by Sarah Duncan
'You can't have me.' She tried to make her voice cool. 'I'm not available.'
'Aren't you?' he said, his voice almost purring as he came closer. She stood her ground.
'No. Not anymore. I told you, in my letter.'
'Ah, yes, that charming document.' He was close now, his outline dark against the school. She'd always loved his voice. 'Do you know, I don't believe you.'
'What do you mean?' Run, her mind screamed at her. Run. But she stayed put.
'I think you are available.' He removed the basket from her hands and dropped it on the ground. His hands cupped her face, fingers rough against her skin. She tried to keep her body stiff and unyielding as he kissed her, keeping her lips clamped shut. She tried, but she could feel herself responding. He steered her back to the tree, ignoring her stumbling feet, and pushed her against the trunk. He leant against her, pinning her down with his weight, while one hand undid her coat and fumbled with her clothes, yanking her underwear down.
'No,' she said, twisting away from him. 'I don't want...'
'But you do. I can feel. You're dripping wet for me.'
'Oh God, no.' Involuntarily her back arched, body trained to respond to him. 'Please don't...' Her breathing was heavy and she turned her head, battling inwardly with the reactions his fingers were bringing. Her hands gripped his shoulders. She couldn't, not here. But it felt so good. So good. Especially after Neil's rejection.
'Please...' she said, and she didn't know if she meant please, no or please, yes.
He was undoing his zip. She had to stop. Had to. 'No,' she moaned.
'But you want me to.' His voice buzzed dose to her ear.
'Not...'
'...here?' His voice in the darkness was triumphant. 'They won't be finished for another ten minutes. No one will catch you.' He settled himself between her legs, hands on her hips, ready to take her. If I do this now I am lost, she thought, and in reaction cried out.
'No. I said no.' She jerked herself away from him.
He missed and swore. 'You fucking bitch.' Seizing her chance she slid sideways from under him and ran for the school, coat flaring out, feet stumbling in the darkness, hobbled by her clothes. Her breath made puffs of white mist in the cold night air, while behind her the air erupted with shooting stars and screechers.
The classroom lights were on, and she could see the committee chatting, oblivious to her mad flight. She swerved away from them and headed for the side of the building, which was in total darkness. She ducked behind a bay window and crouched down, hugging her knees to her. If he found her she would not be able to break away from him again. She felt her body was imprinted with Patrick, like the after-image left by the sparklers. She squeezed her eyes tight shut. She had to regain control over herself. Her breathing slowly returned to normal. Voices started talking nearby, getting louder, and she guessed that the display had ended. If Patrick had been looking for her he must have given up.
She stood up slowly, knees creaking. Her skirt was rucked up, tights tom. She adjusted her clothes, smoothing them down. They would be hidden under her coat. Isabel retraced her way, back to the party. She noticed that her shoes were caked with mud and tried to scrape some off on the path, standing on each wobbly leg in turn. There seemed to be hundreds of people standing around while shrieking children threaded their way between them. She listened and realised that Mary was drawing the raffle. There seemed no point in trying to push her way through the crowd so she leant against the building, suddenly exhausted with the effort of staying upright.
'Mum, Mum, where've you been?' Michael came zooming out of the crowd, followed closely by Katie. He ducked away from her attempt to caress his head. 'Gerroff. Where are our tickets?'
'Oh. In my pocket, I think. Hang on.' He jiggled up and down while she felt in her coat pockets.
'Hurry, Mummy,' Katie pleaded. Isabel felt very stupid and slow, as if her hands were disconnected from her brain. 'There.' She took out several strips of blue paper, which he snatched from her hand and studied intently.
'Blue, thirty-six. They picked that.'
'Oh dear.' She tried to concentrate. 'Never mind.' Michael was having none of it. He grabbed her wrist and pulled.
'Come on.' He pushed through the crowd heading for Mary, Isabel following meekly. 'Sorry,' she kept saying as she bashed into people. Her legs didn't seem to work properly. 'Sorry.'
