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Riding in the chauffeured car home, Anthea permitted herself to ease off her pumps and lay her head against the seat back. Deciding against a text, she massaged her forehead while waiting for the call to ring through.
“Donovan.”
“It’s me." Anthea felt the smile rise out of her like a balloon, released to the air. "It worked. They have plans together this weekend." She laughed, suddenly free to express her delight. "Sally, it worked!"
The brisk tone mellowed a little, dropping into friendly territory, “Really? Bloody hell, I can’t believe that moody sod finally did something about his crush!”
Anthea laughed. Sally could have been talking about either man, honestly. The amount of pining they’d generated would have populated a small forest.
The background noise changed as Sally moved through the bullpen, towards relative privacy. “I’m happy to hear it but...how are you? Feeling okay?”
“Bearable,” Anthea sighed. “Thanks for this cold, by the by.” She let a touch of sass enter her tone.
Sally laughed a little, not unkindly. “Told you I’d get you sick, angel,” she chided.
Anthea’s eyes slid closed at the unaccustomed nickname. Lord help her, but she was weak for this woman. Their relationship was a new one, still staggering along eagerly on coltish legs, and she was afraid to disturb its fragility with questions, but there were subjects they needed to discuss if this was to go any further. “It was worth it.”
The quiet on Sally’s end indicated that she’d found privacy. Anthea pictured her in a stairwell, leaning against the wall, hip cocked, a confident smile on her lips. Anthea adored Sally Donovan’s brash exterior, her tender heart, her willingness to meet for a friendly drink and nudge their respective bosses toward a romance. Their professional association had quickly warmed into a true friendship over the last several years, and with their efforts on behalf of their respective bosses, their gentle dance around flirtation had kindled into more.
“‘m glad you think so,” Sally murmured. Her voice was low, intimate, and it stirred an answering warmth in Anthea’s heart, but that was as far as the fire went. She sighed soundlessly; this was one of those things they needed to discuss. Her heart versus Sally’s...what? That was just it, what Sally wanted and expected needed to be addressed before they allowed their nascent relationship to go any further.
Shaking off approaching melancholy, Anthea attended to the conversation. “...that’s why I should come look after you. Only fair, you took good care of me when I was ill.”
She smiled, swept again by tenderness. Sally was easy to care for, despite her prickles. “I’d like that. Call me when you get out of work?”
“I will,” Sally’s tone was eager.
“We should talk,” Anthea said, the words slipping out before she could better think them through.
Unease entered Sally’s tone, “Thea, you don’t...do you not want to keep on seeing me?”
Anthea fiercely hated everyone who had ever left Sally Donovan in doubt of how wonderful she was. “On the contrary. But, well, the things we need to discuss I’d rather do in private.” She injected some lightness into her voice, “I promise you it’s not that I no longer want to see you.”
“Good,” Sally said, soft. “I don’t care what it is, so long as you’re not done with me.”
“Not by a long shot,” Anthea swore, smiling. She felt the car slowing, glanced out the window, “I’m almost home. I’m going to have a bath and a nap. Call me?”
“In a few hours,” Sally promised. “Take care, angel.”
Hanging up, Anthea gathered her things and exited the Jaguar, thanking Jones. Despite her scratchy throat and aching head, despite her worry over the impending discussion with Sally, she felt good, hopeful. Clinging to that optimism, she entered the quiet sanctuary of her flat with deep gratitude. Sighing in gratitude, Anthea hung her umbrella and rain-spotted trench coat in the shallow entry closet, tucking her purse on the shelf above. Removing her heels, she carried them through the flat with her laptop, headed for the concealed safe in her wardrobe.
Locking her laptop and Blackberry safely away, she wiped her shoes down, rubbed them with leather soap, and set them in place on the shoe tree with her other five pairs. After disrobing, she put her button-down shirt in the dry cleaning hamper, and hanging her blazer and skirt up, she slipped her thick toweling robe on over her bra and knickers.
