She knew Anthony was there, at the end of the terrace walking towards her, somehow, she knew it before she looked up to find it was true. He marched along the raised patio at the back of New Court.
Edith had commandeered herself a bench and sat sketching the visage in the dying light. The rolling green gardens stretched away from John's behind her, they fell into a gentle curve of the Cam and carried across to King's and Trinity on the other side of the water. A classic Cambridge scene. She was sketching in pencil. Or rather, she was trying. She had the river bank and the top of King's chapel but that was the extent of it. It wasn't coming as easily as it once had, before Sybil she could have rattled off four or five sketches in the time she'd been sitting here.
There was a slight stagger to Anthony's walk, she wondered how many whiskeys he'd got through in the hour or so she'd taken to draw a steeple and a curvy line.
He was at her shoulder, "that's good."
"Anthony, there's barely anything there."
"Oh, have some faith Edith! It's not a blank sheet of paper – it's coming back, trust me." He put his hand at the nape of her neck.
She looked up at him and his hand was quickly gone, the ghost of it lingered in the tingling goosebumps, "You did. Shall we grab some dinner?" His eyes were slightly glazed, looking intently at her, "I suspect you need some food, I suppose I'm driving us back?"
"Ah – yes, sorry about that. Len, you know? The whiskey is necessary for the bonding."
"Old friends, I understand. I'm glad you caught up. Come on, let's go to The Cooper Kettle."
"Not yet –" he pointed at the picture, "you're on a roll. I have my latest book somewhere here." He tapped absentmindedly at the myriad pockets of his coat and pulled out Never Let Me Go. His eyes widened and he pointed again, "go on, keep going." He sat himself on the bench, pulling up each leg of his trousers and folding one leg to sit atop the other. His limbs were angles and corners, like some piece of modern architecture. It took all Edith's willpower to return her eyes to the other scenery.
There was quiet then, the scratching of her pencil, the sharp rustle of his pages and their breathing punctuating the atmosphere.
Before long great flakes of snow filled the sky and floated to the ground in front of them. The terrace was covered by the first floor of the library so the picture was spared the snow's beautiful, destructive influence. The scene was all light. The dimming, dying light of the day; the glow of student room windows and street lamps and the snow, reflecting it all, bright white chinks, drifting like feathers. The sights were obscured and yet, made more brilliant. Kings, Trinity, Johns, in and out of focus. Edith hoped she would remember it when she had her pastels; it could be special, if she managed to get it from her head to the paper. She tried for Trinity Bridge, she sketched an outline, it looked amateur.
Without warning there was wool behind her neck and then being guided around the front in a loop. Heavy blue wool, thick beneath her chin. The fabric was warm. She looked up at Anthony standing beside her. He shook his head, "I can't believe you didn't bring a scarf."
"I-" God, it smelt good – whiskey and sandalwood - did he smell this good? Is this what it would be like to bury her nose in the space between his neck and chin? She licked her lips, "I bought a hat." He sat down again, "what about you? Won't you be cold?" Not that I will ever want to return this scarf to you.
He chuckled, "I can just –". He stopped and shook his head, "no. The whiskey is doing its job, I'm warm enough." He gestured at the pencil, "Keep going a bit, then we'll eat."
If it was possible Cambridge was even more beautiful with Anthony's scent at her nose.
Whilst she was managing a passable second draft of the bridge, his soft voice broke the relative quiet. He spoke as if he hoped no one would hear him, "Why is it that you can do me?"
Pencil paused; she slowly turned to look at him. He remained intent on the book, turning a page, apparently still absorbed, "I'm sorry?"
His eyes flicked to hers, "you haven't had the same problems drawing me as you do other things, why is that do you think?"
She'd asked herself the question before and found an answer. It was entirely too personal an answer to give him. But the blue eyes were looking now, and she had developed a habit of speaking the truth to him. He'd told her about his mother, perhaps he had the inclination too, and would understand.
"Sybil was the only person in my whole family who believed in my painting. She asked me for drawings when we were growing up and came to my first gallery show in the Old Labs at Newnham. My very first commission – the black dog that I sent you the photo of?" He nodded and she continued, "that was for some partner at a law firm she knew– his beloved retriever died and he wanted him immortalized on canvass. I sent her sketches whilst she was abroad. When she was eight months pregnant she came to my first show in London, despite the fact that her ankles were the size of tree trunks and she needed to pee eighteen times an hour. She simply wouldn't think of missing it. Then she was gone."
She paused, realizing that she hadn't welled up or choked away tears, it was easier to talk about Sybil now, or perhaps it was just easier to talk to Anthony.
