by Roxie Cooper
He’s in the bar, and I love it here. It’s full of shiny leather sofas and discreet lamps, while regal red wallpaper covers the high walls.
I see him before he sees me. He sits on the sofa in the corner, next to the massive window which overlooks the terrace and fountain outside where we had that first proper chat. His arm outstretched along the back of the sofa, he’s looking at some of the art on the wall next to him: portraits, landscapes – all done in that way you see at these places. He looks so unbelievably handsome when he’s dressed up. He’s in a white shirt and dark blazer and, gazing intently at the paintings on the wall, he doesn’t see me watching him. I take a second before I walk over, just to drink this moment up.
Then I make my way over to him, weaving through the chairs, tables and other couples.
‘Wow! You look … beautiful,’ he says as he stands up and glances at my pillar-box-red fitted dress. I wear my long hair swept around my right shoulder, which complements the Bardot neckline of the dress.
‘Thank you. Shall we eat?’
We spend hours talking about the most random subjects. Both being huge Bond fans, we discuss the new film, Quantum of Solace, which is out in a few weeks. A debate ensues regarding which actor is the best Bond. I say Brosnan, he reckons Moore and he laughs when I inform him that if he’d said Connery I’d have walked out immediately.
‘Best Bond girl?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes.
‘Solitaire. Jane Seymour. Any day of the week,’ he says, without any hesitation whatsoever.
‘Good choice!’
‘Best film?’ he asks.
‘The Spy Who Loved Me. First one I ever saw,’ I confirm. ‘Mind you …’
‘Nope. You only get one. No indecision. It’s final,’ he says in a super-serious voice.
‘What? I have different favourite ones for various reasons,’ I plead.
‘Take it up with the Bond adjudicators,’ he laughs, taking a sip of his wine without breaking my gaze.
We somehow end up reminiscing about our favourite childhood films. I thought he was going to declare I was actually mental when I said I watched Back To The Future every single day in the six weeks holidays when I was a kid, until he told me that not only was he also obsessed with it, he did the same with Star Wars.
‘Isn’t it weird how you get so engrossed with films?’ I ask him.
‘I think they’re an escape, aren’t they?’ He shrugs. ‘You get lost in them. Like anything creative.’
I realise, far too late, that I’m smiling at him far too high up there on the swoon scale.
‘Art, innit?’ he declares proudly, like I’m falling into his world.
‘Why do you love art so much?’ I whisper, leaning forward slightly. I think I’m a bit tipsy.
‘Why do you love music so much?’
‘It says what I want without me saying it,’ I reveal to him, without hesitation.
‘And that’s exactly what art does for me.’
I smile, but feel suddenly embarrassed. Like we’ve shared some kind of secret.
Changing the subject, he asks how my therapy sessions are going and I tell him they’re going well. I see Jane once a month now.
‘Has your life been made easier, better from seeing her?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I mean, it’s definitely a process. Much of it is her answering things with more questions and coming to unhelpful conclusions with no suggestions on how to improve the situation.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I have a self-destructive nature, apparently,’ I admit. ‘I am drawn to things which aren’t good for me.’
‘Is she right?’
‘Yes,’ I say reluctantly, slowly twiddling the base of my wine glass. ‘I have done in the past.’
‘Do you know why that is? Has she told you why?’
‘Nope!’ I laugh. ‘That’s not Jane’s style. She’ll make me find out myself, even if it takes ages. She likes leaving things on cliffhangers, but she knows about all my flaws and demon.’
‘Wow, and you pay this woman to point them out to you?’ he laughs.
‘Better I show them to her and nobody else,’ I say, reaching for my wine. ‘So what are yours?’
‘Some people say I don’t take enough risks. That I’m too safe,’ he says, not looking at me when he does.
‘In relation to what?’
‘Oh, just life. You know, my job and stuff.’
‘Really?’ I ask, genuinely confused. One of the things I really love hearing Jamie talk about is his passion for his job. The dedication he ploughs into looking after his students really is incredible. The way he talks about them, how he loves watching them being inspired by art at an age where they’re just about to find out who they are – you can tell he lives for his craft.
