Pillow Talk (21 page)

‘Lillian McNeil passed away last night, Petra. I'm so sorry. I know how much you meant to each other.’

Petra sat in shock and disbelief and as the desolation crept in, she felt her already small world shrink a little more. It was as if a layer had been peeled away. A layer that had been of the finest cashmere, one which had wrapped her in warmth and protection. She felt raw and desperately cold. She was shivering. ‘Mrs McNeil?’

‘Yes, dear. Peacefully. Last night.’

I sleepwalked last night. Mum complained this morning – she has too much on her mind to be picking me up from crumpled heaps on the kitchen floor as well, or so she said.

Suddenly Petra had a feeling, desperate but sincere, that if she kept talking, kept asking questions, different information might transpire.

‘She died last night?’

‘Very peacefully.’

‘Where?’

‘On her way to hospital.’

‘Hospital? She'd never been in hospital. Is there anyone at her flat?’

‘No. I don't think so.’

‘Should I go anyway, do you think? As arranged?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Petra dear,’ and Petra could tell that her headmistress believed it would be a whole lot easier if the child just broke down and cried. ‘I'm afraid that we have to let social services take over now. I know how well you looked after her, but officially she was in their care, you see.’

‘She looked after me too,’ Petra protested, ‘and I know best just how she liked everything to be.’

And then Miss Lorimar put her hand out over Petra's wrist with the same stilted tenderness she'd displayed when talking to Petra of her parents two years before. ‘You'll remember her your whole life.’

‘I don't know what to do.’ Petra had to mouth this because a punch of tears sat in a fist at her throat.

‘Would you like to go home?’ Miss Lorimar had asked but Petra's expression told her sharply that this was the last place she could go to for comfort.

‘I'm going to make you a nice cup of tea and you can drink it here and sit quietly for as long as you like.’

When Miss Lorimar left the room, Petra buried her head in her hands and cried so completely from the depths of her heart that no sound came out at all.

How Petra had loved Wednesdays, especially during the summer term. Double English with Mrs Balcombe, a longer lunch period visiting Mrs McNeil, then pottery class at Milton College all afternoon invariably enlivened by Arlo's company. She'd been working on a tall coil pot for Mrs McNeil. An umbrella stand onto which she'd incised Africanesque motifs, drawing on designs collected from books, from looking around Mrs McNeil's flat, from her own imagination. She'd be calling it an umbrella stand when it was finished, though really it was for Mrs McNeil's sticks. Mrs McNeil loathed her walking sticks, decrying them, A necessity I could damn well do without. Mrs McNeil had taught Petra what a contradiction in terms was.

Miss Lorimar's cup of tea had been comforting to hold though Petra hadn't taken a sip. And now it was well and truly lunch-time because she could hear the stampede along the corridor, slowing right down past Miss Lorimar's office before picking up pace with chatter increasing too. Petra didn't much feel like the company of her contemporaries. Nor did she want Miss Lorimar glancing at her every few minutes. She just wanted to go to Mrs McNeil's. That's what Wednesdays were all about. This one in particular. And she'd take the Walnut Whips. And then she'd finish the umbrella stand. And she'd never ever forget her.

Petra climbed the stairs; her breathing laboured, the air heavy as if an invisible smog of sadness infused it. She reached Mrs McNeil's door, breathless. That sad old door-knob held against the wood by the yellowing web of ancient Sellotape. She stopped for a moment and wondered what to do. Then she thought back to Mrs Balcombe's class from which she'd been called away. The metaphysical poets. Donne's vehemence that death was not such a big deal at all, really.

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not

So Petra knocked for Mrs McNeil. Her usual pattern of raps. And then she flapped the letter-box too. Mistakes can be made. Miracles do happen.

Mrs McNeil! she whispered. Mrs McNeil? It's me. It's Petra. It's just Petra. It's only me.

She looked through the letter-box, catching sight of corners of furniture. All seemed peaceful and ordinary. She posted the Walnut Whips through. Mrs McNeil, she crouched and called. Are you there? But only the faint scent of cigarillos and lavender whispered back at her.

No one here, Petra. No one here at all.

And Petra squatted down onto her heels, tucking herself into the door jamb, and at last she cried. The loss of Mrs McNeil. The loss of their friendship. The loss of Wednesdays being the best day of the week.

