The day after my birthday, I work in Warrandale all day, so by the time I shower, change and drive to the Coach House, it’s after five o’clock. The only car there is Blake’s. I told him that yellow and white primroses remind me of sunshine. How did primroses come up? I can ask him about that when I apologise. And when I confirm that I don’t need to be rescued. Except when I have nightmares about my mother. And when my animals are threatened by a flood. And in the event of a surprise party. I’ll confirm that, as a general rule, I don’t need to be rescued.
What else can we cover in our chat? I think about you in the middle of the night. I missed you when you were away. I appreciate I told you to go, but the better I know you, the braver I get. I’d like to kiss you again.
Merrylegs has free range of the barn but has put herself into her stable for the night. She nickers softly as I lead the other horses through the barn’s double doors and bolt their stable half-doors behind them.
Bending over the little grey mare, I rub her neck. ‘How are you feeling today?’ When she lifts her head and searches the pockets of my coat, I give her a carrot. ‘I’ll bring Eeyore in and then I’ll get your dinner.’
Even though it’s raining, Eeyore, tall ears slightly back, stands in the corner of the yard. I scratch under his scrappy mane as he searches for a treat, finding his carrot. His tail flicks around, reminding me of the takhi at the zoo. I rub his cheek, brush raindrops from his eyebrows and clip a lead rope to his halter.
‘On the weekend, I’ll hang up your picture in the cottage.’
He walks relatively compliantly through the gate, but as we reach the door of the largest stable, he baulks.
‘I took the goats to the cottage, remember? You haven’t had to share for weeks.’
The moon peeks through cloud cover as I take the driveway that leads down the side of the Coach House. Blake might be preparing or eating dinner by now. He might be in the shower. Is it too late to stop? I glance towards the front verandah as I pass.
He walks down the steps two at a time. Long legs. Narrow hips. Broad shoulders. I want to talk to him, I remind myself. This is my chance. I put on the brakes, turn off the wipers and, my hands only slightly unsteady, open the window.
He has raindrops on the shoulders of his dark grey suit. He’s not wearing a tie, but his white shirt has a stiff collar.
‘Prim.’
‘Blake.’
‘Billy called last night,’ he says. ‘He said you wanted to talk.’
‘Is that all right?’
He takes out his phone and makes a call. ‘I’ll get there when I can. Start without me.’
‘You’re going out. I don’t want to keep you.’
He stands back. ‘Come inside.’
Up on the verandah, as I undo my laces and kick off my boots, he wipes the soles of his shiny black shoes on the doormat. Then, after closing the door behind us, he leads me down a wide hallway to a very clean and tidy black and white kitchen. A coffee machine, a shiny cooktop, a stainless-steel sink with lights above it. Two ovens side by side. The floors are limestone.
‘This is nice.’
‘The Oldfields wanted a second residence.’ He flicks on lamps in the adjoining living room, high ceilinged and scattered with rugs. Two fawn-coloured sofas face each other with a coffee table between them.
‘Do you have your own house in … Scotland?’
‘No, but I inherited a terrace in London.’
‘Do you like living there?’
‘Renting it out pays the mortgage.’
‘You inherited it with a mortgage?’
‘It was unencumbered, but I had to pay death duties.’ He’s too handsome, too polite. Too everything.
‘Where are you going tonight?’
‘A dinner in Dubbo.’
‘At a restaurant? That … will be nice.’
‘It’s at a function centre.’ He smooths a lapel. ‘Politicians. The governor. Academics, a vice-chancellor. A hundred and twenty people.’
‘Is it for the zoo?’
‘Yes.’ His gaze travels over me. Sweater, jeans, a hole in the toe of my sock. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea?’
‘You didn’t … drink my tea. You don’t like it, do you?’
He thinks about that. ‘I also have orange juice. And mineral or tonic water.’
I link my hands like a schoolgirl. ‘No, thank you.’
‘You saw Billy on your birthday?’
‘Can … we … sit down?’
