Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  ‘You’re a wily old dog, Tom Pearson.’ Pamela shook her head, and her hair tumbled round her shoulders. ‘I know now that I should listen to you more often.’

  Francesca had been easily placated with a few pages of her storybook and he had left them both in peace— Francesca sucking her thumb and Barbie looking as wide-eyed and bimbo-ish as always. Jamie eyed Barbie dispassionately. Her proportions would be humanly impossible. Scaled up, she would probably have a forty-eight double-D chest, a ten-inch waist, size-two feet and legs like a giraffe. Shopping at Wal-Mart would be hell for her.

  He could understand why Pamela objected to Barbie as a plaything. She said the doll encouraged girls to become anorexic. He thought she would probably have the opposite effect. Having seen what Barbie was like, and the fact that she could only pull a wimpish-looking bloke like Ken, he hoped Francesca would eat sensibly and have aspirations to become a brain surgeon. In future, he would try to support Pamela in her quest for more educational and challenging toys. Barbie was totally unrealistic.

  But then, who ever wanted to play with things that were realistic? Wasn’t that what play was all about—escapism? Perhaps that was why people had affairs—the adult version of play—when you reached an age at which escapism could no longer be achieved with wide-eyed, large-breasted dolls and Erector sets. When Lego gave way to a leg-over. Was it the only chance adults had to escape from reality? To lose yourself in another person who didn’t notice that you were going grey, had more flab than a sumo wrestler and needed to mainline vitamin C before you could tackle anything more energetic than mowing the lawn? To have someone think you were Tom Cruise when you actually felt ready to settle for nothing more strenuous than a Caribbean cruise was something that could quicken even the most stagnant heart. Had the fact that Teri obviously saw him as someone interesting and attractive made him forget for a short while that he was a boring, staid insurance executive with unfulfilled dreams, family responsibilities and an insanely high mortgage? To his wife, Jamie was nothing more than a meal ticket, a provider, financial security. That was reality. And reality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be these days.

  He had gone into the lounge—a tribute to interior design magazines—where MacTavish had greeted him with a welcoming wag. At least someone wanted to spend the evening with him. Jamie poured himself a whisky and sat on the sofa, staring into the embers of the fire burning in the inglenook fireplace that dominated the room, and wondered where it had all started to go wrong.

  He had never seen Pamela looking like that before—well, not for years. She had behaved like a schoolgirl out on her first date, and it worried him more than he cared to admit. When she took the time, she scrubbed up very nicely. And she certainly had taken the time tonight. She had looked absolutely beautiful for her date—correction ‘business meeting’—with Tom Pearson.

  Was that what was irking him, the fact that she never took the time for him, and yet had pulled out all the stops for another man? Was that what Pamela wanted now—a so-called ‘open’ marriage? Was she really having an affair with that smooth cockney slime-ball? Was Tom her ‘plaything’?

  The thought made Jamie shudder. He’d never trusted Pearson, not since she’d started working there. And anyway, the chap was a good twenty years older than Pamela. Okay, so he didn’t look it—but the age gap was there nevertheless. He had never been so blatant about Teri. Hadn’t he been the very soul of discretion? Then again, if Pamela was having an affair, would she be quite so transparent? She could be very devious if she put her mind to it. Perhaps it was just a purely innocent business meeting.

  Jamie tasted his whisky and contemplated the fact. Business meeting, my eye! he thought viciously. She had been so obvious, she might as well have said that she was going mountaineering in Holland. And to think he had been going to call a halt to his relationship with Teri.

  He had been on the verge of telling her today, but his courage had failed him at the last minute. How could he announce to her in a crowded commuter train or in the sweaty, smoke-laden atmosphere of Steamers that their beautiful friendship was destined for the dung heap before it had really started?

  By asking Clare to leave, she had cleared the way for them to become more intimate—and what had he done about it so far? Zilch. Was that what he was frightened of? One more step and he would be off the end of the cliff and tumbling through the air into the tempestuous sea of infidelity, without the benefit of a safety net. No more pretending that this wasn’t really an affair.

