by Sarah Duncan
Well, she would forget it too. She smiled wryly to herself, aware of the scratchy lace of her best bra under her striped shirt. No one need know how silly she had been. Or might have been. Her bra straps felt tight, constraining her breasts into rounded hemispheres. She had dreamt of Patrick touching them, hands warm and insistent, cupping them the way he'd cupped the brandy glass. She felt as if she had been close to the edge of a dark place, somewhere very strange where a different Isabel had beckoned. But somehow she had managed to pull away, to come back to herself. And to Neil, of course.
Yes, to Neil, who she'd shouted at last night. I'll make it up to him, she thought. I'll try and be a better wife, try and be more interested in what he's doing. We'll talk more, I'll pay more attention to his work. I can forget the kiss. After all, what did it mean? Nothing. It meant nothing. A boozy lunch, a sunny day. It meant nothing.
She entered the accounts programme and started to prepare customer statements, feeling better. It was natural for her to be thrown by the kiss, she thought, the first time someone other than Neil had kissed her for nearly twenty years. No wonder I was thrown by it, so unexpected. It short-circuited my system and threw me off balance. Thank God, she thought. Thank God I didn't make a complete fool of myself.
The statements took up most of the morning. She'd learnt that Patrick was useless about keeping his accounts up to date, and as she stuffed the statements into envelopes she was certain that at least half of his customers would have already paid him. The question was knowing which half. She shrugged. It wasn't her business. As Neil said, he was completely irresponsible.
Impatient for the computer to finish she pressed the Shut Down button, realised her mistake, tried to go back into the programme to close it down properly. The computer refused to respond to anything she did. She pressed the Escape button several times but nothing happened.
'Drat.' In frustration she thumped the computer and immediately regretted it as the wretched machine gave a high-pitched whine.
'Patrick,' she called. 'The computer's gone wrong.'
'What's the matter?' he said as he came upstairs.
'I don't know. It's gone all funny.'
'Has it had a bang?' He came into the room.
'No,' she lied. 'I pressed two buttons at once or something.'
'Okay. Let's have a look.'
He leant over the desk, one hand casually on the back of her chair, his shoulder just touching hers, watching the screen as he used the mouse. Isabel could smell aftershave and coffee. His mouth was nearly level with hers. She turned her head towards him. Just a few more inches and she could have nuzzled his cheek with the tip of her nose. His mouth was so close. She raised her eyes to his, but he was watching the screen.
'There.' He stood up. 'Not sure what the problem was, but it seems okay now. If there are any more problems, just call me.'
'I will.' She stared ahead at the screen. Was it her imagination or was the mouse still warm from his hand?
Patrick looked out of the window. 'As it's such a nice day, I'm going to work outside. I'll divert the office calls to my mobile.'
'It's supposed to rain later on.'
He peered out of the window. 'Rubbish. It's brilliant sunshine.'
'That's the forecast.'
'What do they know?' he said as he left the room.
What indeed, Isabel thought, alone in the office. What does anyone know?
- ooo -
At lunch time she went downstairs and ate one of her sandwiches in the kitchen although she didn't feel very hungry. While she ate she could hear Patrick outside in the garden, talking on the phone. The kitchen seemed very quiet. The flowers she'd picked on her first day, two weeks before, were still on the table, shrivelled and going mouldy round the stems. After she'd finished eating she threw the old flowers away, then replaced them with the last of the nerines from the front garden and a few sprigs of rosemary to add bulk. Rosemary for remembrance, she thought, and immediately remembered the kiss. Forget it, she told herself as she went back upstairs.
But she couldn't settle down to work. The room was too stuffy, too dusty. She started an email to Frances, her friend in Thailand. Help! Don't tell anyone, especially not David, but I'm all confused. I want... She deleted the last word. I feel... She rested her hands on the computer keyboard, staring at the words on the screen. In a flurry of movement she deleted the message and closed the screen. Stay Connected or Disconnect? the computer asked. She pressed Disconnect then got up and went to the window for some fresh air.
