He poured out two mugs of coffee, added a little milk to each and put one in front of her, pushing the sugar bowl towards her. ‘It’s what ought to happen.’
She shook her head, not only to indicate she didn’t want the sugar, but in an effort to clear her brain, to think straight. ‘I can’t, Alex, nor can I believe that’s what you want. Have your experiences made you so cold you are unable to feel anymore? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘No, it is not what I’m telling you.’ He took her hand and hauled her to her feet so that she was facing him, standing so close his warmth surrounded her like a comforting blanket. He put her hand over his heart and held it there. She felt it beating, a little erratically but nonetheless strongly. ‘Do you think that belongs to a man unable to feel?’
‘No.’
‘It was thinking of you that kept it going when other men succumbed to the conditions. When I was cold and hungry and exhausted, reduced to little more than a skeleton, that heart beat for you. It still does…’
‘Oh, Alex!’ She flung herself into his arms. ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming and I won’t wake up any moment and find myself in bed in Upstone Hall.’
‘If you are dreaming, then so am I,’ he said and kissed her gently on her closed lips. ‘And a pleasant dream it is, one I’ve had many and many a time.’
‘Then you won’t send me away, will you? Not yet.’
‘I won’t send you away.’ He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks one by one and then her lips. The pressure of his mouth on hers was exquisite torture and she clung to him, kissing him back all over his face. He could not stand against that onslaught.
He took her hand and almost ran with her up the stairs to his bed, where they made love in a frenzy of reawakened passion. It was glorious and frightening in its strength. Nothing could have stopped it. And when it was over, she slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted.
He lay beside her, his head propped on one arm and looked down at her. Their meeting and its likely consequence had an inevitability about it, for which fate, chance, destiny, call it what you will, had been responsible, not he. He had been living and working, going about his daily life half-alive, knowing there was something missing but unable to do anything about it. And when she turned up on his doorstep, he had not even been surprised. In spite of the years, she was still beautiful, still the lovely girl of twenty-one he had fallen in love with, but more than that, her maturity had brought out more of the woman. Her figure was slightly thicker, her hair was less luxuriant; there was even a grey hair or two, but she could still make love with the unbridled passion of youth. He would not have given back a moment of that for a king’s ransom.
She stirred, opened her eyes sleepily and reached out for him again. This time their lovemaking was slower, more relaxed, tender and yet still passionate. Guilt did not come into it, nor thoughts of the future. This was here and now and they were as much in love as ever they had been. His eyes had come alive again in the last few hours. He was more like the Alex she had known. But it had to end, if only because they were hungry and thirsty and it was growing dusk. He padded, naked, to the bathroom. She watched him go. How thin he was; there was hardly enough flesh on him to cover his ribs. But the muscles of his arms and thighs were strong; a man used to hard, physical work. Oh, how she loved him!
She did not think of Robert and home until they were once more in the kitchen and she was wearing her own clothes again and he had dressed in jeans and jumper. He had made fresh coffee and they sat opposite each other to drink it.
‘What now?’ she asked, holding her mug in both hands.
‘It’s up to you. Will you tell Robert?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘That’s for you to decide, but I’d say no, not unless you intend to leave him.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. It would break his heart. And there’s the children…’
‘Then you know the answer.’
‘I suppose so.’ There was hopelessness in her voice. ‘I hate secrets and I can’t bear the thought of deceiving him, but neither can I bear saying goodbye to you again…’
‘Then we won’t say goodbye. You know where I am now. If you need me, I am here. I’ll give you my phone number, but you don’t need to ring. Just turn up.’
They both stood up, facing each other. She looked up into his face, wondering if he might persuade her to stay, but he said nothing. ‘Too late to go to Norwich now,’ she said in an effort to bring herself back to the real world. ‘I’ll have to go another day.’
‘You know the way back?’
She didn’t think he was asking if she knew the way home, but if she could find her way to the cottage again. ‘Yes.’
He accompanied her out to her car which stood in the yard. The gate was open ready for her to drive straight out. ‘Safe journey,’ he said, as she settled in her seat and switched on the engine. It sprang into life, almost drowning his softly spoken words. ‘I love you.’
She could hardly see to drive for the tears that filled her eyes. Impatiently she rubbed them away and resolutely set course for home. In the rear-view mirror she saw him watching her go, a lonely, rather gaunt figure with one hand raised in farewell. Alex.
In the event, she and Robert did not go walking in the Dales the weekend of Bobby’s party. Robert rang on the Thursday evening to tell her something had come up at work and he had to remain in London over the weekend. She commiserated with his disappointment. ‘Another time,’ she said.
‘What will you do? Will you stay and endure the party?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll stay with an old wartime friend in East Dereham. She’s always asking me when I’m going over to see her.’ It was the first time she had lied to him and she hated herself for it. And as often happens, one lie led to another.
‘I never heard you mention a friend in East Dereham.’
‘She’s only just moved there and got in touch again. She lived abroad until recently which is why we never visited.’
‘Have a nice time, then.’
‘I will. Don’t work too hard.’
‘I won’t. I’ll be home next Friday as usual.’
‘There, that wasn’t that difficult, was it?’ Pamela asked when Robert rang off. For months she had been trying to persuade him to take her to France on the Merry Maid. ‘We hardly ever go sailing these days,’ she grumbled.
‘I have to go home sometimes. I can’t stay away every weekend. Lydia needs me.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t want you.’
‘I didn’t say that – not exactly.’
‘That’s the way I read it.’
Pamela Osborne was several years younger than Lydia. During the day, she wore her long blonde hair up in a French pleat. She had blue eyes and full red lips, an enviable figure and long slim legs, made to seem longer by the excessively high heels she always wore, except when she was on the boat. Then she wore canvas deck shoes, baggy trousers and overlarge jumpers, and she tied her hair back in a youthful ponytail. He found her exciting, the more so because of the secrecy involved. Having two women loving him flattered his ego, though he was not sure, had never been sure, of Lydia’s love. The guilt came because he could not find fault with her as wife and mother, and it was her money that allowed him to lead the comfortable life he had and to buy the yacht and indulge his passion for sailing and for Pamela.
He had met her at a party given by one of his friends at the Admiralty. It was a spur-of-the-moment invitation, too late for Lydia to make arrangements to come up to London and go with him, and he had gone alone, not expecting to enjoy it. Pamela was alone too, and they began a polite conversation, each balancing a glass of gin and tonic in one hand and a plate of canapés in the other. They had discovered a mutual enthusiasm for sailing and they discussed the merits of different craft and one thing led to another, and before the evening was out, he had invited her to come sailing with him and she had accepted. It was easily arranged; Lydia would not have wanted to come even if he had asked her.