"Anyway, you believe in my painting too. I don't know why, but you do and you want me to paint you." She shrugged and bit her bottom lip, "I like to think that one day I'll be able to paint under my own steam, but, for now, it helps to have someone encouraging me." Perhaps that didn't explain why she could only paint images of him specifically, but it was the best she could do. "That probably doesn't make any sense to you."
"It does. Everyone needs a champion, Edith. A little encouragement from time to time, particularly when they are stepping outside of what is normally expected of them." He laughed, somewhat ruefully, "not that I'd know, I am exactly what everyone expected."
She nearly told him that he was not what she had expected. He was thoroughly a Judge and utterly set in his ways, yet still a complete surprise. Handsome too. And charming. And, as the scarf about her neck reminded her, he smelt delicious.
They exchanged small private smiles across the expanse of the bench.
The scrutiny was too much, she was bones and butterflies. Folding away her drawing, she put the pencils back into her bag, "dinner?"
He nodded keenly, "As long as you're sure you've finished sketching?"
They walked side by side through John's and to King's Parade, parting for passing bikes and pedestrians and coming back together, bumping shoulders and pulling away, trying to maintain a distance. Together but apart.
Edith saw the world in colour, or, more specifically, she saw light in colour. The dapple of sun through the trees was lilac, or green, sometimes it was even yellow, and moonlight could be cerise and red and navy. So it was no surprise to her that the thick snow blanketing the windscreen as she and Anthony crawled along the M11 back to London seemed blue. It was only when she was waved to the side of the road by the police officer that she knew the blue wasn't her own imagination but the flashing light of a silent siren.
"Good evening ma'am." The officer dipped his chin further when he noticed Anthony in the passenger seat, "sir."
"What's the problem officer?"
"Fatality up ahead, we've shut the road. The service station is open, there's a Holiday Inn. You could turn back and try the A14, but in this weather –"
Anthony interjected, "absolutely not."
Thomas would think all his predictions had come true, she wouldn't return until morning, undoubtedly to a litany of suggestive sarcasm.
They stocked up on supplies at the service station. The shop catering to staycationers on their way to Cambridge and the Norfolk coast was particularly useful. Cheap underwear, pajamas and – thank heaven – toothbrush and toothpaste. Facing Anthony in the morning wearing yesterday's clothes with unruly bed hair and bad breath was more than she could contemplate, particularly on a day when she'd allowed herself to believe he might see her as more than just the woman painting his portrait. Even if the 'more' was just as a friend.
Friend. As she followed him into the hotel lobby and heard him ask for two rooms she hated the word again.
She looked at the battered, bulk-bought furniture and buried her nose into Anthony's scarf, which was losing his scent and gaining her own. She cursed herself for wearing perfume. This was a poor way to end an excellent day.
He cleared his throat behind her, "Edith?"
"Yes?"
His cheeks were pink.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. They've only got one room left." He dangled the key in front of her, as though that proved the fact.
The metal was dull, but glinted nonetheless. Her heart skipped a little and she willed herself to be calm. The day was not over.
"Oh, ok." They stood there stupidly, the key hanging from his index finger, like a checkered flag to be waved, or a white one.
She slid the metal ring down and off the end, examining its surface intently.
"Room 45. I think that's this way."
She was able to get to the right place, get the key in the lock and open the door, it was a miracle.
A hotel room, with Anthony. She felt a fit of the giggles coming on. Her hand went to her mouth at seeing the room. A double bed, a desk and an office chair in the corner. No sofa. No day bed.
His shoulder brushed past hers and he seemed to be considering the situation, "I'll sleep on the floor, or maybe –" he put his hand to the office chair, checking how hard it was, "the chair might work."
Her voice was a pitch higher than normal, she felt as though she had exited her body and let someone else take the reigns, "no – no. It's a double, we're adults, we can share the bed."
We can share the bed.
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
Such lies. She was not sure, she was certainly not absolutely sure. She should probably take herself outside and sleep in the back seat of the car, away from the very real risk she might embarrass herself.
He nodded, "good then." He pointed to the small bathroom, "I'll get ready in there."
The door hid him away and she undressed in double quick time and pulled on her new pajamas. Baby pink and oversized, she wondered if she'd ever dressed in a less sexual outfit, which was saying something. Not that it mattered.
She perched on the end of the bed, toothbrush in hand, like a some sort of sanitary sabre, as if she'd feel better about the situation if she could vanquish the taste of his cooking and the whiskey and the meal they'd shared at the Copper Kettle.
"All yours."
