Girl Unknown(93)

She turned to look as he stepped out on to the terrace. Her phone was in her hand, like she’d been texting someone.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he told her.

‘Me neither,’ she said, and gestured for him to sit next to her. ‘It’s so lonely in there, in that bedroom, on my own.’

He sat close to her, as close as he dared. It was still night, although it could not be long before dawn. He could feel the heat of her thigh next to his. She was smoking and he watched her put the cigarette to her lips, heard the soft puckering sound of her lips on the filter.

‘Have you heard from Chris?’ He nodded at her phone, and she answered no.

‘It’s over,’ she said, and he should have felt happy. It was what he wanted, after all. But instead he felt confused, dissatisfied, his brain still reeling from all that Holly had told him. He was so desperately tired and the music kept rising in his brain, then falling back again, little teasing eddies.

‘I knew it wouldn’t last,’ she told him. ‘Nothing ever does.’

She sounded deflated, a little forlorn, and he put his arm around her shoulders, felt her bare skin soft beneath his fingertips.

‘Some things last,’ he said quietly.

She turned her face to him. ‘You’re the only one, Robbie. The only one who understands.’

His heart was beating madly in his chest. He felt his courage rise. If it was true what Holly had said, then it would be all right, wouldn’t it? Her skin was so soft beneath his touch. Slowly, he ran his fingers down her back.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, nerves in her laughter but she didn’t move away, didn’t tell him to stop.

He wanted to tell her but didn’t dare speak the words. Instead he felt the nubs of her spine beneath his fingertips, the rounded curve of her buttocks on the hard plastic of the lounger.

‘Robbie …’ she said and he heard it all in her voice, the fear at what they were about to do, the undercurrent of excitement. It was like they were embarking on the greatest adventure of their lives and no one could know about it but the two of them. Their little secret. And as he leaned in to kiss her, he imagined he heard something – the rustle of leaves, the low breathing of a third party, someone watching them.

‘Don’t,’ he heard her say but he pressed his mouth against hers anyway, knowing she didn’t mean it, recognizing it as a last defence against what they both knew was inevitable.

‘Stop,’ she said and he felt her hand against his chest, pushing him away.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, and he saw the confusion on her brow, realized she was angry.

‘I thought …’

‘You thought what?’

‘That you wanted it too.’

Her expression was horrified. It left him cold.

He opened his mouth to say something more but her phone buzzed on her lap and she glanced down at it.

‘Who’s it from?’ he asked, unable to help himself, although part of him screamed that he should ignore it, stay in the moment, see where it might take them. Here they were, on the cusp of something amazing, the start of the first true passion in either of their lives, and he had to go and ask about some stupid text message.

‘It’s Philippe,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Who?’

‘You know. From the restaurant?’

‘What does he want?’

‘There’s a party,’ she replied, reaching down for her bag, slotting her cigarettes back in.

‘You’re not going?’ he asked.

She didn’t answer, just stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She was still angry with him.

‘Are you going to fuck him?’ He surprised himself with the sharpness of his words.

She stared at him, her forehead creasing into a frown. ‘I see,’ she said, frost coming into her tone. ‘Like that, is it?’

He shrugged, pressed a finger to the corner of his eye.

It didn’t matter what she said. He knew she was going off to fuck that guy. He was sure of it, and the sureness of that knowledge made the thrum in his head louder, the creaking strains of the string section sawing through his inner ear. And he was tired, so very, very tired. If he could only sleep …

‘What would you know of it anyway?’ she went on. ‘You’re just a child. What experience have you got?’

‘Plenty.’

She laughed. ‘Please, don’t bother lying. It’s so obvious you’re a virgin. You’ve probably never even been touched by a girl.’

‘Bullshit. I’ve had plenty.’

‘Liar.’

‘I have.’

‘Name one.’

‘Claire Waters,’ he said – the first name that came into his head. Poor balding, anorexic Claire, with her viola balanced on her bony little shoulder. Debussy in his head again, the relentless press of the sea.

‘And what did Claire Waters do for you?’ she asked, taunting him now. ‘Did she hold your little pecker? Did she take you in her mouth?’

The thought of Claire’s spidery fingers gripped around him made him shivery and nauseous. That and the viciousness in Zo?’s voice fired up the symphony inside him, cymbals crashing in his head. He flung himself back against the headrest of the sun-lounger, forearms over his face so she couldn’t see how much she’d hurt him.