by Alison Bruce
He had also placed a dozen tiny tea-light candles at varying heights around the room, and set a single thick church candle beside Fiona’s photograph.
His watch read 7.20. Only ten more minutes. Again he experienced that tingle of anticipation, knowing he’d planned the perfect evening for his perfect woman. And now he had to just let it unfold. Savour it for the wonderful memory that it would become.
He did not even consider the possibility that anything would go wrong.
Fiona parked her car outside at two minutes before half-past. Pete turned from the window, letting the curtains fall shut behind him. He smiled contentedly as he began to light the candles dotted around the room. She was always on time, but he knew that, before leaving her car, she would check her hair and make-up, and then glance at his house to check if he had seen her.
The small flame of each tea light wavered before settling to a steady glow. He lit a joss stick, then shook it until the flame died and its exotic aromatic smoke drifted upwards in a wave of sweet musk.
Finally, as Fiona knocked at the door, he lit the church candle and glanced again at her photograph. He was ready.
As he opened the door, he knew that he would find her studying his face, looking for his approval. ‘How are you? You look lovely,’ he began, then stopped and instead cupped her cheek in his hand and drew closer to her. ‘What am I saying, Fiona?’ He drew his breath in gently as he relished her light scent. ‘I’ve been waiting to see you all day. You look wonderful.’
Fiona’s confidence surged back, and she put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you, too. I can’t believe it’s only been a day since I last saw you.’
‘Me neither. I think of you all the time,’ she giggled. ‘It’s so distracting! I didn’t ever think I was the romantic type!’
Pete took her hand and led her into the sitting room. ‘I didn’t think I was the romantic type, either. Look what you’ve made me do.’
Fiona stood at the door, as if actually entering the room would break the spell. She was really here, she told herself; she really was looking at a romantic idyll that had been created just for her, Fiona Robinson.
Pete took her jacket and hung it beside the front door, then ushered her further into the room and closed the hall door, finally sealing them off from any unwanted distractions.
Fiona constantly watched him, and he hoped she longed for him the same way that he ached for her. He placed a hand around her waist and another around her back as he pulled her close and they began to kiss.
He could feel a faint tremble ripple through her as his hold tightened. Perhaps she was excited, or perhaps she was scared and would pull away. Her trepidation excited him. He let himself sink gradually back into one of the armchairs, and she moved with him, still kissing him as she slid into his lap.
The fabric of her dress moved fluidly in his hands and he explored the curves of her body through the soft cotton. His fingers traced the contour of her spine, up and down, until diverting along the line of the rolled edge of her silk camisole. He moved his index and middle fingers steadily across her back and, following the thin strap, over her shoulder and further down towards her nipple.
They stopped kissing then and he paused for a moment. Just long enough to feel her quiver again. He needed to know she wanted him to go further, and to let her wonder whether he would.
And then, with a firmer grasp, he began to tug at her dress. He heard her breath quicken as he caressed the bare skin of her neck and forced her dress aside to reach for her breasts.
Together they tipped on to the carpet. The candlelight danced on the walls and ceiling above them. Fiona’s hesitancy fled and she freed herself from her clothes as quickly as he could release the buttons and catches.
As if intoxicated, Fiona relished her nakedness, and Pete knew that she was now entrusting herself to him totally. This wouldn’t be just simple sex to either of them, but the consummation of a far deeper tie. She lay still and watched him as he undressed.
He watched her too, as her hair, her eyes, in fact everything about her seemed to shine in the half-light. Like an incandescent angel guiding him to a happiness, he thought.
And, when he was ready, he knelt between her legs and, lifting her hips to meet him, he resolutely thrust himself inside her. She gasped but their eyes remained fixed upon each other. Serious. Intent.
There would be other times devoted to pleasure alone. This time was about belonging and bonding.
She would own him and he would own her.
CHAPTER 58
THURSDAY, 30 JUNE 2011
Determined rays of sunlight finally poked through the overcast early-evening sky and gently began to evaporate the day’s rain. The setting sun bathed the room in a warm, golden glow and illuminated the aqua and indigo checked duvet.
Fiona dozed with her cheek nestling into Pete’s chest and her arm wrapped across his stomach, until the warmth of the sunshine stirred her. She wound one leg over both his legs and rolled closer, pressing her damp thighs around him. Her fingers stroked the skin along his left side, feeling his ribs and shoulder blade.
He kissed her hair, enjoying the mingled scents of shampoo and perfume. ‘I love being close to you like this, Fiona,’ he whispered. ‘I never believed being with someone could feel this good.’
‘Almost too good to be true. I don’t want anything to spoil it,’ she purred. ‘And nothing will, I hope.’
He spoke with his face still buried in her soft hair. ‘We’re meant to be together.’ He squeezed her hand and lifted it to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘You’re my perfect woman.’
Fiona tilted her head to look up at him. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘Rubbish,’ he murmured and kissed her fingers again, then held the tips between his teeth and sucked them.
She pushed her fingers in deeper and ran her middle finger along his tongue. ‘Come on, you’ve had a few serious girlfriends, so you must have said something charming to them. What’s your catch-phrase, then?’ She withdrew her wet fingers and traced a path from his mouth into her own, and sucked them clean.
