by Jo Verity
Both she and Laurence were sticklers for tidiness and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why anyone wouldn’t be. A small effort now saved so much time, so much frustration, in the long run. Unfortunately, her sons had not inherited their parents’ love of order. Were she to tot up the hours she’d spent searching for railcards or shin pads or watches or once, and unbelievably, Ben’s trumpet (in the garden shed, for some unfathomable reason) or ironing clothes that had been worn for an hour then dumped on the floor … were she to tot up those hours, what might she have done with that lost time? (Read Proust perhaps?) Satisfied with her efforts, she plumped her pillows and climbed into bed, covering herself with the sleeping bag which she had opened out to form a quilt.
Earlier in the evening, during a quiet moment, she had locked herself in the bathroom and texted Laurence, Alex, Ben and Maggie, convinced that, in some telepathic conspiracy, they would try to contact her at the crucial moment and wreck … whatever the night might bring. She’d sent the same text to each of them. Everything fine with me (amended to ‘us’ in Alex’s case to let him know that Jordan was also ‘fine’). Hope the same with you. × E As an afterthought she added her sister to the list. They had last spoken a couple of weeks ago and although she’d told Rose that she was planning to visit Diane, it seemed as well to remind her. In Wales for a few days with friends. Home on Saturday. × Liz
Checking her phone, she was surprised to find five envelopes in her ‘inbox’.
No fatalities (cat or garden) so far. Need any shopping for the weekend? Mags ×
Bless her.
Houston hot. Work frantic. lol. Ben x
Same here. Rose × M&D coming for weekend so cleaning oven.
Glad you’re having a nice time with Di and your new friends. Counting the days – 2.75. × L. My Poire belle Hélène was a triumph.
not really but will keep til sat alex
(How predictable that the only hint of negativity came from her younger son.)
Five texts sent and five replies. Her plan to get ahead of the game had met with a one hundred percent success rate. What a shame that the game was off.
It was only ten-thirty but she was exhausted. Switching off the bedside lamp, she closed her eyes, but her brain refused to slow down, racing at a mile a minute, fuelled by rock stars and crashing waves, arguments and tents and sausages, red wine and disappointment.
Think about your day, Elizabeth.
Were she to think back over this particular day, she would remain awake all night. Instead she pictured the bedroom which she and Laurence shared, imagining it as it would be at this moment, their clothes hanging silently in the wardrobe, paired shoes on the rack beneath, the street lamp casting its beam across the unrumpled duvet.
It must have worked because she failed to hear the bedroom door open.
‘I didn’t want to startle you,’ Dafydd whispered. He was standing on the far side of Diane’s bed. ‘I just wanted to …’
She pushed herself up in the bed, pulling the straps of her nightdress squarely onto her shoulders, ensuring that her breasts were covered, wondering how much detail he could make out in the darkness.
‘Yes?’ She combed her fingers through her hair.
‘I wanted to say goodnight.’
It was too dark to see his face; to guess what he was thinking, but switching the light on seemed a brazen move, as if she were inviting him to look at her.
She fished around for something sensible to say, something that would keep him in the room. ‘I can’t help thinking we’ve spoiled your week, foisting ourselves on you like this. I don’t suppose you get that much time with your daughters.’
‘Not at all. You’re doing me a favour. The girls love having people around. The more the merrier. They get bored with me after a couple of days.’
‘Maybe, but anyone can see that they adore you. And they’re at that funny age, aren’t they?’ Moonlight was filtering through the curtains and she folded her arms across her chest.
‘Isn’t every age a funny age? We assume that our problems will dissolve once our children progress to the next stage. We imagine that as soon as they sleep through the night, or learn to walk, or talk, or read, or get themselves safely from A to B, parenthood will be a doddle. As if the acquisition of skills converts a newborn babe into something less challenging. My mum used to say, “Make the most of them now, whilst all you have to worry about is a wet bed and the odd temper tantrum.” We didn’t believe her. What did she know? It’s a miracle that man evolved at all when you think of the lessons he refuses to learn.’
Elizabeth was impressed with Dafydd’s reflections on what were often held to be women’s concerns. It was touching that he quoted his mother’s advice and, moreover, admitted that she’d been right. She doubted whether Laurence had discussed the subject of child development with his mother. It would have been a waste of time because Phillyda hadn’t been overly involved with childcare – Laurence-care. What were nannies and boarding schools for if not that? Laurence had done his bit with Ben and Alex but it had been limited to specific duties – swimming lessons, trips to Lords, visits to the barber’s, that sort of thing. Having fulfilled his commitment, he’d sign off and drift up to his study, leaving her to tussle with the negotiating and the bickering, homework and meals. It was easy to see how closely Dafydd had been involved with his children’s growing up. It must have been distressing when Gwenno upped and offed with Sam.
He might have read her thoughts. ‘When the girls were small, Gwenno and I both worked part-time. We shared childcare.’
‘You enjoyed that?’
‘Loved it. All those coffee mornings with yummy mummies.’
‘And screaming toddlers?’
