She hadn’t felt the relief she should have, only a jolt of bitterness that he should play her this way. It was embarrassing now to recall the onrush of pouring thoughts that day, the mortification of just being considered a floozy to idly tease, mixed with the dread of him not acting upon his promise now that she had readied herself for it. She didn’t want to let it go. He stung her to action with his inaction, giving her strength to speak when usually she couldn’t manage to string two words of sense together for his benefit. She realised, in retrospect, that in speaking up that day, she was now as culpable as he was should anything happen between them. He had given her an out and she had declined it. She could have dropped the subject and let the smoulder turn to dead ashes to blow away with time, but instead she had spoken.
‘That thing you said to me, that thing you said wanted to do to me, did you only say it to tease? Was it just because of the way I look and dress?’
‘No.’ He fixed his eyes on hers as he said this. ‘I said it because it was true.’
‘Because that’s not me at all: the blonde thing, the short skirts and constant cleavage - I only do it to it for my husband. He likes me this way. I presume you only see in me what he and everyone else sees?’
‘I see a very attractive lady who is funny, kind-hearted and good company,’ he had replied, seemingly in earnest. ‘I’m not sure on the “look” but it’s not my place to tell you how to dress. I must admit I was holding onto the vague hope that it was just a brief phase you were going through, especially since you don’t appear to be that comfortable with it - whenever I look you always seem to be pulling your hem-line down or your top up, as if trying to cover the bare bits.’
Not even the girls apparently saw through her enforced mutton-dressed-as-lamb guise, but he had seen in an instant that it was not the real her. She could still vividly recall the surge of elation his reply instilled. She even felt a mini version of it now, rising in her belly, just from the thinking of it.
‘It’s a phase I’ve been going through for as long as I can remember,’ she had said, feeling properly in control of her words to him for the first time ever. ‘I take it you don’t find this look sexy?’
‘Well, sexy you definitely are, but without wanting to be rude, you do strike me as a girl with more about her than her look suggests. I think the image belies the true character. I might be wrong but, as hard as it is to conceal anything in a skirt that short, you do seem to be hiding something of yourself.’
This, if anything, had been even more exciting to her than his Five Words. If she could have directed the whole scene it would have gone exactly thus. If she could have written the script for her life it would have built to precisely this perfect moment: when the wonderful man, out of the blue, saw her true colours and liked what he saw. Naturally, even though it was her script, she still would never have dared to write in a character as delicious as he - after all, you do have to keep one eye on the believable, don’t you? And yet, of all people to finally see beneath the tacky exterior, it was him. Somehow he had managed to filter out all the nonsense and innuendo she had spouted his way in the past and realise there was some substance and intelligence to her after all. It took her close to euphoria, even if she wasn’t to be stripped and molested. The crippling inertia of her body and mind had disappeared in that instant.
‘I must confess,’ she had said, at last able to offer him a smile, ‘I have been thinking of changing my style for quite some time.’
‘Then I will make you a deal,’ he had replied. ‘You change to how you want to be, and I will prove to you exactly how much sexier you have become.’
Those were his parting words that day, a little before Christmas. His hand had rested lightly on her hip as he said them and she thought that the kiss might be back on. But then he turned and left, leaving her basking in the exhilaration of his visit. Now, almost a month on, she could still feel the joy of that day with absolute clarity. Secrets: now she had two of them to keep. Two thrilling episodes that you had to think carefully about to make sure they weren’t just dreams.
Of course, there could be a third secret. But that would mean defying the man she had promised to honour all her days. It could even mean betraying him. To change would be to lay herself open for the betrayal, or to lay herself open to looking a fool if Hunter was only toying with her, with no intention of acting. However, the change would be like a rebirth: a way to come alive, to find true self-contentment. It seemed like such a preposterously huge reward for just doing something as trifling as wearing a high-necked top. There was nothing simple about it though, she knew that. It was massive. How could she possibly, possibly, go against the will of the man she had loved and trusted and leant upon all these years? She had never gone against anything he had said before. How was her happiness ever going to be more important than his? She looked in the large mirror and saw who she was, and needed to be.
‘Sorry, Luv,’ said the hairdresser, appearing in reflection with a flushed face from rushing and a pair of scissors primed for immediate action. ‘I thought that old dear’s perm was never going to set! Usual is it?’
Shelley barely managed a nod, but the hairdresser wasn’t waiting anyway, already combing through the strands and poised to cut, able to do this particular client on autopilot through years of practice. That might have been the thing that swung it.
‘Actually, no,’ Shelley said. ‘Can you just do me a quick trim today with no colouring? But I want to make a full appointment for a fortnight Wednesday. I want it all off, cut into a bob. And I want it chestnut, to match my natural colour.’
