Moth to the Flame (10 page)

Alicia caught her breath. It sounded so ideal. So romantic. ‘With me?' she asked stupidly. Jared looked into those wide, surprised blue eyes, and laughed. ‘No. With your friend Emily! Of course with you, twit.'

Alicia blushed. ‘Oh.'

Jared waited, then swapped the picnic basket to his other hand. ‘I would like an answer before the end of term, if you don't mind,' he teased outrageously. She was so easy to tease, it was almost irresistible.

Alicia flushed again. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. I . . . er . . . I'll get my coat.' He watched her snatch up a grey raincoat. She was wearing a pale lavender cashmere sweater, over cream linen slacks. Her long mass of raven-black hair was caught up in a mauve and cream silk scarf, the ends of which hung down her back, amongst the raven tresses. She looked ready for the catwalk, let alone a slightly dusty, slightly damp punt. She tossed the grey coat around her shoulders and gave him a brilliant smile.

Jared tried to catch his breath, thought
better
of it, and shrugged ruefully instead. When he was around Alicia, he was getting used to experiencing breathing difficulties. He held the door wide open for her, and with an exaggerated arm gesture and bend of the waist, he bowed her through the door. ‘Shall we go?'

They walked slowly down St Giles, up to Carfax, where the mechanical figures came out to chime the hour of ten o'clock. Then up The High, past Lincoln College, All Souls, Queens, and St Edmund's Hall, past the aptly named Long Wall Street and finally towards Magdalen Bridge and the small punt rental shack not far from Magdalen College itself.

Jared selected the best, newest (and driest) punt, and reached for a long, fibre-glass pole, getting in with ease. Alicia, amused and awed by his casual nerve, allowed herself to be guided gallantly into the punt, and sat, a bit gingerly, on the middle strut.

‘No, no, not like that,' Jared said, sorrowfully shaking his head. ‘You're supposed to lean back at the far end, and drape your arm gracefully over the side, to trail a few maidenly fingers into the water.'

Alicia grinned, and obligingly sat at the far end, stretching out in a surprisingly comfortable position on the floor of the punt. But her fingers she was keeping strictly to herself. Warm day or not, it was still March, and she was not about to stick her hand into
an
icy river!

It had been some time since Jared had last been in a punt. After a few false starts, some hilarious wobbles and frantic windmilling of arms, though, he finally managed to push away from the jetty, pole them out into the middle of the river and to manoeuvre them, with growing skill and confidence, under Magdalen Street and away from the sound of the city's traffic. The simple action of pole in, firm push, pole out, quick but smooth hand action back to the top of the pole for the next push, soon came back to him.

They hadn't rushed their walk up The High, so it was already past eleven o'clock when they encountered the loop in the river just past the Bridge, and he poled the punt towards the right, where St Hilda's sprawled towards the river Cherwell.

Almond blossom was out everywhere, lacing the river-banks, roads and gardens with frothing pink blossom. The sun was so high now, and so unseasonably warm, that Alicia slipped the grey coat from her shoulders and leaned her head back, tilting her face up to the sun. Jared, watching her, very nearly lost his pole. He hastily freed it, brought it smoothly back up, and ruefully told himself to concentrate on his river craft, unless he wanted to find them floating helplessly in the current without any way of making it to the nearest bank!

In
front and slightly to the left of them loomed the vast green expanse of Christ Church meadow, with its browsing cattle, a pastoral delight right the heart of the city.

‘I thought this Oxford only existed in Evelyn Waugh novels,' Alicia murmured, thinking of
Brideshead Revisited.
‘It's so hard to realise it's only March. It feels like high summer.'

‘I know,' Jared murmured, keeping a wary eye on a pair of nesting swans on the far bank. Alicia saw them too and sat up. ‘Oh Jared look! Aren't they lovely? Have we got any bread for them?'

We have. Some very prestigious, freshly baked French bread. But I don't think it's a good idea.'

‘Skinflint!' she teased, flashing him a white-toothed grin.

