Chapter 4 Mel
By seven, the windows are shaking in their frames, rain battering at the glass in the dining room. Jack serves dinner quickly and returns for our plates before we’ve scraped them clean.
“Sorry to rush you ladies,” he says, stacking our plates up along his arm, “but I need to get back to the village to check on my mam, she’s in her eighties and almost completely blind. The storm will have her in bits.”
“Don’t worry about us,” I say, adding my cutlery to the pile, “I hope your mum’s alright.”
“Thanks flower, she’ll be reyt when I get there.”
“Don’t suppose you could leave us the rest of the bottle, could you?” I lift my half empty wine glass.
Jack chortles. “I’ll pop it on some ice for ya. Go steady though, lass. You’ll want a clear head if the power goes out.”
Julia looks at me intently through her glasses. It’s not the chilly appraisal I’m used to, there’s a warmth to it, a glint in her eye that prickles my skin. Her sharp edges are softening, and slowly I feel like I’m seeing the true shape of Julia Fay.
“You have a real talent with people, you know that?” she says, taking a small sip of wine.
“What talent is that?” I ask, watching Julia roll the stem of the glass between her fingers.
There is a half-moon press of mauve lipstick on the rim.
I glance back to her face, noticing the subtle colour difference of her lips.
Not the usual pink flush that makes me think of rose petals, this is a deeper colour, more sensual.
Somehow it makes her aura even more intimidating.
“You know how to light people up.” She smiles, a full, bright smile that makes my throat tighten. Her devastatingly sharp cupid’s bow widening into an exquisite grin. The little gay crush I had on her rushes back with an intensity that catches my breath.
“Thank you,” I say, at a loss for any witty comebacks.
“You’re welcome.” She holds my gaze as I pick up my wine. “Do you want to take these through to the reading room?”
“Good idea,” I say, pushing up from the table. “Let’s get the fire going.”
***
Someone has already kindled the fire, so I just throw a couple of logs into the flames and nudge them with a poker until they catch.
There’s something mesmerising about watching a fire grow, enjoying the rising heat, the way the flames lick at the air.
Jack pulls me out of the reverie by dropping a champagne bucket onto the table by the door, wedging a bottle of white wine deep in the ice.
“I’m off out now,” he says, brushing ice water off his hands. “See you both at breakfast.”
“Take care, Jack,” I say and Julia echoes the goodbye.
I lift the wine from the bucket and top up our glasses, then settle myself on the sofa, resting my arm along the back.
Julia sits with her knees tipped towards me, back propped against the raised arm of the sofa.
She seems more relaxed than usual, her posture less rigid.
It could be the wine, or the steady heat of the fireplace, but the look in her eyes feels different too.
If it was anyone else, I might have assumed it was flirtatious. But with Julia, I really can’t tell.
“I have to admit that seeing you here was a bit of a surprise,” I say, gauging her reaction.
Julia raises her eyebrows a fraction. “Oh? A good surprise?”
“Not really.” I laugh as her eyes flare. “But actually, having you around whilst I’ve been working through some things has been nice.”
“You love a double-edged compliment, don’t you?” Julia says, but her lips curve into a smile.
“I know you can take it.” She narrows her eyes at me, but the smile widens, spurring me on. “Seeing you here reminded me of the things I like about writing. The art of it, the craft, the escapism. All the things I used to enjoy before it got more complicated.”
“I know the feeling,” Julia says, softly.
“As soon as I started signing contracts I felt like I had the whole world looking in on me. I couldn’t just write what I wanted to write. I had to create something for an audience that had eyes on everything I was doing.”
I break from the intensity of Julia’s attention to look at the fireplace, watching the shadows dancing across the brickwork.
“I didn’t realise how unhappy I was until Sunday. But finding out that Léna had been cheating on me was a revelation.”
“Ohh, I’m sorry, Mel, that’s awful.”
“The shock of it was horrible. But now that I’ve processed it, I feel almost relieved. I always felt like I wasn’t living up to Léna’s expectations. I think she fell in love with the idea of me.”
“I’m sure she loves the real you too.”
“I don’t think she knows the real me. I was away for work a lot, so we barely had time together.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to stifle the tingling sensation. “But if she was lonely, she could have said. We could have worked something out.”
“Do you think ethical non-monogamy would have helped?”
“Probably not. To be honest, I think she was bored of me.”
