Love After Love

by Alex Hourston

  Love After Love

  ALEX HOURSTON

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by the author

  Copyright

  1

  I fell in love with a laugh, though it was not the sound, which was not beautiful – it held the suggestion of phlegm, for he was and remains a smoker; a filthy habit, kissing him stinks – but the laughter was for me and it carried in it delight. I fell in love and found myself altered in the most profound way.

  *

  I looked like shit, that’s for sure; straight off a flight, though it was only internal, my eyes dry, my hair just fuzz and the seat of my trousers bagging. I was acknowledging all this in a wall of mirror, waiting to check in to my mid-grade hotel, when he joined the queue behind me. He smiled, and I was struck by his height. If you drew a line out from his shoulder, it would skim the top of my head, just. Then:

  ‘It is,’ he said. ‘It’s you. I thought so,’ and I turned to him and there was the laugh, though it didn’t work at once. He tipped his head back to let it out and I saw his teeth, the pink inside of his mouth, heard that final throaty catch. A rushed shave, perhaps, for he had left a little square of stubble beneath the curve of his chin. He put his hand up to the place as I noticed it.

  ‘Hi!’ I said and I knew that I knew him, but had no idea from where. I felt his appeal though, already. I remember that.

  ‘I always wonder who I’m going to bump into at these things,’ he said. He wore his hair a little longer and less considered than most of the men I know, and his style of dress: a well-washed shirt and ancient shoes, told me nothing.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, which was a lie. I avoid my colleagues for the most part – too much jockeying for position, too much need – then he hugged me and it was immediately retro; smoke and wool, the warmed remains of a lemony cologne, and I had it. Adam. University. The Masters year. Very much on the edge of it all. There was the obvious satisfaction at placing him.

  ‘Are you speaking today?’ he asked, when he’d let me go.

  ‘No.’ I said. ‘Just here to listen. You?’

  ‘This afternoon. In fact I need to go and prepare. It’s lovely to see you, Nancy. I hope we can catch up later.’

  His stride was long and flat-footed and his shoes made slapping sounds as he left.

  I found my room three floors up and midway down a thin dim stretch of corridor. It was mainly TV; a huge flat screen angled over the bed which showed a soundless picture of the hotel at night and a menu that the remote control didn’t influence. There was a desk set into the wall with a spray of hotel stationery at one end and at the other, a kettle, a cupful of worn tea sachets and a circle of UHT pods overlapping like the petals of a flower, which pleased me. The bed itself was queen-sized and wrapped tightly in a throw of chocolate-selection purple. I opened the window the inch that it permitted and took a few deep breaths. There was silence, save for the rumble and clatter of someone else’s room service.

  I love a university town. Dump me in one and I swear I’d know it just from the feel. The cycle of term is so comforting; you are always so definitively placed. I told him all of this, later.

  ‘Which is your favourite?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say. I’ll need to do some research.’

  ‘I suppose there will be the perfect size?’ he said.

  ‘Most likely. Let’s make a study. Write a book.’

  At that, I imagine, we kissed.

  I straightened the room; loosened the sheets and put the throw in the bottom of the wardrobe with my case. I hung up my suit, shook out my underwear and laid my nightclothes on the pillow. The shower was tiny, and sputtered, and I turned carefully in the thin hard beams of chalky water for the time it took to wash the soap out of my hair, then changed into a dress I’d never worn before; a tea dress from a catalogue that had seemed too whimsical when it arrived but was perfect for a brief stay in a new place that I’d likely never go back to. It all felt sufficiently strange as I set off bare-legged in the cold sun of a late spring. No destination and unsure if this was a problem or a gift.

  It got warmer, out in the streets. I walked up to the castle, rode a tram and tried to see it all as an adventure. The sleeves on the dress were cut high and I was distracted by the sight of my own bare arms. I thought perhaps I’d shop, and ten minutes on, had bought another dress with a tight waist and full skirt, and a tailored blouse, both with some woman other than me in mind. I checked my watch – two more empty hours – and this felt tricky all of a sudden, so I slotted in amongst the workers in the window of a noodle bar. The waiter brought me a bowl of thin scalding broth whose first sip skinned the roof of my mouth.

  The email had said to meet in the lobby for introductory drinks. I took the lift alone, smoothing down my front anxiously as I dropped and when the doors opened, saw straight away a good-sized crowd. It took a little time to cross the floor, time enough to realise that I knew no one. The lady who had checked me in stood now behind a long low table of laminated name badges. Next to her, a sheet of paper rested on a music stand, reading: ‘Welcome to Edinburgh, Therapists!’ above a clip art image of a brain.

  ‘Are you a delegate?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s me,’ I replied, and pointed at my name. His was a couple of rows across. She handed me a cloth bag with a lot of information and a bottle of water inside. By the refreshments – rows of upturned cups on saucers and silver platters of custard creams – I looked through it all, for something to do. In due course, we were taken in.

