The kitchen was silent and brooding. No, the mood of the small room with the grease stained walls and the faint aroma of chilli powder was heavy and noiseless. The space itself was alive with a myriad of sounds; the hum of the fridge freezer, the tick, tick, tick, of the wall-clock, the occasional clicks and whirrings from the gas boiler as the timer kicked it into life. But the two people who occupied the kitchen were hushed and motionless.
The still that held Andrew prisoner was a product of resignation. He was lost in troubled thoughts with no idea what he could do. So he did nothing, save for listen to the clocks aural indications of the passing of time.
Cheryl’s immobility came about through fear. It was not Andrew that held her captive in terror, in fact it seemed far more likely that he should be scared of her than the other way around. She stood, seemingly propped up by the work-surface behind her, shoulders hunched and blonde hair hanging limp and lifeless around her porcelain-perfect face. She stared intently at the dainty silver slip-on shoes that adorned her size three feet, as though they might hold the answer to how she could break the uneasy silence. No answer came. Occasionally she would allow her gaze to flick upwards and to the left, to the chair where Andrew sat at the kitchen table. The movement of her eyes was barely perceptible from behind her hair, and Andrew appeared to not notice the guilt-ridden attention he was receiving. He just sat there, elbows taking advantage of the table’s supportive strength. Big gentle hands clasped tightly together, chin leant on his thumbs, with hot regular breaths dampening the knuckles of his fingers. His eyes rested on the clock; it had no second hand, just a continual tick. Every minute his line of vision would move fractionally with the hand that signalled the end of the previous sixty seconds.
The kitchen was no man’s land, caught in the centre of psychological warfare – it was as though whoever spoke first might feel the sharp sting of defeat. It was the calm, quiet eye in the heart of a wild and frightening storm. It was an unexploded bomb by which two people stood, each unable to decide which wire to cut, lest they bring the whole house down in a detonation of uncontrolled emotion.
Andrew was blind to what had caused this prickly tension, but knew if he said the wrong thing he might never find out. He had known Cheryl for just a few weeks, and in that time had taken her out to the cinema, to the pub, to expensive restaurants. She had met some of his friends who had nodded and winked with approval, and he had been introduced to a couple of hers, who had welcomed him like part of their family. Cheryl and Andrew had laughed together at good jokes and bad, they had talked into the night while waiting for taxis that would take them to their respective homes, and they had shared intense and passionate kisses. But tonight had been the first night that Andrew had ventured as far as inviting Cheryl into his home. She had never offered him the hospitality of an evening - or even an afternoon - at hers, and although she had said nothing, he had been aware of signals that gently suggested that she would be very wary of the implied intimacy of spending any time together unless it was on neutral public ground.
After nearly a month of dating though he had reasoned with himself that it was in no way unacceptable to offer Cheryl reception into his home. In fact he felt that he would appear rude if he kept avoiding allowing her into this important area of his life. He had been meticulous in his planning of the evening so as to get it just right. He had originally hoped to cook for her, but feared that Cheryl might run scared thinking he would expect something in return for his efforts. Instead he had settled for asking her to rent a video to bring over and watch. That way she was watching something she wanted to see and would feel at ease, and as she had paid for the evening’s entertainments there would be no unspoken suggestion that any return of any kind might be owed.
Cheryl had appeared at seven o’clock. She had floated into the house in a wispy skirt; layers of shimmering baby blue material fluttering seductively around her short but slender legs. She had removed an exquisite blue Pashmina and hung it across the banister in the hall, revealing underneath it a silky white top with tiny spaghetti straps. The outfit seemed to epitomize the delicate frame of the girl inside it, making her look all the more fragile and tantalising. He had kissed her softly on the cheek; although he had been bolder on previous occasions it seemed at that moment improper to taint the faerie princess that stood before him.
