by Jo Verity
He was so close that she could smell the scent of washing powder coming off his polo shirt.
‘Is that relevant?’
‘It is, actually.’
‘Why? D’you think I shouldn’t have kissed you if I have a girlfriend? You have a husband but you seemed okay with it.’
‘Could we not drag Laurence into this?’
‘That suits me. If you want to talk about us, I asked you to sleep with me because I know it would make us both happy. We’re adults. I want it and I think you do, too. It needn’t be complicated.’ He ran his forefinger around her ear. ‘You have the most beautiful ears.’
She pulled away from him. ‘Don’t. It’s not fair.’
He dropped his arms to his sides but stood his ground. ‘Answer me this one thing. Would you like to sleep with me?’
‘No. And how dare you think you know what I want.’ She glared at him.
He nodded. ‘Okay. That’s sorted that out. I’m sorry if I—’
‘Anyway, if I did – sleep with you, I mean – what would I be left with afterwards?’
‘Is that your criterion? “What would I be left with afterwards?” Isn’t that a bit like “what’s in it for me”?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Guilt. Remorse.’
‘Well I suggest you come at it from the other way. Ask yourself what you’ll be left with if you don’t sleep with me—’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this. You confused me last night with your kisses and your compliments. And the moon—’
‘Yes, that bloody moon’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘And I wish everyone would stop making out that I’m whiter-than-white. It’s … insulting.’
‘Right. But I’m not sure where we’re heading with that one.’
‘Anyway it’s not true.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I had an abortion.’
He was still for a moment then raised his hand and gently covered her mouth. ‘You don’t have to—’
She pushed his hand away. ‘I want to.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘I was twenty. In my second year at college. He was Canadian. From Toronto. Doing a year in London as part of his degree. When I told him, he wanted to marry me but … I don’t know … the timing was all wrong. He went back to Canada and that was that. The termination was very straightforward. See. I’m no angel. My first child was flushed down the lavatory, one rainy Tuesday afternoon. There. Satisfied?’
He caught her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry.’ He ran his hand down her cheek. ‘Poor Elizabeth. I’m sad that you had to go through that. But no one would think ill of you for it. No one who matters, anyway.’
‘Don’t you get it? I think ill of me.’
‘But you mustn’t.’ He kissed her fingers again. ‘Your husband knows?’
‘I told Laurence the first time he took me out. I’d read enough novels to know that secrets like that come back to haunt you.’
‘He understood?’
‘He accepted it. I’m not sure men ever understand. He’s quite conservative. I expect, deep down, he thought I should have married Kyle and had the baby.’
‘But that would have meant you couldn’t have married him. The man’s twp.’
‘He’s always been a wonderful husband and a devoted father.’
‘And I bet it suits him to have your eternal gratitude.’ He switched his Welsh accent for an ecclesiastical tone. How jolly decent of him to take on a fallen woman. Saint Laurence of west London.’
She took a step back. ‘How dare you? You don’t know anything about him.’
‘I know one thing. He’s lucky to have you.’
‘I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please leave me alone.’
‘As you wish.’
At that moment, Mimi came in from the garden, sending Elizabeth and Dafydd into a frenzy of kitchen tidying.
‘Hi. We’re going up to the pub for an ice cream. If that’s okay with you, Dad.’
‘Of course.’
Elizabeth took a ten pound note from her purse. ‘Will this cover it?’
Mimi looked towards her father and he nodded. ‘Thanks. I’ll bring you the change.’ She fiddled with the note, folding it in half, then in half again. ‘Is Jay cool with last night? We kind of …’
‘Don’t worry about it. He was tired. He’d had a long day.’ She sounded like a mother excusing her child’s fractious behaviour.
When they were alone again, Dafydd put the rest of the shopping away, arranging the tins painstakingly in the cupboards then tidying the contents of the fridge. When he had finished, he folded the empty carrier bags and put them in the table drawer.
‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ His smile lacked the flirty warmth that she’d come to enjoy and although he was leaving her alone, as she’d demanded, it gave her no satisfaction.
21
THURSDAY: 2.20PM
Elizabeth went into the bathroom. Locking the door, she perched on the edge of the bath, and clamped a cool flannel to her face.
Laurence should take some of the blame for what she was contemplating. He expected her to hang around while he did his stupid cookery courses, squandering his – their – holiday allocation and forking out enormous sums of money. How dare he? Alex was as bad. He seemed to think that his mother had nothing better to do than look after a teenager who was cramping his style. That was how they thought of her. A good sport whose function was to make their lives more comfortable.
Following the termination, she had gone through a wobbly twelve months or so. Then along came kind, mature, understanding and (most important of all) patient Laurence Giles, who wanted her – despite what she had done. He hadn’t pressed her, leaving her to decide when their relationship should become physical. He offered absolution – a dressing to cover her aching wound. The diamond and sapphire ring – his grandmother’s – which he slipped on her finger, became her defence against the advances of other men. (It was as well to be shielded from the possibility of a second mistake.) So effective was this that, from that moment onward, no stolen kisses or fumblings, and positively no invitations to share a bed, had breached her defences. Fidelity was the deal that she’d made with herself. It felt the right and proper thing to do. And it hadn’t been difficult. (In fact it hadn’t been an issue until this week.) She and Laurence loved, liked and respected each other (although there was never any suggestion that they were ‘best friends’ which Elizabeth assumed had something to do with his being at public school). Theirs was a solid and comfortable marriage. Decisions concerning career, house and finances had always been made together and on the basis of what was best for the family. Now that the boys were no longer their responsibility, this amounted to what was best for Laurence and her. Their common good.
So there was nothing particularly noble in her twenty-odd years of faithfulness. Naturally, once in a while, when she read the The Bridges of Madison County or watched The English Patient, she couldn’t help … wondering. But that’s all. Maybe because she’d never encountered her own Robert Kincaid or Count Almásy, adultery was no more than a fictional notion. (George Clooney was a friend so he didn’t come into it.) On a practical note, were she to deviate, even fleetingly, from her ‘blameless’ path, it wouldn’t remain a secret. One day, when she’d had a glass of wine too many or when remorse overwhelmed her, she would find it impossible not to tell Laurence whose profession was, after all, winkling out the truth.
And yet.
The common good. Laurence’s unilateral decisions in the cookery field suggested that nothing was immutable. So could this mean that there was a case for the individual good? Her good? Might it not be beneficial, nourishing, reviving, to experience one illicit encounter in a lifetime? Yes? Then she didn’t have time to waste. With the menopause and the dismal symptoms that threatened to accompany it fast approaching, this would almost certainly be her only chance to take, and to enjoy, a lover.
A navy
-blue wash bag, flip-flapped open to reveal several transparent pockets, dangled from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Razor. Nail clippers. A tiny tube of ointment to combat athlete’s foot. A strip of paracetamol tablets. Nothing out of the ordinary or unwholesome, and no designer brands for the Rain Man. Easing the deodorant from its pocket, she took the top off and rolled it along her arm, sniffing her skin, striving to detect him in the evaporating trail.
He was right. She did want him. Thinking about him agitated her and made it difficult to think straight. She was thirty years too old to be feeling as she did – confused and exhilarated. Damn the man. The whole thing was absurd. She met him less than four days ago. He was a cello-playing meteorologist with size eleven feet and a failed marriage – that was all she knew about him. She didn’t have a clue when his birthday was or whether he believed in God or if he liked Marmite. The list of unknowns was endless. Yet somehow she’d known him for ever. (How hackneyed – and how dangerous – was that?) Perhaps this craziness had something to do with her being a ‘displaced person’ – doubly displaced, in fact. She might only be two hundred miles from London but she was displaced from her home and her husband.
