It had been so long since she had thought about anything physical. It was funny how you could just shut your mind to it. She hadn’t really missed sex at all since she’d arrived in Withybrook. Only now she was simmering with desire, revelling in Fitch’s touch, desperate to feel her body against his. His hands were under her skirt, stroking the inside of her leg so gently, snaking its way up her thigh, each caress weakening her resolve. She knew that once he had found his way inside she would be lost; that there would be no way back.
Is this what she really wanted? Even though her body was screaming out for him not to stop, there was a tiny warning bell that told her to stop and think. She was confused enough, about her future, her marriage, her feelings for Ed. And Fitch wasn’t really over Hayley; she felt sure about that. They were both too raw for sex to be a sensible idea . . .
He had reached her knickers. She felt him stroke the soft silk, his thumb running over her and awakening such exquisite sensations. Her longing was overwhelming. For a second she pressed herself against him, letting out a soft moan. It would be so easy, to slither out of her clothes, to give herself to him, to devour every inch of him.
But how would they both feel afterwards?
She grabbed onto the front of his shirt.
‘I can’t!’ she gasped. ‘I can’t do it, Fitch. I’m . . . so sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to . . .’
‘Hey. It’s OK.’ He extricated his hands as soon as he sensed her discomfort.
‘It’s . . . complicated. I’m . . . kind of in a relationship. It’s sort of over but . . . we haven’t quite resolved things yet. I don’t think it would be fair . . . I wouldn’t want to lead you on.’
A little tear slid down her cheek. The feelings Fitch had released had been so intense, and though Charlotte knew it was all too easy to get carried away in the throes of passion, she also knew there was more between herself and Fitch than just animal attraction. But to give in to booze-induced lust would create more trouble than it was worth. They each had enough problems already. They were probably both just feeling in need of a bit of love and attention. This was a rebound skirmish for each of them. No, decided Charlotte. Sleeping with Fitch would really mess things up. He was, after all, her greatest ally. The best friend she had in Withybrook. And she didn’t want tongues wagging or people speculating every time she walked down the street or into the Speckled Trout. They’d both probably be mortified the next day, unable to meet each other’s eye.
Charlotte tried to brush away the tear surreptitiously.
‘You’re crying . . .’ Fitch looked at her in concern.
‘Sorry. I’m just being stupid. It was so . . . nice.’ Nice? What a ridiculous word.
And then more tears escaped. And when he put his arms around her and squeezed her to him, shushing her gently, the floodgates opened. The trauma of the last few months, the uncertainty, the loneliness, all closed in on her. She was so tired of being brave. It would be so wonderful to let Fitch scoop her up, make love to her, to be a part of someone else just for that short time.
As she sobbed, Fitch just held her, rocking her in his arms. He didn’t question her, he just let her cry herself out. Eventually, she managed to stop.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘Probably too much to drink. And bloody Christmas - it always makes me emotional.’
‘Ssh,’ he replied softly. ‘You don’t have to explain.’
She stayed in his arms for a moment. She could feel his heart, slow and steady, beating at half the rate of hers. He was in control. She wasn’t entirely sure that she was. She would only need to feel his touch on her bare skin again and she would capitulate.
‘I think I better go home,’ she sighed, and he let her go. Charlotte hesitated for a moment. If only they could spend the night together and then erase the evidence. She hadn’t realised how much she missed the comfort of another body. She opened her mouth to express what she was feeling.
‘It’s OK,’ said Fitch, gently stroking back her hair. ‘I know . . .’
She walked away from him, afraid she might cry again. She grabbed her coat, fished for her wellingtons then busied herself gathering up the rest of her belongings. She felt terrible, plunged into the abyss of gloom that comes when the party’s over.
‘Shall I walk you back?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she gabbled, edging away from him. The sooner she was out of his reach, the better. If she was near him, she would be able to smell him, feel his warmth, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. She opened his front door, breathed in the crisp, cold night air and stepped out onto the pavement. Behind her the door closed gently, and she set off up the road, not daring to look back.
Catkin let her Chloe frock fall to the floor before sliding into bed without brushing her teeth or taking off her make-up. She felt hideously depressed. On the surface, it had been a glamorous and wonderful day. There had been a whole gang of them at Claridge’s, all refugees whose plans had been thrown awry thanks to the weather. They had drunk themselves stupid, eaten their way through a magnificent lunch, flirting, arguing and competing with each other for attention. They had been the most sparkling table in there, everyone looking at them with envy and awe. Catkin had glittered in their midst, she knew she had. Several people had stopped and asked for her autograph, and she had scrawled happily on their napkins - ‘Merry Christmas love Catkin xxx’.
None of this had gone unnoticed by Martin. She felt happy that he had witnessed the attention she got, and would realise that she had real star potential. But at the end of the evening, he had gone off without saying goodbye, without making a plan, without any hint that they should do business together. And she felt ashamed, because she knew that if he had crooked his finger, had suggested a quiet drink together, or even something more, that she would have been unable to resist.
