Late Valentine Ch. 02

Here's a second story for Rob and Elizabeth, which follows directly on from Late Valentine, which in turn was published on this site back in early 2018.

A number of you wanted to be introduced, personally (!), to the sister. I'm not sure I can manage that, but I hope you enjoy her encounter with Elizabeth nevertheless.

Anyone in this story participating in sexual activities is most definitely over the age of 18.

+++

I breathe in deeply at the sight of him striding into the hotel lobby, all long legs and blue eyes; the heady relief of oxygen refuelling my heart and lungs.

Same as yesterday, I've been real nervous he wouldn't turn up at all; that it was going to morph into some kind of elaborately cruel joke. This, despite having spent a good portion of the morning at the mercy of one of those fierce personal shoppers, dedicated to finding me a dress to wear tomorrow night for Rob's fundraiser dinner. Needless to say, the appointment was made overnight with magical efficiency. And the personal shopper -- Nadia -- turned out to be well acquainted with Rob. Some long-standing connections going back to his grandfather's tailoring shop and her great aunt. I think. I'd found it hard to take in the detail, to be quite honest. Partly the distraction of working through flight options for Sunday with Lucia on the phone in-between trying on dresses. Mostly, if truth be told, the hot flashbacks to last night. The things I'd done. And said. And felt.

'I missed you,' he breathes, his eyes full of sparks and a grin tugging at his mouth as he swings in to kiss my cheek, the strength of the electrical charge that bursts down my spine nearly knocking me off of my axis. He steadies me, as if he can feel it too. Smiles at me long enough to make me blush. Then gestures at my bags.

'These?' he asks, all business now.

I nod.

'Ok. Ready?'

I nod again.

'Good day?' he asks as we walk out onto the street, giving a short wave to the man at the reception desk.

'I never knew trying on dresses could be so exhausting,' I reply, truthfully.

'Ah, yes. Nadia put you through your paces, did she?'

'I'll say. She's extremely good at what she does.'

'And an excellent seamstress as well. Makes some absolutely beautiful stuff of her own, you know. Used to make wedding dresses until she realised she didn't need the stress of that sort of client. Now I think she specialises in evening wear. Red carpet and catwalks, or something of that nature.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. The Selfridge's job is just for fun, or so she claims,' he smiles back at me, opening the cab door.

We settle into the back seat together, my heart pounding with excitement and fear, and more excitement on top of that. He finds my hand and folds it into his own.

'Time to find out if I really am an axe murderer or not.'

I look at him out of the corner of my eye.

He raises an eyebrow. 'What's your plan of attack?'

'Oh, most definitely the sock drawer first of all, followed by a close examination of your garage.'

He squeezes my hand, smiling more broadly now, but says nothing, his eyes apparently content to follow the traffic as we are driven through the tiny, narrow streets of Soho. And, simple as that, my heartbeat slows to a healthier pace. He gives my hand another squeeze, making me wonder just how much he can sense.

The journey isn't long. North, to the other side of Oxford Street into a part of the city I'm not so familiar with, until we turn into a tiny cobbled street. And stop right at the end, in front of one of those little mews cottages. Rob opens the glossy black front door and pulls my case inside, takes my hand and tugs me inside too, flicking on some lights to illuminate the interior. A brief impression of calm, warm colours on the walls; stylish, understated furniture. An open kitchen-diner with huge bookshelves lining the long wall.

'I'm going to be a bitter disappointment to you in the garage department because I don't have one, but you are welcome to rummage anywhere else while I take a quick shower. Come upstairs and let's see where you can unpack and settle in?'

With that, he's taking the stairs two at a time, my suitcase in his hand. I follow, not minding the view in the slightest. He turns at the top of the stairs, then pauses.

'There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms, Elizabeth, so before I get ahead of myself, I should be sure to give you the option. At any time, actually.'

It's the first time I've seen any hint of nervousness in him since that first evening, standing outside the shop as he asked if I'd go for a drink with him.

'Let's assume we're going to get along just fine, Rob,' I manage, even as a spike of nerves jars my spine.

He blinks. Smiles, and turns on his heel into a bedroom that faces out toward the back of the house, a wall of glass at the far end of the room.

'What does this look out over?' I ask, walking across the polished wood floor, dropping my face close to the glass and the darkness beyond.

