Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 93
Moray gave her a look.
‘I do better here in Lipton than you will ever know, love. These farmers play a good macho game, but …’
Rosie laughed. ‘What is it we say in A&E?’
‘Be safe, darling!’ they trilled together, as she let him lead her back to the ballroom, where a band with a fiddle player, an accordionist and a bodhrán drummer were all ready to go.
‘Good God, what is going on?’ she said, as several men including the one in tartan trews, and one unlikely but rather touching middle-aged couple, he in a kilt, she in a white dress wearing the same tartan as a sash, all took to the floor.
‘It’s easy,’ said Moray. ‘You just fold your arms behind your neck like this.’
‘How is this easy?’
‘Now take your partners for the Gay Gordons,’ the leader of the band announced.
‘Oh well, I see why you like it,’ grumbled Rosie. Moray ignored her and lined her up with everyone else, as the band leader walked them through it. And, sure enough, once she’d done it a few times, she got the hang of it, and found herself enjoying the skirl of the music. They bumped into a few people, but that was all right, everyone else bumped into them too, and Moray was a skilled partner, his hands always there to catch her as she twirled. And the green silk dress twirled beautifully. It was made for it. Made to be danced in, on a dark night in early winter, where the snow whirled in front of the great window panes of the big house.
After the first dance, Rosie found she wanted to dance another, and another, and she found no shortage of partners. Gasping with thirst, she drank plenty of water but plenty of champagne too, then allowed herself to be carried off into a dance that involved two partners, Jake, who had reappeared, and Frankie, one of his farmer friends. Her head spinning, she danced and bowed and shimmied between them, lighter and more graceful, she knew, thanks to the green dress, than she had ever been in her life, and the skulking corner of silver-clad model-type wraiths with pouty mouths and tight half-smiles ceased to bother her at all.
Traversing the room, floating in a huge bubble of champagne and company and the sheer pleasure of being out again; being out with friends and laughing and dancing and having a good time, she barely noticed when Frankie spun her round, then deposited her not two feet from where Stephen was sitting, still perched awkwardly on the sofa, his stick resting in his left hand. She gave an involuntary gasp of surprise to find herself so close to him, especially so flushed; her hair had escaped from the clasp Tina had found for it, and her curls were tumbled round her face, her eyes shining.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Stephen’s face was like stone.
‘Oh,’ he repeated, flatly. There seemed nothing more to say.
‘Is there anyone in this town you don’t let yourself get manhandled by?’ he barked suddenly.
‘What?’ said Rosie, unable to believe what she’d just heard.
But Stephen didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he hauled himself up and, as fast as he could manage, which wasn’t very fast, started pushing his way through the hordes of people dancing, right across the dance floor to the door.
The spell of the dance broken, all Rosie could do was stand there, staring after him, mouth open in fury.
There were mumblings nearby, but not for long, as the band played on and people restarted the dance. It was not, Rosie reflected, probably any surprise to the people in this village to see Stephen Lakeman have a big sulk about something. It was to her though.
She stormed across the dance floor after him. CeeCee was there, walking unsteadily back from the bathroom. She was running her tongue around her teeth and her eyes were glazed.
‘Hey, you seen Lippy?’ she asked Rosie, but Rosie didn’t bother to answer. Outside the snow was thick and still buffeting it down, but Rosie didn’t feel a thing. Without thinking twice, seeing one car roar away into the distance, she jumped into Moray’s Land Rover. As usual he’d left the keys in the ignition. Regardless of the weather, or how much she’d had to drink, she turned the key.
She was going to tell him a thing or two. About rudeness, and how just having a bit of a gammy leg was no excuse for behaving like a total arsehole, and how what he really needed was therapy.
It was utterly freezing when she got out of the car. Rosie pushed open the door to Peak House without knocking; she knew it wouldn’t be locked. He was sitting upright in the chair, stick to one side. She could see his jaw twitching with the tension. His eyes darted to her when she walked in, but he gave no other signal that he was aware of her presence in the room. The lamp on the table shone on to his profile.
Rosie stopped short. She thought, suddenly, of how many times she had waited for things to happen in her life; how she had waited for a man to grab her, then settled for Gerard; how she had waited for a job to consume her, then settled for agency work. Before the sweetshop. Waiting for life wasn’t enough any longer. Anything she wanted now, she was going to take with both hands. Was going to grab for herself. And, if she was being totally honest, she didn’t want to tell him a thing or two. She didn’t want to say a single word. That, she realised, wasn’t why she was here.
Rosie stepped forward into the dim light, towards him. He was gazing into the fire, hand clutching an empty whisky glass.
‘Stephen,’ she said. He didn’t answer. Until she decided to take another step forward, she wasn’t 100 per cent sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. For some reason she didn’t understand, she found herself thinking of Lilian.
She took the next step forward.
‘What the fuck was that you said?’
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was feeling stupid and useless and jealous. It was dumb. I’m sorry.’
‘But … but.’ Jealous?
Rosie decided, right then, that she didn’t want to talk any more.
Fortified by the champagne, she was almost unable to believe she was being so bold.
Almost.
Without saying a word, she knelt before him and carefully, decisively, unzipped his black trousers. He didn’t move a muscle to stop her. Agonisingly slowly, she manoeuvred them downwards. He was wearing Calvin Klein briefs, but she ignored those for now, and carefully, without pulling, drew as much of his trousers as she could down his left leg.
The light from the lamp shone upon the white and puckered skin, the scar disappearing down his long leg into the shadows. The leg was plainly paler and thinner than the other one, and the long seam was hairless and shiny.