Anthea was a minimalist in many respects, choosing quality over quantity in her clothing and furnishings. In the interests of keeping herself sane, she curated her access to the outside world carefully. Anthea didn’t own a television, she didn’t have a radio. Her built in bookcases were meticulously arranged with her beloved collection of books, which ranged from childhood favourites, to paperback bestsellers, to leather-bound classics. Old family photos shared space on the walls with framed prints and one or two pieces of original art.
Anthea plugged her mobile in to charge, and turned on the record player, selecting a vinyl record with care. Today was a day for the lightness of The Mikado. Adjusting the volume just so, she retreated to the small en suite, turned on the shower to let the water grow hot enough, and brushed her teeth and removed her cosmetics. Staring into her own solemn eyes, Anthea consciously took several deep breaths and let them out, mindful of her breathing, seeking to release her tension. Come what may during the conversation with Sally, she would be alright.
“I’d damn well better be after all the therapy I’ve had,” she muttered with grim humour, putting her undies into the laundry hamper and stepping into the shower stall. Needles of hot water pounded down on her shoulders and Anthea groaned happily, rolling her head on her neck. Thoroughly scrubbing herself in a cloud of rosemary and eucalyptus scented steam, she took her time to orient herself into a happy headspace. The weekend stretched pleasantly ahead of her, a sunny plain to wander through.
Smiling at her own fancy, Anthea dried off and applied lotion with care. She was a sensualist, taking pleasure in fine fabrics, quality products, and pampering self-care. Dressed in buttery soft cashmere and silk, a pair of the fuzzy slipper socks she’d received for Christmas from her nan on her feet, Anthea prepared a pot of chamomile, choosing with care which lamps to light, as the tea steeped.
Ensconced on her tufted velvet sofa, under a chenille blanket, Anthea sipped her tea and let her thoughts wander. Her home was very dear to her, a place she felt most comfortable and at peace. At work she very much had a persona she had crafted with care, and shedding it while out in public was something she tended to do in layers. Over the weeks and months of her growing closeness with Sally Donovan, Anthea had begun peeling back those layers, at first hesitant, then with growing confidence. Today was the first day Sally would see her as she was, however, and in her home.
Tea and music wound her down from the tension of work, and Anthea turned off her turntable, lit a lavender candle and picked up her much-thumbed copy of Sense and Sensibility. Actually it was one of several copies. Mycroft had given her a very handsome leather-bound early edition for her five year anniversary. She had collected several paperback copies, including the one in her hands. It was the one she read the most often, as repeated readings tended to wear down the book.
Deep in the woes of the Dashwood sisters, Anthea at first neglected to hear the discreet ring of her doorbell. Called away from Elinor’s gentle rebuking of Marianne, Anthea tucked a bookmark safely between the pages, and draped her throw over the sofa back. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Sally answered, voice clear through the excellent speaker. On the screen, Sally’s face was visible with crystal clear detail. The security features of the building had been one of the most attractive aspects of the property, along with the proximity to work.
“Come on up,” Anthea greeted, pressing the button to release the bolt and open the door. She locked it again remotely after Sally was through, and unlocked her front door as well, watching the other woman mount the stairs, arms full of carrier bags. “Goodness, is it Christmas?”
Grinning abashedly, Sally wiped her feet on the mat, stepping through the door to peck her cheek. “Might have gotten carried away!” She held up the bags, “Where’s the kitchen, I have ice cream.”
“I adore you,” Anthea breathed, and watched in fascination as Sally blushed. She wanted to cup Sally’s angular cheek in her palm, rub her thumb over the silken heat of her skin. Controlling her urge, Anthea led the way to the kitchen, aware that Sally was looking around with interest, cataloguing things in her thorough way. “Shall I put the kettle on? I have camomile, Irish breakfast, Earl Grey and a nice rooibos.”
“I’d love a cuppa,” Sally agreed, setting her bags on the floor. She began pulling items out, including two containers of ice cream. “Strawberry cheesecake,” she smiled, brandishing one, “and salted caramel mocha gelato.”
