Pillow Talk (17 page)

‘But Kitty,’ said Petra, ‘I couldn't tell Cupid in which direction to take aim. I haven't a clue where Arlo is.’

‘Arlo?’ said Gina.

‘It means “manly”,’ cooed Eric.

‘What
was
said?’ Kitty asked her.

‘He said he'd find me,’ Petra said. ‘God knows how. He doesn't know where I live either. That's what I mean when I say it's all so stupid. And pointless. And if it's stupid and pointless why can't I keep him from my mind?’

‘Because it has the makings of a fairy tale,’ said Kitty a little sadly, ‘and fairy tales don't happen in real life.’

Petra shrugged. ‘Exactly,’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-four

Arlo returned to Roseberry Hall. Not even in his wildest dreams had he envisaged Petra running in slow motion down the drive and into his arms, yet in reality it was still a shock to find he had only the grunting Walley Brothers for company. These grizzled old men, the longest-serving members of staff, spoke little and smelt a lot, mooching about the grounds as they did checking fencing, killing rabbits and removing fox dung. They'd grunt if they were feeling cordial, more usually they made a sound closer to a growl. No one liked them. Even the most mischievous boys steered clear. Even Headmaster Pinder privately considered there to be truth in the rumour that the Walley Brothers made personal use of the fox shit they removed, so odoriferous and generally repellent were they. No one was entirely sure of their Christian names but their lack of redeeming features, such as personalities in general, saw them only ever referred to as Mr Walley and Mr Walley. However, the playing fields never had a trace of fox dung and the fences were always orderly and as the Walleys' arrival at the school had predated Headmaster Pinder's by at least a decade, their jobs were safe.

Returning to school a good few days before the staff were due to filter back, Arlo swiftly decided Trappist solitude was preferable to any level of contact with the Walley brothers so he took to his folly and wondered whether he was slightly deluded to have come back early at all. He'd forsaken his lovely mum's home-cooking and the opportunity to spend time with a couple of his childhood friends, to belt back north on a whim. Late that night, while he waited in vain for sleep, he started to feel increasingly foolish for returning in such a hurry on what now seemed such a ludicrous premise. He decided he'd allocate himself two days to meander around the environs. If she's here I'll find her, he told himself, and if she isn't, I won't. Two days, and then life must return to how it was.

He window-shopped for the first time in his life; in Guisborough, Yarm and Stokesley, looking not at the merchandise but at the passers-by reflected in the windows. He lingered over a latte at Chapter's Deli – and soon after, over a pot of tea at the School House café, glancing nonchalantly at the clientele while trying to eavesdrop for clues. He went for a haircut and casually asked the stylist had she seen Petra? Petra who? Petra Flint – she's probably one of your clients, you know.

He dropped her name into conversation once or twice when he went for an early pint at the Blackwell Ox in Carlton, in a manner which suggested, Petra Flint? You know Petra! but none of the locals seemed to.

In Great Ayton the following day, Arlo procrastinated over precisely when to go into Suggitts so he went for a hike, pacing up Easby Moor, telling himself that he was marvelling at the view rather than scrutinizing it for someone who would barely register on such a vast panorama unless she was standing alongside him. He even looked to his left, to his right. Over his shoulder. But he was most certainly on his own.

‘I'm a stupid fuck,’ he chided as he stomped back down to the village.

He bought a chocolate bar from Suggitts and made small talk with the sales assistant.

‘Oh well, I'd better get going. Thanks for this. Take care now. Looks like it's brightening. No, the boys don't come back until Sunday. I'm just catching up on my marking, my lessons – making good use of the peace and quiet. Bye now.’

‘Goodbye, pet.’

Arlo hovered in the doorway, his mouth full of Mars Bar. He gulped it down and turned back. The proprietor thought he looked as though he was going to choke. He cleared his throat a number of times and patted himself on the chest. He was about to turn away again but stopped himself.

‘That girl – in the rain. Do you remember? Just before Easter.’

‘The lass who paid for your Easter egg?’

‘Yes.’

‘What of her?’

‘I don't know,’ he said honestly. ‘I don't know. Has she been back?’

‘For your money?’

‘Or maybe she's just been back here anyway?’

