‘What happened to your door?’ Her eyes are fixed on the wooden board that Peter nailed into place: a makeshift covering until the glazier arrives.
‘Ah,’ he says, a slight hesitance to his voice. ‘I think it was local kids. Lauren was home on her own when a large stone was thrown through it. Still,’ he continues, keen to keep the mood light, ‘at least nobody was hurt. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?’
She nods and smiles, her eyes the deepest blue. He could dive right into them, swim straight to her heart if she would let him.
‘Right, come on. I’ll get you a drink then I’ll go and freshen up, try to get rid of the cooking smells that are hanging around me.’
‘Oh, this is so kind. You remembered!’ She takes the glass of wine from him, commenting about how it’s her favourite and how clever of him it is to remember such a thing.
‘Right. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’ He hands her the remote for the sound system, placing it in her palm. ‘Feel free to change it if the music isn’t to your taste. Lauren keeps telling me I have the musical preferences of an eighty-year-old.’
She laughs as he heads upstairs, mildly giddy, ready to embrace whatever lies ahead. Tonight, Sophia will become a dim and distant memory and if it’s only for tonight, then that is enough. Small steps.
She’s standing, leafing through one of the books on the shelves that’s set on the back wall of the room when he goes back into the living room ten minutes later. ‘You’re a fan of the classics?’ In her hand is a copy of Great Expectations.
She smiles, raises it higher, brandishing it close to her face. ‘This particular one is one of my favourites.’
Peter’s stomach tightens, his skin flashes hot. He silently chastises himself for not being more ruthless with Sophia’s belongings prior to Alice arriving. He should have got rid of them long ago and inwardly questions his motives for keeping them. He has his reasons, skewed and irrational that they are. He didn’t keep them for him. He did it for his daughter. His guilt would become an outward, obvious thing if he were to throw them away. Keeping this place like a shrine has alleviated his culpability, helping him to shrug off the heavy shroud of blame that settles on him every single day.
‘Ah, no. It was Sophia who was the classics buff. I’m more action thriller.’ He smiles, trying to deflect from his clumsiness. Perhaps he should have removed them, thrown everything away, but then what would everyone think? It would definitely look as if he was trying to erase Sophia’s memory, the fact she ever lived here. He swallows, telling himself that he kept them out for Lauren – the photographs, the books, the wardrobe that is still filled with Sophia’s clothes – it’s all for Lauren. He is being too hard on himself. It isn’t all to lessen his guilt. ‘If there isn’t a car chase or a shootout in it,’ he says, a dull thud starting up in his neck, ‘then I’m not interested.’
She places it back, seemingly unperturbed by his admission, and picks up a Lee Child paperback. ‘I think I’ve read some of his. More things that we have in common, eh?’
Relief swells in his chest, a large, blossoming thing that is both warm and cooling at the same time. She’s making this easy for him, swerving around his mistakes, purposely ignoring his clumsy faux pas. This woman may well be the best thing that has happened to him in a long time. He considers himself a lucky man. If only it hadn’t taken him so long to notice her. If he had left church and not decided to go for an amble around the graveyard, Alice might not be here today. But she is, and he is grateful for it, for this woman who warms his blood and will freshen his outlook, smoothing out the wrinkles of his undulating life.
It was so peaceful, that day in the graveyard; it felt good to be outside in the silence where the ambience was gentler, its edges softer and less defined. He hadn’t realised that Alice was there. He had spotted her bent over a grave as he made his way down to the bottom of the yard where the large oak tree, gnarled and twisted with age, provided some shade and a view of the hills beyond. The vista helped him to think, to dampen his negative thoughts, keep his demons at bay. It was pure chance that he was there at that time. Their paths could so easily have gone in opposite directions, yet they didn’t. And now here they are, two lost souls, finding their way through this time in their lives, bonded by the death of their spouses.
‘Can I refill your glass?’
She passes it over, her hands small and pale. A thought nudges its way into his brain; those small fingers deftly unfastening his shirt, running down his chest and over his stomach, her nails gently tracing their way lower and lower, his breath coming in short, hot gasps, Alice moaning softly, her lips parted in an act of desire… He snaps himself out of it and heads into the kitchen where he pours them both a large goblet of wine. He’s taken three long slugs by the time he arrives back to where she is sitting, her skirt riding up her leg, exposing an expanse of a slim thigh. He wonders what time Lauren will be arriving back, whether it will be another 2 a.m. show like last week or whether she’ll saunter back in at 10 p.m. prompt, shattering any ideas he has of coaxing Alice upstairs and into his bed.
‘Thank you, Peter.’ She takes the glass and glances around the room. ‘It’s a lovely house you have here. Very tasteful. Really elegant.’
