But you have my undivided attention.
And if he thought it louder.
You have my undivided attention.
Sure enough, she turned, tugged by his awareness, and he did what he wasn’t allowed to do — no longer wanted to do, if he was truthful — and faced the woman and was nothing for her.
That’s you. By yourself. And this is me. By myself. And I’m nothing.
I am very much nothing: not serious, not long-term, neither heartfelt, nor heart-breaking, not intrusive, not a burden, not anyone who’ll ever know you and therefore be irritated or repelled.
I will be good and easy and meaningless.
Mark smiled.
I’m nothing.
He considered himself.
And I have a nice arse.
I have an excellent arse. Frequently complimented.
Early forties — forty-four is early forties — but thirty-nine to look at and with more-than-satisfactory legs. They give me the height, the perspective. One could say they lead the eye. Up. And I’m keeping my hair well, dark and thick.
Plus, I have kind eyes.
And no glasses, which means that I’m currently loosening her edges, Vaselining over my appreciation of someone who would benefit from blurring.
Late forties for a woman is catastrophic. She has my sympathy.
And this me, this nothing — she could have that, too.
He ambled forward to lean in the last shade of the passage, on the blind side from his wife.
You could have it all and it’s a lot, it’s really something.
He smiled again, folded his arms.
My arms around myself, because you have not held me and yet I do need to be held. It’s such a shame for both of us.
And the woman smiled.
That’s right. You’re made for nothing, you are — made for it.
She kept him in view when he moved and then as he halted.
And he knew absolutely that he should be business-like here, should claim her, because she would love it. Because how unlikely and beautiful it would be for anyone — but perhaps particularly for her — that a stranger should be jerked to a stop by who you are and then swiftly driven to helpless and expert improprieties.
Every one of the possible acts was prohibited, but he did rush harmlessly through thoughts of how thin the woman’s bra and blouse were and how they would give her away once he’d talked her horny.
Private tits, quiet tits, tits that will never be shown to a jaded nation.
But she’d show me.
She wouldn’t want it stated. Our conversation would be pleasantly oblique. We’d talk about this journey, other journeys, other passengers, anything really, it wouldn’t matter as long as I kept the music of it rubbing forward and no chance for her to doubt. I needn’t say anything filthy, just keep a hunger in the smiles, the right catch in the eyes, and by the time our train came I’d get her on board and then have her in a toilet.
Done it before.
She wouldn’t realise it had been sordid until tomorrow, maybe the end of the week. Today it would be passion and romance.
And then tidy up and out into the carriage. I’d suggest that we sit apart afterwards, because of what fun that would be: acting like she’d never met me, when I’m still a ghost between her legs.
Those red plush silk and shaky minutes between her legs.
I could tell her if she’s good that we’d do it again past Swindon.
Maybe not a lie.
Maybe give her my genuine number and save hers. Hook up, if we felt like taking longer and she didn’t live ridiculously far away.
Although there is much to be said for women who live ridiculously far away and the trend towards exponential fare increases for public transport. And petrol’s hardly a bargain.
We could improvise.
She would let me.
Sometimes people want nothing. It is a necessity.
But then Mark gave her an altered smile.
And this is to say that I would if I could.
And it is such a pity I can’t.
Have this instead — the sting of possibility. It’s a much neater present, a nice one: the way that your body will rouse and insist where I would have kissed it.
You know the places. You do.
Mark let his hands fall sadly and, because he considered this polite, he whispered his knuckles against the woman’s as he passed her, headed into the glare and walked to offer Pauline interwoven lies.
‘Well, you won’t believe it, but they said another twenty minutes.’
I really did go and speak to someone and serve you as you wished.
‘Sorry, darling. It’s outrageous.’
I am not 40 or 50 per cent turned on.
‘I could go back. If you want, love.’
I wouldn’t like to scream until it hurts me.
‘But I don’t think it would be much use, and the sun’s giving me a headache. I feel a bit out of it, actually. .’
I am not thumbing through random memories of working inside other women until I felt the sweat run, the insect tickle of being entirely waylaid.
‘I am sorry.’ And he kissed her, squeezed her hand in his.
She withdrew from the pressure and pursed her lips. Mark took pains to understand her point of view.
That’s sixteen years of history between us in one motion — and having no kids and her needing her glasses more badly than I need mine. Varifocals.
That’s me having, thus far, decided not to be dead yet and this causing a further difference of opinion.
Their history wasn’t uniformly bleak. Nobody’s ever was, not without significant rewriting. For three years he’d been relatively happy and as faithful to Pauline as a rescued dog. Then he had rather reverted to type and it was hugely regrettable and he did feel bad about it, but equally he’d never let her know. He hadn’t insisted they share an open marriage and hadn’t been prone to regular confessions. He hadn’t confessed at all.
Because I was nothing. So I had nothing to confess.
I washed thoroughly after them, extra soap and water for the hands, the betraying hands, and I used mouthwash and set aside a holdall of specifically adulterous clothing — like a gym bag. Salted money away for the costs. I suppressed my traces.
She didn’t know.
Not a clue about the girl I met in a hotel car park during a late-night fire alarm, the girl on an overnight train to Berlin, a woman who’d slept with Mick Jagger — him or Keith, definitely one of the Stones: being with her was like trying on a vintage coat — and a woman who’d been crying at a party, a conference waitress, multiple attendees of multiple conferences, the wife of a friend — which was stupidly risky — the wives of strangers, the assistant in a chemist’s shop after hours. During hours would have been silly.