Craig’s lips passed across my own with the softest pressure. This wasn’t Paul asserting his will. This wasn’t anything like how Paul had been. Craig was teasing me, his touch smooth and tantalising. My head was dizzy. It was as if the whisky from the other night still smouldered in my belly. I felt my body lift towards him and I kissed him back tentatively.
‘Caro,’ he said.
His voice was guttural. He kissed me more firmly, pressing into my body, fingers pushing gently through my hair. Then he pulled away and took my hand, holding me with his eyes. We walked across the hall to the sitting room. I wanted this to be different, to erase the memory of Paul, of Elizabeth, of everyone who had ever despised me, even Danny. The flames of the fire I’d set earlier that day were still glowing in the grate and, with my hand in his, Craig rummaged in the basket to add kindling. He leaned down to blow upon the logs and I watched his lips as a small flame jumped into life.
His thumb moved slowly against my skin. He drew me close and we kissed again. I let him lower me to the sofa and I reached up with explorative fingers, watching his eyes as they closed in pleasure.
I awoke on the sitting room rug in a state of sated warmth. Somehow, we had progressed from the sofa to the rug and Craig’s body was tucked around mine, his nakedness like a welcome hot water bottle, drawing me to hug his back, stroking my fingers across his skin. I lay like that for a while, enjoying the tingle in my toes – no more frozen feet.
I felt the slow movement of his breath, heard the steady rhythm of his heart. How long had it been since I’d been close enough to hear someone’s heart? The house was quiet, the wind outside was still and I lay there listening, feeling, indulging myself, drifting back to sleep.
When next I woke it was daylight. The room was cold, the fire a blackened pile of charred strips of wood and white ash. I was alone on the rug. Someone, Craig, must have pulled an old-fashioned woollen blanket over my body, tucking it around my legs, my arms. I rolled over, staring at the pattern of light and shadows playing on the ceiling plasterwork; filtered by the wooden shutters at the window, they reminded me of ripples dancing on the water, fluid and repeating, soothing. I imagined a paintbrush in my hand, sweeping water across the page, colour blotting the paper one shade after another, each subtle hue merging with the next until I was appeased.
I could smell coffee and toast. I felt hunger drive me into wakefulness. I rolled onto my stomach, the strands of the rug tickling my skin. I stretched out my legs and arms as if I were swimming, wriggling back down into the blanket, relishing in its rough comfort. Then I sat up, eager to get dressed, to follow the smell of breakfast across the hall. I felt a small tug of pleasure to think that we had just violated the sanctity of Elizabeth’s pristine floral Laura Ashley sitting room.
I felt this was how the house should be lived in. By the two of us, Craig and me. I wondered if I was foolish to feel like that, but I couldn’t help myself. As the day wore on, it was strange how easily I abandoned my work and daily routine to be with Craig. Patsy sat in a corner on her doggy bed, content to lay her head upon her paws and snooze as Craig and I chatted and kissed, lying close, reluctant to be apart for even a few moments. Time became meaningless and we ate and made love when we were hungry.
Over the next few days, I couldn’t get enough of him. Craig did eventually go back to his cottage, but he came and went as if the house had become his second home. It was like I’d never been in love before, had never felt loved, full stop. I was excited, bewitched, every inch of my skin singing for his touch, eager – like an eager puppy. Was that pathetic? No, it was amazing.
It had never felt like this with Paul, even at the beginning. All thoughts of my troubles, Danny and my memories of the house had gone, supplanted by the sheer joy of being with Craig. Even the house seemed more at ease – gone were the creaks and groans and there were no more power cuts or disturbing noises in the night. Or perhaps I was just too distracted and happy to notice.
I hadn’t heard from Steph for over a week. I swallowed my sense of guilt. Had I stirred up her own bad memories? I didn’t want to think about Steph, or Danny or Elizabeth or Paul. About anyone else for that matter. Why should I think about any of them? I was defiant. Funny how with the presence of someone else, someone meaningful, all those ghosts and ghouls in the corner of the attic and the back of my mind were chased away.
So the days went by quickly, a second week, it was a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about Craig. Eventually I did have to work. I got an email from David, my agent, reminding me of the deadline.
In fact, David wrote, the client is saying if you could possibly complete by the end of January they would be really pleased.
It brought me up – I’d been expecting to submit mid to late February. A deadline always focuses the mind.
‘It’s alright,’ said Craig. ‘We’ve both got work and clients.’
He pulled me close and kissed me a little more forcefully than normal, as if the threat of work intruding on our fragile bubble of new love made him angry.
So now Craig went home to his workshop and I returned to my painting. But when he wasn’t at the house, I was waiting for him to arrive. If I was lying in my bed alone, or sitting at the kitchen table working, I was waiting for him to ring. He didn’t use Skype. My feet jumped the moment the mobile beeped and my eyes were drawn constantly to the front windows, watching to see if a figure was coming up the drive.
It was intoxicating. I felt liberated, free to be myself, to express myself in a way I’d never done before. I put music on and the paintings for the commission flowed. Each image was filled with colour and movement, each scene enhanced with mischievous detail. A forest where the trees were all entangled lovers. A pair of frantic snails etched into a stained-glass window. Two serpents, each consuming the other, wound in a translucent figure of eight.
But somewhere in my brain, it nagged at me, buried deep, as if I were avoiding it. The boy in the garden, Danny, my brother, and that blank wall. Why couldn’t I see beyond it? Did I want to see beyond it?