‘But you’re so passionate about your job. I can see you love it. Having said that, you do need to get your own work out there. You really are so very talented.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t see it happening now unless an amazing opportunity was thrown in my path. Life kinds of gets in the way of these things, doesn’t it?’ He shrugs.
‘This, coming from the big fate-believer? I don’t believe it,’ I say, with mild mock outrage in my voice.
‘Well, what’s meant to be will be,’ he says, laughing.
‘Do you really think that?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘So where do we … where do I fit into this?’ I ask, tilting my head and definitely crossing over the flirty line.
‘Well, the course was cancelled, but here we are …’
‘So, what does that mean?’ I tease him.
‘You’re the one thing I just don’t get.’
I smile, ignoring the fact that I’m blushing. Thank goodness the room is darkish. I tuck my hair behind my ear before taking a sip of wine, clinking it back on the table a bit harder than I needed to. His gaze hasn’t diverted away from me.
‘What?’ I ask, embarrassed.
‘You’re adorable, you know that?’
‘Not really,’ I reply.
‘I think you are.’
‘Why?’
‘You just are.’
I suddenly feel shy, something I have never done when a guy has complimented me. But, then again, he is something else.
I need and want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so slowly and tenderly that I feel the world around me fall away. That’s pretty much how I feel just talking to him and I can’t imagine how I’ll survive anything else. I’m worried I might not come back from it.
‘Do you want to go?’ I whisper, looking into his eyes, which are focused on mine.
‘Yes,’ he replies without hesitating.
I smile as he stands up and takes my hand. We walk out of the bar towards the huge, sweeping staircase. We don’t fully hold hands, but our fingers loosely interlock as we walk close to each other. My heart is racing. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited and nervous at the same time before.
‘Oh, I think I’ve left my wallet on the table,’ Jamie says, patting down his jacket. ‘I’ll just go and get it. Don’t go anywhere.’
‘I won’t.’ I’m smiling.
He walks off back towards the restaurant and I stand, smiling like a goon, biting my lower lip. My head is light, my whole body is ignited with something I haven’t felt before. It’s alive.
Clutching my handbag, I’m waiting patiently for him to come back when I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. Still smiling, thinking he’s sneaked up behind me, I turn around.
‘Stephanie? We thought it was you! How are you?’
My only hope is that Sam Chaplin and his wife, Liz, are so drunk that they don’t see the sheer panic on my face.
‘Oh! Erm, hi!’ I say. ‘I’m great, thanks. You?’
‘Lovely! It’s our anniversary, so here for the weekend,’ Liz gushes. Her enormous coiffed brunette hair is the centrepiece of her appearance. That’s the problem with growing up in the countryside; everyone kn
ows each other and everyone else’s business.
‘Is Matt treating you to a weekend away? He’s a romantic, that one!’ she says, winking.
‘No, actually.’ I fake a laugh. ‘I’m here with a friend.’
Liz cocks her head to the side, doing a very overexaggerated ‘Oh! I see!’
‘Girls weekend,’ I reiterate.
At this point I see Jamie walking back towards me. Oh God, please don’t talk to me. My heart starts to pound, faster and harder by the second to the point where it actually interferes with what I’m trying to do and say.
‘So, Liz,’ I say, loud enough so that Jamie can hear me. ‘How long have you been married now? You must have known my dad for at least twenty years!’
I glance at Jamie out of the corner of my eye as he sweeps straight past us and heads upstairs, not even looking at us. Breathing a tiny sigh of relief, I switch off as Liz goes on a five-minute monologue about how she came to live in our village.
‘Well, my friend must be wondering where I am, so must dash! Got an early start at the spa tomorrow! Lovely to see you both,’ I tell them as I head upstairs.
‘You OK?’ Jamie asks as I walk through the door. ‘I figured it was better if I skipped the introductions.’