The draw finished, the crowd started to disperse, peeling off in clumps. Michael didn't hesitate but marched straight up to Mary, dragging Isabel in his wake.
'Excuse me,' he said politely. 'But my mum's got blue, thirty-six.'
Mary turned with a smile. 'Isabel. You're a bit late.'
'Better late than never,' Isabel was stung to respond. 'Michael thinks he's won something.'
'Blue, thirty-six?' Mary looked at the list in her hand. 'Yes, it did win something. It'll have been set aside for you, in there.' She indicated the classroom.
Michael's face lit up and he rushed off to see.
'Thank you, Mary,' Isabel said, matching her son for politeness. She took Katie's hand and they went through to the classroom. Michael was standing by a small table laden with boxes and bottles of whisky, and beside him was a man. A man with a basket on his arm. Isabel stopped dead on the doorstep. Among the noise of women clearing up, clattering dishes and chatting, she could hear their male voices but couldn't make out the words.
Katie pushed past her. 'What is it? What have we won?'
Isabel followed her with reluctant steps, as if treading on broken glass.
'Here it is!' Michael's voice was triumphant. He waved a small wooden box around. 'Look? Mum.' He turned to her, then added, 'What is it?'
'Cigars, I think.' To her surprise her voice sounded quite normal. Patrick turned, his face tinged with triumph. She walked up to Michael and took the box, turning it over. 'No, cigarillos. They're little cigars.'
'Very useful.' Patrick's voice was sardonic.
'I'm sure they will be. Come along, children.'
'So these are your children.'
'Yes.' She took Katie's hand. 'Come on, Michael. Daddy'll be at home waiting for us.' She willed Michael to come to her.
'Oh, Dad won't be home for ages, he never is.' He was busy examining some of the other prizes. 'Look at that big bottle of whisky. It's just like the ones Grandpa brings us. You'd get very drunk if you had all that.'
'I should have guessed they were yours.' Patrick crouched down so he was Katie's height. 'Hello.' Katie leant into Isabel's coat, half hiding her face. He reached out and touched her hair. 'Pretty,' he said. 'Like her mother.' He stood up. He was very close to her.
'Michael, come now,' Isabel called, failing to keep anger from her voice. Michael reluctantly came to her, clutching his box of cigarillos.
'May I see?' Patrick held out his hand, and Michael handed them to him. 'These are very good. You'll enjoy them.'
Michael rolled his eyes. 'Don't be silly, I'm too young to smoke.'
'So you are. Do you know who I am?' Michael shook his head. 'Your mother works for me.'
'Worked. I worked for you. I don't anymore,' Isabel said. Patrick ignored her.
'My name's Patrick, and you are?'
'Michael.' They shook hands, Michael's hand looking small and trusting in Patrick's.
'Michael, we're going. Now.' Isabel set off, dragging Katie with her, praying that Michael would follow. She walked fast up the path that led to the car park, Katie having to trot to keep up. Another family was ahead, strolling along so Isabel had to slow down. She heard footsteps and panting behind, and then Michael was with her, puffing exaggeratedly from having run.
'Last one to the car is a big fat twit,' he shouted, and he and Katie took off into the darkness. Isabel increased her pace and overtook the dawdlers, anxious that the children might decide to hide. But they were leaning against the car when she arrived. She unlocked it and they scrambled in. She was about to get in herself, when she heard Patrick's voice.
&nbs
p; 'You forgot this.' He was holding out the basket.
'Stop following me.' She felt wedged in between the parked cars. She shut the car door so the children couldn't hear.
'You might say thank you.'
'What for?'
'Why, returning this of course.'
'I wouldn't have lost it if it hadn't been for you.' She took the basket from him, opened the driver's door and slung it onto the front passenger seat. She started to get in, but he stretched his arm across the door to prevent her.
'You shouldn't have run away from me.'
Furious, she faced him.
'You practically raped me,' she whispered angrily.
He laughed. 'Don't be ridiculous. You want me as much as I want you.'
'No.'
'Why tell lies to yourself?'
'I must go.'
'Why? Daddy won't be back for ages.' His voice was mocking.
