CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  There had never been any doubt in Isabelle's mind that the fondness had been mutual. She had noticed the furtive glances in her direction when he had thought nobody was watching, but then she was used to men looking at her in that way. For Isabelle, sexual attraction had always started with the mind. That was not to say that looks were unimportant; a handsome face and a reasonably trim body still pushed all the right buttons, but without the mind, they seemed little more than window dressing.

  Physically, Peter and Martin had been quite similar in appearance although Peter was a little taller and thinner while Martin had retained more hair, but gained a slight paunch. She had more than once secretly mused that a combination of the two brothers would have produced the perfect male: artistry balanced with practicality, spirituality tempered with rationality, and a breadth and depth of intellect that would have ensured a never-ending supply of diverting and witty conversation. Then again, perhaps such a chimera would turn out to be eternally dull, and lacking in spontaneity. Perhaps it was the want and surfeit of such traits which gave rise to the individuality she so loved in both men. But of all Peter's qualities, the thing which had completely bowled her over these past few weeks was the restraint he had shown. In spite of her embarrassing lack of fortitude up at The Fields, he had acted with the utmost propriety and integrity, never once taking advantage of the vulnerability and loneliness that had permeated her soul and sapped her strength since Martin's death. At first, she had felt foolish, wondering whether she had misinterpreted his feelings towards her, but on the night of the burglary, as they had lain together in bed, their bodies separated by thin cotton, she had felt the desire surging through every inch of his being. Had he wanted, she would have submitted to him on that night, and she was fairly sure he had known this, but instead, he had held her in the most delicious embrace, sharing his strength and love without yielding to the sexual tension that had raged between them. It had been perfect. Although she had felt a certain frustration at the time, it had been exactly what she had needed – an assurance of safety, security and love. Since then however, she had been desperate to repeat the exercise, but this time yearned to express her feelings in the most complete way. No longer did she feel any guilt. Her beloved Martin was gone - whether taken by selfish obsession or mental illness was of little consequence now; she still had a life ahead of her and was determined to live it to the full. As for Abigail, she had had her chance to hold on to a good man, but had squandered it. Peter had explained how the woman had walked out on him the previous evening, taking the children with her. Now, Isabelle was quite certain that nothing could stand in their way.

  With hair done and make-up applied, the only decision remaining was the dress. Neither Martin nor Peter had ever been especially attentive to her attire, so on the rare occasions when comments had been made, she had taken particular note. For this trip she had packed two such garments, one, a cheeky little black cocktail dress which hugged her waist and accentuated her bust – always guaranteed to attract a good deal of attention from the opposite sex – and the other, an elegant and timelessly alluring scarlet evening gown. She was fairly certain that Peter would appreciate either, but as she padded across the sumptuous dark blue and gold carpet of the hotel room and held each up to her chin before the full length gilded mirror, the scarlet seemed to call out to her. She slipped it on, savouring the soft embrace of satin and admiring the effect in the mirror. The dress had a beaded halter neckline showing off her slender shoulders to great effect, while a diamond shaped keyhole below revealed just enough cleavage to be sexy without becoming too much of a distraction. There was nothing worse than trying to make conversation with a man whose gaze never ventured above one's breasts. She turned and looked over her shoulder at the shapely expanse of flesh, crossed between her shoulder blades by the two bejewelled straps, and extending almost to the crease of her buttocks. Even by her own self-critical standards, she looked stunning.

  Descending the grand staircase to the lobby, she perceived a drop in ambient volume as attentions were diverted and conversations momentarily paused to observe her entrance. She blushed and looked around briefly with what she hoped was a modest smile. The effect was as she had wished, men and women alike smiling back in hushed admiration. This was infinitely preferable to the feeling of provoking lust from the men and jealousy from the women - which might well have been the case had she worn the cocktail dress. She spotted Peter sat at the bar and chatting enthusiastically to a rather bored, but patient looking bartender. Her Scarlet O'Hara entrance down the staircase had clearly been lost on the one man she had wanted to impress. Undeterred, she strode confidently towards him, imagining their imminent embrace, and what she hoped would be the first of many passionate kisses.

  Eventually following the drop-jawed gaze of the barman, Peter turned towards her and smiled. “Hello, my dear, you look lovely tonight, can I get you a drink?” he said briskly, and with none of the passion she had hoped for. She stood for a moment, arms widened in anticipation. He took the hint and gave her a loose hug, pecking her lightly on each cheek, and immediately sitting back down at the bar.

  “So what can I get you madam?” asked the bartender.

  She took her place beside Peter and ordered a white wine.

  “How was your journey?” he asked, knocking back the remains of his coke and waving the glass at the barman for a refill.

  “Easy enough,” she said, hoping they would eventually progress beyond small-talk. “What do you think of the hotel? The restaurant looked quite nice, so I booked us a table for eight o'clock. Is that all right - or would you prefer to go somewhere else?”

  “Very plush!” he replied. “No, I'm sure this place will be fine.”

