‘I’d love to,’ she said instantly. ‘I’ll just have to make one phone call.’
Off she went to the cloakroom, feeling above the ground, although she had only had one glass of wine, pitying all the other poor ordinary mortals who were not going to have dinner with Daniel. She rang Jeremy and said she had the curse and needed an early night. The lies poured out effortlessly, without hesitation or guilt; she could hear him being embarrassed and sympathetic and she was so convincing she almost convinced herself and started to look around for Tampax. Then she set about repairing her make-up. The face that looked back at her seemed utterly changed: young and hopeful and eager, not at all the face of a deserted wife or a celibate divorcee. She hardly recognised herself. Spraying herself with scent, she felt a sudden surge of confidence, as if anything were possible.
He took her to a very smart Indian restaurant where the waiters all seemed to know him and were very attentive. She caught herself wondering if he took his wife there too. Or was it just a safe place for other people? Over dinner he told her that he had been married twice and had two children from each marriage. It was worse than she thought. His first wife Deborah had gone back to Newcastle to be near her parents. Once a month he went up there to see the children and spend the weekend in an hotel. It was not an amicable arrangement. And once a month the children came to London to spend the weekend with him and his second wife Judy. This was not an amicable arrangement either. The two sets of children did not get on and Judy found being a stepmother more difficult than she had expected. ‘I think she’s beginning to realise she’s made a terrible mistake,’ he said with a wry smile. He did not tell any of this in a tone of self-pity, rather with a mixture of factual reporting and mild surprise, like a man who had been innocently walking down the garden path when a ton of cement fell on his head.
I should get up and run away now, she thought. I am a fool to be sitting here listening to this.
The dark hairs that escaped from his cuffs went all the way down his fingers and she found herself looking at them tenderly and wanting to kiss them.
‘Not a good track record, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘As a husband I’m a bit of a walking disaster. Let’s say as a husband I make a very good accountant.’
In return she told him about marrying Peter at nineteen, when they were both at college, against their parents’ better judgment, and agreeing not to have children until they had qualified and got jobs and saved up enough for a place of their own.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘The right time. It just never comes.’
‘Oh, but it did,’ she said. ‘Only when we tried nothing happened. So we went on trying, getting more and more worried and bad-tempered and pretending it didn’t matter, and then Peter started having affairs and then he got this student pregnant and that was the end.’
He looked at her steadily for a long moment, the muddy green of his eyes reminding her of the colour of avocados, somewhere between ripe and rotten. Again she thought that she ought to flee for her life.
‘Did you have affairs?’ he asked.
She hesitated. ‘Yes. But that gives the wrong impression. I didn’t really want to, it was just a way of getting my own back when I felt miserable.’
‘It can be very comforting,’ he said.
She tried to be honest. ‘Yes, I know. What I meant was, it didn’t happen easily. I’m not a casual sort of person.’
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said. ‘And very young.’
‘I’m thirty,’ she said, thrilled and embarrassed by the simplicity of the compliment, trying to hide behind a joke. ‘The big one.’
‘I’m forty-five,’ he said. ‘That’s half way, even to an optimist. You’re a child, a mere beginner. I envy you. You’ve still got time to get it right.’ He smiled the smile that had been her undoing in the gallery and she felt a curious kind of knot in her stomach, as if he had locked into a private space that no one else had touched.
They had ice cream for pudding, needing the coolness after the delicious spicy food, and it came in a curious phallic shape that made them both laugh as if they were conspirators. They looked each other very straight in the eyes and didn’t say anything. It was hard for her to attack the ice cream with her spoon.
He paid for the meal with a gold American Express card. In the street on the way back to the car he touched her hair very lightly with his hand. It felt as intimate as sex and she was truly frightened, but nothing would have made her run away.
He drove her back to her flat and parked outside. They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time, the tension between them feeling almost palpable, a dark presence filling the space, like another person in the car.
Eventually she said, ‘Are you going to come in?’
‘If I’m invited.’ Still he didn’t touch her and her skin began to crawl and ache with longing, as if she had flu.
‘Then I’m inviting you.’ She resented his making her do all the work and yet she appreciated it too. At least it left her with a free choice; there was no pressure, except in the silence.
Inside the flat she made coffee while he prowled and looked at the pictures, making the odd appreciative comment that they were much better than the stuff in Gian-Carlo’s gallery. When the coffee was ready they sat on the sofa to drink it, still behaving like polite strangers. Her old cat of the marriage, the original Cindy Cat, was still alive then and came to sit on the back of the sofa between them; she always flirted outrageously with male visitors. Daniel began to stroke her and she responsed as usual.
‘What a loud purr,’ he said. ‘Do you have a loud purr?’ And his hand came to rest on Annie’s shoulder.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, turning her head to look at him, dizzy with relief that he had finally touched her.
