41. Primrose
PRIMROSE
For days afterwards, we live in a bubble of bliss. There’s no work to do, no people around, no one to think about or please but ourselves. And we do spend a lot of time pleasing each other.
Honestly? I’m surprised I can still walk.
Zoe came back to Casa Alegría the day after our night in Palma. She was a little sheepish about where she’d spent the night, but as I was guarding my own secrets, we sort of tacitly agreed that the night before was off-limits.
But she wasn’t in the house long because, out of the blue, she was offered a professional opportunity in Seville. One of Luc’s hotels desperately needed someone to oversee a private tasting for some important guests, and as the story goes, she was the man for the job.
Her eyes nearly fell out of her head when Luc mentioned a generous bonus as thanks for helping him out of a jam. As well as a week’s accommodation in his bougie hotel.
“I’m so stoked,” she’d whispered as she’d spun around the kitchen like a Moroccan dervish, grabbing her knives, mandolin, and other chef-y tools. “But, I mean, why me?”
“The question should be, Why not you? Your food is amazing.” Not a lie, but I still felt icky saying it.
“But who’s gonna feed you when I’m away?”
“I can do toast. And noodles. I won’t starve.”
“What about the boss?”
“He can do his own toast and noodles,” I said, hiding behind my water glass. “He’s got arms and legs. I expect he’ll be busy, anyway. With work,” I added, ignoring my heated cheeks.
After she’d gone, I’d mildly chastised him for involving me in his machinations. We were in the garden after a lunch of figs, bread, and cheese we’d rustled up in the kitchen together.
“It’s all above board and legitimate,” he’d said smoothly, standing to pull the bottle of wine from a fancy cooler. He’d topped up both glasses and pressed a tender kiss to my head before turning to admire the mountain range. Maybe the kiss was a placating one.
“And what about the following week?” My heart seemed to skip a beat as the date on my ticket flashed in my head. Twelve days and counting. “What will you cook up then?”
He’d turned his head over his shoulder and grinned. “We’ll probably be tired of figs and cheese by then.”
“Har-har.” But will he be tired of me?
“You’ll have to wait and find out,” he added, turning away at the precise moment the sun went behind a cloud.
I found myself hoping it wasn’t an omen.
“You’re looking for my sad story.”
I hear rather than see his teasing smile as I lie tucked into the crook of his arm, my cheek resting over his heart, one leg threaded over his and the tangled sheets. His fingers continue to drift lazily along my arm, a touch that seems to need neither heat nor reason.
More blissful moments than these I could never have anticipated.
I know what it is to share a bed with a man.
I’ve had boyfriends. Men. And I’ve been held before.
But this is no perfunctory cuddle after the fact.
That sounds worse than it is. I mean, I’m not hugely demonstrative myself.
I haven’t wanted to be pulled close. To bask, to savor, or extend the moment until now.
These past days with Luc haven’t only taught me I’m built for pleasure, but they’ve also shown me the quiet joy of intimacy.
Skin to skin, a warm kiss pressed to my head, murmured words and silly jokes.
It’s been an astonishing revelation to find comfort in being gathered close for no reason than closeness itself.
And a power in allowing yourself to do the same.
Who knew cuddles aren’t always a prelude to sex.
“My wound.”
I push up onto my elbow, my train of thought no more. What was I saying again? Ah. “No, that’s not what I think. I suppose I—”
“So you’re not suggesting that tragedy that drove me to get my kicks in a sex club?”
“No!”
“A dead wife, a devoted single father…” He allows his words to trail off, that electric gaze of his full of teasing.
“Well, maybe. Some of that, I suppose. It’s just, that conversation we had at the piano.”
“I did make myself sound a little morose.”
“Made yourself?”
He slides his fingers down a lock of my hair. “Not on purpose. I was feeling thwarted. The sad sack who couldn’t get the girl.” His smile looks a little awkward.
“Yeah, story check out. Idiot,” I add, adjusting the sheet over my nakedness.
“The answer is no. I don’t think so.” He slides his hand behind his head with a bicep-popping notion that may or may not have been on purpose. Yum.
“I understand not wanting to fall in love again. And I get why you don’t date, why you prefer…”
“To just fuck?”
“Why your sexual outlet is a sex club. Or I suppose you might just be a fan of orgies.” Ack!
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was there by chance?”
“Were you?”
“That night? Yes. But in general?” He shakes his head.
“Why? Why not just… I don’t know. Get a situationship?”
“A situationship.” He pushes his head deeper into the pillow. “Which is what?”
“Low pressure. No labels. Just sex.”
“So all of the complications of a relationship with none of the honesty?”
“How’d you mean?”
“Someone always begins to want more. The other partner pretends not to notice until they can’t ignore it anymore.”