‘She's not, I'm afraid. But all the Easter chocolates are reduced now, though they've still got a way on their best-before. But you could leave your money with me.’

‘So she will be back then, you think?’

‘She was in practically daily. Though I can't say I've seen her since.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since the rain, pet.’

‘Her name is Petra.’

‘That's nice.’

‘If you see her—’

‘—I'll tell her you wish to settle your debt.’

That night, staring at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling because closing his eyes had not brought him closer to sleep, Arlo found it hard not to feel deflated. It was hard to turn a blind eye to the taunt of images of Petra which alternated with memories of Helen in his mind. Arlo had constantly rationalized that what happened all those years ago with Helen had induced the celibacy he'd maintained ever since. He'd flicked off the switch which controlled thoughts of love, that switch which turned on desire; he'd unplugged it from his core, removed the fuse and hurled it away. And hadn't his life been all the more straightforward for it. Much better. Preferable.

Now, suddenly, after one incident with a chocolate rabbit and a furtive wank in his childhood bed, there were those unmistakable stirrings in his soul and his body surged again. He wanted to see her, hear her, touch her, taste her. He wanted to feel her hair, test how soft her cheeks were against his lips, see how her body might fit and fold into his; he wanted to scoop up her dizzy hair and gaze at the nape of her neck. And he wanted his body to be felt, he wanted her hand to slip round the back of his neck, her other hand to be laid against his chest; he wanted her lips to reach up to his, he wanted to sense how she'd stand on tiptoes in the process.

But he hadn't found Petra and he didn't know where else to look and he thought himself a stupid fuck for even trying. Window bloody shopping. Pot after pot of sodding tea. Scouring the landscape. Grilling sweetshop owners.

It wasn't going to happen.

So why couldn't he just think, Oh well, what the hell, and forget her? Go back to the calm and surety of feeling that he simply didn't give a damn when it came to love and lust and all that life-consuming panoply.

And why couldn't he just go to bloody sleep? Look at the time, for God's sake.

When a knock at his door followed by a rapping on his windows awoke Arlo the next morning, his first thought was Petra, his second thought was the Walley Brothers. He checked what he was wearing – a T-shirt and boxer shorts – and assessed this would do for either. The thought that it might be Miranda with croissants and fresh orange juice hadn't entered his mind.

‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ Miranda said.

‘Miranda?’ said Arlo.

‘Are you going to invite me in?’ she said. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

But she was already in. And Arlo really noticed that one of her gifts, alongside the croissants and orange juice, was her comely figure. Today displayed under a tight T-shirt that was just a little too short for the jeans she was wearing. Glimpses of flat toned midriff. It was as if, previously, he'd seen her only in monochrome, behind some sort of haze. Arlo felt suddenly ravenous.

‘Is anyone else around?’ she asked.

‘Just you, me and the Walleys,’ Arlo said and she wrinkled her nose with disdain.

‘Well, I haven't enough to go around,’ she said, ‘so it would be rude to invite them in.’ She walked through to his kitchenette and started busying herself opening cupboards and drawers though Arlo would have been quite happy to have swigged the juice from the carton and dabbed up any croissant crumbs from his lap. ‘How was your Easter?’ she asked, though she didn't wait for a reply. ‘I'm taking that job. I've come back early to see David Pinder. Though he can't entice me to stay. It's an amazing opportunity – a feather in my cap. I'd be mad not to take it. So, this is my last term.’ She turned. Two glasses balancing on two plates. Kitchen roll under her arm. Belly button peeking out under her T-shirt. Arlo speechless.

‘Earth to Arlo,’ she laughed. ‘Are you awake?’

With one hand on his hip, Arlo ran the palm of the other over his closely cropped hair, down to his neck while he rotated his head gently, side to side, as if stiff from sleeping awkwardly. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I'm awake.’

‘Come,’ she said, all sparky, ‘let's eat.’ And she led the way back through to his lounge. And he followed her bottom all the way. And she was turned away from him, bending to place the plates on the coffee table. Now she was straightening to open the carton of juice. Bending again, to lay out the croissants. Black knickers. Arlo could see the tip of a tattoo in the small of her back. No idea of what it was. Whatever it was it was delineated further down, nearer her bum. She bent again, to pour.

‘Juice?’

