by R J Butler
Doesn’t your boyfriend kiss you like that?
Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend. I feel her shoulder tense up and realise I’d broached a sensitive subject. I kiss her again to erase this momentarily tension. I study her face – her warm eyes, the flawless skin, the defined cheekbones. Had I ever kissed anyone so beautiful?
Everything seemed perfect, as if all the roads of my life had led to this one moment: to kiss Dawn, in this wonderful place, at this moment. Everything that happened tonight seemed to want it to happen: going right back to when she ditched her other party for ours, to my swapping seats with Stephen, to her coming in at the moment a spare seat offered itself next to me, everyone else leaving before us, the quiet pathway, the perfect light. And already, on reflection, it all seemed so easy, so natural. Couldn’t work out how the Scottish couple fitted in but hey…
We cross the final bridge leading to the tiny car park, and stop halfway across and kiss again. The canal flows lazily below us carrying little islands of dead leaves. She pulls me tightly against her; I feel the shape of her breasts under our layers and my heartbeat quickens a fraction more. In the near distance a church, its spire reaching into the night sky, its shadow falling over the grass. And so finally, we reach our cars, parked only yards from each other.
That was such a lovely evening, says Dawn, dreamily. I can’t believe you kissed me. Men are usually too frightened to even talk to me. And you kiss so well. Her hand strokes my cheek; her smile is melting me. Are you working tomorrow? I nod. Good, I’ll see you then. But listen, Robbie, don’t ignore me tomorrow, eh? Don’t pretend this didn’t happen.
Don’t worry, I won’t ignore you. How could I, I thought.
And so, after one final, lingering, time-stopping kiss, we part. I wait for her to leave, blowing a kiss as her taillights disappear down the High Street.
I drive back in a haze, arrived home and had no recollection of the drive. I keep expecting guilt to hit me – but it doesn’t, maybe it will later. But I’d been right about fifth December after all; something did happen, the objective was achieved, and how.
It is about 12.30; Emily is already in bed. I sit downstairs, listening to the silence of the house, wife and children asleep, wondering how exactly I managed to achieve such a result, replaying the course of events in my mind. Ginger comes out to see me. I’m pleased to see him. Finally I go to bed, undressing quietly so not to wake Emily. I slide into bed and she asks sleepily, Was it a good night?
Yes, I say. It was. A really good night.
Thursday, 6th December
Given the choice between updating job descriptions for clerical staff on temporary contracts, working out sick pay for a long-term absentee or reliving last night by writing my diary, I choose the latter. I’ll stay late and catch-up, I tell myself.
I woke up this morning feeling great, and positively jumped out of bed. But as I drove the six miles to work the clouds of doubt began to descend – Dawn knew I was married, had kids, etc, although she didn’t know about the cat. And she would have gone home last night and realised the folly of what we’d done. She’d come to work this morning saying Rob, last night, we shouldn’t have done that. It mustn’t happen again. It was stupid of us. And I would agree. It had been stupid; what were we thinking of? So why did my heart flip when I saw her from a distance this morning? She came in, carrying a folder under her arm, saw me, smiled the briefest of smiles at me, then disappeared. I spent the next ten minutes trying to decipher that smile and what it meant. All my conclusions were in the negative and my last slither of morning enthusiasm evaporated.
Ernie came up to my desk carrying a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and an envelope in the other. Get way from me with that, I said, eyeing the mistletoe nervously.
He even laughed in a Yorkshire accent. It’s for Marjorie in accounts, he said, dropping the letter in my in-tray.
I hope she knows what’s in store for her.
Don’t you worry, my posh friend, I know what I’m doing.
Posh friend? Where did that come from, I wondered?
I spent some time googling Dawn’s name. It comes up hundreds of times, and with the unpronounceable surname that she has, there can only be the one. She has her own website, with plenty of examples of her work, and all the people and places she’s taken photographs of. OK, there are no ‘A’ list celebrities here, and the list of locations is more Holyrood than Hollywood, but it’s still an impressive list. But more intriguing were the pictures of her as a model. She had the figure for it – there was nothing of her, just brown sleekness and prowling grace, like an exotic animal in a hot country. Fortunately, she’s fleshed out since then, she’s still very slim but now her figure is perfectly feminine and curves in and out, if I may use the male cliché, in all the right places.