  How much longer could he hide behind the nice, safe, secure meetings which they currently indulged in? Travelling together on the train—how quaint—morning coffee at the End-of-the-Line Buffet and a quick drink at Steamers on the way home—no risk of being overcome by an urge to have sex on the table there. Especially not with all those beer stains.

  He’d been torn for months between his desire to remain loyal—and faithful—to his wife, and his desire to take Teri home, tear her clothes off and ravish her on the carpet. So far, Pamela had been winning.

  He had thought, naively, that she needed him, but he was labouring under a complete misapprehension there. Pamela needed no one. She sailed through life like a stately galleon, while all around were mere jet-bikes—tossed and flipped repeatedly into the sea by little waves and wholly inadequate to deal with the storms of life. Pamela remained unaffected, aloof, unsympathetic and totally upright. His wife could sail life’s charted course unaided. All she needed was a generous maintenance allowance.

  Jamie watched television until midnight—or, more accurately, alternated between the clock and the television from eleven o’clock onwards, when Pamela had said she would be home.

  He had watched Friends, Frasier, Seinfeld and the Sopranos, a wildlife programme about predatory animals—very appropriate—some awful chat show hosted by Barbie’s big sister that wheeled out equally vacuous celebrities intent on promoting their new film, highlights of a football match between two countries he’d never heard of—still rubbish, but better rubbish.

  He went to the phone table in the hall and took out the Yellow Pages. There was an appointment card from the salon Hair Cut by the phone that showed Pamela had also been to have her hair done today—she was really pushing the boat out. He hadn’t noticed, and that had probably gone as a black mark against him to be used in later skirmishes of Alphabite warfare.

  Jamie looked up the telephone number for the Thai restaurant, then he spent the next ten minutes vacillating about whether to phone or not. He didn’t want his wife to think that he was checking up on her—which he was. Nor that he was worried—which he also was. Pamela never stayed out late. In fact, she never went out in the evenings at all without him—except to school things, and that didn’t count.

  When he did finally and reluctantly ring, he was told courteously in a strong Oriental accent that Mr Pearson and his companion had left some time ago. Companion! Jamie put the phone down and looked at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen. They were normally in bed hours ago. It would require superhuman effort to get up in time for the 6.25 in the morning. Teri would be in bed too.

  His fingers ran hesitantly over the number pad of the phone. How could his loyalty to Pamela have been so misplaced? He had held himself back from his baser desires only to find that his wife was having a quick leg-over in a lay-by somewhere in Milton Keynes in the back of a top-of-the-range Mercedes. Well, they both knew where they stood from now on. At least he did. He would phone Teri, and to hell with the fact that her number would appear on the Itemised Call bill.

  ‘Hello.’ It was obvious from her voice that she had been fast asleep.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ It was a stupid thing to say. It was up there along with ‘Are you hurt?’ when you come across a car on its roof and the bleeding occupants are hanging upside down by their seat belts. Of course he’d woken her up.

  ‘No,’ she yawned. When you asked stupid questions, you invariably got stupid answers.

  ‘You’re a liar an
d I love you,’ he said thickly.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ She was wide awake now.

  ‘No, everything’s fine. I just wanted to know if you were doing anything tomorrow night?’

  ‘You phone me at—’ he heard her pulling the clock towards her ‘—twelve-fifteen just to ask me if I’m busy tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jamie answered lamely.

  ‘Of course not,’ she sighed. ‘You should know that by now.’

  ‘Can I spend the…evening with you?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ Her voice was puzzled. ‘Are you sure everything’s okay? You sound peculiar.’

  How can you explain to someone sleepy and separated by sixteen miles the quantum leap that his simple proposition held? He wasn’t going to attempt to try—he just hoped she would understand tomorrow.

  ‘Perfectly,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘And you sound sleepy. Go back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘All right.’ She was still unconvinced. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said hurriedly, but the line had already gone dead.

  As he put the receiver down, he heard Pamela’s key in the lock. She stumbled over the step and swung into the hall still firmly attached to the door and her key. The way she was giggling gave the impression that Jim Carrey had just told her his all-time favourite joke.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Jamie said. He could well walk away with Stupid Statement of the Year Award tonight.

