Three times I have false alarms, and three times I almost die from excitement, stress and disappointment, all rolled into one. Her mother's plot is between myself and the entrance to the cemetery and three times I see women walking along the path, towards her mother's grave.
I strain to see their faces, but as they come closer, then continue walking past, I see that they are not her, and that one of them is even in her sixties.
By quarter to four, I am beginning to give up hope.
Surely, if she was going to visit the grave she would have come by now. Is there any way I could have missed her? The only time I have been away from the graveside the whole day, was when I spent two minutes in the toilets, near the entrance to the gates, but realistically, there was no way during that time that someone could have come in the gates, got to the graveside then left without me seeing them.
At four o'clock, I start to work on clearing yet another grave beside my father's. As I kneel beside the worn and darkened tombstone, a feeling of dread overcomes me.
It is not going to happen. She is not coming.
Then at five minutes past four, a car drives through the gates and comes up the gravel road towards me.
I look up. Expectantly.
It's a Saab 95.
Sarah loves Saabs. She used to have one a few years ago.
I stand up, brushing down the dirt from my trousers.
My heart is beating faster. My stomach is jumping. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, and follow the car as it drives closer.
Blast. Sunlight reflects off the car window as it passes, and I cannot see the face of the driver, although I think it was a woman.
The car drives on another ten yards, then slows down and parks on the side of the gravel path. For a few moments I hold my breath as I wait nervously for the driver to step out of the car, my heart beating so fast that I think it will explode.
The door of the car opens, and a woman slips out of the driver's seat, her back to me. She is wearing a brown, woolen jacket that goes down to her knees, and her hair, blonde like Sarah's, is drawn up into a stylish, sophisticated bun on the top of her head. Before I can see her face, she bends forward back into the car, reaching across the driver's seat and picking up something from the other side.
I step a few feet closer.
The woman pulls a large bouquet of flowers out of the car, and turns.
Irises.
She looks wonderful.
Her skin, soft, and gentle. A white lambswool jumper, an elegant green skirt, and dark-brown sunglasses.
An immense feeling of yearning blossoms within me. I feel a rush of blood to my head, and I swallow hard, tears brimming in my eyes. I struggle hard with the temptation to run over to her, to sweep her off her feet, to smother her with kisses, to hold her tight, to capture her in my arms, and never, ever, let her go again. Never in a thousand years, or a million different lives.
The woman walking away from the car towards the gravestones is the woman I have dreamt about and cried for every night for the past eight months.
She is the woman of my dreams.
She is my wife.
It is Sarah.
--------------------
I watch as she walks up to the grave and kneels by the headstone. She picks up the vase with my flowers in, and takes them out, replacing them with her new irises.
I go back to my car, and open the boot, taking out my own bunch of irises, and another vase which I have brought with me from my garage. I pull on my shirt and sweater, tidy my hair, and walk slowly over to the grave.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I walk down the path and approach her mother's resting place. I step up onto the grass and I am only a few feet away from Sarah, when she turns and sees me. Her eyes immediately go to the large bunch of irises I have in my hand, and she smiles.
"Hello." I start on my little speech. "You must be Sarah, Martha's daughter?"
"Yes, I am." She smiles back, I think a little surprised. "I'm sorry, I don’t think that we’ve met before…"
"No. We haven't. I'm a friend of your mother's. I knew her quite well."
"Oh…I didn't know she had anyone else that visited her…May I ask how you knew her, or where you knew her from?"
"From Spain. I visited her house in Sierra Sien many times. She loved it there…"
"Yes, she did…I see you've bought her some irises too." She laughs, waving at her own bunch.
"Yes, I hope you don't mind. They were her favorite flowers. I came a few weeks ago, and I wanted to drop some off then, but I couldn’t manage to buy any, so I left some carnations instead. I know she liked them too, but this morning I saw these in Sainsbury's, and, well…I thought I'd drop them off quickly. Since it's the anniversary of her death today."
"That's very nice of you and very thoughtful, Mr…?"
"It's no problem. Look, I brought another vase, just in case the other ones were still fresh. Here, I'll put mine in this, and you leave yours in that one."
I kneel down beside her, and pull the irises out of the wrapper and put them in my vase. I am very close to her now, and I can smell her perfume. ‘Pleasures’. Her favorite. I breathe it in deeply and savour it, tasting it like a fine wine.
The moment reminds me of many other visits that we have made to her mother's graveside. Sometimes with Keira and Nicole.
"So Sarah, is this just a very nice coincidence or do you come every year to visit your mother's grave on the anniversary of her death?"
Still kneeling, she turns her head and looks at me quizzically. She seems a little surprised.