'There's another row of mews houses at the back here, so it's very quiet. Sometimes it's difficult to believe this is in the middle of the city.'

'How long have you lived here?'

'Ten years. About that. Bought it from someone who'd been here forever, so there was a lot of terrible plumbing and brown wallpaper to get rid of before I could move in. But it was worth it.'

'I would tend to agree,' I watch him reflected in the glass, as he peels his suit jacket off. 'It's like a little oasis here.'

He pauses for a second or two before dropping the jacket onto a chair. 'That's exactly how I think of it, Elizabeth.'

I reach him before he has the chance to begin to pulling off his tie, and stop his hands with my own.

'Let me,' I offer, warmth surging through me when he drops his arms down to his side.

As before, I appreciate the smooth weave of the silk tie; this one a dark blue. He must keep spare clothes at his office, I think to myself, as I curl my fingers through the knot to tug it loose, letting a stray finger brush his throat. Watch him swallow.

'Do you like this? Being undressed?' I ask him, surprised that the words come out so easily, so unbidden.

'It seems so,' he replies, humour in his nice blue eyes.

I nod, concentrating on easing the tie from around his neck, running it through my hands before releasing it to the chair. Turn my attention to the buttons of his shirt, made of the same soft white cotton as the one I took off of him last night.

Was it only last night? I take a deep breath. Not even twenty-four hours ago. It seems unreal, what little time I've known him, yet how natural it feels to be here, now, like this. Undressing him again. I smile to myself and, inevitably, he catches it.

'You're enjoying this too, I think?'

He tips my head to his. Brushes his lips over mine; the lightest touch. I raise up on my toes to kiss him back. We don't stop until my legs start to tremble with the tension. His eyes open and he smiles, pulls away slowly as I lower my heels to the floor, my lips and heart made tender.

And resume unbuttoning his shirt, remembering that he wears cufflinks and slipping those free. This time I look at them. They are old. Slim ovals, delicate engravings cut into the rose gold.

'Who did these belong to? They look old.' I ask him.

'My grandfather.'

'Mr Montague?'

'Yes. Him. The original.'

'What do you mean, "the original"?'

'He chose the name Montague when he arrived here from Russia.'

'When was that?'

'1920. A refugee from the civil war.'

I search my memory to retrieve some history. 'After World War One?'

He nods, taking the cufflinks from the palm of my hand and looking at them for himself, examining the elaborate initials.

'And I believe these were his father's before him. They had the same initials.' He holds them out, tilting them to catch the light. 'Solomon. That's our real last name.'

'Why did your grandfather choose Montague?'

Rob laughs. 'After the Montague Street that's behind the British Museum. He was so in awe of finally arriving in London, which he thought of as the epicentre of western civilisation, he visited the British Museum on his very first day here, lugging his suitcase around with him until they chucked him out at closing time. So the story goes, anyway.'

'He sounds like a romantic.'

'He was. And it gets better. He met my grandmother that same day, bumping into her on the steps of the museum.'

'No way! Like, for the first time? It sounds like the plot for a movie.'

'Yes, it does, rather.'

'And they lived happily ever after?'

'Mmm, in some ways, yes. It was a tempestuous sort of marriage. She was feisty. A Suffragist, actually. And my grandfather came from a pretty conservative, patrician sort of family. But they produced five children, so I think they found ways to overcome their differences, if you get my drift. I always remember him as being a very sweet, affectionate man.'

'And your father was one of the five?'

'The oldest.'

I do some math. 'He was a mature father, then?'

'Indeed he was. He didn't marry until he was fifty, perhaps a bit more than that. I came along about four years later.' He smiles again. 'Did you want all this family history, Elizabeth?'

I shrug. 'Just figuring out what kind of situation I'm getting into, is all,' and push his shirt off of his shoulders down his arms until it's free of him.

'You and me both,' he murmurs.

I almost giggle, light-headed and giddy. 'If my mother knew anything about this situation right now she'd throw a fit,' I sigh, looking up into his face.

'Does she think you're still a virgin?'

'How did you know that?' I sputter, somewhat astonished.

'Lucky guess? And maybe because you wear this,' he rubs the little crucifix in-between his thumb and forefinger. 'Catholic?'

