Page 128 of Sunrise By the Sea

‘But he’d quite like that piano he was playing earlier.’

‘Oh yeah, sure, whatever, done,’ said Reuben, wandering off to find Huckle and Polly.

Marisa turned to Alexei, her face bright pink.

‘Oh my God! Did you really hit that snake with a . . . ?’

But before she could finish the sentence, he had grabbed her in his arms and was looking down at her, his whole body trembling.

It had been so long.

She had denied herself human touch for such a long time, hadn’t even reached out to a human being. Her loneliness had gone beyond the skin; had been bone-deep, soul-deep.

And now this. This was something else, something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she hadn’t felt in so long she had thought it might be gone for ever.

It was the deepest form of desire, a deep low aching, a rush of strong impulse beating in her brain; that it had to be this man, that it had to be now. His lips were full and plump and soft and nothing else could fill her mind than the desire to kiss him, and for him to kiss her back, the way she wanted – needed, absolutely needed to be kissed, firmly, with passion, and confidence and full-hearted conviction. She found herself letting out a small sound, even as the noises of the party faded away completely.

She stretched herself up on her toes, her eyes beginning to close, the scent of him intoxicating, the sunny breeze blowing through the dunes.

His huge hands moved down to circle her tiny waist in the red dress, holding her firmly. But she saw he wasn’t moving his head towards her, showed no signs of being about to kiss her.

She panicked. Was he still thinking of Lara? It was the excitement; it had to be. She had been overwhelmed. She looked up at him, terrified, blushing: had she misjudged it? It had been so long since she’d had any male attention – any attention at all, it felt like. Of course she had gone nuts. Of course she had. Oh God. This was awful. And it made things worse somehow that he was a teacher, as if she was a ridiculous student with a crush.

He let her go, gently, sat down in the sand, his arms around his knees looking confused. His brown eyes blinked in that slow way they did.

Marisa looked at him, her embarrassment turning to fury. ‘What?’

He shook his head shortly.

‘No. Please. I am thinkink,’ he said. ‘Sit down please?’

She refused and instead stood, furiously, a short way away from him, crossing her arms over herself. She wanted to leave, but couldn’t bear to.

‘I haff to think.’

‘Oh, do you.’

Her tone was sarcastic.

‘I haff to think. I think Marisa does not know I am so crazy about her. She does maybe not know what she is doing, maybe she has been unwell, maybe she is just lonely, maybe she does not really care about a bear who lives next door, maybe if I kiss her I will be happy for two minutes and then so sad for ever and that will be very bad.’

She looked at him steadily.

‘Marisa. I cannot be your—’

‘Crutch. I get it. You said that.’

He looked puzzled.

‘But I have to say. Is important. If you want to kiss me . . .’

This was torture. Marisa stood there, torn, uncomfortably aware of her own breathing.

‘You have to know. That it is not nothing to me. It will be . . . lot to me.’

He looked straight at her, those long lashes fringing those beautiful eyes.

‘You are music to me,’ he said quietly. ‘You are a dance, or the whisper of a song. When you are cross, you are Beethoven dreamink of the far seas, and when you are happy you are Saint-Saëns to me, and when you are sad you are Grieg looking on a rainy day, and when you laugh it is Mozart to me. And I would so very much like to make you dance.’

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