The Dilemma

by Abbie Taylor

  ‘How about tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’ He sounded surprised again. ‘I’d love to, but unfortunately I’m working this evening – doing a contract for a company in town. I’ll be here until at least nine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dawn rubbed at a scratch on the phone table. ‘That’s a pity. Tonight just happens to be a good night for me. I honestly don’t know when I’ll next be free.’

  The sound of her own words disgusted her. The threat was a squalid little one, way beneath both of them. But Will was all over it at once. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean … Of course I can meet you. I just meant it might be late. I can get the train down as soon as I’ve finished.’

  ‘Or I could go up there?’ Dawn said. ‘That would save us both some time.’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes! If you’re sure. It wouldn’t be too much trouble?’

  ‘No.’ She was filled with relief. ‘No trouble at all.’

  She rarely got dressed up. But tonight, whatever tiny, feverish creature was flying and fluttering about inside her drove her to scrabble in the back of her wardrobe for the black glittery skirt and top she had bought at the Whitgift Centre last year for the ward’s Christmas do. The skirt was too small; she’d been shopping in a hurry because of Dora and hadn’t had much time to try things on. Now, however, pulling it up over her hips, she saw that she had lost weight. The skirt settled easily, slithering to just above her knees. She brushed out her hair. Mandy was right: it had grown. The practical, handy-for-work bob now seemed too long and thin and girlish for the sophisticated outfit. She tried holding it up, turning her head from side to side to gauge the effect in the mirror. She twisted it into a chignon like Francine’s. It took a few attempts as she wasn’t used to it but finally she managed to pin it in place.

  She studied herself. She was too large and big-boned to have anything like Francine’s willowy figure, but tonight she looked tall and slender, her legs long and slim in a pair of black, high-heeled sandals. After the past few days the last thing she would have expected was to look anything approaching normal, much less quite presentable, but there you were. No accounting for the way things went.

  Milly, curled up in her basket in the kitchen, seemed more comfortable after her anti-inflammatory. Her tail banged against the washing-machine when Dawn went to say goodbye.

  ‘Back later.’ Dawn gave her a pat. She left a bowl of water and some dog biscuits within reach on the floor.

  The warm breeze coaxed wispy strands from her chignon. The bus to Croydon was full of teenagers heading out for the night. The air smelled of burgers and aftershave. East Croydon station was jammed, but since it was the first stop for the London train Dawn managed to get a seat. At each stop, more people got on until the aisles were packed. Most of the travellers were young, dressed in jeans and trainers. Dawn caught sight of herself in the window, all dolled-up and shiny in her black skirt and heels. Abruptly, her mood plummeted again. Didn’t anyone dress up in London any more? What was she doing, heading all this way to meet a nice but rather dull man for an evening that was bound to be awkward and filled with misunderstanding? The best thing would be to get out at the next station and turn back. Then the train flew across the Thames, and to the left, the Albert Bridge, lit up in the dusk, its necklace of lights like beads on a pink birthday cake, sparked in Dawn the familiar excitement that years of living in the City had never fully managed to diminish: London. I’m in London.

  Will’s contract was somewhere off Ludgate Hill. He had said that he would wait for her near the Millennium Bridge, at the Tate Modern end. Dawn took the tube to Embankment, then walked across Blackfriars Bridge. Along the South Bank, the trees were strung with thousands of tiny blue lights, reflected in the black, choppy water. She reached the Tate Modern a few minutes early but Will was there, unfamiliar in a dark suit and tie, standing beneath the spindly, sculptured legs of a giant metal spider. The blue lights from the trees flashed in his glasses as he looked about him, presumably searching for her.

  ‘Hello.’ That crinkling up of his eyes again as he caught sight of her. Dawn saw him taking in her high heels and skirt and chignon as she approached and regretted all over again the impulse she’d had to call him.

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ Will asked when she was standing beside him.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Would you like a drink somewhere before dinner?’

  Dawn hesitated. ‘Maybe we should just find a restaurant. It’s after nine now.’ No sense in overly prolonging the evening.

