Cosy Fire
...
Monday 3rd December
It's bitterly cold outside. The kind of utterly miserable, horribly damp and darkly gloomy winter chill that mercilessly works its way through their heavy layers, steals their breath as they walk and leaves them thoroughly frozen and dejected in the wake of their largely unsuccessful trip to meet Martin Jeffries, who over the weekend somehow catapulted to the top of their suspect list, and has now unequivocally been removed from it.
There's no pretty snow, nor any picturesque frost to try and justify the horrible weather, there's only an equally gloomy and rather quiet town and the boring prospect of many miles and at least a couple of hours tedious drive back to London. It's well past lunch time now, and they're both hungry, disenchanted and unquestionably heading towards irritable and the consequent inevitable bickering. All in all, it's not been a good day so far.
Not keen on immediately launching back into the journey home, fed up with ignoring the grumbling of his empty stomach and exceedingly preoccupied with his increasing worry about the rather violent shivering of his companion, whose immune system he knows only too well has taken a severe battering in recent months, Boyd decisively seeks out a solution.
And a good solution it is indeed, he reflects as they sit in comfortable chairs beside an old stone hearth which is currently housing a roaring and merrily crackling fire. It's a pub; an old, well-established and rather shabby looking establishment. The sort of place locals hang out, where the food is good, the atmosphere is relaxed, and the people are friendly.
"This is nice," sighs Grace, leaning back in her chair and relaxing in the radiating glow of the fire.
"It is," he agrees, studying her carefully.
She knows him, catches him out instantly. "I'm fine," she tells him softly, seriously. "Thawing out nicely."
He allows a half-smile in return. "Just checking," he admits, and she smiles and takes his hand, gives it a slight, reassuring squeeze.
Their food arrives, and for a while they are preoccupied, eating, drinking and maintaining a relaxed, effortless conversation.
They are comfortably warm now, and the cosy, peaceful atmosphere has soothed away any lingering fractiousness brought on by their largely unsuccessful expedition. It's just the pair of them and the natural, easy companionship they have learned to share.
Finishing first, Grace settles back in her chair, sipping her water and enjoying the warmth of the fire. The lighting is low and very diffuse in their corner, and she watches the way the soft shadows seem to wrap around her companion. He's sitting opposite her, and she can see the dancing flames behind her reflected back in his dark eyes. It's really rather hypnotic.
Idly she ponders the evening ahead.
"Are you coming home with me tonight," she asks quietly, "or are you planning to stay late and play catch up since we seem to have wasted most of the day?"
He leans back in his own chair, watching the way the firelight plays around her. The flickering light soaks into her skin, gently caressing her. Her eyes are a dark, ethereal blue in the half-light and it's tantalisingly seductive.
"Neither, actually," he says slowly, and the beginnings of a smirk settle in the corners of his mouth.
"Oh?" she raises an eyebrow. "Got a better offer, have you?"
"I think so," he nods, and that hint of a smirk becomes a full-blown grin as her eyebrows knit and she regards him steadily but says nothing. They are too good at this, he reflects, as the silence and the stare down continue. He gives in first. He usually does.
"I thought you might like to come home with me," he tells her. "I've got a very nice bottle of red somewhere, and an open fire." Glancing sideways at the two squabbling young men across the room from them, he adds, "A very quiet, cosy open fire." He shifts in his seat, his back and shoulders uncomfortably stiff and sore after the long, unintentionally scenic drive that morning. "And I don't know about you, but a quiet, peaceful evening seems very appealing tonight."
"It does indeed," she agrees. She's not looking forward to the long drive home any more than he is, not when traffic will be appalling, and they've so little to show for the excursion. But as she allows her mind to wander over the hours ahead, she finds she really doesn't mind that much at all.