He walks me to the sofas before going to the kitchen. Cupboards open and close. The fridge door clunks. Glasses clink. The fireplace is set with kindling. To one side of the black granite hearth is a basket filled with logs. If the fire isn’t lit, how is the house so warm? I look up as I take off my sweater. Central heating. My long-sleeved T-shirt has probably been washed a thousand times, but it’s not too creased. I fold my sweater, fold it again. Blake puts two glasses on the table, one turquoise and yellow, the other yellow and red. Sunrise and sunset. He sits opposite me.
‘Billy expected you to come yesterday.’
‘You had … someone here.’
He feels tentatively around his shoulder. ‘The physio.’
‘How is it?’
‘Improving.’
‘You … said the original injury was caused by a giraffe. What happened?’
‘I was at a game park in Tanzania. A giraffe had been mauled by a lion and, as she’d dragged herself into an area where tourists could see her, the park owner had to do something about it. I agreed to anaesthetise her, but failed to check the restraints the handlers had set up. When the giraffe came too, she kicked out.’
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘It was my fault.’
‘Do you travel a lot?’
‘In the past four years, constantly.’
The outside lights are on; rain hops and skips on the breeze. ‘Does your shoulder hurt at night?’
He picks up his glass but puts it down again. ‘You care that it does.’ Not a question but a statement. My heart rate increases.
‘Are you in pain now?’
‘No.’ This time he drinks; it dampens his lips. ‘Any more questions?’
‘Do you really like The Farmer Wants a … Wife? Billy insists that you do.’
When he smiles, my stomach flips. ‘I enjoy Billy’s enjoyment of it.’
‘He’d never watched reality TV until he … went to hospital.’
Blake shrugs out of his jacket, throws it over the arm of a sofa. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Prim?’ His eyes slip from my mouth to my dimple. ‘Why did you want to talk?’
‘You … were trying to help on my birthday. You help with Eeyore and the horses … when it rains or if I’m late.’ The branches of a tree scratch against the window. ‘I … wanted to thank you.’
All of my words are successfully out. It’s time to go. I should get up immediately and—
‘I enjoy spending time with your animals,’ he says.
He leans forward, his forearms on his thighs. The disc on his cufflink is round, smooth, and flat. White gold? Silver? Platinum? His other cuff, the right one, is hanging loose.
One of my cuffs is frayed and I overlap the fabric. ‘Can I ask you … something?’
He smiles. ‘Anything.’
‘The day before yesterday at the zoo … why did you mention my mother?’
‘Her PhD thesis and the papers that came out of it …’ He straightens a little. ‘They were remarkable, and her contributions to mathematical theory continue to be relevant. I wanted you to know I appreciated that.’
Nodding stiffly, I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Patience is clever like Mum.’ I plant my feet firmly on the floor. ‘I have to go.’
‘Home?’
‘I don’t think of the cottage as home.’ My words come out quickly. ‘Not really.’
‘Because you don’t have Eeyore or the horses with you? I wish I’d known what Farquhar would do.’
‘He could justify it legally.’
‘Irrespective of that—’
‘He’ll be there at your function tonight, won’t he? You won’t talk about me, will you? I don’t … want you to say anything about me.’
‘Farquhar undermines your work. He could have repaired the house, fencing and shed. I could challenge him on that.’
Blake wouldn’t be mixed up in anything Farquhar might be up to, but Nate said he’d make a call on that himself. If I tell Blake about Nate, what if he says something to Farquhar?
‘Please don’t.’
‘As you wish.’
Blake has nice hands, long fingers, tapered nails. Was he going to be a surgeon like both his mother and father? I search for something safe to say.
‘Where’s your other cufflink?’
His hair falls over his brow as he searches in the pocket of his jacket. He holds a second cufflink between his thumb and index finger and hands it to me.
The materials in this cufflink, and the size and shape, are the same as in the other cufflink, but the middle is different. I look more closely. There’s a disc within a disc, like a shield with stylised S and a sword.
