Starting Over (8 page)

‘Treacherous men.’ Tess was looking sleepy, maybe the best of the alcohol had passed, for her. He skipped coffee.

‘This is for me?’

Pink and edgy without alcohol for insulation and in the cold light of a Tuesday, Tess fixed her eyes on the folder open in Ratty’s rimed hands, another picture of Nigel the pig, this time driving a shell of a car, black curls streaming, tattoos above his trotters.

‘If you want it.’ Uncertainty. She’d carried the folded card protecting the inked caricature as she’d walked up
Port Road
and out of the village between the hedges, almost to the next
village
of
Port-le-bain
, before turning back and making for the garage on her way home. How would he receive the little offering?

Awkwardly, feeling that Tess was showing off?

Or reluctantly, wondering if he was going to have to fend off a pass?

It was just a couple of hours’ work. Because Toby hadn’t wanted to part with one of his parade of Nigels, because Ratty had, in offering the innocent pleasure of getting squiffy in a village pub on Sunday afternoon, made Tess feel like any normal person. Shown outrage over Olly and put the whole thing more in perspective. In the
past
.
She wasn’t sure how much she liked him, but she felt grateful.

Hands jammed in pockets, feet shifting as if ready to race off, she watched as Pete and Jos crowded round to look, wrenches and gauges idle in their hands.

‘Toby will be jealous.’ Pete grinned, tossing back perennially flopped-forward hair.

‘I’ve done his, Angel’s framing it.’

Jos, looking from Tess to the picture, kept saying, ‘Cool! Wicked! That’s amazing. Really amazing. Cool.’

Her doubts multiplied at Ratty’s continued silence. ‘You don’t have to keep it. But I was doing Toby’s ... Anyway, you could always give it to Toby. But you asked him for the other drawing ...’ Babble. Making him feel awkward, she was nearly sure, gaze fixed to the cartoon, embarrassed because he didn’t want it and didn’t know what to say? How stupid to take an idle joke with a three-year-old, a casual drink when he had nothing better to do, and make a friendship of it. She put out her hand. Even that felt hot and flustered. ‘I’ll take it to Toby, shall I?’

Bottomless eyes fixed on her. ‘No! I’m going to hang it in here, in the garage.’ Abruptly, he swung on her and pecked her cheek with soft, hot lips. ‘It’s great! Thanks.’

Relief. It was OK. A little gift from one friend to another, nothing to make a big deal over.

Pink satisfaction, relieved smile, eyes unguarded in pleasure. Ratty couldn’t help feeling that she’d made it easy for him. Catriona had bored him, on Sunday evening, with her self-self conversation, not particularly interesting. Tess had more to say in five minutes than Catriona had in an hour and he’d spent the evening wishing he’d explored the situation with Tess.

He lifted his eyebrows as though struck by an idea. ‘It isn’t much of a thank you, but I’ve a pair of tickets to the Spring Ball at Port Manor this weekend. Can you make it?’ Just the right amount of casual spontaneity.

And it nearly worked. A rush of something lit her eyes and her smile was shyly pleased. ‘Angel told me about the ball ... It would be lovely.’

But Jos was frowning. ‘Um, Ratty,’ he dropped in anxiously, ‘you’ve already invited Catriona.’

Ratty stared at Jos, swinging his new picture gently. ‘Christ, how stupid of me. I’ll ring Catriona ...’

‘Oh no!’ Tess thrust the idea away. ‘Really. It doesn’t matter!’ A glance at her watch, a quick farewell, and she was gone.

Ratty studied the caricature, Pete studied Ratty. The garage was silent and familiar. Ramp, fitted cabinets, lifted bonnets. A wheel against the wall where Pete struggled with a seized brake drum. The acrid smell of old oil.

Jos was gazing after Tess, trouble clouding his brow. Suddenly, it cleared. ‘
I
can take Tess, can’t I, Ratty?’ His pleasure at conjuring up a solution was written all over his face.

Ratty sighed. ‘I suppose you can, Jos, yes.’

And off Jos ran, ‘Tess, Tess!’ Out of sight towards Little Lane.

