When Mandy and I ate scones in her kitchen, she said: If you can trust him, you could take a chance. I wouldn’t like him as much as I do if I didn’t trust him at all. But my heart? Could I ever trust him with that?
Blake said we’d drive to the property the Oldfields are interested in and then we’d go out to lunch. But given I always get to the horses by seven, and the property isn’t far out of Ballimore, how will we keep busy until midday? I glance at my hands on the wheel. My nails are clean, but how long will that last? I should have worn my navy shirt, not the pale blue one. Blake’s car is parked where I expect it to be, on the gravel outside the Coach House.
Juniper and Bonny, lined up like bookends and munching on hay, are already in the paddock between the house and barn. The barn doors are open. Eeyore’s loud and lengthy bray rings out.
Blake, wearing blue jeans, a fawn linen shirt and boots, is leaning over Merrylegs. The pony has a sturdy neck, four stocky legs and a rounded rump, but her frame looks too light to support her drooping belly. She’s eight months pregnant. She still has two months to go. Blake, frowning in concentration, listens to her heartbeat with a stethoscope. As I lean against the half-door, he shifts the chest piece to find a heartbeat for the foal. Merrylegs, tied to a ring, turns her head.
Blake follows her gaze, his eyes warm yet serious. ‘Prim.’
As I open the door, thoughts spin through my mind. Do I take his hand? Kiss his mouth?
He strings the stethoscope around his neck, puts his cheek against mine. A fleeting touch.
‘When did you get back?’
‘Late last night.’
I smooth Merrylegs’ forelock. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘I’ll take her bloods tonight, run more tests.’
After giving Eeyore a detailed account of this morning’s forecast—light wind, moderate temperature, sunshine—I persuade him to walk to his yard. Blake, leaning against the gate of the paddock, straightens as I approach.
‘It’ll take twenty minutes to get to the property.’
‘Are the Oldfields seriously considering Highland cows? Do you know a lot about them? Is that … why they asked you to do this?’
‘With sufficient space, the cattle thrive in poor conditions. They’re good to handle. They calve easily.’
‘They have less fat than many other breeds. Also—’ I smile my thanks as he opens the gate, ‘—they have long and shaggy ginger coats. They’re cute.’
Blake drives an inland route, kilometres of narrow roads with farmland either side, before taking a turn-off down a roughly graded driveway. Old growth eucalypts mark the entrance to the property. Blake points as we thump over a cattle grate.
‘See the pines at the crest of the hill?’ he says. ‘That’s where we’re going.’
‘Is there a house?’
‘The remnants of one, according to Beatrice.’
We’re only twenty metres down the drive when a gate blocks our path. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.
I shuffle further back on the seat when Blake reaches across me to open the glove box. Our eyes meet briefly. He frowns. Not angry but … on edge? He pulls out a key attached to a red plastic keyring.
‘For the gate?’ I unlatch my belt. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Leave it open. There’s no stock.’
After unlocking the padlock and guiding the gate over the bumps, I wedge it against the bushy undergrowth at the side of the driveway.
‘Who owns this place? Why don’t they clear the access?’
After putting the car into gear, Blake explains that a company bought this property and surrounding land over thirty years ago. When it couldn’t get permission to search for coal, it sold the other land, but this plot had access to the river. Hoping for a change of government policy, the company kept it.
‘It would never get permission to mine now,’ I say.
‘Hence the sale.’
For the next gate, and another three, I unlock the padlocks and drag the gates open. Grey gums and paperbark trees grow either side of the drive, but the land is mostly cleared, and the paddocks are divided by rough stone walls. Windbreaks of pines, ten or more trees planted in right angled lines in the corners of the paddocks, must be decades old. Long green grasses ripple in the breeze.
‘This is beautiful.’
For the first time today, Blake smiles. ‘You like it?’
‘The dams are full. How many hectares?’
‘Only a hundred.’
‘It’s arable, with access to water. There’s plenty of land to keep and rotate a herd.’
We climb steadily towards the pines and round a bend. All that remains of the farmhouse are stone foundations and three crumbling chimney stacks.
