Believing: a Sapphic mini-story

I By the time Alison reached the village, the rain was coming down so heavily that the windscreen wipers could barely cope. She slowed for the zig-zagging streets, following the satnav through the village and out towards Cape Cornwall. Beyond the fields, the sea was a greyed-out ribbon beneath a low bank of cloud. She had forgotten how narrow the roads were. As a child, she'd travelled them in the back of her father's Rover, wedged between a pile of beach towels and a wicker basket, with her mother passing back sandwiches that had turned warm in the car. They had gone there almost every summer, staying in one of the little cottages near the coast. Even when it rained, as it often did, she had loved it. That was more than twenty-five years ago. She hadn't been back since. She had selected Cape Cornwall almost on impulse. When the letting agent sent through the details, the cottage had looked so comfortably familiar that she booked it straight away without considering anything else. Her phone lay on the passenger seat. At a junction she picked it up and checked the screen. Nothing. She put it down again. “You're taking a month's leave, Alison. Not a long weekend. A month.” Her managing partner had been unusually firm. He'd called her into his office after she'd made a mistake in a document that, six months earlier, she would have spotted immediately. Nothing disastrous, but sufficiently unlike her to prompt a conversation she found humiliating. “You're exhausted,” he'd said. “And you're starting to make mistakes. I don't want you back until you've had a proper rest.” She had protested, naturally. There were transactions in progress, clients who expected her personal attention, junior colleagues who relied on her. He had listened patiently before informing her that he'd already arranged for someone else to take over her casework. She'd felt dismissed. Worse, she'd felt... dispensable. Now, four days later, she was driving through a Cornish thunderstorm with four weeks stretching ahead of her and no real idea what to do with them. The satnav directed her down a winding lane between high, uncut hedgerows. At the bottom stood a small group of cottages, their slate roofs shining in the downpour. It was where she'd stayed during her childhood, she was now sure of it. Trevellan Cottage was the last in the row, set a little apart from its neighbours with a gravelled parking space nearby. Alison pulled into it and switched off the engine. It was only twenty past two. Check-in wasn't until four, but she couldn't face another hour and a half in the car. A light was burning in the cottage window, and a small green hatchback stood beside the hedge. She climbed out, opened the boot and wrestled her two suitcases onto the gravel. Their little wheels were almost useless, bumping over the uneven ground, and by the time she'd dragged them to the front door, her coat was soaked and rain was running down her face. The door stood recessed within a shallow stone entrance. She tried the handle and, finding it open, quickly stepped inside and found herself in a narrow lobby. “Hello?” A noise came from somewhere inside, followed by a woman's voice. “Just a moment.” A woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. She was in her early fifties, Alison guessed, with fair hair generously threaded with grey and gathered untidily at the back of her head. She wore dark trousers and a faded blue shirt. There was a faint flush across her cheeks, as though she'd been working hard. The woman greeted her with a look of surprise, and Alison tried to break the ice with a smile. “I'm Alison. Alison Grant. I'm due to be staying here.” The woman glanced at her watch. “You're rather early. I haven't quite finished.” “Yes, I'm sorry. I got here much quicker than I expected.” For a moment the woman looked as though she might object, then her eyes focused on Alison's dripping coat and the darkened fabric of her trousers. “Good heavens, you look like a drowned rat.” Alison shrugged. “Do you want me to come back later?” The woman gave a small, dry smile. “No, I'm not that heartless. And I've finished upstairs, so why don't you go up and get changed out of those wet things? The water's hot if you fancy a shower. I should be done by the time you come down, then I can run through the domestics.” “Are you sure? I don't want to be in your way.” “You won't. I'm Annie, by the way.” “Thank you, Annie. I appreciate it.” Alison retrieved her suitcases from the lobby. The staircase was narrow and steep, with a sharp turn halfway up, and she found it impossible to manage both cases together. She hauled the larger one upstairs first, bumping it against the wall as she negotiated the turn, then went back for the smaller. By the time she reached the bedroom, she was breathless and uncomfortably aware of water trickling down the back of her neck. The room was tucked beneath the eaves, with a brass bedstead, a chest of drawers and a small window looking towards the headland. She opened her suitcase, took out some dry clothes and went into the bathroom. The shower took a little while to warm up, but when it did the water was soothingly hot. Alison stood beneath it, letting the heat work into her shoulders. She hadn't realised quite how cold she'd become. Downstairs, a hoover started up. She stayed under the water longer than she'd intended, then dried herself, pulled on an old pair of jeans and a soft woollen jumper, and went back downstairs. The hoover had stopped. Annie was in the kitchen, putting away her cleaning things. “Feeling better?” “Much. Thank you.” “Good. I'll just clear away these things, then the place is all yours.” Alison glanced into the sitting room. There was a stone fireplace, a sofa covered in faded green linen and a pair of armchairs beside the window. Books filled an alcove, and a basket of logs stood on the hearth. