"You knew that was me?"
"Course I did." She frowned and smiled at the same time.
"Another secret gone!" I exclaimed, waving my arms. "I've felt guilty about that for years!"
Ash tipped her head to one side.
"Well, not all the time," I said. "I mean, on and off."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Okay," I said, slumping a little. "Mostly off. But I did feel bad about it. I really did. I always felt bad about that."
Ashley shook her head gently and came forward, took my arm and led me along the street. "Never mind," she said. "I never told anybody. And I forgave you."
"Really?" I said, putting my arm round her again, "When?"
"At the time. Well, after it stopped hurting, anyway." We turned the corner into Woodlands Gate. I shook my head. "Why didn't you ever say you knew it had been me?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "The subject never really arose before."
I shook my head again. "Good grief," I said. "All this time. Good grief."
Ashley had been ravenous when she'd arrived at the house in Park Terrace a little after seven that Sunday evening, so she'd just dumped her bags and we'd gone straight out to the restaurant. When we got back after the meal, I showed her round the place. We opened a bottle of Graves I had in the kitchen — after first agreeing that of course we shouldn't — and then walked from room to room while I did my guided tour bit and pointed out the more interesting or valuable works of art, while we sipped our wine and the statues gleamed and the chandeliers glittered and the paintings glowed and the carpets spread before us like gigantic blow-ups of oddly symmetrical printed circuits.
Ashley shook her head a lot. When she saw the main bedroom she laughed.
We went back to the kitchen. She demurred when I offered to top her glass up. "I should go to bed now," she said, pulling a hand through her hair. She put her glass down on an oak working surface. " Take some water in a big glass and get to me bed… " she said. "Do you mind?" She looked at me.
I shrugged. "No, of course not. There's glasses in the bathroom, beside your room." A terrible sadness settled on me then, and I had to swallow hard a couple of times. I drank, to hide it, then said, as matter-of-factly as I could, "What time do you want up tomorrow?"
"About seven should do."
"Right," I said, looking at my glass. "Right. Seven. I'll bring you tea and toast, all right?"
"Fine."
"Okay then," I said.
I looked up and she was smiling. She looked at her watch. "Well," she said, and flexed her brows. "Night-night."
She came forward, put one hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek.
I put my hand on her hip, let my head nuzzle towards hers a little. She put her arm round my waist and I turned to her, hugged her, my lips at her neck, kissing delicately. She pushed her head against mine, and we started to turn to each other at the same moment, as she put her arms round me; the kiss just seemed natural after that.
It went on for some time. Ashley seemed to loosen and grow more tense at the same time; her mouth appeared to want to swallow mine, her hands grabbed my curls, nails scratching at my scalp. I pulled on her hair, kissed and licked her neck. She dug her nails into the small of my back through my shirt. We kissed again and I kneaded her backside, then pulled the dress up while she wriggled a little to make it easier, and I found skin, stockings, her knickers, and pushed my hands inside, gripping her smooth, warm bum. She pulled herself up against me.
This," she said, breaking off, breathing hard, while her hands stroked the nape of my neck and her gaze flicked from my mouth to my eyes and back again, "this might be better suited to that ridiculous bedroom, what do you think?"
I nodded. "Good idea."
"Bring the wine."
"Better yet."
It was something. On that monumentally ostentatious bed of the late Mrs Ippot's, Ashley and I made love like we'd done it for years and then been apart for years and just met up and hadn't forgotten a thing.
A couple of times, lying there panting afterwards while we trickled with sweat and licked at each other, or were stroking and caressing and thinking about starting all over again, she laughed.
"The room?" I said, first time.
"No," she said, shaking her gorgeous head, all tawny hair and flushed face. "It's just you and me; I never thought this was going to happen."
And, later, when she cried out, I heard the crystal bowl on the table by the side of the bed ring, pure and faint, as if in reply.
It was later still, when we'd put the lights out and had agreed just to cuddle, exhausted and drained, but had not been able to merely cuddle, and so had coupled once more, and I still lay on top of her, inside her, while she breathed and I breathed and our hearts gradually slowed down again, that I did what I'd done before in that situation, flexing whatever muscle it is in the male genitals or the associated support systems that briefly fills the slowly detumescing penis with blood again, sending a small pulse of socketed touch into Ashley's body. She gave a little exhalation half-way between a sigh and a laugh, and then squeezed back with her vaginal muscles, like a hand round me.
There was a pause, and I thought I felt her go very still for a second, and then she squeezed me again; two quick grippings in succession. There was a pause, and I responded, but she dug her fingers into the small of my back as though to stop me, and so I relaxed.
She squeezed again, four times, the second pulse longer than the other three. Another pause, during which I realised — it was morse! Then another four pulses, the second one short and the others long.
I.L.Y.
I had raised my head away from her shoulder while I concentrated on what she was doing in there; now I lowered my face to her skin again. I laughed, very lightly, and after a moment so did she, and then I sent the same signal back, with a single long pulse at the end: I.L.Y.T.
And I swear the sending made the signal all the truer.
And that falling was followed by two more shared fallings, as we fell apart, and then asleep.
I woke and she was dressed, standing by the bed, a beatific smile across her face, which was washed and glowing and framed by neatly combed hair. I struggled to get up on one elbow.
"Ash?"
She put one hand to the back of my head and kissed my lips. "I have to go," she said.
"What? But — you mean to Canada!"
"Prentice, I promised. I have to."
I felt my jaw drop. I rolled onto my back for a second, then sat bolt upright. "But last night!" I said, spreading my arms wide.
Ashley smiled even more broadly and climbed half onto the bed, one black-stockinged knee on the crumpled sheets. She kissed me. "Was wonderful," she said, "but I have to go."
"You can't!" I slapped myself on the forehead with one palm. "This can't be happening! It's a dream! Stay!" I reached out to her, held her face between my hands. "Ashley! Please! Stay!"
"I can't, Prentice. I said I'd go. I promised."
"I'm serious!" I said. "I don't —»
She put one soft hand gently to my mouth, shushing me, then kissed me long and tenderly. "I'm going, Prentice," she said, "but it doesn't have to be for ever."
"Well, how long?" I wailed.
She shrugged, stroked my shoulders with her hands. "You get this degree, okay? If you still want me then, well…»
"Promise?" I said, in what was meant to be a terminally sarcastic manner, but came out pathetically. She smiled. "I promise."
"Oh my God!" I said, looking at the clock by the crystal bowl. "I don't believe this!" Maybe, if I could just stall her…