Sophie's Run (23 page)

“Penny for your thoughts,” Steve cut into my musings.

I giggled.

“I was thinking that you smell nice, and that your chest is very toned,” I confessed.

“Why, thanks, I’m flattered,” Steve smiled. “I’d love to return the compliment but…” he tugged at the collar of my pajama top. “I think that’ll have to wait. I can’t judge, through all that fabric.”

We turned the light off, snuggled some more, and I soon felt myself dozing off. It was odd, having an unfamiliar body in my bed, but it was good, too.

I turned over, away from Steve, to assume my sleeping position. Automatically, I wrapped the double duvet around me in one swift movement. A great howl arose from the other side of the bed, and Steve thumped me over the head with one of his pillows.

“Duvet thief,” he screeched. “Stop thief! Duvet thief!”

Disorientated, I switched the light back on. There he was, on his side of the bed, completely bare without any duvet at all.

Whoops.

Reluctantly, I gave up half of the duvet and turned the light back off. I assumed my sleeping position, but it was no good without the duvet wrapped around me
just so
. I shuffled and turned and felt miserable.

I must have dropped off, because half an hour later, I was awake again, cold and duvet-less now myself. Steve was snoring softly, having hogged the entire duvet.
Argh!

Tugging and pulling energetically, I unrolled Steve from within the duvet to get a share back. He half-woke and mumbled sleepily before resuming his snoring. Great. Now I had a bit of duvet, and a big man lying three-quarters across the bed.

I stabbed him sharply in the ribs.

“Oi, you,” I whispered. “Wake up, this isn’t working.”

True love or not, this relationship wasn’t going to go anywhere if I couldn’t sleep. Steve grunted unhappily but opened his eyes obligingly.

“Do you want me to go back in the lounge?” he said.

“No, of course not.” I protested, just before inspiration struck. “But you could go and get the blankets, I suppose.”

“Awright,” he grumbled and went to retrieve the blankets. He snuggled under his covers, and I wrapped myself up in my duvet. Perfect.

Just as I was dropping off, I heard, from under his pile of blankets, a mumbled declaration.

“I do love you, Sophie Penhalligan.”

Hail trumpets and angels! He had said it. He had
said
it.

Steve turned toward me to gauge my reaction, which was probably quite difficult in the dark. I put an end to his uncertainty.

“I love you, too, Steve Jones,” I responded. “It’s a pity I can’t see you.”

“Never mind that,” he said calmly, giving me another delicious kiss. “We can do this again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that...”

After imparting this life-changing information, he fell straight asleep.

The next day, when he came back from work, Steve carried a bulky bag. “I’ve brought my own duvet,” he announced. “Having two duvets is obviously going to be the secret to our successful relationship.”

I giggled, but had to agree. That next night, we went to bed in the same bed straightaway, without further ado. He, under his duvet. And me, under mine.

It was the second week of August by the time I went back to work. Steve and my relationship was almost exactly a month old. Steve saw me off in the morning, walking me to the Tube station and right down to the platform. He kept reiterating that I could easily take another week, that I shouldn’t rush back, but I brushed his concerns aside.

As it happened, I got through the day, but only barely just. By four o’clock, I was practically on my knees. Leaving work early, I fell asleep on the Tube and nearly missed my stop. When I got home, the flat was empty and lonely, Steve having to work different shifts now that I wasn’t a round-the-clock invalid anymore.

As I sat on the sofa, exhaustion and loneliness swept over me like a big wave. Why hadn’t I listened to Steve and stayed at home for a little longer until I was fully recovered? Feeling stupid and sorry for myself, I dragged myself into the bathroom to run a bath. I found a bottle of Orient bath foam on the side, with a label round its neck.

I bet you’re knackered,
the label said in Steve’s scrawly handwriting.
Relax, and I’ll be home with dinner by seven. Love, Steve xxx
.

I sat down on the toilet—lid down, obviously—and wept. How thoughtful of my man to leave me this gorgeous bath foam. And, “home.” He would be home. My flat, our home. He had come to look at it as home.

And! He would be bringing dinner.
Oh please let it be Chinese takeaway
, I prayed. That would be perfect.

It was Chinese takeaway, and it was perfect. Steve breezed in like a walking ad for good mood and high spirits, and he swept my tiredness away with a kiss. He laid the table and dished up without drawing breath, and he had even brought some wine.

“I think you’re allowed again, now,” he declared with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Is that so?” I retorted meaningfully, and we both knew we weren’t talking about the wine. Steve said nothing more, but it felt like we had come to a tacit agreement about something.

Yet our best unspoken intentions came to nothing that night. The exhaustion of the day combined with a long hot bath, lovely food and a single glass of wine proved too much for me, and I found myself snoring on the sofa before nine o’clock.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered apologetically, but Steve laughed.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he reassured me and put me to bed.

As the week went on, I realized that I didn’t want all the time in the world. I wanted love; I wanted to
make
love and get sexual attention. And urgently, too. All this waiting and getting to know each other and convalescing couldn’t go on forever. I would have to persuade Steve, somehow. Properly seduce him, maybe. Take the initiative.

My opportunity came at the weekend. Steve had gone out to get croissants early on Saturday morning and when he came back, he was nervous, somehow, antsy. He kept dropping things and made the most almighty mess with his croissant crumbs, which went everywhere. Eventually, when we had tidied up and I was dressed and ready, he suggested that we go for a spot of shopping and maybe on to his flat.

Aha. My ears pricked up immediately. This was more like it. A visit to Steve’s flat. His bachelor pad. Virgin territory. A tiny shiver of excitement worked its way down my spine.

As it was a beautiful, sunny day, we opted to take a bus back toward Putney and raid the delis back there. We ambled down the road together holding hands, and actually this was one of the first times we had taken our relationship for a walk.
The
first time, in fact, if one discounted walking to the Tube in the morning.