Pete had to clutch the front of an MG, he laughed so hard. ‘
That
didn’t quite go to plan, did it?’

Ratty had never been so disgusted with himself. ‘I was
amateurish
.’

‘Your face! Good old Jos. What next?’

He closed the folder over Nigel and tucked it high up on a shelf. ‘Don’t know. Yet.’ Turned back to a Mark II Jag. Thought about the Jag’s timing, tried to keep his mind on the fact that if it rattled at the top of the engine when revved to 1500rpm, the chain could be adjusted there. If it was the bottom chain, it meant the engine had to come out and he’d need to ring the customer for clearance before he went on.

He took the tagged ignition key down from the row of hooks. How could he have let it go wrong? Why hadn’t he lied that he and Catriona were over? He could easily have made it true. He turned the Jag’s engine over and listened carefully to the rattle.

Tess. There was something graceful about her. As if she ought to walk with out-turned toes, like a dancer. Instead she strode along as if impatient to move through the countryside and see all the pretty colours, hair streaming.

Angel said Tess’s hair was strawberry blonde.

Tess’s hair was strawberry blonde. Her eyes were greener or bluer according to what she wore, but tonight as turquoise as her silk dress, a skimming fabric sheath which bared a shoulder, hem flaring just above her ankles.

Angel had feathered the bottom few inches of her hair, whirled it into a pleat with a thick strand at the front snaking long over her bare left shoulder. Terrific.

‘You
shall
go to the ball, Tesserella! Even if it’s only with Jos.’

It had been quite funny, retreating from the embarrassment of Ratty being so overwhelmed with options that he’d almost invited two partners and Jos so thrilled he could relieve matters.

It would have taken a harder heart than Tess’s to wipe the smile off that bearded face with a refusal. Jos was so sweet. But what on earth did a biker-mechanic wear to a ball?

Black suit, apparently, black embroidered black shirt, black shoelace tie, black tooled cowboy boots, hair smoothed into a shining pigtail and beard newly trimmed close, revealing that he did actually have a jawline. ‘Jos!’ She stared at a Jos bashful under scrutiny on her doorstep. ‘You look ... amazing!’

The ballroom was spectacular with ruby damask curtains and snowy table linen beneath golden chandeliers. Vivid gowns, floating, swirling, set off by the marvellous, uncompromising sobriety of dinner jackets. Ages since Tess had dressed up for a good bash.

And it would have all been so lovely, so bright and friendly, if not for Catriona.

Pete and Angel, Tess and Jos were already at the table when an unusually quiet Ratty escorted in slinking, blonde-streaked Catriona, gorgeous in gunmetal satin. Expression blank, she was introduced to Tess.

‘Pimm’s, I think,’ she husked in Ratty’s direction, folding elegantly into the red plush chair. Her hair hung in a shining fall and she shook it constantly down her back.

‘I hate sitting with my back to the room.’ Catriona gazed at each of those who weren’t.

Pete immediately took Angel, startling in fire engine red, to dance, probably knowing generous Angel would offer to switch. Catriona moved casually to Angel’s seat, swapping drinks and evening purses.

‘Comfortable now?’ Jos looked stupefied by this little selfishness.

‘Fine.’ Catriona gazed past him.

Jos and Tess joined the dancing, abandoning Ratty to deal with the unlovely Catriona. Ratty looked grim and glared after them.

Apart from that, the evening was superb. Dancing with Jos – who, surprisingly, could – with Pete, all kinds of nameless men from other parties, even once with Ratty, although Catriona soon stopped that, declaring the dance a ladies’ excuse me. Dinner was excellent, the speeches funny, although Tess got only half the local references.

Champagne
stood on the table in a glass bucket and, returning to the dance floor under the chandeliers dimmed now in favour of a blaze of candles, Tess floated on bubbles. The band, the laughter, the pretty lights. Wonderful.

Pete collared Ratty at the bar. ‘You’re a bastard.’

‘Well, you knew that.’ Ratty finished emptying vodka into Catriona’s Pimm’s. ‘I’m just helping her sleep.’

‘Have you nobbled Jos, too? He’s almost off his face!’

