Friday, 28 April 1978 – Cece and Robbie: The Collision
Robbie didn’t expect much. The invitation had come in Cece’s careful cursive, passed via Momo, who added, “I’ll be there too.” He’d assumed it was tea and goodbyes—a pat on the head from her mother, some polite conversation, and then back to reality.
He wore the green paisley shirt from Marcus Price. Not too formal, not too casual. Washed his hair. Twice. Pocketed a pencil. Just in case.
Cece had spent the morning in rehearsal. Not for ballet. For this. She went to Stienways for her hair.
When she got home she instructed her mother to stay in the kitchen.
“Try the new peach chutney with Mrs. Mackesy, Mum. She likes a long chat.”
She sent her father to the golf club early.
“You know the traffic near Benton on Fridays.”
She asked Momo to come over, and then to disappear.
“Just take Morag to the Town Moor. Loop a few times. Back gate key’s under the pot.”
The snug was prepared: soft light, stereo humming with Gainsbourg, windows ajar just enough to let the lemon oil linger. She placed a folded tartan blanket on the floor, then changed her mind and took it away.
Better without it. Cleaner lines. Less intention.
She wore a close-fitting, pale blue cashmere jumper and jeans. Her feet were bare. A narrow gold bracelet. Light Bergamot on her wrists. Hair in a soft knot.
She stretched once, long legs up the fireplace. Doing demi-pliés and grand pliés in first, second, and fourth positions. To give her confidence, more than anything else. She was used to warming up for everything, so why not this? Whatever this may be.
When Robbie arrived, Momo answered the door.
“She’s in the snug,” she said, handing him a biscuit on a paper napkin. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
He looked confused.
“I’ll be with Morag,” Momo added, already halfway down the corridor and heading for the back door with a one year old Labrador on a lead.
Robbie stepped through the sitting room into the snug beyond.
Cece didn’t turn when he entered, she just said, “Shoes off,” without looking. He obeyed.
She was kneeling on the carpet, legs tucked under like a dancer in rehearsal, pausing. The light framed her in sepia. Her feet were bare. He liked that. She had no intention of going out.
He knelt opposite, mirroring her.
“”On se fait la bise ?” Cece whispered.
They kissed their greetings.
After that it was like a kid’s staring contest; who would blink first? It wasn’t that. This was art. It was a mood. It was a connection. It was seeing each other deeply and it warmed the soul. When has Robbie ever done this with a girl? Where did she get this idea from? Not from The Hite Report, that was certain!
What followed felt inevitable—but nothing had prepared either of them for the depth, the stillness, the tidal rhythm of what they began together. Kisses, yes. The gentlest, softest, kindest kind. Not teens swallowing each other. Always on the lips. Nibbles. Breathing each other in. Then, their tongue tips touched politely, and they liked that enough to reach out with their hands and draw each other a little closer.
The entire Easter break had led up to this, Robbie thought. Everything else had been practised. This was the real thing. Love over lust. Or a bit of both.
Body to body, clothed and cautious.
It built gradually, like steam. Gentle, rhythmic. A dance with no steps, only instinct. Cece leaned into him until they tipped sideways, bodies aligned, half-spooned on the warm carpet while the dog sighed and shifted its weight nearby.
Robbie kept one hand on the small of her back. The other rested near her hip. She didn’t move them away.
There was no music, but their bodies found a tempo of their own. Still, slow, deliberate. Pressure and pause. Kissing that opened and retreated, then returned—a tide.
Then Cece shifted her pelvis forward, just slightly. He did too. Neither of them meant to do it. Or maybe they did. The movement created friction—something unconscious, ancient.
She pressed again. Then again.
And then she stilled.
Her breath caught.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Robbie did.
Everything about her changed—her shoulders tensed, her eyes flickered shut, her fingers dug lightly into the carpet.
Then came a sound. Small. Shallow. A gasp—shocked, involuntary, almost frightened.
Cece jerked back, sitting upright with a speed that startled the Labrador, who looked up and blinked.
She clutched her jumper as if it might cover something that had just been revealed.
“I didn’t…” she began, then stopped. Looked at him. Looked away.
Robbie propped himself on one elbow, mouth still parted.
“I didn’t expect—” Cece tried again. “That.”
He nodded. He didn’t say it was fine. Or cool. Or sexy. He didn’t say anything.
That was the kindest thing.
“I feel like…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Like my body did something behind my back.”
Still, no jokes. No reaching for her. He just sat there, attentive and soft-eyed.
“I hated how fast it happened,” she whispered.
“I didn’t move,” he said quietly. “Not really.”
“I know.” She drew in a shaky breath. “That made it okay.”
Another pause.
“We didn’t mean for anything to happen,” she said.
“But something did,” he replied.
She turned her face away, hair falling across one cheek. She reached to stroke the dog’s ear as if it might ground her.
Outside, a door slammed.
Cece stood, smoothing her jumper, tucking herself back into composure.
“You can let yourself out in a second. I’ll make noise in the hallway, so it looks like we’ve just come in from walking the dog.”
Robbie rose. Straightened his shirt.
She eased herself from the floor silently, steadily. Like a panther leaving its den. A dancer rising from the stage. She let Momo in like she was calling in the cat.
She then stood at the doorway of the snug, one hand grazing the carved lintel.
Robbie could still feel her breath on his cheek. Still smell the lemon oil, the carpet, her.
And there she was.
Neither moved.
She caught his attention.
“You don’t write about this. Not in your diary. Not even for yourself.”
Robbie wanted to say something brave, something that showed he understood. But all he could manage was:
“I won’t” knowing that he was lying.
She hesitated.
Then she said, more gently, “It was lovely.”
And she was gone to catch up with Momo and Morag.
Robbie stood in the snug for a long time, the scent of her still on his shirt, the carpet holding the shape of them both.
He would ask her to let him draw her again. Properly. If she let him.
But not yet.
That moment—that soft detonation—belonged to now.
And it changed everything.
Momo snuck past with the dog, keen not to break the moment. Cece was busy pretending she’d just pulled off welly-boots.
Then, the smallest smile from them both.
Not a grin. Not a blush. Just a knowing curl at the edge of both mouths—like they’d shared a secret without saying it out loud. A Mona Lisa smirk.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
They had found each other.
They thought it was enough.
Robbie understood how precious it was, how delicate, how finely balanced. In the background, somewhere, he knew he may have already blown it.
In his diary that night, her filled three years of his Five Year diary with lines. He wrote about his playfight with Cece that turned into something else, how they expressed their feelings for each other. It also confessed how much he wanted to put the other girls behind him. He wrote how he and Cece had kissed, on the floor. How lovely it began and a last note saying how important she had become to him.
I use buymeacoffee.com/genibot to generate AI images. I’ve create a collection of fictional models to carry the story of each character in my stories.
Leave a Reply