‘Yes. Thanks for that. Much appreciated,’ I say, walking over to the leaded window and swinging it open. I have a thing about windows being open, even when it’s freezing. I only open it a centimetre or so, but it’s enough to let a bit of the autumn breeze in through the curtains.
‘Well, we’re alone now,’ he says.
Yes, we are. Completely alone. I’ve thought about this for a whole year; fantasised about it, dreamed about it, spent nights in bed thinking about what I’d do if it ever happened and hating myself for it. We could do anything and nobody would know.
But I would, and I’d have to live with it.
I give a half-smile, walking over to the bed and sitting on my hands, a throwback from my teenage years. Jamie walks over and places himself right next to me.
‘It’s thrown you, hasn’t it? Seeing them,’ he says.
I daren’t look at him, for fear of falling into his eyes. ‘Seeing people outside that bubble reminds you of what you’re doing, the people you’re …’
I turn to look at him. I don’t need to finish my sentence. What’s the right way to finish it anyway? ‘Lying to’? ‘Betraying’? We both know it’s heading that way. Or it was before I bumped into Mr and Mrs Chaplin.
Jamie pulls my hand out from under my leg and holds it, softly.
‘We don’t have to do anything at all. I just love seeing you. We planned to come and catch up over dinner and that’s exactly what we’ve done,’ he says, smiling. ‘This is probably for the best.’
‘Yeah, I guess it is,’ I say, both proud of myself and hating myself at the same time.
We let the moment rest, allowing the decision we’ve made to sink in. We can’t go back on it now.
‘So,’ Jamie jumps up, ‘I’m going to get ready for bed. Well, I mean, my sofa!’
I laugh, glancing over at Jamie’s resting place for the night. Jamie is tall and the sofa is nowhere near long enough for him.
‘Look, sleep in the bed. It’ll be fine.’
His eyes dart over the huge king-size bed I’m sitting on. ‘You absolutely sure?’
‘Yes, it’s big enough for both of us. We can stick some pillows down the middle if it makes you feel better,’ I joke.
‘It’s OK; I trust you’ll manage to keep your hands off me.’
The four-poster bed is quite something. Some are ugly and imposing. This one is simple but pretty. The four columns holding the canopy up are dark wood and beautifully ornate, matching the grand headboard. It would look so over the top in any other setting, but in this room – it works.
I thought I’d have my own room, so I brought a little dusky pink shorts and vest set. As I walk from the bathroom in it, Jamie desperately attempts to avert his eyes as he passes me to go in there himself. I would never usually wear a bra for bed, but I keep it on tonight. Jamie emerges from the bathroom after a few minutes wearing only boxer shorts. Standing in the doorway, he is obviously self-conscious, fiddling with his hands and not knowing where to put them.
My good God. I quite literally do not know where to look. I want to admire every part of him but daren’t. I splutter out words which are complete gibberish.
‘I’m so sorry, Steph. I’ve only got the jumper I came in or a shirt. I can put one of them on?’
‘Ah, no! Please don’t worry, it’s fine!’ I say, as if all this was completely normal. But my voice is higher than usual.
I lie on my back on the right side of the bed and he climbs in next to me. I turn off the table light and now it’s pitch-black.
My mind whirls with thoughts along the lines of ‘What the hell are you doing?’ This is Jamie, why on earth aren’t you jumping on him? And I don’t know why I’m not. But it just doesn’t feel right.
I feel his hand reaching out underneath the covers. It searches around for my hand, which is resting on my stomach, and he brings it down between us, so our hands are interlocked. Gently and slowly he strokes the top of my hand with his thumb. Our arms and shoulders are together and, even though it’s dark, I know his head is tilted towards mine. His short breaths gently rush on to my face, gradually transforming into a deep, rhythmic breathing. I find myself adjusting mine to sync with his as we both drift into unconsciousness.
And that’s how we fall asleep.
He’s already in the shower when I wake up, which I’m thankful for. I don’t think lounging about in bed would be good for either of us. I have no idea what time it is – late enough to be light outside because a tiny crack of bright light streams into the room through the curtain, just enough for me to see the outlines of most things in the room.