And Arlo was up behind her, the soft flimsy cotton of his boxer shorts providing no modesty for his cock grown hard. He pressed against her, her denim against his straining flesh. He slipped his hands down her sides, caressing the undulation of her waist. His hands going around to the front, the buckle of her belt, the soft strip of skin between jeans and top, the sexy little groove of her belly button. Tight white cotton stretched over fantastic tits. Nape of her neck. He put his lips there and at that moment she turned to him and his wet lips swept over her jaw, her cheek, to her open mouth where her tongue awaited him, lively and moist.

Her hands were fast and nosy, feeling every inch of him but spending just seconds before moving on; as if quickly confirming items on an order she'd placed long ago. Arlo was more leisurely, he just wanted to enjoy the sensation of the weight and warmth of a female form in his hands again. He was more than happy to linger; one hand squeezing her buttock, the other fondling her breast. Then going beyond her jeans to those black knickers, easing his fingers down between elastic and flesh. The crack of her arse. He was fit to explode.

She pulled away, looking wild and triumphant. With her tongue caught seductively between her teeth she wriggled from her T-shirt, snapped away her belt and ripped down the zip of her jeans. A simple white bra. Lacy black knickers. The best of both worlds, for Arlo. He took off his T-shirt, his cock now gamely protruding through the fly of his boxers. She lay back on his sofa and with one movement he pulled down her jeans and her knickers with them. She grinned lasciviously and spread her legs.

It was like being at a smorgasbord having not eaten for a month. Where do you start? What do you choose as your first taste? Do you stop and assess all that's on offer, work from left to right, top to bottom? Go for a little cunnilingus for hors d'oeuvres, a full-on fuck for main course and a blow-job for pudding before an orgasm with the petits fours? Do you think with your dick, or dive on in head first? Kneeling over Miranda, Arlo dipped down to suck her nipples, moving his mouth to hers while his fingers delved between her legs to find her sex wet and yielding. Pushing her legs open with his, he eased his cock up deep inside her. The exquisite sensation, which he'd chosen to renounce for so long, was so intense that it registered on his face as pleasure-pain. It was like his first time. It was better than his first time, because he knew what was coming. He bucked and twisted and humped and thrusted and she groaned and panted and told him to fuck her harder.

‘Christ.’

‘It's OK – I'm on the pill. Come.’

As the spunk pelted out of him, he heard himself cry out. A hollow yell of relief. Five years. In a flurry of spurts, five years of abstinence and deeply buried thirst were quenched. Miranda was licking at his eyelashes to have him open his eyes, but he kept them scrunched shut. It wasn't her face he wanted to see. And he wasn't conjuring Petra's either; he couldn't, not in this situation. He had to keep his eyes tight shut so he could block out the sight of Helen. She was the last woman he'd slept with. When his heartbeat regulated and his breathing evened and his cock was limp, he levered himself away from Miranda. He focused on her nose as he smiled at her and then he went to the bathroom, buried his face in a towel and silently wept.

Chapter Twenty-five

The general consensus was that Petra should return to North Yorkshire, for whatever reason and with whatever end result. Lucy had sent text messages hourly from Hong Kong saying:

go! Lx
    u gone yet? Lx
    r u there? Lx
    is he there? Lx
    have u found him? Lx

Gina who, in her sensible Chelsea way, felt that too much romanticized whimsy was not good for a person, was nevertheless most forthright about Petra returning. ‘Even if just to see how he looks when he's dry, darling. For goodness' sake go – have some fun, get it out of your system, then come back and crack on.’ After all, Petra had hardly lifted a tool since her return.

Eric's attitude differed. While he agreed with Gina that a fling might do Petra the power of good, he was less concerned with Arlo turning out to be some cad, than he was with Petra's sudden love affair with this far-off place.

‘It's all very well falling for somebody – people are generally a movable feast,’ he told her over a baked potato and vegetable chilli at their favourite café in Leather Lane, ‘but being seduced by the bucolic charms of a foreign country you hardly know is far more dangerous.’

‘It's only Yorkshire!’ Petra laughed, fanning her mouth. ‘You don't need jabs and a passport to go there, you know.’

‘Well, it would suit me if your fancy was tickled by someone closer to home,’ Eric shrugged.

Petra shrugged back.

