Pillow Talk (23 page)

Petra nodded and knitted the frisee with her fork. She'd never considered that home could be anywhere other than where you'd been brought up. Even if you didn't particularly like it. She never thought that home is where the heart is could be more than a saying, more than a song.

‘Why are
you
here, Arlo?’ she asks, as they snuggle into bed past midnight, having chatted the evening away.

‘Oh,’ he says blithely, ‘I'm just here for the pussy.’

Petra punches him lightly and then bashes him with her pillow. ‘Pillock,’ she says. ‘Not
here
, here. I meant—’

‘I know,’ Arlo says, ‘I know. A bit like you really – something went awry for me back in London, a few years ago, and an opportunity arose here which I took without a backward glance.’

‘What happened, what went awry, Arlo?’

He turns and lies on his back. ‘I knew you'd ask me that.’ And then he says ‘idiot’ at himself, under his breath, which Petra wasn't meant to hear, but they both know she has.

Petra tells herself to stop prying, it's late, don't push – not now. Don't spoil what's been so perfect by digging too deep just yet. ‘Tell me.’ Shut up!

‘Oh – it's long and complicated and boring, Petra. My career was at a crossroads. I broke up with someone I'd been with for a while. You know – one of those life-defining intersections that tend to epitomize one's late twenties.’

‘What happened – with your career?’ Petra gives herself full marks for manipulating the divulgence into less contentious territory.

‘I changed my tune,’ Arlo says.

‘Stop being so enigmatic!’

‘Seriously – I'd always been in bands, from school through university and beyond. I worked in the music industry, but I knew that while my music had a market, I didn't. I wasn't cool enough, or young enough – certainly not good-looking enough.’

‘The Magic Numbers are no oil painting.’

‘Perhaps not – but they're marketable enough for that very reason. The industry needs the whole package. But anyway, if I'm truthful, over and above losing my nerve performing – I dreaded it, I hated it – I also lost my love of songwriting.’

‘I loved it when you sang to me.’

‘But I wasn't performing, Petra – I was just singing.’

‘Your songs were great.’

‘Other people seem to think so. I was fairly successful as a songwriter – as the continuing royalties show. Bizarre.’

‘Doesn't it rankle? Hearing some other voice work your music? Isn't it like seeing another man with your ex-girlfriend or something?’

‘Not really,’ says Arlo. ‘While I write a song, I'm inextricably bound to it. The moment it's finished, it becomes separate, autonomous.’

And Petra thinks to herself, Quick! Lead nicely on – pick up on the ex-girlfriend strand now. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Yes, I can see that. And. Then. So you broke up with someone around that time too?’

‘Yes. It was all miserably synchronized.’

‘Oh. Poor you. What was she—’

‘Helen. We'd been together a few years. You know how it is – you either go for it, big time, or you let it go.’

‘Do you keep in touch?’

‘No.’

The tone of his voice surprises Petra. It's unequivocal. It bars further access to the subject. She had wanted to ask – to double-check – was there anyone at the moment, had there been anyone up here. But she can't. She thinks to herself, Perhaps he's just really really tired. We've spent the best part of twelve hours getting to know each other intimately – making love and talking, sharing.

‘Night, Arlo,’ she says and she kisses his shoulder because he has turned away from her. She tells herself to let him sleep. She has a feeling he's very much awake.

Petra wakes up very cold. It is dawn. She is slumped against a kitchen unit, she is sitting in a puddle of wee. She is mortified. What on earth has she to sleepwalk about? More to the point, had Arlo seen? She wipes the floor clean. As quietly as the creaky taps let her, she soaks a tea towel and washes herself down. She tiptoes back to the bedroom, sneaks back into bed. Arlo turns towards her, spoons against her, enclosing her in his arms. Why on earth would she have tried to walk away from Arlo?

Just a bad dream.

Everything's OK. See – you're in his arms.