  Adam was on second, and when he walked up to the podium, I thought straight away of the big bad wolf, cartoon-mean, sitting up in Grandma’s bed. He looked uncomfortably tall, narrow-faced and muzzled. His smile was wide and toothy and showed appetite. He introduced himself as doctor and a teacher and held a little deck of notes before him that he didn’t use. He spoke well; his subject was digital dystopia and I saw that he had found himself a niche. He was lucid and funny and sincere and I felt the room warm in response to him. The woman next to me leaned across and whispered:

  ‘God. He’s rather twinkly, isn’t he?’

  Each laugh of the crowd broke higher, and when he was done, the clapping was fast and there were even the rumblings of a cheer. He laid a palm on his chest in acknowledgement and I felt a little pleasure of my own at his success. Towards the end of the applause, we made some sort of brief contact across the space and he took his seat at the end of a row in front of me, held aside with a card reading RESERVED. I watched him fold his long legs underneath him, and as he turned to hang his coat, he gave me that smile, which was beginning to do its work. My neighbour saw it too, and showed her discomfort with a lengthy excavation of her bag.

  The afternoon was long and overheated and artificially lit, and I spent it watching the back of him. He settled himself askew, his spine a shallow bracket, one shoulder dropped. He might have been asleep but for the scribbles he made now and then in his book. It made me feel bad for my own lack of attention but I couldn’t fix on what was being said. His jumper was a tactile mossy green; looking at it m
ade me want to sleep. When he lowered his head, a strip of skin was exposed between the collar of his shirt and his hair. The air in the conference room thickened and staled. My contact lenses set solid on my eyes.

  He found me later at the makeshift bar. Our corner of the lobby was beginning to feel like home; the same girls who had poured the tea served white, red or lager now, off the stained table-cloth, and an afternoon spent together seemed to have made friends of us all. I stood with a woman, Sue, about my age, who practised out of Loughborough but had plans to teach, and Chloe, newly graduated.

  ‘Now the thing I always ask,’ Chloe said, ‘is do you prefer the term “patient” or “client”? I really can’t decide. I mean, I get the whole point about not medicalising the process, but don’t you just find “client” so transactional?’

  ‘Shall I get us another?’ I said. ‘Here. Give me your glasses.’

  Sue handed me hers, sighed deeply and began to answer.

  ‘Hello,’ he said and the two of them stopped.

  ‘Nancy.’ He kissed me twice, his hair a whisper on my cheek and I realised I’d been waiting for him.

  ‘I think that’s the end of the free booze actually,’ Chloe said. ‘They only give you two, you know. It says so on the bumph.’

  ‘There’s always the bar,’ I said, then somebody suggested tapas. There was a loaded pause, and people began to say yes.

  We were twelve, in the end, out of maybe sixty. Ann took charge. She’d been the last on the programme to speak, and had done it well, if mechanically, on the subject of her book, several copies of which she carried, clamped against her side. She was a tiny woman with a thick curved bob and a pair of men’s brogues. She would have looked good in the shirt I’d bought earlier.

  ‘Anyone need to go back to their rooms?’ she asked. ‘In fact, no. That’ll kill it. Let’s get out of here. I’ll leave these with the concierge.’

  She moved her books from under her arm. I had read as far as: The Real and the Actual in Therapeutic – on the uppermost, when she flipped them against her chest with a coy smile.

  ‘Back in just a mo,’ she said.

  I went to the loo and made a little empty chatter with the other women as I took the shine off my face and darkened my eyelids, though I went no further than that. The men waited outside, five to our seven, and as we walked towards them they paused from their chat and looked up at us in some gesture of appreciation or respect. I smirked at the oddness of it.

  ‘I know the way,’ Ann said outside and we set off after her. The restaurant was a short stroll in warm weather. The first few roads were narrow and empty between tall old yellow buildings. Strange pockets of sound reached us from groups in adjacent streets having better fun and we quietened at that, pulling apart into a straggly row. Adam walked ahead, listening to Ann. His trousers were too long and had frayed at the bottom. Ann talked about tapas. ‘It’s so sociable, isn’t it?’ and the way that, at this place, which was so good, the specials changed twice a day. He knocked his elbow against his side now and then in a funny little tic, and I thought I remembered that from before. I heard someone at the back ask: ‘What do you call a group of therapists?’ and laughed with the rest, though I hadn’t heard the punchline.

  Then we arrived and straight away I loved the place, which was dark and low and uninhibited. The table was a squash, with one long bench running along the wall side and a row of wooden school chairs on the other. People filled the seats first and when it came to me, I took the bench. I edged down to the mid-point, the wall cool and uneven at my back and stopped across from him, one spot down. Luke, a shy man with rimless glasses and a restless manner, probably twenty-five, took the place to my left. ‘Hi again,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth and moved his napkin to his lap. Chloe, on my right, said: ‘Blimey. Isn’t it dark in here? We won’t be able to see what we’re eating.’ She lit the torch on her phone and bounced its tiny beam between our faces, like a country copper or a kid telling ghost stories.

  ‘Look,’ she said, at the space next to my head. ‘People have written on the wall.’

  I turned. Under my hand, the plaster leaked moist cold, though when I felt my palm, it was dry.

  ‘Secrets!’ she said. ‘How about this? It was me who told my best friend’s husband, she read, and looked back at the rest of us with a salacious delight.

