by Emlyn Rees
Ellen slid her elbows down the table and rested her head on her hands, as she listened to Ned talk about trips to Paris, Venice and Rome. She stayed silent, too frightened to interrupt unless he stopped. Some instinct told her that it was good for him to be remembering Mary like this.
Besides, it was fascinating. The way Ned described things, she could almost imagine herself seeing those views and experiencing those faraway cities. Enraptured, she listened, amazed that Ned was made up of such romantic memories. Surely if he used to be like this, Ellen thought, then it was still possible that he wasn’t really the cynical person he made himself out to be.
‘Sorry. I’m boring you,’ he said after a while, turning round to face her. His eyes were glistening.
‘No, no. Not at all.’
‘I never usually …’ he went on, as if he’d surprised himself.
‘It sounds like you were very happy,’ Ellen said gently.
Ned nodded. Then he straightened up and, as if locking his memories away, walked back breezily to the table, as if he’d just been talking about some small practical matter, instead of the love of his life. ‘What about you, Ellen?’ he enquired, pouring some more wine into his glass. ‘Are you happy?’
What? Generally?’ Ellen asked, startled by his sudden change of mood.
‘No, I mean, are you happy … with someone?’
It struck Ellen as odd that she could feel so close to Ned and yet he hardly knew anything about her. How had she managed to avoid talking about Jason? ‘I’m with someone, yes,’ she replied, then corrected herself. She’d made it sound so casual. ‘I mean, I have a partner. Jason,’ she added, not knowing how to elaborate further. Despite Ned’s openness about Mary, she now felt awkward about talking about Jason. How could she describe her own relationship? It seemed so shallow and one-dimensional compared with what Ned had had with Mary.
Ned nodded. ‘Jason,’ he said, as if trying out his name. ‘So is it … serious?’
Ellen smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, although sometimes I think it’s as serious as it’s ever going to get.’
‘And that’s not serious enough?’ Ned surmised from her tone.
‘What we’ve got is as serious as Jason can be. Put it that way.’
‘I’m not really following you.’
‘We’ve been together for nearly a decade and we live together. It’s all great on paper, I suppose. But to be honest with you, I’m not Jason’s first love,’ she confessed, surprising herself. She’d never told anyone this secret doubt.
‘Oh?’
‘His work is.’
‘Ah,’ said Ned slowly, nodding understandingly and replacing his glasses.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Ellen said, keen not to portray Jason in too much of a damaging light. ‘Jason is wonderful. I mean, he’s a truly fabulous person …’ Ellen glanced at Ned and knew she couldn’t tell anything but the truth. ‘Except that he’s always somewhere else being fabulous.’
‘Idiot,’ Ned stated and Ellen laughed, suddenly feeling relieved to have shared this with Ned.
‘That’s what I think, too,’ she agreed.
‘No, I mean it,’ Ned said seriously. ‘He is an idiot. I should know. If there’s one thing I regret it was spending too much time on the business and not being with Mary when she needed me. It was a mistake I paid too high a price for. If I had my time again, that’s the one thing I’d do differently. I’d be there no matter what.’
‘Maybe you’ll get a second chance one day … with someone else.’
‘No,’ Ned said decisively. ‘There’s no such thing as second chances. I’m done with all that. Once was enough.’
Ellen was surprised by the severity of his tone. Instinctively, she wanted to challenge him, as she had when they’d argued about romance in the pub on Tuesday. But there was something in his eyes that warned her not to. Whatever shutters had been opened enough for him to talk about Mary were now firmly shut again.
‘Tell me how you’re getting on with the documentary.’ Ned changed the subject abruptly.
Ellen felt guilty about Jason. She felt as if she’d told Ned too little. She hadn’t had a chance to explain all the good things about their relationship and had only told him the bad things. But it was too late. The moment had passed. ‘It’s going well,’ she said. ‘Too well, probably. I could make a whole film about this place. Amanda, the series producer, is on maternity leave and she’s going to kill me when she finds out how much stuff I’ve done, but I’m enjoying it. To be honest, it’s my first real break.’
