by Hilary Boyd
‘Grey Goose to the rescue.’
‘I mean, how bad can it be? He was your husband for decades, after all. And if it really is a complete disaster, you can call it quits. Or sink into a dreary slippers-by-the-fire companionship with separate beds and a Teasmade.’
Jo laughed. ‘God, Teasmade. Do they still have them?’
‘Probably. But to get back to your dilemma. It is worth it, isn’t it? Pushing the envelope a little. Better than suffering prim little dates till you both lose the will to live.’
‘I suppose . . . it just seems so false.’
‘Give it a go at least. Can’t see the harm.’
The door opened and the pretty Malaysian girl who had massaged Jo earlier came in carrying a tray with ginger tea in two small china cups.
*
‘I’ll cook supper,’ Jo said.
‘Oh, great. Are you sure?’
‘I’d like to. It’s a beautiful day, we can sit outside. About eight?’
‘Great, thanks. See you then.’
Jo said goodbye to Lawrence and put the phone down. She pulled a face, stared at the phone for a moment. The Grand Seduction, as Donna called it, had begun. Jo was to ‘lighten up’, ‘relax’, ‘stop analysing’, ‘have some fun’. But she drew the line at a bustier and stockings – Donna’s most radical suggestion.
Lawrence arrived on time. He looked scrubbed and buffed, elegant in a light blue shirt and jeans. Jo thought he seemed more like his old self as he snapped the ice out of the tray and loaded two glasses ready for the vodka Jo had retrieved from the freezer.
‘No plaster!’ she said, noticing the blue wrist support.
‘Had it off yesterday. Such a relief.’
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Not really. It’s stiff and I can’t put weight on it or rotate it properly yet . . . but we’re getting there.’
She had poached salmon, made a green salad and couscous, but first they sat outside, a dish of olives and some Parma ham on the table between them, breathing in the warm evening air, the light gentle and shadowy as the sun dipped behind the houses to the west.
‘This is lovely,’ Lawrence spoke softly, raising his glass to Jo. ‘You found such a peaceful spot.’
She smiled. ‘Your flat must be hellish in this weather.’
‘Worse than hellish. Stinky and stuffy and pretty unbearable.’
‘You should get out of there.’
‘Yes . . .’
The sudden silence was typical of recent meetings.
‘How’s the book coming along?’ she asked.
‘Yeah . . . not bad at the moment. Still in the early stages of research, but it’s beginning to take shape. Yours?’
‘I’ve started on the next one, but I’m waiting for them to offer me another deal. Maggie says they will, but you can’t be sure.’
‘Sounds like good news though. I’d like to read your latest.’
‘I’ll send it to you.’
Silence. Jo stood up and cleared away the olives. ‘Top up?’ She indicated his empty glass. Lawrence got to his feet.
‘Jo,’ he took the bowl from her hand and put it back on the table, gently taking hold of her arm and pulling her towards him.
‘Come here . . .’
She went to him, her heart beating faster as he bent to kiss her. ‘Can we?’ he asked after a moment, his head nodding towards the kitchen door. And she led him inside, up the stairs, into her bedroom. The room was dim, but she didn’t turn the lights on. Lawrence held her, kissed her again, then began to help her take off her T-shirt, his right hand still clumsy from the accident. She found she was almost embarrassed to be naked in front of him again. But Lawrence – never one for much foreplay in the past – seemed to be on a mission to give her as much pleasure as she could handle. She heard Donna’s words in her head, ‘lighten up’, ‘relax’, and she made a conscious effort as he stroked her breast, played with her nipple. But she found she was holding her breath, not able, completely, to let go, especially when his lovemaking became increasingly frantic, almost desperate, as if he needed to finish because he had a train to catch.
‘Slow down . . .’ she whispered.
Then a moment later his erection abruptly subsided and he rolled off her on to his back.
‘Sorry . . . sorry, Jo.’
‘What happened? Did you come?’
‘No . . . no, it just . . . don’t know . . .’
She raised herself on her elbow to look at him. ‘It’s OK. Doesn’t matter.’
