things slung over his shoulder like a nonchalant Dick Whittington, he thought how sometimes, co-parenting and the heated debates it incurred had been more fraught than setting the boundaries, establishing the ground rules and doing all the worrying solo.
‘Will you be all right then, Dad?’
‘Me?’
‘I don’t have to stay over. I could come back?’
‘Nonsense! It’s a party, it’s not a school night. And anyway – I have, well, not plans exactly but I’m off to meet someone about some work ideas. And then I have plenty of stuff I’ve been putting off which I’ll do. Including hoovering.’
Usually, Jonty would help without being asked. And he never minded evenings in with his dad. But recently, it had occurred to father and son that Saturday nights oughtn’t to be spent with one’s dad. So Jonty felt equally grateful to Mark’s mum and to his own father.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow then.’
‘OK. Maybe we’ll do something in the afternoon. I don’t know – bowling? Cinema?’
‘OK, Dad. Cool.’
‘Do you have your phone?’
‘Yep.’
‘And it has enough battery?’
‘Yes, Dad. Yes.’
‘Have a great time, then.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Enjoy.’
‘You too.’
It had been an unspoken request, initiated a couple of months ago, not to be dropped off outside a friend’s house. So Oliver had pulled up at the end of Mark’s street and though he didn’t wait until Jonty had disappeared from sight, he did turn the car very slowly so he could surreptitiously check his son’s whereabouts in the rear-view mirror. He watched him lope off and turn up the path to Mark’s.
Have fun, he thought quietly. Don’t smoke, kiddo – though a little booze won’t kill you. Have a laugh and party.
Oliver couldn’t listen to the radio. Every station had a presenter who sounded inane and the news was so depressing not even Radio 4 would do. He had a Springsteen CD in the glove compartment and he racked it up loud, singing along badly. He didn’t dwell on what lay ahead but he did want to get there. The road map was open on the passenger seat, his scribbled directions were on a piece of paper. Certain journeys were not for the sat nav. A motorway services neared. He glanced at the clock and decided to stop and buy a sandwich. He hadn’t had lunch. He ate it off his lap in the car. It was disgusting but it filled a hole. He washed it down with a can of Coke which tasted too sweet, the bubbles too large, sharp almost.
He arrived in plenty of time. It was a small market town whose high street was depressingly generic with the token Starbucks and McDonald’s, and discount book-shops, video games stores and cheap clothing emporiums from which incessant music poured out like the teenagers who shopped there. Woolworth’s remained derelict. The letters had been pulled away, but a dirty imprint spelled out the name like a grubby shroud. Oliver felt like turning around and driving away but the hotel itself was a little way further on out of the town. It was an unassuming building, old but with no immediate architectural value. However, it was spruce, freshly painted and the window boxes and pair of bay trees flanking the entrance were well tended. A girl in a white shirt and black blazer smiled from reception as he walked in.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
May I, Oliver corrected her silently. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ he said. ‘I’m a little early.’
‘Very good, sir,’ she said and Oliver thought, This is her Saturday job – she’s probably only a couple of years older than Jonty. And then Oliver thought no more of Jonty or home or of being one of the Bourne Three or that the Bourne Three were down to two and that was why he was here. Nor did he ponder what all this was about. He wiped his mind clean, took a seat in the lounge, chided himself when he saw the very nice sandwich and light snacks menu served all day, ordered a sparkling mineral water, unfolded the Saturday Times. And waited. Every now and then, he glanced around. No one new had arrived. This had happened once before and had been the most soul-destroying thing. He decided to give it perhaps ten more minutes, time enough to finish the water and the paper.
‘Pete?’
It takes Oliver a moment to click, then he looks up, smiles, stands.
‘Hi,’ he says, offering his hand, ‘Pete. You must be Louise?’ The woman nods. ‘A drink?’
‘Cup of tea,’ she says. ‘I’ll order it – don’t worry. Do you want anything else?’
‘No, thanks.’ He watches her go over to the bar. She’s tall, quite masculine really, her hair is thick and blonde and probably looks better tied back. She doesn’t look as though she’s dressed for a Saturday, she looks as though she’s wearing office clothes. And then Oliver thinks this is catty. She probably works somewhere during the week where she has to tie her hair back and wear flat shoes and slacks and thus it feels good for her to slip into court shoes and a tight skirt and wear her hair loose for a change.
She walks back to him and smiles. Very red lipstick. Nice eyes. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It falls back. Long nails. Similar shade to her lips. She matches her description well. God knows if Louise is her real name. It doesn’t matter to him just as no doubt it doesn’t matter to her whether he is Pete or Oliver or Lord Bastard Montague-Caruthers.
As she sips her tea, they talk politely if cautiously about their journeys and the weather and one or two current affairs items. And then there’s no tea left, and the ice has melted in Oliver’s glass and he’s drained that too.
‘Shall we?’ she says.
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘I’ve checked in,’ she says.
‘Please,’ says Oliver, standing and gesturing for Louise to lead the way.
She doesn’t take the lift, she opts for the stairs but Oliver won’t be able to recall that the staircase is rather fine, wide and sweeping with a lovely newel post and a banister of polished mahogany. With Louise walking ahead of him, he is focusing now only on her, on her rear, her tight skirt causing her arse to swing seductively as she climbs. He doesn’t notice the length of the corridor, he’s staring instead at her bra visible beneath her silky shirt. Ankles. Long hair, loose. Shoulders quite broad. She slides the key card into the door, opens it, her hand lingering on it as she walks into the room. Long nails. Red. The type that might grab, scratch, trace patterns over his chest. He closes the door and stares, without reading, at the emergency instructions posted on it. He turns and walks on in. She’s closing the curtains. The bed is between them. A trouser press in the corner, a tray on the desk with kettle, cups, sachets – all are noted subliminally, all will remain untouched.
They stare at each other, no awkwardness – not like the first time when he’d said to whatever her name was in that hotel in Manchester that he liked her necklace. Anyway, Louise isn’t wearing a necklace. She’s unbuttoned her shirt, her bra is lacy and semi-transparent and he can see her large dark nipples through it. He pulls his top over his head as she lets her skirt fall away and then she walks to him, in her