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Annie asked. “I'd love one.” “Kettle's there. Mugs are in the cupboard above.” Alison smiled. “Right. I'll put it on.” Annie carried her cleaning things towards the back door, leaving Alison alone in the kitchen. It was small but well equipped, with cream-painted cupboards, a scrubbed wooden table and a window overlooking the garden. A loaf of bread, half a dozen eggs and a packet of biscuits had been left on the counter beside a handwritten welcome card. She made her tea and carried it into the sitting room. Above the mantelpiece hung a painting of a small harbour at low tide. Alison stopped to look at it. The boats rested on the exposed mud, their ropes slack, while a solitary figure in a yellow windcheater stood beside an upturned dinghy. It wasn't an especially picturesque scene, but there was something compelling about it. The painter had caught the dull sheen of the wet mud and the peculiar, untidy beauty of a working harbour. She moved closer. The signature in the bottom corner was too small to read. Annie came back into the room, carrying her jacket, and Alison gestured towards the painting. “I was just admiring this. Do you know who painted it?” “I did, actually.” “Really?” Annie gave a small shrug. “It's Mousehole harbour. Painted it a few years back.” Alison looked from the painting to Annie. “Do you still paint?” “In between other jobs. I suppose you could call me a jack of all trades.” There was a brief silence. “Well, I think it's lovely,” Alison said. Annie smiled, a little self-consciously, and Alison noticed how much it altered her face. “I'll show you the domestics,” she said, leading Alison back into the kitchen, where she explained the heating controls and the slightly temperamental lock on the back door. There was a folder on the kitchen table containing local information and emergency numbers. “My number's in there too, if you have any problems.” “Thanks. I hope I won't need to.” “That's what I'm here for.” Annie opened the front door. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. “There's a decent café in the village if you don't feel like cooking. Does lunches and cakes. We're closed Sundays, though.” “We?” “I work there three days a week.” “You do keep busy.” “Needs must.” She said it lightly, without inviting further discussion. Alison thanked her again, and Annie stepped outside with her cleaning things. She loaded them into the green hatchback, gave a brief wave through the windscreen and drove away. Alison closed the door. The silence that followed was sudden and smothering. No traffic. No sirens. Only the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the rain dripping from the gutters. She carried her empty mug into the kitchen, rinsed it and returned to the sitting room. It was ten past three. She stood for a moment, considering her options. She could go for a walk, but the rain was still falling. She could drive into the village and buy a ready meal for supper. Or she could read the novel she'd brought with her, a book she'd been meaning to start for months. She chose the book. After making another cup of tea, she settled into the sofa, tucked her feet beneath her and opened it at the first page. She read for perhaps five minutes before finding herself wondering whether her replacement at work had remembered to speak to the client in Frankfurt. She read the paragraph again. Then she wondered whether the revised agreement had been circulated. She reached for her phone, remembered that it was upstairs and left it there. Outside, the rain was beginning to clear. Through the window she could make out the rough field descending towards the cliffs, and beyond it a pale strip of sea beneath the clouds. She remembered coming back from the beach as a child, tired and sandy, and spending the rest of the afternoon curled up with a book while her parents prepared supper. Sometimes she'd read for hours, barely noticing the passing time. She'd never thought of those afternoons as particularly precious. There had simply been so many of them. Alison looked down at the open book on her lap. She had twenty-eight days here. Twenty-eight days without meetings, deadlines or anyone expecting an answer. She turned the page. A minute later, she turned it back. She hadn't taken in a word. II By Monday morning, Alison had begun to understand why her father had always insisted on bringing a pack of cards to Cornwall. The rain had continued for most of Saturday. On Sunday she'd managed a walk along the coastal path, but the wind had been so fierce that she'd returned after half an hour, her eyes watering and her ears aching with cold. She had finished her novel, started another and watched two films on television. She'd also checked her work emails approximately thirty times, despite knowing there would be nothing there. The absence of messages was beginning to feel personal. On Monday the weather improved. A pale sun appeared between the clouds, and by ten o'clock Alison had decided she could bear the cottage no longer. She drove into the village and parked near the square. She could dimly remember the church and the pub opposite, but little else. A minimart now stood on the far side of the square, and around its centre stood a small row of shops — a butcher's, a newsagent's, a bakery and a delicatessen. She wandered past the shop windows, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile the place with her childhood memories. At the beginning of a narrow lane leading off the square, she came upon a café. Its windows were misted around the edges, and through the glass she could see several occupied tables. She went inside. The place was warm and smelled of coffee and fried breakfast. Two elderly men sat near the counter, discussing something in low, earnest voices, while a couple in walking boots studied a map beside the window. Behind the counter stood Annie. She was laughing at something one of the men had said, her face unexpectedly animated. She wore a dark apron over a pale green jumper, her fair hair loosely pinned up. She noticed Alison and smiled. “Well, hello. Survived the