‘Miserliness has nothing to do with it!' he defended himself righteously. ‘If you weren't such a city slicker, you'd know that they're nesting and breeding right now, and the cob can get very territorial. The last thing we want is for him to think we're making improper advances to his mate and come flapping over here, honking and hissing, and capsizing us!'

‘Chicken!' she jeered, then wondered at her own bravery. She'd never teased and bantered with a man like this before. Would never even have considered it.

Jared grunted. ‘Hah! You say that now, but if he started coming over here, flapping those
enormous
wings of his, you'd soon start singing a different tune!'

Alicia thought he was probably right.

The weeping willows were almost yellow, as their tightly furled buds began to uncurl. A soft bellowing from one of the cows in the meadows echoed peacefully across the river. It was hard to believe there was traffic, and a thriving modern city, going about its business all around them. St Hilda's came and went on their right, and Jared, spotting a bend in the river, nestling amongst a stand of weeping willows, instinctively steered the punt towards it.

Because she was travelling with her back to where they were going, the first Alicia knew of his proposed landing place, was when a strand of leafy weeping willow brushed past her cheek. She caught it then let it trail out of her hand, entranced. Soon they were nudging their way through a whole curtain of weeping willow branches, to the steep, green bank beyond. The punt nudged into the bank, coming to rest with a gentle bump. Jared poled them into a parallel position to the bank, then looped the mooring rope into the air, over one of the thicker branches, and tied it off.

With the high bank on one side, and the screen of trailing, weeping willow branches on the other, they found themselves cocooned in their own, green, secret world. ‘It's like a fairytale,' Alicia breathed, as a Jenny Wren
suddenly
trilled from the gnarled roots of a nearby willow.

‘I know,' Jared said, overawed as much as she. He'd wanted to spend the day with her, away from College and their friends and work and the play. He'd wanted to make it romantic, and peaceful and special. But not even he could have hoped for something as perfect as this. He carefully laid the pole inside the punt, then reached for the picnic hamper. He moved towards her, the punt rocking gently with his sure-footed movements, and sat down on the middle strut, the picnic hamper between them. The noon sun, beating down through the canopy of willow, cast dappled light across her. One diamond of sunlight was lying across her left eye, turning the china blue into a brilliant, Ceylon sapphire.

She blinked lazily.

‘You look beautiful,' Jared said hoarsely.

Alicia blinked again, this time feeling anything but lazy.

‘I do?' she blurted.

Jared nodded, then quickly ducked his head to unfasten the hamper. He felt suddenly nervous. Shy, almost.

Alicia stared at the bent head, a warm rush of tenderness flooding over her. Underneath all that banter and laughter, he was as nervous and unsure of himself as she was.

‘Let's see—we have pâté, with fresh crusty bread. A knife.'

‘Thank
you.'

‘We have Brie . . . hope you like Brie.'

‘I love Brie.'

‘Peaches.'

‘I love peaches.'

‘And . . . ta-dah!' he held up a battered blue thermos.

‘Coffee?' Alicia hazarded blankly.

‘Coffee?' Jared growled, looking scandalised. ‘I'll have you know, peasant, that whilst you were tucked up in bed, snoring happily away, I was slaving over a hot blender, just to make you some Buck's Fizz.'

‘I don't snore!'

Jared reached into the picnic hamper and extracted a pair of cut crystal glasses. He'd borrowed them from the same chap who had the hamper, under dire threats of disembowelment if he should break either of them. Now he placed the sparkling Waterford crystal flutes on the floor of the punt and carefully poured out the sparkling champagne and orange juice from the flask. Solemnly he handed a glass to her.

‘To you,' he said softly. Alicia felt her hand shaking slightly as she accepted the glass from him.

‘To the director,' she whispered. They clinked glasses even more solemnly and drank. It was perfect—the champagne was dry, but the orange juice was sweet. ‘Hum . . ., wonderful.'

Jared
busied himself with breaking the bread into chunks and layering on the pâté. Alicia watched him, wanting to say something, something that would honour this wonderful day and this wonderful setting, but she couldn't think what.

She wanted to blurt out ‘I love you' but of course she didn't. She might not know much about men, but even she knew that saying something like that was bound to scare a bloke out of his wits. But she rather thought . . . she rather feared . . . that she did love him.

