Into My Arms (10 page)

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You’ve been avoiding me at school.

He shrugged, not denying it. ‘What was the point?’

‘But you wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?’ she persisted. ‘You wanted to see me.’ Her heart was beating so furiously she was scared it would escape her chest, leap somehow into the space between them.

Ben sighed and met her gaze. ‘I wanted to see you, yes,’ he admitted.

‘I left Hamish,’ she said again. He stepped back and opened the door.

She knew his mouth; she’d kissed him before. She knew his lips and his teeth, the tongue that curled around her own. She knew, too, his scent and his taste, the slow warmth of his hands moving over her back. What she didn’t know yet was all the rest, yet somehow that was familiar too. The small moan he made when she undid his belt; the way their bodies aligned when he pulled her to the floor. First-time sex was meant to be a little clumsy, a little awkward, but this was as fluid and effortless as water flowing around rocks. They had their clothes on, and then they didn’t; they were on the floor and then Ben’s bed, and Skye didn’t know how it had happened, how they had got there. But it wasn’t important, anyway. All that mattered was Ben’s hands on her body, his gaze as he entered her—those eyes, those brown eyes, holding hers so tenderly and truthfully as he possessed her that she thought she might cry. It wasn’t a fuck; it was a takeover, an appropriation, but of the sweetest sort, with her exultant surrender. It was as if her skin recognised his, she thought afterwards, as if it had all happened many times before.

‘What happened?’ he said later as they lay, limbs still interlocked, beneath the sheets.

Curled under his arm, Skye couldn’t see his face and wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘With Hamish?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t take it very well.’

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Ben murmured, his lips against her hair. Then he pulled her up to face him and said, ‘No, I meant this. How did we get here? What happened?’

‘I have no idea,’ Skye replied honestly.

Ben was silent for a moment, scrutinising her expression as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth.

‘I don’t make a habit of it, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Skye said. ‘Hamish and I were good. I was happy with him. I’ve never screwed around.’

‘But . . . ?’ Ben prompted her.

She sighed and buried her face in his chest. She couldn’t look at him in case he laughed, or winced, or looked away. ‘But I kept thinking about you. All the time. At first just when I was at school, then every day—at the gym, at home, even with Hamish. When I came across you jogging it was almost as if I’d willed you there.’

‘Maybe you did,’ he said. A lock of her hair had fallen across his shoulder and he reached for it, twisting it around and around one finger before letting it go. ‘I’ve been thinking about you too. It’s been so weird. We don’t even know each other.’

‘We do a bit,’ Skye said.

‘Only superficially. I don’t know your middle name, or who you vote for, or how old you are or what you want to do with your life. It’s stupid. It’s hardly a basis for this.’ He paused, as if wanting to get the words right. ‘But every night when I’m lying here all I can think about is kissing you, or that time you followed me home. Every day I’m at school I’m aware of whether you’ll be there or not, and I go into the art room and look at the mosaic if you aren’t.’

‘You do?’ Skye asked, touched. ‘It’s not even finished.’

‘I do,’ he confirmed, his voice tinged with something between fear and desire. ‘And that’s what I mean. It’s not finished. It’s a bunch of coloured tiles on some board. But I still go and stand by it because it’s somewhere you are, and that’s corny and crazy and makes no sense at all, particularly when what I do know about you is that you’re clumsy and impulsive, and possibly unhinged enough to stalk me.’

‘And all I know about you is that you can’t run and you should have been a vet,’ retorted Skye, smiling, rolling on to him so that she straddled his body. ‘But I don’t care.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘I wish I did. I wish I hadn’t had to hurt Hamish. I wish this made sense. But just so you know, I’m twenty-six, my middle name’s Jane and I never know who I’m going to vote for until I’m in the booth—sometimes not even then. And what I want to do with my life is be here right now, even if it is crazy. Is that enough to be going on with?’

Ben didn’t answer, just reached up and pulled her mouth down to his, kissing her so fiercely that her teeth cut into her lips.