‘No problem. We locked ’em under the stairs.’ He made an abrupt little noise, more like coughing than laughing. ‘We read books on how to be perfect parents, but refuse to take advice from the people who know. We can’t wait for the kids to be independent, then feel miserable when they don’t need us anymore. We moan about sleepless nights, or teenagers that won’t get out of bed in the morning then spend hours persuading friends that parenthood is the best thing in the world. The whole thing is an enigma. Start to finish.’
He sighed – a proper sigh, heavy with regret.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked.
He switched on the light and squinted at his watch. ‘Eleven-fifteen.’
Tonight he was wearing a washed-out T-shirt and checked pyjama bottoms. It appeared that the better acquainted they became, the more he covered himself up but maybe he was being considerate, not wanting to intimidate her by exposing too much flesh.
‘I didn’t like it when you were cross with me this afternoon,’ she said.
He half-sat on Diane’s bed, resting his left leg on the mattress, keeping his right foot on the floor. ‘I wasn’t cross with you. I was cross with myself. I was afraid I’d bamboozled you into—’
‘Bamboozled?’ she laughed. ‘I’m not sure what that means in this context.’
He swung himself across the bed, twisting to face her, suddenly close to her.
‘This.’ He leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips.
‘Oh.’
‘And I wasn’t too thrilled when you said that Lenny was “charming”. In fact I wanted to hit him.’
‘You weren’t jealous were you?’
‘Of course I was.’
His affirmation filled her with confidence. ‘This afternoon, when you were being cross, you told me that if I changed my mind about … you know … I should be sure of my motives.’
‘I can be such a pompous prick—’
‘Shhh. I have changed my mind. But as for a motive. That sounds too cold-blooded. I don’t think I’m trying to prove anything or punish anyone. I agree with you. I think it would be lovely. So, yes please, I would like to sleep with you.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said and, pulling her up gently by the hand, he led her out of the room.
‘You were sure I’d say yes?’ she said.
‘I was damn sure you wouldn’t. But there was no harm in having a bit of a tidy.’
Shoo-er. A bit of a tidy. His choice of words, the Welsh intonation, was warm and down to earth.
Up until now, this had all been theoretical. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. To begin with, how would they get from being vertical and clothed to horizontal and naked?
He seemed to sense her concerns. ‘Would a drink help?’ He pointed to the bottle of wine on the chest of drawers.
‘Thanks.’
He poured the wine and they chinked glasses.
‘Shall we go to bed now?’ he said, taking off his T-shirt but leaving the pyjama bottoms on.
Direct. Uncomplicated. No fuss.
Still wearing her nightdress, she lay down by his side, covered by the cool white sheet, their hips touching.
He rolled on to his side, studying her face. ‘You okay with this?’
‘I think so.’ She smiled. ‘But d’you think we might talk? Just for a while.’
‘Of course. What shall we talk about?’
‘Ummm. Tell me about clouds.’
‘Okay. Clouds are those big puffy things up in the sky. They can be white or grey, and they’re full of rain. Next question.’
‘Why did you choose me and not Diane?’
He paused. ‘Easy. Carl’s bigger than I am.’
It had been unfair of her to wrong-foot him like that and she remained silent, giving him time to compose his answer.
‘I like you very much, Elizabeth, and I feel drawn to you. You’re a beautiful, witty, intelligent woman and I’m incredibly flattered that you’re here with me.’ He paused. ‘You make me feel that I’m not such a bad guy after all.’
What an odd thing to say.
‘Was that ever in doubt?’ she asked.
‘You doubted it.’ He prodded her gently. ‘Didn’t you?’
She recalled her first sight of him (the second if she counted the near miss with his car), wandering around in his underpants. ‘I had you down as a show off. An arrogant little Welshman.’ She made a fist and punched him gently on the thigh. ‘Not bad looking, though.’
Her self-confidence grew with each confession.
‘The first time I saw you I thought, why the hell is this lunatic woman intent on denting my car.’
‘You knew that was me?’
‘Well you’re a cut above the bog-standard jaywalker.’
He pulled her to him, cradling her head against his shoulder, nuzzling his face against hers. His cheeks were smooth. That’s what he was doing when he disappeared – shaving. He smelled of soap and shampoo. She had been determined not to draw comparisons but, after Laurence’s lanky elegance, he felt solid and muscly.
She ran her hand across his chest, the hair dense and springy. ‘I’ve been longing to see what it felt like.’
‘And?’
‘We had a wire-haired terrier when I was a child…’
‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ he grabbed her hand and licked it. ‘My middle name’s Fido.’
‘Fool,’ she said. ‘While we’re talking names, there must be a reason for giving your daughters such … exotic names.’
He sighed. ‘Dreadful, aren’t they?’
‘Well…’
‘They were actually baptised Angharad and Mair.’
‘Really? So why…?’
‘Their idea. They went to dance classes – ballet, tap, you know the sort of thing – and they got it into their heads that dancers have fancy names. They wanted to be called Angel and Mimi. Gwenno and I thought it was funny. Clever. Harmless. We thought they’d get fed up with it. But seven or eight years later they’re still Angel and Mimi. We’d have taken a harder line if we’d known it would stick. Promise you won’t say anything. They’ll murder me if they find out I told you.’
