Page 67 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

All thoughts of Dan, her marriage and the conversation she still needed to have with Josh evaporated in a firestorm of lust so hot it made her thighs tremble.

Why did the man have to look so gorgeous? And what the heck was he doing swimming naked in the millpond in the middle of the night?

So much for cooling off. She’d be unlikely to sleep for the rest of the week with this vision burned into her brain.

Bending, Art picked up a piece of clothing from the bank. He rubbed the work shirt across ridged abs and then gave his groin a few absent strokes, before dropping the shirt to scoop up his boxer shorts. He stood upright to put them on, and the breath Ellie had sucked into burning lungs burst out. The shocked gasp sounded like a gunshot in the eerie quiet.

Art’s head lifted, and he caught her standing on the opposite bank staring.

Heat suffused her entire body. A hot aching heat that tightened her skin over her bones, tenderised her breasts and made the weight in her abdomen pound in time with her elevated pulse. She forced herself to breathe past the immoveable lump forming in her throat.

He held his boxers in one hand, but made no move to cover himself as if challenging her to look her fill. She took the dare, because she couldn’t make herself look away.

Gilded by silvery light, his body was hard and angular, big and yet graceful in its own rough-hewn way. Unlike Dan, who spent hours in the gym perfecting his toned physique, Art’s body had the sinewy strength of muscles acquired through physical labour. There was nothing buffed or overly toned, nothing waxed or pretty about him. Even at a distance of twenty yards, she could see the white ridged line of the scar across his belly, the faded petals of his tattoo, the curls of hair on his chest that tapered through his abdomen, the pale outline of his penis where the hair bloomed into a thicket at his groin.

She couldn’t make out his expression, but wondered if he could see her cheeks glowing like beacons.

She stood paralysed, the surge of longing burning away all her embarrassment until the only sensation left was the blood pumping through her veins into all those long neglected parts of her anatomy.

He broke eye contact first, to climb into his boxers. Not rushing, but not lingering either.

Ellie fled the riverbank, and retraced her steps back through the woods towards the farmhouse, not running, but not dawdling either.

Each step of the way, she added items to her newest and now most essential to-do list.

Item one: Go into Gratesbury tomorrow and get some sleeping pills.

Item two: Check out the online buying options for vibrators.

Item three: No more midnight trips to the millpond.

Ever.

PART THREE: NEVER FORGET

THEN

Eloise Charlotte Preston’s Diary: Bits of you will fall off if you read this… IMPORTANT bits.

12 August 1998

Art finally came back this evening.

He’s been gone for three whole days and even though he ignores me and I sort of still hate him, some of the time, I missed him. Which is beyond weird, I know. But when he came in after supper, I got that fluttery sensation in my belly, the same one I get whenever I see him now. Until I saw the state of him then the fluttery sensation felt as if the Spice Girls were doing ‘Wannabe’ in my tummy.

His face was all beat up and he had a scrape on his elbow and his shirt was ripped and filthy. Even more than usual. His mum Laura, who I’ve decided is the biggest bitch on the planet, just laughed and said, ‘Who did you piss off this time? Mike Tyson?’ I couldn’t even believe it. It was like she didn’t care at all. I know my mum has been asking after Art. Asking where he is. Even I asked Laura once and all she said was ‘How the f*** should I know, I’m not his keeper.’ But she is his keeper, she’s his mum, isn’t she?

Art may be a meanie a lot of the time, but now I think maybe he’s that way because his mother is so horrible to him.

Thank God my mum was there, she made him go with her to the bathroom. Even though he said the F-word at her and told her to leave him alone, she wouldn’t. I’m glad, because he looked like he needed a mum. Even I wanted to hug him. I’m beginning to think he’s a bit like Laura’s dog, snarling and snapping, but he doesn’t actually bite anyone. (That said, I would NEVER hug Laura’s dog!)

I listened outside the bathroom door while my mum cleaned Art up. She asked him what had happened to him and he didn’t say anything for the longest time then he just said: ‘Why does it matter?’ But he didn’t sound angry any more. He just sounded tired. I heard my mum sigh. That deep, sad sigh she sometimes makes when I have a go at her and then she said: ‘It matters to me, Arthur.’

I know he doesn’t like to be called that, because I’ve called him it before to annoy him. I thought he would probably say the F-word at my mum again. But all I could hear was this strange choking sound. So I peeked round the bathroom door and I couldn’t believe what I saw… My mum was holding his head and hugging him, and he was letting her. His back was shaking and I could see all the cuts and bruises on it, because my mum had made him take off his T-shirt. It looked awful, his ribs were all black and purple on one side like someone had punched him again and again really hard. He wasn’t making much sound at all, so it took me a minute to realise he was shaking like that because he was crying.

My mum saw me, and lifted a finger to her lips to tell me not to let Art know I was there. I think maybe she thought I was going to make fun of him. But for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like making fun of him. I still don’t. AT ALL. And neither do the Spice Girls who are still prancing around in my tummy like lunatics.

I sneaked away. And I’ve been crying a little bit myself. Even though Art will probably be mean to me again, once he’s feeling better, I’ll never tell anyone what I saw. I won’t even tell Art.

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