‘What happened to it?’
‘After it fell into disrepair, materials were repurposed for fencing and to build a milking shed.’ When Blake points, I can just make out the shed, but mostly I see—
‘Oh.’ In the paddock below the house, there’s a singular tree with a broad and sturdy trunk and widely spreading branches. A jacaranda. As it’s September, the branches are bare, but later in the year there’ll be thousands of blossoms. Purple. Blue purple. Purple blue. ‘Beautiful.’
Blake glances at me. ‘What?’
‘The jacaranda tree,’ I say. ‘We had one in our garden in Dubbo. On windy days, Patience and I held out our dresses and caught the flowers.’
I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. What is he thinking? No stumbles?
‘At your father’s house?’
‘He lost most of his money when we were … small. The house belonged to the bank.’
‘You were unhappy in Dubbo.’
‘I had my sisters and the jacaranda. And I had my animals.’
‘You kept them there?’
‘I … set up a vet practice with a table, boxes and a tarpaulin. I rarely had domesticated animals, usually birds, lizards, things like that.’ I link my hands together. ‘Many of them didn’t survive, but at least they didn’t get eaten alive by ants. They … weren’t preyed on.’
An oak, two maples, a towering grey gum and an overgrown ramble of smaller trees—camelias, azaleas and rhododendron—form a backdrop to the house. Stone retaining walls draped in vines, roses and blackberry bushes form lines like giant steps.
‘It’s a shame the Oldfields would only want the land.’
‘Why?’ he says, so softly I barely hear him.
‘Nobody will live here. They … won’t see the flowers on the jacaranda tree.’
He opens his mouth, shuts it. Then, ‘I’ll pass that on to Beatrice.’
Placing my feet in the gaps between the stones, I climb a wall of foundations and hang onto a chimney. The main road into Ballimore is a winding grey ribbon, the town is a smudge in the distance. Morning sunlight bursts through the pines and gatherings of gums. A dense line of green borders the paddock at the bottom of the hill.
‘Is that the river?’
‘Come down, Prim.’ Blake pulls out his phone and sits on the wall. ‘I’ll show you the plans.’
Our arms touch lightly as he scrolls through the real estate pictures. My speech has been good. Don’t think about your speech.
I point to an image. ‘The pines up here are the ones you’d see from the road, aren’t they?’
‘The house was built at the highest point.’
‘It would be waiting to welcome you home.’
When he moves closer, my heart jumps around. ‘That’s what you think?’
Phoebe has a home in a decommissioned church in Warrandale. Patience has a home in Horseshoe Hill. For ten years, I’ve lived in student accommodation, share houses and rentals. When did I last have a permanent home?
I had a home with my mother in Dubbo. Was it still a home after she’d left it?
I jump to my feet. ‘It was a … stupid thing to … say.’
He gets to his feet more slowly. Searches my face. What does he see?
‘Prim? What’s the matter?’
‘Can we go?’
‘We’re too early for lunch.’
‘I want to go back to my animals. To the Coach House and bungalow.’
‘Stay.’
‘I don’t w … w …’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t … want to talk.’
‘I’ll talk,’ he says.
‘What about?’
‘I’ll explain what happened with my family.’
Blake finds a relatively dry patch of ground near the foundations before spreading out a tarpaulin and covering it with a delicately fringed cream blanket. I sit on the blanket, my back to the wall and legs curled up. I run my hands over the weave.
‘This isn’t a picnic rug, is it?’
‘It was on a sofa in the Coach House.’
I inspect the blanket more closely. ‘It’s an extremely expensive alpaca throw.’ I flick leaves and grass away. ‘Be careful how you … wash it.’
After sitting next to me, he lays out a large thermos, two ceramic mugs, teaspoons and a boxed selection of teas. Nine boxes. Three rows of three.
‘W … w …’ Deep breath. ‘Should I make it? Do you … want black, green or herbal?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’ Steam rises from the water as he fills the mugs.
‘Lemongrass and ginger.’ I open the box. ‘Oh.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s leaf tea, not tea bags.’ When I spoon leaves into the mugs, they cling to the water like a lid.
