The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,74
sleepy again and the smile that creeps onto her lips makes my heart heave. It’s either fear or desire, or both.
‘You should stay,’ she says. ‘Ring in sick. Say your car’s broken down.’
‘I’m a mechanic.’
She closes her eyes. ‘That excuse won’t work then, will it?’
She’s silent a moment and I’m blankly panicked. I don’t know how to escape.
‘Come up with something else,’ she says without opening her eyes. ‘Be creative.’
‘I’m a mechanic,’ I say again, as if that should explain everything.
‘That doesn’t mean you have to be a machine.’ She looks at me and tugs my hand across, then lays it on the soft doughiness of her belly. She presses my hand beneath hers and slowly draws it over her silken skin. ‘You can’t go,’ she says, rolling against me.
In that moment, with her body moving against mine, desire erupts in me. I want her body and her skin and the feel of her hands clasping my arms, exploring the contours of my calves, kneading my back.
Later, she makes me toast and coffee. I’ve showered and dressed, but Emma seems completely comfortable padding naked around the kitchen. With the curtains still drawn, it’s as if we exist in our own secluded sanctuary.
Her breasts move every time she does. They’re large but firm, and they suit her athletic frame. She sits on the wooden chair across from me to eat breakfast and it’s impossible for me not to look at her, not to watch her nipples, like brown discs. She munches toast and looks at me flatly.
‘Don’t judge me,’ she says. ‘I am who I am. Far from perfect. You survive by being like a bloke down there. If you’re feminine, they harass you. If you’re sexless, you manage. I know my body’s average, but I’m okay with that.’
I swallow and my voice is like gravel. ‘I like it.’
She doesn’t smile. ‘It performs, and it’s strong. That’s all I require of it.’
I say nothing. I’m enchanted by her body. I’m glad she’s strong and unpretentious. I force myself to stop looking at her and examine the room.
‘These two buildings are like an Antarctic halfway house,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘People come and go all the time. I like being out here in the bungalow because I can have my own space without having to deal with share-house dynamics. Four people live in the house and this is the spillover accommodation. Two of them have office jobs at the antdiv and haven’t been south for ages.’ She laughs almost derisively. ‘You’d think they’d be over it by now, wouldn’t you? You’d think they’d be living in regular houses. But they like having expeditioners around. It reminds them of how it feels to be down there.’
She leans over a portable CD player sitting on the floor beside her chair and puts on some music—The Verve. The noise seems too large and loud for this small living space.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she says.
Alone at the table, I feel strange and out of place and the music chafes at me. I go outside and sit on the edge of the concrete porch looking across the overgrown backyard. The curtains in the main house are still drawn. One room has no curtains and I assume it must be the kitchen. I can’t see anyone inside.
The day is cool and cloudy. I can still hear Emma’s music, so I shut the door and sit down on the porch again. I should head off to work soon. The boss will be annoyed. Perhaps I should have rung and fabricated some excuse, but they’d know I was lying. And I’m not good at deceit. I like to keep life simple—work, Jess, birdwatching. Already this morning things have changed, and part of me wants to retreat. But a small voice is telling me I’ve already moved far beyond my usual solitude, and there’s no going back.
Emma comes out freshly showered, her hair damp. She’s wearing jeans, a shirt and Blundstone boots. There’s no shape to her in these clothes; she’s advertising nothing, but I’m still willing to buy. She sits down beside me.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
My breath catches as I connect with her eyes. ‘I have to go to work.’
She nods. ‘How about tonight? Want to come over for a meal and some wine?’
I hesitate. Her proposition both excites and frightens me. Two nights in a row almost seems like commitment.
She tries to read my uncertainty. ‘Do you have something on already?’