‘You don’t act like it.’
‘Don’t I?’ Ellen laughed. ‘It’s all bluff. I was scared shitless on my first day.’
‘You look like you’re doing a great job to me. Why don’t you make a feature-length documentary if you’ve got enough material? You know, aim high. You could do it.’
And there it was again, Ellen thought, that look he’d given her when she’d gone up to the Portakabin the day she’d found Clara. The look that challenged her and made her want to tell him everything.
She smiled. ‘I don’t think I can. I mean, I haven’t got enough resources. And it’s hard enough ordering all the material I do have.’
‘Anything I can help with?’ he offered.
‘If you promise not to start shouting at me,’ she teased, ‘you can help me with the voice-over scripts if you like.’
Three hours and nearly another bottle of wine later Ellen had covered the floor with typed sheets showing the running order she had planned and the different sections of voice-over scripts. Ned, it turned out, had been more helpful than she possibly could have imagined. His logical approach had helped her order her thoughts and make more sense of the material than she ever would have been able to on her own. Now, as the fire crackled, she thought how wonderful it was to have someone interested in what she was doing.
She’d completely lost track of time, as she and Ned knelt in front of the fire, gathering up the pages. Her head was fuzzy with wine and they were laughing as Ned reached out and grabbed the last piece of paper to put it in the pile with the others. ‘So that’s it.’
‘No, no,’ said Ellen, taking the paper from Ned’s hand, but he didn’t let go.
She froze. Her hand was on Ned’s. Her skin tingled, as if connected to electricity. Ned stared down at her hand. He didn’t move. Neither of them seemed to be breathing as they knelt next to each other, their thighs almost touching.
Ellen looked at her hand, willing herself to move it from Ned’s. Every sensible instinct told her to break the moment, to apologise, laugh it off … But still she did nothing. Not thinking, not daring to think, Ellen turned to face Ned, her hand still touching his. Their faces were just inches apart.
Nothing happened, but in that moment everything happened. Ned’s face filled her vision. Ellen couldn’t breathe, his dark gaze stripping her naked, as he had last night. She knew then what it meant. That in Ned’s eyes she’d unwittingly found the answer to a question she didn’t dare to ask.
Forgetting everything … everyone … her face moved imperceptibly towards Ned’s…
A split-second before their lips touched Ned pulled away, shattering the moment. ‘I should … er … I should be going,’ he said, falling back away from her, as if he’d been burnt. He got to his feet, scratching behind his ear, to avoid looking at her as he pointed at the door with his other hand.
‘Absolutely. Sure,’ Ellen said, stung. She stumbled to her feet. Her brain was reeling with what had almost happened.
‘I’ll get Clara,’ Ned mumbled.
Ellen nodded and hugged herself, shivering with shock as Ned bounded up the stairs.
She wiped her hand over her mouth, not knowing how to feel. Adrenalin rushed through her. ‘Jesus!’ she muttered in shock, as she paced back and forth on the carpet. What the hell had she been thinking?
A minute later Ned came down the stairs holding Clara in his arms. At the bottom, he started to unwrap the quilt from around
her, but Ellen rushed towards him. ‘No, no, keep it,’ she whispered, leaning over to have one last glimpse of Clara. ‘Don’t wake her up.’ She looked heart-breakingly young asleep in Ned’s arms.
Ned didn’t look at her, taking a step towards the door, almost as if he was going to walk through it. Ellen rushed to open it and he eased past her, careful not to touch her. ‘Well … goodnight,’ he said, stepping on to the cobbles.
Ellen swallowed hard. He still didn’t look at her. ‘Yep. Um … thanks for your help,’ she managed, but Ned didn’t respond. He was already walking away.
Hastily, Ellen closed the door and put her back against it. ‘Shit!’ she whispered, before covering her face with her hands.
Chapter XIII
WHAT A SATURDAY night! Verity closed her eyes. This was it, she thought. Denny Shapland was going to kiss her for the very first time. So what if it was the first date? So what if Denny thought she was an easy conquest? She was conquering him, too, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that what this was about?