‘I’m afraid not much of it is my doing. And Lauren is superb at cleaning and keeping the place spick and span.’ He glosses over the fact that Sophia decorated this house, turning it into the place it is today. This poor woman must feel as if she is constantly treading in Sophia’s shadow, picking her way through the belongings of a dead woman. The detritus of Sophia Saunders. He should have changed things, nudged his deceased wife out of the way, and yet all the while, he felt sure he was being watched, scrutinised. People judging, ready to pull apart anything he did and point the finger at him. Or maybe that was his conscience speaking, reminding him to be a good, grieving husband, to do all the right things and look suitably bereft. Like attending the grieving sessions. That was definitely the right thing to do. It also helped him rid himself of the feelings that have been biting at him. What is the right length of time to leave before disposing of your dead wife’s belongings and getting on with your life without arousing suspicion? A week? A month? A year?
‘Anyway,’ he adds quickly, keen to change the subject, ‘why don’t we take a seat in the dining room? Everything is almost ready. I hope you like seafood. I took a punt and made us a squid and chorizo salad for starters followed by tuna and lemon pasta.’
‘It sounds perfect. You’re obviously a very talented cook.’ She gives him a sly grin and he almost melts.
They eat and drink and the more alcohol he consumes, the more relaxed and natural he becomes, everything blurred with an alcoholic haze, softened and smudged into a delicate state of tranquillity.
‘Vanilla and chocolate parfait to finish,’ he says as he places Alice’s dish down in front of her, the temptation to lean in and kiss her so strong, it almost roots him to the spot.
‘Chocolate,’ she replies with a sigh. ‘What’s not to like?’
She’s right. It may well be shop bought, saving him a lot of hard work and time, but it tastes as good as it looks, filling that last, tiny hole in their bellies. Insisting that they leave the dishes for him to sort later, they retire to the living room, where Alice slips onto the sofa, kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet under her legs, looking as if she has lived in this house all of her life.
Right on cue, Peter’s phone beeps. He wants to ignore it, fearful of breaking the moment, but glances at it, curiosity getting the better of him. He smiles, glad he went with his instincts. It’s Lauren telling him that she’s staying out, spending the night at Jessie’s house. There is a creeping sensation under his skin as his blood pressure soars, a quickening deep inside his veins that pulses through his body and snakes and coils itself deep in his abdomen.
He refills their glasses and slides in next to Alice on the sofa. ‘That was Lauren. She’s spending the night at her friend’s house.’ He keeps his tone light and casual as if they’re discussing what to watch on TV. Just idle chit-chat, that’s all it is. Nothing more. He inhales, is able to smell Alice’s floral perfume, to feel the heat of her body close to his as he edges nearer.
It happens rapidly, naturally, quickly and without preamble or planning, their lips meeting, their bodies practically suctioned together with desire. No disruptions, no teenagers stumbling in and interrupting their time together. Just Peter and Alice. Alice and Peter. Together as one.
Later, they lie in bed, him playing with her hair, wondering if she is as enamoured with him as he is with her.
‘I should go.’ Her voice is like warm honey, coating his skin, healing him, her medicinal qualities reaching deep inside his chest and turning him back into the person he used to be. The man he once was before everything fractured and fell apart around him. Before Sophia broke him and he in turn, broke her.
‘Don’t go,’ he whispers as he kisses her neck, his mouth moving over her throat and down towards her collarbone. Lower and lower he travels, unable to stop himself.
‘I have to, I’m afraid. I’m at work in the morning.’ She is up and getting dressed before he has another chance to protest.
‘I’ll book you a cab.’ He throws on some clothes and grabs at his phone, disappointment rippling through him.
‘Thank you. I’ve had a lovely evening, I really have, and I’m sorry to be leaving but I’ve got an early start in the morning. I wish I didn’t but I do.’ She slips into her shoes and heads downstairs, flashing him a conciliatory smile that helps to lessen his fears that he has scared her off and she won’t be back. ‘Maybe we can see each other again soon?’
He is like an over-excited schoolboy, his head buzzing with eagerness, a thousand bees in there flying about in an enthusiastic frenzy. He has to stop this, to calm down and act rationally, not let his heart take over his head. He’s a grown man, not a teenager with a crush. A man with a past. Heavy baggage. He needs to be careful, controlled.
The taxi arrives in a matter of minutes. He stands on the doorstep, a longing to see her again already growing within him, twisting its way under his flesh, heating up his blood. Her face, the soft skin – it’s all he can think about, filling his mind, arousing him in ways he didn’t think possible.
‘You really need to get that fixed,’ she says, pointing up at the rough piece of timber covering the broken glass panel. ‘Anybody could break in through that bit of wood.’
They hug and a little bit of him leaves with her. A void in him until the next time they meet. He waits until the car disappears around the corner and then closes the door, his skin still burning with desire, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.
Alice, Alice, Alice. Where have you been for the last year of my life?
He climbs into bed and lies back, the weight that has been pressing down on him for what feels like a hundred years lifting. Life is brighter, the path easier to navigate, all thoughts of Sophia and the night she died, all those dark memories pushed to the back of his mind. He sleeps soundly, dreaming only of Alice.