A car engine revved close by and she heard the chunk of a car door shutting.
‘Who’s that?’ she whispered, stiffening and raising her head from his shoulder.
‘Nothing. There’s traffic up and down all night. The dunes are popular in warm weather.’
She sank back against him. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit edgy. I’m used to sleeping upstairs. I feel – I don’t know – vulnerable at ground level.’
‘Why don’t I lock the back door? If the campers want to get in they can knock. Angel’s no problem. She could sleep for Wales. We won’t see her before ten.’
‘Would you mind?’
‘No worries. I need a pee anyway.’ He rolled away from her, got up and went out of the room.
She yawned and shifted across the bed, lying in the indentation left by his body. She felt better now – more relaxed. A man who cared about children, who knew about clouds and the moon, who could read her mind, would surely be a tender lover. To be honest she already felt pleasantly satisfied. She closed her eyes, resolving to go with the flow – an appalling phrase but remarkably appropriate as she felt herself drifting.
24
FRIDAY: 6.45AM
Climbing a towering oak tree, its branches forming a stepladder which makes the ascent safe and effortless. Occasionally stopping, peering down through its leaves into a classroom where children are singing a Christmas carol. Carrying … what is it? Someone nearby is sawing wood.
Turning onto her side, she curled up, pressing one ear into the pillow, clamping a handful of sheet over the other, making a futile effort to clamber back into the tree, to discover what it was that she held in her hand. The insistent sawing continued. She rolled onto her back, her dream running away, too fast for her to catch it. What a shame that Laurence had woken her with his snoring.
Surfacing from sleep, she stretched and opened her eyes. Wrong bed. Wrong room.
She turned her head and squinted at her bedfellow. Wrong snorer.
She ran an exploratory hand over her breasts and across her stomach. She was still wearing her nightdress. Dafydd had pushed the sheet down and she could see that his chest was bare. Sneaking a hand towards his thigh, she encountered the warm fabric of pyjama bottoms. She closed her eyes again.
Think about your night, Elizabeth.
They’d discussed parenthood. They’d drunk red wine and talked some more – names and dogs. He’d gone to lock the back door. And then? She went over it again and reached the humiliating conclusion that she had fallen asleep. She’d ended up sleeping with the man. It was like plucking up the courage to volunteer for a dangerous mission then not being chosen to do the job.
Comedy or tragedy? Laugh or cry? Laughter was best shared – crying best done alone. She wasn’t alone enough to cry and she doubted whether any man, no matter how ‘new’, would appreciate being woken up to laugh at his failure. How had he felt, creeping back to the room only to find her sleeping? Affronted? Disappointed? Relieved? (God, had she been drooling?) Something had prevented him from waking her.
And what did she feel, knowing that he’d chosen not to wake her? She’d need time to consider that one.
She inched towards the edge of the bed then turned to study her bedfellow. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, face relaxed, mouth slightly open, deep in sleep.
It was easy to imagine the nine-year-old Dafydd Jones. Unruly, mouse-brown hair, open face, neat ears. Enthusiastic, chatty and full of bright ideas. She pictured him in the playground, surrounded by a crowd of boys all awaiting his instruction. The girls would have loved him, too, because he would have talked to them.
Daylight filtered through the curtains. She guessed it was around seven. If she woke him, he might assume that she wanted him to make love to her. And she was no longer sure. Without darkness to mask her doubts, last night’s certaint
y was beginning to evaporate. It wasn’t as if her marriage were unhappy or unfulfilling. A little staid, perhaps. A therapist would doubtless suggest that she be more … creative in the bedroom; inject more pizzazz into loving Laurence.
What would a one-night stand with Dafydd Jones amount to anyway? It would be memorable – a one-off event always was. She was ready to bet that it would be satisfying, too. But after Saturday, that would be that. She liked the man well enough but she wasn’t in love with him. How could she be? To love someone you had to know them for longer than four days.
And that’s where logic failed and confusion set in. She couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d known Dafydd Jones forever.
What should she do now? Wake him or sneak back to her room? The decision was made for her when the wristwatch on the bedside table began emitting a high-pitched squeal. Eyes still closed, he groped for it and cancelled the alarm.
‘Damn.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Sorry. I should have switched it off last night.’
‘No worries,’ she said. ‘I was awake already.’
‘I didn’t wake you with my snoring, did I?
‘You did actually.’
‘You should have kicked me.’
‘I’ve been trying to imagine what you were like when you were a little boy.’
‘I was an angel. Always helping cats across the road and rescuing old ladies from up trees.’
These asides were all well and good but there was no escaping last night.
‘I’m sorry I flaked out on you.’ Her apology sounded inconsequential, as though she had forgotten to put sugar in his coffee.
She took another stab at it. ‘I didn’t mean to … I mean, I really did intend to … wanted to…’
‘Shhh.’ He laid a finger on her lips. ‘I didn’t know whether to wake you or go and sleep in your room. Waking you seemed as good as demanding that we had sex and that wasn’t how I wanted this to be. Watching you asleep, looking so lovely, I thought, are you nuts, mun? What could be nicer than sleeping next to Elizabeth?’