Velvet
...
Saturday 22nd December
Unbelievably, it's snowing. Thick, fluffy white flakes that are not only coming down in heavy flurries, but are also sticking to the ground and accumulating rapidly. And somehow, as they've spent the day separately tackling a host of necessary chores in their respective homes, neither of them have managed to notice the change in the elements until it's far too late.
The imperious summons of the telephone and his blunt, "Have you looked outside recently?" is her first clue that something might be wrong. The following quick glance out of the window that rapidly turns into a long, wondering stare confirms the problem.
"Oh," she murmurs, gazing out at the completely white world on the other side of the glass. "That's a lot of snow."
"Yeah," he sighs. "I'm looking out at the street and I can't even see the road." There's a long pause, and she studies the thick coating covering her car, trying not to say what she knows is coming. He gives in long before she does, "I hate to say it, but you shouldn't be driving in this."
"Peter, I –"
"No, Grace!" There's unyielding finality in his tone that tells her there is no room for discussion, and unfortunately, he's right. "It's too dangerous – promise me you won't try and drive over here."
"But –"
"Promise me, Grace!" The hard, demanding tone is a cover, and she knows it. He's just as unhappy with the situation as she is, so she agrees and resigns herself to spending the rest of the evening alone.
It's an odd feeling, making dinner for one and eating by herself in her strangely quiet kitchen. One she realises she has very quickly and easily become unaccustomed to. There's no one to mutter and gripe about the onerous task of sorting freshly laundered socks, or to reach the highest corners of the room with the duster without the need of a chair or stepladder. There's no one to flick soap bubbles at her as she does the washing up, or to bicker with over the choice of television channel.
Such ordinary, everyday things she has adjusted so easily to sharing suddenly fill her with loneliness at the thought of all the years she spent doing them alone. It's ridiculous, she thinks, annoyance rising with both herself and the miserable direction of her thoughts – after all the years of solitude, she is not going to let one night bother her. She still turns off the television, though, and picks up a book instead.
…
Without thinking about it, she reaches for the phone before it even starts ringing.
"Hello," she answers, yawning deeply as she burrows further under the quilt.
"Hi," he replies, and in just that one small syllable he sounds so glum, so gloomy that she genuinely thinks something is really wrong.
"What's the matter?" she asks, concerned.
"I miss you already," he replies, sighing heavily. "I'm in bed and you're not here. You're hair isn't tickling my nose, your bloody freezing toes aren't trying to tuck themselves into my shins for warmth and my arms don't know what to do without you to… snuggle… up in them."
There's such a heavy note of sullen disgust in his tone as he voices the last part of his sentence that Grace can't not smile.
She also can't help the soft, warm laughter that escapes her. "Oh dear, Peter," she tells him, "I was just thinking something very similar."
The response is an incoherent and displeased grumble.
"Where do you suppose that leaves us?" she wonders, pulling an extra blanket over herself for warmth. Seemingly, it's a lot colder without said snuggling.
"On opposite sides of the sodding city," he mutters, resentfully.
"I suppose so," she agrees quietly, not wanting to provoke an argument when he's clearly not happy with the situation. She isn't either, but there's not a lot she can do about it.
He picks up on her tone though, and she can almost hear the smirk in his voice as he asks, "Or were you hoping I'd say something horribly sentimental, hmm? That we're obviously hopelessly in love and oh, I don't know, destined to spend the rest of eternity stuck with each other?"
"Mmm," she assents, "that too. Maybe."
He can't quite believe her. "Really?"
Grace laughs and rolls onto her side, curling into the pillows. "No, Peter, never. Not your style."
This time she can hear his smile, just before the gruff, "Doesn't make it untrue though."
"Oh, so you do love me then?" she prods, unable to resist teasing him a little. She expects him to grumble, or tease her right back. She does not expect the sincere, heartfelt response that she actually gets.
"You know I love you, Grace. You know I do."
"And the other bit?" she hedges, unsure.
He doesn't miss a beat, doesn't pause for even a second. "Yeah, that too." There's a moment of silence, and then, "Stupid bloody weather!"
Her eyes sting a little, but she's smiling as she takes in his words, turning them over in her mind, examining them carefully. She loses herself in her thoughts for a while, and there's a much longer silence before she hears, "Grace? You still there?"
"Still here," she confirms, as another yawn overtakes her. Wanting to hear his voice, she quietly asks, "Tell me a story?"
So he does. He's good at it too, and she listens to him talk, absolutely absorbed in the warm, deep velvet of his voice, in the rise and fall of his tone as he winds a tale of mystery and intrigue around her, captivating her. It mixes with the scent of him in the sheets beside her, slowly relaxing her, lulling her towards slumber. It's wonderful. And while he may not be tucked up beside her, his arms wrapped warmly and securely around her, it is very definitely the next best thing.