'Very much lapsed, Rob. I can't live the virtuous life my mother wishes for me.'

'I doubt any god could think this feeling is sinful.'

'I was brought up with one who definitely frowned upon anything pleasurable.'

He presses me into his chest and I feel him dropping his head down to mine, holding me as his hands work their way down my back. A lively reminder of their effect on my body, as if I needed one. He sighs.

'I really need a shower first, Elizabeth. It wasn't the easiest of days at work today. And then I'll cook us some dinner. What do you think?'

'I'd love that.'

+++

I tip my face up into the pelting water, exhaling, trying to drown out the day's frustrations, rubbing my head with both hands. It takes a minute or two, but I begin to feel some of the tension draining away. I reach for the soap and start to wash. Hearing Elizabeth moving around in my bedroom I exhale again, wondering what I've done to deserve this sort of fantastic luck. My sister's sharp comments this morning come to mind.

'Well she must really be something, for you to have even noticed her, Robbie.'

'Whatever do you mean by that?' I'd asked, feeling rather offended.

'Oh come on! I cannot remember you so much as mentioning a woman these past ten years. Not since Ginny.'

I'd let that sink in for a few seconds before replying. A platitude of some sort, I can't recall precisely what I'd said. I was walking to the office at the time, praying I'd get there before Lucia, that I'd have time to change before anyone would clock I was wearing the same shirt and tie as yesterday.

Aside from the frustrations of work, I've been running all kinds of additional programmes through my brain all day. Ones that have been trying to process what's happened over the last forty-eight hours. Last night in particular. What was said. And felt. It's been a long, long time since I've experienced anything like it. And perhaps I haven't felt anything quite like it. Certainly not with someone I've only just met. The intensity of it, of what it feels like to be with Elizabeth -- that's what's completely knocked me for six.

I turn the shower to cold and weather the shock to my system, before turning it off altogether and reaching blindly for a towel. Time to cook some food and see where this evening takes us.

I find her tucked up in a chair downstairs in the kitchen, wriggling her toes and reading one of my books.

'You read Carl Hiaasen?' She holds the book up.

'I do. One of my favourites.'

'Skink is one of the best characters in fiction,' she's laughing. That quiet, fascinating sound she makes somewhere low in her throat. 'I didn't think I'd find him here.'

I stoop down to kiss her. 'We share a sense of humour then?'

'I guess so,' she smiles back at me, the light catching her fiery hair, making it appear molten, wonderfully alive.

'You're very beautiful, Elizabeth,' I can't stop myself from saying, pulling a hand through her hair and down to her shoulder. And smile at her open mouth and sceptical look. 'I can't be the first to break that to you?'

She shakes her head. In agreement or denial, I'm not sure. I kiss her again, wishing I wasn't hungry for food as well as for her, because having to cook and eat seems but an empty diversion. Her eyes look wider when I straighten up. I can just make out the outline of the contact lenses in them. I think I like her in the glasses better, but I keep that to myself.

'What'd you like to drink? I have water, wine and gin, and some things in-between?'

'Wine. Red or white suits me, Rob.'

She sits watching me as I pour wine, wash, chop and stir food into some kind of meal for us both. I ask her about her family, to divert her from reading into talking. She's one of two girls. The eldest, but it's her sister who's married and has the expected number of children. Married to someone Elizabeth describes as 'a cookie-cutter husband from suburban dullsville,' which makes me laugh.

At one point, I catch sight of our reflection in the kitchen window and it stops me short; the two of us standing in my house, making dinner together. To say it's a rare occurrence to have a woman in my house would be a dramatic understatement. I try not to think about it too deeply in case it causes my nerves of earlier to return, and instead tune back in to Elizabeth describing her Midwest upbringing, telling me about her life in an apparently typical small town.

'You know the kind,' she continues in her light, gentle drawl, 'the kind where making the team at high school is likely to be the highwater mark for the majority of kids.'

'Hmm, Elizabeth but what about your father? You haven't told me anything about him yet.'

'Oh, right. Well, I didn't ever really know him, that's why. He left right after my sister was born so I have no memory of him at all.'

'And how did that work out for your mother in a town like that?'

'Not that great, I guess. No.'

I watch her take a longer sip from her wine glass and imagine I'm catching a glimpse of her back at home, a younger version sitting in a different kitchen to this one. She draws breath; sits up straighter.