I haven’t even finished writing up my diary from yesterday yet and I’ve just seen Dawn again. She came up to the office floor, looking all wondrous, carrying a bunch of leaflets, and headed straight for the stationery cupboard. I would have done anything for a look, some form of acknowledgement, but all I saw was her back as she disappeared into the cupboard, the heavy fire door swinging firmly shut behind her. Having made me promise last night not to ignore her I now have the distinct feeling that she is ignoring me. I click ‘Save’ on my diary, a Word document I’ve cunningly named ‘Absence Monitoring, second quarter’, and switch to my job descriptions document; a list of impossible tasks we expect the lowest paid, like Dawn, to fulfil at a salary that would have seemed indecent even in 1973. I read point number fifty-two (OK, I exaggerate) which states: ‘And any other duty to this post deemed appropriate by the post holder’s line manager’ – a final catch-all clause that we all have nestled at the bottom of our JDs. I wonder whether mine should include the stipulation: To kiss temps at Christmas parties and on every possible occasion thereafter.
I can’t concentrate knowing that she’s in there now, in the stationery cupboard, rummaging around, sorting out leaflets. I wonder what she’s thinking. When was the last time I ventured into that windowless, dimly lit room, with its dusty shelves and stale air? But I’ve decided: I’m going in. I need to know how she is, whether she’s full of regret following our tryst last night, and where we stand. Can the future of our relationship, still less than twelve hours old, be decided in a two-minute confrontation in a dusty cupboard? Perhaps not, but not doing anything is killing me. I’m on my feet now, my heart heavy. This is ridiculous, I’m more nervous than last night when I so calmly stopped her on the path. But now my breathing is coming in short bursts, my heart is punching me from within. I feel exposed just wandering across the office floor. I return to my desk and pick up a sheet of paper with some writing on it, anything to act as a prop.
I am now only a matter of feet from the door. Don’t come out now, I think. Stay in there. I feel everyone looking at me; I daren’t turn around for fear of seeing a sea of eyes looking at me, puzzled – Why’s Rob going to the stationery cupboard? Almost there and it’s too late to turn back now; I’m committed. Pushing open the door, I step inside, startling her. Oh, Rob, she says, her hand on her chest. It’s you. You made me jump.
I swear she can see the beating of my heart beneath the fabric of my carefully chosen cotton shirt. Sorry. I just wanted…
To see if I was OK?
Yes. Exactly. She smiles, a lovely, warm smile. Encouraged, I reach for her hand, knowing now that she’ll take it. She does.
I’m fine, thanks to you. And you?
Yeah. We’re close now, I can smell her perfume, its warm aroma draws me in closer still. I lean in and plant a gentle kiss on her lips. She kisses me back and I feel almost faint with relief.
Rob, someone might come in, she says, smiling, subtly pushing me away.
No one ever comes into here. This isn’t exactly true but it is rare. I thought you might be regretting last night.
No. Are you?
No.
I still can’t believe you pounced on me like
that. No one’s ever done that to me before. Are you sure you don’t make a habit of this sort of thing?
Dawn, what sort of man do you take me for?
I don’t know, Rob, you tell me. What are you doing for lunch?
Having lunch with you.
She giggled. Naughty boy. OK, one o’clock, yeah?
It’s a date.
I’m back at my desk now, having run the gauntlet from there to here, my face flushed as I scurried back to the security of my cubicle, avoiding all eye contact. Now that I’m safely back my shoulders expand and my fists clench with masculine glee; I am the king of the jungle, and I feel fantastic! How cool was that? Ernie passes my desk. Hey, Ernie, where’s that mistletoe?
You keep your hands to yourself, mate.
It’s almost one. I wonder where we should go for lunch. As a first date it’s fairly low pressure – just a lunch hour in a local café, and thank goodness for that. I couldn’t have faced a proper date – expensive restaurant, soft music, hours stretching before us, wondering what to say, etc, etc. But with this, expectation will be at a realistic low, I can be myself and we’ll have a better time for it.
1 p.m. I wait for Dawn at the front of our building, a corporate monster of a place with a huge revolving door at the front, and inside a large reception desk with smiley staff to meet and greet, and, hovering nearby, uniformed security guys. The usual corporate stuff. Dawn strides out purposefully through the revolving doors, wearing a red puffer jacket with a fur collar. She looks nothing less than gorgeous.
I have to move my car, do you mind?
Her car, a black hatchback, is parked nearby in a car park. As she invited me in I noticed her removing a disabled badge from the dashboard. Why would she have that, I wondered, was she in some way disabled? The badge only covers me for a few hours so I’m going to drive up to the other side of the golf course. Five minutes later, we were there, warm and cosy inside her car, the radio on. Come here, she says. I lean over the hand brake and we kiss. You have such a nice kiss. I thank her.
You know, I’m a married woman.
Are you? You’ve kept that quiet. And last night, you said you didn’t have a…
Boyfriend. Exactly.
