A/N Some of the language in this chapter takes it into an M rating.
Edith held the paintbrush in her teeth and wiped the paint off her hands with a dirty rag. There was a second knock at the door, slightly more harried than the last. She mumbled around the paintbrush, "mnhm – coming!"
Opening the door with a flourish the paintbrush dropped from her mouth and left a trail of blue down her already paint-strewn shirt.
It was Anthony. At her door. Looking deadly serious.
They weren't seeing each other until Monday were they? Another week of sketching at Snaresbrook, although she expected a text message from him suggesting they do something at the weekend as well. Every night after court this week, except the one she'd worked, they had gone to the theatre or watched a film. Anthony had rather liked Erin Brockovich.
For a moment Edith wondered if it was already Monday. Had the weekend passed her by in a painting haze? It sometimes happened before Sybil had died. A vision would become so lodged in her mind that she didn't stop – couldn't stop – until it had been transferred to canvass. In this case it was Cambridge, at twilight, in the snow. Her Pollock canvass was half covered in the beautiful Backs.
No, she hadn't lost that much time, Thomas would have been up here coaxing her down for dinner and making sure she hadn't fainted away from oil fumes. It was still Saturday and Anthony was at here, unannounced and unexpected.
"I-Anthony-what are you-"
He interrupted, 'Edith, please, please tell me you do not live here." He walked past her and her intended protest about uninvited guests came out as a stutter of unlinked syllables. He was in her house. She was in a shirt and a pair of very, very old boy shorts, purchased – oh God, possibly prior to University – certainly too long ago to recall; grey and frayed around the edges. Her pale legs were awkwardly exposed – she couldn't recall the last time she'd shaved them. And she was covered in paint. With her hair in a rough top-knot and over a day's worth of grease sinking into the roots. This wasn't happening. He could not be in her flat, not right now.
His head darted from the bed, to the kitchen and then it was in his hands, "you do, you do actually live here."
"How did you get up here?"
"A half naked man atop a large, noisy, no doubt dangerous piece of machinery pointed me in the right direction. I thought we must have got our wires crossed, because there's no earthly way you could live above all that. You are far too sensible. And yet – here we are." He spoke the words slowly again, rubbing his temple, "you actually live here."
Edith crossed her arms across her chest. She looked a mess and he was criticising her flat, defensively she spoke, "it's a great space, I can work."
"It's illegal – very illegal." He walked around the room, "you cannot live above a factory. There are rules and regulations. There's no fire escape. The bath is in here. The kitchen is just stuck in the corner. Is there a fire alarm? I don't see a fire alarm."
"Anthony –" she was going to make the case for her cheap, practical accommodation but she noticed the peach roses he carried. His eye looked down to his hand at the object which had caught her attention. Edith tilted her head, "who are those for?"
He thrust them towards her, "you, of course. There was a stand at Brixton tube."
"You bought me flowers." She spoke plainly.
"And your sketchpad." The irritation in his voice had lifted a little. He pointed to the worn book which he'd dropped on her kitchen table, "you left it on the tube yesterday."
Gingerly, she took the flowers, as if he might change his mind. She'd mentioned that they were her favourites, in passing, during one of their many conversations. He'd remembered.
"Thank you." Edith placed them carefully in the sink, "stay for lunch?"
"Yes. And we can discuss this." He threw his arms out.
Back to her living situation then. Edith remembered her clothing and flushed a little, "I should change."
He snorted, "I'd offer to leave the room but, of course, there's nowhere to go."
"Just turn around please." She could have sent him into the bathroom or out of the flat entirely, but she didn't.
He turned; facing the bookcase like some recalcitrant schoolchild. Edith padded to the wardrobe. Slipping off her shorts, she pulled on a pair of jeans. Perhaps it was paranoia, or hope, but she felt certain he was looking and her head darted back over her shoulder. He still faced away. She pulled her paint-strewn, work shirt over her head, it was oversized and required no unbuttoning.
Her small breasts were shielded by a plain white bra. Edith found herself willing Anthony to take a peak. She lingered in her state of semi-undress for far longer than was necessary. An idea played itself in her mind that she could remove the bra and tell him she was ready. He'd turn around and be confronted with her bare chest. Like some scene from a movie, she'd play a practiced seducer and he'd be sucking her nipples in no time at all. Her thoughts traversed completely new sexual terrain. She never thought about things of that nature and now they filled her busy brain. Anthony on her. Anthony inside her. The tender flesh between her legs tingled. Inside her. With a huff of frustration she snatched at a t-shirt from her wardrobe.
"Decent." In regards to my clothing.
