Chapter 11
Peter
By Friday night, the branch closure has become less of an announcement and more of a communal injury.
People come in with letters folded into careful squares. They place them on my desk as if I might be able to unfold a different future from the creases.
Yes, the branch is closing at the end of the month.
No, they can’t call me for a loan anymore.
Yes, standing orders and Direct Debits continue as normal.
No, I do not think being told to use online banking is helpful when you have just explained that you do not own a computer.
I say all of it kindly.
I say all of it so often that by the time I lock up, the words have lost their edges and become stones in my mouth.
At home, the cottage is quiet.
I put my keys in the chipped bowl by the door, hang my coat on the peg beneath my father’s old walking hat, and stand there for a second. The hallway smells faintly of polish and damp wool. The bulb above me flickers once before settling into its usual weak yellow glow.
I should eat.
Instead, I make tea.
I sit at the kitchen table with my notebook open, pretending I am going to write down sensible questions for Hunter about the Morton Hall job. Salary. Hours. Start date. Whether his Director of Finance is likely to murder me if I call her spreadsheets “not quite perfect”.
I write salary.
Then nothing.
Then Mandy.
I stare at her name for longer than is useful.
Then I cross it out.
Excellent. Progress.
Rain ticks against the kitchen window. The house settles around me, pipes clicking, floorboards answering the weather. I am halfway through a mouthful of tea when a knock comes at the front door.
Not loud.
Not certain either.
A pause follows, then another knock.
I get up.
Through the narrow glass panel beside the door, I see a dark coat, wet shoulders and a hand pressed briefly to the frame as if its owner has changed her mind and stayed anyway.
When I open the door, Mandy looks up at me.
Her hair is pinned up, but badly, strands loose around her face. Her blouse collar is caught under one side of her coat. There is rain on her eyelashes.
She looks at me and says nothing.
“Mandy.”
“Were you asleep?”
“No.”
“I should have texted.”
“You are here now.”
Her eyes flick past me into the hall, then back to my face. “Can I come in?”
I step aside.
She crosses the threshold, and I close the door behind her. For a moment, she stands in the hallway, dripping quietly onto the lino floor.
I reach for her coat. “Here.”
She lets me take it.
That tells me something too.
Mandy does not usually let people do things for her without comment. There is no joke about independence, no pointed reminder that she has functioning hands. She only slips one arm free, then the other, and stands there in work trousers and a pale blue blouse that looks as tired as she does.
Her hands are cold when my fingers brush hers.
“Tea?” I ask.
“No.”
“Wine?”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
I shut my mouth.
I hang her coat over the banister. “Bad day?”
She looks down at her shoes.
There is mud on one heel.
“Bad week.”
“All right.”
I do not ask what happened.
Every instinct I have wants to. Not because I think she owes me the story, but because she is standing in my hallway looking as though she has held herself together with string and professional competence until both finally gave way.
But Mandy is here.
That is the important part.
She came here.
When she lifts her head, the look in her eyes lands somewhere low in my chest.
“I do not want to talk about it.”
“Then we will not.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then she steps forward and kisses me.
There is no teasing in it. No clever opening line, no balance to restore, no performance of casual. Her mouth is soft at first, almost careful, and then suddenly not careful at all.
I let her set the pace.
Her fingers slide into my hair. Mine settle at her waist. She pushes closer, still cold from outside, and I feel the shiver that runs through her when my palm spreads against her back.
I lift my head enough to look at her. “Mandy.”
“I want you.”
Her eyes search mine, tired and fierce and already braced for me to ask the wrong question.
So I do not.
I touch her cheek. “Bedroom?”
She nods.
“Yes.”
I take her hand, and lead her upstairs.
My room is not ready for her.
That is my first stupid thought.
There is a pile of clean washing on the chair, a paperback face down on the floor and a crack in the ceiling I have been meaning to deal with since April. My bed is made, but only in the technical sense that the duvet is on top of it.
Mandy does not look at any of that.
She turns to me before I have even shut the door.
Her kiss is urgent, but it is not playful. She grips the back of my neck and pulls me down as if she needs to be certain I am real.
I close the door with my heel and hold her face between my hands. ‘We can stop.’
‘I do not want to stop.’
‘I know. I only need you to know you can.’
Something in her expression gives. Not much, but enough.
‘Come to bed, Peter.’
I kiss her again, softer this time. We undress without the usual contest. I unfasten her blouse and push it from her shoulders. She opens my jeans, but when her hand closes around me, I cover it with mine and bring her fingers to my mouth instead.
‘Tonight is not about proving anything,’ I say.
‘Who says I am proving anything?’
‘No one.’ I kiss her palm. ‘Lie down.’
She does, which tells me more about her week than any explanation could.
I roll on a condom, then climb onto the bed beside her rather than over her. I draw her back against my chest, both of us on our sides, and slide one arm beneath her neck.
My other hand travels over her waist and stomach, unhurried. She covers it with hers for a moment, our fingers linked against her skin.
I kiss the back of her shoulder. Then the place below her ear. Her body gradually loosens against mine, one guarded muscle at a time.
‘Tell me what you want,’ I whisper.
She guides my hand between her thighs. ‘This.’
I touch her slowly, using the pressure she shows me. Her breathing changes. She presses back against my cock, but I keep my attention on her until her hips begin to move with my hand.
‘And this,’ she says, reaching behind us to guide me.