Down in the garden she could see Patrick, leaning back on his chair, legs crossed and feet up on the table, loafers off. He wriggled his toes in the autumn sunshine, oblivious to her watching him. She thought he looked completely at ease.
The air was dense, as if all the oxygen had run out and the world was holding its breath. The light seemed golden, making the brick houses of the town glow a fiery red, grey slate roofs the colour of mercury, white paint glittering so sharply it hurt to look. Lowering over the town was a bank of dense black-purple clouds. She slipped downstairs and went into the garden.
'I think there's a storm coming. Do you want me to give you a hand with bringing in your papers?'
Patrick looked up, annoyance crossing his face. 'It'll pass.' He went back to scrawling notes in green ink over the report he was reading.
Isabel shrugged and went back into the house. Restless with the approaching storm she decided to make some tea. As she filled the kettle the sky darkened and the light took on a greenish hue. The temperature had dropped noticeably. Looking out through the kitchen window she was pleased to see Patrick look up, then leap out of his seat, his shirt showing a few dark splodges where fat raindrops had fallen.
'Christ!' He started to gather the papers on the table together, then bellowed, 'Isabel, where the hell are you?'
Serves you right, she thought. I'm not such a stupid woman after all. She counted to twenty, then went out to help him, ducking her head involuntarily as a crash of thunder sounded. As if that was a cue, the rain started in earnest. They grabbed armfuls of paper and ran with them into the house, dumping them on the kitchen table and going back for more. It took three trips to collect all Patrick's work and bring it into the dry kitchen.
Patrick shook his head, spattering raindrops like a dog. 'Christ, this is a miserable country to live in.'
'Would you like a cup of tea?' she said, looking sideways at his bare feet.
'All right,' he said grumpily, shaking his wet papers out onto the clean floor.
Isabel took out two mis-matched but pretty teacups strewn with cottage roses and reached to the back of the china cupboard to retrieve a teapot, shaped like a cabbage, with a chip in the spout. She poured the boiling water onto the tea and put a tea cosy in the shape of a tabby cat over the pot. Patrick was like a cat, she thought, but not a tabby. Something sleeker, like a Siamese. She looked sideways at him, and smiled to herself. A distinctly wet and cross Siamese with ruffled fur.'
She thought of laying the teacups and saucers formally on the table, but decided against it and left them on the side. She couldn't imagine herself presiding over the teapot and asking Patrick "Shall I be Mother?" The rosebuds on the teacups matched the pink of the nerines, the tight petals loosening to make exotic pink spiders. She stroked them lightly with her fingertips and they quivered at her touch.
'Bugger,' said Patrick, staring out of the window at sheets of rain coming down. 'I've left my shoes outside.'
'Too late now. They'll already be ruined.' Isabel stood beside him. 'Tea?' She turned to look at him and at the same moment he turned and met her gaze and held it. She knew she ought to break away, to pretend nothing was happening. Yet she was caught, suspended in time. Her breathing changed, becoming light and shallow, in the still room. She touched his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath.
Very slowly he traced his forefinger along the line of her jaw then down her neck. Instinctively she raised her head slightly in res
ponse to his touch, turning slightly to one side, leaving her throat vulnerable and open. He paused at her collarbone, then took his hand away, and she ached for its return, the electricity that it had triggered running through her. Her body yearned for him, swayed of its own accord towards him. As if in slow motion she reached out for him, slipping her hand to curl around the back of his neck.
He frowned, pulling away slightly.
'Isabel?' His voice was uncertain, his eyes searching.
