Believing: a Sapphic mini-story (Part 2)

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 had also been back to the café twice. The first time, Annie was busy and they had exchanged little more than a greeting. On the second occasion, Alison arrived shortly before closing. Annie had brought her coffee over and, finding the place empty, sat opposite her for a few minutes. They had talked about painting, the difficulties of making a living from it, and the extraordinary prices some artists commanded. Alison discovered that Annie possessed a dry, mischievous sense of humour, quite at odds with the rather guarded woman she had first encountered at the cottage. She thought about that conversation from time to time afterwards. In fact 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 the space to maintain her existing friendships, let alone cultivate new ones. There was always an ugent email 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 glittered with 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 pad 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 thrown away.” 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 pad and slipped it into her canvas holdall. “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 nagging 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. Liked her that bit more, it seemed, each time they met. On her return to the cottage, Alison made herself a cup of coffee and settled beside the window with her novel. 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 rather heavy.” 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 found out.” “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 had come out as gay, enjoyed a few flings, and later a relationship that 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 so resolutely single didn't ever prey on her mind. She understood that work had gradually consumed the time and energy she had once devoted to her relationships; that being a high-flying exec mattered more. Then, almost before she knew it, ten years had gone by. And now she found herself wondering about a woman she'd met less than a fortnight ago. 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 would 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 had 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 still found herself grinning as she went back into the kitchen. On Saturday morning she drove into Penzance to buy groceries. She had 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 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'd 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 had laid the table and arranged the flowers in vases. The mousse was chilling in the fridge, and she had checked the tidiness of the sitting room once more, even though 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 so 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 rush 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, and she went to open the door.