“Perhaps.” Her own smile seemed to come easily. “But the night is young.”
Once she had ordered her food—smoked salmon for starter and pork medallions for main course—she asked, “How was your afternoon?”
It was clearly a loaded question, which she acknowledged by chuckling throatily. “Please feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
He gulped wine and found that his answering smile was easier this time. “It was… interesting.”
“Good interesting or bad interesting?”
Reluctant thought he initially was to respond, he was surprised by how liberating he found it telling her what had occurred with Parr, and afterwards at the station. She was an attentive and sympathetic listener, and as he spoke, haltingly at first and then more easily as he lubricated his throat with wine (she matching him sip for sip), he felt his spine straightening, the stiffness in his neck and shoulders fading away.
“Poor you. What an ordeal,” she said when he had finished.
“So you believe I’m not an imposter then?”
Although they had only just finished their starters, they were already on their second bottle of wine and her eyes had become dewy. “Of course I do.”
“Why? You don’t know me from Adam.”
“I pride myself on being a good judge of character. You’re a good man, Marcus. A gentle man. I know it.”
He blushed. “I’m not sure my wife would agree.”
“Then she’s an idiot.”
He blinked in surprise, and immediately she looked contrite.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
He felt as though he should be leaping to Janice’s defence, but as usual his response was half-hearted, almost apologetic. “She’s had a lot to put up with…”
“I’m sure you both have. It takes two to tango, as they say.”
He grunted non-commitally, then asked, “What about your husband? How long have the two of you been together?”
“It seems like forever.” Her laughter was brittle. “Sorry again. I shouldn’t be so mean. But illness does get wearing. On both partners.”
“What does he suffer from?”
She wafted a hand, as if to say, Who knows? “He’s wasting away, poor dear.” She snatched up the bottle and refilled both their glasses, which all but drained it. “One more with our main course?”
Again his response was half-hearted. “I don’t normally drink that much…”
“Me neither. But let’s push the boat out. We’re on holiday.”
When their pork medallions arrived—they had both ordered the same thing—the woman picked up the bottle and waggled it at the girl with the braces, who looked instantly alarmed. “Another one of these, dear.”
As the girl scuttled away, Skelton was struck by a sudden revelation.
“I’m sorry… I still don’t know your name.”
The woman pouted her plump lips. “Perhaps I’d prefer to maintain my air of mystery.” Then she rocked back in her chair with a laugh so shrill that heads turned. “Your face! I’m sorry, it’s mean of me to tease. My name’s Belinda.”
She reached across the table, offering a jokey handshake, which he accepted automatically. The touch of her skin on his sent pleasurable ripples through him. Her name seemed to ripple too, as if it was echoing out from the past. He felt fuzzy-edged memories becoming more solid, slotting into place. He stared at the woman, then averted his gaze when she met his eyes with her own. There was something in the look she gave him; something candid, knowing.
“Say what you’re thinking,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I can see the cogs whirring away, but you’re keeping whatever you’re thinking bottled up inside. Why not just say it? I won’t be offended. And I’m fairly unshockable. In fact, my reaction might surprise you.”
He felt his face getting hot. He took a gulp of wine. What was she expecting him to say? He put down his glass a little too heavily. “I’m just… well, it sounds weird, but… we haven’t met before, have we? Before today, I mean?”
Her face was almost avid. “When were you thinking we had?”
“I don’t. That is… I’m probably mistaken. Have you been here before?”
“Not since I was a girl.”
His heart leaped. “How old were you?”
“I don’t remember. Twelve, thirteen… perhaps older. Why? Do you think we might have been teenage sweethearts?”
He reddened. He knew it was silly, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed that she didn’t remember. He cut into his pork with a vigour he hoped would suggest that the thought was nothing but idle conjecture.
“I came here when I was fourteen. I met a girl who I think was called Belinda.”
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure. She…” he glanced at her, then quickly away. She was staring at him again. The wine had stained her lips dark red. His voice dropped to a mumble. “She meant a lot to me at the time.”
He pushed meat into his mouth and chewed. For the next few seconds he pretended to remain preoccupied with the vegetables on his plate. There was silence from the woman. From Belinda. He wondered what she was thinking.
Finally she said softly, “Life is full of might-have-beens, isn’t it?”
By the time they had eaten dessert, finished their third bottle of wine, and washed it all down with a pot of coffee, the dining room was almost deserted. Even so, they left separately, at Skelton’s suggestion.
“We don’t want people to talk, do we?” he mumbled.
“Let them,” Belinda said, throwing a withering glance around the room. When she turned back her face immediately softened. “You’re very gallant, Marcus. A knight in shining armour.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, blushing.
“You put yourself down too much. You know that?”
He shrugged.
“I’ll go first, shall I?” she said, standing up. Despite the amount of wine they had drunk she seemed remarkably sure-footed, which led Skelton to wonder, perhaps uncharitably, whether her husband’s illness had caused her to gravitate towards the bottle a little too often. She stepped around the table and leaned towards him. He looked up at her instinctively and she kissed him on the side of his closed mouth.
“Good night,” she murmured. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Good night,” he said, his throat tight.
Back in his room, he stripped off, lay on his bed and masturbated, thinking of her. He felt sordid and ashamed, though not enough for it to affect the uncharacteristic strength of his orgasm, his semen spurting as high as his throat. He cleaned himself up using tissues from the box beside the bed, then fell into a doze, still naked and spread-eagled on top of the covers. He woke once in the night, hearing thumps and bumps from the room above him, possibly even a sharp but quickly stifled cry of pain. But his mind was thick with wine and sleep, and after dragging the duvet over his cold body he fell quickly asleep again.
The next morning he was showered and dressed before any of the other guests had stirred. He sneaked downstairs and was out of the house without alerting Mrs. Derry or any of her breakfast staff, all of who were clattering about in the kitchen. After last night he needed to clear his head, and not only because of the wine. He couldn’t stop thinking about Belinda, couldn’t stop analyzing her body language and everything she had said to him—which, in his muggy, befuddled state, seemed laden with significance.
If she was the girl he had met over thirty years ago, was she aware of the past link between them and was simply being coy by pretending not to remember? But how could she be the same person? The coincidence was too great to be acceptable, unless she had manipulated the situation in some way.