by R J Gould
‘What do you mean?’
‘At my hotel.’
‘For the night? We’ve only known each other a matter of minutes.’
‘You are a very attractive woman, Fiona.’
‘Well, that young man over there is good-looking, but that doesn’t mean I want to go to bed with him.’
‘You’ve registered with JusttheOne for the same reason as me. Perhaps I’m just quicker than you to reach the inevitable outcome.’
‘Obviously so. I would imagine you’ve had rather a lot of practice, haven’t you?’
‘There is no rule about one strike.’
‘It’s called JusttheOne, not just the three hundred and sixty five.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. It is a search for the One, but it can take several attempts. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘But you’re not looking for the one, are you? Not with your houses in London and the country, your best hotel in the world, your boat and all. You’re just looking for a bit on the side. Married, no doubt!’ Fiona was standing and feeling rather flush. She felt a trickle of sweat run from her neck down to the small of her back. This arrogant man now had a fixed smirk, which intensified his wrinkles.
‘You are rather naïve, Fiona. I suggest we part as friends who merely have a difference of opinion.’
‘I’ll say,’ she called out as she stormed off. As she walked in the cool, snow-filled air towards Liverpool Street Station, her fury turned to colossal guilt as it struck her that what she was accusing this married man of doing was little different to what she was doing behind Henry’s back. Not the desire for instant sex, but otherwise exactly the same. And she liked sex and was hardly getting any so what if she had spent the night with Charlie? Was the only obstacle the fact that Henry expected her home at about eleven after her night out with her long-lost friend? She had been worried about any wrong message her fashionable boots might give, but now she was glad of her choice as she stepped through pavements that had a steadily deepening white dusting.
According to his profile, Ben worked in the film industry. Fiona had arranged to meet him at Lamb & Flag, a pub in Covent Garden. She didn’t fancy seeing another man and she didn’t feel like sitting in another pub, but equally she didn’t want to break a promise. How would she feel if someone had arranged to meet her and not turned up? No, she would go, be polite for half an hour or so, and then tell Ben how much she enjoyed the evening but had to leave.
Fiona reckoned that Ben’s photo had been professionally taken, perhaps by one of his film colleagues. It was in black and white with a shaft of light illuminating one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. He had a confident relaxed demeanour with wavy hair swept back, hard to tell, but perhaps into a ponytail. He was wearing a light coloured shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a dark thin tie knotted well below his neck. So very different to Henry. So very different to Reginald. And Charlie, too, for that matter. He looked interesting and his film work sounded exciting. He had name-dropped meetings with Hugh Grant and Helena Bonham Carter in his profile. Films, that sounds exciting, tell me more, she had written during their brief email dialogue. His response had been that he “would reveal all if they met.”
The Lamb & Flag was easy to find and a pleasant surprise; a small wooden-fronted pub at the end of a short alleyway ignored by the nearby hordes of tourists. Ivy-clad hanging baskets added to the welcoming feel. Fiona thought the building was genuine, though appreciated that it was hard to tell original from retro. There was an old world charm when she stepped inside with low beams, wood panelling, bare pine floorboards, and a large stone fireplace. There was a log fire burning and even before she could feel its warmth Fiona felt comforted by the reassuring glow. It was surprisingly quiet, probably because the after-work drinkers had gone home and the nighttime revellers had yet to appear. Two girls were chatting away at one table and at another sat the immediately recognisable but highly disappointing Ben. Fiona’s renewed optimistic feeling was instantly shattered and she considered turning round and leaving. But he turned towards her and smiled, so she was stuck. He looked like a 1960s biker who hadn’t changed attire or persona for the last forty years. He had long, straggly hair and a knotted beard, the latter new since the photo was taken. Seeing the black and white photo she had assumed he was blond, but the live Ben’s hair was grey turning white. His open denim shirt exposed part of a chest with similarly unkempt grey hair, and his leather jacket was far too tight for his podgy body. He stood up to greet her, a small stooped stature.
