Katie In Love: full length erotic romance novel by Chloe Thurlow Page B
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
Ads: Link
garden hoses, which Mother told the gardener to ignore.
Now, ten years later, when everyone talks and texts nonstop on their smart phone, the very notion of waiting for a letter seems like a literary device. I started to imagine the communication was lost in the post, or had never been sent in the first place. In an unkind moment, I did wonder if the missive had come and Mother had hidden it for reasons that would never be fully explained and would be put down to the onset of menopause.
Then it arrived, a pale dun envelope with a smudged stamp, and I had that feeling I imagine parachutists have the second they pull the rip cord, a tug, a lurch, fear and relief. It was Saturday morning, hot already. The French doors were open. Golo had left the letter on the breakfast table and I heard as I reached for it what I'm sure was a nightingale. I rushed back upstairs, the envelope in trembling fingers. I peeled back the gummed flap, a war bride opening a telegram. Destiny doesn't run in straight lines. I had reached a crossroad, and the contents of that letter would send me in one irreconcilable direction or the other.
Mother poked her head around the door. She was in her dressing gown, velvet slippers with embroidered initials, no make-up.
'It's come?' she asked and I nodded.
'And?'
'I haven't looked yet.'
'Best get it over with.'
I pulled out a sheet of paper with a crest on top, glanced at the words in the first paragraph and tears welled into my eyes. I ran into her arms.
'You got what you wanted,' she said.
I sniffed back my tears. 'I worked for it, Mummy.'
'We all know that,' she said, and shook herself free. 'You must call your father, and Matthew.'
'I will.'
She always wore heels. In her slippers, I was taller, I realized.
'Well done,' she said.
'Thank you.'
She left the room, closing the door. She was pleased for me, I knew that, even if she was unable to show it. I glanced back at the letter, the words fizzing like a struck match. The touch-paper had been lit that day. My life was starting; Mother's was in stasis. She had achieved and acquired the things she had wanted and was aware that there were other landscapes she may have crossed. We set out on a certain course. It is hard to change direction, harder still to turn back down a path littered with regrets. We get one life and I wanted to do everything, be everything I could be. Be myself. At school, there had been moments of boredom and melancholy. Now, I was free. I stood at the open window. The sky was a shade of blue that doesn't visit England often and the lawn was as green as an emerald.
It was mid-afternoon for Father. I could hear the pleasure in his voice when I called him. Fresh tears filled my eyes and it occurred to me that I always cried when I was happy and was stoical when sad; the English way.
My brother was more down to earth. He was fifteen, sailing his passion, and was in Cornwall taking part in a regatta.
'That's not going to make life easy,' Matthew said. 'First Father, then you. They're going to expect me to do the same.'
'You'll be starting uni when I'm leaving.'
'Dead men's shoes, that's all I need,' he said, and I laughed.
'Are you winning any races?'
'No, not really. We don't want too many winners in one family, it wouldn't be fair.'
'Nothing's fair.'
'Yes, I know, it's all, what do you call it, random chaos.'
'That's what Mother calls your room, Matt.'
'Anyway, bloody well done.'
I dressed in a white bikini and grabbed a book; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the latest from JK Rowling. The wet grass was cold underfoot. My mind was empty like a suitcase in a cupboard. I read without hearing the words, closed my eyes and saw myself dancing naked through the dusty light at Black Spires. Now I had been offered a place at the college of my choice, it felt as if these two disparate turning points were connected, that the first had, by some absurd act of wizardry, intervened in the second.
Golo lugged a table
Now, ten years later, when everyone talks and texts nonstop on their smart phone, the very notion of waiting for a letter seems like a literary device. I started to imagine the communication was lost in the post, or had never been sent in the first place. In an unkind moment, I did wonder if the missive had come and Mother had hidden it for reasons that would never be fully explained and would be put down to the onset of menopause.
Then it arrived, a pale dun envelope with a smudged stamp, and I had that feeling I imagine parachutists have the second they pull the rip cord, a tug, a lurch, fear and relief. It was Saturday morning, hot already. The French doors were open. Golo had left the letter on the breakfast table and I heard as I reached for it what I'm sure was a nightingale. I rushed back upstairs, the envelope in trembling fingers. I peeled back the gummed flap, a war bride opening a telegram. Destiny doesn't run in straight lines. I had reached a crossroad, and the contents of that letter would send me in one irreconcilable direction or the other.
Mother poked her head around the door. She was in her dressing gown, velvet slippers with embroidered initials, no make-up.
'It's come?' she asked and I nodded.
'And?'
'I haven't looked yet.'
'Best get it over with.'
I pulled out a sheet of paper with a crest on top, glanced at the words in the first paragraph and tears welled into my eyes. I ran into her arms.
'You got what you wanted,' she said.
I sniffed back my tears. 'I worked for it, Mummy.'
'We all know that,' she said, and shook herself free. 'You must call your father, and Matthew.'
'I will.'
She always wore heels. In her slippers, I was taller, I realized.
'Well done,' she said.
'Thank you.'
She left the room, closing the door. She was pleased for me, I knew that, even if she was unable to show it. I glanced back at the letter, the words fizzing like a struck match. The touch-paper had been lit that day. My life was starting; Mother's was in stasis. She had achieved and acquired the things she had wanted and was aware that there were other landscapes she may have crossed. We set out on a certain course. It is hard to change direction, harder still to turn back down a path littered with regrets. We get one life and I wanted to do everything, be everything I could be. Be myself. At school, there had been moments of boredom and melancholy. Now, I was free. I stood at the open window. The sky was a shade of blue that doesn't visit England often and the lawn was as green as an emerald.
It was mid-afternoon for Father. I could hear the pleasure in his voice when I called him. Fresh tears filled my eyes and it occurred to me that I always cried when I was happy and was stoical when sad; the English way.
My brother was more down to earth. He was fifteen, sailing his passion, and was in Cornwall taking part in a regatta.
'That's not going to make life easy,' Matthew said. 'First Father, then you. They're going to expect me to do the same.'
'You'll be starting uni when I'm leaving.'
'Dead men's shoes, that's all I need,' he said, and I laughed.
'Are you winning any races?'
'No, not really. We don't want too many winners in one family, it wouldn't be fair.'
'Nothing's fair.'
'Yes, I know, it's all, what do you call it, random chaos.'
'That's what Mother calls your room, Matt.'
'Anyway, bloody well done.'
I dressed in a white bikini and grabbed a book; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the latest from JK Rowling. The wet grass was cold underfoot. My mind was empty like a suitcase in a cupboard. I read without hearing the words, closed my eyes and saw myself dancing naked through the dusty light at Black Spires. Now I had been offered a place at the college of my choice, it felt as if these two disparate turning points were connected, that the first had, by some absurd act of wizardry, intervened in the second.
Golo lugged a table
Similar Books
