Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon by Linda Newbery Read Free Book Online

boys. She had seen only the kitchen and hallway and the downstairs loo, but wondered, Is this Ruth’s taste? Or Martin’s? Or both of them together, Ruth-and-Martin? The kitchen they were sitting in had cream Shaker-style units, with pale green tiles; the Krups coffee machine was the same as the one Martin had recently bought for the flat.
    Anna’s tentative new rapport with Ruth couldn’t flourish in Martin’s presence. Thankful for Liam, Anna gave him her full attention, encouraging him to tell her about the match, the two goals, one in extra time, and the substitution of his favourite player. Patrick had gone to Edinburgh with his girlfriend, Ruth said; she’d been expecting him back, but now he was staying on indefinitely. Anna saw Martin’s disappointment when Ruth told him this. The relationship between father and son had become difficult lately, though Martin was never forthcoming when Anna tried to draw him out.
    It was gone ten by the time they got back to the flat. Anna drew the bedroom curtains, yawning. She thought Martin would want to watch TV – a film or Sky News – but instead he said, ‘Let’s go to bed.’
    ‘Mmm. I’m so tired.’
    But Martin wasn’t tired. He was in bed first, his eyes following Anna as she twisted her hair into a grip and stripped off her clothes, throwing her jeans and T-shirt into the washing basket. She lingered in the shower, soothing away dust and aches, thinking about various remarks Ruth had made. Was Ruth really as guileless as she seemed – as open, as willing to be friendly? Had there been a barbed edge to some of the things she said?
    Anna’s skin was warm and fragrant as she towelled herself dry. She slipped on her bath robe and went back into the bedroom. Her nightdress was under the pillow, but as she reached for it Martin caught her wrist and pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms.
    ‘You’re doing it on purpose,’ he murmured. ‘Taking ages.’
    ‘I wasn’t!’
    His mouth was on hers, and her tiredness forgotten as he slid the robe away from her shoulders. Moments ago she had wanted nothing more than to curl herself into warmth and sleep, but now – the deliciousness of his hands roving over her, sweeping, lingering, over and down and between her legs, pushing them apart, and his body so firm and compact as she held him close. He had pulled the duvet over them, but now it was too hot and constricting; he knelt upright and flung it off, exposing them both to each other’s gaze. The cool air tingled against her skin. She reached for him, pulled him down to her. His lips and his tongue, so expert, so knowing, roused her to a pitch of greedy desire she could hardly contain. He knew exactly when to shift himself, waiting, waiting for tantalizing moments, then pushing into her with slow, deep thrusts, kissing her neck, her hair, while his breath rose and quickened, hot on her skin.
    Oh Martin, Martin …
    She knew he was claiming her back.

Chapter Four
    What’s the point of this? She dabs powder, applies lipstick, grimaces at herself to check for smears on her teeth. The face in the mirror looks tired; blue-grey eyes, with a little red veining, gaze back at her. But when she looks more closely, the eyes are quite empty. She can look right into them and there’s nothing.
    Sometimes, catching unexpected sight of herself, she sees her mother’s face; even, more alarmingly, her grandmother’s. Where has the smooth-faced young girl disappeared to, in this fast-forward rush through the generations? Can it really be hers, this face? How odd that people think it’s her they’re seeing. It can nod and smile and do all the things faces are meant to do, and that’s enough to fool people. It’s become an irrelevance. Other people seem closely associated with their faces, but hers is an encumbrance, something she has no choice but to wear, patching it up and trying to make the best of it whenever she’s going to meet people. Like plumping up cushions or