'Go away. Just go away.' She pushed past his arm and got into the car, slamming the door shut. Her hands were trembling and it took two attempts to get the key into the ignition. She shot out of her parking space without checking her rear-view mirror, earning her an outraged honk from the car she had just missed, and accelerated away from the school.
Neil was at home when they got back.
'Had a good time?' he called from in front of the television.
The children ran in to greet him while Isabel hung back, uncertain if she could face Neil now. The phone rang and she answered it without thinking.
'I must see you,' Patrick said.
'No. Leave me alone.' But she didn't hang up.
'Don't be so melodramatic. We need to talk.'
'There's nothing to talk about.'
'You know there is. It's not fair to leave me like this.' He let the words hang in the air. It's not fair. He sighed.
'I offered you everything I have, and then you sent me that letter. You owe me some explanation. Let's meet up for lunch and talk.'
'I go swimming at lunchtimes.'
'Not every day, surely. We could go to the pub if you like.' He must have heard her sharp intake of breath and quickly carried on. 'Or somewhere else. You choose.' She pressed the phone closely to her ear as if she could pick up his thoughts through the skeins of wire that connected them, but she said nothing. She was thinking of being against the tree and letting him spread her legs apart.
His voice continued, seductive and low. 'I never took you out to lunch properly when we were together. Let me do it now.'
She hesitated. 'I don't know.'
'You owe me that much.'
'I owe you nothing after tonight.' She made her voice harsh, cold even.
'You wanted it as much as I did.'
He paused, and she knew she ought to say, no, you're mistaken. But the words wouldn't come.
'The house seems empty without you,' he said. 'I miss you.'
I miss you too, she thought. Despite everything, despite her decision. She could hear Michael and Katie's voices, high-pitched and laughing as they told their father about the fireworks. She leant her head against the wall.
'I can't be with you anymore, Patrick. It's impossible.'
'Let's be friends. Let's not end badly.'
'All right.' Her voice was little more than a whisper. 'But not the pub.'
'No, that's fine. What about that new place in town? The one off the market square.'
'Bentham's?'
'Tomorrow? At twelve thirty?'
She swallowed. 'Just to say goodbye properly. Nothing more.'
'Nothing more.'
There was a pause. Then he said, 'I'll see you there.'
'Yes.'
He put the phone down gently and after a few moments, so did she.
- ooo -
Isabel drove past Bentham's, looking for a parking space. She passed Patrick's car and felt a stab of recognition. A few cars on there was a space and she reversed into it, pulling hard on the steering wheel to get her estate car to fit in. It was difficult to concentrate, she was in such a hurry to be there. She checked her make-up in the mirror. Her eyes were bright, cheeks flushed like a woman going to meet her lover.
She examined herself more closely. Low-cut cardigan, buttoned down the front and no shirt underneath so it clung to her breasts, worn with a wrap-around skirt. Dressed for action. She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the steering wheel. Who was she kidding? This wasn't to say goodbye, this was to start up all over again. She had even arranged for the children to go to Helen's house for tea that evening so she could dawdle over lunch. Dawdle all the way to bed.
I've made my decision, and it's the right one, she thought. I must stick to it. I can't leave the children, and the children need to stay here, so I have to stay here. Going to Rome with Patrick is impossible. But it's what you want, her internal voice answered. To be with him, starting out again, the excitement.
I am addicted to him, she thought. And he was waiting for her. She had only to get out of the car and go to him. The alternative was cold turkey. Hard, but not impossible. Not slow withdrawal. The words, slow withdrawal made her stomach contract, thinking of Patrick, that agonising, delicious moment just before he plunged back in. No. She sat up. Don't think of it. Think of the children. Think of Michael and Katie. I have to get away, she thought. I can't be with him. Get away. Get away now. She started the car and shot off, heart pumping, turning off at random. A sign to the station caught her eye and she turned into the road, parked and went to the ticket office.
'When's the next train?'
'Where to?'
'Anywhere.' The ticket man looked at her as if she was mad.
'The Intercity to London should be here in five minutes.'