‘Fuck.’
I laugh as I press down with a spoon. ‘They’ll … sink to the bottom.’
‘Bullshit.’
Our eyes meet.
Do not fall in love.
Do not fall in love.
When he picks up a mug, shuffles backwards to lean against the wall and stretches out his legs, I do the same. Blue jeans, brown boots. Blue jeans, brown boots. In this, we match.
‘You asked whether my mother liked my cufflinks,’ he finally says. ‘I didn’t wear them.’
I warm my hands around the mug. ‘Why not?’
‘Possibly spite.’ He shakes his head. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you’d be spiteful.’
‘Thank you.’ He’s very serious.
‘Your father sold your grandfather’s farm …What happened after that?’
Blake sips the tea, takes a leaf from his tongue with his thumb. ‘I didn’t speak to my parents for years.’
‘Did they try to speak to you?’
‘Regularly, until they found out I’d quit medicine. My maternal grandmother got sick of seeing us separately—we reconnected through her.’
‘Did you have a grandfather on that side of the family?’
‘He died before I was born.’
‘Is your grandmother still alive?’
‘When she died four years ago, she left what she should have left to my mother—the London property—to me.’
‘To make up for the one that you’d lost?’
‘My grandmother had a strained relationship with my mother. And, as my mother wanted nothing from my grandmother, she approved of what my grandmother had done.’
‘That’s why you have a terrace in London.’
‘With a mortgage to pay death duties.’
‘Why didn’t your mother and grandmother get on?’
‘I’ve never talked about this to anyone.’ He bends a leg, turns towards me. ‘Do you know why I’m doing it now?’
I sip my tea. ‘To keep me here?’
‘I want you to trust me. I don’t want secrets.’
Leaning back, I close my eyes, feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. ‘Your … mother and grandmother. Tell me.’
‘My parents met at university. Virginia, my mother, is English. She came from a wealthy family that would have supported her in any career she’d chosen, but she’d only ever wanted to be a surgeon.’ He smiles stiffly. ‘Falling pregnant with me wasn’t part of her plan.’
‘Oh.’ I hold out my hand. He takes it.
‘My father would have supported my mother in whatever decision she’d made. It was her body, her choice, but she elected to continue with the pregnancy. I was born six months after her final exam.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘She still became a surgeon.’
‘A neurosurgeon, following ten more years of work and study.’
‘Who looked after you?’
‘I’m white, male and privileged.’ A half-smile. ‘I forbid you to feel sorry for me.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘For most of my childhood, my parents lived and worked in Edinburgh, but kept a flat in London. When I got too old for nannies, I attended an extremely expensive boarding school in Kent.’
‘In the holidays, you were sent to your grandfather.’
‘My parents supported it at first—it got me out of the cities, away from a keyboard. It gave me practical skills. Later, I chose to go there.’
‘They no longer … supported it?’
‘Not when I was old enough to accompany them to restaurants, the theatre and social occasions with their friends and the children of their friends. Also—’ another stiff smile, ‘—I rarely studied when I was in the Highlands. To them, that was a concern.’
‘Did you ever stay with your grandmother in London?’
‘Occasionally.’ He throws the tea onto the grass. ‘The odd weekend. Easter.’
‘Your parents were young. They didn’t … want more children?’
‘No.’
‘You might have been all they needed.’
‘Until I quit medicine.’
‘They didn’t understand the importance of your grandfather’s land.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe they understand better now. That’s … why they gave you the cufflinks.’
He lifts my hand, kisses my thumb. ‘Andrew says you’d make excuses for the devil.’
‘I told him I was seeing you today. Did he say anything else?’
Blake had one sip of tea. I’ve only drunk half of mine. But he takes the mug and puts it on top of the wall. Then, hands on my waist, he dips his head.
‘He told me to be careful,’ he whispers. ‘He told me not to hurt you.’
‘I told him he had nothing to worry about. I told him you could trust me.’
My heart skitters and jumps as I thread my arms around his neck. ‘Thank you for telling me about your family.’
‘How did I do?’
I narrow my eyes like he does. ‘I had to ask a lot of questions.’
