‘We had to talk about it sometime.’
‘No, we didn’t. If we had any kind of sense, we wouldn’t talk about it again, ever. And you’re right. It is your fault. I can’t be doing with going around feeling horrified all the time. And even though I won’t be going around feeling horrified any more after this, I’m now going to have to go around now feeling oh, I don’t know, stressed, unsettled, disappointed, instead. Knowing how you feel about me and knowing how I feel about you and knowing it’s all completely pointless and probably just down to a cocktail of lust and intrigue and guilty excitement anyway - and well, I just hope George Clooney shows up in the Dog and Trouserleg sometime soon and then we can forget all about it .
‘George Clooney? You fancy George Clooney?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘You fancy Madonna.’ Now I did, impulsively, reach out my hand for the mug. But he refused to let go of it, and then put his free hand on top of mine.
He leaned closer to me. ‘Horrified?’ he said. ‘Is that really how all this makes you feel? Horrified?’
His hand stayed in place and I knew as readily as I knew that it wasn’t going to stop snowing any time soon, that he was about to kiss me.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if your bleep went off now?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be timely?’
He smiled. He didn’t seem in the least bit tense all of a sudden. His hand was a still, warm presence on mine. ‘That sort of thing only happens in films,’ he said. ‘So they can crank up the sexual tension a bit. In real life bleeps don’t go off, telephones don’t ring, door knockers don’t knock and windows don’t get blown in by unexpected explosions. In real life you just have to hang in there and accept the inevitable.’
I wished he wouldn’t use words like “sexual tension”. I said, ‘Which means I get kissed, right?’
His smile became a grin. ‘As kissee, you do have input. You can always say no.’
‘Exactly. Which is why I feel horrified now.’
His face inched towards mine, and I felt my lips part.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Fine,’ he said.
And then I kissed him.
Chapter 16
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God, Rose! I did it! I kissed Adam Jones! I have to be the stupidest, most impulsive, most self destructive woman on the entire planet. But I did it. I can’t undo it. It is now, as they say, etched in my memory forever. Oh, God! Why did I do it? Help!
By the time you log on and read this I will doubtless have gotten myself together enough to put it (that one, beautiful, lovely, sexy beyond delirium type kiss, that is) into some sort of sensible perspective. I will probably be able to convince myself that it was nothing more than an expression of new year high spirits and so on, though I have to tell you at the moment it feels like we just had sex on the living room carpet. That’s how much that one kiss has done to me. I am a woman possessed. I am drowning in it all.
Bloody, bloody hell. Promise me it’ll all be okay in the morning.
Ring or whatever and I’ll tell you all.
Charliexx
First day of a new year. First day of the rest of my life. First day of my new incarnation as someone who has kissed someone else’s husband and invoked passions in myself that I have not felt in years. First day of a sad, unfulfilling period in my life, for sure.
Having fallen asleep eventually, still dressed and above the covers, I awake cold and with a creased face and tramlines down the insides of my legs, where the seams of my jeans have spent two friction filled hours. Friction, to boot, borne out of thrashing about mournfully. Not in any sense friction one could feel smug about.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
New Year’s Day is fairy-tale beautiful. Silent, pink-tinged, and with a backdrop of misty-smudged hills. Snow is still falling in an intermittent, sluggish shower, and has entirely obliterated Adam’s car tracks on the drive. I look down upon the sparkling, everything-just-as-it-was type scenario and feel like crying. Feel like crying mainly because despite my small hours certainty that everything being just-as-it-was would be the most appropriate and manageable way to deal with this new situation, I find I am unable to consider the future without the addition of a hole where my heart should be and a sense that I will never, ever be happy again.
Rats. I get up, strip off, and pull on my comforter dressing gown. Then consider moving to Kent. Then consider moving to Nepal. Then consider setting up an estate agency business in Kathmandu and/or devoting my life to the children of Himalayas generally. Consider myself as a tragic heroine and am instantly reminded of our cyber-debate about the Brontë family, plus the fact that I am now in the same situation as Jane Eyre (except Davina is not mad or in an attic as far as I know) and that the best course of action would be to indeed hit Nepal and do improving works for a while. Except without the addition of a worthy male mentor, for which job, Rhys Hazelton would, in all probability, champ at the bit, brandishing his thoughtfully warmed speculum. Recall griffith-word “is”. Feel even more like crying.
