She needs to clear her head, to think.
A few minutes later, Will comes down the stairs and pads into the living room on socked feet. He is much taller than her son, and the jogging bottoms are a little short, but they will do. His hair is wet but he looks much better, so much more relaxed. ‘I was going to offer to make you a cuppa,’ he says.
‘That’s kind. I’m okay, though. You want to make one for yourself?’
He goes through to the kitchen and comes back with a mug of tea and his guitar, sits cross-legged on the sofa with the guitar on his knee.
The memories of it, what happened, surge up inside her, sour like vinegar. She thinks he doesn’t remember; he cannot, surely, because if he did it would all be too much to bear; and then he starts to play ‘Killing Me Softly’ and she realises he does.
Aiden
At five past ten there is a knock at the door; Sarah is there, the wind tugging at her hair and the cardigan she’s wearing.
‘I’m sorry it’s late,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry. Is everything all right? Have you got a visitor?’
You saw him crossing the yard, or, rather, loitering for a while in the barn as if he was trying to pluck up the courage to knock on the door. You watched him for a while, recognising him as the young man who’d been talking to Sophie in the pub. Finally he skirted the yard, keeping close to the wall of the workshop, and knocked on the front door of the house.
‘It’s only Will. He’s kind of homeless. I think he’s supposed to be house-sitting for someone in the village, but they’ve not left for their holiday yet. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.’
You pour her a glass of wine without asking if she wants one – it feels too late for tea – and she takes it. She follows you to the living area, sits down with you.
‘If you’re worried about him being in the house with you, you can send him over here; he can always sleep on the sofa.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘I think he’s been sleeping rough for a few days. It’s only because it’s been raining that he came here. His clothes were all damp.’
‘You can stay here, if you like,’ you say. ‘I’ll have the sofa. Or I’ll go and sleep in the house.’
‘It’s not that,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s not that I mind. He’s stayed over before, lots of times.’
‘What, then?’
‘Something happened between him and Sophie.’
You wait for her to continue. She is chewing gently on her lower lip, as if she is unsure of what to say. Sarah does not talk about her friends. She does not gossip. Or, at least, she never did when you knew her, all those years ago.
‘You know you can tell me, Sarah. Whatever it is. It’s just between us.’
‘She says she kissed him,’ she says. ‘After we left the pub, the other night.’
As she says it she looks up at you again and there is something in her eyes, some distant hurt. You wonder about Jim. You wonder whether they went all those years being faithful to each other; whether their marriage was happy. You don’t feel you have the right to ask.
‘I’ve never seen her like that,’ she says. ‘She’s normally so measured, so careful. She seemed – I don’t know – thrilled by it, I suppose.’
‘And you don’t approve?’
‘It’s not that. George is – Christ, I shouldn’t be telling you all this; for God’s sake don’t repeat it – well, he’s never been faithful to her. I just didn’t think she would do the same to him.’
‘You think something else happened?’ you say.
‘We used to talk about everything,’ she says. ‘It did feel as though she wasn’t telling me the whole story. And I didn’t press her. I don’t know why I didn’t.’
But then she puts a hand to her mouth, her fingers pressing against her lips.
‘You do know why,’ you say.
‘What?’
‘You know. You’re just not sure you want to tell me.’
She laughs, a short bitter sound. ‘Why do you always have to be so bloody perceptive? Are you psychic?’
‘Yes,’ you say seriously. ‘Of course I am. I know you, Sarah. I know everything about you. I know exactly how your mind works.’
She kicks you gently with the toe of her shoe. ‘Stop that.’
You laugh to ease the tension. She thinks you’re teasing, which is fine with you. The truth is, you do know everything about her. Everything.
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s just it, though. I haven’t been honest with her. There’s something I should have told her, right at the beginning, and I didn’t.’
You wait for her to carry on. This isn’t something you can rush.
‘I feel embarrassed about it now,’ she says. ‘But I had a – a thing – with him. Years ago.’
‘A thing?’ You can’t help yourself.
‘At Louis’s birthday party. His twenty-first. Will was there, and everyone was drunk, I was drunk. It was only a few months after Jim died; I don’t know if that’s why I behaved the way I did. Everything felt strange back then, as if I wasn’t really myself any more. I guess it was – maybe it was part of the grieving, I don’t know. I was determined to have a good time if it killed me, for Louis, and I’d managed it until really, really late – most of them had crashed out and I’d woken up a bit, and I went outside to get some fresh air and think, and Will followed me out. We were just talking and laughing, and he rolled a joint and we shared it. And then he played me some tunes on his guitar, out there in the garden with just me and him, and the next thing I knew he was kissing me.’
You don’t speak. You wait for her to continue.
‘It was just that once. In the morning he did all the washing-up and tidying up downstairs, and then, when all the others who’d slept over got up, they all went down to the village for breakfast and I didn’t see him for ages after that. He’s never said anything, never made me feel weird about it. It was just one time, and you know what? It felt great. It made me feel as though my life wasn’t over.’