They kissed then, and she sensed a tremendous hunger in him, as if he were starving and needed to devour her. The mug of hot coffee was still clutched in her hands and he paused to take it away and place it carefully on the table. Then they began to explore each other, undoing buttons and zips, kissing and stroking the skin they uncovered. Their clothes left a trail from living-room to bedroom until they finally fell on the bed and began to make love in real earnest. She found herself back in a world of sensation she had almost forgotten existed, or had never fully explored. She was in bed with a large warm furry animal and they were giving each other every sort of pleasure. Their bodies shifted easily from one position to another, like experienced dancers anticipating one another’s movements, and their faces acknowledged each other’s delight. It was so long since she had made love properly that at first she got stuck on the edge of a climax and feared it would never happen, that it was tantalisingly close yet beyond her reach, but he somehow made her understand that there was no hurry, no urgency, so suddenly it didn’t matter, she could relax and she was able to come, over and over again until she was exhausted and replete, and when he finally came she was triumphant that she could at last make him lose control.
They had a long cuddle and didn’t speak at all. She felt she had returned from a long journey, very tired and yet full of energy, as if she could have jumped up and gone to a party, but might have fallen asleep in the taxi. Out of the long silence he suddenly said, ‘Would you like to do this again with me?’
No one had ever asked her that before in bed; they had all gone off and rung or failed to ring. It was odd to be asked, odd and touching and sweet, and she felt quite overwhelmed by such unexpected courtesy. It was as if he didn’t take her for granted although he had seen the full extent of her need. Could it be that he too felt insecure? Then he would not exploit her, perhaps.
‘Yes,’ she said, and just managed to stop herself adding the word please. To her surprise he then started making love to her again. ‘I thought you meant another time,’ she said, delighted at this indulgent luxury.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘but why not now as well?’
‘What a good idea,’ she said.
This time it was ve
ry relaxed because they had nothing to prove: it was friendly, light-hearted and fun, and they laughed a lot. When it was over she lay there smiling, still revelling in all her warm wet sensations and the smell of his furry skin, so it was quite a shock to hear him say presently in an everyday-sounding voice, ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get dressed.’
She felt like Cinderella at the ball, the glass slipper falling off, the coach turning into a pumpkin. ‘Can’t you stay?’
‘Babysitter,’ he said simply and started pulling on his scattered clothes.
A great chill of disappointment settled on her and she curled up in resentful silence for a few minutes, watching him dress, the glow of the street lamp illuminating his fur before it disappeared back into his shirt and trousers and jacket. Then she got up and put on a dressing gown. They stood facing each other in the hall and she felt like an abandoned child. No more treats. Back to school. She could see herself in the mirror looking crumpled and dishevelled, make-up smudged or worn away, lips swollen, hair all over the place, whereas he looked almost the business man again, back in his suit.
‘I’ll ring you,’ he said, combing his hair.
She had heard that before.
‘That is,’ he added patiently, ‘if you give me your number.’
She was startled, as if he should have known it by telepathy. She wrote it down for him on a scrap of paper from the telephone pad and he handed her his business card, an obvious way, she thought, of telling her she wasn’t of course allowed to phone him at home. Then he kissed her goodbye and it felt all right again, while they were touching.
As soon as he had gone, it didn’t feel right at all.
‘The trick is not to fall in love with them,’ Liz said. After two years with Gian-Carlo she considered herself an expert on married men. ‘Then you don’t get hurt.’
It was two days later and Daniel still hadn’t phoned. Annie had gone through several years of agony while she waited, punishing herself with expressions like making yourself cheap, throwing yourself at him, having no self-respect and behaving like an unpaid tart, but Liz insisted it was their mother’s voice she was hearing.
‘If you don’t fall in love then what’s the point?’ Annie asked. ‘You might as well hold out for somebody single who can stay the night and give you his home number and take you out at weekends.’
‘But they don’t stop you meeting this person, if he exists,’ Liz pointed out. ‘They just make sure you get plenty of good sex and hot dinners while you’re waiting. It’s only like taking a temporary job until a permanent one comes along. You’ve already got that wimp Jeremy. Now you’ve got Daniel to balance things up. It’s ideal.’
‘If he rings,’ said Annie, trying not to stare at the phone.
‘Two days is nothing for an Englishman,’ said Liz comfortingly. Then she spoilt it all by adding, ‘Of course if he was foreign you’d have had flowers by now. Gian-Carlo sent me red roses every day for a week, the first time I went to bed with him.’
‘Perhaps he fell in love with you,’ Annie suggested.
Liz laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. He’s in love with himself. And he loves his wife and all the little bambini. I’m just something exciting and decorative like a ceramic tile or a Lamborghini that he feels he deserves. When men get to forty and they’re successful, they feel they’ve earned a mistress. I’m a status symbol, that’s all.’
Annie wondered if she meant all the cynical things she said. It was difficult to tell with Liz.
‘I should have played hard to get,’ she said, watching the phone.
‘Rubbish,’ said Liz. ‘He might have been run over by a bus and you’d have missed your night of bliss. Worse still, you might have been run over by a bus. At least this way you can die smiling.’
There was a long silence.
‘I should never have gone to bed with him so quickly,’ Annie said sadly.
‘If he’s shocked by that,’ said Liz, ‘then he’s not worth having. In fact it’s a good test of character. You didn’t do it all by yourself, did you? It’s like two people robbing a bank and then one says to the other, “I don’t want to speak to you, you’re a bank robber”.’