But it's only me. It's only Petra. It's only me.

* * *

‘I don't remember you kissing me, though,’ Petra tells Arlo, her eyes damp from recalling the saddest day of her life. ‘I don't really remember pottery at your school that afternoon.’

‘I do,’ says Arlo.

And holding her hand and stroking her cheek is no longer enough for him.

So he leans across the workbench, right across it. And he kisses the top of Petra's head. And Petra thinks, I'll never forget this kiss, this is the kiss that will last.

And Arlo is keeping his mouth there. And Petra is tipping her head back slowly, raising her face. She sees his chin. His lips, parted. His nose. His eyes. I know you, she thinks to herself, I know you off by heart. So she doesn't need to look to see. Arlo isn't a dream, or a fantasy. He appears to be very real. She can feel him. She can close her eyes now – as he himself is doing – and their first shared kiss, a slow and gentle brushing of lips, speaks far more than they can possibly say just now.

And Petra thinks to herself how Mrs McNeil would most certainly approve.

Chapter Thirty-two

What do you do when the kiss you didn't know you'd been waiting so long for, comes to its natural end?

If you are Petra Flint, you assess in an instant that the pause for breath concludes a period you now see as having been Part I.

As you stand and look at each other, you feel flushed and euphoric because it's all being mirrored back at you. They feel as you feel. See, it's written all over their face and their eyes gleam with your reflection. You are right at each other's core. It's overwhelming and it sends a charge through your body like electricity or hot blood. So you cup your hands around each other's heads and pull that lovely face to yours and this time, your tongue tips dart about and the romance, the chasteness of Part I slides sensuously into the desire and instantaneity of Part II. Part I was then. Part II is now.

Part III weds love, lust and friendship, weaves them into a gossamer safety net that enables life to seem easy. Part III is a design for life which flows into forever. How many people are lucky enough to make it to Part III?

*

It was all very well loving the idea of meeting up again after all these years. Of getting together with the person with whom they'd sort of been in love with all that time ago. But actually for the past to make sense of the present and head towards a future, Petra and Arlo had to like each other as they are now. And, on a baser but no less essential level, they also needed to fancy each other rotten. With their second kiss they hurtled into Part II; soon enough too hungry for each other for necking in the workshop with all those sharp instruments and the surprisingly chill air of an early June night and the solid workbench with its scatter of works in progress coming between them.

Petra pulled away and backed up towards the door. Arlo came around the bench and pressed her up against the wall. He sank his mouth into hers, his tongue searching out every answer from every clue her tongue gave him. Their hands were clasped together. Their bodies rocked instinctively against each other, the physical friction enhanced by their clothing adding fervour to their anticipation of what would happen when they took it off. For Petra, sensing Arlo's erection as he pressed against her transformed him from the almost deified figure of her memory into a man beside himself with lust for her right now. A man she wanted to feel inside her, whom she wanted to surround with her desire. She forgot Lucy's advice. She forgot about her manky knickers.

And Arlo dismissed the merits of celibacy and ignored the complication of Miranda and even shelved the terrible legacy of Helen without a second thought. In his arms was Petra. In his mouth too. And his body ached to be closer still, straining to flood her with all he was feeling.

‘Come on,’ she whispered, her lips touching his as she spoke.

She led the way across the small darkened garden, her arm behind her keeping his hand enmeshed with hers. Suddenly he pulled her to a stop, came up behind her, both his hands on her breasts, his mouth working its way along her neck as if he was sucking up the most ambrosial taste from her skin. She turned to him and again they kissed; her hands now emboldened, sweeping their way over his back, his arms, over the satisfying stiffness in his trousers.

‘Come on,’ she whispered again.

But, after the chill of the workshop and the darkness of the garden, the Old Stables was just a little too bright, a little too warm and the route through the kitchen, over the cobbles of the living area to the bedroom, a little too detailed, taking a little too long.

Side by side, their hands touching lightly, Petra and Arlo stood in the doorway to the bedroom observing the bed. She'd stripped it earlier and had forgotten to remake it. It seemed to dominate the room. The mattress an optical swirl of peach damask, a large label prosaically proclaiming the orthopaedic qualities, calico-wrapped pocket springs and 100% lambswool stuffing. A jumble of linen in the corner of the room, like mountain scenery in a school play. Petra's two or three changes of clothes in a scatter on the floor. An empty packet of jelly babies on the bedside table. A paperback novel lying open and face down, its pages furling, its cover a little creased, like a fallen bird or butterfly.

