The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (10 page)

It was Sunday afternoon. Paul had cooked a traditional
roast; melt in the mouth South Devon beef; roast potatoes crispy with sea salt
and his ‘signature’ vegetable dish of crunchy leak and broccoli cheese bake.
Monty had been walked, the second bottle of red opened, the fire lit and
newspapers spread, heaven. Marianne became aware of someone not quite
concentrating on the crossword.

“Okay?” She peered over her glasses.

“Yep.” He did not look away.

“Sure, you hurting?”

“No, I’m fine…well, I am a bit.”

“Painkiller? Need a rub of Ibuprofen?”

He held her gaze, leaving the armchair, hotching stiffly
across the space between them to kneel by her legs, stretched languidly from
sofa to coffee table, glamorously clad in dog-haired jogging bottoms. She put
her magazine down.

“What?” Monty had joined Paul at her feet.

“I need a kiss.”

“Oh, is that all?” She leaned down, ruffled his hair with
her free hand and planted her lips on his frowning forehead.

“No, a real kiss.” He took hold of her arms, turning her so
she fell back onto the sofa, he raised himself off the floor and perched above
her, looking down, smiling but serious. She felt a flutter in her chest,
desire, fear or both? She could not be sure, it was sudden, fleeting. She
scanned his eyes, questioning. He brought his face next to hers. Briefly
rubbing noses, breathing her in and then he licked her lips, a swift darting
tongue, tasting of salt and wine.

“Whoa Tiger,” she said, forcing a laugh.

“God Marianne, you must know how much I want you? How I feel
about you?” he whispered, and then he kissed her, a hard needy kiss, a kiss
that wanted an answer, a kiss demanding response.

“I’m not sure this is right Paul,” she said, but it felt so
good, a gorgeous, proper, grown up kiss. She could not deny she wanted him to
kiss her again. He was so young and lovely and warm and alive. She ignored the
rebuke bubbling at the base of her throat. Throwing caution to the wind, she
moved to lie deeper beneath him and wrapping her arms around his head, pulled
him to her, kissing him back, moistening his dry mouth with her tongue, biting
the edge of his lips gently with hers. He pulled back, looking straight into
her eyes, his passion so fierce, she could feel it. He pushed his hand under
her top, finding the curve of her soft breast beneath the multitude of layers
she always wore; he began to caress her softly and then, leaving her lips, ran
his tongue up and down her throat. She groaned with pleasure.

And then, “Paul, I…” She held him off, “I can’t, I’m not
ready, not sure.” But her body belied her words. There it was again, that
feeling, that rush of heat, lighting her up from inside. The tingling between
her legs made her moan and she stretched beneath him. He moved to lie beside
her and she could feel his hardness pressing through his jeans against her
thigh. Her stomach lurched in pleasure. She pushed against him, sliding beneath
him, pulling him to her. He groaned as he twisted, a pile of newspaper fell
from the sofa onto Monty, who had been dozing gently beneath their fondlings.
He grunted. Paul moaned again, then he screamed. Her eyes flew open.

 “What’s wrong?”

“I’m stuck, I can’t move.”

“Shit, nor can I.”

“Sorry.”

“Hang on, I’ll see if…” She wanted to giggle and weep at the
same time. She squirmed beneath him. He was locked in position, his face white,
a line of perspiration formed along his lips which were turning blue. Fuelled
with horror, she gave an almighty heave and lifted him off her to free herself
and slide to the floor. Paul slumped, face down on the sofa. Marianne retrieved
her top, pulling it on. In a flash she was easing him onto his back. He
squealed and slowly she began to straighten him out, his legs were numb. She
pushed a cushion under his head.

 “Ouch!”

“Don’t be a baby. I’ll go and fetch your pills.”

On her knees beside him, she fed him painkillers with wine,
then brought a warm flannel, drenched in lavender water, and wiped his face.
His colour was returning. She undid his belt and the button of his jeans.
Genitals returned to status quo, she rubbed his legs gently, he wiggled his
naked toes.

“That’s better,” he said quietly, after about ten minutes.

“I don’t know; you scared me half to death.” She could not
decide which bit of the past half hour had been the scariest.

