Chapter 2: Someone to Keep Me Warm Tonight
Clara Summers had been in London for only three hours, but she was regretting her decision wholeheartedly.
"Go abroad on the off season!" her friends had told her, "The cost is so much more reasonable!"
"You might as well go on a vacation," her mother had told her with an aloof expression, "Bernard and I are going to Hawaii for Christmas, and three's a crowd. Might as well try and see if the men overseas are more accepting of fat girls. Maybe you should try Africa, they're used to looking at hippos over there."
Her mother had laughed as though this were a harmless joke, but Clara had been disgusted. Her father hadn't been dead a year before her mother had remarried a sleazy used car dealership owner who made a lot of money but was just as horrible as her mother. They deserved each other, she supposed.
But that meant that if she didn't make any other plans, the Christmas holiday would entail taking extra shifts at the movie theater she worked at from time to time when she needed some extra money while school was out and eating take-out with her roommate's cat.
The idea of having to watch everyone else have a merry Christmas while she swept up popcorn and sticky mystery fluid was more than she could bear.
She'd saved the money, and the price was right. She'd be safe and choose a country whose native language was mostly the same as her own. What did she have to lose?
'My goddamn body heat, apparently,' she thought darkly as she hugged her arms to her body to try and preserve some warmth. For someone like Clara, who lived for most of the year in a small college town in Northern California, the oppressive cold that clogged the streets in slushy snow and tore through her thin hoodie with each gust of cutting icy wind was almost too much.
She was alone in the big city, she'd nearly lost her luggage (thank goodness she'd opted to only take a carry-on bag), and the room at the bed and breakfast she'd paid for online mysteriously hadn't received her reservation. They'd refunded her money, but it didn't really solve the problem of where she'd be staying. Of course, she blamed herself. She only had access to the crappiest of dial-up and had been surprised that the place she'd vetted out had a website at all.
But it was the holidays and all of the affordable places in her travel guide were full.
She needed a drink, well, at least a place to keep warm for a bit while she tried to figure out her next move. She was a big girl, ("in more than one way," a voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother's said in the back of her mind), and Clara knew that she'd find somewhere to stay.
But she was beginning to feel foolish for having come alone. About as foolish as she'd begun to feel about expecting that anyone would ever find her attractive at all.
And did it have to be so damn cold?!
Clara's mother was rail-thin, so she supposed that if she stood next to her mother she probably looked huge, but she was also not so massive that she needed two seats on the airplane. One had fit her just fine, thank you very much. But her dirty-blonde hair was prone to frizzing and her glasses didn't do much for her face. What curves she did have seemed to have been inverted from the norm on purpose so that nothing fit her properly off the rack. Her dull, brownish green eyes weren't exactly gorgeous like the sparkling blues and greens and deep chocolate browns that her girlfriends had all been blessed with. Looking into Clara's eyes was like looking into a swamp.
The kind with alligators.
She nearly slipped on a patch of frozen sidewalk and skidded sideways. When she finally looked up, she found herself on an unfamiliar street. The wind had picked up and her teeth were chattering almost cartoonishly loud. It was then, when she had nearly been unable to convince herself not to simply sink down to her knees and cry, that she saw the little pub across the way.
It was quaint and ancient-looking to the point that she almost thought that it might be closed down and merely kept up as a tourist attraction, had lights not flickered merrily from its paned glass windows. There weren't many others out on the street in the cold evening ('and neither would I,' she reminded herself harshly, 'had I been smart enough not to trust the damn world wide web just because I didn't want to pay for an international phone call!'), but most of them seemed to be avoiding or ignoring the place. Still, it drew her like a siren's song, and she cut across the silent street quickly, shuddering as the slushy snow leaked through the canvas material of her Converse sneakers and squelched horribly.
A sign next to the door said "Rooms available," in quaint antique handwriting that looked as though it had been lettered using a quill pen.
"Wow, they sure go out of their way to preserve the history of the city," Clara remarked, marveling at how medieval the entire scene appeared.
Inside, she could smell that dusty scent that told her the place was old and probably not perfectly cleaned, but it did add to the ambiance somehow. She tried to tell herself that she wasn't being a sentimental American, but it didn't really matter. She was a tourist. She could be as sentimental as she wanted. After all, this whole trip was on her dime.
"Um...hello?" she said, approaching the bar, which seemed to be empty.
There were only a few people sitting at the far tables, all of them wearing long dark cloaks. Clara felt envious. They looked so warm. Maybe if she was brave enough, she'd build up the courage to ask where they'd purchased them.
When she turned back, she nearly jumped back in surprise. Standing almost a hair's breadth away was a hunched over man with stringy hair.
"Well, who's this then?" he said, looking her up and down, "We don't see many of your lot around here."
"You mean Americans?" Clara asked, hoping that she hadn't stumbled across one of those soccer hooligan bars that she'd read about in her copy of Frommer's Guide to London.
The man grunted.
"Sommat like that," he said after an uncomfortable pause, "What'll you have then, Miss?"