Inside the car, she leant forward towards him, her heart pounding in her chest. But Denny had other ideas. He leant forward too and planted the smallest, most tantalising of kisses on the side of her mouth. And that was it.
Her eyes blinked open as she heard him pull away and lift the handle on his door. Her cheeks reddening with dashed hopes, Verity watched as her best date ever walked around the bonnet of the red car, before opening her door and offering her his hand.
On the pavement, Verity smoothed down the wrinkles in her skirt and hooked her bag over her shoulder. As she looked at her feet, questions crashed into her mind. Why didn’t he want to kiss her? Had she said something wrong? Didn’t he fancy her at all?
But a moment later she felt Denny take her hand. As he raised it to his lips, his eyes locked with hers. Verity held her breath as Denny kissed the back of her hand, pressing his lips into her flesh, like a rubber stamp. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he whispered, smiling at her.
Then, with a wink, he threw his car keys up in the air, snatched them back and sauntered round to the driver’s door. In a second he was gone.
Verity stood, rooted to the pavement, her hand on her chest as she watched the car until it was out of sight.
It was perfect, she thought, looking up at the moon. He was perfect. It had been the most wonderful evening of her life. Letting a grin spread over her face, she unleashed the pent-up excitement she’d been feeling for the past few hours, until her whole body was tingling with excitement. Then, clenching up her eyes and her fists, she jogged on the spot victoriously.
‘Are you OK?’
Verity stopped abruptly, mortified that she’d been caught.
She turned to see Ned Spencer walking towards her, carrying what looked like a small child in a bulky pink quilt. Verity had seen Ned up at the Appleforth site the day before yesterday and he often drank at the hotel bar, although she hadn’t seen him there much recently. She liked him, although he seemed like a bit of a loner. He was about the last person she wanted to explain herself to right now, though. Quickly, Verity let her hair fall over her cheeks to hide her embarrassment and, without saying a word, she darted towards the hotel steps.
Inside, in her bedroom, Verity put on Jimmy’s CD. Then, flopping on to her bed, she looked up at the moonlit shadows flickering on the ceiling and replayed the evening in her mind, polishing and editing her memories, so that she’d remember them.
Of course, she’d eaten in lots of restaurants before, especially on holiday in Spain, but she’d only ever been for pub meals and to the Indian restaurant in Shoresby. So when Denny had driven her out of town, along the coast and wordlessly escorted her through the doors of the Oyster, Verity had been completely overwhelmed.
This had been it, she’d thought, as she’d taken in the fairy lights draped among the ornamental fisherman’s nets. This had been her first proper date. Like a proper date should be, like they’d been in the movies.
Even her parents hadn’t been to the famous seafood restaurant and when Verity had thought about the potential bill, she’d wanted to cry. But Denny had made her feel completely at ease, ordering her food for her and making her feel sophisticated, in a way that she’d never felt before.
At first she’d wanted to pinch herself and call Treza to tell her where she was, her mind reeling with how impressed she’d be, since Treza had been trying to get Will to take her there for ages. But instead, she’d taken a few hurried sips of wine and had concentrated on impressing Denny.
The problem had been that everything she’d thought about saying had seemed silly or juvenile. She hadn’t wanted Denny to think she was childish by telling him about school. And her impending piano exam – which was the only other thing she’d been able to think of – had seemed pointless and ridiculous next to the business decisions and responsibilities that Denny faced on a daily basis.
There’d been a tense moment, as Denny had stared at her expectantly. ‘So,’ he’d said, smiling at her. ‘Did I tell you yet how beautiful you look?’
Verity had flushed and wriggled in her seat at Denny’s compliment, glad that she’d got ready at Treza’s house and had let herself be persuaded into wearing the stretch lace top. She’d protested at the time that it was too revealing, but Treza had insisted, saying that if she was saving Verity from Cheryl’s scrutiny by letting Denny pick up Verity from her house, then the least Verity could do to make up for her friend’s generosity was to obey a few fashion rules.