"You cannot live like this."
"Yes, I really can, I am in fact." Retrieving a vase from the windowsill the flowers were arranged and given precedence in the middle of the kitchen table. Anthony yammered on, his hands imploring his audience of one to take on board his points. She wasn't listening to the words. She was enjoying the deep, even tones of his judicial voice and catching snippets – 'health and safety' – 'EU Regulations' – 'planning permission'.
Probably best to stop him at some point though. "Anthony?" He was silent and looked annoyed at the interruption. "Do you know how much a one bed flat in Brixton costs a month?"
He stammered.
"Didn't think so. Around £1250."
"That can't be right! They had riots here. It's south of the river!"
Edith laughed, "That's London in the twenty first century. Anyway, Thomas charges me £400 a month. So, I'm not moving. Help me with the lunch?"
He nodded and padded over to her kitchen, "what are we cooking?"
The fridge was pretty bare, she'd planned on eating the remaining cherry tomatoes and a few cubes of cheese, but she couldn't admit that to him. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, "I – er – well –"
He patted her hip, "move away, woman."
He was considering the contents then. Hunched over, eyes scanning the shelves, darts of concentration between his eyebrows. He was extraordinarily handsome. She wanted to reach out and run her finger along his cheekbone. Stepping back, she flexed her hand, as if she could stretch the inclination out of her muscles.
Twenty minutes later Anthony had prepared goats cheese salad with a balsamic, mustard and honey dressing and Edith was in awe – again – of more than just his looks.
"I did not look at the contents of my fridge and see the basis for something this delicious."
"Thank you. I must say, I thought I'd lost the knack of 'rustling up' – as my Mother used to call it – but apparently not." He gestured towards the picture of Cambridge with his fork, "that's very, very good you know."
"Work in progress."
"And it doesn't involve my ugly mug."
"Stop fishing for compliments, you know your mug is hardly ugly. But yes, I find myself able to paint more than just you." She didn't tell him that the reason that scene stuck so clearly in her mind was the fact that he was so much a part of it; sat behind her, his scarf around her neck, his scent at her nose, his thighs warming her feet, their limbs twinned together in the dead of night. It was a picture that reminded her of that weekend in Cambridge. Light, warmth, beauty, there was even lust in the red tinge on the river's blackened surface.
"I'm so glad it's coming back to you." They shared smiles then and finished the remaining lunch in a comfortable silence.
Anthony was looking intently at her mouth and she wiped away the signs of her messy food consumption, although her napkin was clean when she dropped it on the table.
He finished and stood in front of the picture, right at the centre, craning his neck to look at the top, "how do you get up there?"
"Jump."
He looked wide-eyed at her and Edith couldn't stifle a laugh, "sorry, that's just such a silly question." From behind the picture she lifted out her trusty wooden stepladder, beautifully decorated by a myriad of assorted paint splats. She took the three steps in quick succession and leant to the top of the canvass, imaginary paintbrush in hand. "A ladder, Anthony."
He eyed it suspiciously, "rather like the rest of this flat, it seems to be a bit of a death trap."
"Oh – it's fine. I've had it for years -" But as if to prove him right the stepladder wobbled as she tried to step down. The far side lifted slightly off the floor and Edith felt her centre of gravity shift. Raising one foot and putting her arm out she tried gracelessly to right herself. It wasn't going to work; she let out a squeak and prepared herself for an impact with the floor.
It never came. She was in Anthony's arms. He lowered her down to her feet. One hand firmly on her back, the other on her hip. It took a moment for the sensations to arrive at her brain. They were flesh to flesh; her t-shirt had ridden up and his hands were beneath it. Forbidden skin, usually covered by clothes. His chest moved heavily up and down and his eyes were fixed on a point above her head. She couldn't move. His hands were large and solid on her body. If she moved, he might take them away. She didn't want him to take them away; it would be more than she could bear.
Her heart pounded. The gentle hum of the printing presses seemed to grow louder and more palpable. Vibrations drifted through the floorboards and into the small space between them. The air was charged. Her whole body was charged, alive with arousal.
Then: a flicker. A slight shift in his fingers at her back, an infinitesimal caress. Her breath hitched, and she could swear his did too. She risked a movement. Half an inch in his direction. His eyes darted to hers; a shade darker than usual.
He whispered, "I have you."
She went to agree, to say 'yes' or 'absolutely' or 'you do', but she licked her lips in preparation, or maybe in invitation, and there was no time to speak any words at all.
His mouth was on hers.
Oh - thank God.
