Laughing in the rain
Claire rattled around the cottage the next morning, then decided she might as well bake some bread. It would keep her busy and provide her with something tasty for lunch. Lynda from the deli had lent her one of her baking books for inspiration, and she perused it over a cup of tea on the balcony, deciding on a sea-salt-and-rosemary-topped sourdough.
She was soon in the kitchen measuring and mixing, then pounding and kneading the dough. As she worked away, she thought what a lovely couple of days it had been with Sally. Magic moments spent with her sister, she smiled to herself, picturing how daft they must have looked huddled like teenagers in their nightclothes and duvets on the balcony at midnight. The rush and pull of the waves sounded even louder in the dark when you couldn’t really see them. You just caught glimpses of the odd crested sparkle in the moonlight. The pair of them sat there drinking mellow red wine, and chatting.
As she pushed the heel of her hand into the dough once more, a light-bulb thought pinged in her mind. Magic moments. She’d been looking for inspiration for something to write about for her column. Her job as a journalist wasn’t going to go far if she sat doing nothing for weeks on a beach. She’d brought her laptop, and had been waiting for the right article to form in her mind. With the recent split from her husband, her soul had felt battered and bruised; she’d been struggling to find any creativity in there at all lately. But yes, magic moments – we all needed those. What made life good, special? Not winning the lottery or being given a heap of cash – there were many miserable millionaires around, and money didn’t keep anyone healthy. But the simple things … things everyone could have or do: be with family, friends, a smile from a stranger, watch a gorgeous male swim naked – hey, stop it; that image just wouldn’t shift from her brain – laugh until your sides ache, eat warm, soft bread straight from the oven, preferably with a big blob of melting butter.
Her dough was probably kneaded enough, she realized, so she set it on a dish and popped it into the hot-water-tank cupboard to rise, that being the only truly warm place in the house. She tidied up, washed her breakfast things and the mixing bowl, wiped down the floured surfaces and cleared the kitchen. She put the oven on to warm, read for a little while, then went back to check on the dough, which had doubled in size. She then shaped it and scored the top with three slashes as the recipe instructed, which apparently allowed it to rise and cook without splitting. Then she put it in to bake. It wasn’t long before the smell of freshly baked bread filled the cottage, making her mouth water. She peeked in the oven: the loaf looked golden brown, well risen with a crusty top. She set it on the side to cool.
Outside, the clouds were breaking into cauliflower-shaped cushions. She decided to take a stroll. The forecast on the radio had said heavy showers, but if she managed to get out between them, it might just clear her head and shake off that lingering, empty feeling that had crept up on her. Sal would be home again, back with her brood, catching cuddles from her two boys, a hug with her husband. She’d be sleeping with somebody’s arms around her tonight. Claire could only be happy for her, but the small tear in her own heart had begun to gape.
She walked about a mile at a leisurely pace, going the opposite way from Bamburgh and nearing the rocks at the far end of the long sandy beach that marked the start of the harbour town of Seahouses.
At the far end of the beach, she turned to head back to the cottage again. Oh. The sky this way was a very different story. She hadn’t noticed the dark, heavy clouds brewing behind her. She’d better get a move on. Rain was definitely on its way, and by the look of the gunmetal-coloured shaft sheeting from the sky out to sea, it wouldn’t be too long in coming. The sky was menacingly beautiful. The skies here were so different from the cityscapes of home. So big. It sounded silly, but they were. Panoramic. You felt the power of the elements, saw the weather as it formed.
She began a marching pace, striding across damp golden sand, leaving firm footprints. The beach was quieter today; the forecast had no doubt put the tourists off. There was a lone dog walker further up the bay with a couple of terriers scooting about beside her. And then another figure, moving quite fast, jogging towards her. It seemed familiar. Tall, male, broad shoulders, long athletic legs. Mr Grumpy-Gorgeous – clothed and jogging now: he certainly liked to keep fit. Well, he was certainly fit, in all meanings of the word. She laughed to herself. Felt a little glow of anticipation as he approached, though she wasn’t even sure if he would raise a smile, let alone speak to her. Would he even recognize her?
Closer now, she could see the taut muscles pumping in his legs, the sweat on his brow, his hair curling damply with sweat. As he neared she could hear his heavy breathing. He was pushing quite a pace. She realized she must have been staring – oops. He managed a small stiff wave of acknowledgement as he passed. Claire gave a brief neighbourly wave back.
She walked on. Big flat plops of rain started. She’d better hurry up. She couldn’t even see the cottages from here – there was still another headland before their bay. The plops were getting heavier, starting to soak her top.
