Page 62 of Oz
I become aware that he’s staring at me, and I shake my head at my silly thoughts and smile. “Come on. We need to be on the beach before the sun rises.”
The dogs bound ahead of us as we make our way down the steep steps and I’m gratified that he doesn’t become self-conscious about his shorter stature. Instead he seems comfortable, his eyes darting here, there, and everywhere, taking in one of my favourite places on earth.
It’s part of my land and it’s typically Cornish, being rocky and practically inaccessible. Trees line one side and the rest is high rock and stone and a small sandy beach. But the water is a clear turquoise in the sun and a soft navy in this light, and I love this small spot with a passion.
My parents would never come down here because of the steepness of the steps. Our nannies always hated it too and invariably would sit at the top while Henry and I ran wild on the sand. I’m not sure what they’d have done if we’d had an accident, but we never cared, loving the solitude and the wildness.
As I grew older my love for it deepened. Here I could hide Henry away when my father was on a rampage. Here was where I came to be alone with my thoughts and to walk the dogs.
We step down onto the cold damp sand and he pushes his messy hair back from his forehead, those piercing eyes everywhere. He turns to me and I tense slightly but relax as he smiles.
“It’s amazing, Silas. Like a magic cove.”
I grin at him and for a second, he looks almost befuddled, but he snaps to and helps me with the blanket I pull out from my bag. I sit down and pat the space in front of me between my legs. He looks at me, almost confused, and I smile.
“Come and sit down. The sun’s about to rise and you don’t want to miss it.”
He lowers himself gracefully in front of me and I’m not imagining the contented grunt he gives when I draw up my knees and wrap my arms around him. He rests against me and I tighten my grip on the warm strength of his body, breathing in the scent of shampoo that clings to the messy waves of his hair. It gleams in the light like the wing of a blackbird.
I let go of him with one hand and pull my bag towards me. I open the zip and he shoots me a grin over his shoulder.
“What have you got in that Mary Poppins’ bag now?”
“The best thing,” I say reverently. “Tea.” I extract a thermos and a couple of bright blue enamelled mugs.
His eyes light up. “Tea,” he says happily. “I can’t start my morning without it.”
“Not coffee? Everyone seems to drink that lately,” I ask, pouring him a cup of the milky tea he likes best. I prefer it a bit stronger, but this morning is about him.
He shakes his head. “We’re Irish. My mum can’t start the day right without it and I got into the habit of it too.” He looks down into his mug. “It was one of our things when I lived at home. No matter what time she or I got in, we’d always have tea at the table and talk over the happenings of the day.”
“You’re very close, aren’t you?”
He smiles tenderly. “She’s my everything. I don’t know my dad and she could have given me up, but she never did. She’s the strongest woman I know, and I’d do anything for her.”
I realise with a shock that I passionately want to have him look like that about me. To have him recognise me as a member of his tribe. To have that warm, soft regard turned on me. I swallow hard.What the fuck is this?
He takes a sip of his tea and groans, and my cock stirs at the deep sound. “God, I’ll love you forever if you make me this every morning.”
There’s a sudden shocked silence and he looks poleaxed as if he’s taken a blow to the head. I watch as a red flush travels down his cheeks and he looks suddenly embarrassed. “I obviously didn’t mean that,” he stutters. “I mean, that’s just a turn of phrase.”
I stare at him for a long minute, feeling shock rush through me. Then I clear my throat and pull him back against me. “I know,” I whisper. “Just watch the sun and be easy.”
He relaxes immediately back against me, and we watch the sun slowly rise above the shimmering line of the sea until it lays a red carpet in front of us like it’s a magic path to a faraway land. Seemingly by mutual accord we don’t speak, and the silence is easy and almost familiar as if we’re so used to one another we don’t need to fill every second with speech.
I’m relieved that we don’t speak because while I try to pay attention to the moment, every atom of my body is clanging and bouncing around in shock because I know what this is now. This feeling I have for him, this tenderness and desire to be with him. It’s love. I’m in love with him. I look down at his dark head nestled into my shoulder and let the realisation echo around me.
I’ve never been in love before. The only formative relationship I saw was that of my parents and that was nowhere near love. I love Henry and I’ve felt fondness for lovers that I’ve thought might develop into love, but now I know with emphatic certainty that it never was. This is the real thing.
I always thought that love comes softly and gradually along with a knowledge of the other person, but that was from books. Because now I know that for me it’s come suddenly and powerfully out of the blue with an almost instinctive reaching towards Oz as if my heart knows it will be safe with him and find refuge. It’s incredibly sudden but I know instinctively that this is it for me.
I still slightly. I’ve finally met the person for me. He’s nothing like I imagined but somehow everything I should have known enough to wish for. Clever and kind and sharp, he fills me with joy. However, I also know that he isn’t ready for any of this.
For a person who believes that he meets everything head-on, he doesn’t do it with his own softer feelings. He seems to look on love and relationships as something alien and almost hostile, and instinctively shies away from any examination of his own feelings. He’s fine when other people need him and is there instinctively, but any chance ofhimneeding something and he curls up like a hedgehog.
I smile slightly. My Oz is like a hedgehog. Bright eyes, prickly and fierce on the outside with a soft underbelly that he’ll roll into a ball to hide. I sigh as another thought occurs. We only have afew months left of his contract. When the house opens he’ll go back to London.
My arms tighten at the thought of not seeing him every day, not hearing his Irish lilt echoing through the house as he lays down the law and solves problems like a small Irish superhero.