Blake stands. He walks around the coffee table and crouches by my side. He smells nice. Crisp. He looks smart. The top button of his shirt is undone. The skin at his throat is tanned and—
‘Prim?’ He turns his right arm, exposing his wrist. ‘Would you mind?’
My eyes fly to his.
Frowning a little, he takes the cufflink from me, puts his left hand to the hand he’s holding out and gathers the cuff. He positions the spike of the cufflink, pushes it through and twists.
‘Fuck!’ His left arm drops back to his side. His eyes water. ‘Fuck.’
My eyes water in sympathy. ‘Why didn’t you just explain?’
I’m not sure how long we stare at each other. But then, blinking hard, I take his right arm and lie it across my lap.
‘I’ll do it.’
He gingerly lifts his left arm and turns his wrist. ‘This movement is difficult.’
‘I wish you’d … stop doing it.’
Thousands of horses gallop in my stomach as, careful to avoid touching his skin, I guide the spike through the holes in the cuff. I sit further forward on the sofa as I use both hands to turn the bar horizontal to the spike.
‘Done.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But …’ I look at the cufflink more closely, turn the disc around. ‘The cufflinks don’t match.’
‘The insert was my grandfather’s tie pin,’ Blake says. ‘The cufflinks were a gift.’
‘From your parents? Did they give them to you for your thirty-first birthday?’
‘My thirtieth birthday.’
‘My parents sent them by registered mail.’
‘How often do you see them?’
‘Rarely.’
‘Because you’re angry they … sold your grandfather’s land? Or because they were disappointed that you gave up medicine?’
His knee creaks as he stands. When I shuffle along the sofa, he sits next to me. ‘My parents weren’t abusive, Prim. They weren’t like you father.’
I pull a big blue cushion with a bushy green fringe onto my lap. A barrier. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘Tell me about the cufflink.’
‘My grandfather’s watch went to his sister. His only other personal effects were a tie pin and a kilt pin. They went to my father.’
‘Does your father use the kilt pin?’
He smiles. ‘Grandfather was buried in his kilt.’
‘Oh.’
‘My father kept the tie pin.’
‘Until he gave it to you.’
He puts his hand on the cushion. ‘My mother commissioned the cufflinks.’
‘She must have had your father’s approval.’ My fluency is particularly challenged by the letters W and S. The S in the cufflink should be a warning. But I lay my hand next to his. ‘It … was a thoughtful gift.’
‘With an ulterior motive—my mother wants to see the cufflinks again.’
‘In real life?’
‘She and my father will be here next month.’
‘To … see you?’
‘They have a medical conference in Brisbane, another in Sydney.’ He pulls down his shirt sleeve, grabs his shoulder. ‘Fuck.’
I push his arm towards his torso. ‘You said it was improving.’
‘I’m strengthening the muscles around it. That’s painful too.’
‘What about … strapping it?’
His eyes are blue with steel grey flecks. ‘I do strap it.’
‘Oh.’ My voice is high.
His thumb loops over my finger. ‘This also helps.’
A traitorous warmth spreads through my body. My heart skips around. Our fingers thread together. My breath catches.
‘Blake.’ A statement? A question? It’s me who said it, but I’m not sure which.
‘Last time I kissed you …’ His voice is low, like he’s telling a secret. ‘I fucked up.’
With a fingertip, I touch the S on his cufflink. ‘Your parents shouldn’t have denied you the pin for so long, but they gave it to you eventually. It … was a peace offering.’
‘Prim.’ He shifts to face me. Leans forward. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about my parents.’
I rest the palm of my hand, fingers extended, on his collar bone, then follow the ridge to the curve of his shoulder. The shirt is soft cotton, but his body beneath it is firm. His heart thrums against my hand. My nipples harden. My legs tingle all the way up from my knees.
He cups the side of my face and tips up my chin with his thumb. ‘You don’t trust me, Primrose Cartwright.’
In this? ‘No.’ One small word, the truth.