Go back to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-five

She did go back to sleep. She woke at gone ten, by which time Arlo had been awake for an hour. He had been watching her for the best part of half an hour. The worst part of half an hour had been on waking, when a sense of dread had swept over him in a dark wave. He had lain beside Petra, not daring to turn or look. He'd kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling which, in the Old Stables, provided ample dinks and cracks conducive to ruminating. As much as his heart surged, his stomach plummeted. For every thundering beat of his heart proclaiming love and lots of it, his conscience hammered back that Love could only mean one thing. And just in case Arlo feigned not to know the meaning of love, his memory charged in to remind him.

But all it had taken was a tiny sleep-sigh from Petra. Despite the noise of the conflict raging inside him, one perfectly timed little whisper of her breath had lured him around. He turned to her, gazed at her, and for the best part of half an hour he fed upon the peace and loveliness from her repose until the emptiness and negativity had been washed away and a full tank of hope and happiness replaced it. When Arlo had seen Petra for that first time, just before Easter, it had been like revisiting the feelings she'd instilled in him seventeen years ago. Remember me? Yes, of course I remember you – how could I ever forget? And for a while it had been those memories of a halcyon time when life was simple and so much felt good, which had seduced him. But as Arlo looked at her in the here and now, on a quiet Sunday morning in late May, it was unequivocally the Petra of the present, not the past, who soothed his soul and charged his heart even while she was asleep.

‘Good morning, Miss Flint.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Gone ten.’

‘Have you been awake long?’

‘The best part of half an hour.’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘Eventually. As per usual.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I'm fine. I'm used to it.’

Arlo felt if he held on tight to the present and went forward fast, then his past wouldn't catch up with him. It would be left behind to fade; to dissolve into less than a memory, something so nebulous and distant it would have no impact on the horizon of his future. Helen had hated walking but Petra said she loved it so they cycled to Great Ayton and hiked to Roseberry Topping from the Gribdale Gate approach. Arlo didn't let go of her hand, not even up the arduous and narrow stepped path though this caused them both to stumble. Petra thought it was fantastically romantic, even though she had to tug him occasionally and say, Slow down, it's not a race. It was a magnificent day and by the time they'd made it to the summit of the oddly shaped hill, they were down to T-shirts. The view was 360 degrees; Arlo could look all around, and in whichever direction he looked, whatever was behind him, Petra was at his side.

‘My first lesson isn't until eleven tomorrow – I could stay tonight, if you like.’

‘I like,’ said Petra, beaming.

What she didn't like, though, was bumping into a colleague of Arlo's that afternoon in the ice-cream queue.

‘Savidge!’

‘Garton.’

For a split second, but not short enough for Petra not to notice, Arlo looked panicked.

‘This is Jenn! Jenn, this is Arlo Savidge – the music maestro at school.’

‘Hi, Arlo, I've heard a lot about you.’

‘Hullo, Jenn – you're a brave woman taking on Garton.’

‘Actually, it's been my pleasure.’

All eyes were on Petra who wasn't yet sure whether Garton was a Christian name or a surname.

‘Hi, I'm Nige Garton.’

‘Hullo, I'm Petra Flint.’

‘This is my girlfriend, Jenn.’

‘Nice to meet you, Jenn.’

‘And you.’

All eyes burned at Arlo.

‘She's an old friend of mine,’ he said without fidget or mumble or any intention of quantifying this. ‘We've just done Roseberry Topping.’

And then Arlo turned down Nige and Jenn's invitation to join them, ushering away his old friend Petra Flint before she could even ask for a Flake in her cornet.

*

She licked her ice cream without really tasting it, thinking to herself how dumb she felt, and lonely; despite sitting next to Arlo, beside a picturesque weir which tumbled and plunged as if it was a display put on just for them.

‘Petra?’ Arlo nudged her. ‘Your ice cream's dripping.’

She licked the vanilla trail oozing over her fingers, then regarded the cone. ‘I don't really want it.’

