It was a horrible night. She’d wandered around the gallery in a haze of misery, barely registering, in fact almost tripping over, the frankly ugly metalwork contraptions dotted around the floor. The only thing she remembered about them were that they were hard and sharp-edged when all she wanted was softness and warmth.
She’d tried to talk to Patrick before they went out. Her stomach contracted now at the memory and she put her hand on it, pressing lightly as if that might take away the dull ache.
‘I don’t think I’m up to going to the show tonight,’ she’d told him as she’d tried to pull on knee-high boots and losing the battle when what little energy she had ran out with the suddenness of the last sand grains in an egg timer.
‘Ella, I get that you’re feeling rough.’ He’d pulled his sympathetic face. The one where his mouth under his sandy moustache stretched wide in an encouraging smile but the eyes stayed watchful. Just thinking about his mouth gave Ella a pang. Once she’d loved kissing it, feeling the bristles skating her lips, his beard brushing her chin.
‘But seriously . . . this is going to sound harsh, but I’m doing it for us. You need to pull yourself together. You have to start acting normally again.’
Ella had gaped at him. His words were like physical blows. She wanted to clutch her middle to protect herself from them.He watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, nodding and smiling with patronising sympathy.
‘Your body’s been through a bit of a storm. But it’s over now. Done. We’ve got to move forward. You’ll feel better soon. In the meantime, why don’t you try and harness the experience, paint it, sculpt it. It would make a dramatic installation. Think of it as an experience. Use it. Create a series of work. It would make a great selling point. We could say they’re a manifestation of the artist’s angst at losing an unborn child. It would have a lot of traction with the media. A great human story.’
‘A story?’
He nodded.
But it wasn’t a story,she wanted to say.It was real. I, we, lost our unborn child. It was a real child, Patrick.But if she put voice to the words, she’d have started to cry and she wasn’t sure if she could stop.
That was when she’d given up trying to talk to him about it. That night she realised that Patrick couldn’t understand what she’d lost and worse still, she couldn’t bring herself to make him understand. It was almost as if she wanted to spite him for his lack of empathy.
In stark contrast, Devon moved closer and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
Unable to help herself, she nestled into him. He smelt of outdoors and life. The shield she’d battled to keep in place for so long, so that she could function day to day, slipped. Stripped back, all the vulnerability and longing to be safe again came flooding through with a piercing sense of relief. When was the last time she’d done this? Let someone else be there for her. Lean on them. Trust them totally to hold her up. The storm of emotions that she held fiercely in check for the last few weeks loosened. As she started to cry, Devon’s arms came around her and it seemed right to lean into his chest and feel the rise and fallof his steady breathing. Silent tears ran down her face, tucked into the heavy Guernsey sweater. Devon held her closer and let her cry, a soothing hand rubbing her back.
Cocooned against him, like a ship protected in harbour, she closed her eyes. If she kept them closed she could pretend all the other things didn’t exist. She could stay in this moment, savouring his warmth and strength. The moment stretched out. She closed her eyes tighter, focusing on the sound of the wind whistling around the hill top and the rough feel of wool against her face and trying not to think about the proximity of Devon’s thighs against hers. A low level ache of desire snaked through her. She wanted to nuzzle into him.
The gentle hand on her back stilled. Oh God, she was about to make a complete fool of herself. Had he felt that tiny shift of weight? The last thing he needed or she did for that matter. She stiffened, schooling her face, and stepped back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to unburden on you like that.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m glad you were able to tell me. It sounds as if you’ve had a tough time.’
With his stern face in profile, his shoulders rigid, she had a feeling he’d been duelling his own demons up here in tandem with her. Whether he’d won or not was not her place to ask, but then he turned to face her.
‘I know about crunch points,’ he said quietly. ‘I keep wondering about going back to Marina.’ He sighed. ‘It would make life easier. Solve all my money problems.’
He shrugged, lifting his shoulders up to his ears, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘If I went back, everything would just go away. I loved her once, why not again? The truth is, I caught her in bed with the film producer. Skinny little guy, nearly twice her age, married as well. Rick. Looks like the weasel he is. Wish I’d punched the little git. We were already on the rocks, that was my crunch point.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I haven’t told anyone else that. Pride more than anything else.’
‘I don’t know that it’s pride. It’s such a horrible thing to happen. I can’t imagine it but I can imagine why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone.’ She looked at his worried face, guessing that he now regretted saying it. ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone.’
‘Thanks. Come on, you’re getting cold. I think we both need a hot drink. Let’s round up those dogs, they’re probably halfway home without us.’
Whipping her head round, she scanned the hillside below – sure enough, there in the distance, she could just make out the two dogs criss-crossing the path. Her heart lifted at the sight of them. ‘They don’t ask for much, really do they? Life is so much simpler. Walks and food.’
The car journey back to the cottage passed in silence, as if each of them was worn out by the excess of emotion. The two dogs panted happily in the back, steaming up the windows.
When they pulled up outside, Devon got out and opened up the boot to release Tess. Ella got out of the car, suddenly tongue-tied. So much had passed between them, and she wanted to say something but didn’t know what. She was on the verge of asking him to come in for a coffee when Tess began to bark.
She stood at George’s gate, nudging at it with her head, her barks increasing in volume.
‘Tess, stop that.’ Ella went over to grab at her collar but the dog danced away. ‘What’s the matter with you? Stop it.’
‘Probably spotted a cat or something,’ said Devon, trying to close the boot of the car, but Dexter had now joined in and before Devon could stop him, he too jumped out and joined Tess at the gate, barking furiously.