That Wednesday would see her husband leaving for a three day, two night training course. When he returned she would be a changed woman, her fait accompli already delivered. She didn’t quite have the strength to do it while he was there, but he wasn’t going to be. Just the prospect made her tremble and she would need to be strong. Her wardrobe would receive an overhaul along with her appearance. She was going to find out what it was like to be her for the first time in over a quarter of a century. He would doubtless be upset about everything but he would simply have to come around, because she knew she would be far happier and far more attractive this way. And, crucially, someone more handsome than her husband, someone more refined and currently way more enthralling, just so happened to agree with her.
Number Four
The sunshine brought strength. Earlier, at the start of her vigil, Nesta had steadied her nerves and readied herself to strike the moment he left his house. Most Mondays, when he was at home, would see him emerge at some point in the morning. Pity he didn’t seem to have some kind of regular schedule that she could pick up on. Weren’t military men supposed to be dependable? Beyond mid-morning the wait became niggling, almost hurtful. She could have given up but he had been back a few days now, having unexpectedly been gone so long. She needed to see him.
Many times she told herself to just go down there and knock on his door, even though she wanted it to happen in the street, for it to seem accidental rather than pre-planned. Then the anxiety became too much to bear and she bit the bullet, only to be sent dodging back inside by the sight of Bethan trudging out with her youngest in tow. The need not to be seen on this mission was too strong, even though she had a perfectly legitimate reason for visiting him.
Just after Bethan disappeared from sight the rain started: a cold drizzle. It might have given Nesta an excuse to run down to his, to cover the distance quicker and give her less time both to dwell upon her nerves and be seen by others, but the dank greyness outside seemed somehow too foreboding and it glued her to her seat. The weather kept up awhile, long enough to see a dripping Bethan trudge back a little before midday, head down, her child trailing behind on puddle-jumping duty. Then, almost immediately, Mother Nature delivered one of her miracles, chasing the clouds away to leave pristine, brilliant blue. Hope seemed reborn. Nesta took a couple of deep bre
aths, grabbed the parcel from the kitchen table, and headed out into the sunshine, destination Hunter’s House.
She did the distance in some bizarre fast walk/near jog hybrid with his gift pressed tight under flattened arms to her chest. It was stylistically very poor but she couldn’t stop her legs from trying to get to Number Seven as quickly as possible. Any external observers, should they have been able to concentrate through their laughing, wouldn’t even have seen the gift - her prime excuse for going to him - buried into her front. It was as well concealed as her other reason for seeing him: the chance to get his advice on what to do about her best friend Roni and her husband’s cheating ways.
This had been troubling her for over a month now. She thought she had the answer, to nip it in the bud by confronting the errant husband with her evidence. But what if it didn’t deter him? What if he thought that now he had been found out he had to come clean, resulting in the same terrible fall-out as if she had told Roni directly? What if he launched into some hideously misjudged effort to leave his wife in favour of his lover? No, that was no good. She considered telling Eva what she had seen, but she rightly guessed that her not-as-lesbian-as-she-claimed other neighbour wouldn’t give a toss, and quite relished the whole thing exploding messily. Nesta decided she needed the thoughts of a trustworthy friend, a man, a wise head and a lovely one at that, albeit one that belonged to a self-confessed philanderer. Secretly, she also wanted to warn him about Eva, and perhaps gauge whether he already knew of her bisexual ways.
If he had been around she might have sorted this weeks ago, but he had gone away without warning, without letting her know. She tried to fathom why she had missed him so. Six months ago, before his arrival, it wouldn’t have bothered her one bit if the occupants of Number Seven - or Number Anything for that matter - had gone away for Christmas, so why him? She tried to work out how many times she might have seen him during that time. Maybe only a handful, certainly not enough to warrant the ache she felt by his absence. Maybe only a couple of times a week, once the kids were off school, losing her the chance of that first-thing meeting as she walked them past his drive. Perhaps two good chances of a proper chat at the annual Temptation Close Christmas Piss-Up at the pub, and the drinks party Shelley always threw to celebrate the festive season.
His absence there had counted the heaviest. Always in the past she had thoroughly enjoyed these neighbourhood get-togethers. Never had she found them wanting for anything. This time though, without him, it seemed like proceedings were flat, devoid of the key element. Without him there was a hole. No, “hole” was incorrect because she had never felt her life to be missing something before his arrival. He had added a dimension that she couldn’t quite quantify, one that she hadn’t thought was necessary but which nonetheless quickly made her dependent upon. He was a drug of sorts: without him life was fine in its trudging way; with him life bloomed unexpectedly, took on thrills you hadn’t imagined you’d know. He made everything and everyone else seem trivial, which was presumably why she had nearly yelped her glee when she saw the sleek black Beemer back on his drive after a month of not being there. And why she had just hurried down the street like some giant manic goose to stand at his doorstep.
