Pillow Talk (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Arlo was not in the habit of lying but over the years he'd become adept at being evasive with the truth. So when Miranda asked him where he was going, he simply said Stokesley and left it at that. When Nigel asked if he wanted to join him and Jenn for a drink – they were now quite a couple – Arlo thought first to ask where they were meeting and when Nige said Chapters Deli he breathed a silent sigh of relief and declined. The Thai was round the corner from that bar and set back a little. And once Nige was installed at Chapters, he tended to stay there for the duration.

‘Want a lift?’ Nigel asked.

‘Thanks but no – I'm just going to nip in on my bike.’

Arlo's colleagues assumed he was popping in to the Co-op. That's where one usually nipped in to Stokesley by bike. And Arlo decided not to put them straight. It was true – he was going to nip in. However, he was intending not to nip out again until much later that evening. But he hadn't been asked about that. So he wasn't going to elaborate.

*

Petra had sent out one communal text, the detailing of which would satisfy each of the recipients. She was going on a date 2nite. V xited! Pxxx

Eric and Kitty fired back messages of encouragement.

u've waited 17 yrs, don't rush it 2nite, Lucy texted, wear manky pants!!!;-)

Petra thought how comforting it was that though her friends were spread over continents and time zones, it was as if they were gathered in one supportive little posse, rooting for her.

The power of text messaging, she mused as she left the house. Can't believe Arlo hasn't discovered it. Bless him.

She went the long way around, walking along Levenside, by the river and the houses, instead of crossing directly to the High Street. She needed time to make her footsteps match her consciously slow breathing, or vice versa, she wasn't sure. But she walked slowly and breathed carefully and when she caught her reflection in the front windows of the houses, she liked what she saw and arrived at the restaurant excited but steady.

The restaurant was crowded but Petra spied Arlo sitting at a table, sipping a beer.

‘Miss Flint,’ he said, standing.

‘Mr Savidge,’ she said, sitting.

They bumbled over pleasantries and been-here-longs and come-here-oftens before immersing themselves in the menu to reassert their composure.

‘I like your hair like that,’ Arlo said after a thoughtful sip of beer.

‘I like yours like
that
,’ Petra said. ‘I remember it, all locks and curls and young Bob Dylan – but this way suits you too.’

‘We're very Dandy Warhols,’ Arlo said. Petra looked puzzled. He sang softly, ‘
I really love your hairdo, yeah, I'm
glad you like mine too, see we're looking pretty cool
.’ But he had to sing the chorus before she clicked and they duetted, ‘
And I like you yeah I like you
,’ and they laughed and tucked into the prawn crackers. ‘The thing is,’ Arlo said, terribly seriously, ‘once my hair started receding, it was a question of shave it all short – or grow a long bit to comb over.’

Petra looked momentarily horrified.

Arlo winked at her and she flicked a crumb of cracker at him in mock consternation.

‘You look like What's-his-name,’ she said.

‘Bruce Willis?’ Arlo asked. ‘Quite a flattering trichological journey, really, from young Bob Dylan to mature Bruce Willis.’

Petra laughed. ‘I meant that bloke off
Location Location Location
.’

‘Good God, from the heights of Hollywood to flats in bloody Cricklewood?’ Arlo protested.

‘I have a bit of a crush on him, actually. Phil Thingy,’ Petra said to her plate. ‘So there.’

She looked up. Arlo had reddened a little. It made her grin. He shrugged. They took synchronized sips of their drinks and then laughed and chinked glasses. Petra Flipping Flint, he said. Arlo Sodding Savidge, she said. And they laughed again. Of course she felt nervous – but with excitement rather than unease because actually, he was easy to be with, easy to talk to. She wasn't having to prepare interesting conversation-starters. She wasn't having to formulate the manner, or the words, with which to respond. Compared to those ten stilted months with Rob, this first evening with Arlo was natural. And fun.

They both wanted to ask each other everything, to hear the lot – the questions amassing from the seventeen-year hiatus, the marvelling that had filled their minds since they bumped into each other a month ago. Chit-chat was one thing, but to open their hearts for viewing and lay their souls out for inspection was another. What if I don't like what I hear? What if he-she doesn't like what I say? The food came to their rescue and tasted delicious after all those school dinners or takeaways. Discussing their dishes and sharing forkfuls provided the perfect foil to their awkwardness.

‘Better than chips,’ Arlo said.

‘I do like my chips though,’ Petra said.

‘Well, let's do chips next time, then,’ Arlo said. Immediately aware of his forwardness, his hand shot up, like one of his pupils', and he asked for the bill.

‘OK,’ Petra said slowly, arranging stray grains of rice into a pattern on the table.

‘OK what?’

‘OK to chips – next time.’

‘Oh. Good.’

‘Do you want a coffee – you know, a quick coffee, before you go?’

‘Oh – I've asked for the bill.’

‘I know. I mean – at mine.’

They looked at each other. Petra willing herself to give no glint to her eye; Arlo scouring her face for a glimpse of such a glint.

‘Or tea,’ she said.

‘Coffee would be great,’ said Arlo.

Again, Petra chose the more circuitous way back to the Old Stables for all the same reasons that she'd walked this route earlier. Arlo was pleased, because it took them away from Chapters Deli and the possibility, however slim, of Nigel looking out of the window at precisely that moment. Just because it was lovely walking by Petra's side, his bike clicketting satisfyingly as he pushed it, didn't mean he wanted to be seen just yet.

Under the archway and through to the Old Stables.

‘I never knew this was here,’ said Arlo.

‘Nor did I,’ said Petra. ‘A couple of months ago, I'd never even been this far
north
.’

Milk? Sugar?

Just black, please.