‘I do better here in Lipton than you will ever know, love. These farmers play a good macho game, but …’
Rosie laughed. ‘What is it we say in A&E?’
‘Be safe, darling!’ they trilled together, as she let him lead her back to the ballroom, where a band with a fiddle player, an accordionist and a bodhrán drummer were all ready to go.
‘Good God, what is going on?’ she said, as several men including the one in tartan trews, and one unlikely but rather touching middle-aged couple, he in a kilt, she in a white dress wearing the same tartan as a sash, all took to the floor.
‘It’s easy,’ said Moray. ‘You just fold your arms behind your neck like this.’
‘How is this easy?’
‘Now take your partners for the Gay Gordons,’ the leader of the band announced.
‘Oh well, I see why you like it,’ grumbled Rosie. Moray ignored her and lined her up with everyone else, as the band leader walked them through it. And, sure enough, once she’d done it a few times, she got the hang of it, and found herself enjoying the skirl of the music. They bumped into a few people, but that was all right, everyone else bumped into them too, and Moray was a skilled partner, his hands always there to catch her as she twirled. And the green silk dress twirled beautifully. It was made for it. Made to be danced in, on a dark night in early winter, where the snow whirled in front of the great window panes of the big house.
After the first dance, Rosie found she wanted to dance another, and another, and she found no shortage of partners. Gasping with thirst, she drank plenty of water but plenty of champagne too, then allowed herself to be carried off into a dance that involved two partners, Jake, who had reappeared, and Frankie, one of his farmer friends. Her head spinning, she danced and bowed and shimmied between them, lighter and more graceful, she knew, thanks to the green dress, than she had ever been in her life, and the skulking corner of silver-clad model-type wraiths with pouty mouths and tight half-smiles ceased to bother her at all.
Traversing the room, floating in a huge bubble of champagne and company and the sheer pleasure of being out again; being out with friends and laughing and dancing and having a good time, she barely noticed when Frankie spun her round, then deposited her not two feet from where Stephen was sitting, still perched awkwardly on the sofa, his stick resting in his left hand. She gave an involuntary gasp of surprise to find herself so close to him, especially so flushed; her hair had escaped from the clasp Tina had found for it, and her curls were tumbled round her face, her eyes shining.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Stephen’s face was like stone.
‘Oh,’ he repeated, flatly. There seemed nothing more to say.
‘Is there anyone in this town you don’t let yourself get manhandled by?’ he barked suddenly.
‘What?’ said Rosie, unable to believe what she’d just heard.
But Stephen didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he hauled himself up and, as fast as he could manage, which wasn’t very fast, started pushing his way through the hordes of people dancing, right across the dance floor to the door.
The spell of the dance broken, all Rosie could do was stand there, staring after him, mouth open in fury.
There were mumblings nearby, but not for long, as the band played on and people restarted the dance. It was not, Rosie reflected, probably any surprise to the people in this village to see Stephen Lakeman have a big sulk about something. It was to her though.
She stormed across the dance floor after him. CeeCee was there, walking unsteadily back from the bathroom. She was running her tongue around her teeth and her eyes were glazed.
‘Hey, you seen Lippy?’ she asked Rosie, but Rosie didn’t bother to answer. Outside the snow was thick and still buffeting it down, but Rosie didn’t feel a thing. Without thinking twice, seeing one car roar away into the distance, she jumped into Moray’s Land Rover. As usual he’d left the keys in the ignition. Regardless of the weather, or how much she’d had to drink, she turned the key.
She was going to tell him a thing or two. About rudeness, and how just having a bit of a gammy leg was no excuse for behaving like a total arsehole, and how what he really needed was therapy.
It was utterly freezing when she got out of the car. Rosie pushed open the door to Peak House without knocking; she knew it wouldn’t be locked. He was sitting upright in the chair, stick to one side. She could see his jaw twitching with the tension. His eyes darted to her when she walked in, but he gave no other signal that he was aware of her presence in the room. The lamp on the table shone on to his profile.
Rosie stopped short. She thought, suddenly, of how many times she had waited for things to happen in her life; how she had waited for a man to grab her, then settled for Gerard; how she had waited for a job to consume her, then settled for agency work. Before the sweetshop. Waiting for life wasn’t enough any longer. Anything she wanted now, she was going to take with both hands. Was going to grab for herself. And, if she was being totally honest, she didn’t want to tell him a thing or two. She didn’t want to say a single word. That, she realised, wasn’t why she was here.
Rosie stepped forward into the dim light, towards him. He was gazing into the fire, hand clutching an empty whisky glass.
‘Stephen,’ she said. He didn’t answer. Until she decided to take another step forward, she wasn’t 100 per cent sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. For some reason she didn’t understand, she found herself thinking of Lilian.
She took the next step forward.
‘What the fuck was that you said?’
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was feeling stupid and useless and jealous. It was dumb. I’m sorry.’
‘But … but.’ Jealous?
Rosie decided, right then, that she didn’t want to talk any more.
Fortified by the champagne, she was almost unable to believe she was being so bold.
Almost.
Without saying a word, she knelt before him and carefully, decisively, unzipped his black trousers. He didn’t move a muscle to stop her. Agonisingly slowly, she manoeuvred them downwards. He was wearing Calvin Klein briefs, but she ignored those for now, and carefully, without pulling, drew as much of his trousers as she could down his left leg.
The light from the lamp shone upon the white and puckered skin, the scar disappearing down his long leg into the shadows. The leg was plainly paler and thinner than the other one, and the long seam was hairless and shiny.