And there, in the restaurant, Verity had been grateful. Even though she’d also found herself wondering that if Denny ate in swanky restaurants all the time, then who else had he brought here to keep him company?
‘Do you come here often?’ Even Verity had grimaced at her corny line. She’d taken a slug of wine, trying to cover her embarrassment, but Denny had laughed.
‘No. Not often,’ he’d said, eyeing her cheekily through the tall candlesticks.
‘Sorry,’ she’d blustered. ‘I didn’t mean … It’s just that there’s so much I want to know.’
‘Like what?’
‘Everything, I guess.’
After that, conversation hadn’t been a problem. She’d only had to ask Denny a question and he’d been happy to talk. As she’d listened to him telling her about his flat and the shop and his various surfing accolades, she’d almost lost track of what he’d been saying, engrossed as she’d been in memorising him: the way his eyebrows stopped in neat wedges, his long curling eyelashes and the small beauty spot just under his left eye. She’d hardly said a word, but by the time she’d left the restaurant at ten o’clock, she’d felt as if Denny Shapland had seen into her soul.
On the way back, everything had seemed magical. Above them, the full moon had cast an indigo light on the fields and spilt a sheen of glitter over the sea beyond. Ahead of them the trees had cast criss-crossed shadows over the silvery tarmac of the empty road. As Denny had driven fast along it, Verity had watched his face flicker like that of a hero in an old black-and-white movie.
Then, just to complete the moment of perfection, Denny had flicked a button on the CD and Verity had immediately recognised the introduction to Lauretta’s aria ‘O mio babbino caro’, which she had performed in last year’s sixth form review.
‘Puccini.’ Denny had sighed. ‘I love it.’
‘I’ve sung this,’ Verity had gushed, looking between the sound system’s flickering graphic equaliser and Denny. She had been astonished that Denny had similar taste to hers. She’d never met anyone who loved Puccini before. ‘It’s my favourite,’ she had said with a happy sigh.
‘No shit!’ Denny had sounded impressed as he turned up the volume.
Now, Verity clasped her hands against her chest and rolled across the bed, curling on to her side, wishing she’d said more before he’d dropped her off. She was aching all over with excited confusion. What did it all mean? Did he like her? Did he want to see her again? Was she sophisticated enough? For the first time that she coul
d remember, she didn’t have the upper hand. She didn’t feel like she usually did – like an overprivileged girl, taking compliments from a boy she wasn’t interested in. This time she was in a completely new league. And she was loving every minute of it.
By Monday Verity’s agony had only increased. She hadn’t been able to sleep, eat, or even think. It was as if Denny were a liquid and her brain had absorbed him like a sponge, until it was full.
At lunchtime she came home to do some piano practice. She hated playing in the hotel lounge, apart from in the very early mornings, but the music room at school had been taken and she had no choice. Her exam was in a week, so she closed the large doors into the reception area of the hotel and sat on the piano stool by the bay window. Opening her bag, she took out the familiar Debussy, Beethoven and Brahms music books along with her diary and, picking up her pencil, wrote her thoughts.
It’s love. I’m sure of it. He’s better than I ever could have dreamt.
Verity sucked the end of her pencil and looked down at the words she’d just written. Then she wedged the diary in the music stand in front of her on the piano, before scooping up her hair into a knot at the back of her head and securing it with the pencil. Flipping the music open, she started her practice, her fingers finding the tender cadences of the Beethoven sonata with ease.
Yet as she played the familiar notes, her eyes were drawn from the music to the words she’d written. Somehow they seemed so inadequate compared with how she felt. She’d never been in love before, but she knew already that the word love didn’t cover it. It was so much bigger than that.
She’d had feelings for one or two boys, but she’d been a child then. Denny was different. He was grown up and he was mature, and her feelings were stronger and truer than anything she’d ever felt. All she wanted to do was to skip forward to the day when she could tell Denny that she loved him.
