The Awakening of Poppy Edwards Read Free Page B

the war. Most probably everyone who was in France is the same, you’ll say. Maybe, but it’s not an excuse I like to use. I wasn’t even fighting. Sure, driving those ambulances you see things you never want to see again. My point is, I won’t make excuses. It happened, it’s over, you learn, you move on, which is what I’ve done. I told you, I know I’m lucky. Was I like this before? Heck, how do I know? Am I cold? If that means do I know not to let anyone get too close, the answer’s yes. Another thing I learned in France. People die, even people who aren’t supposed to. Even when they don’t carry guns, but stretchers. People die, and they leave behind lots of people who think they can’t get by without them. You don’t just see the mangled mess that guns and shells make of men in the trenches. In the hospitals, you see the mangled mess the war makes of the ones they left behind. So no, I don’t think I’m cold, just pragmatic. I’m focused. Independent. I know what I want. I know what I
don’t
want, too. Uncomplicated—a big yes to that. Involved, needy—big no. But great sex? Who doesn’t want that? If only it was easier to find without all the strings. That night I’d found it, though, and I told her. ‘That was goddamn amazing,’ I said.
    She laughed, though it was more like a kind of low growly noise. ‘Yes, it was.’
    I sat down on the bed beside her. She was still sprawled on her back, the sheet only just covering her. She was so slim, she could have—what is it they say—yeah, she could have walked through rain.
    ‘Really, I mean it,’ I said, running my hand down the outline of her leg, my body already recovering, already thinking that it might be an idea to start again.
    But she rolled away from me. ‘I have an early start. In fact, I really should be going.’
    She was already out of bed, already pulling on her underwear, picking up her shirt. I watched her for a moment, enjoying the view, my mind still sluggish, too concerned with what we’d done, what I’d like to try next, to realise what was happening until she was pulling on her pants, sitting back down on the bed to tie her shoes. I got up, began to look about for my own clothes.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she said.
    ‘I’ll come with you.’
    ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own, thank you very much.’
    The way she said it kicked off alarm bells. Defensive. Very defensive. Funny, I didn’t think about it at the time, but I should have been pleased, not—hurt’s too big a word, but it will do. ‘I’ll come down with you,’ I said. ‘At least let me make sure you get a cab.’
    She stood up, shrugging into her jacket and waistcoat at the same time. ‘There’s really no need. I can make a far more discreet exit on my own.’ She smiled a tight little smile and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Lewis.’
    Goodbye
, not
good night
. Her accent had become decidedly English. Her expression decidedly cool. And that’s when it finally hit me, the full stupidity of what I’d done—as she was holding out her hand, making it perfectly clear that however amazing the sex had been between us, there would be no more. I stared at her, speechless for a few endless seconds, as I tried to work out what to do, and more importantly, what I should be feeling. Because what I should have been worried about was business, and what I was actually thinking about was pleasure.
    Her smile became a frown. She withdrew her hand, tucking it behind her back. ‘What’s wrong?’
    What was wrong was that I never mixed business with pleasure. What was wrong was that she had no idea who I was, and absolutely no idea that I knew who she was. What was wrong was that tomorrow—strike that, today—I planned to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse, but she most likely would refuse it now, because she’d think it came with all sorts of conditions. And what was really, really wrong was that despite all this, I still wanted her. What