Lawrence wouldn’t look at her. ‘Sorry.’
She flopped back on the pillow and they lay in mortified silence for a minute or two.
‘That was a bit of a disaster,’ he said.
She gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘Were we trying too hard?’
She wanted it to be that, not what she most feared; that they no longer found each other attractive.
‘I wanted it to be perfect,’ he muttered, laying his bent arm across his face. ‘I thought if it was . . . if we could get back to being together . . .’
‘Sex isn’t the only thing,’ she said.
‘No . . . no, I know that. But isn’t it symbolic?’
She didn’t answer. Like Lawrence, she thought it probably was – symbolic of their closeness, their ability to connect. And tonight’s lovemaking had been anything but close, except by the real skin-on-skin definition.
He turned on his side to face her, his mouth pinched, his eyes troubled. ‘I bet you didn’t have this problem with Travis. You said the sex was brilliant with him.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yes, you did. You said you were enjoying it “hugely”.’
So he had been jealous, even back then, as Donna had insisted.
‘I don’t think it’ll help if we discuss the sort of sex we had with our other partners, do you?’ Her voice was taut as she brushed away images of what he himself might have been doing with Arkadius.
Lawrence sat up, rubbing his hands across his face, wincing at what must have been a twinge in his newly healed wrist.
‘God . . . I’m sorry. I had no right to ask you that.’
Jo held out her hand for his, which, after a second’s hesitation, he gave her.
‘Perhaps we’re not really over stuff,’ she suggested. ‘Maybe we need more time.’
He lay down again, drawing her into his side, her head on his chest. ‘Do you think there’s a chance for us, though? Do you want there to be?’
She didn’t answer immediately.
‘Were you thinking of Arkadius . . . tonight?’
It was Lawrence’s turn to be silent.
‘Not sexually, no, I wasn’t. I promise I wasn’t.’
She wasn’t sure she believed him. ‘But I suppose he is still there, between us . . . somewhere,’ he went on. ‘It was more . . . I felt so much was resting on us getting on physically, like we used to.’
‘But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? Before. That’s why you ran off with someone else.’
‘It wasn’t that. I’ve always loved our lovemaking. I wasn’t dissatisfied if that’s what you think.’
‘Bored, then.’
‘Not even that.’ She heard him sigh. ‘I mean, in a long marriage it can’t be thrilling all the time. But we were good together, Jo. The thing with Arkadius was totally separate. I’m not making excuses, but I suppose I was vulnerable . . . feeling old, losing my potency, the dreaded retirement looming. Then along comes this person who makes me feel so young again . . . and desired. I just went for it.’
Jo felt a stab of annoyance that he’d been such a pushover, so eager to defect. Then she remembered Travis, the overwhelming desire she’d felt for the actor still fresh in her mind. She could have easily made a fool of herself with him.
‘Tonight hasn’t ruined it, has it?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ she said.
‘You’re not still angry with me, are you? I’d understand if you were.’
<
br /> She got out of bed, began to retrieve her clothes from the floor. Was she angry with him? She tried to pinpoint precisely what she felt about her husband in that moment. In a way she wished she did feel angrier. It would have been more concrete, more comprehensible than this wishy-washy doubt, this lack of much feeling at all, except a residual sadness.
Neither of them said much after that. Lawrence didn’t stay for supper. He dressed and was on his way, leaving Jo to contemplate the untouched plate of salmon, the dish of couscous, the wooden bowl of salad.
*
‘I don’t understand why you’re in such a state, darling. The first time was bound to be tricky . . . after all you two have been through.’
‘It’s not the sex. The bloody sex has nothing to do with it. He thought it did, but it doesn’t. We’re older, Donna, what does it matter if we don’t bonk like teenagers any longer? We should be able to get past that.’ She paused. ‘No, it’s the lack of . . . I don’t know the right word, but connection, spark, that thing that holds two people together,’
‘Love?’
Jo sighed. ‘Love . . . do you think that’s it? That I don’t love him any more?’
