Thorn in the Flesh by Anne Brooke Page B

understanding: loyalty ; commitment ; even love . She was crying as she spoke, tears making her eyes small and reddened, and Kate tried to comfort her, but she flinched away.
    ‘ No! Don’t touch me. How can you be with him when you’re already with me?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Penny, but …’
    ‘You cow, you’re not sorry. I can see you’re not. Look at you, I mean look at you!’
    Without warning, Penny grabbed her and swung her round to face the small curved mirror above the washbasin.
    ‘What ...?’ Kate gasped.
    ‘Shut up,’ Penny snapped, giving her imprisoned arms a quick shake. ‘Just look at yourself, won’t you?’
    Kate looked. She could see her own face gazing back at her, skin glowing and clear, her green eyes dancing and auburn hair shining in the morning light from the window.
    ‘See,’ Penny said. ‘You’re not sorry.’
    She shook Kate once and then released her, taking a step back.
    ‘I know you’re not sorry,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to see you again. Bitch. ’
    ‘Penny, please …’ Kate began, though she had no idea what she might have been about to say, but already her friend, or ex-friend, had gone, slamming the door so hard behind her that the bed shook.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to no-one, but even the air no longer believed her.
    All she could think about was Peter.
    He filled her every sense. When she was with him, she couldn’t stop touching him, looking at him, listening to him. He didn’t seem to mind. Not that they did much talking. In between lectures, seminars, getting to know people and exploring the town, Kate spent a lot of time lying with him in his bed. After the first time of making love, Peter had produced condoms and used them. Not that, for Kate, it had seemed to matter. The practical implications of what they were doing were surely a thousand miles apart from this secret world of lips and tongues and teeth. A world where Kate felt as if she were lying on soft grass, gazing up at a gentle sun. Or floating down a sparkling river to a welcoming sea. The skies she lived under during those few magical weeks with Peter were all the colours of blue, and sometimes could be streaked with the pink and apricot of morning, or the denser silvers and blacks of the night. The scents around her were salt-warm, honeyed, fresh: the scents of his body and how it blended with hers. There was no future and certainly no past. Only the present mattered.
    This, she thought, this is how it is to be in love. This is how it is, and how it will always be.
    Being in love taught her many things. She learnt how to respond to the rhythms of somebody else’s customs and how best to align her own. She learnt very soon that Peter began his day later than she did, often not being up before gone 9am. Even then he didn’t rouse himself fully until his first mug of strong coffee, black, one sugar, accompanied by a cigarette, and was never in any mood for conversation. She loved the smell of him when he woke. A strong, earthy smell, something she’d never been used to in her brief time with Penny, whose body had always smelt of citrus soaps and herbs. Peter, on the other hand, smelt of smoke and heat. His hair would be tousled and she would take delight in smoothing it down, even though he grumbled or pretended to nibble and bite at her hand.
    He preferred making love in the mornings and sometimes would, she was sure, only be half-awake when he drew her close, easing himself inside her and pulling her body further against his. At his first touch, Kate would always be fully alert, her skin trembling with the need for him, as if she’d been branded by fire. During those times, his lovemaking would be quick, urgent, as if only fulfilling a physical need rather than knowing who it was he was with, but she didn’t mind. Any chance of being with him was a chance she would never choose to miss.
    It was evenings though when she felt most relaxed with him, and most responsive.