  ‘OK.’ Will nodded. ‘I know a nice place near here.’

  The bank was thronged with tourists, most of whom seemed to be carrying cameras. A few yards from the bridge, a man lay on his front on the ground, photographing the floodlit dome of St Paul’s across the river through the spokes of a bicycle wheel.

  ‘So,’ Will said as they walked, ‘your week became quieter in the end?’

  ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘Always nice when that happens.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was the reverse of the day in Sussex, when Will had been silent and Dawn had been the one straining to keep the conversation going. The blue flash of Will’s glasses again as he looked at her – as if he sensed that something was wrong but didn’t want to ask.

  They went to an Italian restaurant down a narrow lane. Inside, the walls were whitewashed, painted with murals of Venice and the Colosseum. Candles flickered in tiny blue glasses on the tables. Accordion music seesawed in the background. It was all very mellow and romantic. Dawn would have preferred a noisier, jollier place, with diners in large groups instead of couples tucked away in cosy little corners. A waiter showed them to a table.

  ‘Something to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine,’ Dawn said.

  ‘And for you, Sir?’

  ‘A lager, please.’

  Will looked at Dawn over the candle flame in a smiley sort of way. Too late, she remembered what had happened the last time she had ordered a glass of white wine. She wondered if he was thinking it as well. She opened out her menu and concentrated on the list of main courses. There were only five of them.

  ‘Everything looks very nice,’ Dawn felt she should say after a minute of silence.

  ‘What do you think you’ll have?’

  ‘Oh …’ She hadn’t actually managed to take in any of it. ‘Maybe the chicken?’

  The waiter returned with the drinks. ‘Ready to order?’

  Will looked at Dawn.

  ‘The garlic chicken, please,’ she said.

  ‘No starter?’ Will asked.

  ‘Not for me, thanks. But you go ahead.’

  As she had expected, he didn’t. ‘Just the steak for me. Medium.’

  When the waiter had left, there was another silence. Dawn busied herself by opening out her napkin and spreading it over her knee. She took a sip of her wine. The tartness of it squeezed her salivary glands, shooting a sharp pain through her jaw.

  ‘You’re quiet tonight.’ Will was watching her.

  Dawn put down her glass. She was being rude. It had been her idea to drag Will here and she owed it to him not to make him feel uncomfortable. She searched for something to say and blurted out the first thing that came into her head: ‘A patient of mine died.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘A few days ago.’ Now she felt guilty. No good could come of using Mrs Walker’s death as an excuse for not having to make small talk with her date. But it had worked. Will drew back immediately, the puppyish, eager-to-please look in his eyes replaced by a respectful concern.

  ‘Busy here, isn’t it?’ Dawn looked around her at the murmuring, cosy-couple tables, the waiters swerving between them, plates and glasses aloft.

  ‘It always is,’ Will said. ‘The food is excellent.’

  By the time their meals arrived, Dawn had begun to relax. She was hungry now. The wine had set her stomach rumbling.

  ‘Another glass?’ the waiter asked.


  ‘Yes please.’

  Her mood was climbing again; she was starting to feel glad she had come out. This was what she had wanted: a friendly dinner in a buzzy, cheerful setting. Just enjoy it, she told herself. What was the point in worrying? She could do nothing now except wait and see. For tonight, she was having dinner with a nice man who was glad she was here. She should make the most of it. When the waiter came past again, she ordered a third glass of wine.

  ‘Good vintage?’ Will asked.

  ‘No idea.’ She smiled at him. ‘I just like the taste. Can’t be sensible all the time, can I?’

  ‘No indeed.’ Will smiled back at her. He had taken off his suit jacket. Under the thin white material of his shirt, his shoulders looked enormous. How did he keep them like that – living in the city and spending his days sitting in front of a computer?

  ‘Do you go to a gym?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘No.’

  She slugged down another mouthful of wine. ‘Could have fooled me.’