Footsteps pounded up behind her. ‘Fancy a jog? I think we’re about to get a soaking.’
My God, he’d spoken. And that might even be a glimmer of a smile across his lips.
‘Okay.’ She was stunned, by both him and the turn in the weather. Why was she saying okay? She hated running. But it was bloody bucketing it down now. It was as if someone had just turned the volume up on the rain – you could almost hear the gear change, and then thud, thud, thud, droplets all over. It was even pitting the sand.
‘I can’t go very fast, mind.’
They trotted off, keeping time, Ed obviously slowing to match her pace.
‘Typical English summer, hey,’ she quipped.
‘Yes. I’d much rather a good soaking than sitting in the garden with a glass of chilled Sauvignon,’ he answered.
She glanced across. He might be the weird type who would actually enjoy this. But there was a stray smile across his lips, which were actually rather luscious. He looked so much nicer when he smiled.
‘You should do that more often.’ Shit, the words were out before she’d had time to think.
‘What?’ He stared across at her.
She might as well carry it through now. ‘Smile. It suits you.’
‘Ah.’ He was silent for a few seconds.
Oops, that would teach her. Engage brain before mouth. ‘Um, do you … run a lot?’ she asked, trying to get the conversation back on track, though it was getting hard to speak and run at the same time. And the rain was actually pounding them now: there were little trickles streaming off her hair, running into her eyes and down the bridge of her nose.
It wasn’t the best conversation starter, but running was a better subject than swimming. Now why did she have to go and think of that? The image of him naked was making her feel all hot – she’d be blushing, for sure, though the rain would hopefully hide it.
A crack and a boom shook the air around them. She felt the vibration through her body. Wow! Lightning flashed across the sky out at sea. A sheet of solid rain shifted across the waves. A summer storm. She was absolutely soaked to the skin now. She looked across at him, his damp curly hair now scattering drips as he moved, his running top wet and tight to the muscles on his chest. It made her laugh out loud, how drenched they were. How small they seemed against the power of the elements.
‘Like this, do you?’ He had a quizzical look on his face.
‘Yeah, I think I do. Like I’m really alive.’
A frown creased his brow; she saw him take a sharp breath.
He ran a little faster, moving ahead of her.
The cottages were in sight now. She finally caught up with him at her garden gate. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah … I’m fine … if wet.’ He managed a wry, somewhat enigmatic smile.
‘Do you want to come in?’ Whoa, she hadn’t planned to ask him in. The words had just come out. Yet again. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘You could warm up with a cup of coffee or something. I have dry towels.’
He stood looking thoughtful. They were getting wetter by the second.
‘Sometime today might be nice,’ Claire prompted.
‘Ah, yes, okay. Thanks.’
She unbolted the door. A cold draught hit her.
‘God, it’s freezing in here,’ he said. ‘Old Hedley’s never bothered putting central heating in yet, then?’
‘Nope, sorry.’
They wandered through, dripping a trail to the lounge.
‘Aha. I could light the fire for you.’ He’d spotted the grate, the real fire.
She hadn’t used it yet.
‘Oh, okay. Great.’
‘Do you have any newspaper, some matches?’
There was a stack of logs and some kindling piled by the wall next to the hearth. She nipped out to the kitchen to grab a two-day-old paper she’d got ready for recycling, and collected the matches she used to light the hob.
‘You must freeze to death in this place.’ He was huddled by the unlit hearth.
‘Hah, glad it’s summer, that’s all I can say. But I wouldn’t know where to start with lighting a real fire, to be honest.’
‘Well.’ He looked up at her, taking the newspaper and giving a small grin. ‘Watch and learn.’
He started rolling tight batons of paper, loading them into the grate. She liked watching him work – intent on his task with his back to her, broad shoulders, arm muscles working away. She realized she was staring, but hey, he’d asked her to watch! She was rather enjoying observing him doing his fire-lighting man thing. She didn’t mind being looked after in this instance. But all too soon, the cold began seeping into her bones. She left him to his fire lighting and went upstairs, fetching two big towels out of the bathroom and wrapping hers around her. That was a bit better. She handed him one as she got back to the lounge.
‘Thanks.’ He placed it round his shoulders.
‘I’ve got some soup left over. Are you hungry? It will only take a few minutes to heat up, and I made fresh bread this morning. It’s the least I can do … warm us up.’ And what was the most she could do? Out of the blue, she suddenly visualized lots of other naughty things they could do, involving duvets and warm bare skin. Blimey, where had that come from? Her mind hadn’t veered that way in an age, her body even longer.
He lit a match. Flames began to slowly lick at the paper and the stack of sticks in the hearth.