“I don’t know how anyone could get bored of you,” Julia says firmly. “You deserve someone who appreciates how talented you are.”
I snort. “Earlier you said you don’t even think of me as a writer.”
“I didn’t say that.” She leans over to put her wine glass on the coffee table. “I think you are incredibly talented. Annoyingly talented, even.”
“Thanks.” I laugh dryly.
“And insanely beautiful.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“I hope you know that people don’t have to fancy you to be nice,” she mimics my speech from last night, eyes mirroring the warmth of the firelight. “I’m just saying that you have a lot going for you Melissa Turner, don’t let that breakup crush your confidence.”
“You are flirting with me!” I finish the last of my wine, then set the glass down beside Julia’s.
“Flirting would be telling you that your smile is adorable.” She looks up at me, eyes widening in challenge. I rise to it.
“What about telling someone that they have incredible lips?”
“Oh definitely,” she says, and I swear those perfect lips flush deeper, drawing me in.
I reach for her face, run a thumb along her cheek. When she doesn’t pull away, I whisper, “Or that you want to kiss them…”
Julia leans closer and takes hold of my shirt, pulling me down to her lips. They feel even more incredible than they look, soft and full, parting readily beneath mine. I slide my fingers into her hair, and she lets out a stifled moan, body sinking into me.
The lamp on the bureau flickers, then goes out. I pull back from Julia as the door opens, startling us both out of the moment. The housekeeper, Andrew, shuffles into the room swinging a spotlight torch.
“Ah good, you’re both here.” He leans against the door frame, catching his breath. “There’s been a power cut in the village. Jack just texted me.”
“Jinxed it,” Julia mutters.
“It happens every year I’m afraid. This building is a low priority fix because we have an oil-powered boiler and a sizeable fireplace.
” He gestures to the fire crackling heartily in the darkness.
“I said I’d go and meet the engineers at the village hall, give them a bit of a steer round the ancient circuit boards. ”
“Do you need a hand?” I say, despite knowing nothing whatsoever about electricity.
“No thanks my lovely. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. Will you two manage without me?”
“We’ll be fine,” Julia says.
“Very good.” Andrew backs into the corridor.
“Chuck another log on the fire if you’re staying down for a while.
Otherwise, I’ll tend to it when I’m back.
There are candles on the sideboard by the visitor’s book, matches and pocket torches in the drawer below.
My phone number is pinned to the office door if you need to get hold of me whilst I’m out. ”
“Don’t worry about us,” I say, as he pulls the door to. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves for a few hours.”
Julia whispers, “Do you have something in mind?”
A prickle of excitement runs up my spine.
“How about workshopping some ideas for your novel?”
Julia laughs, a surprisingly sweet sound that makes me smile. “I don’t have any ideas to share.”
“There must be something in that notebook of yours, you’ve been carrying it round for days!” I reach over to the coffee table and snatch it up.
“Hey!” Julia snaps, grabbing for the notebook, but I pull back. “I said there’s nothing in there.”
“Why are you fighting me for it then?” A giggle escapes me as Julia kneels on the sofa, reaching over me.
I hold the heavy, leather-bound book an arm’s length away and she leans closer, torso pressing against mine, the subtle vetiver scent of her perfume making me feel even headier.
“I’ll give it back to you if you promise to read for me. ”
“I told you there’s nothing in there.”
“Well, you can write something for me then,” I say and bring the notebook within her grasp.
“Fine,” she says, grabbing the book from my hand.
I expect her to pull back to sitting, to write against her knees.
But instead, she stretches out across my lap, propping the book against a cushion, flicking to a blank page.
She’s taken my game and made it her own.
I can hardly breathe with the thrill of it, at the weight of her body draped languidly over my knee.
I reach to tuck the hair back from her face so I can see her profile, half shadowed from the firelight, concentrating as she swirls something across a blank page.
My fingers idly twist her auburn waves as she writes, then slowly graze up and down the length of her back.
When I reach the dip in her lower back, she arches up into me, pen pausing mid page. I let my hand fall still.
“Let’s hear it,” I say.
“I was thinking about a scene with the baker,” she starts, voice quiet.
“Mm-hmm,” I offer, circling my thumb over her hip. She lifts a little beneath my hand, but I push her back against my thigh. “I want to hear you read it.”
“It’s early morning and”—she pauses as I slide my hand up the curve of her backside—“he’s working the dough.”