He reached for her hand and closed his eyes.

“I want you so much…” His voice trailed off.

“I know,” she whispered, her throat dry.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, and headed off to clear away the
lunchtime debris.

It was an unusually silent vigil in George’s study during
the early hours of what would become a grey Monday morning. Marianne sat in his
chair, at his desk, running her fingers over the heavy glass dome he used as a
paperweight. She traced the engraving of his initials with her nail.

“You know, I nearly did something very foolish today,” she
told the inanimate object. “I nearly ruined a friendship, carelessly exchanging
something special for something trite. A quick fumble on the sofa, because he
was here and it was offered. Sex with someone I don’t love, not in that way,
sex because I miss George and I’m lonely. So I’ve decided, that’s it, sex is
off the agenda. Because if you aren’t in love with someone, what’s the point
and let’s face it what’s the likelihood of me ever falling in love again? It
just ain’t gonna happen.”

The paperweight remained silent on the subject. She
straightened her shoulders and looked herself in the eye in the glass, before
opening a drawer and dropping the paperweight inside.

They were sitting in the
garden of their favourite wine bar. It was one of those fabulous late autumn
days, the trees had all but shed their leaves and were standing stark against a
streaky sky. A bronze sun hung low, skimming the rooftops and the breeze smelled
gently of decay, mingling with wood smoke from chimneys boasting the first of
the season’s open fires. They had eaten Cumberland sausage and mustard mash
with onion gravy. The week, like the remaining slice of soda bread, had lain
awkwardly between them. He sniffed and cleared his throat. She gazed into her
cider, amber like the day.

“Last Sunday...” He coughed. She continued to stare at her
drink. “I thought I had better explain.”

She touched his hand, rubbing his thumb with her forefinger.

“No need,” she said.

“Oh, but I think there is.” His voice was strained, he
pronounced each word carefully.

“Paul…”

“No really. I don’t wish to appear rude or pushy or
anything.”

“Why are you speaking like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like weird.”

“I’m not.” He blushed slightly. “It’s just that I think we
should make a go of it. I think we should be a couple….that’s what I think.”

She flipped a beer mat.

“You must know how I feel about you,” he continued.

“Paul stop, right now.”

“Why not? Am I so repulsive?”

“Silly.” She went to ruffle his hair.

“Don’t.”

“Paul, you’re my friend. Probably my best friend.”

He took a swig of his drink, putting the glass down heavily.

“But that’s a great basis for a relationship. I know all
about you, all about George, your childhood, your parents, your love of Ireland
and the island where you spent every summer. I know all about everything.”

Marianne sighed. “No you don’t Paul.”

“What don’t I know?”

“Lots. Anyway, I am not ready for another relationship,
maybe never.”

“I can wait.”

It was Marianne’s turn to take an angry swig of her drink.
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. He pushed his hand through
his hair. Whenever relationships were discussed, usually by Sharon who was
always contemplating marriage and ‘happy ever after’ with her latest beau, Paul
was firm, he wanted a wife and the standard 2.4 kids. Despite an appalling
track record of one-night stands and a few dates with colleagues that went no
further. She looked up from her glass, he was staring at her, his brow furrowed,
pleading. Something unseen punched her in the stomach.

“You’re young, you’ll want to marry, have a family. You’d
make a great father and I can’t give you that, you need to find someone who
can.”

“No!” He grasped her hand on the table. “I want it with you.
The age difference is irrelevant, lots of women have careers and then have
children these days.”

She gave him a watery smile.

“We could work something out, there are lots of options.” He
was momentarily hopeful.

“No Paul, not for me there aren’t. I couldn’t go there. Not
now. I’m sorry.”

She stood up sharply, but Paul was too far in to back down
now.

“If you don’t want to have children, we could always adopt.”

She dragged her bag onto her shoulder wearily, taking up
Monty’s lead.

“Paul, I was adopted. My parents were mad about each other,
devoted, they couldn’t have children so they adopted me, they thought I would
make them complete. I didn’t. They were already complete.” She looked straight
through him and turned to go. He stood up to leave with her.

“Stay and finish your drink Paul. I don’t want to be with
anyone at the moment,” she said evenly.