We sat on the top deck of the bus together, holding hands. We got off again, holding hands, and we were still holding hands when we perused the shops.

“You look like that cat who got the cream,” Steve commented. I smiled back and said nothing but gave his hand a big squeeze.

Steve’s flat was on the first floor of a Victorian terrace in a leafy Putney side-street. If I had felt nervous welcoming him to my home a few weeks ago, he seemed just as nervous about showing me his place that day. After all, a flat said a lot about its owner.

We heaved our shopping upstairs and Steve unlocked the door. “You first,” he invited, and I stepped in.

It was spacious and bright, very similar to mine. Steve had obviously had a big tidy-round—unless he really
was
that neat—and there were roses in a vase on the dining table. While he busied himself in the kitchen, I had a good nosey round his bedroom. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just absorbing clues about this man whom I had fallen for so completely. His bed was tidily made, with a cuddly teddy bear nestling on one side. I picked up teddy and smelled him—yes, there it was again, that lovely Steve scent.

One small pine wardrobe was full of his nurse’s uniforms, all neatly washed and ironed, ready for a day’s wear. The other small pine wardrobe was full of “civvy” clothes, jeans and shirts, socks and underwear. That was all. While the bedroom was quite large, Steve managed to fit all his clothes into two small wardrobes.

Steve found me sitting on his bed. He handed me a small glass of wine and sat down next to me. “Everything to your satisfaction?” he inquired teasingly, and clinked glasses. I spluttered guiltily, having been caught snooping.

“Sure, yes, absolutely. Sorry, I wasn’t… I was curious…just having a little look…” I stammered.

“It’s okay,” Steve laughed easily. “After all, I’ve been all over your place, looked in every drawer, examined every photo, checked the picture rails for dust…”

“You haven’t,” I protested, perturbed.

“No, of course not. Well, at least not that last bit. Anyway, are you done? Shall we prepare dinner?”

I nodded, and we moved to the kitchen. Steve had spread out our deli goodies onto various serving plates, and there was an unexpected fat lobster sitting on the draining board.

“Lobster,” I shouted gleefully before I could stop myself. “Is that for us, for tonight? Please say yes, I adore lobster.”

“It certainly is,” Steve confirmed happily, picking up the crustacean and examining it critically. “Only problem is… I’ve just realized I haven’t got any proper implements for getting into it.” He grinned ruefully. “I may be an ambitious romantic as well as a man with expensive tastes, but also with a distinctive lack of finesse and requisite tools.”

I giggled into my wine. “What are you going to do?”

Steve had half disappeared into one of his cupboards. “I’m going to have to use brute force,” came the muffled response. Then he straightened up and turned around to face me, brandishing a hammer and chisel and wearing a Hannibal Lecter grin. I shrieked in mock horror and took a step back.

“That’s not right,” I protested jokingly. “That’s cruel. You’re gonna hurt it, not to mention spoil our dinner.”

Steve grinned even wider. “Trust me, I’m almost a doctor,” he announced and addressed himself to the lobster.

“Never fear, we’ll get you right out of your uncomfortable shell in no time.” Steve positioned the chisel mid-shell and counted to three.

“One….” Excessive swing of hammer but without follow-through.

“Two…” Same again.

“Three.” A gentle tap to the chisel with the hammer. The shell split open obediently, one neat opening right down the middle.

“You’ve done this before,” I observed.

“Does it show?” Steve inquired. “And no, I haven’t actually. I’ve never attempted a lobster at home before.” I could have sworn he was blushing but that might have just been the exertion. Or the concentration.

“Right, now for the claws,” Steve continued. “What are we going to do about the claws?”

“You haven’t got any kind of skewers or something?” I chipped in from the sideline. Steve fixed me with an appreciative look.

“Not just a pretty face,” he drawled and went to retrieve a skewer from a kitchen drawer.

Feeling emboldened, I topped up our glasses and it was time to eat. We sat at the dining table overlooking the garden in the back. Steve had laid on his best crockery and cutlery and lit a few candles, and it almost felt like being in a bijou little restaurant. The food was fabulous and even though my appetite was still not what it used to be, I enjoyed every mouthful. We ate in companionable silence and a definite aura of expectation enveloped us. It was heady and exciting, like a date. Which, all things considered, this actually was.

An angry buzzing sound shook me out of my reverie and, being accosted by a big wasp, I jumped up from my chair and retreated to the far end of the room. Deprived of its target, the wasp made for the window and started bashing against it like a demented blue bottle.

“You okay?” Steve asked, surprised.

“Hm-nuh,” I responded noncommittally, admitting in small voice that I was terminally afraid of wasps. “They’d be in my Room 101. My own personal hell.”

“Best get rid of it,” he announced calmly and fetched a clean glass from the kitchen, grabbing a convenient leaflet from his pile of junk mail as he went.

The offending insect was in no mood to cooperate and Steve spent almost ten minutes trying to contain it with the glass, not helped by me shrieking helplessly in the background. A few times, the wasp escaped just before he had it and buzzed around his head angrily. Even Steve was starting to get rattled.

Eventually, though, he managed. Pressing the glass firmly against the window pane, he slid the leaflet underneath to trap the wasp ready for eviction. However, with both hands thus engaged, he couldn’t open the window. Trusting him to not release the now extremely angry monster once more, I hastened to his side to slide the sash window up enough for him to throw Mrs. Wasp out.

Coward that I was, fled to the far side of the room again.

“Okay, here we go,” he announced. “One… two… three…” He took a swing and flung his hands holding the glass out the window. Whether by accident or intention he wouldn’t later say, but he let go of the whole lot at the same time. One second, he was brandishing the glass, and the next minute he turned around to me with empty hands.