weekend, then?” “Just about.” Annie laughed. “Take a seat. I'll bring you a menu.” Alison chose a small table beside the window. A moment later Annie appeared with a laminated menu, which she placed in front of her. “Can I get you a drink?” “A flat white, please.” Annie nodded and returned to the counter. Alison studied the menu. There were sandwiches, homemade soups, all-day breakfasts and a selection of toasted teacakes. Her eye fell on the saffron cake. She remembered her father buying a slab of it during their childhood holidays, the yellow crumb studded with currants. When Annie returned with her coffee, Alison ordered a toasted slice. “With butter?” “Definitely.” Annie smiled and went to fetch it. Alison opened the newspaper she had bought in the square, but found herself listening instead to the conversations around her. It was an odd sensation, sitting among people whose lives had nothing whatsoever in common with hers. Nobody here knew what she did for a living. Nobody wanted her opinion on a contract or expected her to solve a problem or a dispute. She ought to have found it liberating. Instead, she felt rather like a visitor to a party where everyone else knew the host. The saffron cake arrived warmed, with a generous curl of butter melting across its surface. Alison took a bite and was surprised by the strength of the memory it brought back: her father cutting two slices and her mother's voice telling them not to spoil their supper. She ate slowly, watching the people in the square. After a while the café began to empty. The walkers left, followed by the elderly men, who took several minutes to finish their conversation at the door. Annie cleared the tables and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. Alison was considering another coffee when she noticed a painting on the wall opposite. It showed a stretch of coastline in late afternoon, the headland dark against a pale sky. There was no dramatic sunset, no picturesque fishing boat. Just a narrow path winding through rough grass towards the sea, with the light catching the tops of the dry stone walls. She recognised the style before she saw the signature. Annie's. There were three other paintings nearby, all similarly styled. One showed a cluster of houses above a harbour; another, an empty beach beneath a grey winter sky. Small handwritten cards gave their titles and prices. Alison got up to look more closely. “You found my little exhibition.” Annie had emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of clean cups. “I thought they were yours.” Alison returned her attention to the coastal path. “Where's this one?” “Just along the coast. A favourite haunt of mine.” They looked at the painting together. Alison liked the way the path disappeared beyond a rise in the ground, leaving the viewer to imagine what lay ahead. There was something quietly assured about it. “I'd like to buy it,” she said. Annie turned towards her. “Really?” “Yes. Very much.” For a moment Annie seemed uncertain what to say. “Well, I'm flattered. And of course you can.” She lifted the painting from its hook and carried it to the counter, where she began wrapping it in brown paper. Alison watched her fold the corners neatly and secure them with tape. She handed Alison the parcel. “There you are.” “It'll look lovely in my apartment.” “Oh? And where's that?” “London.” Annie gave a small nod. “Long way from here.” “It feels like it.” Alison paid for the painting and gathered up her newspaper. “And the saffron cake was wonderful.” “I'll tell Margaret. She makes it.” “Well, give her my compliments.” “I will.” Annie smiled and returned to the counter. Outside, the sun had disappeared behind a bank of cloud, but the rain was holding off. Alison carried the painting carefully to her car and laid it on the back seat. It occurred to her that, though she never had to worry much about what things cost, those purchases never really gave her pleasure. But buying Annie's painting felt different. It meant something that she couldn't quite put her finger on... a connection to a place and a person, perhaps. She shook her head to dislodge the thought, and started the engine. Back at the cottage, she unwrapped the painting and propped it against the mantelpiece, beside Annie's harbour scene. She stood considering them for a moment, then went into the kitchen to make herself some lunch. Her phone was lying on the table. She picked it up, checked the screen and found nothing. For once, she put it down without opening her inbox. She wondered whether Annie would be working at the café tomorrow. Then she took the bread from the cupboard and began making a sandwich, feeling suddenly lighter. III By the middle of the following week, Alison had stopped counting the days until she could return to London. She was beginning, rather reluctantly, to recognise that her boss had been right to insist on a month's leave. She was sleeping better, taking long walks and discovering that she could sit with a book for an hour without reaching for her phone. She'd also been back to the café twice. The first time, Annie had been busy and they'd exchanged little more than a greeting. On the second occasion, Alison had arrived shortly before closing. Annie had brought her coffee over and, finding the place empty, sat opposite her for a few minutes. They'd talked about painting, the difficulties of making a living from it, and the extraordinary prices some artists commanded. Alison had discovered that Annie possessed a dry, mischievous sense of humour, quite at odds with the rather guarded woman she'd first encountered at the cottage. She'd thought about that conversation several times afterwards. Indeed, she was beginning to think about Annie rather more often than she cared to acknowledge. There was something appealing about her unhurried manner, her independence, the way her smile sometimes appeared quite suddenly and softened her face. Alison knew very little about her private life, but found herself increasingly curious. For years