Jared looked up, caught that look, and froze.

For a second he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd been dreaming of seeing just that look in those stunning blue eyes, ever since the first day Emily had introduced them. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward, as if expecting any moment to see her jump up and run away. But as he leaned over her, carefully placing his knees either side of her on the flat bottom of the punt, she began to lean towards him, not away. Her lips fell slightly open. He could hear her take in a sudden, deep breath. The air around them seemed to quiver, sigh, and then still into utter tranquillity as his lips dipped towards her. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and discovered that her skin was so soft against his fingers that it felt like padded satin.

He caught a waft of the scent from her
hair—fresh
violets.

She swayed further towards him, her heartbeat suspended. When their lips finally met, he felt a jolt go through him, as if he'd been hit by an invisible bolt of lightning.

She tasted sweet, of champagne and oranges and something more . . . something so utterly feminine, so totally Alicia, that he had to hold himself back from dragging her into his arms and trying to absorb the very essence of her.

Alicia's eyes feathered closed, the image of his melting-chocolate eyes and waves of nut-brown hair remaining imprinted on the back of her retinas. With her eyes closed, she was in a world of sound, smell, taste and darkness. She could feel the cold and warm patches on her hands and face, where sunlight and shadow took it in turns to caress her. She could feel his fingers on her cheek, four tiny points of heat radiating through her, and the heat from his thumb under her chin. She could smell him—the scent of soap and aftershave, new shirt and man.

The water lapped at the punt, causing the tiniest waves of movement in the water beneath them. She felt, quite literally, as if she were floating . . . And, over and above all of that, superseding everything, the touch of his lips on hers. Cool but warm. Firm but gentle. Simple, but meaning everything. A kiss that seemed to go on for ever.

Her
own hand came out to cup his head, her fingers smoothing a path through the thick mass of cool hair, to the warm scalp beneath. She opened her mouth wider, inviting deeper, greater intimacies. Jared groaned. It was such a sudden, unexpected, primitive sound, that it startled her.

Jared felt her instinctive surprised withdrawal immediately. And, before Alicia could stop him, he lifted his lips, leaning back, hoping he didn't look as completely shattered as he felt. He'd kissed women before. Had done more, much more, than that. But nothing had ever prepared him for the perfection of such a moment; a moment that now was gone for ever. It left a bittersweet taste in his soul.

Alicia sighed. She wanted him back where he'd been. Wanted to tell him that she'd been caught unawares, that was all, and that she wasn't scared, wasn't . . .

But he was already leaning back on his heels. His hands falling away from her face. And although she loved his smile, she hated the smile he gave her now, because it meant he was moving further away from her.

Dragging them back to that other place called reality.

As if to prove her right, Jared, telling himself it would be disaster to rush her, struggled for something to say, and managed to shrug one shoulder nonchalantly.

‘We'd better finish the Bucks Fizz, before it
gets
warm.'

A drake mallard, discovering their hideaway, swam beneath the canopy of willow and quacked hopefully for a piece of the feast. The comical sound finally snapped Alicia out of her dream-like trance. She looked at the duck, at his glossy emerald head and curly tail, and smiled tremulously. ‘I don't think this chap is in danger of sinking us,' she laughed determinedly, and tossed him a piece of bread, fiercely telling herself that she could be as adult about all this as Jared.

She must get rid of this stupid idea that a single kiss meant something. In this day and age, it really meant nothing. Nothing at all. Jared must have kissed a lot of girls, and probably didn't even remember their names now.

She thought about Emily, who changed her boyfriends as casually as her father changed his socks, and sternly told herself to pull herself together. She accepted a plate of crusty bread and pâté and ate it, and then talked about the play and fed the duck, and all the time while she was crying inside, she told herself that, really, she was having a great time.

Jared, fighting off an almost overwhelming urge to rush across the punt and ravish her, told himself to be satisfied with his progress. After today, she couldn't possibly see him as just the director of the play, one of the lads, a
mere
friend. After this magical picnic, that earth-shattering kiss, she must know that she was very special to him . . .