"It's almost a small pilgrimage for me." She replies." I do it every year, and I always bring a bunch of irises with me. When I saw the carnations, I wondered who else had been here. It's funny, I thought I knew most of my mum's friends. I don't think she ever mentioned you, Mr ….?"
"She probably didn't. I used to play poker with her every now and again. It was her favorite game, but she probably didn’t want to broadcast that she was addicted to it." I reply.
"You're right. She did love poker. You certainly seem to know a lot about my mother. And I still don't know your name. You know, you're very mysterious. You are expertly avoiding my question as to what you are called. Now come on, cough up. Your name please, sir!" she laughs aloud.
"You're right." I reply. "I do know a lot about your mother. And I also know a lot about you, too. You'd be surprised how much. For example, I know that you love skiing, and that when you were eleven you broke your leg in St. Moritz. And…and I know that when you used to sleep in a caravan on holiday and when you were all tucked up safe and snug inside, that you used to love it when it rained really hard, and you could listen to the sound of the raindrops falling heavily on the metal roof. And…and I know that your favorite color is red, and that even today you are probably scared of going to the dentist…"
She has stopped smiling, and is staring at me, open-mouthed.
Ouch. I think I just overdid it.
"Your mother was very proud of you, Sarah. She used to talk about you all the time whenever we played cards. I've listened to her describe your whole life. I feel that I practically know you."
She is sitting back on the grass now, watching me, her head cocked at an angle.
"It's strange. Very strange. Do you believe in déjà vu?" she asks me.
"Sorry, "I pause. "Didn't you just ask me that question?" I ask seriously. Then smile.
She looks at me blankly for a second, then gets it.
"Aha, very funny. No, but seriously. I can't explain it, but sitting here talking to you, Mr…whatever-your-name-is-but-won't-tell-me, I have the strangest feeling that we've done this before. That we've been here together, and talked like this at some other time. I know it's weird, but it's true. " She pauses. " Are you sure we haven't met before?"
"Believe me, if I'd met anyone in this life as attractive as you are, I would have remembered it!" I reply quickly. Then immediately regre
t it. Idiot.
She blushes, but doesn't break eye contact. I feel a twinge inside me. I feel myself blushing too, but I don't look away. Neither does she.
For a second or two, we both look directly into each other's eyes. Deep inside each other.
And in that moment, something happens. There is a connection. A meeting of the souls. Something happens that I can't put my finger on, but which I know both Sarah and I felt.
The seconds seem to stand still, until Sarah blinks, and shakes her head slightly, looking away and deliberately breaking off our eye-contact.
"I'm sorry." She says, laughing.
"No, don't be." I reply. "Your mother always used to go on about you, and she was always saying that you and I should meet. So now we have."
A few raindrops start to fall, and we both look up at the sky at the same moment.
It's about to pour.
I pause. This is the moment of truth.
"Sarah, it's very nice to meet you at long last. I was wondering, could you do me a favour?"
"Maybe, if I can." She replies, beginning to stand up, and brush down her skirt.
"Since it was your mother's wish that we should meet, I was wondering if you would help me fulfil that wish properly by allowing me to take you to dinner this evening?"
She picks up the crumpled flower wrapping paper, and the old flower heads, and turns to face me.
"Yes. Yes, I would like that. We can talk about her, and you can tell me about when you beat her at cards. "
"Good!" I reply, perhaps a little too exuberantly.
"But on one condition," she quickly adds.
"Which is?", I ask, turning to escort her back to her car.
"That you tell me what on earth your name is."
"Okay, I will. I promise. But only after the coffee and mints. Until then, at least I'll have some sort of bargaining chip and a hook with which I can keep you from leaving."
"In which case, My Mystery Man, you have a deal. I would be happy to let you take me somewhere very exciting and extremely expensive for dinner." she laughs, her eyes twinkling.
"Great."
I offer her my hand to seal the contract and she takes it. We shake, our hands lingering in each others for just a moment longer than normal.
"So where do you want to meet?" I ask.
"You're inviting me. You decide."
"What about Il Taglione in Wimbledon High Street?"
"You know Il Taglione? That's my favorite restaurant!" She replies, surprised.
"I know." I reply. Grinning. "I'll meet you there at 7.30pm. Do you have a number that I can reach you on, just in case there is a problem?"
"I'm sorry. Not really. But don't worry, there won't be a problem. I'll see you there at 7.30 pm."
I open the car door for her, and she gets in.
As she drives off, the heavens open, but I almost don’t notice. All I see is her turning around and looking at me over her shoulder as she drives away. Then she waves and I wave back.