I’m slightly paranoid that maybe I cuddled Jamie in the night or did something embarrassing.
‘Morning!’ he booms, bursting out of the bathroom, fully dressed.
‘Hi!’ I beam at him. ‘Did you sleep OK?’
‘Like a log – even though you are a terrible duvet-hogger.’
‘I am not!’
‘Last time I share a bed with you,’ he says and laughs. ‘Right, it’s almost eight. How about breakfast in the room so we don’t bump into Mr and Mrs Nosy-Parkers then we’ll get outside and take photos?’
‘Sounds absolutely wonderful!’
Standing in the car park, with the best twenty hours together behind us, there doesn’t seem to be enough words to express how great it’s been. We both know it.
‘Well, I’ll see you next year.’ I put it out there. It’s a statement but actually a question. I’m utterly destroyed that I have to leave him at all.
He smiles. ‘Same time next year.’
‘Just one last thing,’ I say, pulling out a small white envelope from my handbag. On the front is scrawled his initials – ‘JD’ – in black ink.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, taking it off me.
‘Just a little thing I wanted to give you. Don’t worry, it’s not all emotional. Just something you should read every now and again.’
He starts to peel back the corner of the envelope before I interrupt him.
‘No,’ I say, putting my hand over his. ‘Do it after I’m gone.’
‘All right.’ He pops it in the pocket of his winter coat.
‘Take care, Stephanie.’ He wraps his arms around me and his hand sinks into my hair as I hold on to his waist. We stay here for a while, neither wanting to let go. Releasing from the embrace, he kisses my cheek while his hands delicately brush the sides of my neck. Our mouths are centimetres apart.
He pulls away, walks back to his car and drives off.
Stepping into my car, I don’t even bother fighting against the torrent of tears which start to fall. It’s better they come now than when I get home and have to explain them to Matt. I feel like I’ve been wrenched in half already.
I whisper to myself, on repeat, ‘You can’t have him, he belongs to someone else’, but it makes not one scrap of difference. Because for the last twenty hours, he did belong to me, and I belonged to him. In that parallel universe, we belonged to each other. Now, we’re going to be thrown back into reality, and I hate it.
Returning home and pulling up on the driveway, I turn the ignition off. A veil of guilt descends over me. I don’t want to go inside. What if he knows? I’ve spent the last hour rehearsing and going over what I’ll say if he asks what we did … ‘Oh, it was lovely to see her, we couldn’t stop talking about the old university days. She has two children now, her eldest has just started nursery.’
All lies.
He’s in the kitchen when I eventually go in.
I smile cheerfully. ‘Hi!’ My eyes are immediately drawn to a bunch of flowers in a glass vase on the island, a mixture of purple, red and pink carnations. They’re still in the cellophane, leaning to one side.
‘What have I done to deserve them?’ I ask, nodding in their direction.
‘I don’t need an excuse to buy my wife flowers, do I?’ he says and laughs, before coming over and giving me a hug. It feels different to the one I had only an hour ago. ‘How was the girly weekend?’
‘Great! Lovely to catch up. Never stopped talking. Anyway, I’m going to take my stuff upstairs,’ I tell him.
‘Well, I thought we could go out for a drive.’
‘Lovely! I’ll be two minutes,’ I tell him, sloping upstairs, feeling like the worst wife in the world, and we spend the afternoon wandering around a nearby village.
It’s a cold, blustery day so we nip into one of the pubs and sit by the fire. Matt tells me about last night which he spent with the boys playing poker. It’s become their thing in recent times. They bought a proper set with all the chips and they really get into it. I try to remain upbeat and normal, but my mind is a million miles away. I feel as if I’m performing, although I’m not sure who for any more.
We arrive back home on the cusp of darkness and I treat myself to a bubble bath. Submerging myself into the water, surrounded by candles which release the sweet scent of vanilla into the bathroom, I think about the weekend; what it means and what I’ve done.