‘You must be Fiona,’ he said, without any show of emotion, no welcoming smile. ‘What do you want to drink?’
Fiona was already rather drunk and sensitive to the risk of another Charlie-type assault. ‘Water, please. Sparkling.’
Ben returned with the water and a pint of very dark beer. ‘Fullers London Porter,’ he said with authority, noting her looking at his glass.
‘Oh,’ she replied, unable to think of anything more meaningful to add about just a beer.
‘Can’t get this at many places any more. You can get Fullers London Pride, but it’s not nearly as good,’ he continued.
‘Oh,’ she repeated.
‘No, not many places do this any more,’ Ben reiterated.
He sat down and talked, a slow drone, with Fiona trying to show a modicum of interest out of politeness. It turned out that Ben was a motorcyclist who transported reels of film and posters between different companies and agencies in the Soho region.
‘You mentioned Helena Bonham Carter in your profile.’
‘Yes, a while back she asked if I could get her a Diet Coke. Very polite.’
‘And Hugh Grant?’
‘Yes, Hugh. Now he wanted some Pringles so I nipped out and got them for him.’
‘Did you call him Hugh to his face?’
‘Of course not. Mr Grant.’
And that was the end of Fiona’s adventure of discovery about Ben’s career in films. She couldn’t get excited about the central London journeys of a motorbike courier, whatever his cargo. He might just as well have been delivering pizzas.
She was finding it quite difficult to look at him. Like Charlie, his profile photo was considerably out of date, and his face was furrowed by a permanent frown. Ben was not a happy man. His long-standing partner, Beth, had recently left him after twenty-plus years, claiming that he had become so depressing to live with that it was dragging her down. A week or so after her departure he had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand, setting his bedroom ablaze. Fortunately, Beth and her new partner had come to the flat to collect her possessions and had managed to douse both the fire and Ben with buckets of water. He’d sat dripping wet on the couch in the living room while Beth collected her things, listening to her complaining how her stuff had been damaged, some by fire and some by water.
‘We should have just left him to burn,’ a distraught Ben had heard her say.
Fiona drank her water quickly and declined a second drink. ‘My babysitter has to leave early tonight,’ she lied.
‘You didn’t say you had a child in your profile.’
‘I was worried it might put people off.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would have done.’
So she left with Ben thinking she had a young child but knowing nothing else, nothing truthful, about herself because all he had done was talk about his problems.
It was bitterly cold as she stepped out and took the short walk towards Covent Garden. She went to the piazza market and watched the stall holders pack up their wares before sauntering back to the underground station with little enthusiasm to return to Henry but equally no great desire to continue her internet search for a new man.
‘I hate you, Reginald,’ she said out loud.
Henry Derbyshire
He heard the rattle of keys and the creaking of the hinges as the front door opened, then the soft thud as it closed. It was 10.46 p.m.
‘Henry,’ Fiona called. He didn’t answer. �
�There you are,’ she said cheerfully, as she entered the dining room. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Look at all those books, you’ve hardly moved since I left.’ He remained silent. ‘Work gone well? The weather’s taken a turn for the worst, have you noticed? It’s snowing.’
‘Have you had a good evening?’ Henry asked, fighting hard to quell the tremor in his voice.
‘Lovely. She’s hardly changed since school days. Just as bubbly and friendly as back then.’
‘I know.’
‘How can you know? You’ve never met her.’
‘I know what you’ve been doing.’
‘Fiona reddened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not interested in playing games or hearing lies.’
‘What games? I was out with –’
‘I know you’ve met a man.’ Now it was Fiona’s turn to remain silent. ‘I got a call from Michael Clapton. By chance he came across your advert. He’s looking for a partner on the internet. Just like you, it seems.’
‘It’s not an advert, it’s a profile.’
‘That’s hardly the point.’