He nudged her again and put something on her knee. It was a penny. ‘For your thoughts,’ he said.

‘They seemed nice,’ she shrugged. Arlo looked puzzled. ‘Nige – and Jenn.’

‘Nige is a great bloke,’ said Arlo, then he regarded Petra. ‘Will ten pence do it? Go on. A quid, then?’

Petra failed to maintain a sullen expression as she fiddled with the coins. ‘Sorry, I'm just being – sensitive.’

Arlo nudged her again.

What the hell. ‘Am I just an
old friend
, then?’

Arlo tossed the coins from her knee one by one into the river while pondering his tone of voice before he spoke. ‘You haven't been to school for a long long time, Petra,’ he said gently. ‘If I'd said, “This is Petra, my new girlfriend,” the school grapevine will have twisted itself silly by the time I arrive back.’

Petra gladly felt livid with herself for being such an idiot.

‘The thing is, I'm famous for
not
having girlfriends, Petra. In all the time I've been in Yorkshire, for all the time I've been at Roseberry Hall – there hasn't been anyone. At all. No one. Not a sniff. They've teased me, over the years, as you'd expect. Not the boys so much – my colleagues.’

‘But
am
I more than just an old friend?’

‘You're my mad and gorgeous attention-seeking new girlfriend,’ he said, ‘whom I happen to have known for years.’

Petra looked at him. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a kiss.

‘Finally, I can enjoy my ice cream,’ she said, kissing him back first.

If the previous day their lovemaking had been woven with poetry and awe, today it was more down to earth, boisterous even. When they returned to the Old Stables, they stripped each other enthusiastically, eager to try it this way and that. They laughed a lot, giggled too. Petra did an involuntary fanny fart but before she could be mortified, Arlo said a deadpan, Bless you.

He fingered her in such a way, an infuriating but intentional fraction of an inch off orgasm, that she writhed and cursed and slapped him and then gave him a blow-job that left him hollering for mercy. This time, hot and sweaty and about to come, Arlo did concede that OK, perhaps they ought to use something. And after a frantic and blaspheming struggle with the cellophane of a brand new box, he was fully cloaked for safe sex.

Lolling over each other in post-coital languor, Petra propped herself up on one arm, her already flushed face now squashed too.

‘You're very good at it,’ she told him. ‘At sex.’

‘Thank you. I usually charge by the hour but it's two for the price of one on Sundays.’

He flipped her onto her back, propped himself up, squashing his own features. ‘You're not too bad yourself.’

‘So I've been told, many a time.’

‘Tart.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you mean I'm not your first, Miss Flint?’

They laughed and lay side by side. ‘Arlo – you said there hasn't been anyone, since you've been here?’

‘Yes?’

‘But isn't that ages?’

‘Yes, but it's like riding a bike – you don't forget how to do it.’

‘But you're a hot-blooded male.’

‘Yes, but you can choose not to put the heating on.’

‘Proverbial cold showers? But for
years
?’

‘I made a conscious decision, Petra. Call it celibacy, whatever – but without the martyrish sense of abstinence. It's been no big deal.’

‘Year in, year out?’

‘It wasn't difficult. It's like flicking a switch. Until it became a habit, just part of me.’

‘But why?’

He fell very silent. Petra brought her face in front of his, gave him a searching little look, kissed his cheek. ‘Why?’

‘I couldn't be doing with women, Petra.’

‘Post-Helen?’

‘If you like.’

‘Tell me?’

‘No – it's in the past.’

Tell me tell me!

‘But then I came along?’

‘You did, Petra. You came, out of the blue, and turned my life right around.’

And Petra Flint was happy with that and she drifted off to sleep feeling less curious now, and more than a little proud of herself.