she'd scarcely had time to maintain her existing friendships, let alone cultivate new ones. There had always been work to finish, another early start, some obligation that made socialising seem more trouble than it was worth. Now she had time, and was beginning to discover that she rather liked having it. On Thursday afternoon she set off along the coastal path, heading west. The weather had improved considerably since her arrival. There was still a stiff breeze off the Atlantic, but the sun was warm whenever it escaped the clouds, and the sea had taken on a deep, almost metallic blue. She walked without hurrying, stopping occasionally to look down at the waves breaking and the ruined mine buildings scattered along the cliffs. Approaching a bend above a shallow valley, she noticed someone sitting on a folding stool a little way off the path, bent over a sketchbook balanced on her lap, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Alison recognised the fair hair before she saw the face. “Annie?” Annie looked up, visibly startled. Her eyes dropped to her exposed right arm, and she hurriedly pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, fumbling slightly as she drew the fabric over her wrist. But Alison had already seen the scarring. It covered much of Annie's forearm, the skin irregular and discoloured, with areas of pale, tightened tissue interspersed with pinkish ridges. Alison's glance had been instinctive, but she was immediately conscious that Annie had noticed it. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to stare.” “Don't apologise.” Annie's voice was rather sharper than before. “Car accident, years ago. I'm used to the scars. Don't worry about it.” Alison nodded, embarrassed and uncertain what to say. Annie looked down at her sketchbook, adjusting her sleeve once more. “Can I see what you're drawing?” Alison asked. Annie hesitated, then turned the book towards her. “It's only a rough study.” The sketch showed the valley below them, with the remains of an engine house on the opposite slope and the sea beyond. With remarkably few lines, Annie had captured the contours of the hillside and the broken shapes of the buildings. Dark strokes of charcoal marked the shadows; lighter ones suggested the grass bending in the wind. “That's fantastic.” “It's not finished.” “I wish I could draw like that.” “You could, with practice.” “I doubt it.” Annie gave a small smile. “You should see the pages I've torn out.” Alison laughed, and some of the awkwardness between them disappeared. Annie shifted her stool, and Alison sat on a low, flat rock nearby. For a while they talked about the landscape. Annie pointed out the remains of an old track leading down towards the mine workings and explained what had been troubling her about the composition. Alison listened with interest. Annie spoke about painting with a quiet confidence that was quite different from her self-deprecating manner when receiving compliments. “Do you often work out here?” Alison asked. “Whenever the weather's decent. I've got a studio at home, but I like getting out.” “It must be calming.” “It has its moments.” Annie glanced at the sketch. “Though this one's been giving me trouble all afternoon.” She closed the book and slipped it into her canvas bag. “I'd better be going. I've got a commission waiting at home.” Alison stood, brushing the dust from her trousers. “Well, I'm glad I came across you.” “Me too.” Annie smiled, then picked up her folding stool. “Enjoy your walk.” They parted at the bend, Annie heading inland while Alison continued towards the cliffs. She walked for another half-hour before turning back, unable to shake off the regret of having caused Annie distress. She remembered how quickly Annie had covered her arm, and the brusqueness with which she had dismissed the subject. And yet she'd enjoyed sitting beside her, listening to her explain the complexities of capturing a landscape in all its different moods and seasons. She liked Annie. Quite a lot, in fact. On her return to the cottage, she made herself a cup of coffee and settled beside the window with her book. Her gaze wandered to the painting she had bought, now propped on the mantelpiece. She found herself wondering when she might see Annie again. The thought brought a small smile to her face. Then she returned to her book, and this time managed to lose herself in it until the light began to fade. IV On Friday afternoon, Alison returned from a shopping trip to find Annie standing beside her car, near the cottage, struggling to lift a large cardboard box from the boot. “Need a hand?” Annie straightened up. “Oh, hi. Yes, that would be great. It's heavier than I expected.” Between them they carried the box into the cottage and set it on the kitchen floor. It contained a replacement microwave oven. “The owner's been promising to get one of these for months,” Annie said. “The old one has a habit of switching itself off halfway through cooking. As you may have discovered.” “I thought it was something I'd done.” “No. It hates everybody.” Alison laughed. While Annie unpacked the microwave, Alison made room on the worktop. They lifted the old one down together, and Annie plugged in its replacement. “There. You can have hot food again.” “Provided I can work out how to use it.” “You look reasonably intelligent.” “Mmm. I guess.” Annie smiled and began gathering the packaging. “Would you like a coffee?” Alison asked. Annie glanced at her watch. “I've got half an hour.” Alison switched the coffee-maker on. They sat at the kitchen table, where the afternoon sun had found its way through the window. Annie told her about the small studio she'd made in an outbuilding behind her house, and the commission she was currently working on. “Another landscape?” Alison asked. “A portrait, actually. Of a spaniel.” “That sounds different.” “It is. Particularly when the owner's convinced he's the most handsome dog in Cornwall.” “Is he?” “Not even close.” Alison grinned. She liked the way Annie delivered these remarks