Beautiful friendship, p.15
Beautiful Friendship, page 15
mountain lions or whatever else they have there, but I used to be so jealous of you. You were off having all these adventures, meeting all sorts of people, and seeing so many things..."
Knightley set his coffee cup down.
"You could too, Emme. You could go tomorrow if you wanted, leave for Paris, or Russia, or wherever you want. See the world on your terms, with no one to answer to, not even me. I wouldn't blame you. I'd understand."
He squeezed her hand. He would miss her. Heaven help him, he would miss
her more now than ever. But he would understand. He'd known her all her life, her protective father, her tutor Taylor, her schedule dictated by Norris or Elect or whatever designer needed her, wherever they needed her. He understood all of that, and what it was to be twenty and craving independence and control.
"I'd wait for you."
"I don't want to spend my father's money to go anywhere. If I went, it would be with my savings. Something I'd earned. Besides, you weren't alone. A lot of
your travels were with Darcy. I don't think I'd want to be completely alone, either." She squeezed his hand back and gave him a grateful smile. He would never believe that he was the first person who'd ever said anything of the sort to her. Or maybe he would. Maybe that was why he'd said it. "For now, it's enough for me to hear about your adventures. Tell me more about Morocco. I
want to hear more about it than just the airport and the hotel I was able to see..."
"Darcy and I took a ferry from Spain and stayed a week. It's beautiful.
Dangerous, in parts. We saw Roman ruins and desert valleys, a dozen little
ports with hidden beaches. Sea grass and palm trees. The water in summer is as warm as a bath." He lifted her hand and kissed it gently. He would float the idea of taking her there someday, he decided suddenly. Or maybe Greece or
Spain would suit her more. Somewhere hidden away, just the two of them.
"Are the flowers there like the paintings in that gallery?"
"Some of them." He turned her hand over, as if examining the inside of her palm, then lowered his mouth to her wrist. It was a small gesture, gentlemanly even, but still so intimate that her heart skipped. When his mouth drew away, his thumb began a sensuous pattern on the soft skin. "Why don't you paint anymore?"
Distracted by his touch, the question took her completely off guard. "Hmm?"
"You used to paint, draw, sketch. All the time. I have a stack of letters you've written me from around the world and all of them include sketches or
paintings, even little pencil drawings in the margins. And I know for a fact that you couldn't get through a math lesson without drawing the pattern of a bird or
an ivy branch or a cloud on your geometry notebook. I tried to tutor you once over Christmas holiday, remember?"
The slight tease in his tone cleared her head a bit, but the question remained.
He was right. At one point in her life, she'd always been drawing or painting or sketching. Why had she given it up?
"No one seemed to approve of it as anything more than a hobby. Sandra said it wasn't sensible. Taylor thought I should be spending my free time reading."
"What did you think?"
"I thought that painting could be lonely or difficult. Or exhilarating and wonderful" She shrugged. "Mostly, I think it made me happy."
"If it makes you happy, you should paint."
It wasn't dictation or advice. It was just a simple statement. If she liked it, she should do it. He was planting the idea rather than suggesting a decision, but he made it sound incredibly easy. It wasn't. Painting, drawing, art in general, was often a solitary activity, full of self-doubt and perfectionist tenancies. Besides, the phrase starving artist was all too true. The thought of continuing modeling, be it for De Bourgh or freelance, made her miserable but the money was good.
Art did not pay well.
Not that she'd ever tried selling any of her art. The thought of painting again, of trying to earn an honest wage from it, both terrified and thrilled her.
"Daddy would say I should set my mind to more constructive tasks, like
understanding how to file a tax return."
"It's your life, Emma, isn't it?"
Her life. Hers. He'd said it gently enough, without accusation, but he'd been touching on something crucial for much of the night. So much of her life was controlled by other people. Her mother had pushed her into modeling when
she'd been too young to realize she was being used, sold, and exploited.
Photographers decided how she posed in photographs, designers chose what
she wore, and stylists dictated her makeup and hair. Her father loved her, but even from afar that love was tempered by what she should and shouldn't do,
where she should and shouldn't go-what was safe or unsafe. He did it because he loved her, worried about her, wanted to protect her. But there were days
when that sort of behavior made it hard to breathe. She'd never leaped from a plane like Knightley, or worked in a clinic in Africa, or backpacked from
Marrakesh to Tangier. But he was right. She could if she really wanted to. It was her life. Hers.
"Anything that can make you happy has to be better for you than learning about tax returns or geometry."
Her head was filled with such serious thoughts, it somehow compelled her to strike on the lighter vein in that remark. "You still remember that tutoring session, all those years ago?"
"You bet." His eyes gleamed in the candle-light, and he gave her a crooked grin. She' been sixteen, trudging through geometry homework over the
Christmas holiday weekend. He'd been twenty-one and assigned to help her
before dinner. Two hours into their labor, she'd stood from her father's polished chair in Hartfield's gothic library, pushed the window sash wide open and flung the book from her sight. "Please, please never consider a career in
mathematics."
"It wasn't so bad, really," she laughed, "It was probably my best geometry lesson ever."
"Until we saw the dent it put in your father's Lamborghini."
