“That’s not quite as prescient,” she said, “though even more outrageous. He isn’t a farmer, but I did meet him through work. He’s actually someone I’ve known for a long time – someone whom I considered quite asexual until recently. And Tom doesn’t know about him, of course. There is no point in hurting him. As a matter of fact, Tom’s been angelic just recently – attentive and wanting to share in my interests, just as he did when we first met.”
“Which suggests to me that he does know, or at least suspects,” said Carolyn. “But don’t let me interrupt. And ‘asexual’ is a word that sets my alarm bells clanging – it makes this bloke sound too cerebral to be bothered much with sex! You still haven’t told me who he is. Lover boy, I mean. I must say you don’t seem head over heels with him. If it were me I’d hardly be able to speak one sentence without mentioning him. ”
“I know that to be true,” said Alex. “But I also know that the next time we met you’d be similarly unable to stop talking about his successor.”
“Oh, touché,” said Carolyn, rolling her eyes. “Well, at least that way I don’t get hurt. Not often, anyway. But you keep on sidestepping me. What is the man’s name, for God’s sake?”
“Edmund Baker,” said Alex. “He’s an archaeologist. He works for the council and is paid by the Heritage Commission.”
“I might have known. ‘Eminent in his field’, is he? Or one of those distinguished-looking academics who have slightly gone to seed and are always hell-bent on getting their own way? He is older than you, I take it? If he’s younger, I really take my hat off to you.”
“Yes, he’s older than I am. Quite a lot older, in fact, so no doffed hats for me on that score. I’m not sure that ‘eminent’ is the right word to describe him and he’s certainly not academic – or distinguished-looking. He’s more of an administrator than a scholar. But you’re probably right about him liking to get his own way.”
“Well, watch that, my love, particularly as you seem to be saying that the whole thing’s just about having a fling.” The wine arrived, and she poured out two glasses while the waiter was setting down the water-jug. “If he’s unscrupulously self-interested, and deeper in than you are, he might just leak the situation to Tom in the hope that Tom’ll leave you. And you could easily end up worse off than you are now. I take it that this Edmund is also married?”
Alex felt her scalp crawl. From the start she had dreaded Tom’s finding out about Edmund, precisely because she did not know how he would react. Or rather she did: Tom would be silently outraged and instantly unapproachable. He would be capable of walking out in seconds and leaving everything behind that they had shared together. And, if she were honest with herself, she was much more dismayed by contemplating the break-up of her marriage than by the prospect of hurting Tom’s feelings. She wondered again why she had felt impelled to take the risk with Edmund.
“Don’t,” she said, gulping down a large swig of her wine. “Yes, he’s married. Not very happily, I think, but he’s given no indication that he wants to leave her; or to come between me and Tom, for that matter. Actually, I think that our romance came out of our professional connection, rather than the other way round. He wants to work with me – permanently work with me, I mean. In that respect, we probably went too far by mistake – or accidentally, at any rate. The two types of relationship got mixed up, somehow.”
Alex had said this to comfort herself, to make the vivid mental picture of Tom leaving her recede, but, as soon as she had spoken the words, she realised that they were true, at least on her side. Yet again she circled back to the same question that had nagged at her ever since the Archaeological Society conference: why had Edmund made that first pass at her? She was convinced that it had been more than the alcohol talking, especially when he had renewed his pursuit of her weeks later, but she was less persuaded that Edmund was motivated by love.
“You’ve gone quiet on me again,” said Carolyn. “And although I’ve been telling you to have a fling for years, from the clues that you’re giving me I’m far from convinced that your Edmund is a good thing. It’s probably my fault that we’ve jumped right into the middle of your story, but can we start again? Tell me from the beginning. Then I’ll understand. And we’d better order some food first – we’re halfway down this bottle of wine already. I don’t want you passing out before you’ve TOLD ALL.” She exaggerated the last two words, pulling a clown’s face as she did so. Alex laughed again, but sadly, now.
Two hours and a second bottle of wine later, Alex had told her story. It had taken a long time, because she wanted to explain both the facts and her own feelings to Carolyn as precisely as she could; and also because Carolyn interrupted frequently with exclamations and observations (some of them penetrating) of her own.
“Well,” said Carolyn at length, having been uncharacteristically silent for some moments after Alex had concluded, “you certainly have got yourself deep into an intrigue here.” She picked up Alex’s hand, which was lying limply on the edge of the table, and stroked it a few times before replacing it carefully.
“What do you mean? And what do you think I should do?”
Carolyn frowned.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “There’s something about all of this that just doesn’t fit. Oh, I don’t mean that I don’t think you’re gorgeous or that I’d ever be surprised that someone could fancy you. And I’m not criticising your morality, either; you’ve been a saint for far too long since you married Tom. But Edmund Baker doesn’t sound like a budding Lothario to me and he doesn’t seem particularly smitten by you, either. Are you sure he doesn’t just want something from you and sees embarking upon an affair as the easiest way of getting it?”
“What could he possibly want from me? His status in the world of archaeology is significantly greater than mine and he certainly earns more than I do.”