with an entirely straight face. “Do you live alone?” she asked. “Yes. Have done for years.” Annie took another sip. She offered nothing further, and Alison didn't press her. Instead, she told Annie a little about her work in London, the long hours, and the conversation with her boss that had ended with her being ordered to take a month's leave. “Sounds as though he did you a favour,” Annie said. “I think he probably did.” “You don't sound very pleased about it.” “I'm getting there.” Annie smiled. Alison found herself watching her. There were fine lines around her eyes and a slight softness beneath her jaw. Her hair, loosely pinned up, had begun to escape around her temples. Alison wondered what it would look like hanging loose. The thought surprised her. It had been a long time since she'd looked at another woman quite like this. She was thirty-nine now. At university she'd come out as gay, had a few flings, and later a relationship that had lasted nearly three years. That ended when she was twenty-nine, and since then there had been little beyond a handful of first dates and one brief affair. Being single hadn't preyed on her mind. She understood that work had gradually consumed the time and energy she'd once devoted to her relationships. There had always been another case to handle, another client, another late evening at the office. Before she knew it, ten years had passed. And now she found herself wondering about a woman she'd known for less than a fortnight. She knew Annie lived alone. But that told her nothing. She had no idea whether Annie was interested in women, much less whether she might be interested in her. Annie set down her mug. “I'd better get going. I've got that dog to finish.” Alison followed her to the door. “Annie?” “Yes?” The question had been forming in her mind for several days, but she hadn't expected to ask it quite so suddenly. “I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner one evening. You've been so helpful, and I'd like to return the favour.” Annie looked surprised. “Nothing elaborate. I'm a reasonably competent cook.” Annie considered for a moment. “Okay. How about Saturday?” Alison felt a small rush of pleasure. “Saturday would be lovely. About seven?” “Seven's fine.” “Good. I'll look forward to it.” Annie smiled. “So will I.” Alison watched her drive away before closing the door. She'd done it. She'd invited Annie to dinner, and Annie had accepted. It might mean nothing more than an enjoyable evening in pleasant company. Alison knew that perfectly well. But she found herself grinning as she went back into the kitchen. On Saturday morning she drove into Penzance to buy groceries. She'd intended to make something simple, but found herself considering recipes she hadn't attempted in years. Eventually she settled on salmon with a lemon and herb sauce, new potatoes and asparagus, followed by chocolate mousse. At a florist's she bought flowers, asking for one bunch but departing with three. And she kept telling herself: It's only dinner. Not a date. Yet here she was, with butterflies dancing in her stomach, and feeling a sudden quickening of anticipation whenever she thought about the evening ahead. She remembered being young enough to spend an entire afternoon wondering what to wear for a date, and how thrilling the smallest possibility of romance had once seemed. She had forgotten how much pleasure there could be in anticipation alone. For years she had organised her life around obligations, appointments and deadlines. Even her holidays had been carefully planned, squeezed between professional commitments. Now she had nothing more pressing to think about than dinner with a woman she liked. And she was looking forward to it enormously. By late afternoon she'd laid the table and arranged the flowers in vases. The mousse was chilling in the fridge, and she'd checked the salmon twice, although there was nothing to check. She went upstairs to change. She tried on a dress, decided it was too formal, and put it back. A pair of tailored trousers and a silk blouse seemed more appropriate, though she changed her mind twice about the blouse. At one point she caught sight of herself in the bedroom mirror, holding two tops against her chest, and began to laugh. Good heavens. She really was behaving like a schoolgirl. But she didn't mind. There was something unexpectedly liberating about feeling foolish over a woman again. About caring whether she looked attractive, whether her hair was right, whether the evening might turn out to be something more than a pleasant dinner. In the end she chose the dress, brushed her hair and applied a little lipstick. Then she stood back from the mirror. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she wasn't dressing for work, or for an occasion that demanded a particular appearance. She was dressing for someone she wanted to please. The thought brought another small flutter of excitement. She smiled at her reflection, switched off the bedroom light and went downstairs. At five minutes to seven, she heard a car coming along the lane. Her heart gave an absurd little leap. She went to open the door. V Annie was standing on the doorstep with a small bunch of flowers wrapped in brown paper. “I wasn't sure what to bring.” “They're lovely. Come in.” Alison took the flowers, resisting an impulse to embrace her. Annie was wearing dark trousers and a loose, cream-coloured blouse, with her fair hair brushed back from her face. A fine silver chain rested against her collarbone. “You look nice,” Alison said. “Oh. Thank you.” Annie glanced at her. “So do you.” Alison led the way into the kitchen, where she found a vase for the flowers. She was conscious of Annie watching her as she trimmed the stems, and became unnecessarily careful with the scissors. “Would you like a glass of wine?” “Tap water's fine, thanks. I'm driving.” Alison poured herself a small glass of wine and filled another with water. Annie wandered into the sitting room, where her painting still stood on the mantelpiece. “You