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Authors: Veronica Henry
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her stomach. Her high heels were killing her. She couldn’t work out whether to hobble along with them pinching her toes and rubbing her heels, or to take them off and walk in bare feet on the freezing tarmac. The night air gripped her in an icy cloak that took her breath away. She thought about curling up in a barn, or even knocking on a door to ask for help. She was an idiot. How could she have missed the bus?
He’d pulled up next to her on his motorbike. ‘Wanna lift?’
‘I haven’t got a helmet.’ She realised how prim she sounded.
He looked at her, then took off his own and handed it to her.
She took it and put it on, feeling awkward. It was heavy and unfamiliar. As it closed over her head, she realised it was still warm from him. She breathed in the smell of burnt orange. She walked unsteadily towards the bike and hitched up her dress. It was so tight she would almost have to have it up round her knickers if she was going to get on. She shimmied onto the seat behind him, anxious about burning her legs on the hot metal, then found the footrests with her feet. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they had an accident. She wouldn’t have a hope.
‘Hold on tight,’ he told her, and she grabbed two handfuls of his jacket. ‘Properly,’ he commanded. ‘Put your arms around my waist.’
She hunkered right into him. The leather of his jacket was rough on her cheek, and he was warm against her. The next minute the bike had started with a roar, and she felt as if her stomach was left behind as he accelerated off into the darkness of the night.
The journey was terrifying. The cold night air sliced at her legs. She had never travelled so fast. As they took each corner she shut her eyes in terror and clung on even tighter as the bike leant over. She was sure he was exaggerating every manoeuvre just to frighten her. She was convinced she was going to be killed.
At last, the lights of Shallowford were up ahead. She wanted to tell him to drop her at the top of the town so she could walk home alone. She didn’t want to be seen with him. But there was no way to communicate this as she didn’t dare let go. The bike roared up the high street. It must have woken every inhabitant.
At last he pulled up outside Bridge House. She climbed off. Her legs were weak with the tension and could hardly hold her up. She pulled her dress down as quickly as she could to cover her thighs, which were mottled almost blue in the lamplight. She tried to put her shoes back on but her feet were so cold it was painful.
‘You want to get in a warm bath,’ he told her. ‘And have a hot drink. Maybe some brandy.’
She blushed at his concern. They eyed each other for a moment as she wondered about asking him in. Adele would be fast asleep. She could make them cocoa in the kitchen. She imagined him sitting at the table, laughing inwardly at the bone china cups and the sugar tongs.
And realising that the kitchen window would be easy to smash. And that no one in the house would hear someone breaking in.
There was a long moment of silence. Expectation hung in the air, shrouded in the icy clouds from their breath. Imogen decided that she didn’t have the nerve.
‘Thank you,’ she managed eventually, handing back his helmet.
‘Any time.’ His eyes flickered over her for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could say anything else, he was gone, in a thunderous roar and a cloud of heady exhaust fumes.
A few weeks later, she heard he’d been arrested for handling stolen goods and was put away, and she was thankful for her caution. If she’d let him in, goodness knows what she would have unleashed. Nevertheless, in her quieter moments she relived the scene, wondering what might have happened, letting her mind wander, imagining his hands on her cold skin, the warmth of him under that leather jacket.
And now, here he was, wanting to browse around the gallery. She’d glimpsed him occasionally in
He’d pulled up next to her on his motorbike. ‘Wanna lift?’
‘I haven’t got a helmet.’ She realised how prim she sounded.
He looked at her, then took off his own and handed it to her.
She took it and put it on, feeling awkward. It was heavy and unfamiliar. As it closed over her head, she realised it was still warm from him. She breathed in the smell of burnt orange. She walked unsteadily towards the bike and hitched up her dress. It was so tight she would almost have to have it up round her knickers if she was going to get on. She shimmied onto the seat behind him, anxious about burning her legs on the hot metal, then found the footrests with her feet. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they had an accident. She wouldn’t have a hope.
‘Hold on tight,’ he told her, and she grabbed two handfuls of his jacket. ‘Properly,’ he commanded. ‘Put your arms around my waist.’
She hunkered right into him. The leather of his jacket was rough on her cheek, and he was warm against her. The next minute the bike had started with a roar, and she felt as if her stomach was left behind as he accelerated off into the darkness of the night.
The journey was terrifying. The cold night air sliced at her legs. She had never travelled so fast. As they took each corner she shut her eyes in terror and clung on even tighter as the bike leant over. She was sure he was exaggerating every manoeuvre just to frighten her. She was convinced she was going to be killed.
At last, the lights of Shallowford were up ahead. She wanted to tell him to drop her at the top of the town so she could walk home alone. She didn’t want to be seen with him. But there was no way to communicate this as she didn’t dare let go. The bike roared up the high street. It must have woken every inhabitant.
At last he pulled up outside Bridge House. She climbed off. Her legs were weak with the tension and could hardly hold her up. She pulled her dress down as quickly as she could to cover her thighs, which were mottled almost blue in the lamplight. She tried to put her shoes back on but her feet were so cold it was painful.
‘You want to get in a warm bath,’ he told her. ‘And have a hot drink. Maybe some brandy.’
She blushed at his concern. They eyed each other for a moment as she wondered about asking him in. Adele would be fast asleep. She could make them cocoa in the kitchen. She imagined him sitting at the table, laughing inwardly at the bone china cups and the sugar tongs.
And realising that the kitchen window would be easy to smash. And that no one in the house would hear someone breaking in.
There was a long moment of silence. Expectation hung in the air, shrouded in the icy clouds from their breath. Imogen decided that she didn’t have the nerve.
‘Thank you,’ she managed eventually, handing back his helmet.
‘Any time.’ His eyes flickered over her for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could say anything else, he was gone, in a thunderous roar and a cloud of heady exhaust fumes.
A few weeks later, she heard he’d been arrested for handling stolen goods and was put away, and she was thankful for her caution. If she’d let him in, goodness knows what she would have unleashed. Nevertheless, in her quieter moments she relived the scene, wondering what might have happened, letting her mind wander, imagining his hands on her cold skin, the warmth of him under that leather jacket.
And now, here he was, wanting to browse around the gallery. She’d glimpsed him occasionally in
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