Of course Lottie must stay with us as long as she wants, she had said to Deirdre Colquhoun. We love Lottie as if she were one of our own. Sometimes, such as when Mrs. Holden saw her lying there, vulnerable and ill on that child’s bed, she genuinely thought she believed it. Lottie was much easier to love when she was vulnerable, when those hedgehog spikes dissolved in sweat and tears. But the smallest, most uncomfortable part of Susan Holden told her that this was not true.
She nudged Henry as the collection plate began heading down the row toward them; with a sigh he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out an unidentified note, placing it on the plate. Susan Holden, her new handbag held prominently in front of her, took it from him and passed it on, satisfied that they had been seen to do the right thing.
“Joe? Hey, Joe.” Celia grabbed Joe’s arm as he headed out the church doors and under the brightening sky, where strong breezes blew the last blustering storm clouds off onto the horizon. The pavements were glazed with rain, and she cursed beneath her breath as an unseen puddle sent a splash of dirty water up her shin.
Joe turned, startled at the physical nature of Celia’s greeting. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and sleeveless pullover, and his hair, more usually scuffed with engine oil, had been slicked down in a suitably reverent manner.
“Oh. Hello, Celia.”
“Seen Lottie?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“She’s not been well, you know.” Celia fell into step beside him, mindful of her mother’s gaze from the gate of the churchyard. It would be nice to get them back together, she had said. Lottie was going to be terribly lonely, after all, with Celia gone.
“Really ill. I mean with fevers and everything. Seeing things coming out of the walls, she was.”
That stopped him. “What’s wrong?” he said, blushing at his own concern.
“Bad virus, Daddy says. Really bad one. I mean, she could have died.”
The color drained from Joe’s face. He stopped and faced her. “Died?”
“Well, I mean she’s on the mend now, but, yes, it was all terribly dramatic. Daddy’s been terribly worried about her. It’s so sad. . . .” Celia let her voice fall theatrically.
Joe paused, waited. “What is?” he said eventually.
“This falling-out. With you. And her crying out and all—” She stopped abruptly, as if she’d said too much.
Joe frowned, blushed. “Crying out what?”
“Oh, nothing, Joe. Forget I said anything.”
“Come on, Celia. What were you going to say?”
“I can’t, Joe. It’s disloyal.”
“How is it disloyal? If we’re both her friends?”
Celia cocked her head to one side, considering. “Okay. But you mustn’t tell her I told you. She’s been calling out your name. I mean, when she was at her worst. There I was, mopping her brow, and she would murmur, ‘Joe . . . oh, Joe . . . ’ And I couldn’t comfort her or anything. Because you and she had fallen out.”
Joe looked at her suspiciously. “She was calling my name?”
“Endlessly. Well, quite often. When she was really ill.”
There was a long silence. “You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t be telling lies or anything, would you?”
Celia’s eyes flashed. She folded her arms, deeply affronted. “About my own sister? Or as good as? Joe Bernard, that’s the meanest thing I ever heard you say! I tell you poor old Lottie’s been crying out for you, and you tell me I must be telling lies. Well. I’m only sorry I said anything at all.”
She turned on her stiletto heel and began to walk briskly away from him.
Now it was Joe’s turn to grab at her arm.
“Celia. Celia. I’m sorry. Please stop.” He was slightly breathless. Blushing again. “I suppose it’s just a bit hard for me to believe. Lottie calling out and all . . . but if she’s really ill, then that’s awful. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He looked genuinely downcast.
“I haven’t told her, you know.” Celia looked levelly at him.
“Told her what?”
“That you’ve been stepping out with Virginia.”
Now Joe really blushed. It crept up from his neck as if he were a pink sponge soaking up water.
“You couldn’t expect it to stay secret for long, could you? She works at our house, after all.”
Joe looked down, kicked at the curbside. “It’s not as if we’re stepping out properly. I mean, we’ve just been to a couple of dances. There’s nothing . . . I mean, it’s not serious or anything.”
Celia said nothing.
“It’s not like Lottie—I mean, if I only thought I had a chance with Lottie . . .” He trailed off, bit his lip, and looked away.
