Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  Adam smiled and shrugged. ‘Probably has its origins in some archaic ritual. You could always Google it.’

  ‘It would make a change from my online widows group.’

  ‘Oh, these things have their place. I mean, you can post at your convenience.’

  ‘But everyone else is so wrapped up in the past. I want to move on!’

  ‘Have relationships, you mean?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She opened her eyes more widely, held his gaze for a flirtatious moment.

  ‘It’s a good idea to build your single life first, so that you go into the dating scene from a position of strength. At the moment, you’d just be avoiding pain so the bad feelings would probably return in the long run as depression.’

  ‘I don’t think they would.’ She took a deep breath, feeling guilty about criticising the non-existent Zak. ‘As I’ve said, my husband and I had our difficulties, so I’m probably more ready than most to move on.’

  ‘Not so,’ Adam said. ‘We’ve found that people with difficult marriages take longer to recover after widowhood as there’s so much guilt, years of arguments and bad times to remember. In contrast, if you had a good relationship then you know that you made your late partner happy and it’s easier to return to an even keel.’

  ‘Oh, I think that I made him happy,’ Olivia said in what she hoped was a sexy voice. She shifted her weight on the couch so that her blouse tightened around her breasts, was pleased when she saw that the therapist was looking. It seemed to take an effort for him to look away.

  ‘I’m sure that you did,’ he murmured.

  Belatedly, Olivia remembered her remit which was to get him to talk about his late wife. ‘And did you feel that you made Helen happy?’

  ‘She said that she was, outwith the bouts of depression.’ He grimaced. ‘But when a spouse commits suicide, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve failed.’

  ‘You feel responsible?’

  ‘Oh, not now that I’ve had counselling. He made me focus on the fact that Helen had suffered from depression since her teenage years, long before she met me. She was going through hormonal changes, coming to terms with the ageing process and it all got too much.’

  ‘Did she die in the house?’

  ‘No, outside. I’d have hated to come home and find her. It was bad enough as it was when the police arrived at my door.’

  ‘Same with Zak,’ Olivia said, remembering her back story. ‘I mean, obviously he didn’t commit suicide, but he went out and never came back.’

  ‘Do you hate the driver?’

  Olivia remembered her brief, which was to sound non-judgemental and alternative. Adam would apparently be attracted to women who thought outside the box.

  ‘No, I remember having a couple of drinks before my first driving lesson, probably explains why there wasn’t a second, so there’s no point in blaming someone else for getting tanked up!’

  ‘Bad girl,’ Adam murmured and Olivia felt herself start to blush.

  How bad do you think I can get? she thought and longed, for the umpteenth time, to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘I’d like to start dating,’ she said firmly. ‘I mean, I’m still young and fit.’

  ‘You’ve got no argument from me there.’

  Again they stared at each other. Olivia felt her pulse quicken and wondered if he felt equally alert to the possibilities. They’d probably be electric together, last for hour after hour.

  ‘So, where do I start?’

  ‘How about an online widows and widowers group, one which offers dating and platonic relationships? You’d be able to find out quite a bit about these men in advance – their language skills, their interests, how long they were married. Remember that you’re still vulnerable, that it’s vital to protect yourself from further hurt.’

  ‘Have you dated widows since Helen died?’

  ‘No, only divorcees. I suppose that I’ve been wary of getting into a counselling situation when what I really want is a fun date.’

  ‘But we’re not all morose!’

  ‘I know, but I don’t want to end up having a busman’s holiday.’

  Damn, so her imaginary widowhood was actually working against her. Would he have preferred her if he knew her true circumstances, that she was unhappily married? She was doing her best to forget about being a cop.

  ‘I wouldn’t mention my situation to a new guy,’ Olivia said, striving to sound light hearted. ‘I mean, if all I want is a night of dancing and some fooling about . . .’

