“But if he does? If he realizes you felt you couldn’t come to him when you were in trouble? He’ll be crushed.”
“You don’t know that!” I can’t help lashing out a little. “You don’t know anything about my dad.”
“I know he brought you up pretty much on his own.” Alex’s steady tone is relentless. “Biddy told me all about it, earlier.”
“Biddy told you?”
“I guess I quizzed her a little after I’d realized you lived here. I was interested. She told me how she came into your family and saw the way your dad loved you and thought if she could just get a fraction of that love, she’d be happy.”
If I know how to press Alex’s buttons, he sure as hell knows how to press mine too.
“I know Dad loves me,” I say in a muffled voice. “And I love him. But it’s not as simple as that. He was so betrayed when I left; he’ll never accept that I’m a Londoner—”
“Are you a Londoner, though?” says Alex, and I feel a fresh stab of dismay. What else from my shaky house-of-cards life is he going to dismantle?
“You think I’m not a Londoner?” I say, in a trembling voice. “You think I can’t cut it in the city?”
“It’s not that!” says Alex, sounding taken aback. “Of course you can cut it in the city, a beautiful, talented girl like you? That’s not the point. It’s just…” He hesitates. “I think you’re more torn than you’ll admit.”
OK, I’ve had enough.
“You barely know me,” I say furiously. “You can’t just come here and tell me about my life—”
“Maybe I’ve got fresh eyes? Perspective?” He cuts me off in reasonable tones, and I suddenly think of him looking at our view and seeing in an instant what was wrong with it. Then I shake my head, dismissing the thought. That was a view. I’m me.
“All I know,” Alex continues, “is that you’ve got your farmhouse, your family, people who have known you forever—and that’s worth something. You know how a rolling stone gathers no moss? Well, that’s me.” He gestures down at himself. “Not a fucking speck of moss. But you? You’re a walking, talking mossball.”
I look away. “That’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant. And, anyway, it’s not just your family, it’s…” He pauses. “I don’t know, the way you talk about the land. The skylarks. It’s in you. It’s your heritage. You’re a Somerset girl, Katie. You shouldn’t deny that. You shouldn’t lose your accent, change your hair. It’s you.”
I’m silent for a moment, brewing with thoughts, trying to respond calmly.
“You know why I got rid of the accent?” I say at last. “I was in the loos in my first job in Birmingham and I heard two girls talking. Taking the piss out of me. ‘Farrrmer Katie’ they called me. I wanted to burst out and slap them.” I flop onto my back, breathing heavily at the memory.
Alex absorbs this for a few moments, then nods. “I was in the loos at school one day and I heard two sixth-formers talking. I’d just won the design prize. They assumed my dad had done the whole project for me. I wanted to burst out and thump them.”
“Did you?” I can’t help asking.
“No. Did you?”
“No.”
Alex sips from his cider and I do the same. The sky is at its bluest and stillest at this time of day. There isn’t a sound except the incessant skylarks.
“You don’t have to choose, London or Somerset,” says Alex at length. “You can be both, surely.”
“My dad makes me feel I have to choose.” A familiar strain comes over me. “He makes it this either-or situation….”
“So you need to talk to him even more, surely. Not less.”
“Will you stop being right?” The words burst out of me before I know I’m going to say them. Abruptly, breathing fast, I get to my feet and set off on a circle of the meadow. My thoughts are teeming; my ears are buzzing. I can’t listen to Alex and his voice of reason anymore. But at the same time I’m craving some of his words again. The ones I think I might have misheard.
A beautiful, talented girl like you. Beautiful.
As I turn the corner, I see that he’s stood up from the blanket too. It’s so boiling hot, I can feel sweat trickling down my arms, and impulsively I peel off my shirt, leaving only a strappy, skimpy tank top underneath. I can see Alex blink at the sight; I can see him size up my body with barefaced desire. Ha. So I did read him right in the barn. And now I know for sure: There was a spark between us in London. I didn’t need to apologize or feel embarrassed or any of it.
As I get near to Alex, my own lust levels are rocketing too. Only it’s not as simple as that. I don’t just want him; I want control. To jettison insecure, defensive little Katie with all her hang-ups and humiliations. I want to feel empowered. I’ve never particularly been a first-move kind of girl, but right now I can really see the point.
I head to the Defender, reach for two more cans of cider, and hold one out to him.
“Hot day,” I say. “D’you mind if I sunbathe?” And before I can get cold feet, I peel off my tank top.
There. How’s that for a first move? I’ve never done anything so bold in my life, and I feel a slight inner breathlessness.
It’s a good bra I’ve got on—a black lace balconette one, very flattering—and Alex stares frankly at my tits as though he’s in some kind of torture heaven. As I crack open my cider, he starts, then, without speaking, takes his own can and opens it.