  Will laughed, looking at her over the candle in a slightly puzzled way. He was playing with his water glass, turning it around and around on the cloth. His fingernails were cut very short. Dawn remembered how broad his arms had looked that day in Sussex. The solid, muscular frame of him as they had stood close together outside the pub. From nowhere, she thought: I wonder what it would have been like to have kissed him?

  ‘What about a nightcap?’ she said when they had finished eating. ‘My treat.’ The long trek back to her empty house did not appeal just yet. Anyway, Will had taken care of dinner so she owed him a favour.

  ‘Why not? Lead the way.’

  They walked westwards along the river, looking for somewhere to go. The bank was empty now, the painted human statues and second-hand book stalls packed away, the camera-toting tourists dispersed. The blue lights from the trees gave the empty benches beneath a melancholy appearance, like the closing scenes of a French film after the heroine has met her tragic end. At Westminster Bridge, the reflection of the Houses of Parliament in the Thames made the buildings look like an open book, one page upright, the other lying in a Gothic, shimmering sheet on the water. But they still hadn’t found anywhere they could go for a drink.

  ‘Eleven fifteen,’ Will said, looking up at the spider-web face of Big Ben. ‘Last orders will be over now anyway.’

  Dawn was disappointed. ‘At least we’ll make our last trains.’

  ‘Train,’ Will said. ‘I’m on the same one as you as far as Streatham.’

  The carriage was brightly lit, full and noisy. Will sat next to Dawn, his jacket over his arm. Across the aisle, a boy in a tracksuit slept with his mouth open, his head on the shoulder of the girl beside him. As the train swayed around a curve, Dawn’s arm brushed off Will’s. The warmth of it made her jump but Will didn’t appear to have noticed. He was concentrating on reading the digital station announcements over the door. At Streatham Common station, the doors slammed open. Will didn’t get up to leave. Dawn looked at him but he was now absorbed in a poster about safety procedures on the wall opposite. He didn’t seem to have realized that the train had reached his stop. If he wasn’t to miss it, she should say something. Let him know they were here. But she said nothing. The doors slammed shut again and the train continued on its way.

  Back at Crocus Road, Dawn struggled to unlock her front door.

  ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘Key’s a bit stiff.’

  A scrabbling noise from the kitchen. Milly came whiffling into the hall to see what was happening. She headed straight for Will and began to sniff busily: Who’s this, who’s this? at his shoes.

  ‘Hey.’ Dawn knelt to pat her. ‘You’re looking much better. Her arthritis was very bad earlier,’ she explained to Will.

  ‘Poor thing.’ Will reached down to scratch between Milly’s ears. She tipped her head back and hung her tongue out, her tail spinning clockwise in circles around her rump.

  ‘Coffee?’ Dawn asked. ‘I’ve got some really nice fresh stuff here. Guatemalan or Paraguayan?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know the difference,’ Will said. ‘I’ve only ever drunk instant.’

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘Yes. I do like the smell of the fresh stuff, but it always seems too much trouble to make.’

  ‘Well!’ Dawn put her hands on her hips. The phone table and stairs were spinning in time with Milly’s tail. ‘You have been missing out. Come on through. My Guatemalan blend will be an excellent introduction.’

  In the kitchen, she rummaged in the cupboards for the coffee-machine and grounds. Where were the filters? Oh yes – in the odds-and-ends drawer by the sink. There they were, tucked in beside a knobbly green canvas package with a cross printed on the front. The sight of the package threw her for a moment before she realized what it was: the new portable cardiac Resus kit she was meant to be reviewing for the hospital. She had forgotten all about it. Things had been so strange and off-kilter lately, a lot of her work had fallen by the wayside.

  She shut the drawer and tried to open out the coffee filter.

  ‘I’m having some trouble with this,’ she said after a minute. ‘The filter doesn’t seem to want to open.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Will came to stand beside her.

  ‘It’s the paper.’ Dawn pulled at it. ‘It’s so flimsy, it falls apart when you …’ She fiddled with it for another couple of seconds. Will was beside her, his head inches over hers.