Their shoulders brushed as they swapped places. She kept her chin high. She would not look at his bare feet and the expanse of calf and knee and thigh. Apparently he had not bothered with pajamas. Just a white t-shirt and loose blue boxers. She did look at his arms. They would wrap nicely around her small shoulders.
She shut the bathroom door and shut her eyes to the blinding white light, resting her forehead against the cool tiles. Her breath was ragged – with what? Anticipation? She looked at herself in the mirror. The imperfections in her skin were stark, her eyes were shadowed, and an angry red splotch was making itself known on her chin. There was nothing to anticipate, she repeated this to herself – nothing to anticipate. They would go to sleep, in the same bed, as friends. She'd done it with people at University and often with Thomas after drunken nights in Soho. This was no different.
Except it was. It was Anthony. She wanted to cast back the covers and kiss his knees. Other places too, but the knees suddenly held a magnetic pull. The arms as well. And the thighs. The inside of the thighs. She rolled her eyes at the reflection, now flushed. This was ridiculous. They would just sleep.
She slathered toothpaste onto the brush and went at her smile with such aggression she thought she might draw blood. Would she be the first person to lose a tooth as a direct result of sexual frustration? Probably.
Anthony lay as though he hadn't a care in the world, as though it'd been him to suggest they share a bed like it was no big deal. Arm tucked behind his head, he stared at the ceiling with a small smile. Probably the after effects of the whiskey. Whiskey was disgusting but she'd kill for one right now, or five.
On her side of the bed he'd folded the corner of the duvet back, as if reminding her she was welcome there, expected, even.
She smoothed the front of her pink top and flicked the light switch. The artificial light from the car park outside streamed in through the thin blinds and she groped her way through the grey-black to the bed.
It was small. Tiny. Was it a single? It looked like a double in the light; the hotel said it was a double. But he took up so much of it. If she moved much further in - if she moved at all, she would touch him.
Her heart pounded and she inched herself nearer to the middle.
Suddenly there was warm skin at her toes and the bridge of her foot.
He let out a strangled cry and she recoiled, "Good God woman, your feet are cold!"
"Sorry."
There was silence for a moment, except the hum of the car park outside. Then his voice softly commanded, "Put your knees up."
"What?"
He tapped the side of her knee with the back of his hand, "up."
Such innocuous contact, and yet a wave of frisson erupted. Slowly she lifted her knees upwards and a small tent formed in the duvet in front of her. He shifted and Edith held her breath. The length of her feet was covered with the flesh of his thighs, she surmised it was the portion just above his knees. Firm but with a little bowing softness and covered in a thatch of fine hair.
The sensation of leg hair was suddenly erotic, the single most erotic thing she'd ever experienced. The heat spread down to her toes, up her legs, she flushed as she realised it had gone further than that, pooling between her legs with several heady thuds of desire. He was warm, but the mere fact of his skin on her skin would have caused the effect, even if he'd been as cold as her.
Clearing away the frog in her throat Edith barely recognised the cadence of her own voice – quiet, sultry, aroused - could he hear it? "What are you doing?"
"Warming your feet up."
"You don't have to do that."
"It's my fault we got stuck here, too much chatting and drinking with Len, we'd have missed the accident if we'd left earlier. Besides they'll wake me in the night if they stay that cold."
They lay there in the dark. Anthony's thighs on her feet. It was the most intimate moment of her life, apparently intimacy could have precious little to do with sex. Edith wondered if he could hear her heart, which was threatening to beat it's way out of her chest. The still from his side of the bed suggested he'd already fallen asleep, completely unaffected by touching her.
She whispered, "Anthony?"
His voice was clear and quiet, "Edith."
Pursing her lips Edith wracked her brains for something to say, some reason she might have interrupted the unique peace found just before one falls asleep. The words tormented the tip of her tongue – the sensation of your thighs resting on my feet is the single most sexually arousing touch I have ever experienced. She swallowed them back, "thank you for today."
He laughed and the bed shifted slightly. She turned her head and the light caught his blue eyes as he looked at her through the grey, "which bit? The boring meeting with the law professor, getting us stuck in the snow or having to sleep on the most uncomfortable bed in history?"
"Those were the highlights, obviously." He laughed. The uncomfortable bed really had been a highlight but she'd already decided not to reveal herself, "but I meant the delicious picnic, making me feel better about the other paintings, sitting with me in the snow whilst I tried to sketch – the whole day, really."
There was a pause and his hand was on the flesh above her elbow, she had to fight the catch in her throat, "you're welcome. I had a fantastic day too."