He rests his forehead on mine. ‘Now you know my secrets.’
‘Some of them.’
‘More than anybody else.’
‘You were unhappy growing up.’
Shadows in his eyes. ‘How could you know that?’
‘Your grandfather saw it, didn’t he?’ I place my hand on the side of his face. ‘He knew your secrets.’
Pain. Confusion. Uncertainty. I brush an invisible tear with my thumb. ‘I’m sorry it hurt … so much.’
He closes his eyes, runs his mouth across the inside of my wrist. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘It still hurts.’
Blake smiles gently. ‘Do I know all your secrets?’
Blake doesn’t like to talk about his family, but he wouldn’t tell a lie. He’s honest. Annoyingly honest. He’s principled and fair. When Nate gets around to asking him questions, he’s bound to see that too.
‘I don’t … w … w …’
He brushes hair from my face. ‘We have time.’
I stroke the hair at his nape. I kiss his lips softly. ‘You don’t like tea.’
He mutters on my mouth. ‘I like it on you.’
When I smile, he runs his tongue along the seam between my lips. And when I lay my hands on his chest, his hands slide possessively down my sides. I open my fingers, feel the ridges of muscle. I run my hands across his shoulders, down his arms and back to his chest. Through his shirt, I find his nipple.
‘Prim.’ He puts his hand on mine. Cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright.
‘Taking it … slowly can be hard.’ I open a button of his shirt. A second button. A third. I feel his heart hammering through his skin. I touch his mouth, feel the contours of his lips. ‘I like it when you talk. I like to hear your words.’
When he lowers me to the ground and leans a leg across my thighs, I sigh with the weight of him. When he cups my face and kisses my mouth, my blood warms.
I missed you. I want you. I need you.
He steals words from my mouth.
He steals thoughts from my mind.
What dreams do I have now?
A kiss where I start over.
Careful, cautious, careless, carefree.
How long do we kiss? A lifetime? Is that what this is, lying on a blanket in the early morning sun? I find the buttons I missed earlier. When I pull his shirt from his jeans, he lifts his head.
‘Prim?’
With a shuddery breath, I climb out of his arms to sit up. The flecks in his eyes are navy.
‘Can I take off your shirt?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
Cockatoos fly out of the grey gum and coast down the hill to the river. Through the branches of the jacaranda, I make out rough stone walls and shimmering winter green grasses.
‘No one is coming, are they?’
He smiles as he sits. ‘No.’
I place his hands on my lap. ‘Should I undo your cuffs?’
The buttons slide easily from the buttonholes. Easing the shirt from one shoulder, then the other, I pull it free of his body. His nipples are dark, his chest muscles defined. Abdominal muscles queue either side of the thin like of hair that runs from his navel. Suddenly shy, I fold the shirt neatly and lay it on the blanket.
I pick up his hands again, speak softly. ‘Are you cold?’
‘No.’ He tips up my chin. ‘You’re beautiful, Primrose Cartwright.’
I swallow. ‘I haven’t done this before.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘You—’
A finger on my mouth. ‘Never like this.’
‘S … slow?’ A small word. A shaky one.
He puts hair behind my ear. When he strokes the sides of my breasts, heat pools in the pit of my stomach. The tops of my thighs tingle and thrum. I guide his hand to my throat. He fingers a button.
‘Should I undo this?’
‘Yes, please.’
Head down, hands steady, he industriously unfastens my buttons. And, when he’s done, he eases aside the panels of my shirt. My sports bra is tatty and—
‘Prim?’ He waits till I look up. ‘You’re very beautiful.’
There’s no careful with this kiss. It’s wild and hungry, wanting and needing and taking. His tongue is in my mouth, searching, tangling, spiralling.
I pull back from the kiss, press my lips briefly to his in reassurance. Then I sit back. I touch his body and miss nothing. His throat, neck, his flat brown nipples, the dusting of hair on his chest, the firmness of his abdominals. Beneath his skin, the muscles, ligaments, tendons. He sucks in a breath as I circle the button at the top of his fly.
He swallows and takes my wrist. ‘Not yet.’