  ‘I’m not!’ Pamela protested, and fell off her shoes. She was obviously a contender too.

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  She peered at her watch. ‘There’s something wrong with the face.’ She tried looking at it close up and far away. ‘I can’t see the hands. I hope they haven’t dropped off in my Thai green curry.’ The thought made her chuckle again.

  ‘It’s half-past twelve,’ Jamie said crossly.

  ‘Is it?’ She was genuinely astonished. ‘Doesn’t time fun when you’re having a fly?’

  ‘I’m going straight to bed and I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘I think you might have to help me,’ Pamela slurred. ‘I’m feeling a bit too relaxed to climb the stairs all by myself.’

  ‘Humph,’ Jamie said. ‘Any more relaxed and I’d be sending for Alcoholics Anonymous.’

  In response Pamela slithered down the wall and landed in a heap at his feet. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, woman!’ He put one hand under her bottom and the other under her shoulders and struggled her into his arms. ‘How much damned curry have you eaten tonight? You weigh a ton.’

  The fact that she was a dead weight and wasn’t co-operating one iota with being carried didn’t help matters much.

  It reminded Pamela of her honeymoon, being swept into Jamie’s arms—perhaps not so much swept as wrestled—but it was a long time since he had carried her over the threshold.

  They had taken a cottage in Yorkshire, just outside Hebden Bridge, in a cobbled and impossibly steep village that clung precariously to the side of a hill—the destination dictated by the paltry amount of money they had been left with after paying the deposit on their first house. The rain had fallen constantly for the whole fortnight, leaving the cobbles treacherous, which hardly mattered since they had rarely gone out.

  He really was a very handsome man—it was funny how you could sometimes forget that when you saw a person every day. She had stopped looking at how his hair curled neatly into the nape of his neck and the strong line of his throat as it disappeared beneath his shirt. He had wonderful eyes, too—although at the moment he seemed to have more than was entirely good for a person.

  It felt wonderful to be pressed against his chest again. He was warm—and getting warmer—and his body held the faint scent of citrus from his aftershave.

  Perhaps she would try harder to notice him again, to look at the things that she had adored about him, rather than focus on the things that constantly irritated her. She reached out and stroked his cheek.

  ‘Get off,’ he said as he panted up the stairs.

  ‘I can’t help it.’ Pamela was feeling decidedly emotional; she wanted to kiss him forever and ever. ‘I’m in love.’ Her voice cracked.

  Jamie’s voice sounded tight. ‘I don’t want to hear this, Pamela.’

  ‘But I am, I’m in love,’ she whined. ‘I can’t help how I feel.’ And she couldn’t. She was overwhelmed by her love for her husband. Perhaps Tom was right—a taste of the green-eyed monster had done her good, too. She didn’t want Jamie looking at—and certainly not touching—another woman, and she would have to take measures to ensure that he didn’t.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you kept your thoughts to yourself,’ Jamie wheezed. ‘I’ve nothing personal against Tom—other than a surging desire to push his teeth down his throat. But this is difficult enough without you regaling me with the gory details.’

  She agreed with Jamie. Tom was a nice enough man to work with, but the evening had only been bearable because of the copious amounts of white wine he had plied her with as part of the master plan. In fact, she had drunk more wine tonight than her usual annual quota. If there was one thing she hated—apart from soap operas—it was a drunk, and she had been starting to feel decidedly squiffy herself.

  It was good to get home to Jamie. She felt a rush of love tighten her throat and realised too late that it wasn’t so much a rush of love as a rush of her Thai green curry and two bottles of particularly good Sancerre making a desperate bid for freedom.

  They succeeded, and she was sick down the front of Jamie’s shirt. He deposited her in a most ungentlemanly fashion on the bed and disappeared into the en suite to get a facecloth. When he returned, he scrubbed Pamela’s face with an enthusiasm that he normally kept for the bumpers of the Volvo.