‘So that’s what I could smell from across this way this morning. Homemade bread.’
The fire began crackling around the kindling and paper, its glow already beginning to take the chill off the room. She headed to the kitchen, taking the matches with her, and lit the stove to warm the soup. She cut slices of soft, crusty bread and spread it thickly with butter. Within five minutes, she was bringing it all back in on a tray.
‘Good dry logs,’ he commented.
The fire was now flaming gold and orange, its warmth starting to thaw the room. She handed him a mug of vegetable soup, passed the bread, then sat down beside him cross-legged on the floor, but her jeans were sodden and getting cold, clinging roughly to her legs. Damn, she should have changed them when she was upstairs, but she didn’t want to move away from this lovely fire, the warm mug of soup. She put her mug down and stood up, pausing for a second. Oh, sod it, they were coming off. She wrapped the towel around her waist, then undid the button and zip.
‘Hope you don’t mind, but these jeans are soaking wet still.’
‘Doesn’t worry me.’ He took a gulp of soup, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
She slid the jeans down and off. Ah, that was so much better. She could thaw out properly now. The towel covered her knees at least.
‘Better?’ He was smiling. He seemed surprisingly relaxed. It was as if the real Ed was finally showing through.
‘Better.’ She took back her mug of soup and sipped, beginning to warm both inside and out.
So here she was, sitting in her cottage by a roaring log fire with an undoubtedly attractive man, who was dressed in a towel, jogging shirt and shorts, whilst she had on only pants, bra and a long-sleeved T-shirt under her towel. Weirdly, it felt okay.
He dunked thick chunks of bread into his mug. ‘This is really good.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So you know how to light a fire now?’
‘Yep. You learn something new every day.’
‘Indeed.’ He sipped. ‘You’ll need that life skill in here. It’s a bloody wreck of a place. Don’t know how you’ve lasted so long, to be honest. Had you down for a few days max at the start.’
‘Ah, did you now? I’m made of hardier stuff than that.’
‘Yes, I can tell.’
Was that a hint of admiration in his tone? Bloody hell! What had happened to Mr Grumpy? Had he gone and got a personality transplant over the weekend, or had the rain washed away his ill humour?
As he leaned across to put another log on the fire, his foot brushed hers, sending little electrical pulses through her. She wasn’t wearing any trousers, her sensible head reminded her. Thank God she’d shaved her legs this morning. She’d better go and get some dry clothes on as soon as. She didn’t know quite what had come over her; she wouldn’t normally strip off her trousers in front of a man she scarcely knew. But she was just getting warm again, enjoying his company, and didn’t want to move quite yet. Didn’t want to go upstairs and break the spell.
When he settled back down, his foot lay there touching her own.
‘This is cosy,’ he said, matter of fact.
‘Ah-hah,’ she agreed. A tense feeling came over her. Anticipation?
He held her gaze for a second or two, then smiled. God, he had a lovely smile – nice white teeth, soft lips, a suggestion of manly stubble on his upper lip and chin. Why on earth had he kept that smile hidden? Maybe he had a lot of pressures at work, came here to get away from it all. It took him a while to wind down, obviously, considering how cool he’d been the last few times they’d met.
‘What do you do for a living?’ Claire piped up.
‘I’m an architect. I have a practice in Edinburgh.’
‘Ah, interesting. Designing buildings and the like, then.’
‘Yes, I do all sorts, but the bread-and-butter stuff is the smaller work, like house extensions, new builds. Often where they want something unique. What about you?’
‘Journalist. I work for the local press down in Newcastle. It’s pretty low-key, but I love it, most of the time. You get to meet lots of different people.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Sometimes it can be. But other times I’m raking about looking for stories, interviewing people about their pet dogs or the latest parking rises. It’s not all glamour and paparazzi, especially not in North Tyneside.’
‘Is this just a holiday for you, then?’
‘Yes …’ She faltered. ‘I – I’ve taken a bit of leave …’ She didn’t want to start going into the reasons why. And he was polite enough not to ask further. ‘It’s a great place here – the beach and everything,’ she clarified, in case he thought she was some kind of nutter who loved living in a hovel.
‘Yes,’ he answered, then went quiet. He seemed to be thinking.
It felt odd that they were huddled in towels with only centimetres between them. The fire was crackling away, giving a golden glow, throwing out its heat now. He turned to her. Stared at her seriously, intently. She held his gaze, noticing the green of his eyes, the tiny flecks of yellow close to the pupil, but then had to look down. There was something too intense about it.
When she looked up again, his face was closer to hers. The whole atmosphere in the room had changed. And suddenly this moment felt like it was where they were both meant to be. No time for thinking – she moved her mouth to meet his. Gentle at first, then hungry. His lips tasted salty from the bread, from the sweat from his run.