‘Nice place,’ said Arlo. ‘How did you come by it?’

‘It belongs to Charlton Squire.’

‘Who? Sounds straight from the pages of a Brontë novel.’

‘Hardly. He was named after Bobby and Jack. He's a famous jeweller who sometimes I work for and he has a gallery where I sell some of my pieces. He owns this place. He's from around here.’

Arlo thought for a split second. Well, it had to be asked. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

‘He's gay,’ Petra said, pleased to have been asked. Now ask me if I have a boyfriend, then I can say no.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’

As she sipped coffee, she begged herself to enquire if he had a girlfriend but she dreaded an affirmative answer and left the question unasked.

‘Do you want to see the studio?’ Petra suggested because there's only so much gazing into coffee cups that two people can do. She led Arlo through the dark garden.

‘Is this yours?’ Arlo asked, putting down his mug and picking up some copper Petra had been working on.

‘Yes, it's a rough. I plan to do it in white gold when I can afford the material.’

‘It's beautiful.’ Arlo looked at it intently, turning it this way and that. ‘I remember watching you with your pots – great thunking things they were, and you so tiny.’

Petra's turn to redden. She sipped loudly at her coffee, now gaggingly cold.

As they stood there, the workbench still between them like some benign chaperone, the time gap seeming to diminish with every new moment, a natural ease increasing, they shared a glance. They liked what they saw and what they saw was transmuted into a feeling. The comfort of strangers who somehow know each other so well. In a glance, so much could be said.

‘Will our past be enough?’ Petra whispered, her eyes drawn to his.

‘I think it's a really good foundation,’ Arlo whispered back, dismissing the negativity he'd felt last night as a senseless byproduct of insomnia.

Slowly, she reached out to him; her arm, her hand, her fingers – like a swan unfurling its neck. They touched fingertips before interlocking their hands. The contact, the affection; a connection that made communication easy.

‘I wonder why we never—’ Arlo stopped.

‘I've been wondering about that,’ Petra said.

‘I suppose logistics played its part,’ Arlo mused. ‘I traipsed in to school from Potters Bar – did you know that?’

Petra cast her mind back. Reluctantly, she had to shake her head. However much she felt she knew about Arlo, or remembered from seventeen years ago, she had to acknowledge there was much she might have forgotten or not known about at all.

‘Maybe that's why – you know – you and me, we never.’ He paused and shrugged. Petra nodded, felt bolstered again. ‘But there again, do you remember how people
not
in the same school year seemed either much younger or way older?’ Arlo smiled wistfully. ‘And it's different nowadays – schoolkids can flirt by email and text. They have their own phones for privacy and independence. They're much more savvy than we ever were. Ours was a time of “Mum? Can I use the phone?” and having to sit on the hall stairs with our hand cupped over the receiver. Perhaps if I'd lived nearer to you, we'd have bumped into each other out of school time – it would have been easier to have arranged to meet.’

‘I met you at perhaps the loneliest time in my life,’ Petra said, hoping she was reminding him, rather than imparting new information. ‘My parents had split up. My dad had moved away, remarried. My mum and I moved and moved again.’

‘I think I remember you telling me,’ Arlo said slowly. He thought for a moment. ‘I do remember that someone died. I remember that day. You, sitting on the iron fire escape at my school, sobbing – clunks of unworked clay in your lap. I had my guitar and I played to your heaving shoulders for a while. “Among the Flowers”, of course. But I distinctly remember playing “Cat's in the Cradle”. Acoustically, it's such a perfect melody, but actually, it's an incredibly sad song – daft bastard me for choosing it. I had played for you quite often but I just couldn't lure you around that time. So I slung my guitar behind my back and I came up to you and I put my arm around your little shoulders. Do you remember? And I kissed the top of your head.’

Reaching across the workbench again, Arlo gave Petra's hand a squeeze. ‘I kissed the top of your head. Do you remember?’ He took the palm of his hand to her cheek and she laid her face into his touch. ‘It was the only time I ever kissed you,’ he said.

* * *

If Miss Lorimar ever came into a lesson and spoke privately to the teacher, the girls knew something of magnitude had befallen one of them. On Wednesday 12 May of Petra's O levels year, Miss Lorimar came in halfway through the second part of Petra's double English lesson. Twenty minutes before lunch-break. Mrs Balcombe, the English teacher and Petra's favourite, nodded at the headmistress and tried desperately hard not to focus her one swift glance at anyone particular in her class. But, for a crucial split second, Petra could feel Mrs Balcombe's eyes hone in on her.

‘Petra,’ Miss Lorimar said, omitting her surname for increased tenderness, ‘will you come with me, please?’

But I'm meant to be visiting Mrs McNeil at lunch-time, Petra thought as she followed her headmistress along corridors and down stairs. I bought her a triple pack of Walnut Whips. I hate to be late.

‘Sit down, dear,’ Miss Lorimar said and instead of taking her own place in the grand swivel chair behind her large leather-topped desk, she sat in one of the matching blue leatherette chairs in front of it and motioned for Petra to sit at the other. These chairs were low and placed in the lie of the headmistress's desk; they inspired awe in parents who sat in them and a degree of terror in girls ever summoned here. That day, though, with Miss Lorimar in one and Petra in the other, it all felt rather genial.

Petra wondered if she was about to be congratulated. Perhaps she'd won something – she'd sent a poem in to the
Guardian
and the same one to the
Hampstead & Highgate Express.
More likely, it was something to do with her parents. Again. She waited, a little sullenly.

‘Petra.’ Miss Lorimar's voice carried no indication of a prize. ‘I have some very sad news. Very very sad news.’

As Miss Lorimar paused, Petra tried to guess but her heartbeat was a distraction. Guess. Guess. What. Who.