“Sounds like a lived experience if I ever heard one,” I mutter, maybe because that hit a nerve.
His next smile is a touch enigmatic. “At Ardeo, everyone knows why they’re there.
There are no false promises. No wondering or worrying.
It’s the physical touch of another person, the illusion of connection.
I don’t have to answer to anyone or feign interest in the person I fuck, beyond the obvious.
” And he laughs as my eyes drop to his crotch.
“Shut up,” I mutter, smacking him. I bet he’s really popular there. Stupid thought. He’s no pony.
“But I was there by chance that night. I hadn’t been for a long time.” He looks down at me. “I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Is that what you thought his would be?” I rush on. “Us, I mean.”
He inhales deeply and shakes his head. “These are uncharted waters.”
And I am drowning, I think to myself.
“What about you?” he asks, reaching for my hand. Palm to palm, we marvel silently at the size difference of our hands. “Because I don’t believe for one minute you were there to charge your phone.”
“It’s true!” I bury my head to his chest as he begins to laugh.
“We both know there are no phones at Ardeo.”
“I had mine. Or Sabine did.”
“And? No one goes to a sex club without an agenda.”
“Well, I didn’t have an agenda, but obviously, I was curious.”
“And?” The word is literally ten syllables long.
“I made a promise to myself a little while ago,” I find myself saying.
As the words sink in, I come to realize that promise might’ve been playing in the back of my mind, like a subliminal message.
“It wasn’t a promise I intended to keep,” I admit as my brow furrows, then widens almost immediately. “I sort of have.”
Wow, how crazy.
“A few months ago.” My eyes dart his way to check I haven’t put him to sleep. “I was at work, not quite a fully qualified doctor, but the ward was shorthanded, so I stayed after my shift had ended. There was a woman on the ward who we knew didn’t have long.”
“Yours must be a difficult job.”
“She was ninety-odd years old.” My words don’t diminish but I hope they explain.
“She hadn’t had any visitors, and I suppose I wanted to bring her some comfort.
” His fingers tighten on mine in reassurance.
“We’re all going that way eventually,” I add, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat.
“I held her hand and listened to her story of a daring life. A life full of adventure and love. Multiple loves,” I say with some emphasis.
“But ultimately, it was a life that ended small. In a ward full of elderly snoring women in North London.”
“But at least she was holding someone’s hand.”
“Yeah.” I give a small smile. “There is that.”
“You’re a special person, Primrose Whittington.”
I shrug off his words because I’m not. “Anyway, speaking with her made me think about my life. And, in the moment, I suppose I promised myself I’d make a little space for my own adventures. Sometime.”
“So you were on an adventure,” he says softly. He means Paris and Emmy.
But I still am, I think. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“Do you like being a doctor? Living and working in London.”
“London is home. And I love treating old people.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“I think that’s best.” I set off laughing and the moment changes. “How old are you anyway? And don’t say old enough to know better.”
“I’m forty-two,” he says with a touch of asperity. “I know. Far too old for you.”
I think of Lavender and Raif, but I don’t offer him that tale.
“What can I say? I’m a fan of the older models.”
“Charming. I expect that is something to do with their reliable undercarriage.”
“As a doctor of oldies, let me tell you, the older the model, the leakier the undercarriage. Prostate problems are no joke.”
“Then why do I feel you’re taking the piss?”
“Good pun,” I say, patting his chest. Just because.
“But, yeah, I love my job. It took me a while to get there, to find my thing, but when I’m at work, I feel like I’ve found my place in the world.
I love my patients—even the crotchety ones.
Old people have a lot to offer, I find.” He makes a noise of agreement that makes me giggle.
“Sadly, most of us don’t want to listen to the older generation. ”
“Hmm.”
“I know. If I’d listened to you, we wouldn’t now be looking at just days.” The thought makes me feel ill.
“So you listen,” he says, bringing me out of my head.
“I try.” I also try a smile. “I listen, and I try to learn from them, and I try to heal them. And where I can’t heal, I hope to comfort those tired souls and, hopefully, guide them to a good death. It’s as important as a good life as far as I’m concerned.”
“I agree.”
Ah, fuq moi! Why did I have to say that? “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t take it back.” His arm tightens around me. “People do deserve tenderness at the hardest moment of their lives. Why would I want you to apologize for that?”
The softness in his voice makes my throat ache. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
His fingers drift along my arm. “I think you do.”
I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing—of being wrong. Or maybe not enough.
He tips my face towards his. “You don’t have to be careful with me, Primevère.”
When his gaze drops to my mouth, careful is the last thing I want to be. “What should I be?” I whisper as his mouth lowers to mine. To you? To me?
“Only honest.”