"Um...I'm not sure," Clara said, "I just I need something hot to eat and maybe a beer to warm my belly."
"I think I have just the thing. You wait here and I'll go and fetch it," the man said with a flourish of his arm that made Clara blush involuntarily.
He turned and Clara suddenly realized that she hadn't paid him. Digging into the travel wallet around her waist (and feeling just a bit mortified when a tiny flash of her puffy pale belly became visible in the struggle), she pulled out some pound notes.
The man paused and turned a little to his right, eyeing her with a sidelong glance that could have been wary or simply just curious.
"Er...how much?" Clara asked sheepishly, "The cost for the meal, I mean. I'm terribly sorry, I just got here and my bed and breakfast gave out my room and I was just about to break down and cry like a baby because I'm here all alone and I just…"
She trailed off, realizing that it was probably a bad idea to tell a stranger that she was in a strange country all by herself.
"Don' worry, Miss," the man said with a crooked, snaggle-toothed smile, "We'll take care of yeh."
She seriously considered trying to make a run for it, but when she glanced back at the windows, it had somehow gone pitch black outside and she could hear the paned glass rattling as the wind outside beat cruelly against it.
Other than the weird people dressed in dark cloaks, the pub ('that's what they're called, not bars,' she reminded herself) was actually pretty cheery. A roaring fire in the corner made shadows dance merrily around the room and the walls were covered with various bits of memorabilia for various sports teams that she didn't recognize. Other than baseball, Clara found sports utterly uninteresting, which was just as well because she had far too much memorabilia of her favorite team as it was.
And it was warm. So deliciously, toasty-roasty warm that Clara considered asking the barman to let her sleep right there on the hard wooden stool rather than have to go back out into the horrible storm that seemed to be raging outside.
As though to illustrate just how unpleasant her eventual departure would be, the door slammed open and as the little bell rang, signalling the entrance of a new customer. Clara found herself hunching over and shoving her hands in the pocket of her hoodie as the cold wind seemed to single her out and cut through her like a knife.
"Close the door will ya!" called the irritable voice of the barman as he brought up a tray.
'Wow, that was fast,' Clara thought, looking at the food hungrily. She almost didn't care if it was boiled beets and peas, she'd eat it all just the same.
A plate of sausages and a little bowl of mashed potatoes was laid out in front of her. There were vegetables, but they were merely steamed carrots with honey glaze. Clara thought that this seemed strangely high class for such a rustic environment, but she forgot all about it after she'd taken her first bite.
"This is amazing!" she gushed loudly, noticing that the barman was preening quite obviously under her praise.
"Try the pumpkin ale, miss," the man said with a snaggly grin, "Tis made in house."
An elbow thunked onto the table to her left and nearly made her jump.
"Why Tom, have you found your soulmate over pub fare? Who knew that bangers and mash could bring two people together!" a somewhat mocking voice said and Clara felt herself blushing with embarrassment as she looked up at the newcomer.
The man was tall, but not overly so, somewhat stockily built, with flaming red hair and freckles. He wore a long cloak as well in a deep and royal shade of purple. He pulled it off with a graceful sweeping motion and draped it over one of the empty stools before sitting next to Clara. He was wearing a pair of jeans with a small, frayed tear in one of the knees and a sweater that looked as though it had been made for him. It fit him quite well indeed, she noticed, feeling her face go hot a second time for a completely different reason altogether.
"What's the 'F' stand for?" she asked him, after washing down a bite of mashed potato with the sweet, tangy pumpkin ale.
"A four letter word," the man replied, turning to her with a twinkle of mischief in his eye, "Not repeatable in polite company, I'm afraid."
"I know all about those," Clara replied conspiratorily, grinning a bit rudely, "And I'm quite familiar with using them frequently as well. After all, I am American."
"Ah, then I shall thank the heavens that I'm not in polite company and divulge it to you," the man replied with a wink, sticking out his hand, "The name's Fred. And you are?"
"Clara," she replied, shaking his hand a little slowly. She could practically feel his strength of personality pressing against her even as he kept a respectable distance between them.
"And where might you be hailing from, Clara?" Fred asked, his eyes genuinely interested in her response.
"California," she said, giggling slightly when his eyes widened, "Not the part you're thinking of. But don't worry. Everyone does that. No, instead of girls in bikinis and surfers riding gnarly waves to school, we've got farmland and cows. And a little liberal arts college that someone decided would be a good idea to build in the middle of all that agriculture."
"Ah," Fred replied, looking somewhat disappointed, "But still, it's been awhile since I've seen a..well..since I've seen someone who isn't from around here."'
They began to talk, well, Clara talked and Fred listened to her, asking her questions whenever they hit a lull in their conversation. When Clara finally looked up again, Tom the barman had disappeared and the pub was full of people. Somehow she'd not noticed the noise in the room rising to a dull roar as everyone talked and laughed around her.
