Anne too. There’s really no point in him kissing just one of us as we won’t have anyone to discuss it with later. We both agreed it was a bit wetter than we thought it would be and probably would’ve been nicer if it hadn’t been Pinky. He asked if he could write to me and I said yes. Already I’ve had a postcard of a goat and a rather suspect-looking peasant girl. And instead of the bread girl he’s taken to calling me Toast. Do you think we’re engaged?
Please don’t tell the Holy or I shall be forced to elope with a man I’ve only met once.
Piles of kisses from,
The Wayward (Libertine)
Jack took the plates into the kitchen, piling them into the sink. Mrs Williams would probably do them in the morning. He should leave them. Still, he turned on the water and squirted some sharply scented lemon washing-up liquid into the bowl, dunking his hands into the hot soapy water. Here at least he could make progress; change something. Doing the dishes was proof of a civilised world and a surefire remedy for existentialist angst.
Besides, he wanted to buy some time, put some space between them.
He’d intended to be witty, charming. Intelligent yet funny and unpretentious. But none of his carefully composed observations were required. The conversation had a life of its own that he hadn’t been able to control.
He rinsed a glass clean under the tap.
He didn’t agree with her. Found her thinking flawed; a curious combination of honesty and elusiveness.
And yet she was undeniably compelling. When she moved, his gaze followed. When she spoke, he found himself leaning forward not just to hear what she had to say, but to catch what she didn’t; the spaces between her thoughts, which seemed to reveal even more. There was an unwilling transparency about her; a glassy fragility in spite of all her defences. His instinct was to protect it.
No wonder Derek Constantine was captivated. And he wondered again as to the exact nature of their friendship.
Some people were like viruses, infecting everyone they come into contact with. Derek Constantine was one ofthem. A fatal combination of glamorous tastes and plausibility, Constantine possessed a sleek moral dexterity masquerading as open-mindedness and sophistication that was almost impossible to resist. Why did he, of all people, have to be her connection in New York? Exactly what kind of clients did he introduce her to? Could he be the man she was referring to earlier? Jack tried to push the idea out of his mind, but it adhered itself to his imagination with unreasonable tenacity. He felt his jealousy twist into life, creating visions, scenes — Derek’s permanently tanned, manicured hand reaching to unzip Cate’s dress, his fingers travelling across her skin, his tongue darting, serpent-like, moistening his lips …
Jack reached into the soapy dishwater. ‘Damn!’
The tip of a carving knife jabbed his palm.
He rubbed it angrily under the tap. It wasn’t cut, just smarting.
He should be more careful — there was nearly always a blade beneath the water.
Jack stacked the last plate, folded the tea towel and hung it across the Aga.
Suddenly the weight of the day hit him; his resources not just depleted but gone.
He knew nothing, he reminded himself, yawning. Constantine could’ve been like a father figure to her for all he knew.
Then he spotted the wine bottle. Should he drain it down the sink?
He was thinking too much, as usual. Do nothing, leave it. Pushing the cork in, he turned out the lights.
Moving slowly through the hallways, he checked the doors, locking up. He imagined Cate upstairs, maybe sleeping already, and him below, going through the end-of-evening rituals. And for the second time that day he felt a pleasing swell of masculinity.
It was a beautiful house. Elegant, substantial; refined. A house that knew what it was and what it was doing. Once there’d been a whole Empire like that.
Jack tried to recall if he’d ever felt that way in his own
Please don’t tell the Holy or I shall be forced to elope with a man I’ve only met once.
Piles of kisses from,
The Wayward (Libertine)
Jack took the plates into the kitchen, piling them into the sink. Mrs Williams would probably do them in the morning. He should leave them. Still, he turned on the water and squirted some sharply scented lemon washing-up liquid into the bowl, dunking his hands into the hot soapy water. Here at least he could make progress; change something. Doing the dishes was proof of a civilised world and a surefire remedy for existentialist angst.
Besides, he wanted to buy some time, put some space between them.
He’d intended to be witty, charming. Intelligent yet funny and unpretentious. But none of his carefully composed observations were required. The conversation had a life of its own that he hadn’t been able to control.
He rinsed a glass clean under the tap.
He didn’t agree with her. Found her thinking flawed; a curious combination of honesty and elusiveness.
And yet she was undeniably compelling. When she moved, his gaze followed. When she spoke, he found himself leaning forward not just to hear what she had to say, but to catch what she didn’t; the spaces between her thoughts, which seemed to reveal even more. There was an unwilling transparency about her; a glassy fragility in spite of all her defences. His instinct was to protect it.
No wonder Derek Constantine was captivated. And he wondered again as to the exact nature of their friendship.
Some people were like viruses, infecting everyone they come into contact with. Derek Constantine was one ofthem. A fatal combination of glamorous tastes and plausibility, Constantine possessed a sleek moral dexterity masquerading as open-mindedness and sophistication that was almost impossible to resist. Why did he, of all people, have to be her connection in New York? Exactly what kind of clients did he introduce her to? Could he be the man she was referring to earlier? Jack tried to push the idea out of his mind, but it adhered itself to his imagination with unreasonable tenacity. He felt his jealousy twist into life, creating visions, scenes — Derek’s permanently tanned, manicured hand reaching to unzip Cate’s dress, his fingers travelling across her skin, his tongue darting, serpent-like, moistening his lips …
Jack reached into the soapy dishwater. ‘Damn!’
The tip of a carving knife jabbed his palm.
He rubbed it angrily under the tap. It wasn’t cut, just smarting.
He should be more careful — there was nearly always a blade beneath the water.
Jack stacked the last plate, folded the tea towel and hung it across the Aga.
Suddenly the weight of the day hit him; his resources not just depleted but gone.
He knew nothing, he reminded himself, yawning. Constantine could’ve been like a father figure to her for all he knew.
Then he spotted the wine bottle. Should he drain it down the sink?
He was thinking too much, as usual. Do nothing, leave it. Pushing the cork in, he turned out the lights.
Moving slowly through the hallways, he checked the doors, locking up. He imagined Cate upstairs, maybe sleeping already, and him below, going through the end-of-evening rituals. And for the second time that day he felt a pleasing swell of masculinity.
It was a beautiful house. Elegant, substantial; refined. A house that knew what it was and what it was doing. Once there’d been a whole Empire like that.
Jack tried to recall if he’d ever felt that way in his own
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