‘You’ve met my friend Sally Bowman, haven’t you?’ Fiona said, struggling to regain a lighter tone. ‘She uses internet dating and we got talking, and I was just curious to see what it was like. I just did it for fun, Henry.’
‘I’m not stupid, Fiona. I might not be a computer expert but I know enough to be able to access the Internet History. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of visits to JustforYou.’
‘JusttheOne.’
‘The name is immaterial!’ Henry had raised his voice, a rare occurrence, and Fiona felt humiliated. There was nothing she could say to appease him; she had been deceitful and she was ashamed.
Sitting opposite Henry, she noticed the word “deceit” written in large lettering on a sheet of paper on his side of the table. . She began reading his lesson notes as she gathered her thoughts. From the word “deceit” arrows led to circled statements written in his usual neat, small handwriting. Like his personality, she reflected, small and neat. Nina Todd has Gone, by Lesley Glaister, Henry had written, and in the circle below, Her single act of deceit goes on to haunt her – there is no escape.
‘If it’s any consolation, I realise how stupidly I was behaving this evening, how unfair to you it all was. I won’t be repeating the exercise.’
She read on. ‘You and I both know that there is no such thing as good.’ An interesting quote, Fiona thought, taken aback by her inability to focus on the conversation with Henry. She stroked the soft velvet on the seat of her chair; she gazed at the two abstract clowns in the painting above Henry’s left ear; she looked across to the ajar door and wondered whether she should make a run for it. She didn’t look at Henry, but finally continued speaking.
‘I just feel something is missing in my life, Henry, in our lives together. I know we get on splendidly and you offer great support and care and affection, but it’s as if, as if we … oh, I don’t know, I can’t explain.’
‘Well, you had better try if we are to have any chance of, of staying together,’ Henry declared.
Silently, Fiona started to cry. Henry stood, but not to console her as he always did when she was upset. His behaviour when they had first met and she had told him about Reginald’s deceit came flashing back. The memory of his kindness on that evening increased her despondency and the tears flowed faster.
‘I’m making some tea,’ he said as he walked towards the door. ‘You can gather your thoughts and we can discuss it further.’
‘Discuss it further,’ she mocked. ‘You make it sound like an academic debate. Sod bloody tea, just come back and sit down!’
Henry acquiesced.
‘To be blunt,’ Fiona continued, ‘it’s the physical side. There’s no passion, no excitement. God, Henry, sometimes I think you’re more interested in making tea than sex.’ Henry remained silent, now with head bowed. Fiona spurted out random unconnected statements, hopelessly failing to encapsulate her feelings. ‘I’m not obsessed with it. I appreciate we’re both getting on. I’m not asking for much. Just sometimes a bit of enthusiasm. Some ardour. Otherwise we’re just like brother and sister.’ She looked across at Henry, who was shaking. ‘Oh, Henry, just forget it.’
He stood then sat again. ‘I can only apologise for that part of our marriage, Fiona. I’m aware of my inadequacy and have absolutely no idea how to deal with it. The thing is, it’s nothing to do you, with us. I have a … I’ve always had a … a difficulty with women.’
Fearing she might be opening a can of worms, Fiona was not keen to continue the conversation. She was emotionally shattered; it had been an awful evening, and the alcohol had made her drowsy. This can wait until another time, she thought, as she stood up and headed for the door.
‘Not now,’ she muttered.
‘No, stay, I want you back here,’ Henry ordered. She did so. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ He paused. ‘I’ve had a relationship with a boy.’
Fiona looked across at her husband, shocked that there was this disgusting part of his personality that she had no idea about. ‘Do you mean, you mean … you’re a paedophile?’
‘No, of course I’m not. It was when I was young, at boarding school. We were both teenagers.’