“Sally Donovan, you star,” Anthea sighed, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“You deserve it, sweetness,” Sally smiled, softening the sharp lines of her face. Stopping, she stepped close to Anthea and nuzzled her temple, one hand warm and soft on her back, “You feeling alright? You look a little flushed.”
Savouring the touch of Sally’s hand on her, the weight of it, Anthea hoped Sally’s lips would linger for just a moment more. “I’m a bit sleepy, little warm.”
“Why don’t you go sit down? I’ve picked up the makings of lemonade--my mum’s recipe, never fails--here’s some water in the meantime. You need to stay hydrated.”
Obediently, Anthea shuffled back to the sofa, rewrapped herself in the throw, and craned her neck to watch Sally put away groceries, directing her to where to find things. Sally shooed her to go back to her book while she prepared the lemonade, and Anthea sleepily agreed. She didn’t even realize she was falling asleep until the light clink of the glass being placed on a coaster woke her. “Hmm?”
“Sorry,” Sally was soft-voiced as she perched on the edge of the sofa. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s okay,” Anthea assured her muzzily, reaching for the lemonade. “I--oh. Oh my, Sally, this is good.”
Smirking, the other woman winked at her, “Never fails, told ya.”
“My compliments to your mother.” She sipped again, relishing the cool, refreshing beverage.
“How long’s it been since you took a pill?” Sally asked, touching the back of her hand to Anthea’s forehead. Her brow pleated, “Feel kinda warm.”
“When I got home. So...four hours ago?”
“I’ll fetch you another. Drink that.” Sally returned and handed her the tablets, watching as she washed them down. “Have you eaten?”
It took effort to think about it. “Breakfast.”
“I’ll make you a meal. What do you fancy?”
“Anything.” Anthea felt her eyelids drooping, tiredness stealing over her. “I’m not fussy.”
“I’ll scramble you some eggs, shall I? I’m putting together a soup for later, but let’s get something in you now.”
“Thank you,” Anthea replied noncommittally.
Sally arched a thin brow, “What?”
“What?”
“Don’t like eggs?”
“Erm...not scrambled,” Anthea admitted, flushing.
Sally’s smile looked like she was biting down on it, fighting a grin. “Oh?” She asked lightly, rubbing Anthea’s shin comfortingly, “And just what kind of eggs does her highness care for?”
“Coddled,” Anthea muttered. “But really, you don’t have to go to any bother--”
“‘s not a bother,” Sally soothed, standing, “I wanna take care of you. Coddling an egg’s no trouble. Want some lavishly buttered toast as well?”
“If one isn’t going to lavishly butter it, why bother?”
“Woman after my own heart,” Sally winked, face tender.
For all her sleepiness, Anthea couldn’t stop watching her move around her kitchen, looking at home, surprisingly domestic despite her no-nonsense trouser suit and low-heeled brogues. The fondness she felt for Sally was rapidly deepening into something more, an emotion that threatened to run swift and deep, pulling them both under.
The eggs were perfect, as was the toast. Belly comfortably full, Anthea stretched out, feet in Sally’s lap, and dozed while Sally quietly played with her mobile. It was peaceful, having someone else in her space, comforting in a way she hadn’t quite anticipated. Lulled by the delicate brush of Sally’s thumb over her ankle-bone, Anthea slid into a dreamless sleep, not rousing for nearly an hour. Sally murmured at her, sliding Anthea’s feet gently off of her lap, as she stood, and Anthea drifted back off.
Waking some time later, feeling overly warm but mostly clear-headed, Anthea stepped away to the loo to refresh herself, then at Sally’s bidding she took a seat at the tiny café table by the window. Soup, fragrant with herbs, steamed gently in her Wedgewood bowls, and there was freshly baked bread--from frozen, Sally was quick to point out--to accompany it. They chatted quietly over their meal, mostly about their respective bosses and the overdue breaking of the pining-in-silence pattern they’d been held in for far too long.
