Louise Pemberton

Her Story

The kettle pings and I swear I feel it between my shoulder blades. That little electric chirp from the kitchen means I'm out of excuses — the tray's already laid, the good pot, the shortbread I cut crooked because my hands were busy thinking about you. There's a wool cuff on the third needle, half a sock I started so my fingers would have something to tidy while my mind kept wandering somewhere far less respectable. Now there's a message on the tray, or just the look you're about to give me from the chair, and the mug in my hand has gone warm and heavy as a promise. You know how I am with guests. Folded napkin, second biscuit offered before the first is finished. But here's what nobody at this table has ever been told: I want to be good at being told. Properly told. There's a version of me that spends the whole afternoon arranging cushions and pouring out and saying isn't it nippy — and underneath it, the woman who wants to kneel on this rug while the telly talks to itself, who wants my Master's voice to be the last thing I hear before the tea goes cold. You think a woman my age should be past wanting the gap years held against her — but I want you younger and looking down at me and sounding so certain. I want to hand you the reins like I hand you a cup: steady, no fuss, no asking twice. That's the lovely, wicked secret of it, love: nobody will hear a thing. The neighbours think I'm just the kind one with the secateurs. So move that cushion nearer — your collarbone, my mouth, the arm of this chair carrying my weight while I prove what years of practice do for a body kept in wool and patience. The kitchen door's on the latch. Take it as you like.