But I am arrested from my damp and introspective chasm by the sound of paternal movements downstairs.
‘Helloeeee!’ calls Dad. His tone suggests the return from a happy, uncomplicated, sexually fulfilling encounter. With Hester. Who is with him. And has possibly come back for more. Bless them. Bless them, but yuk. Really, I do not wish to know. Would not wish to know under any circumstance. But particularly do not wish to know today.
Best to get out then.
‘I’m going out,’ I tell my father bluntly.
‘Out?’ they both chirrup.
‘Yes, out,’ I confirm, racking my brains for some plausible reason. The village store’s closed, and they already know there’s a community walk later. But what?
‘Work!’ I bellow at last, pulling on boots.
‘Work?’ Ditto chirrup.
‘I’ve been hoping for snow,’ I improvise. ‘So I can get some decent shots of the Rutland’s place. It’s -’
‘Work? On New Year’s Day, Charlotte?’ My father looks concerned. ‘And what about lunch? Charlotte?’ He follows me into the kitchen. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
I nod an affirmative while I rummage feverishly in the kitchen drawer for gloves.
‘So - what about lunch then?’ he calls after me.
‘Lovely. Look forward to it!’ Then I make my escape.
‘Season’s greetings, Mr Rutland!’ I hear myself chirrup twenty minutes later. ‘And a happy and prosperous New Year to you both!’
Mr Rutland, who’d no doubt consider himself a fine figure in his zip-up suede cardigan and leatherette slippers, emerges, grunting, from his transylvanian porch. (Why does he always look as if he’s just been masturbating? Don’t accept angina explanation. Except as something exacerbated by former.)
‘Charlotte,’ he confirms. As if identifying a species. ‘And to what do we owe this pleasant, if unscheduled, surprise?’
He thinks he’s such a gent, and he’s actually such a wanker.
‘I know,’ I say, waggling my new Willie JJ digital camera,’ that it’s a terrible liberty, on a bank holiday and so on, but it occurred to me this morning that a blanket of snow would be the very best thing to set off your lovely, lovely home, and that we could really capitalise on this lovely, lovely unexpected meteorological bounty. But it could all be gone by the weekend, couldn’t it? So I thought, as I happened to be passing anyway -’
‘You thought what?’
And stupid with it. But what am I doing here? ‘That I might take a few photos,’ I say sweetly.
‘Photos?’
Of your house. You stupid git. The better to hide it.
‘Of your beautiful home. Er...enhanced by the snow.’
Mrs Rutland appears. With the pooch under her arm. Which farts.
‘Hmmm,’ she says, tipping her face forward. ‘Charlotte?’
‘Come to take pictures, apparently,’ says Mr Rutland.
‘Pic
tures?’
‘Some new ones,’ I enthuse at her. ‘Of the House. In the snow. The present ones are rather unseasonal, aren’t they? What with the blossom and so on. I know it’s not the best time, and if its inconvenient, then -’
‘In the snow?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Why?’ she asks.
Jesus.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘sometimes - occasionally - if the photograph of a house has very obviously been taken some time ago, people sometimes think that there might be something wrong - might be some reason why its been on the market a long time and so on, and that can sometimes - well, you know. I just thought cherry Ditchling would look rather - does look rather -’ (Plus the fact that Metro, whose tacky board has now been affixed outside lowering the tone of the streetlamp, have a more recent picture and a big advertising budget.) - well... seasonal. You know?’
‘Hmm,’ says Mrs Rutland, peering at my hiking boots. ‘Outside, you say?’
‘Back and front. Plus the garden.’
‘Hmm,’ says Mr Rutland. ‘if you must, I suppose. But move the rubbish first.’
In the end, I persuade them. And, having relocated five bin liners containing a lot of swampy God-knows-what round the back, I spend ten frustrating ten minutes trying to convey, by means of a wide angle lens and the power of digital, how a crumbling heap of unattractive spew coloured masonry can be transformed by the addition of a dump of iced rain into something you can imagine yourself being happyish to live in. Oh, I’m not in a happy mood, me.