His lips were gentle at first. Unmoving, warm. Light contact, almost a whisper. A possibility. Her skin hummed. The hand on her back rested in the dip of her spine and his head tilted further and he pressed with greater insistence catching her top lip between his.
Edith could not be a passive passenger on the journey of this experience. Her tongue ran along the line of his lip and was welcomed inside. It was extraordinarily right how their tongues moved together. She was a mass of physical reactions. Goosebumped skin, fluttering heart, quivering fingers, sensitised flesh. It was too much, but not nearly enough.
She moaned, she'd surely never moaned before in her entire life, but it was the only reasonable reaction her body would allow. Her hands would not remain still at her sides. They charted a path up his arms and over his back and into his hair. It was soft and fine, to be able to touch it was a small marvel in a moment filled with small marvels. He tasted of the balsamic dressing he'd made for her. She wanted more of him, all of him.
He groaned a surrender to his desire and pulled her body closer, the hand at her hip lowered and made itself at home in the curve where her bottom met her leg. She pushed her breasts unashamedly into his chest and his thigh moved between her legs. He was soft but firm, and thorough, very thorough. If he'd been holding back before, he now seemed to be quite determined to do this right. He held her tightly and his tongue came in deeper, his lips melding completely with hers.
The movement of their bodies caused her t-shirt to shift and drop. Anthony grunted in frustration and grasped the back of the fabric. She pulled away to tell him – to demand – take it off! Take it all off! Her lips parted to announce the words.
But the small gap between them was made a gulf as he stepped away. Hands removed from her back and her clothes and away from her curves and raised in surrender. His brow was furrowed and he turned from her with a grimace.
Edith wanted the wooden floor to open and swallow her, if the slats could just bow out and suck her right down, she'd be grateful. He looked so displeased. His body language was positively distraught. Perhaps she could not kiss. She was out of practice, after all, and even when she hadn't been, the whole business had been clumsy at best. But this had been an entirely new experience; kissing Anthony had not been like kissing anyone else.
The silence was deafening.
He made a fist and banged hard on the table at the centre of her studio. The paintbrushes rustled in their pots.
"I'm sorry Edith. That was -"
Magnificent, wonderful, everything, an event to be repeated. She willed him with every iota of her being to say those words, but she knew he wouldn't. She pulled her arms across her stomach.
"-unforgiveable."
That sentiment hadn't even factored into her predictions.
"What an odd thing to say. It's not as if you kissed me against my wishes. There's nothing to forgive. Quite the opposite. I enjoyed it." She fumbled with the stepladder, returning it to its dusty corner, "I enjoyed it very much." The dirty plates occupied her then, a useful occupation for her hands and taking her eyes from his face of regret. She stacked them and moved them to the countertop.
"I enjoyed it very much too, much more than I probably ought to." He shook his head, "I like you Edith, I like that you are painting my portrait and that we are friends. But this –" he drew his hand through the space separating them, pointing at her, then back at himself, "we shouldn't do this. We don't suit."
The words were a wound, or a kick straight to the chest. She was breathless. They didn't suit? She felt more herself when she was with him than she ever did with anyone else.
She coughed out a garbled response, "oh – I - right." Turning to the sink she fumbled with the tap and squeezed the washing up liquid into the bowl, with far more aggression than was necessary.
Behind her, he kept talking, "There are obstacles, significant ones - insurmountable ones. Edith?"
She wished he'd shut up. She regretted the kiss now. She was starting to regret their whole acquaintance. If it was right between them, the obstacles shouldn't be insurmountable. The startling thought occurred to her that there was nothing which would stand in her way if it meant she could hold him, kiss him - be with him. She'd fallen fast, too fast and now the ground was speeding towards her head.
"Edith?"
"I hear you."
"I want you to finish the picture. I want us to continue the lessons."
She was a study in stoicism when she turned around. Blank and emotionless. Then she remembered to pretend, to spare them the awkwardness, she forced a wide smile across her mouth, "of course." She wanted him gone, "I'll see you at Court next week."
His brow was furrowed, "good." They looked at one another across the open expanse of her flat. Apparently no amount of pretence could negate the awkwardness of the moment. He cleared his throat, "would you like help with the washing up? I could dry?"
"No, I'll do it, it's no problem."
They'd ruined it. Or had she ruined it? Did she kiss him? Had he even wanted it?
It probably didn't matter one way or another, the stupid kiss had ruined whatever was between them.
"I'll leave you to it then?"
She nodded, unfolding her arms and wondering when she'd crossed them.
He called from beside the open door, "Edith, I'll see you next week." It was half question, half statement.
She scrubbed the plates and didn't look up, "yes."