TWENTY-SIX
Douglas was talking to himself. He could cancel. Even at this late stage, he could cancel. It would not be a very nice thing to do, but, then, this was deeper than nice, or polite, or any of those social things. He paced the floor of his office. He looked at the pad on his desk. There was the number. He had only to pick up the phone, cancel the table, and then it would be over. It was now a quarter to four. He was due to collect her at six-thirty – he heard her voice again, remembering the surprise at his suggesting such an early hour, and how he lied and said that he had to be back home early. She sounded – though it was well-disguised – disappointed. Which pleased him at the time. It made the whole plan more tantalizing. And now he was afraid of it.
He called Zoe, which was almost automatic, thinking she would produce the life-line he needed. It was the only thing he could think of as time drew on. He looked at his watch, felt vaguely uneasy about the inscription, but that was the way things went. Never look back. So what was he doing now?
Even if this proved a one-off – which is as far as he had thought it through – even as a one-off it was crazy. Already he felt weakened by longing.
When Zoe answered, she said she had the interior designer in, as well as Lionel. She gave a laugh that meant Lionel was nearby and said, ‘Guess what – we’re having the same curtaining. Isn’t that sweet? The peacocks. What a hoot. And we are both being –’ she turned aside from the telephone for a moment – ‘What would you call it, Lionel – hung? Hung.’
‘Oh, good,’ he said, as flatly as he could, hoping she would realize. But she did not.
‘I must say,’ said Zoe archly, ‘that old girlfriend of yours did well in the end. Or her assistant did. She might not be much cop generally, but she knows her job.’
So how could Douglas then say, ‘I’m seeing Pamela for dinner tonight,’ and let her spin her dissuasive web?
‘You could come over,’ she said. ‘See how they look.’
‘Working late,’ he said, feeling stupid, like an errant husband. He added, ‘Your brother says beware Lionel.’ He felt a stab of fear. Don’t leave me now, he wanted to say.
She laughed again. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
He sometimes wondered. Last week she told him, all excited, that she had persuaded Lionel to give her some highly suspect slimming pills. She also said, mystifying, that Lionel bothered to listen to her. ‘Of course he’s a bore, really,’ she said this defensively. ‘But what the hell? No one has ever listened to me like him before. I never thought of a doctor.’
‘But Leighton Buzzard, Zoe?’ he said, expecting her to capitulate.
‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘we don’t talk about that.’
‘And bald?’ He felt angry. ‘And boring?’
‘Only slightly thinning,’ she said. ‘And someone who listens is never, ever boring.’
It wasn’t love, obviously, but she was happy to use him for a while.
He supposed at just the wrong (or did he mean at just the right?) time he was off her hook.
He put the phone down, turned, looked out of the window at the London skyline, which he had once thought about giving up – and was resolved. He would go through with it. Why not? It was only an invitation to dinner. Not to breakfast. And not to the rest of her life. Zoe was right all those years ago. He was not cut out for the domestic life and he never would be. But having dinner was all right. He was offering nothing. Neither was she. It was dinner. Just dinner. With a little diversion on the way. If he cancelled, it would be the action of a shit. He did not want Pamela to think of him like that any more. He wanted to put some of it right. It was only dinner, only . . . And the truth was, he was looking forward to it.
Pamela gripped the telephone like a life-line. ‘Margie,’ she said, ‘I can’t hear you for the thundering of my heart. And I appear to be incapable of breathing.’
‘Have a drink,’ said Margie.
‘I’ve already had a weak Martini.’
‘Have a strong one, have a pile driver. Take a Valium. No, second thoughts – don’t take a Valium. You might end up slumped over the table and snoring with your mouth open.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘It’s the doorbell, Margie.’
‘Go and answer it, then. And remember – don’t show your hand until he does . . . Or your fanny.’
‘You are disgusting. And it is only dinner. An early one. He’s even got his escape route lined up. Oh, Margie – what am I doing?’
‘Go.’
In the car it felt odd. So familiar, yet at such a distance. She knew exactly how he held the steering wheel, how he moved the gears, even knew his views on the value of gears over automatics. He liked to feel in charge. He was the same in bed. God, she thought, watching the grimy North Circular flash by, how much I would like that right now. And she thought about reaching out and running her fingers along his thigh.
She resisted. There was nothing in his manner to say she had permission to do more than give and receive the greeting kiss on the cheek. And she did not want the humiliation of rejection. They drove in silence for a while. Not an easy silence. But she did not know how to break it. She could hardly look out of the window and admire Leatherland and Ikea.