This room was categorically not ready for two people ready to make love.

This room offered a private glimpse of Petra, one which she didn't mind Arlo seeing, and he soaked up the details.

Honesty was the only way to progress. She turned to him. ‘I have to tell you, I am wearing manky pants too.’ She shrugged. ‘As a precaution – not to get carried away.’

He looked at her, looked around the room, absorbed the reasons and began to smile. He nodded, slipped his arm affectionately around her shoulder, kissed her forehead, squeezed her close. ‘But do you own a pair of nice knickers?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ Petra said. ‘Quite a few, actually.’

‘Will you wear them next time – and make the bed up too?’

Petra sparkled as she looked at him. ‘Is that the same “next time” as when we're going out for chips?’

‘The very same,’ said Arlo.

Chapter Thirty-three

Over the next two days, Petra regularly felt relieved not to be a teenager again. It was a given that, after seventeen years apart, Arlo and Petra were entitled to make up for lost time. Now in their thirties, they didn't have to abide by the strict laws of those earlier years of playing hard to get, nor subscribe to rules of when to phone, who was to phone whom and in what tone of voice. In fact, Arlo phoned Petra frequently; in between lessons, before breakfast, last thing at night. They chatted blithely, they weathered awkward silences, they enjoyed a giggle and a tease. Yet the beginning of their relationship was also chaste in much the same way as it would have been had they been teenagers – they hadn't slept together on their first date, clothing had even come between them and Base Two. In addition, they did much of their initial courting via the phone – and during such calls, they bemoaned how bloody school was keeping them apart. Play rehearsals one night (Arlo had written a rousing score to accompany the Sixth Form production of
All Quiet on the Western Front
), evening prep the next, not to mention the inconvenience of Saturday morning school.

Petra used the time apart to her advantage. She felt energized and worked productively; calling Charlton to request more time and more work. There was an Internet office from which she could send jpegs of works in progress and sketches of future projects down to London – for advice and approval from her Studio Three, as well as emails and jpegs to tout for pre-emptive commissions from previous clients or Charlton himself. Her semi-precious hair slides were proving a hit. She ordered seed pearls and amethyst, silver and gold plus various essential gubbins from Bellore online.

She knew her new postcode off by heart. She ended any correspondence to Charlton, ‘Are you sure you're happy for me to continue up here?’ and yet she signed all her missives to her Studio Three, ‘Do you miss me?’ As if seeking permission from Charlton to stay while also hoping to reassure herself that if she did stay she wouldn't be forgotten by those she also missed. And miss them she did, though in herself she was no longer lonely.

On the Saturday morning, with an image in her mind of Arlo teaching a class in a rousingly
Dead Poets Society
manner, Petra locked up the workshop, cleaned the Old Stables and procrastinated only momentarily over what to do with the bedroom before putting clean sheets on the bed and adjusting the wooden Venetian blinds so that a gentle light and maximum privacy was afforded without it seeming that she was actively preparing the room for sex. She went to the Deli and bought a selection of Mediterranean dishes and rustic bread. Saturday papers. A pint of milk. She bought what she hoped was a decent wine from the Co-op and treated herself to nice paper napkins from the lovely home-wares shop at the top end of the town. She couldn't resist a cheap and cheerful bunch of tulips.

She thought how, back in Rob days, she'd prepare for those dates in an exhaustingly thorough way – but the motivation had been diametrically opposite. She did things to please Rob and for optimum effect, hoping to entice that man to want her. Now, she had no ulterior motive – Arlo himself was worth it. It was like that kiss. Kissing Arlo like that had made her realize how, with Rob, her kisses had been carefully conducted for cause and effect. She used to kiss Rob hoping to inspire him to think, Wow I have to have her, I'd be mad to leave. Every flick of her tongue, each ounce of pressure from her lips, every coy nip from her teeth had been carefully calibrated for maximum effect. So much so that she rarely had the time to enjoy being kissed herself. Previously, Petra had judged herself by the degree to which she could inspire desire, and had deludedly equated it with love. She had wanted to be a magnet and, in as much as opposites do attract, she'd achieved that with Rob. But the achievement had been empty. What had been the point of pursuing such an opposite?