  ‘Get yourself undressed while I go and take a shower,’ he instructed before disappearing again.

  She lay on the bed trying to remember exactly how buttons came out of buttonholes. Tonight had been quite a success, all things considered. Jamie was in the shower, but he wasn’t singing deep and meaningless love songs, which had to be a good sign. Perhaps he would make love to her tonight. It was something they hadn’t done for a long time. She would try to stay awake long enough to show that she was willing.

  Sweeping her hair over the pillow, she tried to arrange herself as seductively as possible with a selection of limbs that ranged from completely numb to totally incapacitated. Pamela smiled contentedly to herself and gave up with her buttons. If only her head wasn’t spinning and there wasn’t a helicopter trying to land in the bedroom, everything would be perfectly all right.

  Chapter 15

  ‘She’s taken a lover,’ Jamie said starkly.

  Teri looked up from the cushion on his lap. ‘Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘I suppose it should, but somehow it doesn’t. What’s the quaint old saying about two wrongs not making a right?’

  ‘It’s a very old saying.’ It was unbelievable that he’d finally suggested spending the evening with her voluntarily. She should have realised that something momentous had happened. ‘Is that the only reason you’re here?’

  ‘Here’ was in her lounge, straight from work with no obligatory stop at Steamers, a quick take-away Chinese and now they were sprawled out on the sofa together in quiet companionship. She was vaguely aware that he still had one eye straying towards the clock.

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just that it puts a different face on things.’

  ‘You mean it’s given you permission?’ Teri said cynically.

  ‘I wish that weren’t true, but in some ways it has. I’ve been tying myself in knots over this.’

  ‘I don’t know why you worry so much,’ Teri said. ‘Everyone does it these days.’ She tried not to think of the pain ‘everyone doing it’ had caused Clare, and the fact that to manoeuvre herself into a position of ‘doing it,’ she had kicked her best friend out when she most needed her.

  ‘You make it
sound like the latest appliance,’ Jamie said bleakly. ‘Ranking up there alongside dishwashers, microwaves and mobile phones as the latest must-have.’

  ‘Lifelong marriage happens to be a very outmoded institution.’

  ‘So is the BBC, but that keeps struggling along.’ He shifted position on the sofa. ‘Besides, don’t knock it until you try it. There’s a lot that’s good about marriage.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here?’ Teri raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Just because I can mentally analyse the situation, it doesn’t mean that I can make my heart or my body fall in line with it. I don’t want to be here, just like I don’t want to take a double bogey on the eighteenth hole at the golf club, but there’s a certain inevitability about it and precious little I can do to control it.’

  They stared at each other in silence. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ Jamie said.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Teri replied.

  He swept her into his arms and tried to push away the image of Pamela in the same position last night, hoping vehemently that Teri wouldn’t be sick on him. That would take some explaining away when he was supposed to be stuck in a minor derailment just outside Watford Junction.

  It was hard work making these dramatic gestures, he thought as he carried Teri up the stairs. She was lighter than Pamela, but he was definitely getting less fit as he got older. All this was very bad for his heart.

  He kicked open the bedroom door. Clint Eastwood had done it once in a film, and it had always struck Jamie as terribly impressive. He hoped that Teri would appreciate it and that she hadn’t seen the film and wouldn’t realise that it wasn’t a totally original display. Why was he so nervous about making love to her? Was it because it was a long time since he had been to bed with anyone other than Pamela? Surely, there was nothing to worry about there. It must be like riding a bike; he hadn’t been on one for years, but he wouldn’t turn down out of hand a cycling holiday.

  Perhaps there was a new trend that he wasn’t up with—a bit like putting black pepper or balsamic vinegar on strawberries, rather than sugar. He wished that he’d paid closer attention to Pamela’s copies of Cosmopolitan—which always had such shocking headlines they had to be hidden from the children. There must be a few tips in there. He would have to have a search through the wardrobe to see where she kept the back copies. She swore that she only read it for the recipes. It could well be true, for nothing too inventive had percolated into their lovemaking. But then, there had been precious little evidence of it in the kitchen either.