Afterwards she couldn’t stop kissing him. He lay there, spent, while her lips roamed over him, her scalp still tingling, everything alight with whatever it was that had passed between them. She kissed along his legs and the tip of each toe; kissed up under his armpit, breathing him in; kissed between his legs, tasting herself. Ben laughed and mumbled, and then pulled her sleepily to lie with him, his stubble rasping against her cheek.

‘We have to work tomorrow, you know,’ he said. ‘We have to be in the same school and the same staffroom and somehow keep our hands off each other.’

‘I know,’ Skye said, her palm flat on his chest. She could feel his heart beating. It was keeping time with hers. ‘But you won’t have to go and look at the mosaic anymore. You’ll have me.’

‘I’ll have you,’ he echoed, and kissed the top of her head.

12

‘What about Aaron?’ Ben asked, checking his side mirror as he changed lanes. ‘Does he know about me?’

‘It’s Arran, not Aaron. A-r-r-a-n,’ Skye replied. ‘I told you, remember? After a Scottish island, like my name. His is much smaller though, and far less popular.’ She giggled.

Ben glanced over at her and couldn’t help but smile, despite his own apprehension. She was flushed and excited, fidgeting in her seat. ‘Arran,’ he repeated. ‘Better get that right. And Nell—or does she prefer Mrs Holt?’

‘She’ll throw you out of the house if you call her Mrs Holt. It’s always been Nell, even when we were little kids.’ Skye laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. ‘I haven’t really told Arran anything much about you, because I’ve barely seen him since we met. He’s been busy; I’ve been busy.’ Her fingers edged closer to his groin. ‘In your bed, mostly.’

Ben felt the familiar thick pulse of desire, and dropped his own hand from the steering wheel to lie over Skye’s.

‘Nell’s probably filled him in, anyway,’ Skye continued. ‘Plus what is there to tell? You’re gorgeous; we’re together.’ She beamed across at him, squeezing his leg.

Ben’s return smile faltered. He wished it was that simple. They
were
together, had been for more than a month now, and it was time he met Skye’s family. All the same, he’d be glad when this dinner was over. Arran and Nell were probably lovely, but six weeks ago they’d sat at the same table with Hamish—someone she’d lived with; someone they knew. What must they be thinking about this sudden turnover?

‘Tell me about Arran,’ Ben said again, trying to calm his nerves. ‘Is he married? Kids?’

Skye laughed. ‘Arran’s gay—so not married, no, and definitely no kids. He had a boyfriend for a couple of years, but they broke up a few months ago.’ She noticed the look on his face. ‘What? Do you have a problem with that?’

Ben shook his head. ‘Of course not. But I still don’t know you at all, do I?’ He moved his hand away to change gears as they came to a halt at some traffic lights.

‘You know enough,’ she said, catching his mood and reaching across to take his face in her hands. ‘You know everything that matters.’ Then she kissed him until he kissed her back, the cars behind them honking their horns.

‘More, Ben?’ Nell asked, ladle hovering over his plate.

Ben didn’t really want another serving, but it seemed impolite to say so. ‘Great,’ he said, nodding enthusiastically. Skye caught his eye and smiled.

‘So tell us a bit more about yourself,’ Nell went on. ‘What about your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘Just one,’ Ben said. ‘A sister, Kirra. We get on really well—I miss her a lot.’

‘That’s lovely,’ said Nell, glancing at her children. ‘I think Skye and Arran would miss one another too. They take each other for granted.’

‘Oh, Kirra’s much younger than me,’ Ben added. ‘She’s only eleven. She’s probably why I got interested in teaching—having a young kid around, that is.’

‘Eleven?’ Nell asked. ‘That’s a big gap.’

‘Thirteen years,’ Ben confirmed. ‘I don’t think she was planned—actually, I’m sure she wasn’t. It took ages for Mum and Dad to have me, and I think they gave up after that. Kirra was a bit of a miracle.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Nell said again. ‘They must have been thrilled. Skye and Arran were IVF babies, so I can imagine how your parents must have felt.’