Donna, who had been woken by her friend’s phone call, then dragged out of bed by Jo’s prompt arrival at her house on one of the few days she’d chosen to lie in, was slumped in an armchair in a man’s navy dressing-gown, four sizes too big – legacy of Walter – balancing a cup of tea-gone-cold on the chair arm, Max curled up on her knee.
‘I’m not sure what I think. But maybe you don’t.’
Jo lay back against the sofa cushions. She’d poured herself another vodka after he’d gone, and sat outside, miserably trying to understand what had just happened. She realized she’d invested much more in the possibility that it could work out with Lawrence than she’d intended. When it began to get chilly, she’d gone inside and stretched cling film over the bowls, put away the food in the fridge; she wasn’t remotely hungry. Then lain awake most of the night. Now she felt achy and exhausted, her eyes scratchy, her mouth dry from the alcohol.
‘How did you leave it?’
‘We were polite . . . we’re always polite these days. He said sorry he wasn’t hungry. I said it didn’t matter. He said talk soon. I said yes. We said goodbye.’
‘Right. And will you “talk soon”?’
‘I don’t know if there’s any point.’
Donna frowned. ‘I think you’re tired, darling. And over-reacting. It was going OK till last night, wasn’t it? You seemed keen to see him.’
‘He used to make me laugh, Donna. We used to talk all the time. There was never a moment when we were lost for words. Now we just seem to go through the motions. Take last night. We should have been able to laugh about it, not take it all so bloody seriously.’
Donna pushed Max off her knee and got up.
‘Come on, I’ll make us a decent cup of coffee.’
‘Sorry to wake you up,’ Jo said, as she followed her friend into the kitchen. ‘I thought you’d be in the shed by now . . . I used to know when you were up because of the light.’ The thought of not knowing when her friend got up seemed overwhelmingly sad to Jo, and she burst into tears.
‘Maybe you just have to accept it’s over,’ Donna said later, after she’d plied her friend with two cups of throat-searing espresso.
‘What’s annoying is that I had started to accept that . . . months ago. I was getting on fine on my own in the new flat. I told you at the time and you didn’t believe me. But I was. Then he got ill. I wish I’d never taken him in. I didn’t need to. It was stupid – you were so right – and now I’m back to square one, wanting something that doesn’t exist any more.’
‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up for helping him out. Or giving it a second try. You’d always have wondered if you hadn’t.’
‘Better to wonder than feel like this all over again.’
When Jo left Donna’s, she saw she had missed a call. And a voicemail. From Travis. She stared at her phone as if she’d seen a ghost, her heart suddenly clicking into a faster rhythm.
Listening to the message, she heard his voice, with the familiar touch of laughter, say:
‘Hey, Jo. It’s me, Travis. Long time no talk.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m coming through Thursday, for a couple’a days, en route to Bucharest. Are you around? Hope so. Give me a call. Bye now.’
She listened again. Thursday. This Thursday. Travis. No.
Chapter 21
7 June 2014
The next time her mobile buzzed she grabbed it, staring at the screen. But it was Lawrence, not Travis. Jo hesitated before answering. Already she felt guilty, just for the message she’d left for the American, which said simply, ‘Sorry I missed you. Call me if you have a chance.’ Although she wasn’t sure what she’d say to him if she did speak to him. Now she took a slow breath.
‘Hi, Lawrence.’
‘Hi, Jo. Umm . . . just wanted to say thank you for last night.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Sorry it didn’t work out.’
‘Yeah . . . listen, Lawrence, maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while. Maybe we’re taking things too quickly and trying to push a round peg into a square hole, if you know what I mean.’
Lawrence didn’t reply at once.
‘I was just having an off day. I was tired from the hospital in the morning and—’
‘It’s really not about the sex. I just feel we don’t . . . we aren’t really enjoying it much . . . being together.’
‘I am. I love seeing you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. Obviously it’s a bit strange, but it’s early days . . . we’ve got to give it a chance, haven’t we? Please. Don’t walk away now, Jo. I know I don’t deserve a second chance with you.’ He stopped. ‘But I love you. I really do love you.’
