Authors: Faith Bleasdale
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #Contemporary Fiction
‘Hello, Lottie. She and Daddy have gone to bed, I think.’
‘Have I missed the fireworks?’
‘Yes. But William’s kept some sparklers for you.’
This information was accepted in silence. The button was tugged harder. ‘I didn’t have a story tonight,’ Lottie said.
‘Didn’t you? In that case you’ll have to ask Mummy to tell you two tomorrow,’ Catrin said treacherously. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’
She picked up the small, warm figure and took her back to the guest room.
Lottie got into bed reluctantly and leaning back on her stiff little arms she stared at Catrin. ‘I can’t sleep without a story,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘Oh.’ Catrin sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I could tell you a poem,’ she capitulated. ‘It’s a poem with a story in it.’
‘Is it
Hiawatha
?’
‘Is it
Hiawatha
? Do you know what the time is? Right, this is the poem. “For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the battle was lost. For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost, all for the want of a horseshoe nail.” ’
Lottie continued to look at her expectantly.
‘That’s it,’ Catrin said, getting up and smoothing the creases out of her dress.
‘It was very short.’
‘Yes. It’s enough, though, isn’t it? From losing a nail to losing a kingdom?’
‘It’s silly.’
‘I quite agree. But that’s the olden days for you. Goodnight, Lottie.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Sleep well – and – Happy New Year.’
***
Catrin went back downstairs and found William at the dining room table upending the last of the champagne into a glass. A streamer was draped round his neck.
He smiled up at Catrin and passed her the glass. ‘Happy New Year, you,’ he said.
‘Happy New Year.’
‘Come here.’
Catrin smiled and sat on his knee, curling her hand around his neck. She pulled her dark hair away from her face and put her cheek to his, feeling his bristles prickle against her skin. She stroked them with her finger, making them rasp.
William held her finger and kissed the tip of it with his moist mouth and pressed his nose against hers. ‘You know Hugh’s Jean, she said naturists refer to us modest people as textiles,’ he said. ‘Seems to think it’s we who are odd.’
‘I expect she felt a bit over-dressed.’
They grinned at each other. Catrin looked closely into William’s slightly unfocused eyes. His irises were huge and she tried to see herself in them but it was like looking into the black lagoon. She moved her head back and let the flickering candlelight reach them.
‘Your eyes are the colour of wet slate,’ she said softly.
‘Ah, Catrin, it’s the Welsh in you. How many English women would know the colour of a decent piece of slate?’ His hand was on the tiny red buttons at the back of her dress.
Catrin felt his fingers climb down them slowly, each in turn. She felt her red silk dress loosen until it slithered down around her waist. The heat from her body made her perfume drift up in a warm scent and she shivered.
With gentle hands, William held her hair away from her face and began to kiss her. Catrin shut her eyes and felt his mouth move to her temples, eyelids, cheeks, lips; the warm moisture cooling on the places he had left. William’s mouth moved to her neck; he nuzzled the place where the blood throbbed through her artery, his warm breath stroked her skin moments before his lips rested on her throat and moved down to her chest, breasts, thorax, her navel.
He put his hands underneath her bottom and lifted her up to ease off her dress. As she stood in her underwear, one eye on the door, she felt goose-bumps tingle on her skin as her kissed her abdomen, moved his warm mouth to her pubic hair underneath her panties, then to her thighs, and her knees, and down to her ankles, to her toes and their red nails, to the back of her knees, her bottom, the small of her back...He stood behind her and held her tightly, his arms folded across her.
‘Time for bed,’ he said, his warm breath in her ear. Catrin looked at the party poppers, the streamers, the bottles, the glasses, the end of the party.
‘I love you,’ William said, his mouth pressed against her ear.
Catrin twisted her head to look at him, took his warm hand and kissed it, feeling it furl around her face. It smelled vaguely of his woody aftershave. She picked up her dress from the floor and blew out the candles. Their smoke swirled palely in the air.
On their way to bed, dragging their clothes in one hand and holding hands with the other, William lifted up their joined hands and asked her how she’d cut herself.
‘There’s a magpie in the airing cupboard,’ she said, tossing her hair away from her face.
Death in a controlled environment. On their towels. She smiled at his expression and squeezed his hand gently. ‘Just one. For sorrow,’ she said.
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