In the early hours, as Arlo lay wide awake, he knew why he hadn't told Petra about Helen but he wondered why he hadn't told her about Miranda. He wouldn't be telling her more about Helen – he felt totally justified on that count. Nothing to be gained there, no point. But he didn't know why he'd shied away from telling her about Miranda. Moreover, why had he laboured the point of having been celibate instead? It would have been easier if he had been honest from the start. Recently, I shagged a colleague a couple of times – when I thought you weren't going to show. After all, Arlo didn't like to lie. Telling Nige that Petra was an old friend wasn't a lie. It wasn't even untrue – it just wasn't the whole truth. But why hadn't he qualified her status to Nige? Was it solely to avoid gossip – and was this only for Miranda's sake? Or was it that he himself needed to acclimatize to his change in personal circumstance?

However, telling Petra that he hadn't slept with anyone for years had been an outright lie. His mother had always said you're more likely to get into far deeper trouble if you don't tell the truth. That little adage had got him through life very well. Tonight, though, sleepless and confused, it seemed easier said than done.

Sleep. Why can't I bloody
sleep
.

Bugger it. It would be half-term soon enough, summer holidays not long after. And then Miranda would leave, after which he'd issue a public announcement about Petra and then everyone could know and everything would be fine. Arlo thought he'd probably just try to avoid telling further lies until then, rather than making a point to confess the truth.

He was just drifting off to sleep when Petra flung back the sheets and sat up.

‘Sod it, I forgot about that, didn't I?’

‘Forgot about what?’

She didn't answer.

Arlo touched her back. ‘Petra? You OK?’

But she slipped from the covers without responding. She walked right around the bed to the window and put her shoes on the sill, toe to toe. Then she turned and appeared to look straight at Arlo.

‘Petra?’

She mumbled something.

‘Pardon?’ He put on the light. She was now crashing around in the cupboard. ‘Petra!’ He slipped out of bed and went to her side. Gently he touched her elbow, her cheek. Called her name again. Nothing. She left the bedroom wearing a coat and he followed a few steps behind, slightly unnerved, a little intrigued, not sure whether to wake her or just watch. She went through to the kitchen, put out all the mugs in a long line and added a large, long squirt of washing-up liquid in their general direction.

‘I'd rather have sugar than Fairy,’ Arlo said, but still she didn't react. She took the small cyclamen from the kitchen sill and put it in the fridge. ‘I agree,’ said Arlo, ‘definitely at their best when chilled.’ Still no response. But it was watching her walk hard into the sharp corner of the kitchen worktop which made him really want to intervene. Yet though she winced, the sound was discombobulated and she continued on her shuffle away from the kitchen without a fuss. She stood in the centre of the living room. From behind, it looked to Arlo as though she was regarding something intently. Quietly, he came alongside her. Her expression was vacant, her eyes glazed. Hadn't he read somewhere that if you wake a sleepwalker, they die of shock? Well, perhaps not drop down dead exactly, but isn't it widespread knowledge that you are not meant to wake them?

So he didn't. This wasn't for his amusement, this was about her safety. So he didn't set tests for her by calling her name or asking her questions. He followed her very closely, gently changing her course if she was heading for furniture, for a wall. She went to the bathroom, began to squat nowhere near the toilet so he guided her over and held up the coat for her because she made no attempt to. After that, she stood stock-still in the bathroom for a while, then took the toothpaste and put it in the coat pocket, made a careful tower out of four toilet rolls. With a nudge from Arlo, she walked back to the bedroom, carefully sat on the side of the bed, kicked off imaginary shoes then lay down and returned to sleep. When he was quite sure she was out for the count, he gently took off the coat and hung it up, took the toothpaste from the pocket and put it back in the bathroom, dismantling the loo-roll tower. In the kitchen, he took the cyclamen from the fridge and returned it to the window sill, rinsed out the mugs and put them away. Finally, in the bedroom, he put her shoes back on the floor. But he couldn't do anything about the bruise on her hip from the edge of the worktop. He could only give that a quiet kiss before enveloping her for the rest of the night.