She couldn’t yet shift the guilt, sensing the burn of prying eyes at her back - this despite the fact that few of the other residents of the street would be at home to spy on her, even if they did have the inclination. It would have helped if he had shifted his backside into gear and opened his front door a bit faster. She had almost decided to beat a retreat when he eventually appeared. She felt suddenly victorious in breaking down one of his defences, of getting the door open so she could catch him on home soil. It was a house she had never seen inside, not even when the previous owners had lived there. Just seeing the hallway meant knowing him a little better than before.
‘Hello, Kiteboardsman Extraordinaire,’ she said, talking loudly because of the rush within.
‘Why, Miss Fancypant, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘I bear gifts: a Christmas present. You might have had it to open on the day, rather than mid-way through January, if any of us had known you planned to swan off for nearly a month. You missed all the parties and gatherings. And you missed Santa riding around the street naked on the back of Rudolph, boasting about the size of his sack.’
It was good to see him smile. It was good that she was able to talk with such apparent confidence when inside she was such a jumble. Why was simply seeing him still so utterly nerve-inducing?
‘I’m sorry. I went for a little holiday,’ he said, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest. It was a casual stance, but one adopted by the naturally guarded, those used to giving little away. Who else could go away for so long and return without a mad urge to tell anyone who would listen all about their adventures? It struck Nesta that she might not be invited in, and that brought some small panic. She had an instant need to breach his defences, to find out more - not just about this holiday, but about everything. Of all the thoughts she had of him in private, so many of them came up short through lack of fact. He gave so little of himself away and it was time she made a start on putting that right.
‘You need to open this present immediately,’ she said. ‘It is a particularly ripe cheese and it might kill you with its pungency if left a moment longer. You could either do it unceremoniously here on your doorstep, or you could be a polite fellow and do it inside, perhaps over a cup of tea, with me there to witness and report back on your reaction of crushing disappointment. You choose.’ The gift wasn’t a cheese, obviously. In fact she was aware that the surprise element of it was almost nil, the wrapping paper making it no less obvious than if it had “Book Concealed Inside” printed all over it, rather than “Yuletide Greetings”.
‘I choose the inside with a cup of tea option,’ he said, standing back and opening the door wider to allow her entry. Another internal rush, enough to make her legs heavy. She stepped into the hall and her eyes were everywhere, trying to gather evidence surreptitiously. Each decorative piece, each material and colour used, might give a clue to his character - assuming he either approved of the previous owner’s decoration or had obliterated it with his own. However, the walls were painted soft cream, the floor laid with a very light beige marble tile, smooth and shining. It was all very nice and elegant, but it wasn’t giving her the pointers she was after. It was all a bit safe, and she just knew that this wasn’t him. She grabbed a view of the lounge on their way through to the kitchen. The leather sofa was there, the one they had carried past her that day he first came. Did he sit or lie on it when he came to watch TV, and what programmes would he watch? The one wall adornment she glimpsed was an expensive-looking, modern piece made of fused glass; certainly not one of his own creations.
The kitchen was the one chosen by the previous owners, put in by the builders as part of the original sale. Not his choice, although, either by accident or design, the red glass tiles behind the cooker had been complimented by him with items in the same racy colour: a chic kettle and toaster; a bread bin; a spaghetti jar and an empty cookbook stand. Did he cook? He must have eaten some hideous concoctions in his days serving in the field, but then he could probably successfully scour any scruffy wasteland for edibles. Surely a man like him only did nice food, but who does cordon bleu for one when ready meals were so much easier?
Everything was tidy, even though this had been a surprise visit. The sink was devoid of used crockery, the worktops had been wiped clean and towels had been hung back up. No surfaces were cluttered. He offered her a seat at his table - a sleek modern design in cherry wood, perhaps Scandinavian, tapering slightly at each end to match the canted sideboard on the back wall. It was more dining set than kitchen, and perhaps a little cramped. Her heart sank a little at the thought of him here, eating his meals all alone at a table that would have seated six. Atop the sideboard was a lovely fruit bowl forged in iron, the bl
ackness of the metal making the colours of the fresh apples and tangerines stand out invitingly. He liked things simple, but he had an eye for fine craftsmanship. Smart yet understated; a good measure of the man.
‘Would madam like tea, or could I tempt you with something a little stronger? I’m sure it’s late enough to have a glass of wine without having to alert Alcoholics Anonymous.’
‘Wine would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been in this house before. Have you done much to it?’
‘Very little. I’m allergic to decoration of any kind. All the flooring was done, all the painting. It’s still like new and it’s just light and plain, which is good enough for me. The only thing I’ve done is to turn the dining room into a studio.’
That explained the cherry wood shoe-horned into the eating area of the kitchen. He came over with her wine, a rather large glass of white. It struck her that she was no longer calling any of the shots here, having stepped onto his territory. Care would have to be taken if she did not want to fall completely into his grip. Who knew what intentions he had now she’d strayed into his web? It was a thought to make her shiver. It was nice wine, though - really nice - difficult not to keep going back to for another sip.
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