‘I’m really sorry about this,’ he said eventually. ‘But I’ve got to see this contributor before the weekend. It won’t take a moment and then we can go to a Greek place I know in Barnet.’
She felt humiliated. He was just fitting her in. The slight disappointment over his need to be back home early gave way to real depression. Why have I come? she wondered.
‘Fine,’ she said brightly. And she gave the pretence of a little relaxed yawn.
She expected him to take her somewhere of which the Tatler would approve. Quaglino’s or maybe The Ivy. She was wearing the little black number, now sponged, and very silly high heels, along with black seamed stockings that cost practically as much as the dress. If not Tatler-friendly, she would have bet money on somewhere new, interesting and exotic, and that hardly sounded like a Greek place in Barnet. But she trusted him. And at least they wouldn’t end up in one of Peter’s creations.
‘Where does this contributor live?’ she asked.
‘Oh – out of town a little way.’
She leaned back against the dark blue suede. Of course he would be driving a Saab, she thought sardonically. It said it all. Even she, who was what Daniel called car-illiterate, knew that. Before, when they were together, he drove a nippy little something that roared like a tiger, and laughed at the possibility of actually needing a Range Rover when they moved to the country.
She felt the barest possibility of a tear pricking at her eyes. ‘Is this new?’ she asked quickly, stroking the suede, which was so near to his thigh that she almost groaned.
‘Got it yesterday,’ he said.
‘I like it.’ She leaned back.
He was pleased. She saw his smile. So simple, men, she thought.
They talked of nothing for the next half an hour. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, she found herself thinking, as she oozed into it all again. Of cabbages and kings . . . And she decided that this was a little bit of heaven – or something not far off, though she kept the thought to herself in case he laughed. She was even polite about Zoe, which cost her; they avoided the subject of peacocks. She congratulated him on his magazine and he, in turn, was pleased the shop was doing so well.
‘And Daniel?’ he said, perhaps a little too lightly.
‘Got a two-one,’ she said. ‘He’s happy.’
I am not going to discuss my miserably traitorous son, she thought. So she changed the subject to the number of contractors’ traffic cones lining their route.
‘Seem to have been building this bit of road for ever,’ he said.
And then it began to dawn on her, very slowly, that they were driving down a very familiar route. But that would be nonsense. And, anyway, he probably wouldn’t remember. Look at Peter and the Catullus. She had better say nothing in case he thought her sentimental.
She closed her eyes as they sped along. Truth was, even a Greek place in Barnet would be good. Or anywhere. Because whatever it was that caused her to be the opposite of what her mother called ‘a bit jaded’ was still there between them. She kept her eyes closed, savouring it all. Romance and passion, she mused, is the sparkle of life.
And then, God help her, she fell asleep.
This was hardly surprising, since she had scarcely slept a wink the night before and was rushed off her feet all day because Jenny and the Amazon were out and about. But to fall asleep? She was so ashamed when she awoke that she did not open her eyes at once. She tried, as surreptitiously as possible, to close her mouth. Which was very open. Not just delicately parted lips, but sagging, right open, probably with dribble. The car was still going fast and she had no idea for how long she was out for the count. For all she knew, they could have reached Wells-next-the-Sea by now. She decided to give the impression of one who has merely closed her eyes for thought.
She gave what she thought was a suitably positive ‘Ah’ and very casually looked about her. They were passing through countryside and, though it was dark, the moon and the stars were bright enough to show that it was very flat countryside. Not Barnet, not Enfield, and certainly not cone country. She must have been dribbling for nearly an hour. And then she saw the sign that said they were crossing the Little Ouse. She turned to him, as casually as she could. He stared straight ahead, negotiating.
‘You snore,’ he said, ‘like a navvy.’
She prodded his knee with her index finger. It was as much as she dared.
She felt warm and lazy as a cat and had to remind herself that she was forty-eight and not exactly sinewy.
‘How many navvies have you slept with?’ she said, and then, not liking to think of what he might or might not have been doing during their years apart, added, ‘So we are going to The Swan?’
‘The Swan?’ he said, negotiating an old humped bridge a little too bravely. ‘What’s that?’
She smiled. ‘Sorry,’ she said, leaning back, stretching, yawning properly this time, for now she knew. No more best behaviour, no more nerves. ‘For a moment there,’ she said, ‘I thought you’d gone all romantic.’
‘Did you now?’
She pushed her legs out in front of her to enjoy the warm blast of air. Sleeping, mouth dribbling or not, had done nothing to dampen her ardour.