‘It might all go horribly wrong,’ Eric said, ‘and you'll be miles away.’

‘I'm a big girl now, Eric,’ Petra said. ‘It's time to look after myself.’

Kitty was busy organizing her work for a small display in the National Theatre foyer and Petra came back from lunch to find her flailing around the studio looking alarmingly like Morticia Addams.

‘Petra!’ she said. ‘You're not busy. Can you anneal for me? I've so much to do.’

‘No problem. What do you want?’ Petra said, donning goggles and sitting at the flame.

‘This piece, that one – and this part here on this one. Where's Eric?’

‘Being moody.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he's worried I'm going to emigrate. To Yorkshire. Drama queen.’

Kitty laughed.

‘Everyone's confronting me with their twopence-worth of advice,’ Petra said. ‘Thank God you're too busy to talk.’

Kitty laughed again and Petra watched her face soften. ‘Well, for what it's worth – and I think it's worth more than tuppence – my vibe says you
should
go. Even if nothing happens – even if you don't find him, never see him again in your life – I feel you should at least go. Allow your future every chance to unfold.’

They worked quietly. Kitty wrapping black velvet around a cardboard toilet tube to make a display unit for her bangles; Petra at the burner, annealing silver for her.

‘You sound like someone I know,’ Petra said.

‘Who?’

‘Someone I knew,’ Petra corrected.

‘Who?’

‘A lady called Mrs McNeil. The pensioner I used to visit when I was at school – I've told you about her.’

‘The tanzanite lady?’

‘Yes. Amongst many, many other things.’

‘When did she die?’

‘God – let me see. Sixteen years ago.’

Kitty came up close to Petra. ‘I'm very receptive to voices from the other side, Petra. You know what I mean when I say
the other side
.’ Kitty regarded her gravely. Petra nodded, hoping she wore a sincere expression, despite the goggles, despite little belief in psychic power. ‘
They
make themselves heard, Petra. It's about contact, about shrinking the current world, about expanding life and constricting time.’

Petra was a little lost by the theory but seduced by Kitty's conviction nonetheless.

‘What would she say?’ Kitty asked her. ‘Mrs McNeil?’ She answered before Petra had a chance to think about it. ‘She'd tell you to go, wouldn't she? She'd say the journey in itself would be worth it.’

Petra watched Kitty whirling around the studio like a pantomime witch. And she thought, She's right, that's just the sort of thing Mrs McNeil would have said. And then Petra thought to herself that she loved Kitty. When had this woman ceased to be just someone with whom she simply shared studio space and the bills? And Gina too, for that matter. And Eric, of course Eric. Her Studio Three: colleagues yes, but friends too. Firm and fast.

The journey in itself will be worth it.

The phrase became Petra's mantra on the crammed tube home.

In her flat, she chanted the sentence under her breath as she tidied the place and went from room to room to check if she was imagining a smell of gas. Petra glanced at Mrs McNeil's paintings of Kilimanjaro. Her voice, not heard for sixteen years, was still so vivid to Petra that she decided quite categorically that it couldn't have been taken on by Kitty. It was, however, a kind idea of Kitty's. And Petra was happy to think that they spoke as one, Kitty and Mrs McNeil. Kindred spirits – that would do.

The journey itself will be worth it.
I bet that's what you told yourself when your husband took you to Tanzania in the 1960s. And if I asked you what I should do – about this Arlo business – you'd tell me the journey in itself
will
be worth it. So I will go. I'll give it a go.

It was Thursday: a week and a half after Petra's return from Yorkshire. The day after Arlo and Miranda had sex. The day of Kitty's display at the National. The day when Petra booked a train ticket to Northallerton for the following day, despite not knowing whether or not Charlton would let her stay at the Old Stables again. This time, her trip wouldn't hinge on his generosity. She was going. She'd find somewhere. Wasn't there a local noticeboard outside the Spar in Stokesley? The little tourist cabin at Great Ayton?

And suddenly, like details drifting back from a dream, or specifics recalled long after a trauma, Petra is transported away from her bench in the studio and straight back into the little shop in Great Ayton; Easter on its way, rain hurling outside, Arlo inside, Petra cradling a chocolate rabbit in her arms. And the shopkeeper is laughing and staring at the puddle Arlo has left in her shop and she is saying,
He left without paying for his Easter egg – the soft lad. Ah well, I know where he lives.