  She looked at his coke. “Are you sure you don't want something a little stronger?”

  “Better not. The police are quite vigilant around here – pulling people over and breathalysing at random. I was planning to allow myself a couple of glasses of wine with the meal, but probably shouldn't have any more than that.”

  “You know you could stay here with me,” she whispered, “there's plenty of room.”

  The barman raised his eyebrows, then looked away, pretending not to have heard. She blushed again, then looked at Peter expectantly.

  “Yes, I suppose you're right,” he said with a smile, turning to the barman. “On second thoughts, forget the coke and pour me a double whiskey – I could do with getting a skin-full tonight.”

  “So how are you holding up? It must be a very trying time,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm.

  “Oh, you know, I should have known that publishing a paper wouldn't be easy after all these years out of the system.”

  “Actually I was referring to Abigail walking out on you yesterday.”

  “Oh that, well yeah, you know what she's like. I suppose I should have seen it coming. I dare say she'll be back at some point.”

  “Is that what you want?” she said, a desperate panic rising within her.

  “I don't know really, no I suppose not, but I'd miss the kids if she didn't.”

  “I'm sure you could still see them regularly. A friend of mine got divorced recently, and while he doesn't see them so often, he says the time he now spends with his sons is much more rewarding, because it's time he devotes solely to them.”

  Isabelle watched his face, as this sank in. The word divorce had seemed to knock him sideways, as if he hadn't even contemplated this eventuality.

  “I suppose so,” he said at last, with sadness in his voice. “It would be strange though, living by myself after all these years.”

  “Maybe you'll find someone else?” she said, looking into his eyes, and wondering if this time he would finally take the hint.

  “Yeah right! How does an old fart like me go about finding someone else?”

  She sat, fixing him with an intense stare and smiling, until eventually recognition dawned across his face.

  “Oh Isabelle!” He looked at her finall
y with the love and understanding she had been waiting for. “I've been such an idiot!”

  She nodded kindly. “Peter, I love you. I know it's all a bit sudden, and more than a little confusing after all that's happened, but don't you see - we need each other.”

  He stood up from his barstool and held out his arms. She got up and hugged him tightly. She felt his warm hand on the small of her back as he pulled her closer and kissed her on the mouth.

  “You really do look beautiful tonight!” he whispered adoringly.

  The service was excellent and the food not at all bad for an English restaurant, Isabelle thought, but they really could have been anywhere, eating anything. Peter had finally emerged from the strange little world that had rendered him so unbelievably obtuse of late. Throughout the three courses, his loving gaze had scarcely strayed from her eyes, and his hand reached across the table to hers at every available opportunity. At one point, he had even cut up his food and picked up the fork in his right hand like an American, just so he could continue holding her.

  “You must really love me!” she had teased him. “I've never seen you abandon your impeccable English table manners before.”

  He had laughed heartily at this and leant across the table to kiss her, almost knocking over the wine.

  As they finished their desserts, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation.

  “Some coffee or tea for you, Madam?” came the French accented voice of the waiter.

  “No – just the bill!” they had both said loudly and in unison, smiling knowingly at one another. What followed was like a dream. Ascending the stairs, hand in hand, as though carried along on a cushion of air, they found themselves in the room, bound together in breathless desire. As clothes slipped to the floor, and their naked flesh met for the first time, all the guilt, hesitation, and uncertainty of their former encounters seemed replaced with the remembered intimacy of long-parted lovers reuniting. She was about to make love to her dead husband's brother and yet, somehow, it felt right – more than right – special in some way. Everything they had endured to this point, the sadness and suffering, the laughter and lust, had been thrown into the melting pot, and from this seething soup of emotion came a closeness she had never before experienced.

  For what seemed like hours, they explored each other's sultry forms through all available senses, sexual tension rising and ebbing like the building swell of a tropical storm, until there was nothing left but the ultimate expression of their love. Connected as if in mind as well as body, they moved as one, thought as one, and loved as one. Isabelle's pelvis felt like a chamber of hot magma, slowly filling to unsustainable temperature and pressure below the earth's crust. Just as she was beginning to wonder how much more she could take, the volcano erupted, and a tsunami of sensation surged through her body, ripping all other thoughts asunder. A moment later, Peter's face contorted, as he released an explosive bellowing grunt of satisfaction and collapsed on top of her, panting and murmuring sounds of post-coital contentment. Isabelle closed her eyes, hugged him tightly, and for the first time in many months, felt unreservedly happy.