‘Nell,’ Arran groaned. ‘Ben doesn’t need to hear your gynaecological history on the first date.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Nell said, reaching for the salad. She handed the bowl to Ben, though he hadn’t asked for it. ‘We were very fortunate. IVF was only new back then. Test-tube babies, they were called. I think the first Melbourne one was born only a few years before I had these two.’

‘You know how we have Scottish names?’ Skye interjected. ‘Well, I’ve thought of what Ben’s would be—Ben Nevis. Like the mountain.’ She looked around the table expectantly. ‘That fits, doesn’t it?’

Ben blushed. He was touched by how badly she wanted him to fit into her family, but also a bit embarrassed. These things took time. They couldn’t be forced.

‘Sure, Skye,’ said Arran, with mock enthusiasm. ‘Shall we call him Nev for short?’

‘I used to have an Uncle Nev,’ Ben said. ‘He loved the beer. Loved it a bit too much, in fact. Got into his swag one night after a B&S ball, and was so drunk he didn’t realise he’d laid it out in the car park, behind all the utes. He was a bit flat the next morning.’

Arran laughed. Skye looked horrified. Nell ignored them both. ‘Maybe we won’t call you Nev, then,’ she said, reaching across to top up Ben’s wine glass. ‘Ben Nevis is incredible, though—wild and beautiful. We hiked up it once in a snowstorm. Have you been there?’

Ben started to say no, that he’d never left Australia, but then he realised Nell wasn’t listening. ‘You and Skye are quite alike, you know,’ she pronounced suddenly, studying his face, the bottle motionless in midair.

‘Same eyes,’ said Skye, holding out her own glass and smiling at Ben. ‘I noticed that too, the minute we met. Does anyone want any more curry, or should I get dessert?’

‘How’s the mosaic coming along?’ Nell asked Skye as she spooned lemon pudding into four bowls.

‘Good,’ said Skye. ‘I’m very happy with it so far. The kids have done a great job.’

‘They really have,’ added Ben. ‘I don’t know anything about art, but I’m amazed at how professional it’s looking. It’s almost half finished now.’

‘Mosaic’s a good choice for that age group,’ said Nell. ‘Everyone can get involved, and it’s not as demanding as a mural or sculpture. You can get a decent result even if none of your students has an artistic bone in their body.’

‘How’s that kid you were worried about, Skye?’ Arran asked. ‘The one in your class, from Iraq.’

‘Iran,’ she corrected, turning to Ben. ‘He means Zia. Arran’s a caseworker for the Asylum Seeker Project—I think I already told you. I mentioned Zia to him because it bothered me that Zia’s so quiet, and doesn’t have any friends.’ She poured cream straight from the carton onto her dessert, wiping up a stray drop with her finger.

‘It’s hardly surprising,’ Arran shrugged. ‘You can‘t really expect otherwise, after what kids like that have been through. It might take Zia years to fit in, but they usually do eventually.’

‘Usually?’ queried Nell. ‘Is that enough? And what about the ones that don’t?’

Arran held up his hands. ‘Hey, I’m not saying it’s ideal, but that’s how it is. We don’t have the resources or the funding to help everybody—we have to concentrate on the worst cases, and some of those are completely fucked.’

‘Arran!’ chided Nell.

‘That must be frustrating,’ said Ben.

‘It is,’ Arran said. ‘A lot of them are never going to get visas. They’ve been tortured, they can’t work, they’ve got medical problems, they’re depressed. Some of them are educated, but their qualifications aren’t recognised here—the rest, particularly the women, are lucky if they’ve had four or five years of school.’ He sat back in his seat and ate a spoonful of the pudding. ‘Sorry, I know I’m lecturing, but it
is
frustrating. You want to give up on those cases, simply because they suck the life out of you and so that the funding goes somewhere it might actually make a difference. But you don’t, of course. You’re all they have.’