Petra was too fidgety, too preoccupied to work and after an hour doing nothing at her bench but replay the woman's words, she raced to Hatton Garden, to the Charlton Squire Gallery hoping to find him there.

He was.

Petra was breathless.

At first, Charlton was irritated – he had a wealthy client perusing the platinum collection, who required his most subtle but persuasive attention.

‘Can I stay at your place again?’ Petra said, tugging at his satin shirtsleeve for attention. ‘From tomorrow? For a while, perhaps? Please?’

‘This one!’ the wealthy client declared, jabbing at the display case before flouncing over to a leather chair by the desk.

Charlton glanced swiftly from the opulent sapphire-and-platinum ring to Petra. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he thought to himself.

‘Can I stay at the Old Stables? Please? I'm in love.’

Everyone falls in love with the Old Stables, Charlton thought as he swished over to the display cabinet, unlocked it with a tiny key and plucked up the ring. He glanced at the price of the ring as he took it over to the client. Sixteen thousand pounds. Lovely.

‘Of course you can, Pet,’ he hissed at Petra. ‘Now pipe down – I'm serving.’

*

Petra returned home late that evening, having gone to the National Theatre with Eric and Gina to support Kitty. Gina had given them a lift in the back of her Range Rover where Eric and Petra had played like kids with the electric windows and the seat-back DVDs and the pop-out drinks holders; exasperating Gina to the extent that she jumped a red light and was flashed by a camera.

Initially, the three of them worried that Kitty's works looked frustratingly inconsequential in the echoey and capacious foyer. But then they saw how all who approached the cases were transfixed; the sumptuous filigree, the delicacy of design and the brightness of the precious metals radiating irresistible allure. Within a couple of hours, there were more red dots than not against Kitty's collection.

‘I'm going to make that journey tomorrow,’ Petra told her, giving her a hug. ‘I'll see you whenever.’

Kitty kissed her smack on the lips. ‘Bon voyage, girlfriend.’

Petra's answering machine was flashing. She thought it might be Lucy following up the text message Petra had sent about train tickets and fate and fingers-crossed Pxxxxx. But there was only one message and it wasn't long distance. It was from Kent and it was from her mother.

‘Petra? Is that you? I think this is your number. Well, it's the last one I have for you. I'm coming to London! I need somewhere to stay. Can I stay at yours? I mean, I'd love to see you! Of course I would! And so I thought it would be fun to stay with you!’

But I'm meant to be going to Yorkshire, Mum.

Glum, Petra sat and stewed. It was nearly midnight when she dialled her mother.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘It's Petra.’

(She wondered why her mother never quite recognized the voice of her only child saying,
Mum?
)

‘Petra! Did you get my message? Was that your number?’

‘I did. It is. So you're coming to London?’

‘I am! Tomorrow – oh! today. There's a hemp workshop in Hackney.’

‘North Finchley is miles away from Hackney.’

‘It's a damn sight nearer than Kent. My train arrives at fourish. Just leave the keys somewhere if you'll be still at work.’

‘It would be nice to see you, Mum,’ Petra said slowly.

‘Oh yes – I'm looking forward to seeing you too, I'm sure there'll be time,’ her mother rushed. ‘It's been ages! I'll bring my own milk.’

‘I won't be here, Mum. I'm going to Yorkshire first thing tomorrow.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, would you mind if I stayed at yours anyway? Do you have a cat that needs feeding, or plants which need watering?’

‘No, I don't. But you can stay, Mum, if you like. I don't mind. Upstairs have my spare keys.’

‘Thanks, Petra! I'll put some eggs in your fridge for you.’

‘But I might stay in Yorkshire a while.’

‘Oh, the eggs'll be good for at least three weeks. Well, thanks again, darling. I'll leave it all spick and span.’

Petra doubted it. But then she thought to herself that she'd rather not be in her flat when her mother overran it for the weekend. Then she thought how that was rather sad. However, she made herself consider how her mother hadn't asked a single thing about her – not how she was, nor even why she was going to Yorkshire. Had she forgotten that her daughter was allergic to cats? And Petra thought actually, all of that was far sadder.