The evening had started so perfectly. They had gone on to watch Cheryl’s choice of film - one that Andrew had been meaning to rent for a while, yet another indicator of how much common ground the two shared. At the end of the movie they had sat and talked easily, starting with films but soon moving on to many other subjects too. Andrew marvelled at just how much he liked the girl before him. He felt that they were really connecting, and he yearned to take things a step further, but somehow he was too scared of frightening such a delicate creature away. He was completely bemused when Cheryl made a move on him that left little question as to where her intentions lay. One moment they were sitting on the sofa talking about a shared love of writing poetry, the next Cheryl had thrust her arms around Andrew’s neck and kissed him with intensity. Once he had recovered from the unexpectedness of her rather pleasant assault on his person, Andrew was more than happy to respond. They kissed fervently, and within a moment or two Cheryl was straddling Andrew, running her fingers roughly through his soft dark brown hair, then down his neck and back before pulling his shirt out from the security of his trousers, and slipping her hands underneath to explore his upper body in closer detail. She seemed almost possessed, and he could barely contain the excitement he felt. He mirrored her actions by running his fingertips down her back in response. He found the tiny buttons that fastened her flimsy garment and started to release them from the loops that held them in place. The spaghetti straps fell from her shoulders and she wriggled herself free from the top altogether, her semi-nakedness increasing the urgency of their mutual desire. Andrew kissed her neck, then moved down until his lips were just barely brushing her nipples. He could feel how much she wanted him from the way she pushed herself down onto his lap, moving in rhythm against him, their bodies separated by just a few layers of clothing. He moved his hands to her waist, and let his fingers glide across the smooth fabric of her skirt around her hips. To his delight it seemed she wasn’t wearing any underwear, a fact she readily confirmed when he asked her. Cheryl finally came to the conclusion of her teasing, and started to undo Andrew’s trousers, lifting her weight off him just enough to wriggle them down to his knees before setting herself back down to explore her new found treasure with her hands. Andrew leant back in the sofa, moaning softly as she touched him. His hands drifted from her waist down the outside of her legs as far as her knees, then slid under her skirt before they started to go back over their journey in reverse.
That was when everything had changed so dramatically. In a split second Cheryl transformed from fervent seductress to scared little girl. Eyes wide with fear, she stumbled off Andrew’s lap, grabbing her top and struggling to protect her dignity underneath it as the tiny buttons kept sneaking away from her desperate grasps. Still only half done-up, she abandoned the rest of the fixings and dashed into the hall to cover herself with her Pashmina. Andrew stood up bewildered at her sudden and seemingly unprovoked about-turn and hurriedly attempted to dress himself whilst following her into the hallway, convinced she was about to leave. Bizarrely she chose to walk into the kitchen instead, and once fully clothed again, Andrew went after her and stood in the doorway watching as she frantically opened and closed cupboard doors before finally finding a two-thirds empty bottle of Southern Comfort and a dusty whisky glass. She ran the glass under the tap, and Andrew could see her hands shaking. She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured a liberal quantity of the dark golden liquid, glass upon glass making an irregular clink as she trembled uncontrollably, before she drank all that she had decanted in one go.
“Cheryl, I’m sorry,” Andrew pleaded, although he was uncertain what exactly it was he was apologising for. She looked up at him, with shock registering in her blue-grey eyes as though she had been entirely oblivious to his presence until that point. She just stood there, staring, wild eyed and edgy, not saying a single word. She would not tear her gaze from his, and the force of her look unnerved him a little.
“Did I do something wrong?” Andrew persisted, and took a few steps towards the frightened young woman in his kitchen.
Still nothing. They were standing just a few scant inches apart, but none of their earlier pleasure was replicated in the return of their closeness. Andrew could almost feel the chill of Cheryl’s hostility towards him. He reached out and gingerly put a hand on her shoulder. She screamed, and her arms flailed violently as she thrashed herself away from his touch. Her Pashmina caught the glass on the worktop behind her and it fell to the floor, smashing into hundreds of twinkling shards. The noise of the breaking glass jolted her out of her terror, and she sank to the floor and scrabbled around picking up the remains of the broken item.
“Let me do that, you’ll cut yourself.” Andrew murmured gently as he bent down beside her. She whimpered softly and moved out of his way as he set about tidying the debris.
Once the last of the glass was removed, Andrew stood up and looked at Cheryl, concern shadowing his brown eyes.
“Coffee?” he asked.