Chapter Forty Six
The Date
.
Jane does not deserve this.
I hate lying. I detest it in others, and yet here I am doing it. Already the deceit has started, already the guilt. The sickening guilt.
"It's corporate entertainment. Can't avoid it. You know the score…" I argue with her as she stands in the doorway to my new bedroom, and I fiddle with a tie and smooth down the jacket to my suit.
"I just hate it when you do this at such short notice. You know I don't like to be left alone at home so much, especially now Margareta has gone. I want us both to be together. You know how much I hate you having to work so hard all the time…"
"And what do you think pays the bills? Keeps you accustomed to the lifestyle you live!"
"Screw the lifestyle. I want you. We were happier when we lived in the two-bedroomed cottage in Teddington."
"That's before we had the kids. Before you started going on expensive holidays every year. Before we had…"
But already she is gone and the doorway is empty. The same argument, played out a thousand times, but with one problem.
Jane is right. I am wrong. And I am hurting her.
--------------------
Il Taglione is a quiet restaurant, small, pretty and unassuming, with twinkling candles, the smell of cheese and garlic, and a real, authentic Italian atmosphere. It's tucked in at the end of the high street, seemingly transported directly from the streets of Napoli, but most people pass it by without ever noticing it is there. It's been one of Sarah's favorite restaurants for years.
As I approach the restaurant I am a mess of nerves and conflicting emotions: anticipation, excitement, fear, and arousal. A deadly concoction. My ‘first date’ with Sarah. Will it be the start of a new life? What happens if when we finally sit down, face to face, Sarah is not attracted to me? What happens if she is in a serious relationship with a new boyfriend, and doesn’t want to be anything more than friends?…What happens if there is no chemistry? What happens if, for some highly unlikely reason, I discover that I am not attracted to her? No…that’s stupid…But what happens if…? I shake my head. Calm down, James. Calm down.
I swallow hard, and open the door, quickly scanning the restaurant inside. My heart skips a beat when I see that she is already sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant, a glass of red wine in her hand, and a sparkle in her eye.
As I walk up to the table, she rises to greet me, leaning forward slightly to allow me to kiss her gently on her cheek.
The touch of her skin against my lips sends a small shiver down my spine, and as I taste her perfume on the back of my tongue, subtle and not too strong, I close my eyes and swallow hard. A memory flashes in front of my eyes, and I remember the feel of her body against mine, her head against my chest, sleeping together in our bed at home.
"Hi," I say, as I step back and make a point of looking at her. "You look great!"
And she does. Her hair is down now, small diamond earrings catching the candlelight and sparkling in sympathy with an elegant diamond necklace. A matching set, given to her by her father on her 21st. Her dress, white and almost virginal, graces her slim, voluptuous figure, and I feel a sudden sexual longing as I realize just how attractive she truly is.
I realize then for the first time that she is, in reality, much more attractive than Jane, and I am surprised that I could have become so used to her body and her looks that I must have become blind to her beauty. How sad it is that in the day-to-day living of our lives we lose the ability to see each other properly, how security and familiarity blind us, and prevent us from seeing what we really want to see.
She smiles, and sits down. I look at her for a moment, and she looks back. My eyes meet hers, and she does not look away.
Inside my chest, I feel a warmth that spreads throughout my body, and for a moment I feel good.
But then, looking deeply into her eyes, I feel a flash of pain, and a picture fills my mind that I instantly dismiss and erase. The picture of Sarah standing half way down the garden path, pregnant, Nicole running towards her, Keira on the swing. I look away quickly, pretending to wave for the waiter, but desperately trying not to show the grief that must have been so obvious on my face. This is not the time or the place. Not now.
"Shall I order for you?" I ask, recovering my composure. "Why not let me guess what you would like?" I offer, knowing full well what she would choose. The same thing she chooses every time we come here.
"Okay." She replies, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers and cupping her hands together in front of her face, resting her chin on the back of her wrist. "This will be interesting…"
"Aha. The pressure is on. Now, let me see…" I say, looking at her pretty face again, and pretending to study her thoughts. "…I would say, that being the kind, gentle, warm-hearted lady that you are, you would probably start with the Antipasti, then, because you are probably a very passionate, affectionate woman, yo
u would probably go on to have the Fish Lasagne."
"And why would you say that?"
"Because, underneath each layer, there is something delicious and warm. Hidden, but waiting there to be discovered and enjoyed. One layer at a time."
She laughs.
"I am impressed. And also a little scared. You have chosen exactly what I would like to order. You are either a very perceptive man, … whoever you are, my Mystery Man…, or you are a wizard."
Who Stole My Life? Page 37