‘How do I fix that?’
My eyes on his mouth, I take a shaky breath. ‘I don’t know.’
He sighs as he brushes hair from my temple. ‘Can you kiss me again?’
I put my arms around his neck and press my lips to his. A gentle exploration, searching and seeking. The warmth of his mouth, his touch and his taste. My body heats inside and outside, my head to my toes.
He looks up and studies my face. And then he smiles. He kisses from my mouth to my neck. He pushes my shirt aside, lifts my plait and trails his lips to the base of my throat. I breathe in as he breathes out. He finds loose strands of hair and pushes them back. Expression now serious, he touches my mouth with a fingertip.
‘You have a beautiful mouth.’
I smile against his fingers. ‘Thank you.’
Growling deep in his throat, he dips his head and runs the tip of his tongue across my bottom lip. His touch is so light that I barely feel it, yet a million nerve endings sparkle and fizz and my breath puffs out in a rush. Sunshine through the rain. Everything sparkling, everything bright. No uncertainty. My hands on his chest are possessive, his arms are steely bands around my body.
‘I won’t rush you.’
I toy with a button on his shirt. ‘I won’t rush you, either.’
This kiss is long and deep. I wrap my arms more firmly around him, press my breasts against his chest to ease the ache. You have a beautiful mouth. He has a beautiful mouth. His hands slide to my hips. He gentles the kiss, repeats my name on my lips, my cheeks, my throat. He’s rigid with tension, with restraint.
Last time I touched you, I fucked up.
You don’t trust me.
I won’t rush you.
As I burrow under his collar to find his skin, his hands sweep up my sides. This kiss is giving but bruising, and the tingling and craving intensifies. I stroke the thick hair at his nape, feel the sharpness of the bristles on his jaw. I explore the skin at his throat and at the opening of his shirt. I open one button, a second, a third. I tug his shirt from his pants. The muscles at his abdomen and chest are defined. His nipples are flat and brown. My hands still and I stare.
‘Blake.’ I like the sound of his name. I like the feel of his name on my lips. ‘Blake.’
He lifts his head, looks at me questioningly. ‘Prim?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’
When I loop a leg over his lap, his erection is hard against the inside of my thigh. His breath shortens, his heart rate quickens. He touches my face, then runs his hands down my back to my bottom. As I shudder a breath, he trails kisses up my throat. He kisses the side of my mouth where my dimple would be. He takes hold of my chin and stares into my eyes.
‘Tell me what you want.’
Something unbidden claws in my chest. How can we be together when he doesn’t have a home? He’s estranged from his family and flies around the world. He’s respected and accomplished. He’s confident and assertive.
I turn my head away. Smooth down my shirt.
‘Prim? Sweetheart?’
Head down, I fasten his fourth button. And his third. ‘I don’t know what I … w … w …’ I shake my head. ‘I told you it’s hard to get close.’
He groans as he takes my hand. He kisses my thumb. ‘I can’t get close enough.’
‘I don’t w … w …’
‘I care about you,’ he says quietly. ‘I’ve cared from the start.’
He doesn’t finish my sentences. He’s not angry I pushed him away. Concentration fierce, as if getting this right is a matter of life or death, I trace the S on his cufflink once more. His fingers are elegant. The pulse in his wrist beats steadily. My heart bangs against my ribs, my skin warms. I’m a jumble of yearning and heartache.
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Teach me.’
I put the cushion between us. A shuddery breath. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Do you want to ask more questions?’
‘Maybe.’ I look towards the door. ‘You have to go out to dinner.’
I don’t know what he sees on my face, but whatever it is, he reels in his words. Standing slowly, he holds out his hands and pulls me to my feet, taking care that I’m steady before he lets me go.
‘Thank you for talking to me.’
‘Thank you for the … water.’ When I bunch my sweater at my midriff, he takes it away and, softly swearing, drapes it around my shoulders.
‘This is just the start.’ He rests his face against mine. ‘I won’t rush you. We’ll take it slow.’