“Seems like a good time for change,” Sally observed, overly casual. Anthea’s eyes flew to hers, and she found Sally looking back at her, outwardly calm, but with a hint of emotional turmoil below the surface. “Felt for a while now that you wanted to talk to me. I’d wait til you were feeling better, but this is probably the most private we’re gonna get.”
Pushing her bowl away, Anthea folded her hands on the table, willing them not to shake. “You’re very perceptive, Sally,” she complimented. “I do have something I need to bring up. I’ve hesitated, both because I didn’t want to be presumptuous about our relationship, as because I. Well, I’m feeling a bit cowardly.”
“You? You’re the most fearless person I know,” Sally objected. She put her bowl aside too, mirrored Anthea’s stance, her angular face serious. Sally Donovan was something finer than ‘pretty,’ something deeper than ‘attractive.’ Anthea could spend hours looking at her face, tracing the shape of her curls, the lift of her eyebrow, studying the exact shade of her eyes. “If you’re worried about where we stand...well, I’ve not been with a woman since sixth form. But it’s not, how’d you say, unprecedented. Which I think you know about me. So, angel, what’s on your mind?”
Wetting her lips, Anthea gathered her composure and then said plainly, “My feelings for you have long exceeded admiration, and I could easily find myself falling in love with you. But I need to tell you first,” she said, hurrying a little to get the words out even as Sally’s eyes widened and her lips parted, “I need to tell you first that I’m asexual.”
Her heart went into freefall.
There had been very few people she had come out to, since therapy had unlocked the words for what she was. Anthea had recognized the rightness of the label, felt a sort of comfort at finally having a name for what and who she was. But the people she had told had numbered very little. Her therapist. Her sister. Mycroft. Her closest friend from uni. The woman she’d been dating at the time, who couldn’t find an excuse to call it quits fast enough. Two women she’d subsequently dated.
One had been kind, but ultimately unwilling to forgo a sex life. The other...had not been kind.
Anthea had a fair amount of confidence, and faith, that Sally would be kind, perhaps even receptive, but nerves quaked her stomach unpleasantly. It was appalling, how naked and vulnerable she felt, every time she spoke the words. But equally there was a certain power and freedom in them as well. Perhaps one day she could say I’m asexual without her stomach dropping and her palms prickling damply.
Eternity yawned before her, a soundless void of anxiety, but Sally, after a moment of surprised silence, leaned across the table, hand out, “Is it alright if I hold your hand, angel?”
Nodding, Anthea reached for her, and felt the inexpressible reassurance of Sally’s warm, slightly rough palm clasp hers. Winding their fingers together, Sally regarded her for a moment. “Knew something was up. I can tell when you’ve been overthinking things.” She reached out, pressed a fingertip to the spot between Anthea’s brows, where she could feel a frown forming. “You get a little wrinkle just here, did you know?”
“My dad used to rub his thumb there,” Anthea confessed, swept by the old memory, “Called me his little worry stone.”
Sally’s mouth kinked up at one corner, her eyes crinkled as she smiled at Anthea with evident fondness. Her expression sobered, “You been worried about telling me?”
Clearing her throat, Anthea sought and abandoned words. Nothing quite touched on her feelings. Finally she simply nodded.
“Afraid I was going to bolt?”
“Perhaps.” Anthea hated how small her voice sounded. “The information has historically not been well received.”
“Bastards,” Sally said forcefully. She squeezed Anthea’s hand. “Is it alright if we move this to the sofa? I feel like we’re pistols drawn at twenty paces, here.” She smiled with relief at Anthea’s soft laugh.
Soon they were ensconced on the sofa, side by side. Sally put a little respectful space between them, but didn’t sit far away. She held out her hand again and Anthea took it. “Look,” Sally began, then faltered to a stop, and Anthea’s stomach dropped. “I’m shit at talking about relationships and boundaries and feelings, always have been.” She looked at Anthea, eyes naked. “But for you I want to try. Because you matter, angel.”
Anthea’s next breath was shaky, damp. It took more than a moment for her to collect herself. Finally she spoke, voice thick with emotion, “Damn it, Donovan.”