The thought of losing the moment made her bold and in answer she pulled him down to her, feeling his mouth on hers, searching, tingling. The strangeness after Neil, the absence of rough moustache, the deliciously different smell of his skin. She pushed herself against him shamelessly, as if she could be absorbed into his body, delighting at feeling his hard torso, so unlike Neil's. She had never wanted anything as much as for him to touch her, to feel his hand on her bare skin and she tugged at her shirt, not caring what he might think of her boldness, just wanting him. He undid the buttons so her shirt hung open, then bent his head and traced the exposed swell of her breast with his tongue, so her skin goosebumped all over with the teasing. Her head fell back and unconsciously she parted her legs to steady herself. Please, please, she thought, and as if he had heard, he reached under her skirt, his fingers warm and insistent, turning her to liquid in his hand.
She fumbled with the catch of his trousers, any remaining inhibitions lost in the urgency of her need. He pushed her knickers down so they fell to the floor, then he lifted her onto the table, scattering papers everywhere, spread her legs and slipped into her so easily that she realised she had been waiting for this ever since he had kissed her. No, before that, since Justine had said he was good in bed. And here he was. She clamped her legs around his back, squeezing her hips up to meet his, tightening her grip as the pleasure surged over her body in shades of pink and red as if the world had shrunk to nothing except his body crashing into hers, deeper and further, until she felt she would explode with the intensity. She arched her back, fingers raking across the rough surface of the table, and somewhere someone was moaning, please, please, please, and with each please he went faster and deeper until the red turned to gold and she felt she would die in great shuddering waves that swept over her.
Isabel felt limp, as if her bones had dissolved into the table, her legs dangling over the edge. She kept her eyes shut, aware of Patrick moving beside her, trying not to think about what had just happened. And yet every bit of her was tingling with what she had done. It was impossible to ignore. She felt wonderful, but at the back of her mind she knew she had crossed an invisible line, the line that divided the faithful from the faithless. And there could be no going back. Whatever else did or didn't happen, she could never be Neil's faithful wife again.
- ooo -
Something tickled her stomach. She opened her eyes.
Patrick was watching her, his face about a foot away from hers. He was lying on his side, head propped up by one elbow, the other hand lazily stroking her stomach. His olive-green eyes were flecked with brown streaks turning to warm gold. It seemed a long time since she had been this close to another human being, the long unflinching examination of another pair of eyes as if all the secrets of the other's soul could be revealed if you looked hard enough.
Patrick broke the contact first, kissed her softly then pulled back. His eyes looked more hooded than ever but she thought he looked hugely pleased with himself.
'Well,' he said, tracing circles round her navel. 'That was a surprise.'
'For me too,' she said, then felt herself blush, remembering her private thoughts of the last week. She looked towards him, confused, awash with guilt, happiness, embarrassment, uncertainty, a swirling nebula of emotions. All at once she felt like crying.
'It wasn't that bad, surely.'
'No, it was wonderful. I just feel -' But expressing her feelings was impossible. Instead she clung to him, as if he could provide security from the reality she didn't want to face. She could feel Patrick shift slightly, then he broke away from her, leaving her half-naked and bereft. She realised that he had dressed, trousers in place, shirt buttoned. Overwhelmed by embarrassment she sat up, pulling her skirt down and tugging her shirt across her chest. Her bra seemed to have got twisted under one armpit and she struggled to pull it into place.
'Allow me.' She sat passively, uncertain what to do, while Patrick, his face serious, straightened her out and did up the buttons. It seemed bizarre that a few minutes ago he was an untouched stranger, and now he was doing up her shirt. She hung her head, too shy to meet his gaze.
'You're very quiet.' His tone was conversational.
'Mmm.' She tried to find the words. 'I've not, I mean, I've never done this before.' Patrick raised an eyebrow and she shook her head. 'Never. I've always been...' Even saying the word faithful seemed inappropriate. 'I always thought that if I was to...well, that it would be more drawn out, that there would be time to think. Snatched meetings and furtive conversations, that sort of thing. More getting to know each other. And lots of agonising and worry.'
'Thank God we missed that bit.' Did he sound bored?
