Beginning - Book Three

six

"I didn't realise she had come up here." I say quietly, desperate to contain the swirling storm of rage which could erupt from me at any moment.

"She seems like a nice girl." He tells me, unknowingly fuelling the fire within. "She was saying that she paints."

I grunt in response, and settle myself beside him against the headboard, plate in my lap. There is still a waft of that stupid perfume of hers lingering in the room, and if Enoch wasn't here I would be drowning it in the scent of my own perfume. Making a start on my food, I try to keep my head down and not make eye contact with him out of fear that he'll start babbling on about Florence, as Olive did. However, my efforts were useless.

"Plays the cello as well, doesn't she?" He asks through a mouthful of food.

"Yes." I reply. My neck and shoulders become rigid with tension. I don't want to get aggravated with him, so I suppress the anger with all force I can muster.

"That's smashing! I've always wanted to play an instrument, Vi maybe she could-"

"Teach you? Wouldn't that be nice?" I hiss, rather aggressively sawing my knife through the meat on my plate as a result of my irritation. "Perfect Florence teaching you to play the cello, oh what a joy!"

"Don't be like that! You could teach me piano if you want, I don't mind." He tries to explain himself, but a look of realisation comes over his face when I fail to react. "Violet, don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you. It isn't you I'm worried about." I bark, stacking chunks of food onto my fork, tearing them from the prongs once they enter my mouth like a starving dog. "I didn't like her the moment I laid eyes on her."

"Has something happened?" Enoch has moved his plate to the bedside table, leaving half of his meal untouched. He shuffles closer to me, pulling his legs to his chest and clasping his hands over his knees. "Did she say something that upset you?"

"No, no." My lack of reason suddenly dawns on me, and I am left with nothing to say for a moment or two, until her face finds it's way back into my mind. Her sublime features mean that she could have any man that she wanted, and words begin to spill from my lips like a waterfall. "She's just so sickeningly beautiful, Enoch. She has those peridot eyes and a pretty face and that tiny little waist. She can walk gracefully in high-heels without almost breaking an ankle and she has all these talents which I can only dream of having. Not only that, but she seems so ridiculously sweet and gentle with a voice like a flute. Florence is a lush, green meadow covered in wildflowers, and I'm a tiny paddock of yellowing grass."

Enoch blinks at me, not saying a word, trying to comprehend what I just spluttered through a mouth of roast dinner. His cheeks are a raging pink, and his eyes have become widened spheres bulging from beneath his brow bone. Eventually, he straightens himself and stares straight into my eyes, sitting bolt upright close to the centre of the bed.

"Don't ever compare yourself like that again." His voice takes on a serious tone which I don't recognise, but his eyebrows have raised to an angle which makes him appear as if he is pleading, begging. "You really don't have any idea, do you?"

"Any idea of what?" I ask, weakly.

"Of how gorgeous you are - Violet, you're bloody heavenly to me! You're so bright, so brilliant; can a girl like Florence lay their hands on somebody and smooth a gash or a bruise like you can? Of course she can't, and in my eyes she will never, and I mean never, compare to you. She could be the most delightful bundle of joy to walk this earth, but I would choose you. You're always unyieldingly kind, darling, and I don't know how I managed without you, I really don't know. Do you remember what I told you before we left Dorset?"

I am trembling with the effort it is taking for me not to cry. Enoch's words may not have changed my opinion on Florence but a flood of relief of some sort has washed over me, leaving behind teardrops lingering on my eyelids.

"Of course I remember." I eventually croak, gnawing my bottom lip. "You said that you loved me."

"That's right." He smiles, a small yet truly genuine grin. "I love you Violet. Please don't forget it."

With that, he crawls over the sheets towards me and supports his weight with a hand each side of my waist. His front tooth grabs at his plump lip as he advances - I am swift to remove my dinner plate from my lap before he begins to kiss me. His lips are, as ever, softer than the blanket which sits beneath us as the bottom one slips into the gap between my pink-painted ones. I rest my palms on his cheeks as I feel myself slide further beneath him, my head resting on the pillow and my legs slipping either side of his hips, which lie flat on the mattress. The air in the tiny slither of space between us becomes hot and thick with the scent of perfume mixed with the smell of the food we had just eaten; a gaseous cocktail with which I am surprisingly content. His lips move away from mine and trace the ridge of my jawline, gently nibbling at the skin, his breath warm against it. The trail of kisses find their way down my neck, across the taut tendons at the centre, my left collarbone.

"Your skin," Enoch says breathlessly through kisses. "It's so soft."

I giggle at his comment, running my fingers through his curls as his mouth dots along the bone towards my shoulder, then navigating it's way to the other side. Part of me is silently urging him to venture lower down my chest, let that piece of my body feel the graze of lips against the most sensitive of skin.

"The buttons are at the back." I whisper, unable, and unwilling, to stop myself.

Enoch pulls away and hovers above me for a moment, his tangle of hair suspended a short distance away from his forehead as he gazes down at me. The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin, and he eagerly sits back on his knees to free his hands. I roll onto my side to allow for ease of unbuttoning, and I can feel his fingers fiddling to coax the dainty circles through the loops of fabric as quickly as he possibly can. I can not contain the beaming smile spreading over my cheeks, the swelling of my heart inside my chest as it absorbs all of the affection being shown to me. I would be squealing with anticipation like a little girl if I wasn't in a situation such as this.

Once returned to my original position, Enoch's hands trace over my shoulders, slowly moving the straps of my frock down my arms. I can hear my heart pounding, as if it was in my throat. My breathing has descended into a series of short, sharp intakes of air - to an outsider, I could be weeping. However, I am far from tears. His fingertips only lightly touch my skin as the neckline of the dress grows further and further away from where it once was. I watch his eyes - they are full of wonder, wide with exhilaration. Before he can move the fabric any further, I push a kiss to his lips. I want him to see me, and still love me. Somehow, I conclude that kissing him may help my cause.

A knock at the door. Both of us jump, and bump heads hard. Despite the throbbing pain in my forehead, I freeze and keep my eyes on the brass handle, waiting for it to twist, for somebody to walk in and see us like this.

"Darlings? It's Flo! We're having a meeting downstairs, would you come down?"