  ‘Would you like me to try?’ he asked.

  He was standing so close. She could smell his after-shave, the faint hint of wine and garlic from his breath. She fumbled again at the paper but her hands felt as if they were wearing mittens. She put the filter down.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I don’t know if I’m all that thirsty.’

  Will said softly, ‘Me neither.’

  He was standing there, right there, just behind her. Dawn turned. Her eyes met his. That magnet feeling again; it was as if her face was a leaf, curving and lifting itself to the sun. She let it rise and their lips touched. Dawn closed her eyes. Will was so tall. She loved that; the way he was so solid. Like someone she could lean on. She brought her arms up around his neck, pulling herself in against him. His hands came up; there was a brief pressure as they encircled her waist. Then a give, an emptiness again as he pulled away.

  Confused, Dawn opened her eyes. Will was looking down at her with a bemused expression, similar to the one he had worn in the restaurant earlier.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Well, then. She went to kiss him again but he took the tops of her arms, very gently, as if to hold her away.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Will looked away to the side. ‘For a long time,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t have done this. Not in a way that meant anything. I was … numb.’

  ‘Because of Kate.’

  ‘Yes. But recently – now – I don’t seem to feel that way any more.’

  It made her pause. She didn’t know what to say. Then they were kissing again. Softer this time, less frantic – and yet deeper. She could hear her own breathing in the space between them. There was something she should say, pricking like a needle at the back of her mind. But all she could feel was the dropping sensation in her belly, as if she was in a car driving too fast down a hill.

  She whispered, ‘Come upstairs.’

  They didn’t bother with the lamp. On the bed, Will pulled her glittery top off over her head. Now she was vulnerable, exposed – no longer in charge, the responsible manager in her uniform, telling people what to do. The sensation took her breath away. Yet it also made her nervous. The last person she had undressed in front of was Kevin, and that was three years ago. She might have lost a couple of pounds recently, but overall she knew she had changed since then, and not for the better.

  ‘You’re beautiful.’ Will was staring at her.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She
laughed. ‘I’m too big. Too … sensible.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Will repeated. He brushed his hand down her shoulder, barely touching the skin. ‘When I see you, I think of … I think of a tall, statuesque woman in a long robe. Holding a lamp to light the way.’

  Then they were kissing again, lying together on the bed. But even as Dawn floated away, something in her was struggling to pull back again. A woman with a lamp. The significance of the image wasn’t lost on her. Will might as well have said straight out that she reminded him of Florence Nightingale. The idealized way he saw her, the altruistic heroine he clearly thought she was. And suddenly the mood was gone. She couldn’t do this. Not to her. Not to him. She turned her head away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t do this.’ She was stiffening, pulling herself out from under him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK—’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s not OK. And you haven’t done anything wrong, don’t think that. It’s just …’ She didn’t know what to say. There was no way to explain.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Will repeated. He had rolled off her and was lying on his side, facing away. His breathing was faster than normal. His hand lay beside him, exposed on the sheet. Dawn took it in hers. Will squeezed her fingers, once, still facing away. Then he let her hand go. Dawn lay there, hating herself for doing this to him. Their whole lovely evening, twisted and poisoned and contaminated and there was no way to tell him why.

  She lay in silence, as still as she could, not wanting to make him feel worse. Will didn’t speak either. Outside, below the window, a car engine revved. A door slammed. Voices called and laughed. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Make that the afternoon, more like.’

  More laughter. The engine revved again as the car pulled away. Then silence. Will’s breathing had slowed to a quiet, steady pace. At last, when Dawn thought he must have fallen asleep, she dared to move. She pulled her arm out from under her hip and tried to settle herself without disturbing him. Then Will shifted in the bed. He turned back to face her. His nose and cheek were a fuzzy outline in the glow from the street. Dawn thought he might be about to kiss her again and went to speak. But he didn’t try to kiss her. Instead, he reached up with his hands, took her head between them, very gently, and just held it, just like that.