She sighed and looked at him. And he ran his fingers lightly along her thigh. When he reached the fixing of her suspender and stocking-top, she saw him smile. She wondered, at that precise moment, if it was not the sexiest particle of time she had ever encountered in her life. She peered out at the darkness. The moon was very bright, the stars were clear as diamonds. And then, quite suddenly, he stopped the car. In the middle of nowhere. And got out.
She sat bolt upright. They were only about ten minutes drive from The Swan. Why stop? Maybe he needed a pee? Should she get out? She fixed her gaze on the headlit darkness, and waited. Sensuality had given way to panic. She was wearing high heels and not much else. And it was sub-zero out there. So much for the cat-like curling. Were all men mad?
He was round at the back of the car, opening the boot. Then he was back, opening the passenger side door, kneeling down, putting his hand in and gently taking her foot to slip off her shoe. Despite the suddenly bitter coldness of the air, she sat there thinking along the lines of just giving up and orgasming on the spot, and might have done, had she not suddenly felt him slip something else over her stockinged toes. Looking down she saw it was her old walking boot. He did not look up, but took the other foot, and did the same. Then he kissed her on the insides of her knees so that she went very faint, and needed the hand he offered to help her out.
Standing was quite difficult. She understood the meaning of the phrase ‘weak with emotion’. I am Weak with Emotion, she thought with satisfaction. And took the opportunity to lean against him. A groan was not far off.
She looked down at the boots like a child, and then up at him. He was holding out a quilted jacket that was not exactly in the pink – she peered as he began to help her into it, and she recognized it as her own.
‘You kept them?’ she said, amazed. In the pocket she felt a half-eaten packet of Polo mints. Six years old. Six years. . .
He was already bending down, removing his shoes, replacing them with his boots. ‘You left them in the boot of the car,’ he said. She remembered the pink umbrella and felt she had triumphed over Zoe after all.
‘I gave you everything back,’ she said. ‘Everything.’
She touched the back of his neck and felt him freeze for a second. Still she did not know. After all, they were such laws unto themselves, these wondrous lumps of masculinity, that he might simply have brought her out here for a midnight stroll and a packet of sandwiches.
When he stood up she could not read his eyes – but neither, she counselled herself, could he read hers. ‘Dinner’s in one hour,’ he said, and he touched her face with his cold finger. And the other phrase I now understand, she thought, is ‘his touch burned’. She thought she would enjoy telling Margie that, she being so disapproving of cold celibacy. Hah!
He took her hand and put it into his pocket with his own just like he used to do, and led her off. ‘I thought we could work up an appetite.’
She went quietly, if you chose not to hear the hammering of her heart. Sparkle? Sparkle? This was full-blown Krakatoa.
She walked behind him, hand still in his pocket, like grandmother’s footsteps, until the track opened out. It was impossible to know with Douglas exactly what method he had selected for the working up of an appetite, but she had her own preference. Nike was crowing in the trees, along with the complaining rooks. Douglas asked over his shoulder if she was all right and she just about managed to say that she was.
They walked, or – she remembered Mrs Patel – they tramped, along the footpath. It was dark, full of trees and rustlings, but she did not feel afraid. His holding her hand felt as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. This was where she felt at home, both in the landscape and with the person. Only once more did he speak, and that was to ask if she was warm enough. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, thinking that the heart of a volcano feels no frost. It was so cold that their boots scrunched as if crushing old glass. A good sound, close to nature, all that.
Then silence. No more rooks, no more rustlings. They were at the edge of a field. Ridged and bare and bathed in moonlight. Far off, across the flatness, the lights from some house or cottage sparkled for them. The rest was cold stillness and absolute calm. They stood there, breathing. She let go of his hand. He turned to take it again. She shook her head. ‘You go on,’ she whispered.
He stared questioningly.
He said, with so much control in his voice that she realized he had not spoken before for fear of losing it, ‘I haven’t been here since. Have you?’
‘No,’ she lied, afraid suddenly of being so vulnerable. She wanted to stand here, alone, and watch him. That was all she could think of at that moment.
He went to take her hand again and she resisted, so he left her and walked away across the flat expanse, the moonlight making him a figure from a dream, all silvery and shining. Unreal. When he reached the top of the field she could still just see him. And then, before she knew what she was doing, she was flying. Not quite stumbling in the ridges and furrows of the ice-hard earth as she flew. She watched him open his arms and she ran, and ran, and ran for all her worth right up to them and into them, pushing her leg between his for warmth and wriggling and wriggling and wriggling herself as if she would burrow right into and through him.