Arlo, though, wasn't an opposite. And kissing him had been a shared thing, bubbling with mutual desire. They hadn't had to think about what to do, or what to do next. They'd kissed each other like that because they really, really liked each other. Amazing how genuine affection can incite such sizzling lust. Two sides of the same coin and one of such worth. It's all one and the same and it's effortless and intense because it's so uncomplicated.

As Petra waited, she toyed with sending various text messages; south to London, east to Hong Kong. Perhaps even sneaking in a short phone call – the perfect time to catch Lucy. But she sought no advice today. If she did make a call, it would only be to share how excited she felt, how much she was looking forward to the hours ahead. And then she thought that actually she'd quite like to sit still, by herself, and really savour the feeling.

Footsteps crunching their way from the pavement, through the archway and to the front door. A lively rap on the knocker. A beaming smile greeting her which she bounced straight back to him.

‘Chips, milady,’ Arlo said, holding a paper bag aloft, through which the warm heady drench of salt and vinegar steamed out.

We'll have the fancy food for supper then, Petra thought to herself. ‘Yum,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’

So they sat together on the tapestry sofa, their thighs touching, the paper lain over their knees, the chips mounded high, and they tucked in.

‘I like the crunchy ones,’ Petra explained as she helped herself to the little pile Arlo had rejected.

‘I like them blonde,’ Arlo said, picking at the pale soft chips Petra had put to one side. Then he added, ‘We're like Jack Spratt and his wife, you and me.’

‘I hope it's only chips you like blonde,’ Petra said and she twisted a lock of her hair between her salty fingers.

‘I brought a bottle of peroxide with me – I thought we'd do your hair after lunch,’ he said, deadpan, causing Petra to baulk for a millisecond before he nudged her and they laughed and they didn't want any more chips, crunchy or blonde, they just wanted to kiss.

They tumbled into Charlton's sofa, limbs interlocking. Arlo rolled her on top of him and she licked at his lips. Salty. Vinegar. Warm. He filled his nostrils with the scent of her hair which flowed over his face in soft serpentines. He scooped it up, tugged it into a pony-tail, admired the sweep of her neck and took his lips there. Then he looked deeply into her eyes, his own a little glazed.

‘What's the state of your knickers today, Miss Flint?’ he asked.

Petra made much about thinking hard and the longer she thought, the harder she could feel him become. ‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘I do believe they are black.’ She kissed him. ‘And rather minuscule.’ He kissed her back.

‘Right, I see,’ he said in what she perceived to be his teacher's voice. ‘Well, come along then.’

And laughing, they walked easily to the bedroom.

The surge of affection they felt for one another right then was rooted in the long period of time they'd known each other. It had germinated seventeen years ago and had continued to grow each time they chanced to think of one another over the intervening years. It had then burst from bud when they came across each other, wet and bedraggled and a blast from the past at Easter, and since then it had blossomed and grown lush. It was the longevity which had helped pave the way to this Saturday, this walk to the bedroom, this delight at the freshly made bed, this urgency to communicate physically as thoroughly as they could.

This is the woman from the girl I really rather loved when I was seventeen.

This is the man from the boy who serenaded me, who I loved quietly, when I was fifteen.

This is the first time they'll have seen each other naked. Something new. Something hitherto clothed, private. It wouldn't have been right at any other time than now.

They undress each other. Arlo unbuttons Petra's cardigan, eases it away from her shoulders, feels her skin so warm and smooth to his touch. The swell of her modest breasts cupped by a plain black bra. He moves his fingertips over the soft flesh, glides his palms over their perfect fit. More than a handful's a waste. These are ideal. He hooks his little fingers under each bra strap and looks at Petra before he starts to ease them down. Her eyes are wide with expectation and liquid with desire, her lips are moist and parted and he has to stop what he's doing just to kiss her again. And then his gaze drops, he lifts the black straps away from her skin and two perky nipples spring out as if winking at him. And now she's unclasping the bra for him and as she does so her breasts jut forward as the garment falls away. Arlo catches his breath as he hovers his hand and Petra takes his wrist and guides him to her skin. And she gasps as her nipple is caught and squeezed between his fingers and they look at each other again.

