Slightly Foxed (21 page)

The blush I'd seen earlier crept up his cheeks again. "Yeah,

well." He cleared his throat and took a sudden interest in

twisting his rings.

"I can't understand why you don't have a girlfriend. Surely

they're queueing up for a gorgeous boy like you?"

He whipped around and faced me, the blush gone and his

skin pale. "
Fuck
, Alys." Then he clenched his fists and

breathed hard, obviously controlling himself. "I didn't say I

didn't have a girlfriend, did I?"

"You told me that there was someone, but it was difficult. I

assumed—I thought it was all over."

"It's not over." Piers was tensed up, I could see the

muscles in his jaw locking his anger into place. "It's only just

starting."

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"Who is she?" There was the tiniest burn of envy in my

chest. "Anyone I know?"

Piers turned away and looked out of the window. "Her

name's Sarah. You wouldn't know her, she's at college in

York."

"Oh." All the closeness and empathy we seemed to have

been sharing was gone. It had drained away as soon as he'd

mentioned her name. "Where's she from?"

"From? Manchester."

"Has your mother met her yet?" I couldn't stop myself. It

was a curious feeling. Whilst I had never kidded myself to the

extent of believing Piers found me attractive, or that I could

see him as anything other than Florrie's stepbrother, some

sub-atomic-level bit of me had been seduced by our intimacy.

Hearing that all the time he'd been hugging me in a deserted

summerhouse, he'd had this Sarah on the backburner made

me feel profoundly guilty about opening up to him.

"I'm taking her down there Wednesday. Look, we're nearly

at my car. I'll catch you. Sometime, yeah?" He pressed what

looked like a lot of money into the cab driver's hand and

leaped out of the door almost before we'd pulled to a stop. I

frowned. Even with my well-known geographical dyslexia, I

could tell that we were still a couple of miles from where Piers

had parked last night. I must have upset him more than I'd

realised. It had been a casual enquiry. Why had he suddenly

got so touchy?

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I remembered Grainger the second I opened the front door

and went to call him, tell him I was home. I choked off

halfway through his name. Somehow the flat felt wrong

without his dear scowling tabby face frowning up at me from

a cushion. I rang the vet, only to be told that Grainger was

resting comfortably and doing as well as could be expected,

which didn't help.

For a second I wished that Piers had come back with me to

jolly me out of my despondency, but then I remembered his

strange mood in the taxi and decided I'd rather be on my

own. I'd had enough tantrums with Florrie. Anyway I really

needed a shower.

The knock at the door made me jump, and the sight of

Leo, carrying a bunch of red roses caused a near breakdown

in all my faculties.

"Leo! You! It's—and all this way. Why are you—? And what

about—?"

"Can I come in?" Leo looked me up and down.

I looked down too, at my unrestrained chest, the tiny skirt

and the deeply unflattering sandals. "Err, I was about to do

some decorating," I improvised. "Come through. How did you

find me?"

"I have my methods." Leo smiled, and I was once again

devastated by how good-looking he was. "These are for you. I

came because I was worried."

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"Worried?" Last night's memories had washed me clean of

the painful conclusions I'd drawn after spending the night

with him. A question of perspective and impact, I supposed.

"You left so quickly." Leo glanced around the hallway.

"How's the clearing up going?" His eyes rested on the corner

where the carpet was rolled away from the wall and several

boxes of books and papers were stacked halfway to the

ceiling.

I hustled him through to the living room, glad that, with

the absence of Florence, it had stayed more-or-less tidy. "Err.

Yes. I've got it under control."

We stood and looked at each other for a moment. Leo

seemed obsessed with the position of his glasses. In my turn

I fiddled with the roses he'd pressed into my arms, alternately

sniffing them, and running my fingers over the baby-soft

petals as we both thought of what to say next.

"I..."

"You seemed..."

We spoke simultaneously, him looking at the ceiling whilst

I looked at the floor. The coincidence made our eyes meet,

and we smiled properly at each other for the first time. "You

first," I said.

"Alys." Leo pulled the roses from my embrace and dropped

them on the table, stepping in to replace them. "I was

worried. I thought it was me—something I'd done. You were—

you
are
—the first woman I've cared about, the first woman

I've slept with since Sabine. That night was amazing. Totally,

totally unlike anything that's ever happened to me before.

Then you got up and went away." He sounded so broken, so

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forlorn that I automatically closed my arms around him and

he melted against me, seemingly with relief. "Oh, Alys," he

spoke into my hair. "If you knew how I felt that morning."

I thought about it for a moment, but my own feelings of

inadequacy came pouring in. I stiffened and he pulled away

from me.

"Is that it?" he asked quietly. The green of his eyes was

deep. I found I couldn't break his stare, couldn't look away.

"I'm not very experienced. There were only ever a few girls

before Sabine. But I thought—you seemed to enjoy it."

"No. Oh, Leo, it's not you, it's me."

A rueful look dawned behind those beautiful eyes. "Ah. I

see. Yes, well, er, in that case I—"

"No, it's not just a cliche, I really mean it. It
is
me." How

did I explain it, the feeling that I was unworthy of love? "I've

got issues," I finished, limply.

There was a moment's silence so deep that I could hear

the rumble of lorries passing along the inner ring road. Leo

spoke, hesitantly, as though he was afraid his words might

panic me. "Look, Alys. Neither of us is a teenager. We've both

had—relationships that have gone wrong. But I'm sure, if we

take things slowly. I mean, we like each other, don't we?" His

lips were close to my ear, when I turned my head our noses

collided but then our mouths met and we indulged in a slow

kiss. I tried not to think about how I must taste.