Carolyn frowned some more.
“He could be going through a late male menopause, I suppose. It could just be sex, plus an old man’s vanity, testing himself to see if he can ‘pull’ a younger woman. But I still think that there’s more to it than meets the eye. What about the business opportunity that you described? Do you think that’s what it’s all about?”
“Hardly! I must admit that I hadn’t considered Edmund as a business partner – and it was certainly he who talked me into working with him, not the other way around. But he didn’t need to sleep with me to achieve it. By the same token, if I hadn’t thought it would work, that he was my lover would have made no difference. As it is, his idea of joining me is probably what will make the idea workable, because Tom’s made it clear that he’s not interested.”
“I still think that he’s after something. Perhaps it’s something that he hasn’t asked for yet – something that you don’t know about. Or perhaps he does just want to have an affair and I’m wrong. Talking of which, how do you feel about it? Really feel about it, I mean? Do you want it to continue, or would you be relieved to put a stop to it? I must say it doesn’t sound as if it’s been very romantic so far and I can’t think of any other reason for going on with it.”
Alex wanted to burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands. Carolyn tugged gently at her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s OK. I need to pull myself together. To answer your question, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I agreed to it out of boredom, out of vanity, as you say – it isn’t only old men who are vain – or from a kind of despair, because of where Tom and I appeared to be with our marriage. But I’m not sure about any of this. Tom and I have just had a wonderful weekend. And when Edmund first tried to proposition me, I turned him down. I guess that the real truth is that I just fell into it.”
“Don’t worry – it happens more often than you think. It happens to me all the time, actually. The thing to do now is to just fall out of it – and
quickly. When will you see him again?”
“I’m not sure. He wanted to meet me off the train this evening for supper in Peterborough. I told him that I would probably be having dinner with you in London. He said he’d text me to check.”
“And has he?”
“I don’t know,” said Alex, taking her mobile from her bag. “No. Not yet.”
“Can you text him and say that you can meet him after all? But don’t go to dinner with him. Go for a drink at the station buffet – or at the hotel. There’s a hotel over the road from Peterborough Station, isn’t there? And finish it then. Tell him you still value him as a colleague and all that stuff.”
“What about the business idea?”
“You can still do that. Tell him you’d like to work slowly – try out a few ideas on your own before you bring him in. If he doesn’t agree, postpone the whole thing and then start again in six months or so when all this is part of the past. Will that work?”
“Yes,” said Alex doubtfully. “It will work well as far as our jobs are concerned, because we’re both starting to plan for the busiest period of the year. But I’m not sure whether Edmund will want to agree, especially as he’s come to the arrangement with the trustees now.”
“It’s your idea, don’t forget, not his. You don’t have to be corralled into doing what Edmund wants. Go to see the trustees yourself, if necessary. They like you, don’t they?”
“I suppose they do – as much as they like anyone. They’re the biggest bunch of misanthropes that were ever gathered together under the pretext of sharing similar interests. Misfits is probably a better word, actually. They’re well-heeled misfits.”
“Well, use your charm, sweetie. You’ve got plenty.” Carolyn looked at her watch. “My God, it’s almost four o’clock. I’m going to have to dash. I need to take all my stuff back to the hotel and freshen up a bit before Matthews arrives. I’ll get the bill.”
“Let me pay,” said Alex. “It’s the least I can do after spending the whole time we’ve had together talking about myself.”
“Certainly not,” said Carolyn. “It can be my treat.” She winked. “Well, Matthews’s treat – he’ll be picking up the bill for this, though he won’t know it.”
Carolyn sashayed up to the turquoise bar in her black patent stilettos, swaying just a little now that she had consumed a bottle of wine. When she had paid, she returned to Alex, who was now standing by the table, and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Now, remember,” she said. “Be strong. Be firm and kind with him and don’t let him talk you into changing your mind. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Alex nodded obediently and followed Carolyn to the door.
“By the way,” said Carolyn, as she donned her coat and gathered up her parcels and the suitcase, “do you know that woman archaeologist that’s disappeared?”
“Vaguely,” said Alex. “I met her once. And I’ve read quite a lot of the books and papers that she’s written. Edmund knows her, too.”
“He would do, I suppose. Very odd case. She’s almost certainly dead, I’d say.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Common sense. People don’t just disappear like that and turn up perfectly well again later on, do they? Not often, anyway. And not old ladies who can barely walk.”
Chapter Thirty
Alex didn’t receive a text message from Edmund. She did not keep her promise to Carolyn, either. She couldn’t face talking to Edmund tonight. She wanted to go home, take a bath, relax with Tom, pour some wine, retail to Tom an edited version of her day. The train she had caught was the first of the evening commuter services from King’s Cross to Peterborough. The other passengers were mostly male businessmen and office workers. They were either talking loudly on their mobiles or slumped untidily in their seats sipping like babies at lidded plastic cartons of tea and coffee, the odd one swigging from a can of lager. Alex closed her eyes, willing the journey to be over.