He draws her against him. He's anticipated how she'd feel in the flesh, these last couple of nights – fantasized about it, wanked over it – but the reality gloriously transcends all of that. There's something about feeling her body against him, her skin kept one step removed from his by his own clothing. It's fantastic, it's maddening.

Petra feels strangely, pleasantly, vulnerable; semi-naked yet enveloped and enclosed. The things his hands and fingers are doing to her body. The sound of his quickened breathing. She tugs his T-shirt from his jeans, eases it up and as he stretches to take it off she finds her face at his chest and all she wants to do is kiss and stroke and immerse herself in this expanse of his manliness. She kisses and she licks and she sweeps her face millimetres over him so as to feel the soft smattering of chest hair brush like a whisper against her skin. She runs her hands down his back, from his shoulder blades to the waist of his jeans, and he's doing precisely that to her. Running her hand along the bulge and stiffness behind his denim, her sex quivers and she parts her legs a little so that his thigh slips in between and she rocks her hips to increase the pleasure.

They lie on the bed, limbs locked, lips locked, hands free to roam, their groins gyrating.

He crouches over her and her hands travel up over his arms, more muscular than she's imagined, more beautiful. He lifts locks and individual strands of her hair away from her face, strokes her cheeks, her forehead, stoops to kiss her nose, her chin.

‘May I?’ he whispers and he's smiling and he looks really thrilled.

‘You may,’ Petra whispers back. And as he unbuckles her belt and unzips her jeans and hoicks up her hips so he can pull her trousers down, she closes her eyes and sinks into the feeling of being truly made love to. He's left her knickers on and he's kissing her stomach, low low down, where the elastic meets her skin. Lower down now, where the elastic meets her inner thigh and he doesn't need to ask if he may because she's spreading her legs for him to press his mouth against the gusset of her panties and she's wriggling and writhing because she wants him to rip them off. But he doesn't. He's straddling her, undoing his own belt, unbuttoning his jeans and she's lifting herself up, pushing his hands away so she can undress him, reveal him. She's at once shy and yet inquisitive about his cock. It's holding the cotton of his boxers aloft but what will it look like? She runs her fingers up and down its length, can sense it twitch, even leap; it's hot. Gently she pushes him down onto the bed and she places her kisses in one long, slow line from his nose over his lips, his chin, his neck, his chest, his stomach. And she kisses along the waist of his underwear too because she wants him to know how good that felt. Through the gap in his boxers she can see a thatch of dark curls, pheromones wafting through, the smell of sex. She takes his shorts down and his cock springs impressively to attention. His hands are around her upper arms and he's pulled her against him and they're rolling over the bed, kissing and caressing; his cock is pressing at her waist, her stomach, and she's opening her legs but getting only his thigh. Now his fingers. It feels like her sex is kissing his fingers. His fingers aren't enough. Her hand is grasping his cock. Their mouths are glued together and their tongues dance deep.

Their eyes are closed. Their eyes open. Locking into each other's gaze they stop kissing, they stop moving and they just look. They look and look and slowly they move again. And they don't take their eyes off each other when some force in her sex guides his cock smoothly, easily, ecstatically into her. And they don't stop watching each other as they move and move; they see the pleasure they are feeling registered on the other's face. Is this as beautiful for you as it is for me? Yes, it is. They're not fucking urgently, their bodies are fusing and the pace is instinctively luxurious. The momentum is increasing but it's still tantalizingly slow enough for them to acknowledge every flush of pleasure in the glaze of each other's eyes, the reddening of their cheeks, the hastening of their breathing. And it's so blissful and so erotic and Petra knows she's never felt it so good and Arlo knows he's never had a fit so perfect and without drama they're coming, they're coming, seamlessly synchronized, they're coming. There's no shouting or yelping or affected panting; there's actually no need for sound. They're speechless anyway. They don't need to be told. There isn't a word for it. To ride together the vivid crest of physical pleasure, to share such a cerebral high of complete emotion. And the spurts from Arlo subside into a last few tired jolts. And the spasms from Petra ease into a woozy wetness.

They grin at each other, a little triumph, a lot of happiness. He slips out of her, lies beside her, strokes her hair, tucks it behind her ear. Their faces are very close. Blue eyes and brown. Nose tips almost touching. The poetry of the orgasm has ebbed into the sunny ordinariness of the afternoon in hand.