‘Total coincidence.’ Ratty looked Pete in the eye.

By midnight, he was pouring Catriona and Jos, helpless and liquid from spiked drinks, into a taxi, the driver demanding a fifty-pound bonus to deliver them home. He paid and brushed off his hands, grinning for the first time all night at an amused-disgusted Pete. ‘Now I feel like dancing.’

The great thing, Tess was assured, was to make it through until five in the morning when the Survivors’ Bus would take home everyone still standing.

She couldn’t remember having such a great time since she was a student. So many warm hands leading her onto the dance floor, black dinner-jacketed arms escorting her back. The chatter, the music, the DJ.

Simeon Carlysle kept staring. She blanked him.

He smiled and raised his glass to her. She blanked him again.

He made his way over. When he asked her to dance she snapped, ‘No thanks!’

‘Oh, come on!’ he cajoled. His eyes weren’t on her face.

Ratty’s voice from behind Tess was calm. ‘You’ve forgotten your manners, Simeon.’

Simeon reddened. Shuffled closer to Tess and lowered his voice. ‘Look, if I was a bit out of order that time, y’know, at the bonfire, I apologise. Blame it on the beer, shall we?’

And he laid his hand, heavy and strong and well remembered, on her bare arm.

Tess leapt to her feet. ‘
Don’t
touch
me
!’ People looked around and she didn’t care. ‘Go away, stay away, don’t touch me, and be grateful I haven’t reported you to the police!’

His flurried retreat had been fun.

The ball was all whirling, happy, mindless, laughing
fun
. For ages she’d been so concerned with getting over everything, she’d hardly thought about fun. But
this
was Tess Riddell, dancing, dancing, having fun.

Dawn edged the damask curtains, dinner jackets on chair backs and shoes with impossible heels discarded under tables among fallen napkins. And finally, the music slowed.

Hair long since tumbled down, cheek pressed against the latest in a succession of white shirts, enjoying the feel of warm flesh through fabric, dreamily she watched Pete and Angel smooching, Pete’s face against Angel’s hair, hands cupping her buttocks through the scarlet dress. Angel opened her eyes to look directly at Tess, grinned, raised her brow in a little gesture of surprise.

Tess couldn’t be bothered to wonder what Angel was trying to convey. She let her own eyes close, swayed within encircling arms. Nice. Light-headed. Tired. Tipsy. Nice.

‘Izzat you, Ratty? How come you’re not drunk?’ Was it really Ratty supervising his party’s retrieval of their possessions after the smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfast with Buck’s Fizz, leading them through a sunny, misty morning onto the Survivors’ Bus? Identifying their stop, waving goodbye to Pete and Angel as they wove homeward across the Cross, steering Tess down
Main Road
and into Little Lane, arms linked. Was Ratty being so responsible? Amazing.

His voice seemed surprisingly loud. ‘Key?’

She proffered her open evening purse, swaying, eyelids drooping. She accepted his supporting arm around her.

Through the green door, trying to walk with her head resting on his shoulder, eyes shut, hair streaming across his dinner jacket.

‘Upstairs?’

She nodded, yes.

Breathing the warm, boozy, perfumed scent of her closeness, he took her long, turned-up fingers decorated by chased-gold rings, towing her up the turn of the stairs. Across the landing to the bedroom.

Slit-eyed, she accepted the support of his body, smiled dreamily when he dotted her face with tiny kisses, sighed when he stroked the twin wings of her collar bones with his thumbs. Shuddered when he kissed first the ear lobe with two hoops, then the one with two studs. The most carnal, promising, desirous kiss he’d ever experienced, soft lips, sexy tongue welcoming his, sending a thrill right up his body and down again.

Breaking away to shut the curtains, he left her wavering with champagne and lack of sleep by the bedside.

Spinning at the unmistakable long sound of an unfastening zip, he froze as he watched her fumble with her bra, stumble out of the pool of turquoise silk that had sunk to the carpet and kick off her shoes, sucking in his breath at the movement of lovely bare breasts. Allowing his eyes to speculate on deliciously simple, satin, stark white French knickers.