Now, she felt rock bottom and paranoid.
All her fears came flooding in. Where the hell was she going in her life? And what about her marriage? She and Sebastian were far from being the team they needed to be, and it was going to be their downfall. She felt fear. A great gnawing fear in her stomach that it was all going to go horribly wrong, and that she was going to lose everything. And maybe it was going to be her fault, for wanting too much, for pushing too hard, for being over-ambitious and greedy. She knew her expectations were eating away at the foundations of her marriage. It was never going to be an easy relationship; they were both strong personalities who didn’t like compromise. Yet she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to make it work.
They could have the world, if only she could figure out where they were going wrong. She turned her pillow over for the tenth time and thumped it back into shape. What kind of agony aunt was she, if she couldn’t figure out her own mess?
At four o’clock that morning, Sebastian slunk out of Penny’s cottage and back up the lane to Withybrook Hall. What the hell had he done? He should never have treated Penny like that, like some cheap date who was asking for it. What a selfish, arrogant tosser he was. He was thinking that more and more about himself these days, he realised. He felt unanchored, insecure. He was drifting through life with no idea where he was going, and now he was hurting people en route.
Poor Penny. She’d just wanted him to show her a little bit of love and affection. He knew that, but he had been too afraid to give it to her, because he knew he shouldn’t. But he’d fucked her all the same. Why? Out of spite? Because his wife hadn’t been there when she should have been?
And Catkin. He’d been unfaithful to Catkin, because he had become paranoid about where she was and what she was doing and why, and she was quite possibly guilty of nothing. Even though she still hadn’t called him.
He stood at the top of the drive. Only the thought of the next blank canvas stopped him from going into the house and opening another bottle. Instead, he headed for his studio. As he opened the door and stepped in, the smell of oil and turps hit him and gave him a lift. This was where he should be. He
should be concentrating on his painting. It was only a matter of weeks till his next exhibition. And he had to admit that this was the first time he had ever really cared about what he had done. Without any hesitation, he pulled out the next canvas and set to work while the image of her was still fresh in his mind.
For the next four hours, he pored over his vision of purity and perfection. She was an angel, he decided. An angel that he knew would never be his, because he didn’t deserve her and she certainly didn’t deserve him. But it didn’t stop her from inspiring him. Charlotte was going to save him from himself.
Twelve
In due course, the Christmas Day revellers each had an invitation to Sebastian’s private viewing. A large, thick, stiff white card with bold black writing in a stark font that just bore his name, the name of the gallery, and a date and time.
Charlotte pinned hers to the kitchen wall, next to all her sketches, wallpaper samples and the pictures she had pulled out of magazines. It was definitely time she went back to London. She wanted to show Gussie the photos of everything she had done to the house - obviously she could email them, but she felt the need to see her friend face to face and make sure she was happy with her progress. She could have a look around a couple of showrooms, bring herself up to date. She might even buy some new clothes. She hadn’t bought a single thing since she had been in Withybrook, and she missed the rush of a new purchase. She must be feeling better about herself, she thought, smiling, if she could contemplate retail therapy.
Fitch plonked his on top of the pile of papers that sat on his kitchen table - invoices, quotes, VAT forms - and promptly forgot about it. It was at the weekend, so it was out of the question as he would have the girls. He wouldn’t have dreamed of asking Hayley to have them just this once. She had been even more impossible since they had got back from Dubai. Over-confident, bossy, inconsiderate. And she had brought up the subject of divorce.
‘I think perhaps you were right. We should make things official,’ she’d said, and Fitch’s heart sank. If she had come round to the idea, it must mean things were serious with Kirk. He would have to go and see a solicitor to find out where he stood in terms of custody. He would not, absolutely would not, countenance Jade and Amber living under that bone-head’s roof, but he knew the law didn’t always come down on the father’s side.
Sebastian brought Penny’s invitation round to her in person, and apologised for his atrocious behaviour on Christmas night.
‘Please forgive me,’ he begged. ‘I can only blame the drink. It turns me into a lairy old goat. It was inexcusable.’
Penny blushed scarlet, embarrassed that he could even remember their ungainly coupling.
‘It’s fine,’ she assured him, hoping he’d drop the subject. It was something she had tried to block out of her mind. But he persisted. And what was worse, he picked up her hand and caressed the back of it with his thumb as he spoke. Self-preservation told her to snatch it away, but she loved the feel of his fingers on her.
‘I know there’s a really strong attraction between us,’ he continued, ‘but I don’t want us to have some mucky, clandestine affair. It would be really easy, to slip down here in the week and spend time with you - and don’t think I’m not tempted. But you deserve better than that. And I don’t want to betray Catkin. She’s my wife, and I love her.’
