wait for him, conflicting feelings turning me inside out. Where can this possibly be going – am I mad to be giving it this much emotional energy? For all I know this might be a tired old routine he trots out on every job: a ‘what goes on tour, stays on tour’ perk to break up the inevitable monotony of family life.
He arrives fifteen minutes late, tousled and stressed.
‘Christ, sorry. How utterly ungentlemanly of me. Have you been plagued by horny old lechers?’
‘No, no, I haven’t,’ I say, unable to indulge the banter. I need to know what it is he wants to say.
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’ I’m not going to give too much away. I don’t want to be the latest in a long line of foolish females, falling for the oldest line in the book.
He gives one of those melting smiles. ‘Drink? Lord knows I need one.’
‘Just a small one, I’m driving.’ He gives me a persuasive look and my emotional barricade starts to collapse. ‘I mean it, a tiny one,’ I say, grinning dopily like a faithful Labrador whose owner’s just returned from a round-the-world trip. He goes to the bar and I look at his retreating back, wondering what the truth of him is. I feel stupidly close to him and yet I hardly know him. I couldn’t even tell you what drink he’s going to come back with – if it’s a flaming sambuca it might put an entirely different complexion on events. No – he returns with a glass of wine and a perfectly sensible double whisky, chinking glasses and then less sensibly downing his drink in one.
‘I’m going to get another one,’ he says. ‘Apologies, I promise I don’t behave like George Best every Tuesday evening.’
When he comes back I notice that his hand is shaking. Could he be every bit as nervous as me? My stupid little heart starts tentatively hoping that he’s effected a miracle. He’d been on the verge of divorce anyway and my arrival is just a bizarre coincidence. He’s left already and none of it’s my fault. He’s here to tell me that his wife’s completely OK, the children are untraumatized and he’s late because he stopped to collect the keys for our rose-bowered cottage.
‘Lulu?’
‘Sorry, did you say something?’
‘I was asking how you are? If you’re feeling better today?’
‘A little bit, yes. I’m still so mortified…’
He moves his hand to cover mine. ‘Enough of that, really. It’s forgotten.’
There’s a pause, during which I concentrate on the feeling of skin on skin. He must think I’m some kind of mute freak, but I simply don’t know what to say. Every conversational avenue feels so hazardous that all I can do is wait for him to make the leap. He squeezes my hand then intertwines his fingers with mine.
‘I know I’ve only just arrived, but I’m afraid it will have to be a flying visit. I told Bea I was going to my fencing lesson.’
‘Oh, OK.’ She’s got a name now. She’s real and, thanks to me, her husband is bare-facedly lying to her. How can this be good?
‘Lulu, I don’t know what to say to you. All I want to do right now is leave this pub, take you home and spend the night with you. And the next day with you and the one after that. And the fact that I can’t is driving me crazy. It’s ridiculous – I hardly know you and I’m thinking about you for pretty much every waking moment.’
‘Me too,’ I say, as I try to take on board what he’s saying. Is he sincere? Can he feel this much on so little? It’s like he reads my mind.
‘I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve never done this before. You’ve just come along and moved all the pieces around in my head.’
‘Charles…’
He’s agitated now, his handsome face contorted with emotion.
‘I married the wrong person and I’ve known that for a long time. But to extricate myself is going to damage too many people. I wish this could be the start of something, because if it was, my hunch is it would be pretty special. But how can it be?’
I will myself not to cry, but it’s beyond me. I’ve always cried easily, a weakness that Alice used to ruthlessly exploit in her meaner moments. The day she gave my Ballerina Sindy a short back and sides was like Niagara.