Wow. How long?
Two years. Nowhere as long as you guys.
And you, er…
Yes, I love him very much.
So why then…
You love your wife.
Fair point.
I absorbed this new bit of information. Why shouldn’t she be married? She’s 36, she’s beautiful, she must have had no end of suitors over the years. Did it make a difference? No. In fact, it made things better, because it meant we were on an equal footing; starting in the same place. She described him, this Duncan. An architect, has a goatee, Scottish by birth but always lived in England.
I have a place of my own though. Really? This sounds too good to be true. I have a dual life – one with Duncan in Westminster, where we share a flat; and another this side of town where I have my own flat and where I can be near my parents. I flit between the two.
Perfect, I thought, perfect. We kissed some more, and talked again. But we didn’t go out to eat. Somehow I had no appetite and as she didn’t mention it, nor did I. And in no time, fifty minutes had gone and it was time to get back. We walked through the park, passed the golf course, hand-in-hand, lovers out for a stroll, returning to the office with a smile.
In the afternoon I tackled the job descriptions with a little more enthusiasm than usual, wondered about Dawn’s disabled badge and tried to imagine her husband with his goatee.
But most of all I thought about Dawn. It had started with a kiss, several kisses, and a nice warm feeling on a Wednesday evening three weeks before Christmas. If only it had stopped there things would have been OK. But of course it didn’t. And they weren’t.
Saturday, 8th December
I’ve always assumed that when a person has an affair, or even just kisses someone at a Christmas party, it must derive from unhappiness at home. At least a degree of discontentment. But I am far from that. Everything at home is, as they say, rosy. Emily and I had been married five years before our first-born, Joshua, appeared on the scene. It wasn’t that we had difficulty, we just weren’t in a hurry; too busy enjoying ourselves. Joshua is now ten, a bright if lazy child, obsessed by football and gadgets he can’t afford. Lola is three, a little doll of a girl, inhabiting a land of pink, adorable and sweet, but can talk with such loudness I have to reach for a pair of ear muffs. And Emily? After fifteen years of marriage, I still love her. She can still make me laugh, we have great sex, she’s a keen and very good cook and, having met at the age of eighteen, we have a lifetime of shared history. What more could a man ask for?
Monday, 10th December
Dawn has invited me out. We’re going out for a drink straight after work. I feel excited and nervous. I phone home and tell Emily that I’m going out to the pub with a few work colleagues. But you don’t like them, she says.
Oh, they’re not so bad; I’m sort of getting used to them.
After seven years?
Although technically not a falsehood – I am going out to the pub with a work colleague, I feel the burden of having told the first lie. There’ll be many more to come.
It’s almost six, and with half a pint each we’re sitting in the pub, one of a chain, unnaturally clean and virtually empty. On the walls framed photographs of the local area in times gone by. The one above Dawn’s head is entitled High Street, circa 1909, showing a horse and cart on a muddy street, the clock tower the only recognisable feature between then and now.
So, tell me about your wife.
Must I?
Yes, I want to know. How did you meet, how did you propose?
Well…
I couldn’t believe it when you told me you were married.
Yes, I remember. Why was that?
It was perhaps late summer; we’d bumped into each other in the pedestrian shopping mall. As we walked back to work together, I mentioned my wife. You’re married? she exclaimed as if I’d just declared that I was a freemason or a naturalist.
Er, yes.
How long?
Fifteen years.
Whoa. Kids?
Two. Boy and a girl.
Oh my word.
What do you mean? Why are you so shocked?
Nothing. Really, nothing. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You don’t look like the married type – if there’s such a thing. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude.
So, I said, back in the present. Why were you so surprised – I’ve been meaning to ask you for months?
I thought you were gay.
Gay? Me?
Yes, I really thought you were gay. And I usually have a very attuned gay radar.
A what?
You know.
Well, you’re wrong in this instance, baby!
Yes, so I see, she said, taking a sip of beer, grinning. Have you googled me yet?
No, I say a bit too firmly.
I google anyone I meet. In my business it’s a necessity. You never know who you’ve just met. I’ve googled you. And here, my conscience is clean – there’d be nothing about me on the web. Nothing. I found that article you wrote.
What? What article?
About interviewing techniques: ‘The Art of Interviewing: a New Approach’ by Robin Collingbourne.
I cringe. Oh, God, how did you find that? How embarrassing. It was about twenty years ago when I was a student. I’d never interviewed in my life, not for real, and the whole thing was plagiarised anyway. A terrible essay that somehow got printed. And now, it seems it’s on the bloody web.