he won’t interrupt Dad’s sentences. It’s as though he’s read my mind. I feel so sorry for
him that I find myself agreeing. I hope I’m not making yet another mistake.

I go to the fridge. We don’t have a lot in. Liz emerges from the bathroom with a puff of steam and I reluctantly reveal what I’ve done about Daniel Fletchley, wondering if
she’ll give me an earful.

‘Okay,’ she says, nodding. ‘You probably should have run it past Len first, but, well, Daniel seems to have good intentions.’

‘That’s what I thought. Have I got time to nip to the baker’s? I might grab a quiche for lunch and stock up on a few supplies.’

‘Sure,’ she says.

When I get back from the Parade, Dad is already up and dressed and Liz is on her way out the door.

‘Ned called,’ she says, and I tense instantly. ‘He’s off to bed soon, but he said he’d call back if you don’t call him first. I thought you would have already
told him about the fire?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I haven’t had a chance to.’

She frowns, clearly wondering why I didn’t ring my husband after almost being burnt alive. It’s a valid speculation. ‘Well, he was very concerned, so you’d best call
asap.’

It’s the last thing I want to do. What do I say? My head spins. If I tell Ned the truth, it’s over.

I go into the kitchen and place the shopping bags on the counter, forcing an agitated smile at Dad. The home phone rings and I almost jump out of my skin. I answer it reluctantly.

‘Amber!’ It’s Ned and his voice is full of apprehension. ‘Liz told me what happened!’

‘Hi,’ I reply quietly.

‘She said you were out in the countryside somewhere with Ethan?’

It’s hardly surprising that he sounds on edge as well as worried. Apart from my briefly mentioning the dinner party at Ethan’s parents’ winery, his name hasn’t featured
at all in our conversations.

‘Yes. We went to see some property that he and his parents are planning to develop.’ For once, I’m glad we’re talking on the phone and not in person. ‘It got me out
of the house for the day,’ I add, glancing at Dad and then making my way into my bedroom so we can speak in privacy.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaims. ‘You could have been killed.’

‘I know.’ I sit down on the bed in a daze.

‘Liz said Ethan’s car exploded?’

‘Yes.’ I close my eyes, feeling weary to my bones.

‘Were you hurt at all?’ he demands to know.

‘My throat feels sore from breathing in the smoke, but that’s all.’

‘I could have lost you.’ He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears and a belated rush of love flows through me.

‘I love you.’ My voice breaks as I speak.

‘I love you, too. I wish I could hold you.’

Bile oozes up my throat at the thought of telling him what I’ve done. I feel like I could choke on it.

He continues. ‘I’m so sorry I’m not going to be there for your birthday. I posted you something last week so I hope it gets to you on time.’

‘Thank you,’ I whisper, hot tears stinging my eyes.

‘Are you still coming home at the end of next week?’ he asks hopefully.

‘I don’t think so,’ I admit. ‘It still seems too soon. Hopefully I won’t be away for too much longer, though.’

‘Maybe I should fly over for Easter…’

God, the sudden
guilt
. ‘Are you serious? Could you get away from work?’

‘I should be able to for a week or so. I’ll talk to Zara.’

‘No, wait.’ I feel sudden panic at the thought. ‘Let’s talk about it when I know more, okay? I’m alright, I promise. I’m okay.’

‘Okay.’ He sniffs. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ And I hate myself.

We end the call and I cross my legs, trying to snuff out the memory of Ethan: the
feeling
of him. I feel dirty and exhausted and deeply ashamed. A moment later, there’s a knock on
my door.

‘Come in,’ I call wearily.

Dad slowly opens the door and stands there, his left hand gripping his walking stick and his weak right hand proffering up his mobile.

‘It’s Ethan,’ he says.

The blood drains from my face.

‘Thanks,’ I say quickly, feeling queasy as I take the phone from him. I offer Dad a brief smile before he shuffles away and I close the door.

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Hey,’ he replies softly.

I rapidly feel quite jittery.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

I try to swallow the lump that has sprung up in my throat and nod, before belatedly realising he can’t see me.