Pillow Talk Part 16

'Are you all right, Pet?'

'Yes. Of course. Just fine.'

And then, on the Wednesday night, Petra had a dream so compelling it kept her glued to her bed and gave her a sleep so deep that when she awoke she lay for a few minutes desperately trying to a.s.sess what was real and what was fantasy and hoping beyond hope that a substantial part of the latter might somehow have made it into the former.

She sat at her bench all morning, drumming her fingers distractedly against the skin while she gazed at nothing in particular in the middle distance. She didn't touch her tools or her sketches and she was immune to the concerned glances being directed her way from her colleagues.

It was Gina who approached her though Eric was soon at her heels, Kitty shoulder to shoulder with him. They were forming an arrowhead, homing in on her, and she looked up, alarmed. It was Gina who laid her arm gently around her shoulders. She didn't say anything but bestowed upon Petra a skilled look of maternal affection and concern which she'd perfected over the years with her own family to elicit honesty and details.

'It's so silly,' Petra started. 'Really stupid. I'm angry with myself for being so stupid. But I can't seem to shake it off.'

'Shake what off?'

'I had a dream. Last night. And the dream has turned into a feeling. This idiotic feeling. I know that the feeling is so far-fetched it's almost laughable. And that's what's making me more miserable. I know it, but I can't help feeling it.'

'Feeling what?'

Petra opened her mouth and then closed it and her change of tack was visible long before she spoke. 'Do you believe in fate?'

'Yes,' Kitty whispered.

'I'd like to,' said Eric, looping his shoulder in front of Gina's.

'Not really,' said Gina.

'Oh,' said Petra.

'Why?' Gina asked.

Petra shrugged. 'It's just so stupid.'

'So you keep saying,' said Eric. 'Talk to me.'

'I dreamt about someone. It was someone I saw when I was in North Yorks.h.i.+re. Someone I once knew,' she said. 'I hadn't seen him for seventeen years and then one rainy day just before Easter, in a tiny sweetshop in the wilds of Yorks.h.i.+re, I b.u.mp into him literally.'

'From city w.a.n.ker to sweetshop owner,' Kitty marvelled. 'Marry this one, Petra.'

'He doesn't own the sweetshop, I don't even know what he does do,' Petra said and she glowered at herself. 'We didn't say much. We didn't say that much, really, seventeen sodding years ago.'

'But you can't stop thinking about him and now you're dreaming about him and you wonder if fate put him your way and whether you should return north and give destiny a helping hand?' Eric's eyes sparkled.

'See how stupid it is?' Petra chided herself while nodding at Eric.

'Yes, it's fate. It's fate dressed as Cupid,' Kitty said. 'I'd say get the first train back there and personally hand Cupid the arrows from his quiver.'

Kitty's Studio Three gawped at the unmitigated romanticism spewing from the dark-burgundy lipsticked mouth of the variously pierced, multi-tattooed black-clad Goth in their midst.

'But Kitty,' said Petra, 'I couldn't tell Cupid in which direction to take aim. I haven't a clue where Arlo is.'

'Arlo?' said Gina.

'It means "manly",' cooed Eric.

'What was said?' Kitty asked her.

'He said he'd find me,' Petra said. 'G.o.d knows how. He doesn't know where I live either. That's what I mean when I say it's all so stupid. And pointless. And if it's stupid and pointless why can't I keep him from my mind?'

'Because it has the makings of a fairy tale,' said Kitty a little sadly, 'and fairy tales don't happen in real life.'

Petra shrugged. 'Exactly,' she said.

Chapter Twenty-four.

Arlo returned to Roseberry Hall. Not even in his wildest dreams had he envisaged Petra running in slow motion down the drive and into his arms, yet in reality it was still a shock to find he had only the grunting Walley Brothers for company. These grizzled old men, the longest-serving members of staff, spoke little and smelt a lot, mooching about the grounds as they did checking fencing, killing rabbits and removing fox dung. They'd grunt if they were feeling cordial, more usually they made a sound closer to a growl. No one liked them. Even the most mischievous boys steered clear. Even Headmaster Pinder privately considered there to be truth in the rumour that the Walley Brothers made personal use of the fox s.h.i.+t they removed, so odoriferous and generally repellent were they. No one was entirely sure of their Christian names but their lack of redeeming features, such as personalities in general, saw them only ever referred to as Mr Walley and Mr Walley. However, the playing fields never had a trace of fox dung and the fences were always orderly and as the Walleys' arrival at the school had predated Headmaster Pinder's by at least a decade, their jobs were safe.

Returning to school a good few days before the staff were due to filter back, Arlo swiftly decided Trappist solitude was preferable to any level of contact with the Walley brothers so he took to his folly and wondered whether he was slightly deluded to have come back early at all. He'd forsaken his lovely mum's home-cooking and the opportunity to spend time with a couple of his childhood friends, to belt back north on a whim. Late that night, while he waited in vain for sleep, he started to feel increasingly foolish for returning in such a hurry on what now seemed such a ludicrous premise. He decided he'd allocate himself two days to meander around the environs. If she's here I'll find her, he told himself, and if she isn't, I won't. Two days, and then life must return to how it was.