Celia placed a friendly hand on his arm. “Well, Joe, I’ve known her longer than anyone, and all I can say is, she’s a funny one, our Lots. Sometimes she doesn’t entirely know what she wants. But I do know that when she spoke from her heart, when she was genuinely at death’s door, it was you she was calling out for. So. There. It’s up to you what you want to do now.”
Joe was evidently thinking very hard. His breathing had quickened with the effort. “Should I come and see her, do you think?” He looked painfully hopeful.
“Do I? I think she’d love it.”
“When shall I come?”
Celia glanced over at her mother, who was tapping her watch. “Look. No time like the present. Let me run over and tell Mummy that I’ll be a bit late to the hotel, and then I’ll walk you over there. I’d let you go on your own,” she explained, laughing, as she half ran, half skipped toward her mother. “But I don’t think Lottie would appreciate me letting you catch her in her nightdress.”
L
OTTIE’S ARM WAS NEARLY DEAD
. S
HE DIDN’T CARE; SHE
would have let it fall off rather than unwrap him from around her; to move his peaceful, peach-skinned face from its repose; to alter the invisible path of his breath from her own. She gazed at his closed eyes as they rested in a brief sleep, at the faint sheen of sweat drying on his skin, and thought she had never felt as truly rested as she did now. It was as if there were no tensions left to feel; she was butter, melted, sweetened.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, and she tilted her head so that she could place a soft kiss on his forehead. He answered with a murmur, and Lottie felt her heart clench with gratitude. Thank you, she told her deity. Thank you for giving this to me. If I died now, I would only be grateful.
She felt clearheaded now, her fever evaporated as rapidly as her own unfulfilled longing. Or perhaps he has cured me, she wondered. Perhaps I was dying for lack of him. She half laughed, silently. Love has made me fanciful and stupid, she thought. But she was not sorry.
She was not sorry.
She looked up and away from him. Outside, the rain spit meanly on the window, the wind sporadically rattling the windowpanes where Mrs. Holden had forgotten to wedge in pieces of felt. They were governed by the weather here on the coast. It made all the difference to a day, to its mood, to its possibilities; for the holidaymakers it made and broke dreams. Now Lottie gazed at it with indifference. What could matter now? The earth could crack open and volcanic fire spew forth. She wouldn’t care, as long as she could feel his warm limbs around her, as long as she could feel his mouth on her own, the strange, desperate conjoining of their two bodies. Sensations never hinted at by what little Mrs. Holden had told them of married love.
I love you, she told him silently. I will ever love only you. And as the rain fell, her own eyes filled with tears.
He stirred and opened his eyes. For a fraction of a second, they were blank, uncomprehending, and then they wrinkled, became warm with remembrance.
“Hullo.”
“Hullo, you.”
He focused, looked more closely. “Are you crying?”
Lottie shook her head, smiling.
“Come here.”
He pulled her to him and blessed her neck with kisses. She closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the sensation, feeling her heart flicker inside her chest.
“Oh, Lottie . . .”
She shushed him with a finger. Met his eyes, as if she could soak him up with looking. She didn’t want words; she wanted to absorb him into her bones, to take him under her skin.
Sometime later he rested his head in the curve of her neck. They lay there in silence, listening to the distant rolling timpani of the wind and departing thunder.
“It’s raining.”
“It’s been raining for ages.”
“Did I fall asleep?”
“It’s all right. It’s still early.”
He paused. “Sorry.”
“For what?” She ran her hand down the side of his face, and he clenched his jaw so that she could feel it move.
“You were meant to be ill. And I assaulted you.”
She felt herself giggle. “Some assault.”
“You’re all right, though? I mean, I didn’t hurt you or anything.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Are you still ill? You feel cool.”
“I feel fine.” She turned to face him. “Actually, I feel better.”
He grinned. “So that’s what you needed. Nothing to do with viruses at all.”
“Wonderful cure.”
“My blood is singing. Do you think we should tell Dr. Holden?”
Lottie laughed out loud. It came out like a great hiccup, as if it had been waiting, too close to the surface. “Oh, I think Dr. Holden has his own particular version of that cure.”
Guy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Dr. Perfect Husband Holden?”
Lottie nodded.
“Really truly?” Guy looked over at the window. “Gosh. Poor Mrs. H.”
