Sleeping with the Soldier. Charlotte Phillips
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There was an enormous clothes rail directly opposite, stuffed to breaking point with clothes. And not just any clothes. Everything seemed to be made of silk, satin, lace and velvet. Subtle pinks and creams hung alongside vampy deep reds, peacock blues and purples. There were spools of silk and velvet ribbon in every colour imaginable. In one corner of the room was a headless mannequin wearing a black silky bra with tassels along the cups and matching knickers. He stared at it for an incredulous moment. Rolls of fabric were stacked against the wall and hung over the back of the sofa in the corner and the room was dominated by an enormous trestle table with two different kinds of sewing machine on it.
‘Is it just you living here?’ he asked as she crossed the cramped room to the kitchen area at the other end. He was used to Poppy’s roomy flat. This was a shoebox in comparison.
She nodded.
‘It’s a one-bed studio. There isn’t much space but it’s in such a perfect location for my shop. The time I’m saving by living so close kind of makes the lack of space worth it.’ She nodded towards the sofa. ‘Have a seat. I’ll make some tea.’
‘And what exactly is it that you do?’ he said, picking his way through the clutter to the overstuffed sofa. It was covered in a brightly coloured patchwork throw and he had to move a huge pile of silk and lace remnants before there was room to sit down.
She was clattering about in the tiny kitchen area in the corner. There was a doorway at the side of the room with a length of some filmy cream fabric hanging across it as a curtain. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get his bearings. Her bedroom must be down there on the right if it really was situated underneath his, as she claimed. He shook his head lightly because he had absolutely zero interest in how she spent her nights.
This was a means to an end, nothing more, a marginal step up from waiting it out in the hallway upstairs. He had no desire whatsoever to find out more about the infuriating woman from downstairs. He sank onto the sofa, shifted to one side uncomfortably and tugged out a pale pink feather boa from underneath him. For Pete’s sake.
‘I design and make my own line of boutique lingerie,’ she said.
It was impossible to miss the faint trace of pride in her voice.
‘Knickers, camisoles, nightgowns, slips, bustiers, basques. You name it.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Vintage inspired, Hollywood glamour, that kind of thing. I like to make the most of the female figure.’
His mind reeled a little. She might as well have been speaking in some foreign language and he’d felt enough of a fish out of water already in the past couple of weeks, thank you very much. After living at close quarters with soldiers for the best part of the last few years, much of that time in the roughest of conditions, moving in with a group of girls was like living with a gaggle of aliens. Everything was scented. Everything. There was girly underwear hanging over the radiators. The fridge was full of hummus, low-fat yogurt and other hideous foodstuffs that filled him with distaste, the topics of conversation mystified him and the bathroom was full of perfumed toiletries. He’d grabbed the opportunity when Poppy’s friend Izzy had moved rooms a few weeks ago to draft in male back-up in the form of his old schoolfriend Isaac, but in reality it had made little difference because Isaac was hardly ever there. Alex was out of his depth as it was, and now he was catapulted into a room full of lingerie.
‘I’ve been selling from market stalls for ages now, building up a customer base,’ Lara was saying. ‘And I have a blog—“Boudoir Fashionista”.’ She made a frame in the air with her hands as if imagining the title on a shop sign.
‘A blog?’ he repeated. The conversation was becoming more surreal by the minute. He leaned his head back against the sofa. His headache seemed to be intensifying.
‘Mmm …’ She continued to clatter about in the kitchen, not turning round. ‘I showcase my lingerie, blog about fashion and beauty. I’ve been wanting to expand the business for a while, try my hand at retail, but it’s such a gamble in terms of cost, you have no idea. And then I started looking into pop-up shops.’
He didn’t answer. Her voice was sweet, melodic even, pleasant to listen to. He closed his heavy eyes to ease the thumping headache, a side effect of his crazy off-kilter sleep pattern that seemed to be becoming a regular thing.
‘It’s just a short-term thing, so less risk. There are places that advertise opportunities. You take on empty premises, sometimes even just for a day. I couldn’t believe it when I found the place on Portobello Road—it was like a dream. I’ve got it for the next couple of months. Perfect timing for me to take advantage of the run up to Christmas and long enough to see if I can make it work.’
Lara gave the tea a final stir. Busying herself in the kitchen was an autopilot way of taking her mind off how much tinier the already minuscule flat suddenly felt with him in it. Small it might be but it had still been at the absolute limit of what she could afford. Desperate to give everything to the pop-up shop opportunity, she’d quickly realised that living nearby would be a huge advantage. Failure was absolutely not an option.
She’d give him the tea and then try to track down Izzy. The thought of having him here under her feet all day made her stomach feel squiggly. She had tons of work to do and she’d lost nearly an hour this morning already to first his noise and now the follow-up chaos. She didn’t have time to step in as rescue party for neighbours. She turned back to cross the room to him. Three paces in and she came to a stop, smile fading from her face, mug of tea in each hand.
He was fast asleep.
He looked completely out of place among the frills, ribbons and lace that festooned the sofa. He had the most tightly honed muscular physique she’d ever seen outside a glossy fashion magazine, his shoulders were huge, his abs perfectly defined. One huge hand rested against his chiselled jaw as if he’d been propping his chin up when he nodded off.
She watched him for a moment. In sleep the defensive expression on his face when he’d given her his half-arsed apology for the noise was nowhere to be seen. The dark hair was dry now, the short cut totally in keeping with his military background; she could easily imagine him in uniform. The face below was classically handsome. His cheekbones were sharply defined, followed up with a firm jawline and strong mouth. Her eyes roamed lower and she caught her breath in surprise.
The upstairs landing was pretty shadowy and he’d been turned away from her for much of the time. Add in the fact that she’d been making a heroic effort to keep her eyes from wandering below his neckline and as a result she only now got a proper view of his body. A twist of sympathy surged through her.
The left-hand side of the tautly muscled chest was heavily puckered and ruched with a web of scar tissue. She pressed her lips together hard. Of course she’d heard from Poppy that Alex had been injured in action but, having heard and seen the evidence of his sexual prowess, she’d assumed whatever had happened to him must have been pretty minor.
Whatever had happened to cause that scarring could most certainly not be pretty minor.
She put the two mugs down on the edge of the sewing table and moved closer to him, hand outstretched towards his shoulder to shake him gently awake, and then her eyes stuttered over the shadows beneath the dark eyelashes. He looked exhausted, and no wonder. From what she knew of him, he barely ever slept. His breathing now was rested and even. She withdrew her hand. Why not let him sleep? Yes, she could try and contact Izzy or Poppy, but really she’d wasted enough time today already on this situation.
She tugged the multi-coloured patchwork throw from the side of the sofa. Her foster mother had made it for her and it was deliciously huge and comforting to snuggle into. She tucked it gently over him. He didn’t even stir.
Five minutes later and she had her own mug of tea at her elbow as she got back to her sewing. She had the finishing touches to do on fifty-odd pairs of silk knickers. And that was just for starters.
It felt as if hours had passed when a moan of distress made her foot slip from the pedal of the sewing machine. She’d been so engrossed in her work