‘You’re feeling randy again, you naughty girl!’ He rolled her on to her back and kissed the soft skin on her neck just below the ear. ‘I’ll tell you something, Fiona. I’ve stuck it out sometimes just hoping it would get half as good as this, but it never did. And now if I think of anyone in my past, it doesn’t even seem real.’
She pulled his face towards hers, slid her tongue between his lips and wrapped her legs around him again, curling them up with her ankles by his hips to make it easier for him.
‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘it’s more like an old video I’ve seen, but not like I was ever really there. You’ve eclipsed them all.’
She pretended to look concerned. ‘Not some old dirty videos, I hope?’ she enquired coyly.
He grabbed her ankles and pushed them back towards her shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t mind making a dirty video with you.’
‘You pervert!’ she gasped.
‘No, I’m not. I just can’t get enough, at the moment.’
‘Well, I’m not depriving you.’ She laughed and they rolled over together. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, with her legs straddling his hips. ‘Which bit do you want to video, then?’
‘I’d like to watch you strip, and then force me to give in to your demands!’ He ran a finger down between her breasts and gave her nipple a quick tweak.
‘Force you?’ she giggled. ‘That’ll be the day; we’re as bad as each other.’
‘God, no, you’re worse. It wasn’t just fingers you wanted to suck, was it?’
‘It still isn’t,’ she said, ‘but I’m not doing that on film. I look bad enough topless in photos.’
‘Oh, well, I s’pose I’ll get over the rejection,’ he joked and nudged her hand towards his erection.
‘Uh-huh,’ she murmured in agreement,
as she began to nuzzle his neck and simultaneously massage his body with her own. She ran the tip of her tongue down his body, then traced circles with it on his hip. She sucked suddenly at the skin, leaving a small round love bite, before licking a thin trail along his groin.
Suddenly his hand shot between her face and his naked flesh. ‘What topless photos?’ he demanded.
She propped herself up on one elbow. ‘When I went on holiday with Rob, he took a couple of topless photos of me.’ She smiled in self-deprecation. ‘I decided then that I didn’t have a future as a lingerie model!’
Pete frowned. ‘But what did he think?’
‘Who cares? But he didn’t let me have them back.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and lowered her lashes at him, keen to restore the previous moment. ‘Anyway, the less said about him the better.’
‘Do you think he’s still got them?’ he pressed her.
‘Pete, forget it. It’s over four years ago.’ She stroked a fingernail along the top of his thigh. ‘Now, where was I?’
Pete pushed her upright, and a sudden tension in his voice sharpened his words. ‘So why tell me that, Fi?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged, uncertain as she felt the stab of his discomfort prick at the back of her neck.
‘Are you trying to make me jealous, or something?’ he accused her.
‘No, of course not,’ she replied, bewildered.
‘Then what? Don’t start playing games with me, Fiona. I’ve had enough of it.’
‘It wasn’t meant to hurt, Pete. I thought …’ Fiona’s voice trembled for a second. ‘I thought we weren’t going to have secrets from each other.’
Pete looked away and shook his head. ‘You’re right, I’m the touchy one. I’m sorry.’
She sat for a moment in the middle of the bed, with her arms folded across her naked breasts, then reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘Let’s just forget it, eh?’ Next she climbed over his legs, back on to her own side of the bed, pulled the duvet over them both and waited for Pete to speak next.
There was silence for a few minutes. She hoped he wouldn’t get dressed before they’d made things up.
As though he sensed what she wanted, he slid on top of her and they made love again. He didn’t speak, or kiss her. He just looked deep into her eyes, and she gazed back into his.
He found it hard to shake Rob from his thoughts, though, and wondered what had made Fiona talk of another man while she was lying in his bed. It was unsettling simply because everybody knew that first love was the hardest to forget.
CHAPTER 59
FRIDAY, 1 JULY 2011
The hard edge of a white morning hung over the little lake. Its grip choked the colours of summer from the trees, leaving the beech and horse chestnuts like faded sentinels huddled around the far bank.
The surface of the lake rippled, but 6 a.m. was still too early and too cold for any substantial activity.
A blackbird tried a burst of song, which died away to be replaced by the hum of a car on the Spine Road.
A maroon taxi cruised from lake to lake, slowing each time it approached a gateway and then spurting forward to reach the next. Marlowe sat directly behind the driver, hunched in the corner with her right hand stroking the armrest. ‘This is definitely the one,’ she assured him.
He swung in through the gateway, before parking alongside the fence.
‘Here’s fine,’ she said.
‘Are you sure? It seems very deserted.’
‘Bird watching,’ she muttered in explanation. Her fingers fumbled with the once familiar catch on her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Fifty-six quid, I’m afraid.’ He watched her through the corner of his rear-view mirror. She pushed her dishevelled hair back from her face as she fiddled with the change.
He heard her tut to herself. She clicked her purse shut and opened another compartment instead. She then reached between the front seats and passed him three twenty-pound notes. ‘That’s fine, thanks,’ she exclaimed, and hurried to open the door.