They were kissing harder, passionately. She kneeled up, wanting to feel him nearer, pressing her chest against his. This contact, this sensuality, was so powerful. She had been on her own for so long in her world of fear and illness and betrayal. But hey, was this really happening? Stuff like this didn’t happen to her, Claire Maxwell – this was like some movie scene. Don’t overthink it … Go with it Claire, a little voice cheered her on.
His lips were still on hers, his hands stroking through her hair, tugging sensually, and then she felt his strong arms around her back, closing her towards him. Her towel fell away, though she was still wearing her damp top. Her inner tension began to melt. She felt safe in his arms. Nothing mattered but this kiss. Unexpected, yet so natural. So needed. Two people caught in a storm.
And this was so turning her on, the warmth flowing right down to her thighs. Wow, she hadn’t felt like this in such a long time. His erection matched her desire – she could feel him hard, nudging against her hip.
Oh God – she couldn’t just … could she? She’d been with her husband for six years, and had had only a couple of boyfriends before that. She’d never had a one-night stand. And she didn’t really know this guy. She knew he was fit and had the body of a god, had seen his taut thighs, muscled chest, and boy, so much more. Was that enough of a reason? Hell, yes, what are you waiting for? something shouted inside. He was kissing her neck now. Ohhh, that felt so good.
But could he be some kind of Jekyll and Hyde character? She’d certainly witnessed the grumpy side. And now all this passion. He could be an axe murderer or anything. Who’d chopped up all those logs for kindling? He might have killed his ex and escaped down here, hiding from the police. This could be his hideout. Bloody hell, she’d been watching far too many suspense dramas.
Perhaps he was just a hot-blooded, passionate man, who was sometimes reserved … until you got to know him, and then he let loose. Oh bloody hell woman. Go, go, go. This had been a long time coming.
She tugged at his T-shirt, his towel having dropped off ages ago. Oh my, what a chest. Gorgeous – just as lovely close up. She ran her hand over it, all defined muscle and a few sexy blond hairs. Then he was slipping out of his shorts, just boxers now – sporty black ones, tight. She hardly dared look at the contours, but sneaked a peek. Wow. David Beckham eat your heart out.
Kissing once more. His tongue warm and deliciously probing.
His hands on her top, pulling it up over her head. Oh God, down to bra and panties.
Reality hit. Shit, her scar – he’d be moving to undo the clasp of her bra at any moment. What would he think? If she forewarned him, that would surely kill the moment, but if she didn’t, just seeing what he was going to see would strike the passion dead immediately. And she couldn’t bear to see his face, the horror that might show there. Shit, shit, shit. Maybe she could ask him to leave the bra on. She pulled back.
He looked at her. Put his head in his hands, then started rubbing his forehead roughly. ‘Fuck. Fuck … Look, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.’ His voice.
Suddenly he was up scrabbling for his shirt, his shorts, running for the door. Surely he couldn’t have read her thoughts, known what was there beneath her bra. She watched the back of him dashing down the hall, then heard the slam of the door. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Her desire unravelled within seconds, leaving her confused and frustrated.
What the hell was going on?
After the rainstorm and the near-miss lovemaking, everything had seemed rather surreal. So, she’d had a gorgeous man down to his boxer shorts in her living room by a roaring log fire … and then he’d gone and run off.
Oh, sweet Jesus, as if her life wasn’t complicated enough. Okay, so he may have sensed her unease, her fear of revealing her damaged breast, her scars? Perhaps he was telepathic or something. Or she was beginning to look freaked out without realizing it.
But there seemed to be more to it than that … something within him too. Something that he shielded behind that grumpy mask. She was sure it was a mask; she’d seen another side to him today, a glimpse of the person he once was, or could be again. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had storms, secrets, scars.
Claire settled down with a cup of tea by the fire; she’d kept it going by piling on more logs throughout the afternoon and it was giving out some welcome heat. The rain kept billowing, tapping on the windows. Staying in was the only option. She’d keep warm and cosy, get back to the safety of her latest read – a romantic novel with a touch of humour. Best let the relationship stuff remain safely on the page and in her mind.