There it is. That explains why he looked so comfortable with her, in the pub. That explains the way he was looking at her. You hate that self-assured swagger you see in other men, that triumph, that entitlement. No wonder you took an instant dislike to him.
‘You didn’t tell Sophie?’
‘I was a bit embarrassed. I mean, he’s nearly twenty years younger than me, for God’s sake… not that Sophie would have cared about that. But I knew, I kind of already knew, that it would just be that once. So there was no point telling her, was there? It was just a moment that I had, and he had, and it was great but that was it.’
‘And you think maybe he told her that he’d already slept with you? When they were together?’
‘God, I hope not. I can’t really ask without telling her everything.’
‘And you can’t tell her, now?’
‘Not if she’s fallen for him. If I tell her that I slept with him, it will look as if I’m – I don’t know – jealous, or something. And besides, it will probably all burn itself out, won’t it?’
There is a long pause. She has finished her wine. You go to top it up but she stops you, her hand over the glass – she is taking it easy tonight. She doesn’t want to get drunk with you.
‘So now, with him turning up here, do you think he wants – you know? Sorry to put it crudely. You think he wants a rematch?’
She looks up at you. ‘I don’t think so. It was years ago, and besides, he’s interested in Sophie now, not me.’
‘Would you, though? If you go back, later, and find him in your bed?’
You’re putting words in her mouth now, aren’t you? What you want to believe. You don’t want to think that maybe, just maybe, she wants to fuck him again, even more than he does her. Because that would hurt. That would cut you deeply.
She shakes her head. You’ve gone too far; you can see it in her eyes. Something has grazed against her and she is holding herself still, upright.
‘I should be getting back,’ she says.
You look at her for a long while. It feels like the wrong moment, when you’ve just pushed her, made her uncomfortable. But you can’t help yourself.
‘Stay,’ you say.
Women are strange creatures.
They are uncomfortable in their own skin, baffled by their own body, never quite happy with what it’s doing, as if it is something separate from themselves. They shave and pluck and conceal, diet and tone and sculpt, and all you can think of is the effort it takes, and how, if they put a fraction of that effort into something else, the world would be a different place.
I always think the funniest part of it all is how squeamish they are about being naked. I mean, why? It’s just skin. It’s just muscle, and fat, and hair. They’re so judgemental about themselves, they project it on to other people. Spoils it, every time.
No wonder I can never connect properly with any of them.
Strange, too, when they are supposed to be creative vessels, nurturing, whatever. You’d think they’d be kinder to the body that’s designed to procreate.
I don’t understand why they do this to themselves, and to us. They demean us just as much, as if our opinions are invalid and not worth their consideration. It’s like when you tell them they’re beautiful, and they just give you that look like you’re taking the piss.
They misjudge me, all of them.
Or perhaps I should say they underestimate me. I should be used to that, by now.
Everyone does it.
Sarah
It’s not that she doesn’t want to stay. She wants him, and perhaps it’s because the conversation about Will and their encounter in the garden, and his reaction to it – was he actually jealous, or did she imagine it? – was strangely arousing.
It’s not the way I want it to be, she thinks. His hand is stroking the small of her back. She has never felt anything like it; she can feel it through her whole body, as if there is a collection of nerve-endings there that have never been discovered.
This time, he goes slow.
This time, as if he is aware that she is pretty much sober and therefore might need time to relax, he undresses her piece by piece, paying attention to each new section of her body as it’s revealed.
At any moment she could tell him to stop. She thinks this, all the time, wondering if she’s going to do it, or if she is actually going to go through with it.
It’s not the same as really wanting it but perhaps it’s just her mind that isn’t sure; her body is certainly responding and there is a tipping point, when his hands, warm and firm, circle her waist and pull her down the bed, closer to him, that she gives in.
He knows what he’s doing.
Sarah is ticklish, and often found Jim’s gentle touch more distracting than arousing. She likes to be held and touched firmly, and either he knows this – perhaps he even remembers? – or maybe this is just the way he does it. It feels – she searches for the word, in her head – safe.
She likes that he uses a condom.
She likes how it feels when he fills her.
She likes the orgasm that takes her by surprise, and that he lets her pause for breath afterwards and then, without asking, carries on with the same pressure and pace to help her to a second climax, which is longer, more intense.
She likes that he knows when to stop.
She likes that, afterwards, when she is tired and sleepy, he tells her to lie on her front and massages her shoulders and her back, ending it with a long, slow, sensual stroke from her neck to her tailbone that goes on and on until she is almost asleep.
In fact, she must have fallen asleep for a moment, because she opens her eyes and she can tell from the feel of the mattress that he is gone. She lifts her head and she can hear him in the living room, talking to someone.
For a moment Sarah is disorientated, but then she realises he is on the phone. She pulls the covers over herself, turns on to her side, closes her eyes.
I’d like to, yes, definitely… perfect… You know me, I never forget things like that…
When he comes back to bed a few minutes later, she keeps her eyes closed for a moment before she moves and stretches sleepily. She doesn’t want him to think she has been eavesdropping.