"I've done nothing but think about you since you left," Leo

whispered, breaking contact. "I wrote sheaves of poetry last

night, didn't know what else to do. Couldn't concentrate,

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wanted to get my thoughts down, get my head around what

was happening."

"Poetry? About me?"

"Of course, you." Leo caressed my cheek. His eyes were

raking my face more thoroughly than if it had been a Zen

garden. "Some of it came out the best I've ever written, and

I'm sure that's because of the way I feel about you."

"Can I read it?" No one had ever written anything about

me before, if you don't count that time at school. And that

was only in the boys' toilets.
And
a complete lie.

"Ummmm. Don't be offended, Alys, but I don't let anybody

read my poetry. It's not written to be read, if that doesn't

sound too mad."

I looked down at our hands, fingers entwined, liking the

way his tanned, capable hand made mine look ethereally pale

and my fingers long and elegant. "So, why do you write it?"

Leo gave a sigh. "It's my form of expression. I use poetry

to kind of capture emotions, moments. Do you see?"

"But not for anyone else's consumption?" Right at that

second I would have
killed
for him to put into words one tenth

of the emotion I'd read he was capable of. Just so that I could

know how it felt.

"They wouldn't mean anything to anyone else." He smiled

at me, his face relaxed now. "I like your flat. It's very

colourful. Very exciting." His gaze flickered over my rescued-

from-a-skip sofa with its homemade cushions and the boot-

sale rug. I hastily stood over the most conspicuous of the

stains, which made me look like I was playing an advanced

game of Twister.

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"Are you hungry? I could cook."

"Oh. Umm." To my horror Leo looked at his watch. "Sorry,

Alys, but I really have to go."

"Oh." I heard myself sound disappointed. "That's a quick

turnaround."

"I know. But I came on the spur of the moment—had to

deliver the two youngsters to Builth Wells, and when I'd

driven that far I thought, well, it was only another few hours

to get here. But I have to pick the trailer up on the way back.

I'd better get going so I'm there before nine. It's hell

coupling-up in a yard in the back of Welsh beyond, in the

dark."

I gave a rather tight smile. He was just so bloody
practical
.

But, like he'd said, neither of us were teenagers any more.

There was a large matter of Life to be getting on with. And he

had brought me roses. Thinking of him sitting, writing,

pouring it all out in poetry gave me a little frisson, a sexy

kick.

A couple more entwined kisses and he was gone, leaving

the flat feeling twice as empty but smelling twice as fragrant.

I was putting the roses in the sink with some water, when the

phone rang.

"Alys?"

Good Lord. Alasdair. This must be the first time he'd rung

me directly since Florence became old enough to arrange her

own visits. I was still wrestling with my guilt-hangover and

therefore trepidatious about what he might have to say.

"Hello, yes."

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"Tamar said she'd seen you this morning. Said you'd been

mugged?"

I hoped this wasn't going to be one of those spontaneous

little lies which come back to bite you on the bum. "Well, sort

of, but it was nothing really."

"And you'd rung Piers? Spent the night in his flat?"

I was instantly defensive. In my mind's eye I could see

Alasdair now, probably sitting in his study. He'd be wearing

loose jeans and an M&S jumper. His greying auburn hair

would be tidily trimmed. He would be, as ever, looking like

Tamar's ideal partner—Upper Class Ken. And now, in his usual

persona as the only person with any sense around here, he

was going to give me some good old Scottish Methodist

moralisation.

"So? I can see who I want to, you know, not that I am.

Seeing Piers that is. He happens to be—look, why am I

justifying myself to you? He's an adult, I'm an adult, if we

wanted to—which we don't, obviously, but if we did, then it

wouldn't be anyone's business but ours."

"I have no idea what you're babbling on about." Alasdair's

calm, measured tones seemed designed specifically to enrage

me. "I was only ringing up to make sure that you hadn't been

burgled."

"Burgled?" I'd been so full of ethical righteousness that this

sudden change of direction left me morally winded. "Why on

earth should I have been
burgled
?"

"I know what you're like for leaving keys and things in

your bag. I was concerned that, if you spent the night at

Piers's, anyone could have got into your flat."

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As usual, whenever I talked to Alasdair I started off feeling

that I held the moral high ground, and by the end of our

conversation, I was left with the sensation I was wallowing

around several fathoms under moral sea level. In some ways

it would have been better to admit I'd been totalled rather

than pretend to have been mugged.

"Well, I haven't."

"Are you
sure
? You can be a bit woolly minded sometimes,

Alys. You might just not have noticed."

"Not have
noticed
? What, that someone had broken in and

stolen things? Now, let me see. Oh yes, the Van Gogh is still

here, and the Ming. No, I'm pretty sure I've not been burgled,

Alasdair."

"There's no need for sarcasm, you know. I was ringing up

to say that if you
had
been robbed, my insurance might cover

some of Florence's things. That was all. I might have known

you'd take it the wrong way. Do you always have to be so

spiky
these days?"

"Sorry." I had my fingers crossed when I said it though.

There was a short pause. I wondered if Alasdair was trying

to get round to saying something about Florence. Something

dating back seventeen years. So I leaped into the silence.

"Piers was telling me that he's bringing his girlfriend home on