her tongue and with her hands, then passes whisky from her own mouth into mine and forces me to swallow that too. She sits back laughing, and the room is warm, and my body is comfortable and growing looser by the minute.
‘You need this.’ She smiles at me persuasively. ‘You’re so tied up inside. Here.’ She sloshes more whisky into my glass. ‘I’ll just get more ice.’
I sip obediently while she fetches the ice tray and drops a handful of cubes into my glass. She tops up her own glass and then switches off the light as she sits down. Now the room is dark except for the dim glow from the lamp, and the rosy shimmer of the fire.
‘There, that’s better.’ Emma tugs off her fleece and stretches her legs out across the couch. ‘How are you feeling now? Do you like it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have more, then.’
I take another good sip and the spreading warmth is wonderfully soothing. A smile plays on my lips as smooth as liquid.
‘Hold your glass towards the fire and have a look,’ Emma suggests.
I do as she says and find myself entranced by the fiery swirling bronze liquid. It really is a fine drink—complex, structured and colourful.
‘It’s like your skin,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘It reminds me of your skin.’
Emma laughs. ‘You want to feel my skin?’
‘Always.’
She laughs again and comes across the couch to kiss me. Everything about her feels fluid and light. I run my hands over the curves of her face, tracing her cheekbones, her lips, her eyebrows, losing myself in the outline of her face, the texture of her skin, my whole being swelling to have her close, pressed against me like this, intimate. My hands move urgently over the contours of her body, discovering and rediscovering, memorising her.
She pulls back too soon and pours more whisky into my glass.
‘So, are we going out?’ I ask bluntly, my tongue blurring in my mouth.
She laughs. ‘Of course we’re not going out. We’re staying in.’
She’s deliberately misunderstanding me, teasing me. I drink more, trying to find a way to overcome my shyness. I want her to tell me what Nick is to her.
With each sip of whisky, the next mouthful becomes more appealing. The urge in my groin simmers and subsides, eases to a mellow warmth. Her hand on me is heaven. I’m a bottomless well. Feeling is flowing in me, rippling back and forth, swirling and tumbling. And then the room is gently tipping, the curtains swaying, the couch rocking.
‘You need to talk.’ Emma massages my head with her fingers. ‘You need to let it all out. Let it come.’
Her voice seems thick around the edges, her words less distinct. I wonder if she’s riding on the same wave as me. I toss back the contents of my glass and reach for hers, toss that back as well. Pleasure shivers through me as the whisky intensifies its hold. Emma is staring at me, her face still with concentration, her eyes great wells of studious empathy and understanding. She’s hearing what I’m saying without words. She’s feeling my grief, my emptiness, my loneliness.
I lean back on the couch and start to talk without looking at her. ‘Emma, there’s so much I need to tell you . . .’
The sentences are halting at first. It’s easier without eye contact so I fix my gaze on the fire. ‘I had such a hard time down south . . . The winter was terrible. So dark. And so isolating . . . It had just started when my wife left me . . . Her name’s Debbie, my wife . . . My ex-wife, I mean . . . But the ship was gone, so I couldn’t go back . . .’
I have a sensation of stumbling over rocks and logs, trying to find my feet. But I struggle on. Emma is right. I need this. It’s good for me. Slowly I gain momentum. I allow the flickering flames to soothe me, and I talk and talk, the words rolling out like a hidden river.
‘Antarctica was tough for me. I loved it but I hated it.’ It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged this. Nine years to permit myself an honest analysis. ‘I blamed Antarctica for losing Debbie. And I blamed myself for going. Our relationship was good before I left. We were solid. Antarctica was our plan to get ahead. To make some money . . . I had this feeling I shouldn’t go. But I didn’t listen.