That was all the encouragement Emilia needed. She was going to prove to Marlowe she was no wuss. There was only one thing stopping her.
‘I haven’t got any bathing things,’ she said, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to inhibit Marlowe.
‘We can go in our underwear,’ he said. ‘No different to swimming trunks or a bikini.’
Emilia laughed.
‘You’re on,’ she said, and kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her dress.
Marlowe needed no encouragement. He ripped off his shirt, undid his jeans and she saw a flash of surprisingly toned skin and a six-pack before he dived straight in.
He came to the surface spluttering and whooping with the shock of the cold.
‘Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Come on! Don’t hesitate or you’ll never do it.’
She dropped her dress on top of his clothes and before he had too much time to examine her in her bra and knickers she leapt in too.
The iciness took her breath away. But it was exhilarating.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘It’s giving me brain freeze.’
They trod water for a while.
‘I love it here,’ said Marlowe. ‘It’s where I come when I’ve fucked things up. It clears your head.’
Emilia nodded, but her teeth were starting to chatter.
‘You don’t strike me as someone who ever fucks up.’
He gave a hollow laugh.
‘You know, when you get yourself into a situation you can’t get out of?’ His tone was dark.
Emilia wondered what he meant. Was he referring to Delphine? But he didn’t elucidate.
‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘You’re getting cold.’
They climbed back out onto the bank. Marlowe picked up his shirt.
‘Use this to get yourself dry,’ he said. ‘I can go without. We’re nearly at the cottage.’
She felt self-conscious, wiping herself down with his shirt, but it took away the worst of the water before putting her dress back on. She found herself riveted by a tattoo on his chest – a line of music on his taut skin.
She bent forward to inspect it. She wasn’t great at sight-reading, but even she could work it out.
‘Beethoven’s Fifth!’ she exclaimed in delight.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You passed the test.’
‘Test?’
He looked at her. His eyes were teasing. ‘I never sleep with anyone who can’t read what it is.’
Her eyes widened.
He looked embarrassed. ‘Not that—’
‘No! Of course not.’
She walked on, confused. Why had he said that? It was a bit unfair, given his relationship. He’d definitely been flirting with her, just for a moment.
Back at the cottage, she felt shivery: the water had been freezing and the cold had got into her bones. Marlowe made her a hot chocolate, and lent her a grey cashmere sweater. As she slipped it on, she breathed in the smell of him. She immediately felt warmer, as if she’d been wrapped in a hug. That was cashmere for you, she supposed.
‘Stick some of this in it.’ Marlowe held out the bottle of Paddy she’d brought him to say thank you for playing. He poured a generous slug into her mug. As she drank it, curled up on the sofa, she felt her eyes close. The morning’s playing, the walk, the lunch, the swim, the warmth of the fire and the whiskey …
‘Well, well, this is cosy.’
She started awake to see Delphine standing in the doorway.
Marlowe got up off the sofa in a fluid movement. Emilia had had no idea he was sitting next to her.
‘Hey, Delph.’
Delphine’s eyes took in the scene. Luckily Julius’s cello was still out, in front of a music stand. It was all the excuse they needed.
Not that they needed an excuse. They’d done nothing. Though Emilia was conscious of wearing Marlowe’s sweater.
‘You’re back early,’ said Marlowe. ‘Have a whiskey.’ He took a glass off a shelf.
‘I should go,’ said Emilia.
‘Not because of me,’ said Delphine, taking the whiskey off Marlowe and sinking into the sofa. She was in a red sweater dress and matching beret. She looked unbelievably smug, and Emilia felt a sudden flash of intense dislike.
‘Do you mind if I keep your jumper on?’ she asked Marlowe, knowing she was being provocative. She only did it because she knew they had nothing to hide. She had a clear conscience.
Delphine didn’t flinch. Marlowe nodded. ‘Sure. Give it back to me at the next rehearsal.’
Emilia drove home, trying not to feel nettled by Delphine’s hostile presence. She concentrated instead on what she had achieved. She felt so much more confident after Marlowe’s tuition. Maybe she wasn’t going to let the side down after all.
Jackson couldn’t settle that Sunday.
Ian Mendip had called him to hassle him about the book shop.
‘It doesn’t usually take you this long to get into a girl’s knickers,’ he complained, and Jackson hung up on him. He’d blame the bad signal in Peasebrook.