‘I thought we were supposed to be meeting outside,’ she began, leaving her sentence unfinished, but meaning, ‘That was what we arranged. I stayed there to ensure we would not miss each other, and that’s why I’m now soaking wet.’
‘Yep, I know,’ he answered, blithely unaware of what had not been said, ‘but it was freezing. I got here early and it seemed sensible to wait inside.’
And, of course, she had to agree, and in the act of doing so, she felt herself relax in his company, unfurling like a damp flower in full sunlight.
They did not eat a great deal, being too immersed in each other to savour, or even notice, the food, but the wine flowed freely enough, loosening their tongues and making them less fearful of discovery. And every so often, when their eyes met, he smiled delightedly at her, like a fellow conspirator privy to some wonderful, shared secret.
Once, when her companion had left in search of the Uomini, Heather Brodie allowed her gaze to roam freely around the room, inspecting her fellow customers and the staff scurrying around them. A couple close to their table caught her attention. Holding hands with an unshaven student was a petite, blonde girl, and they were looking at each other so fondly, so intently, that they seemed oblivious to their surroundings, to the chatter of their fellow guests, to anything other than each other, certainly to her scrutiny. Other lovers, she thought, just like us. And they appeared so young and attractive, untouched, unscarred by life, that she remained enchanted by the sight of them until the spell was broken by a waiter accidentally dropping her dessert plate onto the floor, where it spun on its axis until it fell, smashing itself on the cold tiles. Hearing the noise, the fair girl looked up and caught her eye, smiling shyly at her, as she might have done at a benign aunt.
‘Coffee, back at my place?’ her companion asked, stuffing a receipt for the bill into his jacket pocket, confident that she would accompany him home. She hesitated momentarily before replying. Not because the question had not been unexpected, she had long anticipated it, well aware that ‘Coffee’ did not mean coffee.
And why should she not go back with him, spend the night once more in his company? Once an adulteress, always an adulteress. She was only human after all, had the same needs as everyone else and, so far, so good. Their secret had remained undiscovered by everyone, including the children. So what was there to hold her back? Nothing whatsoever. Certainly, ‘Coffee’ had been on her mind throughout the day: while doing the housework; in the bath; walking along the street and, most of all, while sitting opposite him, inhaling his particular scent and feeling the pressure of his hand on hers. So she smiled her reply wordlessly and rose to leave, turning her hips sideways, ready to navigate her way through the narrow spaces leading to the exit.
She had been often enough to his flat in Mansfield Place to know her way around it, but she still enjoyed its strangeness, its faint aroma of stale cigar smoke, the casual, bachelor untidiness of the place, with a squash-racket propped up by the door and post-it notes stuck on the bathroom mirror.
Waiting for him to return from the kitchen, she wandered over to inspect his CD collection, unconsciously expecting it to resemble, to some extent at least, her own middle-aged, middle-of-the-road selection. But she found no Elton John, Genesis or David Bowie in his racks and her unfamiliarity with the New Romantics reminded her forcibly of the disparity in their ages. Of course. It was only to be expected. He would have been a small boy tucked up in his bed on the evening that she had swayed with thousands of others to the strains of ‘Rocket Man’ in the Usher Hall. He had probably never even seen a platform heel.
The realisation was accompanied by the recurrence of a doubt, a sinking feeling inside her as all her confidence slowly drained away. Who was she fooling? She was no longer young or good-looking, her flesh sagged and bulged in unnatural places and her skin had developed unsightly blemishes. This very morning she had been horrified by a glimpse of her own fat knees. She could only be a disappointment to any lover. And he must see young, firm flesh on a daily basis at his work. How stupid she had been to listen to him again, to come with him again.
Hurriedly she rose from the couch, intending to leave, but before she had taken a step her companion re-entered the room bearing two cups on a tray, two whisky glasses beside them.
As if in a dream, she sat down once more, and as she did so, he closed the curtains and dimmed the lights. To bolster her flagging spirits, she took a large mouthful of the Talisker, hoping that it would mix quickly with the half-bottle of Chianti she had already consumed, and help to dispel her doubts, make her less agonisingly self-conscious. If only he were ten years older, rather than ten years younger.
They sat close together, thighs touching and tingling, and he put his arm behind her neck until his hand dangled above her shoulder. Briefly he allowed it to rest it there, with his fingertips brushing the side of her breast. Taking another sip of her whisky, she turned to kiss him, desperate to forget about herself and all her flaws. But as they kissed, she found that instead of losing herself as she had hoped, she was becoming all too conscious of what was happening. The sneering voice in her head had begun to speak, telling her that she, a middle-aged wife and mother, should have known better than to cradle-snatch, and that this affair would never last.
Trying to ignore the voice’s unpleasant, intrusive words, she closed her eyes and lay back, allowing her hands to ruffle his hair, trying to quieten her mind with her body, allow it to follow its own desires. Soon, she could hear nothing but their breathing, feeling her excitement mirroring his own as he removed her blouse and bra and placed his lips on her neck. And the knowledge that he, he of all men, wanted her, was enough, enough to banish all other thoughts from her mind.
When they had finished and sleep was just beginning to steal over her, she felt him move away, heard him get up and stride about the room, gathering his clothes together. And though he had said nothing to her, lying there she felt sure that he wanted her to do the same. So she rose and in the darkness started to pick up her own disordered garments. A single shoe proved elusive and she began searching for it, trying first behind an armchair and then dragging back one of the curtains in the belief that it would be revealed there.
While she continued her quest, the silence between them began to oppress her. He turned on the light to help her, its harsh illumination finally destroying the comforting ambience that had previously existed, and instantly she spotted the heel of the shoe protruding from beneath the sofa.
‘See you next week?’ he said brightly, holding it up in triumph for her to put on.
‘Yes, maybe,’ she replied in a thin voice, taking the shoe, the contrast between her fantasy leave-taking scene and the real thing disheartening her, making it difficult for her to say more without breaking down. This time she had hoped to spend the night beside him.
‘Darling, think,’ he said, as if he had read her mind, ‘what would his carer make of it, finding him alone in the morning?’
‘I know, but I love you,’ she replied, speaking the words for the first time and looking into his eyes to see if he would flinch. But he did not, and his murmured response pleased her, sounding something like ‘Love you too.’
He went with her to the main front door, holding her hand in his as they walked down the common stair together and planting a kiss on her cheek before they parted. As the door of the tenement building closed behind her, Heather Brodie leant against it for a moment, her eyes closed, breathing out in a long, heartfelt sigh. In middle-age, however ludicrous it might seem, to her as much as to anybody else, love had somehow got through her defences and managed to pierce her tired heart.