“Too soppy?”
“Entirely,” Anthea sniffed, and gratefully took the tissue Sally held out. She dabbed her nose, blinking away dampness. “So...what does this mean?”
Sally shifted a little closer, held her arm up invitingly, and when Anthea folded herself against her, gave her a snuggle. “I think it means we talk. We say what we both want and need. What our limits are.” She cleared her throat, “I know some people’s idea of intimacy is different...is this okay? Me holding you? Kissing, like we have been?”
Anthea closed her eyes, “Of course it is. I’ve loved kissing you.” She flushed, and it was from more than the fever. “Everything we’ve done has been...lovely.” Which was an inadequate descriptor.
“Good,” Sally murmured, tipping her head over to lay her cheek against Anthea’s head. Her thumb smoothed up and down Anthea’s arm, settling into the same rhythm as their breathing. The flat was quiet around them, a serene stillness Anthea hadn’t dared to hope for even a few hours before. “For the record, angel, it’s been lovely from my end, too.”
Unwilling though she was to break the peace, Anthea couldn’t help but open her mouth. “And if it was never anything more than this? Would it still be lovely?”
Sally did her the courtesy of not leaping to reassure. The silence was weighty with consideration. Finally she spoke, voice thoughtful. “Maybe we’d need to talk about what would make us both comfortable, what we really expect...I won’t say I wouldn’t miss it sometimes. Sex. But...I’ve gone without before.” She shifted, turning so she could meet Anthea’s eyes, “And that was when I didn’t have you.”
“Oh bugger,” Anthea wept.
Laughing indulgently, Sally tugged her close again and encouraged her to curl against her chest. Voice rumbling delicately under Anthea’s ear, she hushed her, “Listen, time enough for all that when you’re feeling up to it, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sally stroked her hair. “Let’s get you better, then we can take on the world, alright, love?”
They would, too.
Two years later...
“Angel?” Sally called, unlocking their front door. “You home yet?” There was no answer, and she smiled gleefully. It was Anthea’s birthday in a little over a week, and the only way she could surprise her was to do it unexpectedly and a bit before the day. Putting her things down, Sally made sure to remove her shoes on the mat, give them a wipe, and put them away tidily in the closet. In the bad old days, pre-Anthea, she would have nudged them off with her toes and left them in a tumble by the door.
That was how things fell in her life now. Pre-Anthea and After-Anthea. Like a fault line over which she’d climbed in triumph, finding herself safely on the other side. Being in a relationship hadn’t automatically made everything in her life better, it was still work. The effort was absolutely, one hundred percent worth it--Anthea was, and always would be, worth that and so much more. Finding ways to accommodate one another had been a learning process for both of them, but one full of as much joy and laughter as it had been misunderstandings and setbacks.
Marriage, her mum had told her, wasn’t supposed to be hard work. But you should work hard at it. “I suppose the same goes for whatever you have going on,” she’d commented tartly, less disparagement over her daughter dating a woman, and more the fact that she wasn’t married “still”. Anthea had laboured hard to make a good impression on the Donovan clan, which was no mean feat. Sally knew most people found her abrasive, but those people had never met her mum.
Life with Anthea had softened some of Sally’s rougher edges, at least in private. At work, the only signs she was in any way different were the framed photos on her desk, the bento boxes of attractively arranged food she brought for lunch, the flower deliveries on her birthday and their anniversary. Greg claimed she smiled more now, but he was a giant softie in love with his own perfectionist, so he might be just experiencing sympathy emotions.
In private, however. Ah. Sally was a much improved version of her former self. Sally smiled puckishly. At home she was a far tidier creature than was her natural inclination. She gave into all of her softest impulses, always finding little ways to show Anthea just how happy she was. And she was happy, so, so happy. Today it was her turn to do something indulgent for her beautiful, spectacular, amazing girlfriend, and she’d been plotting it in utmost secrecy for weeks. She’d even enlisted Greg and Mycroft Holmes to help.