He glanced at her in his mirror as he drove away. She loitered, playing with her bag and pretending to be busy. But it was none of his business.
Marlowe waited until the taxi had curved away out of sight before she moved. Then, sure she was alone, she turned to face the lake.
Her gaze flickered dimly over the water; she’d expected to feel something. She’d thought her heart would race and her hands would tremble, at the very least. But what do I know? she reasoned.
She leant on the gate. Its wood sweated cold dew, coming alive in the morning air. A shred of blue and white police tape caught her eye.
It crackled and fluttered, in contrast to everything else around it, calling for attention as it writhed from its impaled position on the fence, despite the lack of breeze.
Marlowe reached towards it and clutched it for a moment between her thumb and forefinger. It felt sacred to her, like a marker to take her to the Holy Grail. It was the only sign that this was Kaye’s lake. She let it go, and it hung limply from its tack.
How was it for Kaye, she wondered, and tried to imagine her lying there in the cold, night after night. If it had been me, would I have lasted as long?
She shuddered as though last season’s intense cold had caught up with her. And if Kaye had been me, would it have all gone this far?
It didn’t help to wonder; thinking too much had only driven her mad. Why did she ever think anyone would believe her? Julie did, she reminded herself.
The gate was padlocked; she tugged at it but it stood fast. However, she needed to be on the other side. She moved to the end nearest the hinges and stepped on to the second bar. She swung her leg over the top and, as she straddled it, she noticed that the fence next to it was broken, fractured long ago under some impossible burden, no doubt. She knew there was irony there somewhere.
She dropped to the ground on the other side.
Enough, she told herself. No more Julie or Helen, Stephanie or Kaye, bloody wrists and nightmares. She trudged across to the edge of the dew-damp grass, where it gave way to a gritty slope descending to the water.
Peace had eluded her for far too long, but now it stood, cold and elegant, in front of her.
Just for a moment the sun tried hard to prise its fingers between the layers of early-morning mist. Even its rays felt icy as they retreated.
Marlowe shivered as the cold reached down inside the back of her jacket. She headed towards the water’s edge, with the gravel grinding beneath her walking boots, which left only indistinct scuffmarks.
She faced the lake directly. It spread before her like a pool of mercury, cool and deadly and fascinating. She had hoped it would be like this, deserted and silent.
Marlowe stepped forward and the shallow water lapped at her ankles, spilling inside her boots and seeping up the hem of her jeans. She waded in fully clothed, focusing only on the shingle bank in the distance.
She didn’t flinch as the cold water lapped ever higher against her bare flesh, soaking her knickers as it reached her thighs.
She tipped forward as it oozed over her waistband, and she began to swim a slow breaststroke towards the centre of the lake.
Her fingers soon tingled, and turned as purple as her scars. Her breath furled out from her damson-painted lips, clipping the surface only inches from her aching eyes.
She closed them and kept going.
The lake had always been too wide for her to swim right across. As she neared the middle, her heartbeat slowed and the only sound she could hear was the blood pulsing against her eardrums.
Marlowe felt at one with the water lapping against her face. At one, too, with the world. She trod water until hypothermia embraced her and she slipped into unconsciousness.
The water of Kaye’s lake closed over her and she drifted beneath the surface.
CHAPTER 60
SATURDAY, 2 JULY 2011
There is no fast road from Cambridge to Sheringham, just a ninety-mile ch
ain of battered A-roads that become swamped with tourist traffic during the summer months.
Before the morning rush hour, it is possible to enjoy the spurts along sections of dual carriageway and the inevitable crawl along the smaller winding roads, with little interference from other travellers. Pete Walsh had left at 3.30 and had skirted around the edge of Fakenham by 4.45, snagging nothing more than a single set of lights that made him wait for two minutes at a deserted junction.
He kept to a steady fifty from there to Sheringham, and pulled up eventually at the dead end of the Drift Way, where the assortment of cottages stop and the coast path starts. He checked his watch and it read ten past five. Pete switched off the engine, unclipped his seat-belt and stretched. He felt good for someone who’d missed his night’s sleep. Good as in alert, that is, but not any happier.
He ached: ‘in his heart and in his soul’ sounded too dramatic, but that was how it felt.
He couldn’t put his finger on the cause.
No, that wasn’t true. He just hadn’t been able to admit that whenever he found himself awash with this gnawing emptiness, his thoughts always gravitated back to Marlowe.
He pressed the on button of the radio and tried to think of something else. Anything would do; after all he had vowed to fight it this time. But the DJ had selected a bad choice of love song, and Elvis merely crooned salt into the wounds.
Pete turned the volume up. Here he was, watching the sunrise over Sheringham. Didn’t that mean he’d fought it and lost? Couldn’t he just admit that she’d meant more to him than he’d realized at the time. Perhaps he’d feel better by admitting to everything he missed.
Early morning reminded him of Marlowe: the beauty of the new day. Everything so pale, shrouded in the veil of morning mist, tinted with subtle shades picked out by the early light.
In the distance, grey clouds hung over the hills. He thought of Marlowe then, too, so pretty and bright up close but always hinting at a gathering storm.