Recently someone had brought a cutting into work from one of those ‘science for the non-scientist’ magazines. It described a series of experiments that had been carried out to discover what encouraged couples who were in long-term relationships to remain faithful, even if they met someone else they ‘fancied’. Apparently, a few minutes spent thinking about their partner drastically reduced the attraction they felt for anyone else. It suggested that couples surround themselves with objects that reminded them of the loved one. Simple things like a photograph or a ring helped to make temptation less tempting. Perhaps she should keep a photo of Laurence to hand and look at it whenever thoughts of Dafydd rendered her weak with what seemed very much like desire.
Returning the deodorant to its place, she unlocked the door. The house lay still and peaceful in the summer afternoon, as though it were getting its breath back. The impression was enhanced by lyrical music – Elgar? – coming from Dafydd’s bedroom.
‘Anyone at home?’ A man’s voice startled her. ‘Dafydd? Daf?’
The man was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, filling the kettle.
‘Hello.’ She struggled to make her greeting casual on the assumption that thieves and rapists didn’t hang about making themselves cups of tea.
‘Hello there.’ He smiled. ‘Is Daf about by any chance?’
He was of indeterminate age – fifty or sixty? – with a neat brown-grey beard and a black bandana-affair covering his hair. His sweater, snagged in several places, was patterned with blue and green zig-zags and he wore corduroy trousers, tucked into tan, calf-length boots. The boots were scuffed across the toes, revealing metal toecaps. Bob the Builder meets Long John Silver – both seriously overdressed for the weather.
‘He’s taking a nap.’
‘Lazy sod.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Let’s not wake him. I’d much rather share an afternoon cuppa with a delightful stranger than an ugly bastard like Dafydd Jones.’
He took two mugs from the cupboard and held up a jar of coffee. ‘Instant do you? Milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, please. Just a dash.’
This intruder had somehow become the host and she the guest.
Feeling that she should establish a few facts she said ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m … my friend Diane … it’s complicated.’
He stopped her with a raised palm. ‘No names, no pack drill.’ Then he nodded towards the tent in the garden. ‘Camping, are you?’
Camping, are you? Despite the Welsh inversion, his voice was without any detectable accent.
‘No. The tent’s Jordan’s. I mean Jay’s. Well, actually it’s Carl’s.’
‘See,’ he grinned, revealing unexpectedly white teeth, ‘didn’t I warn you? Names lead to confusion.’
There was something compelling in his smile and she couldn’t help laughing. He offered her a mug of coffee. The fingers of his right hand were nicotine-stained but his hands were spotless, the nails trimmed and clean. Here was a man in heavy camouflage.
‘What’s the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had?’ he asked, canting his chair backwards.
‘The best? In what sense?’
‘In any sense you like. Quick. Off the top of your head.’
She raised her mug. ‘This one.’
‘Excellent answer.’
She felt like a child who had been awarded a gold star and, eager to show how sharp she was, she qualified her reply. ‘But who knows? I’ve only taken a couple of sips. I might go off it before I’ve finished it.’
He nodded and raised his forefinger. ‘Which proves my next point.’
‘Which is?’
‘Better to travel hopefully than to arrive.’
‘Unless you’re on the M25.’
‘That goes without saying.’
They continued, scrupulously avoiding introductions, debating the dunking virtues of various biscuits – ginger snaps lost to HobNobs – and whether coffee tasted better from a cup or a mug. Pitting words with this articulate stranger made her feel vivacious and she was disappointed when he glanced at his watch and said ‘It’s a tragedy but I must be on my way.’
‘Oh. Can I give Dafydd a message?’
‘No. Just passing.’ He stood up. ‘A pleasure to meet you, sad-eyed lady.’ Then, with an oddly formal salute, he left by the back door.
The novelty of the encounter evaporated within minutes to be replaced by frustration. The man-with-no-name had turned up at the critical moment, like an outlandish guardian angel arriving in the nick of time to save her from herself. There might be occasions when a guardian angel would be welcome but not today, not when she had almost made up her mind to discover what passion was all about.