This time Lawrence’s words pierced her heart.
‘And we’re supposed to be going to Jono’s on Friday. We can’t cancel that.’
Jonathan, Lawrence’s friend at whose party they had first kissed, had, like Lawrence, also studied history at UCL. But after college he’d gone into one business venture after another, mostly disastrous, until he’d hit upon a successful formula for importing Italian olive oil into the UK back in the nineties, later expanding to include Italian hams, buffalo mozzarella, truffles, torrone.
‘The house is amazing, Jo. Queen Anne, stunning, hardly touched. Remember, I told you I spent a few weekends there when we were at college and his parents were still alive. It’s worth going just to see the house. And you love Jono. We haven’t seen him in ages.’ His voice took on an almost beseeching note.
Which was true. Jono was charming and loud and funny and flirtatious and drank too much, but Jo liked him enormously. Less so his second wife, the frosty Alana, who always seemed cross that Jonathan had a past with friends in it before they met and had slowly begun to slough off all his college mates, delete them from her party lists.
‘Have you told him what’s happened with us?’
Lawrence hesitated. ‘Umm . . . no . . . didn’t see the point, now it’s over. It isn’t anyone else’s business, Jo.’
‘So he thinks we’re together . . . normally together.’
‘I suppose, yes.’
‘Right.’
‘His father died two years ago at ninety something. He says he hasn’t done anything to update the place yet – probably dreading the outlay. Alana will have plans, no doubt. Thank God it’s Grade II listed, or she’d turn it into a gin-palace or theme park or something equally tasteless. We should see it while we can.’
‘I’m sure the house is lovely, Lawrence, but it’ll be grim. Probably freezing and uncomfortable, especially if it hasn’t been modernized. There’ll be no heating and lino in the bathrooms; eighteenth-century horsehair mattresses; kidneys for breakfast . . . not to mention the grisly people. Remember that last Chelsea dinner? Anyway, I wouldn’t know what to wear.’
‘Don’t be s
illy. You always look beautiful. You don’t have to eat the kidneys and it’s June. How cold can it be?’ He paused. ‘We have said we’re going.’
Said they were going in a moment of nostalgic enthusiasm about Jono, after Lawrence had bumped into him in Soho a few weeks ago. Jo had thought it might be fun back then, when she was still hopeful about her and Lawrence. But now . . .
‘We can cancel. Or you can go without me. Jono won’t mind. You can say I was ill.’
She heard Lawrence sigh. ‘I don’t want to go without you. Please. Come.’ His voice was quietly insistent. ‘Just this weekend, Jo . . . then if it’s all a disaster . . .’
Jo took a deep breath. She would like to see Jonathan again and was definitely curious about the house. Maybe being a couple in public again, with our friends, she thought, will be telling, help point up whether we have a future together or not. ‘Oh, OK.’
‘Great. That’s so great. A summer weekend with an old mate in a beautiful house . . . especially if this weather holds. How bad can it be?’
*
‘Oh, thrilling,’ Donna squealed when Jo told her about Travis passing through town.
‘It’s not. I mean he hasn’t rung again, and he might not. But if he does . . . I don’t know what to do.’
‘Uh . . . well, you bonk him, don’t you?’
‘Donna! I can’t. I’m supposed to be getting back with Lawrence.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t. And you’re not sure you want to. So, technically, you’re still allowed to bonk someone else.’
‘Technically, not morally.’
Her friend gave an amused shrug.
Jo dragged her spoon around the edge of her cup, gathering up the foam from her latte, suddenly conscious of the young guy on his computer at the table next to them. But she realized he had his headphones on and probably couldn’t hear a thing.
‘OK. You’ve got three options as I see it,’ Donna went on, when Jo didn’t say any more. ‘Bonk him. See him but don’t bonk him. Don’t see him, don’t talk to him, definitely don’t bonk him. Basically don’t pass go.’
Jo nodded, waited for further enlightenment.
‘Think about it. Which can you imagine doing?’