He kisses her, strokes her cheek.
‘I should be getting back,’ she says.
‘You said that before,’ he laughs.
‘No, really. I don’t want to leave Will in the house on his own.’
Aiden pulls a face but doesn’t try to stop her as she gets up and finds her clothes. She thinks, perhaps, that she should say something about what just happened but the words won’t come. What were you supposed to say? It’s been years since she did this ‘new relationship’ thing, if that’s what it is.
What she wants to say is ‘thank you’.
A few minutes later Sarah is crossing the yard and shivering, hoping that the dogs aren’t going to bark when she opens the door, and wake up Will. Tess raises her head and wags her tail sleepily when she comes in. Basil, snoring in his bed, doesn’t even stir.
The house is quiet.
She stands in the kitchen for a while, listening to the clock ticking, the wind outside. She turns off the lights and puts Will’s clothes into the dryer in the utility room. Then she heads upstairs, feeling her way in the dark, trying not to make the stairs creak too much, although chances are Will is so fast asleep nothing will wake him.
At the far end of the corridor, the door to the guest bedroom is closed, no light showing under the door.
Sarah uses the bathroom, washes her hands and cleans her teeth, then goes into her room and shuts the door before turning the bedside light on. The room she sleeps in isn’t the master bedroom. It feels too big, too empty these days. The only time she ever uses it is when there are visitors, when she has a houseful. This room is much smaller, too small for a double bed really, but just enough room to have a bedside table and the built-in wardrobe. Also it has a view over the back, the side of the hill rising away from the house, so, when she is in bed and the curtains are open, all she can see is the green of the grass and she feels safe, secure, held by the landscape. On the other side of the house, the master bedroom has a double aspect: the smaller window looking over the yard, then a big window showing the incredible view over the valley. It had been part of the reason why they had bought Four Winds Farm, that view.
She lies in her bed and thinks she can hear a guitar playing softly, somewhere, but then, when she sits up and turns in the darkness to look at the door – as if that will make the sound clearer – all is quiet. She must have imagined it.
It feels weird, knowing that Will is here and nobody else, no Louis, no Kitty. But Aiden is just across the yard; she is safe, safer than she usually is when she is on her own.
The digital clock on the bedside table tells her that it is half-past midnight.
Thinking through the events of the evening, it occurs to her quite suddenly that it’s very late to be making a phone call.
It takes her a long time to sleep. So many years, she thinks, wondering about Aiden; so many years with Jim, thinking she was happy when actually he was always second best. Did he know? Was that why he didn’t tell her that Aiden came back to England?
Of course it is. She never was very good at hiding her feelings. And now Jim is gone, and what is left is this unending what if, what if…
Aiden
You lie awake for a long time. Some time after midnight it starts to rain, gets heavier, the wind racing up from the valley and blowing it against the bedroom window.
You should be feeling relaxed after that, shouldn’t you? But you’re not. Even while you were watching her, starfished on your bed and flushed, her breathing slowing, you were wondering if she ever came like that with Jim.
You can’t help it. Something in you can’t leave it alone, picking at the thought like a wound.
And the thought of Sarah alone in her house with a s
tranger, a lad, with whom she shared a drunken fuck many years ago, is unsettling. You wish she had stayed here, or better still asked you to go and stay with her in the house. You wish she felt comfortable enough with you to ask. But you’re not there yet.
It crosses your mind to get dressed, to let yourself in through the back door and check that they are both all right. That they are in separate rooms. That they are asleep.
You listen to the rain.
You feel the anger growing inside you, starting as an itch, spreading into a burn, directionless. You don’t even know why you’re angry. It’s him, the lad, turning up unannounced and landing on his feet; getting her to feed him and wash his grubby clothes and give him a warm bed to sleep in; that he also expects her to want to fuck him too. The arrogance of youth, you think. And then you remember that you turned up here just last week and she offered you the same hospitality. And more.
The more you think about it, the more the parallels emerge. It was a long time ago, longer than the few years since she had her ‘special’ night with the lad, but you have been there too. You wanted, and got – how did you put it? – a rematch.
Is that why you’re so angry about it? Because she doesn’t see you as anything special?
But then, the whole thing has taken you by surprise, hasn’t it?
This isn’t what happens to you when you meet a woman. It’s a challenge, an intrigue. You don’t get involved. You don’t fall for them. You don’t think about them, once they’ve gone. Sometimes – let’s face it – you don’t even like them, particularly. You’re good at hiding that.
And, above all else, you don’t need them. You’ve made mistakes, haven’t you? And you’ve got away with it, so far, until this last time. Someone died, and you just walked away.
Outside, the rain has stopped. You sit up on the edge of the bed. Your phone buzzes with a text message. You ignore it.
You are not going to lose her. You cannot let that happen. Not this time.
Sarah
When Sarah opens her eyes the next morning it is barely light. She can hear Basil’s tail thumping against the carpet; she can see a pair of brown eyes staring hopefully into hers, doggy breath wafting across the edge of the bed towards her. He rests his chin on the duvet and licks her hand.
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