  ‘Just take it easy, pace yourself, acknowledge what you’ve been through. Widows often find it harder than they’ve expected to transfer their affections to a new man.’

  ‘Who said anything about affection? I need to get physically close.’

  The police psychologist had told her that she could talk in those terms, just as long as she didn’t proposition Adam directly. She was glad that her colleagues in the house across the road couldn’t hear her honeyed tone or see her come-and-get-it facial expression and the way that she was thrusting her breasts in his direction. It had been months since Marc had made love to her and now, alone in a small room with an attractive and caring man, her body was crying out for sex.

  ‘Sex with someone new can be equally complicated. After the second or third time, we tend to become emotionally involved.’

  ‘Maybe I should just have a one-night stand?’

  ‘Have you ever had one before?’

  ‘No.’ That much was true: the only person that she’d ever been to bed with had been Marc.

  ‘Then now isn’t the time to start.’

  ‘Have you? I mean, had one-night stands?’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ Adam said, but his voice sounded gentle.

  Olivia decided to push the issue. ‘I just feel that we’re as much friends as widow and counsellor, that I can be frank.’

  ‘OK, yes. Friendship is very important and I don’t want to be unduly distant with you. I had a couple of one-night stands as a teenager and one in my early twenties but after that I concentrated on one to one relationships.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I hurt some of these young women, felt bad in retrospect. They wanted love and I could only feel lust.’

  Again she felt her pulse speed up. ‘And is lust so bad?’

  ‘No, it’s not bad at all, providing you’re both singing from the same hymn sheet. But these girls needed romance and a long-term relationship, something that I couldn’t provide at such a young age.’

  The police psychologist had told her that the teenage Adam had made his same-age girlfriend pregnant and he was doubtless remembering the fallout.

  ‘Committing too young also causes problems. Zak and I made that mistake.’

  ‘Do you feel guilt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A sense of regret, then?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Olivia answered his question with a question. ‘It’s not going to change anything.’

  ‘It’s just that he didn’t have time to give you permission to move on. I counsel a lot of widows and widowers where the spouse died of cancer and they have time for that final talk in which they tell their partner that they’d like them to find someone new to love.’

  ‘Zak would have wanted me to be happy.’

  ‘Of course he would,’ Adam said.

  They talked about what she wanted out of life now and how she was going to achieve it, then the psychologist looked at his watch and said, ‘We’re coming to the end of our hour so is there anything else that is troubling you?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that I need a boyfriend?’

  ‘Apart from that!’

  ‘No, I’m doing fine.’

  She stood up, stretched and began to walk unsteadily towards the door, knowing that he would follow. He always saw her out.

  ‘Same time next week?’ she called out as she sashayed down the hall.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  She reached the front d
oor, took a deep breath, turned and stood on tiptoe for a moment to kiss him. Her lips brushed his and she felt him return the pressure then she let herself out and hurried down the path. She hadn’t stayed beyond her hour, something which would have alarmed her colleagues who were hovering near the window. As far as they were concerned, she was still acting professionally, still doing her job.

  But, a few hours from now, she was going to do something that was just for her, something to make her life wildly exciting. She was going to break all of the rules . . .

  Back in Dorchester, she bought a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile and called Adam from it, making the call whilst Marc was still at work.

  ‘Only me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I was wondering, can I see you earlier this week as well as at my usual time? It’s just that I bumped into a former old boyfriend and he wants us to get together on Saturday night. I remember what you said about not rushing into things but he’s gorgeous and I’m really tempted. We used to kiss for hours though we never went too far.’ She listened, rejoicing when he said yes, and shakily jotted down the time that he gave her. ‘See you then,’ she murmured, wondering how much of him that she would get to see.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘It’s good to meet you,’ Beth murmured as she shook hands with Anya, who’d arrived to be interviewed for the cook’s vacancy.

  The slightly older woman returned her handshake whilst murmuring, ‘I think that we’ve met before.’