She’d already texted her sister, her mum and Andrea, her friend and fellow journalist at the Herald, wanting some contact with the outside world. Sal sent a reply that she was Back to bedlam with the boys. Mark being far worse than the children! Claire could picture them all in their red-brick semi in Gosforth, a tumble of love. Sal had told her they had loads on, and wouldn’t manage to squeeze in a beach trip as a family, but she’d go and visit them soon herself. She remembered how great her nephews had been when she was in hospital, full of curious questions: ‘Auntie Claire, what’s that funny hat thing?’ – it was the cooler to try and save her hair. And ‘How big is the needle thing they need to stick in your arm? Is it massive?’ Claire hadn’t minded; everyone else was wondering the same things yet being far too polite and bland with How are you? and Is it all going okay? She had often felt like saying, ‘Oh yes, bloody marvellous having needles stuck in you, bits cut out of you, and your hair falling out. Fan-bloody-tastic.’ But they were only trying to be kind. The boys had been a welcome relief, bringing with them boldness and chocolates and laughter.
Later, in her bedroom, she lay thinking by the light of the bedside lamp.
What would he have seen, Ed? If they’d gone that step further. Would it have been so bad? She hadn’t looked directly at her scar in months, hadn’t really wanted to after that initial shock in the hospital ward. She had lived with it, got on with it, got dressed and covered it up every day, but hadn’t really thought too much about it until today. Until someone else was going to have to see it too, and it scared her. His likely reaction. Maybe it was a blessing he’d run when he did, because he may well have wanted to seconds later. Would his face have dropped, along with her bra? Would he have tried to rally but bottled out and left, making polite excuses?
What would he have seen?
She took a long, slow breath. The low lighting of the bedside lamp in the room was just enough, the daylight still a soft grey through the window: long June shadows, late nights. She got up and stood before the full-length mirror.
She pulled her sweatshirt off over her head. Her comfy washed-out bra – that on its own might have been enough to put him off, she mused wryly. Her breast shape looked okay so far, with the bra on – she’d chosen a reconstruction soon after the initial op, back to her original 34C. The V of her cleavage looked fairly normal.
She reached her hand up to her left cup and felt through the material, the faint ridge of the scar under her touch. Closed her eyes a second, reached behind for the clasp of her bra. Held her breath. Released it. Dropped the off-white material down to the floor. Stared. Hadn’t expected the tears that startled her eyes and misted the image for a second. Wiped them away. Focused. She had to see what he would see.
Her throat tightened and she gulped back a small sob. The scar still had the power to hurt her, but not as much as before.
They hadn’t been able to save the nipple; it often caused more problems trying to keep it, they said. So there was a breast shape with a bold reddish-purple scar line horizontally across it and little stitch indentations at right angles to it. A bit like ruler markings. She ran her forefinger along it, felt each delicate ridge. It didn’t hurt to touch any more; if anything, it wasn’t as sensitive as before the op. It only felt uncomfortable when she forgot and lay down on it, flat on her stomach. The lack of nipple looked odd. Could anyone find her attractive now? She thought back to all those stupid teenage doubts: Were her breasts big enough? Had they got a slight droop? And, oh my God, panic – a rogue hair around the nipple, the tiniest blondest hair ever. What the hell had she been thinking back then? What on earth had there ever been to worry about? It was laughable now. She’d like to give her teenage self a good shake.
She felt crushed, confused, yes. But she was here. Others hadn’t made it. Was it selfish to be thinking this way? The faces of those friends on the chemotherapy ward who hadn’t got through appeared in her mind. A lump lodged in her throat. This was her battle scar. And she was alive to see it. She must hold on to that. She was a survivor. She couldn’t waste her life worrying about a missing nipple, a ridge of scarred flesh.
This was her now. This was Claire Maxwell. She had to accept it. And she could. Her fear was how someone else, a man, a lover, might feel about it. She felt such a deep yearning to be held, to be loved again. Not just by her mum, her sister, her friends, precious though that support was, but by a man. She longed to get lost in someone else’s touch, have wonderful, gasp-out-loud, satisfying sex. It had been such a long time. Having Ed so near today had shaken up her world.
They were so close, so close to having sex – just about naked, for fuck’s sake. And he had run away. Her shoulders starting shaking as she pictured the pair of them. She began giggling at the bizarreness of the situation, and her bare breasts began jiggling. Life was bloody bonkers, whichever way you looked at it. But then the tears flowed. For her scars, her fears, for her lost friends, for the patients she hadn’t known, the ones facing their nightmare journey right now, and the ones that cancer had stolen from their families.
She wrapped herself up in her cosy dressing gown, went to the bedroom window and stood looking out at the half moon. Dusk was closing in around it now. There were glints of silver on the sea.
A ping of light arced across her garden. An upstairs room lit up next door. She thought she could hear the echoes of music, something classical, lyrical. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he looking out at the sea too?
The world was as big as a moonlit sky, as small as a grain of sand; it was crazy, it could hurt, it was beautiful. You could get lost in it.
Two lonely lights, side by side.