‘You see,’ Annie said, ‘you do think it’s a crime.’
‘God give me patience,’ said Liz.
Annie picked up the phone to check it was still working and quickly replaced it.
‘Of course,’ Liz said, ‘there is another solution to this. You can ring him.’
Annie shook her head.
‘I see. You can go to bed with him on the first night but you can’t ring him up. Terrific. Why do you think he gave you his number?’
Annie sighed. ‘His hair smelt of incense,’ she said, remembering.
‘That’s just a miracle shampoo for the over forties, to stop them going bald.’
‘And his sweat is like scent.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Liz. ‘Now that really sounds like love.’
And at that moment the phone rang. ‘Hullo,’ said Daniel sounding perfectly ordinary except that he had the most wonderful voice she had ever heard. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to meet for lunch next week? Or a drink after work?’
Gradually a pattern established itself. During term time they met between five and seven. In the holidays they met from twelve till three, or one till four. Some weeks he was too busy to meet at all. Some weeks he didn’t even phone. But if she rang him he always seemed to be delighted and usually made an arrangement to meet. Very rarely they managed to spend an evening together and go out to dinner. Never a weekend. Never overnight. Time was so short that they spent most of it in bed, though not always making love. Sometimes he fell asleep and she was torn between tenderness and rage. One day he fell asleep on the sofa with a coffee cup in his hand and she worried that he might fall asleep at the wheel of his car. He talked a lot but revealed very little and she had to work out for herself that supporting two families and travelling between them was an exhausting life. She suggested going with him on one of his trips to Newcastle but he said the children liked to visit his hotel room and he would be busy with them all the time. She lacked the courage to suggest going along just for the ride because she felt sure he would refuse; moreover she thought it would indicate that she was really mad.
Sometimes they quarrelled. It seemed to happen about every six months and became known as their bi-annual quarrel, so that in between they could joke about it. That was how long it took for all her resentments to build up, as if they had a fixed gestation period of their own. Too many phone calls missed, and meetings cancelled or postponed. Too many evenings alone in front of the television with a takeaway pizza. Too much sympathy from her friends on how neglected she was.
She would fantasise about giving him up and how shocked he would be, which was rather like fantasising about committing suicide to make your family feel guilty for not appreciating you: small comfort for you at your own funeral. She felt like a child muttering, ‘Then he’ll be sorry.’ She could fill her evenings if she chose to, seeing Liz or Jeremy, Penny and Steve, other friends and colleagues; she could be busy and it was all very pleasant. But she was too honest not to feel a hollow ache at the centre of all this activity. I deserve more than this, she thought.
She envied couples who were entitled to be together, who did not have to make love with one eye on the clock, who had time to talk, to make plans, to go out, to see films, to take holidays, to do ordinary things, like meeting each other’s friends, and even perhaps grow bored and take one another for granted, the ultimate luxury.
Quarrelling did not come naturally to her and she had to wind herself up to it, dwelling on her resentments like somebody biting on a sore tooth. She was afraid of anger, her own and other people’s, remembering arguments with Peter that had been ugly and explosive and achieved nothing except to hasten the end, although they were supposed to clear the air. But eventually she would lose her temper with Daniel and unleash all her grievances, shaking inside, scarcely heari
ng what she said, terrified that he would reject her.
He always listened in silence. He did not shout or sulk, as Peter had done, or (worst fear of all) walk out. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ he would say mildly, a soft answer, she thought, to turn away her wrath. ‘I must try to do better in future.’ Then he would describe all he had to do in an average day or an average week, both at work and at home, and she would end up amazed that he could fit her in at all. She would feel washed clean and new by being so outspoken, so assertive; they would make love, and he would go back to the office late.
And afterwards everything would go on exactly the same as before.
One evening she drove to Blackheath to find the road where he lived. She told herself she just wanted to see his house; in truth she was terrified that she might also see his wife and children. She went after dark to minimise this risk, but even so her heart beat very fast as she approached the street. She felt like a trespasser but she was also very angry that she could never visit him, that he came always to her flat and went away, leaving her alone again, and that she was weak enough to tolerate this arrangement. Driving past his house seemed a way of expanding this boundary, even in secret.
And then she saw him, wearing a tracksuit, out walking the dog. Her heart turned over with shock at seeing him out of context, doing something so ordinary and domestic, a routine chore, part of his other life that she so much wanted to share; and she had time to notice that he looked somehow deglamorised, tired and sad and old; then her guilt at spying on him, as it now seemed she was doing, made her accelerate away before he could notice she was there. At least she hoped he didn’t notice. In all the panic and haste she didn’t even see what his house looked like and she dared not return another time. She never mentioned the incident and neither did he.
‘That’s nothing,’ Liz said, when Annie told her about the narrow escape. ‘When I was in love with my psychiatrist I used to go round to his flat and kiss his car. Can you imagine? God, women are fools. One day the bonnet was hot, he must have just come home, and I nearly burnt my lip.’
Triangles Page 15