  Beth looked at the cook more closely but she didn’t seem familiar. ‘Have you used the hospital canteen here? Perhaps that’s where you’ve seen me. I help out behind the counter when we’re especially busy or short staffed.’

  Anya shook her head. ‘No, I live in Clevedon so I’ve never been to the hospital until today.’

  At the mention of Clevedon – Matthew’s home town – Beth grimaced inwardly. Every time she heard certain songs that they’d listened to together, she felt slightly low and sad.

  Telling herself to concentrate, she started the interview. ‘So you don’t mind the half-hour commute?’

  ‘Actually, my best pal is moving here to take up a nursing job. We’re already flatmates and we get on so well that I’m moving with her. That’s why I’m looking for work in the Weston area.’

  ‘Brilliant – so you could travel to work together if you get the job,’ Beth said.

  ‘Yes, we already car share.’

  ‘And you’ve found accommodation?’

  ‘We have, so all I need now is work!’

  ‘You have an excellent CV.’ Beth studied it for the second time. ‘Will you miss the bistro where you’re working now? I see that it’s a family business.’

  ‘It is. It’s run by my father and my sister Maressie, so I can still help out on my days off!’

  Matthew had dated a Maressie in Clevedon and it was a comparatively unusual name.

  ‘Did she used to date a Matthew Drysdale?’ she asked.

  Anya’s expression clouded over. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you before – you were at a barbeque with him in August.’

  Beth nodded. Matthew had spotted Maressie and mentioned that he’d briefly dated her. She’d nodded at him but had looked very uncomfortable, had hurried to the other end of the garden with another female, obviously Anya, and cast sad looks in their direction for the rest of the afternoon. He’d given the impression that they’d only had a handful of dates together and had never been serious, but the woman’s body language said otherwise.

  ‘I’m not dating him anymore,’ Beth said now.

  Anya seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you still friends?’

  ‘No, he became so critical of me that the break-up was acrimonious.’

  ‘Same with Maressie,’ Anya said, nodding vigorously.

  She’d love to hear how he’d conducted his last relationship.

  ‘Did he go from one extreme to the other?’ Beth asked curiously.

  Anya’s nodding intensified. ‘He seemed madly in love with her for the first few months then he became really distant and, after that, she couldn’t do anything right.’

  ‘He hinted that I was fat,’ Beth admitted. She probably shouldn’t be talking to a potential employee like this but she’d never stood on ceremony plus it was good to find out about Matthew’s past behaviour. Most adults didn’t change.

  ‘He did that with Maressie too. In fact, he had a go at her clothes, her complexion, pretty much everything. She was in love with him and so hurt.’

  She, Beth, hadn’t fallen in love – though she’d cared for him – and now she realized that she’d had a lucky escape. Only her pride had been hurt and that would revive now that she knew that he’d done this to at least one previous lover. Apparently, unhealthy people became infatuated quickly then backed off when they saw differences between themselves and their new partner, whereas healthy people concentrated on the similarities and accepted the differences with aplomb.

  ‘It was horrible,’ Beth said, and shuddered at the memory. ‘He made me feel so inadequate, so ugly. Suddenly it was as if I couldn’t do anything right.’

  ‘He did that with Maressie’s predecessor too, apparently, though we didn’t find that out until later. But Clevedon’s a small place and people talk.’

  ‘I wondered why all his girlfriends had finished with him,’ Beth murmured. ‘I was baffled at first as he was so loving. But when he changed, he was so casually cruel.’

  ‘Same with Maressie. We used to sit up at night analysing his comments. In the end, he made one snide remark too many and she ended it.’

  ‘Sounds as if we both had a lucky escape,’ Beth said, and realized that she meant it. A lifetime of being criticised and found wanting was no life at all . . .

  They returned to the topic in hand – working in the hospital canteen’s kitchen – and, by the interview’s end, Beth was definitely favouring Anya for the position.