By the afternoon I’m feeling marginally less frenzied. And cheered, at least, by Ben looking a great deal better. However, he sensibly submits to my dictate that the best place for shrivelled up bronchii is bed.
It’s peculiar - if cinemascope dramatic - to be going on the Cefn Melin annual New Year’s Day village walk up mountain without Dan, without Ben, without a soul in the world. The landscape is glittering, perfect, captivating; an ideal partner to my intense and soulful mood. I feel like a heroine traversing a snow scene on the cover of a Thomas Hardy novel. Feel that, in spirit at least, I am wearing a voluminous hair skirt and lace up boots; that tendrils of dark, curly hair are escaping from my bonnet and undulating, cloud like, on a stiff winter breeze; that I have smouldering beauty, a resolute expression, a crippled great aunt and a bundle of logs; that I’m on my way back to our hovel on the far edge of a sheep field, having learned of my dark lover’s betrayal of trust; that I’m smitten by tumultuous and dangerous emotions; that I am tossed on a great tide of apocalyptic events.
(I could, instead, have shared a prosaic discussion with my father about the preserve-related merits of whinberries, sloes and hedgerow fruit generally, but a stop was put to father coming on the walk by the kindly but firm Mr Prestwick, chair of the local walking society and person with whom the exercise-induced death-toll-buck stops.)
And I am glad to be a tragic heroine. I am glad for a chance to wallow in unhappiness and self pity. I’m glad for the opportunity to drink in the drama of my surroundings and to compare them with the drama of the intractable problems of affairs-of-the-heart. I concentrate, therefore, on maintaining a solitary front end position, and immersing myself in sad thoughts.
My solitary front end position turns out not to be particularly solitary, however, as the snow (coupled with laughably unrealistic personal fitness assessments in some cases) has encouraged a positive multitude of earnest ramblers. Fortunately, the twin irritations of gradient and snow depth are such that by the time we are fifteen minutes into our endeavour, the reality of hangovers and half tons of Quality Street have reduced all but a few to a slow creaking trudge. A few, however, is still more than one.
‘Didn’t expect to see you,’ puffs Phil as we head up the twinkling white slope. ‘Thought you weren’t keen on this sort of thing.’
Despite myself I feel uncomfortable. And listen hard to see if I can detect a bitchy twang in his voice, but the observation seems genuine. Phil can’t help it if he thinks I’m a couch potato. Why would he know any different? I spent most of the six months of our tepid encounter wheedling my way out of doing such things with him. I note the tilt of his Barbour and the bulge in his pocket. As Karen strides, red-faced (breathless, speechless etc.), alongside him, I fancy a manual of outdoor sexual gymnastics, but logic tells me the bulge will be just as it always is - the Field Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Britain, carefully annotated and bristling with post-its.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she says brightly, and I feel myself blushing. Not least for the curmudgeonly tone of my thoughts. I wonder what she knows of me. Though what’s to know, really? ‘You walk a lot?’ she goes on, chattily. ‘You look very fresh.’
‘I’m gathering my thoughts for the year,’ I tell them both. ‘Doing what everybody does, I suppose. Getting fresh air into my lungs and resolutions into my psyche. Plus escaping my dad and his girlfriend for an hour. Hester Stableford, Phil? they’ve got a thing going on.’
Because I am embarrassed, I put the word “thing” into verbal quote marks, and as soon as I do so, I think; bugger! Because I don’t mean this at all. And Phil - who is now nodding and going hmmm - will think I am pining and bitter and completely dried up sexually and someone who’s life has been one long round of failed relationships. All of which is patently untrue. Right now I feel exactly as I think I remember I used to when I was young and full of simmering sexual appetites and had been shagged senseless by Felix when he came home on leave. Which is one mighty achievement for a simple kiss from a late thirty-something in a sensible suit. Which makes what happens next more than unfortunate.
‘Hello there!’ A vision in luminous Gore-tex. Addressing me. With a wave and a back slap.
Davina! Davina? On a hike? In the snow?