He window-shopped for the first time in his life; in Guisborough, Yarm and Stokesley, looking not at the merchandise but at the pa.s.sers-by reflected in the windows. He lingered over a latte at Chapter's Deli and soon after, over a pot of tea at the School House cafe, glancing nonchalantly at the clientele while trying to eavesdrop for clues. He went for a haircut and casually asked the stylist had she seen Petra? Petra who? Petra Flint she's probably one of your clients, you know.

He dropped her name into conversation once or twice when he went for an early pint at the Blackwell Ox in Carlton, in a manner which suggested, Petra Flint? You know Petra! but none of the locals seemed to.

In Great Ayton the following day, Arlo procrastinated over precisely when to go into Suggitts so he went for a hike, pacing up Easby Moor, telling himself that he was marvelling at the view rather than scrutinizing it for someone who would barely register on such a vast panorama unless she was standing alongside him. He even looked to his left, to his right. Over his shoulder. But he was most certainly on his own.

'I'm a stupid f.u.c.k,' he chided as he stomped back down to the village.

He bought a chocolate bar from Suggitts and made small talk with the sales a.s.sistant.

'Oh well, I'd better get going. Thanks for this. Take care now. Looks like it's brightening. No, the boys don't come back until Sunday. I'm just catching up on my marking, my lessons making good use of the peace and quiet. Bye now.'

'Goodbye, pet.'

Arlo hovered in the doorway, his mouth full of Mars Bar. He gulped it down and turned back. The proprietor thought he looked as though he was going to choke. He cleared his throat a number of times and patted himself on the chest. He was about to turn away again but stopped himself.

'That girl in the rain. Do you remember? Just before Easter.'

'The la.s.s who paid for your Easter egg?'

'Yes.'

'What of her?'

'I don't know,' he said honestly. 'I don't know. Has she been back?'

'For your money?'

'Or maybe she's just been back here anyway?'

'She's not, I'm afraid. But all the Easter chocolates are reduced now, though they've still got a way on their best-before. But you could leave your money with me.'

'So she will be back then, you think?'

'She was in practically daily. Though I can't say I've seen her since.'

'Since when?'

'Since the rain, pet.'

'Her name is Petra.'

'That's nice.'

'If you see her-'

'-I'll tell her you wish to settle your debt.'

That night, staring at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling because closing his eyes had not brought him closer to sleep, Arlo found it hard not to feel deflated. It was hard to turn a blind eye to the taunt of images of Petra which alternated with memories of Helen in his mind. Arlo had constantly rationalized that what happened all those years ago with Helen had induced the celibacy he'd maintained ever since. He'd flicked off the switch which controlled thoughts of love, that switch which turned on desire; he'd unplugged it from his core, removed the fuse and hurled it away. And hadn't his life been all the more straightforward for it. Much better. Preferable.

Now, suddenly, after one incident with a chocolate rabbit and a furtive w.a.n.k in his childhood bed, there were those unmistakable stirrings in his soul and his body surged again. He wanted to see her, hear her, touch her, taste her. He wanted to feel her hair, test how soft her cheeks were against his lips, see how her body might fit and fold into his; he wanted to scoop up her dizzy hair and gaze at the nape of her neck. And he wanted his body to be felt, he wanted her hand to slip round the back of his neck, her other hand to be laid against his chest; he wanted her lips to reach up to his, he wanted to sense how she'd stand on tiptoes in the process.

But he hadn't found Petra and he didn't know where else to look and he thought himself a stupid f.u.c.k for even trying. Window b.l.o.o.d.y shopping. Pot after pot of sodding tea. Scouring the landscape. Grilling sweetshop owners.

It wasn't going to happen.

So why couldn't he just think, Oh well, what the h.e.l.l, and forget her? Go back to the calm and surety of feeling that he simply didn't give a d.a.m.n when it came to love and l.u.s.t and all that life-consuming panoply.

And why couldn't he just go to b.l.o.o.d.y sleep? Look at the time, for G.o.d's sake.

When a knock at his door followed by a rapping on his windows awoke Arlo the next morning, his first thought was Petra, his second thought was the Walley Brothers. He checked what he was wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt and boxer shorts and a.s.sessed this would do for either. The thought that it might be Miranda with croissants and fresh orange juice hadn't entered his mind.

'Morning, sleepyhead,' Miranda said.

'Miranda?' said Arlo.

'Are you going to invite me in?' she said. 'I come bearing gifts.'

But she was already in. And Arlo really noticed that one of her gifts, alongside the croissants and orange juice, was her comely figure. Today displayed under a tight T-s.h.i.+rt that was just a little too short for the jeans she was wearing. Glimpses of flat toned midriff. It was as if, previously, he'd seen her only in monochrome, behind some sort of haze. Arlo felt suddenly ravenous.