First things first; arrange the professionally gift-wrapped packages on the café table, put the rare lady slipper orchid, in its sleek, glazed pot, on the table next to them. Next, light the oil burner, which was ready with Anthea’s favourite scent. Tucking two bottles of “exquisite” Champagne--thank you Mr Holmes--in the refrigerator, Sally set out the French cheeses to soften, and proceeded to the bedroom. A thorough shower was in order--which she had just dried off from when she heard Anthea calling for her from the front door.
“In here, angel.” Wrapping herself in the plush plum coloured toweling robe which had been one of her Christmas gifts their first year together, Sally blotted her hair gently. She emerged from the loo, smiling. “Hello.”
Anthea gave her a suspicious smile, “Do I detect birthday preparations?”
“Can’t imagine who they’d be for,” Sally said breezily, “No one around here with a birthday for weeks.”
“Rascal,” Anthea laughed, capturing her face in her hands. She brushed her nose over Sally’s, “You’re not supposed to make a fuss, remember?”
“Like makin’ a fuss over you,” Sally murmured, and they lost themselves in trading soft kisses. She gave Anthea’s waist a squeeze. “We’ve plans for the rest of the day, why don’t I run you a bubble bath and I’ll pour us both some Champagne?”
“Sounds divine,” Anthea smiled, “But first may I help with your hair?”
“Tonight’s all about you.”
“But I love doing it,” Anthea said sincerely; Sally Donovan, hard-nosed Yorkshire woman and cynical Detective Sergeant, melted.
“I’d love your help,” she said, leaning in to kiss Anthea’s soft mouth. She hummed against her lips, “How was your Thursday, love?”
“Fair to middling,” Anthea responded, sitting on the bed and scooting back so Sally could perch between her legs. She warmed coconut oil between her palms, and eased her fingers into Sally’s hair, coaxing and twisting the curls. Letting out a breath, Sally’s eyes closed as she relaxed into her lover’s touch. “Much better now that I’m home.” She nuzzled the loose shoulder of Sally’s robe aside, placed a kiss on her shoulder. “Might I be so cheeky as to ask what you have planned?”
Sally let her fingers skate over the silk of Anthea’s stockings, smiling at the little shiver which resulted. “Mmhm, you may be cheeky. First you’re going to have a bath while you sip Champagne--”
“Will you be joining me?” Anthea interrupted, the slight tug of her fingers on Sally’s hair making her toes curl in pleasure, “Come sit with me, I mean?”
“I c’n be persuaded.”
“Excellent.”
“Then you’re going to enjoy a massage from me, after which we’re gonna get dressed to the nines--I was thinking you could wear that pink number from Greg and Mycroft’s engagement party--then a car is arriving to whisk us off to Les Réjouissances. I’ve got a special room booked, private, snug and cozy.” After that they were spending a long weekend at a “simply heavenly” old hotel in the Cotswolds. Those were Greg’s words, something she never thought she’d hear him say. She couldn’t wait to fuss over Anthea, hold her hand while they strolled through nature, snuggle with her in a lavish hotel bed, feed her bites of food from the room service tray...
Anthea wiped her hands on Sally’s towel, cupped her jaw and coaxed her to turn her head. She met Sally’s eyes, inexpressibly loving, “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
Sally swallowed back the burr of love lodged in her throat, settling it back in her chest where it belonged, “Not for at least six hours.”
“Inexcusable,” Anthea breathed, going up onto her knees to face Sally properly. Her slim suit skirt was hiked up her legs, her hair slightly mussed, her smile huge. No one at Whitehall would believe this was ‘the Ice Man’s Ice Queen.’ Only Sally was lucky enough to see her like this. Anthea cradled her face tenderly in her palms, smiling into Sally’s eyes. “I love you, Sally. I adore you, my treasure.”
Sally was not teary eyed. She wasn’t. Sniffing a little--allergies, nothing more--she slipped her arms around Anthea in a hug, “I love you too. Happy birthday, angel.”