"Yeah." Emma's laughter was spontaneous and youthful. "Not for an instant did he believe that Mittens the cat had accidentally pushed it out with her tail."
"Worst lie I've ever heard," Knightley laughed.
"Don't get me started on bad lies, George Carter Knightley." She answered with pluck as the conversation relaxed into familiar ground. "You never lie, but when you do, you lie terribly."
His eyes narrowed. "Like when?"
"Like the time you came to Hartfield with three stitches on your leg and I asked what happened, and you said you'd gone sailing with Darcy and Fred. Two
hours later, you told my father and Uncle Jack it was a football injury."
"Hey, cleats can be sharp."
"Sharp as a rudder when a boat capsizes?" she teased.
He grinned. "Amazing, isn't it?"
"Incredible. Or how about when I wanted to learn how to ice skate, and Daddy wouldn't let me because he thought it was too dangerous. I left the dinner table in tears..."
He remembered that as well. He'd been fourteen. She'd been nine.
"You'd been watching it on television and decided you wanted to be an
Olympian..."
"The next morning you woke me up, told me to get my warmest clothes on, and we walked to Donwell Pond. I didn't have ice skates. You stuffed your
hockey skates with old socks until they fit me. And then you taught me how to ice skate." Her eyes softened at the memory. Fourteen year old Knightley, gangly and reed thin, stuffing his hockey skates until they could fit a nine year old girl. They had spent hours slipping and sliding and giggling breathlessly, but she'd learned to skate.
"When we got home hours later, caked in snow, flushed and with blisters on my feet, you told Daddy we'd gone for a long walk and had fallen in a snow
drift. You said the blisters were from tying my shoe laces too tight."
"That was a terrible lie, wasn't it?" Knightley's chuckle turned to a full out laugh. "But at least you always got the truth out of me..."
"Except for once," she countered with a curious little smile. "I was sixteen, you were twenty-one. I came to stay with you at Oxford the weekend before you
graduated."
That stilled his laughter. He recalled that night, probably with much more
clarity than she did. The night she'd come to stay had also been the night half the colleges in Oxford had a roaring graduation party. The music had been
blaring, the crowds were massive and somewhere in the mix, he'd lost track of her. George Wickham had coaxed her into countless cups of alcohol in his
absence. It was the first time he'd ever seen her drunk, and the last. Will Darcy had been the one to find her, surrounded by the lush Oxford elite, up to her elbows in punch. Knightley had carried her back to his room, and then gone to find George.
"How much do you remember about that night?"
"I remember the boy who served me drinks telling me that my drink was only fruit punch. And I remember waking up in your room to the sight of you with a bruise on your jaw. Someone socked you in the face. You never have told me
who, or why."
"And you really want to know."
"Oh, only since I was sixteen," she teased.
"Okay." He leaned in close, his voice lowering. "You wandered off during the party. Darcy found you . He brought you to me. I took you to my room, made
sure you were in bed, and then went back to find who'd served you. It was a
man named George Wickham. He made a remark about leaving the door
unlocked so he could get you into bed by sunrise and so I punched him. He
punched back. It was Darcy who dragged us apart. He threatened Wickham,
said that things would be infinitely worse for him if he had both of us to deal with. Wickham backed off." After this rather sparse rendering of events, his tone warmed noticeably, "After which, Darcy gave me an ice pack and a beer, sat me down and calmly asked when, exactly, had I realized I was in love with you?"
Even though it was a casual admission, her heart trilled. "What did you say?"
"I said all my life, and ten minutes ago. That is the truth, Emme." His voice was rich and calm, and his dark eyes were warm in the candle-light as they met her gaze. "And here's another: I've wanted to dance with you since we got here.
Will you dance with me?"
"You don't dance," she countered. The trill in her heart turning to doves which fluttered wildly.
"True. But I can't resist that bluedress." He leaned in to kiss her ear, adding in a teasing whisper, "Don't tell Caroline."
The floor of the small dance space was covered in lush rugs. The walls were
redwith twinkling lights hung all around. They walked to the edge of the dance floor, then came together, arms encircling. The light was low and gold and the band played a soft, sensual, heated rhythm that reminded Emma of a desert
summer. Emotionally, she'd never been as close to anyone as she'd been to him; physically, she'd never felt what he could conjure. Even simply holding her like this, his hand in the small of her back, made her feel breathless and dizzy and dreamy.
They lingered there, dancing hip to hip until the band packed up and the votive candles were blown out. Knightley took her back to her building, walking with her up to her fourth-floor flat and waiting even as she rattled around in her purse to find her keys. She couldn't believe the night was already at its
conclusion. The thought of parting from him made her heart ache.
"Thank you, George." It was an incredibly rare use of his first name, made more special because of its infrequency. She slipped her right hand into his, and then her left, drawing him close. "I had a great time."
"So did I," he said quietly, giving her a soft smile. Knightley looked down at their conjoined hands, pondering something, and then up at her again.
"Emma...about the night you came to Oxford and stayed with me. You really don't remember anything else about that night, do you?"
She tilted her head and gave him a look that Knightley found was unique to her alone, coy and curious. "No..."