Paul was not ready to give
up on Marianne. The conversation in the beer garden had revealed a side to her
he had not seen before, a side that was vulnerable, crying out to be loved,
nurtured and cared for. The side that George had no doubt seen, and had been
determined to nourish and protect, in whatever way he could. Paul did not want
a partner from among his peers, silly girls who seemed obsessed with shoes and
cupcakes and spraying their skin varying shades of tangerine. Marianne was the
woman for him.

He had been in love with her since he had first laid eyes on
her, he could see her now, trademark spectacles perched on her nose, files
piled in her arms, late for his first editorial meeting. He had watched her sit
deferentially at the back of the room making notes, listening intently, nodding
as ideas were discussed. He had been fascinated, as this slight little thing,
with rabid chestnut hair had pulled her legs underneath her, like a pixie. Jack
had turned to her.

“Marianne?”

She began, reeling off outline articles, features; ideas for
photographs and graphics; reader responses and competitions. Each proposal
cleverly ensuring that the editorial ethos of the publication ran parallel with
commercial viability. Other contributions appeared ill-thought-out, amateur by
comparison.

Jack had looked up from his notes.

“Right, we’ll go with this, this and this.” He had scratched
three of Marianne’s ideas on the white board, allocating tasks to the assembled
scribes, photographers and designers. Deadlines agreed, they dispersed. Paul
leapt from his chair and in a couple of strides was beside her.

“Hi, I’m Paul Osborne, I’m new here.”

“I’m Marianne Coltrane, I’m old here.” She gave him a grin
and a firm handshake.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

“You can buy me a beer.”

It was love at first sip. He was besotted. Paul knew he was
in love with her, he also hoped she was very slightly in love with him. After
all they had been through together, he was sure given just half a chance, he
could tip the balance.

His plan of attack for the
following Sunday had been derailed. Sharon had given birth to a lovely baby
girl since he was last at his desk and, in true Sharon style, had invited the
world and his wife to the christening, including the three suspected fathers of
the child, all very Mamma Mia. Sharon came from a large East End family, so the
baby had to have a proper knees-up of a do. The christening had been a huge
success and everyone had staggered home, bursting with cake and booze and
humming
Knees Up Mother Brown
.

Marianne, having drunk a lot of champagne, made the stairs
with surprising agility and removing her funky tweed suit, what remained of her
makeup and her underwear, quickly disappeared beneath the enticing folds of her
duvet. She closed an eye, which sent her giddy, so decided to read a couple of
pages of her book, hoping that concentrating the mind might stop the room from
spinning.

Paul had been more circumspect and, having paid the taxi
driver, went into the kitchen to let Monty out and pour a nightcap for himself
and his slightly intoxicated landlady. Her bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it
open and stood in silhouette, the landing light behind him in the doorway. She
looked up from her book. He was not in the room, yet filled it, every inch the
Viking, his hair like a wild halo, his eyes intense under lowered lids. The air
hung heavy between them. He held a glass in each hand.

“A nightcap?”

Marianne could feel her heart start to pound.

“Lovely.” She put the book down.

He walked slowly towards her, placing the glass with a chink
on the bedside table.

“Thank you,” she whispered, holding his gaze, unable to tear
her eyes away. He looked brooding and determined. She shivered, despite the
warmth of the room.

“Anything else required?” he asked. She could see he was
aroused and felt her body responding, “Anything at all?”

She sat up, pulling the duvet around her nakedness.

“No thank you. That’s lovely…”

He threw her a look that made her skin tingle and walked
back to the doorway. He turned to face her.

“Are you absolutely sure?” He dropped each word carefully,
leaving space between them.

Marianne’s head was really spinning now, she could feel a
rash of emotion burning across her chest. She closed the book, placed it on the
table and, counting to ten, in one movement flung the quilt back, slid out of
bed taking three bold strides to where he stood. His eyes were all over her,
taking in the still red-raw gashes on her shoulders, her full breasts, the
white scar across her belly. His hand was on the door handle. She took a deep
breath, she could smell him, heat and sex. She placed her hand on his, and then
determinedly removed it finger by finger, to push him gently out onto the
landing, closing the door quietly and firmly between them.