  Behind me, I heard Adam speak. ‘The therapist’s stock-in-trade,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ someone asked.

  ‘Secrets,’ he replied. ‘That’s what my wife says.’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Luke.

  Chloe knelt on the bench and moved the little cone of light along.

  ‘It’s in Spanish, this one. Anyone speak Spanish?’ she asked.

  ‘I do, a bit,’ said Ann but when Chloe read it out, she couldn’t help.

  Then: ‘My boss is stealing and he knows I know.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Luke.

  ‘No. Bollocks,’ said Ann. ‘Wish fulfilment, or else the staff just make it up. Let’s get some food.’

  I wanted to say that it didn’t matter; that the messages signalled transgression and charged the room, but I let it go.

  They brought us sherry first; a couple of inches in tulip-shaped glasses that smelt of tar and raisins, and bowls of under-ripe green olives whose meat was tender and bland. There was a short chaotic discussion over choices until it was agreed that Ann should order for us all. She shouted up her selection to the waiter and I listened to the fast Spanish guitar and thought about the way it drove the pace of the place and reached in and sped my pulse.

  ‘So you two already know each other then, do you?’ Chloe asked in a lull, looking between Adam and me. ‘How come?’

  ‘We studied together,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh?’ she said.

  ‘I retrained. I was a mature student,’ he replied, good-natured. ‘Both Londoners up north.’

  ‘And you hung out? We have a load of mature students too, but we don’t exactly … get that involved with each other.’

  ‘Ah, Manchego,’ called Luke, as the first of the food arrived. Thin, pale slices of cheese, arranged in a wheel. I took one, stippled with holes.

  ‘No, actually it’s Mahon,’ said Ann. ‘It’s presented differently, do you see? Nancy, you don’t have to take the rind off. You eat it all, you know.’

  The cheese was salty and dry, almost granular. Oil lay in a ribbon across its surface, then tarragon torn in rough handfuls and peppercorn chippings that were fruity, close to citrus, and stung my mouth, sending me back to my wine. I had chosen the bottle, a candied Albariño that narrowed into tartness at the end.

  ‘No. We didn’t mix much, either,’ he said. ‘Did we, Nancy?’

  *

  I remembered three older students, all men, who came and left according to the timetable and worked much harder than the rest of us. There had been a party at the close of the year in one of their homes. A hot day, a trampoline at the back. Turning sausages with a beer. A wife – two wives – and somebody’s kids. A day of a certain kitsch appeal.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  He watched me remembering, but didn’t help out.

  *

  I had gone with Nat. The whole class was invited and we ummed and ahhed and it was food, in the end, that swung it; we were living on chocolate fingers and Fray Bentos pies by then and had begun to fantasise about what we might eat if we went. We took the bus with a bottle of better than usual wine and when it passed into the suburbs, we started to laugh and couldn’t stop until we got to the front door and a woman opened it and we were suddenly, inexplicably, our best polite selves.

  *

  More dishes arrived. My favourite: little stubs of burnt chorizo in an inch of oily wine. Caper berries and padron peppers, blackened and collapsed. Some kind of deep tomatoey stew; I thought I saw a tentacle break the surface. Luke was greedy and slopped as he spooned.

  ‘Do you remember in the summer?’ I asked. �
�That barbecue. Who was the guy?’

  ‘Philip,’ he said, way ahead of me.

  ‘That’s right. Do you see him still?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ A puff of amusement.

  *

  We had come ready to laugh; at the women’s hair and jeans and their submission to small domestic lives. To show them what they missed and prove what we were not and still thought we never would be, but the wives were kind and interested and amused. They had jobs and attentive men. The food was as good, better, than we were used to. The salad was home-grown. For a while, we tried to please.

  ‘Didn’t we …?’ I asked him. ‘Wasn’t there a big game of hide-and-seek?’

  *

  That was later. We had started to show off. There were three cute kids and we competed to be named their favourite. Someone had insisted (was it me?) on making the cocktail we’d been drinking all that year and Nat and I ran to the off-licence for cider and the necessary alcopop, rolling papers and more Silk Cut. It was a scorching day and my feet were slippery on the plastic of my flip-flops. I misjudged the kerb and stubbed a toe, yanking the thong right out of the sole. I hopped all the way back to the house, arms round Nat, pissing ourselves, my toenail jagged and my foot black with dust and blood. One of the adults found a plaster and suggested I clean up in a downstairs loo. It was a tiny room and I couldn’t get my foot up into the sink which made me laugh all the more.

  ‘Are you all right in there?’ somebody called from outside.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ I replied.

  We made a messy jug of booze. When I got up to mix some more, one of the women pushed my glass in from the table’s edge. Then we started the game and I ran for the end of the garden, zigzagging brainlessly trying to find a place to hide. I crouched in the damp dark circle beneath the trampoline, delighted with myself, my head low, legs pulled in, heart banging against my knees. The dead grass smelt bad and I tried to hold my breath though it made me dizzy, but nobody found me and I had to come out in the end when I heard them all on the terrace, calling for more drink.