  ‘I just have one more person to see this afternoon,’ she said, ‘so I’ll let you know by tomorrow morning either way.’

  Five minutes later, her supervisor, Gill, popped her head around the door.

  ‘Is it going well?’

  ‘It’s going brilliantly,’ Beth said, realizing that she meant it.

  ‘Excellent. By the way, if you’re free this Saturday, my friend’s having a girl’s night out to celebrate her fiftieth and she says the more the merrier.’

  Drat – she was supposed to be going drinking and clubbing with Adam; why did so many good social events clash with each other? Beth thought about it for a moment and realized that Gill’s soiree was the more sensible choice. They could talk about the Matthews of this world, their early attempts to woo and their subsequent emotional distance. She needed girl power rather than an evening propping up the bar with a bloke.

  ‘Count me in,’ she said and made the necessary changes to her diary.

  That night, she phoned Adam’s mobile and he answered immediately. From the noise in the background, it sounded as if he was in a pub rather than working. Not that she could blame him for that.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to take a rain check for Saturday,’ she said, trying to sound genuinely regretful.

  ‘You’re joking? But I’ve been brewing the wine!’

  ‘In that case, bring a bottle into work.’

  ‘You’ll get us sacked! Have you reconciled with Matthew?’

  ‘No way,’ she said with feeling. ‘No, I’ve got an invite to a party. I just forgot.’

  ‘So, come round to my place at the end of the night.’

  ‘Can’t – it’s in Burnham so I’m crashing out at her place.’ She was looking forward to staying with Gill in the seaside resort.

  ‘Sunday, then?’

  ‘I’ll be hung-over.’

  ‘We can have the hair of the dog!’

  ‘I’d better not.’ She took a deep breath, decided to level with him. ‘I was in need of a listening ear the other day, but I’ve talked it over with a friend and I’m fine now. A
dam, we should just keep things professional.’

  ‘You’re no fun,’ her colleague said, and there was a slight edge to his voice.

  ‘I admit it – I’m a killjoy,’ Beth murmured. She waited for his reply but he remained silent and she felt slightly unnerved. ‘See you at the next counselling session,’ she added warmly and brought the conversation to what she hoped was an amicable end.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  That bitch Beth had only gone and stood him up – but one of the sisterhood wouldn’t get away so easily. He was going to drive to Southampton, a journey of two-and-a-half hours, and have himself some fun. He’d pick up another Kylie, a working-class bint with low expectations and no idea of how to protect herself. He’d screw her senseless either in her own flat or in the back of his car. That said, his preference was for her to have her own accommodation: having sex on the back seat played havoc with his knees and elbows now that he was no longer in the first flush of youth.

  He didn’t want to go clubbing until late, would while away the earlier part of the evening at a Southampton casino. He always played blackjack, counted cards. He occasionally won handsomely, which made the management aware of him, so he moved around from one venue to another, playing at gambling houses in Bristol, Bournemouth and various parts of London. Sometimes he went abroad for a few days and played there.

  As usual, he followed the dress code, arrived sober, tried not to draw attention to himself. He watched the women lose at roulette and marvelled at how much money they put on the wheel; it was a game of chance rather than skill so held little interest for him. He also avoided the card tables with the lonely – and invariably broke – pensioners who would try to engage him in conversation: he wanted to blend into the background as much as possible.

  Tonight he was on a losing streak. He cursed inwardly as the croupier took his chips again and again. First he’d lost Beth and now he’d lost most of this week’s spending money. His eventual conquest had better be good . . .

  At 10.50 p.m., he entered one of the Southampton clubs. The cost of entry rose at eleven so there was a big queue to get in, as he’d surmised. He knew just how to play this game. He paid at the hatch then hurried into the main auditorium with dozens of others, knowing that the CCTV cameras would hardly be able to make him out amongst the crowds. The footage of these things was remarkably grainy, sometimes looked like an adult version of join-the-dots.