'Fine. A cheap day return please.' She fumbled with her purse, handed the money over, took the ticket. Milbridge station was old-fashioned, complete with waiting room. She stood in it, pretending to flick through ancient copies of Country Life, her heart thumping. She half expected Patrick to turn up and drag her off, although she knew that was impossible. She'd be safe on the train, safe from Patrick. Safe from herself. The train pulled in. She stepped up into the carriage then paused, one foot on the platform, one in the carriage. She could go back; she'd be only a little late. She thought of Patrick waiting for her, how he'd feel at being stood up. It seemed wrong to just run out on him. She wavered, half in, half out. The guard came up, peaked cap jauntily on the back of his head.
'All right, love?' She looked at him blankly. 'Need a hand there?'
'No, thank you. I can manage.' She moved forwards into the carriage, and the door slammed shut behind her.
- ooo -
Isabel aimlessly trawled down Knightsbridge looking in shop windows. There was so much stuff, but everything either looked like something she had anyway or so radically different she knew she wouldn't wear it. She had a bulging wardrobe full of clothes she didn't wear anyway. It seemed wasteful to add to it. She suddenly remembered that she'd arranged for Justine to come round and 'do' her wardrobe at the end of the week. She stood looking at a red bias-cut dress, head on one side. Now she had lost some weight and had firmed up it might look good. It was certainly different from everything else she had.
The shop was not the sort she usually went into, thinking it too young for her. It struck her that for most of her married life she had been trying to look older than she was, to make up for the fact that she was younger than most of Neil's colleagues' wives. And now she was older. She had missed out on being young. She went into the shop and tried the dress on. She tried to look at the back view, peering over her shoulder. It looked good on her, clinging with a low back. Too good, in fact. It was a fuck-me dress, to go with the fuck-me shoes. And the fuck-me attitude. Don't think of Patrick, she told herself, which immediately made her yearn for him.
It's only sex, she told herself. An addiction. Lust not love. Oh dear. She sat down on a little stool, the red dress swirling round her. Her hair frizzed out in a halo around her face. All that swimmi
ng's doing it no good, whatever it's doing to my body. She examined one lock, bursting with split ends. Perhaps I should cut it all off. She put her hair up, holding it with one hand and turning from side to front to get the full effect. She couldn't imagine herself with short hair.
She stared at her reflection. She looked sexy in the dress, felt sexy. But what was the point when you can't have sex? Or at least, you can't have sex with the man you lust after. It was so unfair. She loved Neil, she would never leave Neil and the children. But it was... She bit her lip, thinking. It was safe. Dear, darling, reliable Neil. Safe as houses. But she wanted more. Perhaps if I'd slept around, had more boyfriends, become more experienced I wouldn't feel like this. I'd be content to settle down. I'd know that the grass isn't greener. She sighed.
'You all right?' An assistant stuck her head round the curtain.
Isabel jumped up. 'Yes, fine.' The assistant gave her a swift, calculating look.
'That looks good.'
'Yes.' Isabel sighed again. 'But when would I wear it?'
'At parties, out to dinner, clubbing. Whatever. It's a great dress on you. You ought to get it.'
Isabel looked at the sexy Isabel reflected in the mirror. It was nice to know that she could look like that. If Patrick saw her in it... But Patrick wasn't going to see her in it. 'I'm not going to take it. I love it, but I can't see when I'm going to wear it.'
'Pity.' The assistant withdrew with a shrug and a rattle of curtain rings, while Isabel slowly took off the dress and put her own clothes back on again. She left the shop and carried on, stopping at the corner by the tube. She didn't want to go back to the station to catch a train home, but nor did she feel like going into Harvey Nicks and risking more depressing sessions in changing rooms. Besides, she should go clothes shopping after Justine's visit, not before. What was the point, though, of looking sexy, feeling sexy, when your husband didn't care? She turned the corner into Sloane Street, thinking she'd walk down and go to Peter Jones and look at kitchenware. Her shaggy-haired reflection marched alongside her, past expensive dress shops and a hairdresser's. On impulse she turned in.