know, I am really glad you liked it enough to buy it.” Alison could see that the pleasure was genuine. “And I promise it'll take pride of place in my apartment.” Annie cocked her head. “Are you missing city life?” Alison considered the question. “Not particularly. Which is rather worrying, considering how desperate I was to get back there a week ago.” “Perhaps Cornwall's growing on you.” “Perhaps it is.” Annie smiled, and Alison found herself looking at the little creases that appeared beside her eyes. She turned back towards the kitchen before she could be caught staring. Dinner was easier than she'd expected. They talked about Alison's childhood holidays in Cornwall, and the paintings Annie was working on. Alison then recounted some of the absurdities of her job which, when spoken aloud, did seem truly absurd. Occasionally she caught Annie watching her across the table. Their eyes would meet, Annie would smile, and Alison would turn her attention back to her plate, although she had long since finished eating. After dinner they took their coffee and chocolate mousse into the sitting room. Annie settled at one end of the sofa, and Alison sat beside her, leaving a comfortable space between them. Outside, the last of the daylight had faded from the windows, and Alison switched on the lamp beside the fireplace. The conversation wandered towards London, and the life Alison would eventually be returning to. “Do you have someone waiting for you there?” Annie asked as she set down her coffee. “Someone?” “A boyfriend, perhaps?” Alison shook her head, and Annie regarded her with a thoughtful expression that gradually gave way to a mischievous smile. “Girlfriend?” “What makes you think I might be gay?” “Well, I've seen the way you look at our new waitress, Chloe. You're practically drooling.” Alison burst out laughing. “That's so not true!” “I know, I'm only teasing.” Alison smiled into her coffee. She could leave the conversation there, change the subject... “Actually,” she said, “it's not her I've been looking at.” “Oh? So who's the lucky lady?” Alison turned towards her, her heart thumping. “You.” For a moment Annie seemed not to understand. Then she gave a small, uncertain laugh. “Now it's you teasing me.” “No,” Alison said, and the smile faded from Annie's face. They looked at one another. Annie's eyes moved briefly to Alison's mouth, then back again. Alison moved closer. Annie didn't draw away. Indeed, as Alison leaned towards her, she seemed to move forward too, until their faces were only inches apart. Alison noticed the way her lower lip caught briefly between her teeth. She kissed her. Annie was still for an instant, then responded with a warmth that took Alison by surprise. Her hand settled on Alison's shoulder, and Alison moved closer, feeling the soft pressure of Annie's lips against hers. She had scarcely begun to enjoy it when Annie suddenly drew back, clearly flustered. “I'm sorry. I have to go.” She moved towards the edge of the sofa, reaching for her handbag. Alison sat back, mortified. A moment earlier she'd been certain Annie wanted her; now she felt like a fool. “Oh God, no, Annie. It's me who's sorry. I've completely misread things, haven't I?” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Can we just forget that happened?” Annie shook her head. “It's not that.” “What is it, then?” “Complicated.” Annie sighed, looking down at the handbag in her lap. “And it's me spoiling a lovely evening, not you. I should just go.” “Annie, please.” Alison hesitated. “People at work think I'm a hard-nosed so-and-so, but actually I'm a good listener.” She gave a self-conscious smile. “And... and I like you.” Annie looked at her, then shook her head. “Really, you don't want to know.” “Yes, I do.” Annie put her handbag down again, but kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, rubbing one thumb against the other. Alison began to wonder whether she'd been wrong to press her. There was a pause as Annie drew in a deep breath. “I knew a woman, a few years ago,” Annie said at last. “We were seeing each other for a while.” She paused again, smoothing away an invisible crease in her trousers. “She was lovely. I was very fond of her, and I think she was fond of me. But I finished it, just when things were beginning to... well, you know.” She made a vague movement with her hand and looked away. “Oh, I don't know how to say this.” Alison waited. “She wanted us to spend a weekend away together. In a hotel. I made some excuse, then another. In the end I told her I didn't think it was working.” She gave a small, humourless laugh. “I couldn't bear the thought of her seeing me. Without my clothes, I mean.” She fell silent, her fingers tightening around one another. “You've seen my arm,” she said at last. “But it's not just that. There's part of my back, and my leg. And I kept imagining the look on her face.” Her voice trailed away. Alison remembered the afternoon on the coastal path, the speed with which Annie had pulled down her sleeve. She wanted to reach for Annie's hand, but hesitated. “Oh, Annie.” Annie gave a small shrug. “Anyway. That's why.” Alison wanted to say that it wouldn't matter to her. But the words seemed hollow, and she let them go. “I'm glad you told me,” she said. Annie gave a faint smile. “I'm not sure I am.” Alison smiled too. She wished they could recover something of the ease they'd enjoyed over dinner, but couldn't think how to begin. After a while Annie glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece. “I ought to be going.” Alison nodded. “Of course.” But Annie made no move to stand. Instead she turned towards Alison, and the faintest smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. “And you really don't need to be sorry, you know. You're a good kisser.” Alison raised an eyebrow. “How good?” Annie appeared to consider the question with great seriousness. “Very good. And on that note I really should go.” Alison rose with her and accompanied her to the door. Outside, the night was cool and