Rather than look worried or embarrassed, his smile became boyish. He actually chuckled.
"Then there's something I should tell you. This Christmas wasn't the first time I kissed you. Or, more accurately, you kissed me."
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"You were sixteen and drunk. I had no idea you wanted to kiss me when you did it. For all I knew, you didn't even realize it was me that you kissed. And then when you woke up and never mentioned it once, I was certain it meant
nothing to you."
"I kissed you. As in, I honestly kissed you? Knightley--" it both surprised and amused him how pink her cheeks went. "I have wanted to get kissed by you since I was about twelve years old!"
"Really?"
"Yes, really. You have no idea what torture it is to wake up at twelve years old and suddenly realize the boy who you adored all your life is eighteen, not at all related to you, and completely gorgeous. Years of torture, Knightley. Years.
And if our first kiss actually happened when I was sixteen, it is the world's worst joke that I can't even remember it."
He knew more than a little about pain where she was concerned. He had, after all, realized at twenty-one that he was in full-grown love with his sixteen year old best friend. She'd been far too young for him, was the person he knew best in the world, and was one of most popular models at the time. All of that
basically ensured in his mind that when she did turn eighteen, he would be the last person she'd consider romantically. It was one of the most excruciating realizations of his life. Even after she'd turned eighteen, the fear of losing her completely had compelled him to still waited two years more before confessing how he felt.
"You were sixteen and really, really drunk," he reminded her, brushing her hair back gently. "If you going to Morocco and only seeing the airport doesn't count, that kiss definitely doesn't count."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"I took you back to my room and put you into bed. You said your head hurt and asked me to lie down with you until you fell asleep. I stayed with you awhile, watching you breathe, waiting for you to sleep. I thought you had until you
opened your eyes, rolled onto your side, touched my face with both hands--"
Knightley mimicked the gesture, softly cupping her face with his hands, "and you did this."
As gentle as a whisper, he touched his mouth to hers. She'd been expecting fire in this kiss, but instead found a soft, slow burn that melted her heart. She leaned into him, completely enamored, and breathed deep.
The kiss ended as gently as it had begun, breaking apart naturally. Emma met his gaze.
"It was a good first kiss," she whispered.
He smiled in agreement. "It was a very good first kiss."
Once they'd said their goodbyes, she shut the door quietly behind him, already replaying the night in her mind. True and complete happiness didn't come
often, but while it lasted she was determined to hold on to it.
Chapter 9
Some of the dancers were disdainful of performing lighter fair. Elizabeth liked it. Sure, her intellect thrived on weightier pieces like Giselle or Romeo and Juliet or Swan Lake. But the children's ballets had their time and place. With an early curtain time and a family filled audiences, it gave her the opportunity to leap onto stage and just play.
The only drawback, she mused once the dancers took their last curtain call, was the costuming. An ungainly hoop skirt and a furry rabbit head made her look
like a living stuffed animal, which worked great on stage. What was not so
great, decided Lizzie as she yanked the costume head off and took a breath of fresh air, was the fact that it became an oven by the end of the night.
The General was waiting for her as she stepped into the wings and he was
holding, of all things, a black fan. Although the object was undeniably delicate, Igor Tilney's handling of it couldn't have been less so. He held out the object as if it were a sword to knight her with.
"Bring this to the rehearsal hall Monday morning." Igor Tilney his owlish eyes hinted at nothing more than a taskmaster's severity. Elizabeth felt her jaw drop as she took hold of the delicate little fan, black lace trimmed with rosebud red.
Kitri red, for Don Quixote. It was Kitri's fan, used in what was probably the most iconic routine in the whole ballet. Tilney had already started stalking away before she could get her bearings, though not before barking one last
order at her, "Don't be late!"
Don't be late. So he'd seen her sneak in five minutes past class's starting time earlier in the week and clearly, it wasn't only Fay Price and her turns and
footwork that he'd been attuned to. And she vowed to herself that she wouldn't be late.
The following Monday, she arrived a whole hour early just to practice barre
work and warm her muscles. Whatever he was expecting from their first
rehearsal together, she was going to exceed that expectation. Elizabeth had
always had a strong work ethic, but she also had her father's stubbornness and her mother's pride (the combined affect was usually Fanny Bennet digging in to get her way, and Tom Bennet very deliberately ignoring her. Elizabeth hoped
she put these traits to better use, but still the basic tenets came from them).
Come opening night she would earn whatever spot she got on the playbill, and if Igor Tilney himself thought it should be the headliner, she certainly didn't intend to prove him wrong.
"You're the company's new Kitri for Don Quixote, are you?" The rattling locker beside her made her look up.
It was Lucy Steele. Unlike rehearsal from a week ago, Lucy looked the
wounded bird no longer. Now that someone had officially been assigned what
was hitherto her role, she looked sleek and cold and as mad as she could get.
"And you, the one who never seemed to care much for the spotlight. Grabbed onto it pretty quickly when the chance came your way, didn't you? Don't think I didn't notice! That little pas de trois you danced last rehearsal? It was just too clever by half for a sweet little Irish corps girl to steal my role! No one thinks you can handle this performance. No one! "