Penny fixed him with a look.
‘You already have betrayed her. Technically.’
Sebastian looked pained.
‘Yes. I know. And I feel terrible about it. I took advantage of you, and I cheated on Catkin. Which makes me weak, spineless, despicable—’
‘Human?’ offered Penny.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve always found it hard to resist temptation. Especially when I’ve had a drink.’
Penny jerked away from him.
‘Right,’ she said, unable to hide the hurt in her voice. ‘So you quite fancy me, and chanced your arm because you’d had a few too many?’
He wrapped her up in his arms.
‘Penny,’ he soothed. ‘Penny, Penny, Penny. I just don’t want you to get hurt. And you would.’
‘What you mean is,’ she said sadly, ‘I’m not worth sacrificing what you’ve got.’
He sighed. ‘Don’t do this to me,’ he pleaded. ‘We might be a bit rocky at the moment, me and Catkin, but we’re going to come through. She’s the one who keeps me going. She’s the one who supports me; keeps me on track. I can’t jack in my marriage.’
‘You’d have a lot to lose, after all,’ Penny pointed out wryly.
‘Don’t be bitter.’ He looked into her eyes imploringly, and she felt herself drawn into his gaze. ‘And don’t think that, given a different set of circumstances . . .’
‘Who says I’d be interested?’ Penny tilted up her chin. If she didn’t fight, she’d cry. ‘It was just a drunken Christmas shag.’
And not a very good one, at that, she wanted to add.
Sebastian looked chastened. ‘We are still mates, aren’t we?’
‘Course,’ replied Penny, because she couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing him again.
‘And you will come to the exhibition?’ he pleaded. ‘It would mean so much to me - to have you there.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He put an arm round her shoulders, and she felt herself go warm at his touch. ‘You’ve been a fantastic friend to me, and I’ve treated you like shit. Come and have a wild time at my expense.’
‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what to wear for a start.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Sebastian crossly. ‘You women. Wear what you normally wear. You always look great.’
Penny rolled her eyes. He had no idea. She couldn’t turn up to the Rhombus Gallery in one of her usual outfits. She’d have to nip over to Exeter, see if one of the boutiques there could come up with something sufficiently trendy.
‘So, I’ll put you down as a yes, then, shall I?’ Sebastian was nothing if not persuasive.
‘OK,’ she laughed, and as he left her kitchen with a backward wave she realised one thing. She hadn’t been cured of him at all. His boyishly charming apology had melted her inside. Catkin didn’t know how lucky she was. More than anything, Penny longed to be the person Sebastian turned to, the person who supported him, the person who spurred him on. She picked up his empty teacup and stroked the rim where his lips had touched it. She suspected he was even more out of reach than ever. She rinsed the cup under the tap hastily, telling herself to get a grip. It wasn’t going to happen, and the sooner she got over it, the sooner she might have a chance of inner peace. Possibly even happiness.
Sebastian, meanwhile, was on a roll, even more so now he had made his peace with Penny. His conscience had been pricking him, but now he felt he had atoned for his thoughtless, selfish crime, and so, with the weight taken off his shoulders, he was able to get back to work with a spring in his step.
He was, for the first time in his life, genuinely happy with the pieces he had produced for his exhibition, because he felt they were pure and from the heart, and because they harked back to his original love of figurative drawing. There was no need to search for any hidden meaning in what he had done. The paintings were purely representative. If they meant something to him personally, then that was his secret. All that mattered was that his creativity had been unleashed, and he had been able to enjoy his work, instead of feeling as if he was working under some hideous sword of Damocles that was forcing him to perform. If he’d thrown out the rule book in the process, then so be it. Maybe his statement would allow other artists to break free from the tyranny of modern art and the apparent need to say something startlingly original if you wanted to succeed. In Sebastian’s view, controversy wasn’t art. He knew that, because he had courted it and peddled it and it was bollocks.
Surely just beauty was enough? He was determined that this exhibition would prove that. As Renoir said, ‘Why shouldn’t art be pretty? There are enough unpleasant things in this world.’
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He was pleased, too, that he and Catkin seemed to have reached a truce. She had come back the minute the snow had melted away, and thrown herself into his arms, clearly distraught she had missed Christmas with him. They’d enjoyed a couple of days of domesticity together before she had to rush back to the studio, going for long walks and eating the casseroles that Stacey had left them, tucked up in front of the fire. He realised they rarely spent time alone with each other, and they both agreed they should do it more often. At weekends, there were always manic preparations for whichever guests were arriving, Catkin tense with pre-match nerves and Sebastian cantankerous because he didn’t feel like socialising. Usually by the time Catkin was due to go back to London, they had got on each other’s nerves so much neither of them could wait for the driver to arrive. But this time, she had clung to him, tears on her lashes, not wanting to leave.
Marriage and Other Games Page 25