She dumped the mugs in the sink, sending dregs of coffee slurping up the window. ‘Damn.’
She was reaching across the draining board, cleaning the glass, when Dafydd came into the kitchen.
‘Kids back? I thought I heard voices.’ He pointed to the spattered windows. ‘Everything okay?’
He wore shorts, nothing else, and he was rubbing his hand across his chest, occasionally tugging at swathes of hair which he trapped, scissor fashion, between index and middle fingers.
She looked away. ‘A man wearing a bandana came in and made himself a cup of coffee.’
‘That’d be Lenny. Lenny Butler.’
The name was familiar but it took her several seconds to pin it down. ‘What? Lenny Butler as in Wolfman?’
‘Yep. That’s the one. The old rock ’n roller himself.’
‘Good gracious. But he looked like?’
‘That’d be his incognito outfit. He doesn’t want anyone to recognise him. Apparently.’
‘Does he live here?’
‘On and off. He’s got a place a couple of miles from here. An old farm. He’s converted the outhouses to a recording studio. Dad did a lot of work on the house. Lenny started coming over here for a shower when the water was off at the farm. Now he’s a fixture. Did he want anything in particular?’
‘Only a cup of coffee. We had a chat. I must say he’s very charming.’
‘He’s an old lecher but, for some inexplicable reason, women can’t resist him.’
‘I can,’ she said, risking a smile.
‘We’ll see.’
As he turned to go, she noticed the skim of hair extending across his shoulders and down his back, like a downy cape. A week ago, she would have been repulsed by a hairy back but today it was all she could do not to reach out and touch it.
Her phone rang. It was Diane.
‘Are they back yet?’
‘Yes. The kids have gone up to the pub and Dafydd’s asleep.’
‘I’m at the café near the beach. Why don’t you come down? I’ll treat you to a piece of carrot cake.’
When Dia
ne had invited her to Cardiff, she’d imagined that they would spend a lazy week indulging themselves and catching up on things. With the exception of Monday morning’s session, they’d spent scarcely any time alone together and, although she would prefer to remain at the house, she agreed. ‘Won’t be long.’
As she checked her handbag for car keys and sunglasses, she glimpsed herself in the mirror. She looked somehow different. Less composed. More animate. She undid another button on her shirt, revealing a hint of cleavage.
Applying a touch of Diane’s strawberry lipgloss to her lips and a squirt of Rive Gauche between her breasts, she took a calming breath and tapped on Dafydd’s door. ‘Dafydd? It’s me.’
He was lying on the bed, still wearing only his shorts, his eyes bleary with sleep. When he saw her he jumped up, standing alongside his bed like a soldier ready for inspection.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m going down to the beach café to meet Di. I thought I should let you know. In case you … in case Jordan … anyway … we won’t be long.’
Beyond these walls, out there in the sunshine, people were picnicking, surfing, and sunbathing, having harmless fun whilst here, in this airless little room, she was on the point of becoming an adulteress. Holding his gaze, she moved towards him and placed the palms of her hands on his chest, marvelling at the springy denseness of the hair. He stiffened but made no move to touch her.
‘What’s this in aid of then?’ His face was expressionless, his voice stern.
‘I came to tell you that, yes, I do want to sleep with you.’
He stepped back, scooping a T-shirt from the end of the bed and pulling it on. It was a bewildering response to her declaration.
‘Is that right?’ he said.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you cross?’
He dipped his head. ‘I’m not cross. I’m bemused. Try and see it from my point of view. Less than hour ago, you were telling me to bugger off. So why the sudden change? I had you down as a woman who makes up her mind and sticks to it. Now I’m confused. And you are too, if I’m not mistaken.’
She shook her head but before she could interject he continued, ‘Let’s go back to the night of the thunder storm. When you stood outside the window, it was obvious that you had me down as an uncouth exhibitionist.’