  She awoke the next morning to a new-found optimism. Feeling as radiant as the early morning sun, streaming through the curtains and setting the room aglow, she reached out across the bed to the man who had brought her such joy and pleasure the night before. But her fingers found nothing but ruffled sheets and duvet. She sat up drowsily, looking towards the bathroom door, listening for sounds of movement. “Come back to bed!” she moaned sleepily, “I'm missing you already!” She half closed her eyes, lay back down and waited for a reply. Only the distant sound of birdsong broke the silence. “Peter! Are you there?” She sat up again, and looked around the room. Other than the depression in the bedding next to her, there were no signs of his ever having been there. “Peter!” she called out again. Nothing. She pulled herself reluctantly from the covers, crossed the room and pushed open the bathroom door. The toilet seat was down, the basin clean, and her toothpaste untouched. She returned to the bed and sat down feeling perplexed. Perhaps he had been hungry and gone for some early breakfast. No, surely he would have waited for her – or better still ordered room-service had he been that desperate. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a flashing red light on the phone next to the bed – it was the message light. She picked up the receiver and called reception.

  “Good morning madam, how can I be of assistance?”

  “You have a message for me?”

  “Let me see – ah yes, that's right, the gentleman left you a note early this morning, before he left. Would you like me to have it delivered to your room or will you pick it up on your way down?”

  “Please send it up, thank you.” She replaced the receiver and went into the bathroom with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had Peter regretted their night together? Was that it? Having finally fulfilled his fantasy, was he now going back to that miserable wife of his? Surely she hadn't misjudged him so spectacularly. Perhaps he just had a meeting scheduled – something he had only remembered early this morning, and out of consideration had decided not to wake her. That had to be it – surely.

  There was a knock on the door and an envelope was handed to her. She took a deep breath and opened it.

  Dear Isabelle,

  Thank you for the most wonderful evening of my life.

  I want you to know that I love you more than I have ever loved before, or will ever love again.

  I'm sorry that I must now leave you without saying goodbye. One day, I promise you will understand. Last night, as I lay in the dark, listening to your breathing, it all finally became clear. No living soul should ever venture where I have been, nor behold what I have seen, and yet I did. Now I must go there one more time.

  This is not the end. I will be with you always!

  All my love

  Peter.

  Isabelle reread the note, running her fingertips over the elegant script, as tears streamed down her cheeks. It looked like a goodbye note, and yet the profession of love, and the promise to be always with her, seemed to contradict that. But go where - and see what? Had he lost his mind? She picked up the phone and dialled Peter's mobile. Wherever he was, he wasn't picking up. She tried the home phone. Again there was no answer. The note carried a finality which troubled her deeply. She was not ready to say goodbye. No matter what he was going through, she wanted to be there to help him through it. Wherever he was going, she wanted to come too. After so much waiting, she wasn't about to let him go this easily. She dressed quickly and grabbed her car keys.

  It was eight o'clock and the local rush-hour was in full swing. Over-protective mothers, dolled up to the nines, were escorting their precocious progeny the half-mile to school in giant, gas-guzzling four-by-fours while their jaded executive husbands sat frustrated behind the wheels of other shiny, yet stationary symbols of self-proclaimed status and success. It was a strange and alien world to Isabelle, lacking the indomitable vigour of a city like Paris, yet with none of the tranquillity of a rural location. It seemed to be the worst of both worlds. She could certainly understand why Peter so much enjoyed visiting Littlewick, although of course, she hoped there was more to it than this.

  Eventually breaking free from the automotive assembly line that was the London road, she wove her way swiftly through the sprawling network of roundabouts to Peter's cul-de-sac. Parking in the empty driveway, she got out and started to make her way to the front door. The sound of an engine could be heard from within the garage. Perhaps he was just on his way out, she thought, waiting for the door to open. But it remained closed. She walked over and heaved on the latch. It moved a little and a cloud of exhaust billowed out from the gap. Using both hands she hoisted the door all the way up into the recess and looked with horror at the sight of a garden hose leading from the exhaust pipe to the driver's window. Taking a deep breath, she ran in and pulled at the handle of the door. It was locked. She looked around and saw a hammer on a bench at the back of the room.
Gulping in a mouthful of the noxious fumes, she went for the hammer, her eyes beginning to stream. She swung wildly at the windows sending a hail of tiny glass fragments into the car's interior. Grappling with the lock, she sucked in another lung-full of the choking cloud and wrenched open the door. Peter was motionless, his seat reclined, his head lying comfortably against the rest with his eyes closed, as though enjoying a peaceful nap. His cheeks were pink and flushed, giving him a paradoxically healthy appearance. An open bottle of pills lay on the passenger seat beside him. She switched off the engine and started to shake him violently by the shoulders, yelling at the top of her voice. “Wake up! God damn it Peter, don't you dare do this to me!” His skin felt cool to the touch, but not cold. She dragged him from the car and out into the driveway collapsing beside him, coughing and spluttering. “Help me!” she wailed, feeling his neck for a pulse and finding none. She held his nose and placed her mouth over his, blowing hard and watching the rib-cage rise and fall. She repeated this several times and then palpitated the chest as she had been shown in first aid classes with the Saint John Ambulance. A young woman appeared from the house next door.

  “Call an ambulance!” Isabelle shouted. “Now!”

  The woman disappeared for a few minutes then re-emerged. “They're on their way!” she said.

  Isabelle collapsed, distraught, onto Peter's chest, fearing it was already too late.