clear. Annie turned towards her on the doorstep, her car keys in one hand. “Thank you for tonight, and for listening.” Alison smiled. “Perhaps we could go for a walk together sometime,” she ventured. “Or—” “Or I could cook you dinner?” Annie said, interrupting her. “Next Wednesday, perhaps?” “I'd love that. Wednesday would be perfect.” They hugged, and Annie held her rather tightly for a moment before drawing back. Their cheeks brushed as they said goodbye, and Alison again caught the faint scent of Annie's perfume. “Goodnight, Alison.” “Goodnight, Annie.” Alison watched as Annie got into her car and drove away. The red taillights disappeared around the bend at the end of the lane, but she remained standing in the doorway long after they were gone. VI Annie lived in a small terraced cottage on the outskirts of the village, tucked along a narrow street Alison had passed without noticing. A blue front door faced the road, with pots beneath the sitting-room window and a brass fish knocker. Alison arrived at seven with wine and chocolates, and a fluttering in her belly. Annie opened the door almost at once. “Hello, you.” The unexpected affection made Alison smile, followed by the realisation that she'd been holding her breath for too long. Annie stepped back to let Alison pass. “Come in. I hope you're hungry.” “Starving. And I've brought supplies.” “Oh, you shouldn't have.” Annie took the wine and chocolates. “Come in before everything gets cold.” The cottage was warm and comfortably untidy. Books crowded shelves on either side of the fireplace, and a mismatch of rugs lay at different angles on the wooden floor. Through an open doorway, Alison glimpsed pale green kitchen cupboards and a small table set for two. “This is nice,” she said. “Cosy and bijou is what I think an estate agent would call it. But it's home, and I wouldn't swap it for the world.” “Well, I envy you.” Annie gave her a quizzical look but didn't comment. Then she carried the wine into the kitchen, Alison following. Something simmered on the hob, filling the air with the smell of tomatoes, garlic and herbs. A loaf of bread rested on a board beside two plates. “Nothing very grand,” Annie said. “I hope you like aubergines.” “I love them.” “Good. Otherwise we'd be having toast.” Annie moved between hob and table, stirring the pan, fetching glasses, checking the oven. Alison watched her, noticing the cupboard she opened without looking, the spoon balanced on the rim, the way she nudged a chair into place with her knee. The ease of it made the room feel closer than it had a moment before. They ate vegetable gratin — potatoes and aubergines beneath a crisp cheese topping. When Alison complimented her, Annie lowered her eyes, pleased, and traced one finger along her glass. They talked easily, circling back now and again to Saturday, making light of it in a way that seemed to conceal something deeper. Conversation faltered whenever their eyes met, and each time one of them looked away a heartbeat too late. When Annie cleared the plates, Alison stood. “You cooked, so I'd like to wash up. It's only fair.” “All right, then. You wash, I'll dry.” They worked side by side at the sink, their elbows sometimes bumping. Steam blurred the window. Once, reaching for the same dish, their hands touched. The dish hung between them before Annie let go. When they'd finished, Annie made coffee and carried it into the sitting room. They sat closer than they had on Saturday. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Outside, a car drove past, its headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Annie got up to put on some music, a soft female voice filling the background. She settled back onto the sofa. “So, when are you leaving us? Heading off to London, I mean,” she asked, looking at Alison over the rim of her mug. “Ten days tomorrow.” Neither spoke for a moment. “I expect you're eager to get back into the swing of things.” Alison frowned. “Like I said last time we met, I'm not so sure.” “So is it the sea air?” Annie asked. “Or maybe the irresistible lure of the Cornish pasty?” “Both,” Alison said, attempting a weak smile. She was aware that the atmosphere in the room had altered. Annie was watching her, waiting for her to say something more. Alison took a deep breath. “We've both been open about things, haven't we? And then regretted it.” Annie looked puzzled. “I'm not sure I follow.” “All right. What if I told you that you're the reason I'm reluctant to go back to London? What would you say?” “Are you being serious?” Annie asked. Then, looking more closely at her, “You are, aren't you?” She said it in a tone Alison couldn't quite decipher. “Yes. Seriously serious. Which may be the last thing you want to hear. It's just—” Whatever Alison had been about to say remained unsaid as Annie moved closer and cupped her face in both hands. Then she kissed her. The kiss was brief at first. Tentative. Then Annie's lips pressed more firmly against hers, and Alison responded just as warmly. Eventually they drew back. “Wow,” Alison murmured. It was the only thing she could think of saying. Annie smiled. “Is that a good wow?” “Better than good,” Alison said. “But I don't know what happens next. I'm out of practice, I guess.” Annie leaned closer until her breath brushed Alison's ear. “We go to bed,” she whispered. “If you want.” Alison's heart was beating so loudly she felt sure Annie could hear it too. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.” Upstairs, Annie's bedroom was small, with a sloping ceiling and a window overlooking the back gardens. A bedside lamp cast a soft glow across the quilt. Books lay on the floor, a glass of water stood on the table, and a cardigan hung from a chair. Annie closed the door. For a moment they faced one another. Then Alison put her arms around her, drawing her closer until their bodies touched. She kissed Annie's cheek, then her neck, while her fingers reached the top button of Annie's blouse and she fumbled to undo it. Annie gently put one hand over hers. “Turn the light out first. Please.” Alison looked at her. Annie's eyes were lowered, but she hadn't released her hand. “All right.” She crossed to the lamp and switched it off. For a moment, only the pale rectangle of the window was visible. “Come here,” Annie whispered. In the darkness Alison turned, and the two of them almost stumbled into a kiss. Soon Annie's blouse was slipping from her shoulders and dropping to the floor. Alison stooped to ease Annie's trousers over her knees, then stood upright as Annie tugged at the hem of her top. She raised her arms to help. The fabric snagged briefly in her hair, then was gone. The room wasn't cold, but when Annie's fingers moved to the fastening of Alison's bra and unclipped it, Alison felt the soft release of pressure against her skin and shivered. “Are you okay?” Annie asked quietly. “Yes,” Alison whispered, reaching for Annie's hand and squeezing it. For a few more moments they stood there, each touch a new discovery, until Annie caught her wrist and half-pulled her towards the bed. They slipped beneath the duvet, moving closer once more. Then, without thinking, Alison's hand closed around Annie's right arm. At the same instant that she felt the different texture of the skin beneath her fingers, Annie froze. “Oh God, I'm so sorry,” Alison said, quickly releasing her grip. “I didn't mean to...” She heard Annie sigh. “I know,” Annie said. “And I didn't mean to make you jump.” For a moment neither moved. Then Annie took Alison's hand. “Let me show you,” she whispered, guiding her hand. “There. Touch me there, like that...” Soon they clung to each other and, much later, fell asleep with their limbs still tightly entwined. VIII Alison woke to the sound of gulls and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her waist. For a few seconds she lay still, trying to place herself. Then she recognised the sloping ceiling, the books beside the bed, the pale curtains moving slightly in the draught from an open window. Annie was asleep beside her, her face turned towards the pillow. Alison watched her for a moment, reluctant to disturb her. Annie stirred. “Morning,” she murmured. “Morning.” She opened her eyes and looked at Alison. Then her gaze dropped to the arm lying across Alison's waist. Alison thought she might withdraw it, but instead Annie drew her closer. “Sleep all right?” “Better than I have for weeks.” “Good. I did too.” They lay together for a while, listening to the sounds of the street beginning to wake. Eventually Annie pushed back the duvet and sat up, reaching for the dressing gown draped over a chair. As she turned, Alison saw her back. The scars ran from Annie's right shoulder down her back and side, their colour and texture varying across her skin. They continued along her right arm. Annie became aware of Alison looking. She stopped reaching for the dressing gown. For a moment neither spoke. Annie reached for the dressing gown again, then hesitated. Alison sat up beside her. “Would you rather I didn't look?” Annie considered the question. “I don't know,” she said at last. “I've spent so long making sure nobody did.” “Can I at least give you a hug?” Annie glanced round at her. “That's permissible.” Alison slipped out of bed and bent to embrace her. Annie remained still for a moment, then leaned against her, resting her cheek on Alison's shoulder. They stayed like that for a while. When Alison finally straightened, Annie looked up at her. “You'll catch cold standing there,” she said. “Then you'd better make me some coffee.” “Bossy woman.” Annie gave a small laugh as she reached for her dressing gown. “Toast?” she asked. “If you're offering.” “You can have the good marmalade. That's how much I like you.” “I'm honoured.” Annie disappeared downstairs. By the time Alison joined her, dressed in yesterday's clothes, Annie was cutting bread at the kitchen counter. She'd changed into jeans and a loose shirt, and her hair was still untidy. They ate at the small kitchen table. Sunlight fell across the pale green cupboards, and somewhere outside a neighbour was starting a car. Alison had almost finished her coffee when Annie asked what she intended to do with the rest of her holiday. “I haven't thought much beyond today, to be honest.” “Well,” Annie said, helping herself to another slice of toast, “I've got nothing planned for the weekend, if you fancy coming over again. I could show you more of the coast.” “I'd like that.” “Good. We might even venture further afield, weather permitting.” “You make it sound like an expedition.” “Well, I'm not as young as you, remember. I have to pace myself.” “I'll try not to wear you out.” Annie laughed. “And then there's London,” she said after a while. “Yes. London.” “I suppose you'll have a mountain of work waiting when you get back.” “Almost certainly. I'm rather dreading opening my inbox.” Annie glanced towards the window. “It's a lovely morning. Fancy a walk out towards Cape Cornwall? There's a path I like. Hardly anyone uses it.” “Sounds perfect.” Annie left the breakfast things in the sink and rummaged in a large wooden box for her walking boots. Alison waited by the front door, studying the paintings on the sitting-room wall. A few minutes later they stepped outside. Annie locked the door behind them, and they set off along the narrow street towards the open countryside. The morning air was cool. Annie pointed out a garden where the last roses were still flowering. Alison leaned towards her to see over the low wall, and their shoulders rubbed together as they walked on. At the end of the street the houses gave way to fields, and beyond them Alison could see the sea. They came to a narrow stile. Annie climbed over first, then turned to offer Alison a hand. Alison took it and stepped down into the field. “Thank you,” she said. “You're welcome.” Annie started along the path without releasing her. Alison fell into step beside her. After a few paces Annie glanced at their joined hands, then at Alison. Ahead of them, the path curved towards the sea.