'For the longest time, she told us he'd died. Then Deanna Berkovic told me in fifth grade that he'd deserted us. Skipped town one night. And mom had lied to save herself from admitting to the shame of not being able to hold on to her man.'

'I'll bet you hated Deanna Berkovic from that moment on.'

'I punched her in the face because I thought she was lying. Got into a whole world of trouble for that. And you're right, I never spoke to her again.' She pauses. 'Mom was so mad at me for asking her about it when I got home she grounded me for a month. And we've never spoken about it from that day to this.'

I reach for her hand across the table. 'Families are complicated places.'

She rewards me with a delicious smile. 'Deanna had a black eye for two weeks.'

'Is that a warning?' I smile back.

And we both laugh, as if we've been sitting here, at this table, in this house, laughing together for years, not minutes.

'Hungry?'

'Desperately,' she smiles again.

+++

He can cook, I'll say that. We eat facing each other across the table, me firing the occasional question at him. How did he learn to cook like this? Is his house always this neat and clean? Has he really read all these books? He gives his answers in what I'm beginning to see is his default, self-deprecatory, style. He took classes in cooking, since boarding school had left him 'gravely under-prepared' in this regard. It's how he met Ginny, on a cookery course, he offers in a quiet aside. She was one of the tutors. I let that go, for now. His cleaner comes on Fridays, which explains the pristine state of the house this evening. And yes, he has an inordinate number of books and he's read most of them. We laugh about that, too. They line the entire length of the interior wall in this room, which I understand now to be the depth of the whole house. And then he confesses to there being a similar quantity of books upstairs. I frown, not recalling that about his bedroom.

He smiles, picks up my glass and his, and gestures for us to go up the stairs. I follow him, again not minding the view now he's wearing jeans that fit more closely than his suit pants. And am surprised to discover this tiny house has, improbably, three storeys. We climb right to the top, to a room that's lined with more bookshelves, a huge couch, a small TV and desk in one corner, and another wall of glass at the back.

'Wow. What a wonderful room.'

'Isn't it? It took some persuading, but I eventually saw the sense in having the living room at the top of the house.'

I watch him flick some switches that result in a couple of lights turning on and a wash of music gently flooding the space. He turns to look at me, a mixed expression in his gentle eyes.

'Every day I remind myself how fortunate I am to live here.'

I nod, thinking about my own apartment in Chicago. I love it. But it's only ever been me living there. So, sometimes, it feels like a beautiful but barren cage. I look out of the windows again, impatient to see the view in daylight, then back as Rob sits on the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

'I'm not finding very much evidence of your axe murdering past, Rob,' I offer, sitting down next to him.

'Mm. Disappointed?'

'Hardly!'

His eyes light up and he pulls me closer. We talk, swapping between small anecdotes from the day, weightier matters such as what our favourite movies are (his -- 'The Fisher King', mine -- 'American Graffiti', or, on other days, 'Some Like It Hot') and our plans for tomorrow. We sink deeper into the couch, time marked by the changing frequency of the big-city sounds of traffic, sirens and helicopters.

When next I open my eyes, it takes me a while to work out where I am. Rob's body is wrapped around mine and his voice is quiet in my ear, coaxing me up into consciousness. We're lying flat out on the couch, all the lights and music still on. My eyes are sore as all hell. Falling asleep with my contacts still in isn't the best idea, and I mumble something about that as Rob encourages me to sit up. He holds my hand to guide me down to the bathroom and while I fumble around for the saline solution to peel them out of my eyes, he disappears downstairs.

I'm halfway asleep again by the time he returns and slips into the bed. He drapes his arm over me, the warmth of his body acting like a balm, pulling me back down into sleep.

'Night, Lisbeth,' his voice so quiet and muffled in my hair.

I move closer, suddenly heavy with gratitude for this simple intimacy.

+++

I wake unusually slowly, thoroughly disorientated. It's still dark and, for a moment or two, I wonder if it's been just a matter of minutes since climbing into bed with her. I turn my head and finally locate the glowing numerals of the clock. Not even six. As I lie there, I perceive the cause of my confusion. Elizabeth is sleeping on the side of the bed I usually occupy. I smile to myself, amused at how much it has confused my poor brain.