He held her, almost squeezing out her breath, so tightly that he made her spine crack. And then she was reaching into the depths of the old quilting, pulling at her skirt, no longer aware of the cold, pulling at it feverishly right up over her hips, her belly, her breasts. Behind them an owl hooted, a fox screamed, but they were oblivious to it. She was aware of herself sinking into more than his flesh. Sinking and sinking. Stuck fast and like a holed ship, which metaphor seemed grandly appropriate at that moment, sinking and sinking even further, faster. Everything came out of her, every forgotten feeling, every fear, every hope. She knew – so clearly in the middle of the vortex – that he felt the same. Edge of the field, edge of the universe, edge of edge in every sense. And in another moment of clarity, when she was so happy it seemed the perfect moment to die, she thought, This is not safe harbour, this is disaster at sea.
Then she allowed the groan. A whole six years of it, carrying on the still night, scraped from the insides of her, leaving her empty.
Afterwards she resisted saying, ‘Love.’ It was the first time she had ever held anything back from him.
In the car they were silent. Touching each other on hand, neck, hair, but not speaking, as if what had taken place was too recent for words. She just smelled herself into the quilting and thought the scent of it must be the smell of where he now lived. A new smell. She liked it.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
He drove recklessly until she put a hand on his arm and he slowed down again. ‘Not that hungry,’ she said.
In the restaurant he was surprised at how unchanged it all was. Pam feigned a similar surprise. ‘Gracious,’ she said.
It was only romantic because of what they brought to it. Otherwise it was regulation dark polished wood tables, spindle-backed chairs, Staffordshire copies and old brassware dotted around the walls. The log fire was still real, still generous. She felt a little afraid at the perfection of preservation – as if it were a stage set or a mausoleum to their memory. So much love turned into that saccharine thing called Our Place.
They smiled at each other and Pam let the joy in. He leaned across the table and ran his finger over the backs of her fingers. Neither of them knew what to say so they laughed. They were self-conscious, shy of each other, desperate to touch again. No words seemed necessary. If it was a shipwreck, thought Pam, it was a bloody good one.
The waitress told them the soup of the day, parsnip and potato garnished with rocket, and they had to look away from each other or laugh. Or they could have morning-gathered, dew-drenched battered mushrooms . . . Douglas managed to hold on to his laughter. Pam dared not open her mouth. The waitress, politely waiting, looked down at Pam’s boots. He had insisted. Boots and no knickers. ‘It’s a deal,’ she had said. She rather regretted it now. Not for acceding, but for the sadnesses that lay behind the fun.
Douglas looked down at the boots and up at her pointedly. ‘Can’t take her anywhere,’ he said to the waitress, who clearly sympathized. Her heart caught for a moment. She missed his jokes. Those things that made lovers private for ever, no matter where they were in the world.
Laughter and love, she thought, the relish of life. And on that note she picked up the menu.
Later he picked up her hand and kissed it.
‘Are you OK?’
She shook her head.
‘Me neither,’ he said.
She said, ‘I loved it. Out there.’
He put her hand back carefully on the table, picked up his glass, and drank. ‘To you,’ he said.
‘And you?’
He hesitated. ‘To me, then.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
He was silent.
‘Tell me, Douglas. And you?’
He seemed to hesitate. And then he put his hand in his pocket and took out an envelope. Before he handed it to her, he said, ‘Why did we let it go?’
And a small spurt flicked out of the volcano. She thought, We?
Then he gave her the envelope.
‘Have a look at that,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you would like to come.’
She drew it out slowly and read. Had the world gone mad or had she gone mad? Or had Dublin just become the epicentre of the universe?
‘Maybe over Christmas?’ He shrugged, a little embarrassed, waiting for her to be pleased.
And then the question came. Once more she could sense it, and she could hear the tightening in his throat. ‘How’s Daniel?’ he said.
‘Very well. Just the same.’
‘He’ll be – very grown up now?’
She was alert for double meanings. She guessed he meant, Will Daniel want to come with us? It was understandable, she reasoned. And she held the contents of the envelope out, trying to make sense of it. The words moved hither and thither. She was remembering with both pain and anger how he had not stood by her during the difficult times. He had just fucked off, hadn’t he? She controlled the thought. She could still feel where he had been inside her. Maybe that was enough?
‘Still at home?’
‘Yes,’ she said, very deliberately, she who usually could never lie to anyone, and she watched his face.
‘You could still come?’
She looked down at the letter in her hand and read it carefully this time.
It was impossible, wasn’t it? Dublin again?
‘For Christmas?’ she said flatly.
‘Why not? If you like,’ he said. ‘Daniel could go to Peter.’
Burned, she thought. Burned.