A somewhat relieved Fiona listened as he proceeded to tell her what had happened, stuttering and red-faced. Of how, like many of the boys in that particular boarding school, he had experimented with a schoolmate. Everyone knew it went on, teachers included. But matron had caught him with Paul Langdon, quite literally with their trousers down. Not engaged in the act itself, he euphemistically assured Fiona, just touching each other. Matron had reported it to the Head, and he was summonsed for an interview with his mother called in, the most embarrassing experience of his life. In front of her, he had to describe what he had been doing, the Head pressing and seeming to take delight in finding out about the intricate details. The irony was that he had never done such a thing before and he only did so this time because Paul had offered a bundle of The Victor comics in return. Paul, a popular boy with staff and pupils, had claimed Henry had coerced him into participating.
That was it as far as feeling comfortable in that school went. The other boys thought it was a hoot and even though many were as guilty as him, intense teasing and bullying followed. He acquired the nickname of Homohenry. And that single experience, with his mother involved and being so ashamed of him and his father being told second hand and hardly speaking to him for the duration of his next visit home, had impacted on his relationships – or lack of them – ever since.
‘Fiona, you are the first person I’ve told since school days. Maybe that’s for the better. I feel relieved that you know, it’s like a release of something. Do you think you can accept me? Can we try to hold on to our marriage?’
Fiona didn’t know. She had lots of questions about what had happened to him in the forty-odd years between that experience and meeting her. Had he still been a virgin when they met? She didn’t have the energy for an inquisition. For the time being, there was no alternative; appeasement seemed the best way forward.
‘I hope so, Henry, I hope so. We have Clarissa’s engagement party coming up in a couple of days’ time. Let’s get that out of the way and see what happens after it.’ She stood up and moved towards the door while Henry remained seated. ‘It’s nearly two. and you’ve got work in the morning,’ she continued. ‘Enough talking for now, let’s get some sleep. If you don’t mind I’d like to be alone tonight. I’ll take the spare bedroom and see you at breakfast.’
‘I’ll just clear my books then I’ll be up. Goodnight, Fiona.’
‘Goodnight, Henry.’
These words were uttered without a smile, without affection, without eye contact.
Clarissa Montague
Clarissa was sat at her desk, unable to concentrate despite needing to complete a major report ahead of presenting to a key client. Si had been out the office all wee
k so the showdown was yet to take place, but he was due in after lunch. Hardly a word had been exchanged between her and Wayne since Saturday. Each day he left before she got up and returned when she was in bed. She had no idea where he went or what he was doing during his non-working hours.
Her mother had called on Sunday morning to let her know that she had found the perfect outfit for the party. A disinterested Clarissa replied with a ‘yes, I’m fine, just a little tired’ when asked if she was all right because she seemed rather subdued.
Was there even going to be a party? At this rate, no.
The office phone rang. ‘Hi, Tim … Yeah, it’s pretty well finished, I just need to redo a couple of charts then I’m all set … Yeah, I know. Look, give me half an hour and I’ll be done.’
She put down the phone and returned to her PowerPoint. The phone rang again and she snatched it impatiently. ‘Hi Sarah … Yeah, I’m fine, how are you? … Good … Well, I’ve got a pretty busy week, I’m not sure I can deliver before next Monday or Tuesday … I know it’s important, everything I do is important … Look, I’ll do my best but I can’t promise … Yeah, bye.’
‘Bitch,’ she muttered as she replaced the phone in its holder. Just as she placed her hands back on the keyboard the phone rang again. Clarissa let out an exasperating sigh. It was Wayne.
‘Hello there, nice to hear from you,’ she said, in a tone that could be taken as genuine or sarcastic. She didn’t know herself which it was.
‘How are you? … Good … Yeah, I guess I’m OK.’
Tim was striding towards her. When he reached her desk he pointed at his watch. Clarissa lifted her hand and extended her fingers to indicate she needed five minutes, but Tim continued to stand right in front of her, his arms folded.
‘Wayne, I’m going to have to call you back, I’m really sorry, it’ll be in about ten minutes.’