'Is anyone else around?' she asked.

'Just you, me and the Walleys,' Arlo said and she wrinkled her nose with disdain.

'Well, I haven't enough to go around,' she said, 'so it would be rude to invite them in.' She walked through to his kitchenette and started busying herself opening cupboards and drawers though Arlo would have been quite happy to have swigged the juice from the carton and dabbed up any croissant crumbs from his lap. 'How was your Easter?' she asked, though she didn't wait for a reply. 'I'm taking that job. I've come back early to see David Pinder. Though he can't entice me to stay. It's an amazing opportunity a feather in my cap. I'd be mad not to take it. So, this is my last term.' She turned. Two gla.s.ses balancing on two plates. Kitchen roll under her arm. Belly b.u.t.ton peeking out under her T-s.h.i.+rt. Arlo speechless.

'Earth to Arlo,' she laughed. 'Are you awake?'

With one hand on his hip, Arlo ran the palm of the other over his closely cropped hair, down to his neck while he rotated his head gently, side to side, as if stiff from sleeping awkwardly. 'Yeah,' he said, 'I'm awake.'

'Come,' she said, all sparky, 'let's eat.' And she led the way back through to his lounge. And he followed her bottom all the way. And she was turned away from him, bending to place the plates on the coffee table. Now she was straightening to open the carton of juice. Bending again, to lay out the croissants. Black knickers. Arlo could see the tip of a tattoo in the small of her back. No idea of what it was. Whatever it was it was delineated further down, nearer her b.u.m. She bent again, to pour.

'Juice?'

And Arlo was up behind her, the soft flimsy cotton of his boxer shorts providing no modesty for his c.o.c.k grown hard. He pressed against her, her denim against his straining flesh. He slipped his hands down her sides, caressing the undulation of her waist. His hands going around to the front, the buckle of her belt, the soft strip of skin between jeans and top, the s.e.xy little groove of her belly b.u.t.ton. Tight white cotton stretched over fantastic t.i.ts. Nape of her neck. He put his lips there and at that moment she turned to him and his wet lips swept over her jaw, her cheek, to her open mouth where her tongue awaited him, lively and moist.

Her hands were fast and nosy, feeling every inch of him but spending just seconds before moving on; as if quickly confirming items on an order she'd placed long ago. Arlo was more leisurely, he just wanted to enjoy the sensation of the weight and warmth of a female form in his hands again. He was more than happy to linger; one hand squeezing her b.u.t.tock, the other fondling her breast. Then going beyond her jeans to those black knickers, easing his fingers down between elastic and flesh. The crack of her a.r.s.e. He was fit to explode.

She pulled away, looking wild and triumphant. With her tongue caught seductively between her teeth she wriggled from her T-s.h.i.+rt, snapped away her belt and ripped down the zip of her jeans. A simple white bra. Lacy black knickers. The best of both worlds, for Arlo. He took off his T-s.h.i.+rt, his c.o.c.k now gamely protruding through the fly of his boxers. She lay back on his sofa and with one movement he pulled down her jeans and her knickers with them. She grinned lasciviously and spread her legs.

It was like being at a smorgasbord having not eaten for a month. Where do you start? What do you choose as your first taste? Do you stop and a.s.sess all that's on offer, work from left to right, top to bottom? Go for a little c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s for hors d'oeuvres, a full-on f.u.c.k for main course and a blow-job for pudding before an o.r.g.a.s.m with the pet.i.ts fours? Do you think with your d.i.c.k, or dive on in head first? Kneeling over Miranda, Arlo dipped down to suck her nipples, moving his mouth to hers while his fingers delved between her legs to find her s.e.x wet and yielding. Pus.h.i.+ng her legs open with his, he eased his c.o.c.k up deep inside her. The exquisite sensation, which he'd chosen to renounce for so long, was so intense that it registered on his face as pleasure-pain. It was like his first time. It was better than his first time, because he knew what was coming. He bucked and twisted and humped and thrusted and she groaned and panted and told him to f.u.c.k her harder.

'Christ.'

'It's OK I'm on the pill. Come.'

As the s.p.u.n.k pelted out of him, he heard himself cry out. A hollow yell of relief. Five years. In a flurry of spurts, five years of abstinence and deeply buried thirst were quenched. Miranda was licking at his eyelashes to have him open his eyes, but he kept them scrunched shut. It wasn't her face he wanted to see. And he wasn't conjuring Petra's either; he couldn't, not in this situation. He had to keep his eyes tight shut so he could block out the sight of Helen. She was the last woman he'd slept with. When his heartbeat regulated and his breathing evened and his c.o.c.k was limp, he levered himself away from Miranda. He focused on her nose as he smiled at her and then he went to the bathroom, buried his face in a towel and silently wept.

Chapter Twenty-five.

The general consensus was that Petra should return to North Yorks.h.i.+re, for whatever reason and with whatever end result. Lucy had sent text messages hourly from Hong Kong saying: go! Lx

u gone yet? Lx

r u there? Lx