The train was delayed for twenty minutes outside Peterborough. The female guard announced on the tannoy a ‘signalling problem’ and apologised for ‘any inconvenience’, as if most of the passengers were expected to be quite content just to sit there. Incensed by this nonchalance, the occupants of Alex’s carriage grew restless and disgruntled. They began to complain to each other in loud voices. Alex dreaded being drawn into their futile rebellion and tried to indicate that she was otherwise engaged by attempting to call Tom to tell him to wait supper. She could not get a signal. She closed her eyes again.
When the train finally shuffled into Peterborough Station, a heavy rain had begun to fall. Alex was wearing only a lightweight jacket and she hurried along the platform, her head down. In a few seconds, she was soaked, wet strands of her hair clinging itchily to her face, her trousers uncomfortably wet just above her knees where the jacket finished. She presented her ticket to the surly clerk at the barrier and was preparing to sprint for the car park when she felt a hand on her sleeve. At first she thought that someone was brushing against her by accident and pulled away to her right. But the hand remained, its grip tightening. She turned, brushing away the strands of sodden hair from her eyes and saw Edmund standing beside her.
“I thought you were going to text me. Or call,” she said, defensive because she knew that she had been relieved that he hadn’t.
“I thought you were going to call me if you decided not to dine with your friend,” he countered, emphasising the last word.
“I didn’t know until the last minute that she had an appointment this evening. Besides, I need to get home to see Tom.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” His tone was cutting. “Very cosy. Lunch with the dear friend, supper with the loving husband, is it?” He was almost sneering at her. His grip on her arm tightened.
“Why are you being like this, Edmund? You can see that I’m soaked, and I’m cold and tired, too. I need to go home.”
He released her arm and took hold of her by the shoulders, so that she was forced to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly deflated. “Can’t you see that I’m desperate, Alex? I need you, too. Come for a drink, at least. We have to talk.”
“OK. Just one drink, though. I agree that we should talk.”
He preceded her to the automatic doors, waiting on the other side for her to emerge. Then he took her hand. It was a curiously intimate gesture and it made her feel unsettled. In her head, she repeated Carolyn’s advice like a mantra. She could and would curtail the strange romance upon which she and Edmund had embarked. She would try to preserve their professional relationship, but she wanted to pursue the business idea on her own at first. Edmund must surely agree. Their liaison could not have made him any happier than it had made her and she would not appear to be cutting him out of the business partnership, just postponing it.
He held open the door of the Station Hotel and she took the opportunity to draw away from him. Outside, the hotel’s grim and grimy architecture proclaimed it to be mid-Victorian. Inside, it had become suspended in a 1950s time-warp. The reception area consisted of a tall booth like a pulpit whose dark polished wood panels concealed from view any activity that might take place behind it, and, unless they made an effort to show themselves, also the identity of the person standing there. Alex could just see the curly dark top of a man’s head. It was bent forward, presumably over some book-keeping task. The man did not look up or greet them. They therefore made their way to the lounge unimpeded and unescorted. It was a room furnished with fat red plush sofas and solid round tables set about with sturdy plush-upholstered chairs. The dusty red curtains were looped back to reveal elaborate but dingy nets. A sole waitress stood to attention beside a vast ungainly sideboard. She was middle-aged and lumpy. She wore a black dress on which a tiny frilled apron had been superimposed. It looked as if her whole ensemble had been sewn together into a single garment and she had come upon it by
rummaging through a dressing-up box. She remained stock-still until they had selected a table and seated themselves, then advanced with her order pad.
“What would you like?” asked Edmund humbly.
“Tea, please,” said Alex firmly.
“No afternoon teas after four-thirty,” said the waitress uncompromisingly. She spoke with an unattractively strong local accent.
“I don’t want afternoon tea. Just a cup of tea.”
“This room’s for bar snacks after six,” said the waitress triumphantly “or drinks from the bar. You can have tea or coffee with food,” she added helpfully. “Would you like to see the menu?”
“Yes, please,” said Edmund. The woman retreated temporarily to her sideboard.
“You know that I don’t want supper,” said Alex in a low, furious voice. “Order for yourself if you like.”
“Of course I don’t want to eat alone,” said Edmund snappishly. “Will you at least have some wine?”
Alex nodded, defeated. When the waitress returned, Edmund waved away the menu and asked for the wine list.
“A bottle of Merlot, please,” he said.
“You’ll have to drink most of it yourself,” said Alex. “I’ve been drinking already today and I have to drive home.”
“OK, fine. I’ll just pour you a glass and you can dilute it, or drink water with it as you please. A jug of water, as well, please,” he added to the waitress.
The conversation was taut while they were waiting for the drinks to arrive.
“Did you have a good time with your friend?” Edmund asked, after a protracted silence.
“Yes. But we could only have lunch as she had to work later on.”
“You’re very late back in that case.”
“It was a long lunch.” There was another silence.
“How are things at home?”
“Fine. Tom’s working hard, but he’s managing to make time for me, too. For us, I should say. What about you?”
Almost Love Page 23