I stroke the hair on his forearms. I take off my shirt and throw it on his. His hands circle my waist, move higher, cup my breasts over my bra. I reach behind me and unclip the clasp.
He leans against the wall and pulls me onto his lap. He takes my bottom lip into his mouth and gently sucks.
My bra straps slip down my arms. I’m suddenly unsure. ‘Do you … w … w …’
‘I want.’ He cups my face. ‘I want.’ He looks around us. Low stone walls, green grass, thickets of roses and blackberry bushes. He frees my bra straps and strokes my breasts, tracing around my nipples. He kisses my mouth again, long wet kisses that liquefy my bones. He lowers his head, takes a nipple into his mouth. He strokes with his tongue, softly, sweetly.
‘Blake!’
He looks up innocently, moving his thumb over the place where his tongue was before. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
He lies me on my back and kisses one breast, then the other and, while he kisses, his hands sweep over my body. I cling, needy and desperate, to his shoulders as he trails kisses from my breasts to my navel. His hand goes to my button and zipper.
‘Can I touch you here?’
I’m a quivering, panting mess. ‘Yes.’
When he pushes my jeans down to my hips, the ache between my thighs intensifies. I want him. I want him inside me. His fingers slip into my underpants and he strokes and plays.
‘So sweet.’ He kisses me again, light and teasing and gentle, when what I really want is to throw off all my clothes and wrap my body in his.
‘Blake!’
He kisses my mouth again. ‘Slow, sweetheart.’
The sweeps of his tongue are mirrored by the movement of his fingers. A flick. A stroke. A taunt. Until even though he’s barely touching where I want him to be, I’m wound up so tightly I could explode any minute. He licks my breast. Then his tongue is in my mouth again. I lift my hips, press hard against his hand, cry out as I climax: ‘Blake!’
His movements lighten, then still. I squeeze my legs together. Don’t leave me yet. With his other hand, he pushes back my hair, then he kisses my forehead and presses his cheek against mine.
How long do we stay like that? My eyes are closed, but the warmth of the sun pushes through my lids. I open them, turn my head. Our eyes lock. He smiles. I’m half undressed. Like I’d drunk half of my tea. Do I smile? I must, because he kisses my dimple, draws back and touches the dip.
‘The first time I saw this, we were with Billy and Tom.’
‘I remember trying to hide it. It was a nervous smile.’
‘The second time, you were in the yards with the calf.’
Laughter bubbles up. ‘I smiled?’
‘At the calf.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘I resented it.’
He’s smiling, but his body is tense. His erection is hard against the inside of my thigh.
‘You haven’t—’
He buries his face in my neck. Kisses a trail across my shoulder. And then, groaning a little, he untangles his body from mine. ‘No.’
When he sits, I scrabble upright too. ‘We can. You can …’ I bend my knees and cross my arms over them. ‘If you … want.’
Slowly shaking his head, he puts his hands on my arms. Muttering a little, he kisses my throat. ‘We take it slow.’ Another kiss, this one on my mouth.
I fasten the clasp of my bra and shrug into my shirt, but when I reach for the buttons, he pushes away my hands.
‘You undid them,’ he says. ‘I’ll do them up.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
‘Can I do yours?’
‘You, Primrose Cartwright …’ His kiss on my mouth is short, yet possessive. ‘You can do whatever you want.’
Understandably, he’s frustrated. Possibly exasperated. Quickly and efficiently, he fastens my buttons.
Much more slowly, I fasten his. Button one, I brush my lips across the warmth of the skin at his neck. Button two, I plant open-mouthed kisses on his throat. Button three, I raze his collarbone with my teeth. Button four—
When he grasps my shoulders and swears, I capture his breath in a kiss. I stroke the hair at his nape, press my face against his.
‘Thank you for telling me about your family.’
He pulls me to my feet, tips up my chin and searches my face. ‘This is new to me too.’
Winter sunshine, copper leaves, mossy walls, tangled roses. An hour on a blanket in the overgrown garden of a long-abandoned house. An hour to teach me what I should have known before.
I’m in love with him.