The mention of her name silenced them both. Lottie finally moved her arm, feeling the fractious invasion of pins and needles creep upward. Guy moved his head accommodatingly, and they stared at the ceiling.
“What will we do, Lottie?”
It was the question that had swallowed her up whole. And only he held the answer.
“We can’t go back, can we?” He sought her reassurance.
“I can’t. How could I?”
He raised himself up on an elbow, rubbed at his eyes. His hair stuck up on one side. “No . . . It’s a mess, though.”
Lottie nodded.
“I’ll have to tell her sooner rather than later.”
Lottie felt herself exhale. She had needed to hear it, had needed him to say it unprompted. Then she thought of the implications of what he had said and felt her stomach constrict.
“It’s going to be awful,” she said, shivering suddenly. “Really awful.” She sat up. “I’ll have to leave, too.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s no way I can stay, is there? I don’t think Celia’s exactly going to want me around.”
“No. I suppose not. Where would you go?”
She looked at him. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, you’ll have to come with me. We’ll go back to my parents’.”
“But they’ll hate me.”
“No they won’t. It’ll take a bit of getting used to, and then they’ll love you.”
“I don’t even know where they live. I don’t even know where
you
live. I know so little.”
“We know enough.” He placed his hands around her face and pulled it gently toward him. “Dearest, dearest Lottie. There is absolutely nothing more I need to know about you. Other than you were meant for me. We fit, don’t we? Like gloves.”
She felt the tears come again. Nodded, almost afraid to look at him with the magnitude of what she was feeling.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded again.
“Do you want a handkerchief?”
“Actually, I want a drink. Mrs. Holden made a jug of lemon downstairs. I’ll go and get it.” She slid her feet over onto the floor, reached for her nightdress.
“You stay there. I’ll get it.” He padded around the room, reaching for his clothes. Lottie watched him as he moved, unself-consciously, marveling at the beauty of him, of the way his muscles shifted under his skin.
“Don’t move,” he instructed, smiling. And then, pulling his shirt over his head, he was gone.
Lottie lay there, smelling the sea-salt scent of him on her damp nightdress, listening to the distant sound of the fridge opening downstairs and the clinking of glasses and ice cubes. How many times could you listen to the sound of the one you loved moving around before you became inured to it by familiarity? Before it stopped catching in your throat, lodging briefly in your heart?
She heard the sound of his footfall on the stairs and then a pause as he adjusted himself so that he could push the door open with his hip.
“I’m back,” he said, smiling. “I was just imagining doing this for you in the Caribbean. We squeezed our juice fresh out there. Straight off the—”
And then he froze, as they heard the sound of a key in the door.
They glanced at each other in horror, and then, suddenly galvanized, Guy leaped for his shoes, pulling them onto his feet and stuffing his socks in his pockets. Lottie, stricken, could only pull the covers around her.
“Hello? Lots?”
The sound of the front door closing, of feet coming up the stairs, more than one set.
Guy, flushing, reached for the tray.
“Are you decent?” Celia’s voice, a singsong, was light, mocking.
“Celia?” It came out as a croak.
“I’ve got a visit—” Celia’s smile slid as she opened the door. She paused. Stared, bemused, at the two of them.
“What are you doing in here?”
Oh, God, it was Joe behind her. Lottie could just make out his head as it dipped in embarrassment.
Guy thrust the tray at Celia. “I was just bringing Lottie a drink. You can take over, now you’re here. Never was much good at being nursemaid.”
Celia looked down at the tray. At the two glasses. “I brought Joe,” she said, still unbalanced. “To see Lottie.”
Behind her, Joe coughed into his hand.
“How . . . how lovely,” said Lottie. “But I’m not . . . I really need to freshen up.”
“I’ll go—” said Joe.
“You don’t have to go, Joe,” Lottie called. “I . . . I just need to freshen up a bit.”
“No. Really. I don’t want to be any trouble. I’ll come back when you’re up.”
“Er . . . I’d like that, Joe.”
Celia placed the tray carefully on Lottie’s bedside table. Then she looked sideways at Guy. She smoothed her hair, an unconscious gesture.
“You look very flushed.”
Guy raised a hand to his cheek, as if surprised. He went to speak, then changed his mind and mutely shook his head.