Freya North 3-Book Collection: Secrets, Chances, Rumours. Freya North
served to affirm that he was doing the right thing. No one gave him a hard time, the flight was there – cheap too and fast. He'd really wanted to see Wolf, and actually, when he thought about it now, he'd had a real urge to be home. Not homesickness – he wasn't pining – more it was a drive, a draw that there was one place that he should be and he was going to go there without delay.
And he'd come back and the house had been empty. He hadn't expected Wolf, of course, but he'd imagined Tess. The empty building, though echoey and still, was full of them – Tess, Wolf, even Emmeline: the folk that made his house work. That make my housework – he laughed at this, recalling the little jammy handprints low down on the kitchen door, Tess's bizarre arrangement of what appeared to be verge-side grasses in a stained old bottle she'd found God knows where which unbeknownst to her had left a ring mark on the mahogany console, the scatter of buggy and boots and rusk crumbs in the entrance hall. But then he thought to himself, that's unfair of me, the house has never seemed so bright and homely and fresh.
It was colder here than in France. Not because the weather was that different this time of year, but because in France he spent his time in a modern apartment with communal, regulated heat and also a body in the bed. Here he was in a high-ceilinged stone building over 130 years old, with windows that didn't close and gaps under the doors. He left his bed and pulled on boxers and a T-shirt. What's she doing down there? he wondered. Perhaps I'll go and see.
Tess thinks she knows the stairs pretty well – which treads cause a cacophony of creaks, which ones have a milder groan that won't wake Em or make Wolf bay. However, she's not aware that those have woken Joe. Down in Wolf's sickbay, she's not aware that Joe is making his own way down, that he knows a route along the stairs that is utterly soundless, a route he perfected during his childhood in the silent watches of the night when he'd creep soundlessly downstairs and stand by the front door and wonder how to run away.
Joe, though, is far from Tess's mind just now. As he makes his silent passage down the stairs, she's already engrossed in tending to Wolf.
And the sight of her causes him to crave invisibility.
Appropriately enough, there's a full moon for Wolf. It's sufficient for Tess to nurse the dog without the need for artificial light. Joe sees how the moonlight glances off the flagstones and reverberates from the white walls to bathe everything in soft silver. She's sitting on her heels on one of the blankets, with her back to Joe, bending forward, whispering to the dog.
Tess in a vest and knickers. A plain white vest and white cotton knickers. Between the two, as she leans forward, a small but compelling ellipse of skin – like a shy, pink smile. He thinks, that really can't pass as a camisole and panties, that really is just a vest and knickers. No frills. The simplicity, combined with the light and the time of night, is peculiarly stunning and Joe is perturbed how aroused it's made him. She's sitting on her heels and she's leaning forward and her bum, demurely covered in white cotton, is really so peach-shaped that Joe has to admit the cliché is both perfect and yet does her an injustice. The soles of her feet under her bum. The pads of her toes, becoming rounder as they become smaller, like little buds. Shoulders bare and shapely, as if carved from alabaster by the lick of moonlight. Her hair she has scrunched up to keep it away from her face, inadvertently revealing the elegant curve of her neck for Joe.
What's she doing exactly? Joe wonders as he watches her soak a flannel in a bowl of water, her face in profile. It strikes Joe that, unseen, Tess's prettiness can reveal itself. It's as if it hides when she's in company, as if she draws it into herself and says, don't come out until no one's looking. Like that day when he watched her hanging out the washing. Like this morning, when he saw her in the playground. Like this evening when she thought he was engrossed at the stove but he turned and just looked at her while she was busy writing some list or other. And like now – her features in profile as delicate and defined as a Victorian cameo silhouette. But what's she doing with that flannel, dipping it in the bowl, wringing it out a little? Whatever it is, he's pleased for her to continue because he gets to see the sweep and delineation of her arms.
He must have shifted because Wolf has clocked him and has made a brave attempt to voice a greeting. Tess turns quickly – but she settles because it's Joe, it's only Joe.
‘Sorry, did I startle you?’ he whispers, walking over.
‘No,’ she says, ‘I'm used to far stranger creaks and shadows when you're not here.’
He comes to stand by her, looking down on her and his dog. She looks up and sees boxer shorts and looks away quickly. His knees are at her eye level and she's never seen his legs bare and they are athletic with a smattering of dark hairs. She drops her gaze and sees his feet; they are shapely and strong and she is pleased she's dipping the flannel in the bowl because otherwise she'd be tempted to trace the tendons of his foot with her fingertips. He squats down, one arm relaxed over his knees, his other hand down on the floor for balance.
‘What's with the flannel?’
‘Well, don't laugh – but I wondered if Wolf was thirsty but feeling a bit incapacitated to drink from his bowl. So I'm just dipping the flannel and doing a bit of a drip and sip for him.’
‘Seems he is thirsty.’
‘Actually, he probably just likes the attention. I'm a muggins.’
‘You're Florence Frigging Nightingale, my love.’
And Tess's heart lurches and she thinks, oh, call me ‘my love’ again.
‘I was awake anyway,’ she shrugs, ‘so I just thought I'd pop down and see how he was doing.’
‘A model patient, I'd say.’
‘Nothing seeping or bleeding. His nose is nice and cold and he feels good and warm. I just wish he had his tail to wag.’
‘That tail,’ Joe laughs. ‘The number of times I cursed it – one wag and oops! another glass broken, or another pile of papers scattered to the floor.’
‘He whacked me with it one time,’ Tess tells him, ‘hard across my thigh. It hurt!’
Joe pauses. ‘Thanks, Tess – seriously.’
‘Oh God, Joe – it's the least I can do.’
‘You're not blaming yourself, are you?’
‘No – but that's not to say I wish I'd loitered when he went out for his pee.’
‘The vet told me – about how you took him there.’
She looks down and doesn't comment.
‘Thank you,’ says Joe.
Wolf gives a grumble, as if he's been happy to listen to them witter on but he's tired now and could they go.
‘Sleep's the best medicine – that's what my grandma used to say,’ Tess says and she sits up off her heels and stands. And now it's Joe who's low, looking at her feet and thinking, you've painted your toenails since I last saw them. They are pale turquoise and they remind him of Tess's sense of humour.
At his eye level, her thighs. He decides it would be prudent not to look higher – he's only in his boxers after all.
‘Well, night then, Joe.’
‘Night, Tess,’ he says without turning – he doesn't want to lose his balance. He's still squatting down. He's not as young as he was, you know. It's not just his floorboards that creak. Especially when flagstone chill has just infiltrated his limbs. He waits a moment or two, listens for the sounds on the stairs before he rises. He smiles at Wolf and turns for bed.
Ethereal, like a ghost, Tess is passing along the landing after the first flight, the white of her vest and pants almost luminous. He's now reached the top of the stairs; his door is a little way down the corridor, in the opposite direction.
‘Night then,’ he says, holding onto the newel post.
She's about to climb the stairs to her floor.
She turns. ‘Night, Joe.’
And