I lift her top leg over mine and enter her from behind. There is no rush, only the gradual welcome of her body and the small sound she makes when I am fully inside.
I stay still. My mouth rests against her shoulder. My arm is wrapped around her, my hand spread over her breast, and for a few seconds we simply breathe.
‘Closer,’ she says.
I tighten my hold until there is no space left between us.
Then I move. Short, slow strokes that keep us pressed together. She reaches back and finds my hip, holding me there as if I might disappear.
‘I have you,’ I say.
The words leave my mouth before I can decide whether they are too much.
Mandy turns her face into the pillow. ‘Do not make this into something.’
‘I am not.’ I kiss her shoulder again. ‘I am right here. That is all.’
Her hand loosens on my hip. She settles back into me and lets me keep moving.
I touch her between her thighs, matching the rhythm of my fingers to my body. Her breathing grows uneven. There is none of her usual demand for more or faster. Instead, she whispers my name each time I press exactly where she needs me.
‘That feels good,’ she says, the words almost lost against the pillow.
‘Good.’
‘Stay like this.’
‘I will.’
Her body tightens gradually, then all at once. She comes with my arm around her and my name on a broken breath, her fingers closing over mine. I keep the pace gentle until the last tremor passes through her.
She twists just enough for me to kiss her. I only manage the edge of her mouth, but the tenderness of it catches me off guard.
I lose the last of my control. My hips push deeper, three uneven strokes, and I come with my face against her neck, holding her so tightly I have to make myself ease my grip.
We stay on our sides, still joined, my arm beneath her head and our hands tangled over her heart.
The room is quiet except for our breathing and the rain at the window.
Neither of us rushes to separate. Mandy's breathing evens out beneath my hand, but she keeps my fingers laced with hers as if letting go would require a decision she is too tired to make. I feel the last of the strain leave her shoulders.
‘Better?’ I ask.
‘Do not sound so pleased with yourself.’
‘That is not a no.’
She gives my hand a tired squeeze. ‘You are still annoying.’
‘Good. I was worried the sex had changed me.’
A laugh slips out of her, quiet but real. It matters more than it should. I kiss the back of her neck and she settles more firmly against me, accepting the comfort without naming it.
There was a time when either of us would already have made a joke sharp enough to create distance. Tonight, she stays in my arms, and I do not pretend I am holding her only because moving would be inconvenient.
After a while, I force myself to move.
Mandy makes a small sound of protest when I ease away, but she lets me go. I deal with the condom, find a tissue, then come back to the bed before either of us can start pretending we are practical people with places to be.
She has not moved far.
She is on her side, one arm folded beneath her head, eyes open but unfocused in the low light. Her hair is a mess against my pillow. Her blouse is somewhere near the door. One of her shoes has ended up on its side by the wardrobe, as if it gave up halfway through a dramatic exit.
I climb in beside her.
For a second, she stays where she is.
Then she moves.
Not quickly. Not with any of her usual certainty. She shifts closer until her forehead rests against my chest, then tucks herself into me as if the shape of my body is something she has been looking for all evening.
My arm comes around her.
I do not ask.
I do not make a joke.
I just hold her.
Her breath warms my skin. One of her hands settles against my ribs, fingers loose, then tightens slightly.
“I needed you tonight,” she says.
The words are so quiet I almost think I have imagined them.
Almost.
Everything in me stills.
“I do not mean...” She stops, breathes out, then tries again. “I had a horrible week. I was tired. I did not want to go home and be alone with it.”
My hand moves over her back once, slow and careful. “You could have come here for that without sleeping with me.”
She goes tense.
I regret the words before she even lifts her head.
“That is not a complaint,” I say.
Her eyes narrow, but there is less fight in them than usual. “It sounded like the opening statement for a noble speech.”
“I am trying very hard not to give one.”
“Try harder.”
“I only mean you do not need to shag me to get a hug.”
A flicker of something crosses her face.
Amusement, maybe.
Panic, definitely.
“Good to know,” she says. “Do you have a loyalty card system, or is it hugs on demand?”
“There may be a form.”
“I knew it. Men love paperwork.”
“I work in a bank for another few weeks. I have to maintain standards.”
Her mouth curves, but the smile does not last.
She lowers her head again, her cheek against my chest. “The sex was not exactly a hardship.”
“No.”
“Always so smug.”
“I was aiming for grateful.”
“You missed.”
“Story of my life.”
That earns me a soft huff against my skin.
For a while, we lie there without speaking. The rain taps at the window. Somewhere downstairs, a pipe clicks as the cottage settles into the night.
Mandy’s fingers move once against my ribs.
“I did not want to need anyone,” she says.
I look down at the top of her head.
There are too many things I could say.
Most of them would send her running.
So I choose the safest truth I have.
“I know.”
She lets out a breath, and some of the stiffness leaves her body.
“That does not mean anything,” she says.
There it is.
The small door closing.
I could challenge her, ask whether she really believes that, but I let her have the distance she is asking for.
“All right.”
“It was just a bad week.”
“All right.”
“And you were here.”
“I was.”
“And you are warm.”
“Finally, a use for me.”
This time, her laugh is real. Quiet, but real.
She curls closer, her knee sliding over mine, her arm settling more firmly across my stomach.
I hold her and stare into the dark.
Mandy can call it a bad week if she wants. She can call me warm. Convenient. Available. A man with a bed and questionable career prospects.
But she came to my door in the rain.
She said she needed me.
And with her falling asleep against my chest, I know better than to believe that means nothing.