Yes. Obviously. She extends her hearty greeting to take in Phil, Karen, and much of the surrounding population.
‘Well, well! Quite a crowd today! Who would have thought it! And - aaaaahh! - why don’t I do this more often?’
Oh God. Where is he? Is he here? Did he come too? Is he walking behind me? Has he seen me? Has he...oh, stop it!
‘Nature,’ announces Phil, once introductions have been effected. ‘Is ambrosia for the soul.’ Karen nods happy agreement. Then squeaks. ‘Phil! Look over there!’
We look.
‘It’s a badger! Good grief! At this time of year! And in daylight! Do you see it?’
‘Davina nods. ‘I do!’ Then looks back down the hill. ‘Adam! Bill! Look! A badger!’
So, yes. YES. He is here. Bugger the badger. He is here. Uuurrrrgh. Cope, Simpson. Calm, Simpson. Eyes forward. Legs straight.
My pace slows (quite without my telling it to, which is disconcerting), while the soul food junkies speed up in pursuit of the badger. They take their noise with them and, apart from my heartbeat, all I can hear now is the soft flump and squeak of what I know are Adam’s boots in the snow.
Bill strides on and past me. I feel like a sniper. I have Davina firmly in my crosshairs as I sense Adam drawing level. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t smile. Just matches my stride.
‘Hello,’ he says, softly. ‘Didn’t think you’d be up here.’
‘Why not?’ I snap. ‘I like hills. I like walking. You, of all people, should realise that. I come every year. I bring Dan. And Ben, usually. And I’ve never seen you on the New Year’s day walk before.’
I turn as I say this. I’m so desperate to look at him.
He looks cold. The end of his nose is red. ‘I didn’t mean because you wouldn’t want to. I meant because it was late, last night, and with Ben and so on. And I certainly was here last year.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Though I did only get half way. I had to come back. Jack Patterson You know him? The man from the video shop? That was asthma, too, funnily enough. I had to help him back down.’
Belatedly, this fact returns to my memory. It seems forever ago. Pre our...our... our...this.
I sniff. I feel cross. But I nod
. ‘So you did.’
‘And the year before that.’
We toil on for some moments.
‘Don’t remember,’ I say, finally. ‘It was a long time ago.’
I hear him exhale. ‘It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? All that time when we didn’t...you know...register this.’
This. Aptly vague. Aptly oblique. I look ahead and say nothing, having thoroughly registered. Davina fluoresces a few yards up the hill from us. Her words float down in snatches, like quarrelling gulls.
‘Don’t you think?’ he continues.
I stomp on and then glare at him. ‘I wish I could laugh,’ I say. ‘Really I do.’
‘Oh, Charlie -’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Get my email?’
‘What email?’
‘This morning.’
‘What email?’
‘I just -’
‘Why did you email me? We’d stopped that, remember?’
‘Stopped what?’ This is Phil again. Damn the man. Damn.
‘Crossing the top field,’ declares Adam, pointing. ‘Drifts,’ he adds, quickly. ‘So we’re going around it. How are you, Phil? Any new developments, rolling stock wise?’
I take the opportunity to quicken my stride now, and in moments I’ve gained a good half dozen yards. If I can keep my distance I can cope with his nearness. If I can avoid his gaze I can maintain control of my own. If I don’t have to talk to him I can turn my thoughts elsewhere. But as I clamber up minutes later to negotiate a stile, I can’t resist turning back and scanning the group below for a glimpse of him. And when his eyes meet my own and I know he’s been watching me, the thrill’s so intense I know for sure I am lost.
What a mess. What a ridiculous, juvenile mess. I got home at four and practically ripped my snow boots from my feet. Then, panting and sweating, I wrestled myself from my coat. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t function. Could only chant bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell. Couldn’t, mainly, get into the study fast enough, and careered across the hall in such a lather of excitement that I narrowly missed colliding with the recumbent Kipling, who, perhaps knowing his fate following Ben’s obvious allergy, had developed a death wish, and decided to make door thresholds his location of choice. And never - never, ever - has the boot up, type password, dial, log-on process taken such an inordinate length of time.
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