'I don't think I have. I mean, I think it's just beginning. For me, anyway.'
'Yeah, well, I don't go in for much worrying and agonising. It seems a waste of time to me.' Patrick eased himself off the table and went over to the window. 'Still pissing down,' he said, almost to himself. 'Why don't I live somewhere sunny?'
Isabel hugged herself. She didn't like to say that she'd also thought that an affair would involve cuddling and affectionate closeness afterwards. She felt out of place and unwanted.
Patrick leant back against the kitchen units, and looked at her, his face serious. ' So. What do you want to do?'
'Do?'
'About this.'
'Oh.' With an effort she pulled her mind back into the harsh real world. 'I know what I ought to do.'
Patrick made an impatient gesture. 'Forget that. What do you want to do?'
'I can't just forget that. Anyway, you don't know what I was going to say.'
'Let me guess. What you ought to do, is walk out of here right now and never darken my doorstep again. Pretend it never happened.'
Isabel nodded, eyes lowered. Patrick was still leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles as if talking about nothing important at all.
'If that's what you want to do, that's fine by me. I'll go along with you pretending it never happened; a bit of self-deception doesn't hurt. Christ, most of us couldn't function without it.'
Isabel felt devastated by the idea that he was quite happy to go along with her walking out forever. 'Is that what you want?' she said.
'We're not talking about what I want,' he said. 'I don't have any paraphernalia. I do what I like. Who I screw is nobody's business but my own. I have no commitments, no ties. The only person who gets hurt is me.' He paused and she dropped her head. She felt laden down with responsibility for other people's happiness.
'Still, I'd like to know what you want.' She glanced up at him, feeling shy.
'I can't make your decision for you.' His eyes held hers.
No, I can see that.' She traced a pattern in the grain of the table.
'An affair would complicate both our lives, but yours far more than mine. So it must be your decision.' He ran his hands through his hair, then grinned at her. 'Don't get me wrong, there's nothing I'd like better than to fuck you repeatedly, but I don't want to push you into something. I don't want you saying later that I made you have an affair.' His voice softened. 'But I would be sorry to see you go.'
'Really?' she said, feeling less depressed.
His lips twitched. 'My filing's never been so well organised. But it's got to be your decision.'
I know what I ought to do, she thought, so why am I hesitating? Why aren't I leaving? 'If I stay -'
'I'm not offering you anything,' Patrick said quickly. 'No romance, no commitment. And I'm famously unreliable,' he added almost as
if it was something to be proud of.
Famously good in bed, and she shivered all over at the thought.
'I've been married eighteen years. Half my life.' She felt confused, having this weird conversation, discussing whether or not to continue with an affair. Did Patrick want her, or not? She remembered him saying he'd like to fuck her repeatedly. It was a good thing the coil she'd had fitted after Katie's birth meant she didn't have to worry about pregnancy. She sat up straight, suddenly registering that nowadays there were other things to worry about apart from pregnancy. How awful if she'd caught something from him.
'I hope you don't mind me asking, well, I'm not sure how to ask, but... well, we didn't use anything. I know I'm okay, I mean, I've been in a monogamous relationship for eighteen years.'
'How do you know your husband hasn't -'
'Neil? Oh, no, never. He wouldn't.' Patrick raised his eyebrows and Isabel was compelled to defend Neil. 'He just wouldn't.'
'Hmm. I'll take your word for it. As for me, I'm clear.' He smiled. 'I'm usually extremely careful. Unless the unexpected arises. And you, Mrs Freeman, were very unexpected.'
An image ran through her mind, herself spread-eagled over the table, arms flung out wide in abandon. She turned away from Patrick, not wanting him to see the blush she could feel rising.
'We knocked the flowers over,' she said. The jam jar had smashed on the floor and the nerine stems were twisted among the broken glass. The spilt water on Patrick's papers had turned his scrawl to green smudges.