In the car she paused a moment, sucking in great lungfuls of breath, fighting the urge to hyperventilate which she knew would make her even more lightheaded.
When she felt composed enough to be safe behind the wheel, Chloe started the car and set off for the cottage.
***
She glanced at the green digital display of the clock after what seemed like an hour. It read 2:55. Ten minutes had passed since she’d last checked.
Chloe decided enough was enough. She wasn’t going to get to sleep by lying there waiting to drift off. She rose from bed, pulled on a thin terrycloth dressing gown – the night was still warm despite the hour – and went into the kitchen. There she poured herself a glass of water; caffeine was the last thing she needed.
The shaking had continued all the way home and she’d had to sit in the car outside the cottage and compose herself once more before going in to Mrs McFarland and sending her home. After the older woman had left, having tried unsuccessfully to find out again exactly whom Chloe had been to see, Chloe took a tepid shower, not sure what the stinging needles of water were quite supposed to achieve but hoping they’d somehow settle the turmoil within her.
They didn’t, and Chloe sat up for half an hour more before turning in. Lying in bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, she began to realise with a creeping dread that the insomnia which had last plagued her in the months after Mark’s death was planning on paying her a repeat visit tonight.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Chloe took a deep draught of water, then pressed the cool glass against her forehead. She’d had no idea feelings of the power of those she’d experienced that evening were still rousable within her, and the realisation that the capacity to experience sensation so intensely lay dormant within her was breathtaking and more than a little frightening.
She’d been taken completely by surprise by what had happened between her and Tom, yet she knew she ought to have expected it. Part of her even wondered if she was as surprised as she told herself. It had been there between them, nearly from the start, this attraction which neither of them had spoken about or even alluded to, and just because she’d admitted to herself in a careless, throwaway manner that Tom was an attractive man it didn’t mean her true feelings towards him were any less real.
Now, she had to face up to the fact that the situation was different. She couldn’t deny any longer that what she felt for Tom was more than the harmless appreciation any woman might have for a good-looking man. Her feelings for him were intense, as visceral and as powerful as any she’d ever known, and yes, while she was being honest, that included her dear Mark. It wasn’t even just adolescent lust. She understood that Tom appealed to her on multiple levels: he was, yes, physically sexy, but he was also warm, funny, gentle, a kind and honest man and a great father.
Chloe hadn’t been with a man for over a year, since Mark’s death. She hadn’t even looked at a man in that way. But now, for the first time, she recognised that she wanted, needed a man. Not as some sort of saviour, not to protect her or make up for some inadequacy – Chloe was an independent, self-sufficient woman, something she’d proven to herself since being widowed – but as a soulmate, a partner with whom to share her thoughts and her fears, somebody to walk with and comfort and be comforted by in turn. And, yes, someone to writhe entwined with, naked in bed, to indulge in adult pleasures with and then to wake up alongside in the drowsy warmth of a new morning.
But it couldn’t be. Not yet, not with any man. Mark had been gone a little more than a year, and it was far too soon for her to be “moving on”, as the phrase went. And in any case, it couldn’t be with Tom. Not now, not ever. Tom was a doctor, trustworthy as an individual but always carrying the mark of Cain
When she felt composed enough to be safe behind the wheel, Chloe started the car and set off for the cottage.
***
She glanced at the green digital display of the clock after what seemed like an hour. It read 2:55. Ten minutes had passed since she’d last checked.
Chloe decided enough was enough. She wasn’t going to get to sleep by lying there waiting to drift off. She rose from bed, pulled on a thin terrycloth dressing gown – the night was still warm despite the hour – and went into the kitchen. There she poured herself a glass of water; caffeine was the last thing she needed.
The shaking had continued all the way home and she’d had to sit in the car outside the cottage and compose herself once more before going in to Mrs McFarland and sending her home. After the older woman had left, having tried unsuccessfully to find out again exactly whom Chloe had been to see, Chloe took a tepid shower, not sure what the stinging needles of water were quite supposed to achieve but hoping they’d somehow settle the turmoil within her.
They didn’t, and Chloe sat up for half an hour more before turning in. Lying in bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, she began to realise with a creeping dread that the insomnia which had last plagued her in the months after Mark’s death was planning on paying her a repeat visit tonight.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Chloe took a deep draught of water, then pressed the cool glass against her forehead. She’d had no idea feelings of the power of those she’d experienced that evening were still rousable within her, and the realisation that the capacity to experience sensation so intensely lay dormant within her was breathtaking and more than a little frightening.
She’d been taken completely by surprise by what had happened between her and Tom, yet she knew she ought to have expected it. Part of her even wondered if she was as surprised as she told herself. It had been there between them, nearly from the start, this attraction which neither of them had spoken about or even alluded to, and just because she’d admitted to herself in a careless, throwaway manner that Tom was an attractive man it didn’t mean her true feelings towards him were any less real.
Now, she had to face up to the fact that the situation was different. She couldn’t deny any longer that what she felt for Tom was more than the harmless appreciation any woman might have for a good-looking man. Her feelings for him were intense, as visceral and as powerful as any she’d ever known, and yes, while she was being honest, that included her dear Mark. It wasn’t even just adolescent lust. She understood that Tom appealed to her on multiple levels: he was, yes, physically sexy, but he was also warm, funny, gentle, a kind and honest man and a great father.
Chloe hadn’t been with a man for over a year, since Mark’s death. She hadn’t even looked at a man in that way. But now, for the first time, she recognised that she wanted, needed a man. Not as some sort of saviour, not to protect her or make up for some inadequacy – Chloe was an independent, self-sufficient woman, something she’d proven to herself since being widowed – but as a soulmate, a partner with whom to share her thoughts and her fears, somebody to walk with and comfort and be comforted by in turn. And, yes, someone to writhe entwined with, naked in bed, to indulge in adult pleasures with and then to wake up alongside in the drowsy warmth of a new morning.
But it couldn’t be. Not yet, not with any man. Mark had been gone a little more than a year, and it was far too soon for her to be “moving on”, as the phrase went. And in any case, it couldn’t be with Tom. Not now, not ever. Tom was a doctor, trustworthy as an individual but always carrying the mark of Cain
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