She turned back to Fred, and he sat there with an expectant look in his eyes as though he was waiting for her and her alone. It made her feel a bit funny, as though a moth were trapped in her chest, beating its powdery wings against her heart. He'd finished half a glass of something called Firewhiskey, and his cheeks were a little red with drink, but he wasn't sloshed and even though she noticed him giving her little hungry looks from time to time, he kept his hands to himself, only touching her once at the wrist in a consoling manner when she mentioned her father's sudden death.
"So, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what do you do?" Clara asked, meeting his gaze until she felt a bit lightheaded.
"I'll have you know that I own a very lucrative business with my brother," Fred replied, picking up his glass and swirling it around before taking a sip, "Well, one of my brothers, anyway. He's my twin, you see."
"Do you have more than one twin?" Clara asked, her head tilted in confusion.
"Oh no no no!" Fred laughed, "My parents would have up and spontaneously combusted years ago if that were the case. I come from a large family, though. I've got six brothers and one sister."
"Oh wow, lucky her," Clara replied, "I'm sure no one messed with her in school."
"Yeah," Fred replied, "Because she's right scary when she's mad. I wouldn't mess with Ginny when she's in a rotten mood, and that's saying something because messing with people is my natural talent, especially when George…"
He trailed off and his eyes narrowed as he thought about his brother leaving him to brave the evening alone without any warning.
"Enough about that old stick in the mud, though!" Fred said with a wave, "I know this sounds sudden of me, and I promise that I'm not some sort of axe murderer or anything-"
"You do know that some sort of axe murderer would probably say exactly what you're saying right now," Clara replied with a laugh.
"With this face? Never!" Fred replied, laughing along with her, "Anyway, what I was saying was...how about we get a room and continue our little chat in a place where we don't have to shout at each other to hear?"
Clara immediately felt a swoop of anticipation in her belly. She wasn't properly drunk, maybe just a bit buzzed after the one drink. And Fred was really sweet and genial. The barman seemed to know the red-haired man as well, which would probably make getting away with being an axe murderer fairly different. Plus, unless he'd figured out some way to hide an axe down his jeans, she doubted that he even had an axe.
Still, a not so quiet part of her brain reminded her exactly what was likely to happen if she went into a secluded area with a stranger that she'd just met.
And a somewhat louder part of her brain reminded her exactly how much she wanted to do just that.
'But maybe there aren't any rooms available anyway so it'll be a moot point,' Clara told herself, 'What the hell, you only live once!'
"Sure, why not?" Clara replied, finally.
"Wait right here," Fred said with a grin, "I'll be back in two shakes of a hippogriff's tail."
Clara snorted. What an odd turn of phrase. But then again, she was in a different country. And he did seem to want to impress her.
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she really was more attractive in another country than her own. But then she waved the thought away and rolled her eyes.
'Just because a clock is right twice a day doesn't mean it's working properly,' she thought to herself, her belly churning with nervousness now that Fred had been gone for quite some time.
Maybe he'd told her he'd come back but left anyway. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she'd experienced that particular tactic. Still, he'd left his cloak draped over the stool to his left so probably not. Maybe he'd found someone else, someone prettier to talk to. Maybe…
"I got the key!" Fred said, bounding around a couple of tall, slender women with very curly hair wearing flowing velvet robes, "Clara..what's wrong? Are you ok?"
She nodded and tried to change the subject
"Wow, they're so pretty, they look like they're coming from a Renn Faire, don't you think?" Clara said with longing as she looked over at them.
Fred shrugged.
"I'm sure that someone is of that opinion," he said, "But I'd really like to spend more quality time with you, if you're willing and able."
"I think...I think I can accommodate that," Clara said with a smile she hoped looked coy and not horribly nervous.
"Well, you may not know this about me," Fred said, drawing his arm around her and bringing his lips close to her ear as he grabbed her carry-on bag with his other hand, "But I always aim to please."
They climbed the stairs slowly and Clara found her heart pounding as her breath came in shallow puffs, though it had nothing to do with their journey and everything to do with what she was now certain they'd be doing once they reached their destination.
"I suppose that's probably a given, since you own your own business," Clara replied, trying to sound more sure of herself than she really was, "And as long as you're offering samples, who am I to refuse?"
"Satisfaction is guaranteed," Fred said, arching his eyebrow as he grinned a deliciously wicked grin that was just for her benefit.
He unlocked the door with an antique key and they entered the little room, which was clean and simple.
It was perfect.
She felt the twisting sensation in her belly grow into something hot, like a flower blooming in the summer sun, as he closed the door behind him and closed the distance between them. Inches away now, he brought his face closer and closer to hers until his breath was hot upon her flushed lips and she could see that she was not the only one whose breathing had become labored with lust.
"Or my money back?" she managed to whisper, as her eyes locked with his and she couldn't help but go half-lidded as her chest did somersaults.
"Oh no," Fred replied softly, "When I say satisfaction is guaranteed, I mean that satisfaction is guaranteed."
And then his lips were pressing against hers and she felt her body light up like a thousand candles in the darkness as she pressed back and felt the heat rise between them, banishing every bit of remaining cold that lingered in her soggy feet.