Sadie groaned again before she hung up.
As soon as she let herself into her flat Beth stepped over the scatter of mail on the doormat and went to the telephone. She dialled a number and while she listened to the ringing tone she stared unseeingly at her own face in the gilt-framed mantelpiece mirror.
‘Sam Clark, please.’
The receptionist trilled, ‘Who may I say is calling?’
Using the formula she had agreed with Sam, Beth murmured, ‘Sarah Sharpe, Forward Communications.’
She waited with the breath catching in her throat. Sometimes, in his egalitarian way, Sam answered his own phone. If his assistant intervened, doing the job she had once done herself, it was always much more difficult. Her face suddenly sprang forward out of the mirror’s murk, white and tense, the anxious eyes narrowed against the possibility of disappointment.
‘My darling. My poor little girl.’
The blessed warmth of his familiar voice. Beth relaxed a degree.
‘When did you get back?’ Sam asked.
‘Today.’ She wouldn’t admit to only two minutes ago.
‘How are you? I’ve hardly stopped thinking about you. Imagining what you must be feeling.’
She didn’t want to talk about any of these things on the telephone, although sometimes the telephone was their only connection for days at a time.
‘Can you come round?’
She heard the intake of breath and saw as clearly as if he were sitting in front of her his frown as he made the quick calculations that would enable them to steal an hour together.
‘Beth?’
‘I’m still here.’ Of course.
‘Expect me about six. It’ll only be an hour, darling. Sadie’s got us down for some drinks do later on.’
Beth had met Sadie two or three times in the days when she still worked for Sam. She was American, abrasive in manner, always impeccably turned out in tailored jackets and red lipstick. Beth was too intimidated by her style and success to feel much guilt about deceiving her with her husband.
While she waited for him, in the flat he had helped her to find, Beth showered and changed her clothes. She put a bottle of the white Sancerre he liked in the fridge, lit the gas coal fire and put on some music. As she took out the wine glasses she was thinking that it was at these times, when she knew for certain that Sam would be here with her soon, that she was happiest of all. Perhaps they were the only times when she was really happy. His actual arrival only foreshadowed his inevitable departure.
But while she was waiting for him she thought that she could bear everything else, even that Danny was dead.
It pleased her that the two men had met, just once. On his visit to London she had persuaded Danny to come to the theatre with her, knowing that Sam and one of his authors would be in the audience too. They had bumped into each other in the stalls bar during the interval, and Beth had introduced them.
‘Seemed like a nice bloke,’ Danny said afterwards.
‘He is,’ she agreed. Beth did not tell him that Sam Clark was her lover.
At ten past six he came in from the rain in his big coat. Taking her two hands between his and rubbing them gently, he led her into the lamplight.
‘Let me look at your face. My poor girl.’
Beth was comforted but she wanted more. She wanted to wind herself around him and have him hold her and tell her that he would never let her go. But she made herself look directly back at him and smile.
‘You’re wet, darling. Give me your coat. Now, here’s a glass of wine. Sit here with me.’
When he was comfortable she let herself cuddle up to him, resting her head against his chest. The demands she permitted herself to make were rationed out like food in a famine.
‘Do you want to tell me about it, or just talk? I can’t believe he’s dead. He was so incredibly young and vital. How old was he exactly?’
She had told him before. ‘Nineteen.’
Sam shook his head. ‘My God. It’s so tragic.’
With his arms around her and the wine in her hand, and the tidy flames to gaze at, Beth did tell him a little. She talked about her mother and father and what the funeral had been like. Sam listened with his mouth against her hair, and then she felt his shoulder and arm make the small movement that told her he was freeing his wrist in order to glance at his watch.
‘What time is it?’
They were always counting the minutes.
‘Six thirty-five. I wish I didn’t have to go anywhere tonight.’
There was always somewhere he had to go, with Sadie or for business or with Alice or Justin or Tamsin, their children.
Beth twisted and tilted her head so that she could look up at him. Their mouths were almost touching. She curled her arm around his neck and shifted herself in his lap.
Sam sighed longingly and closed his eyes. When he kissed her his fingers slipped to the buttons of her blouse and undid them. He looked down at the exposed quadrant of one breast.
‘You don’t want this now.’
She didn’t, and she did. She wanted to be absorbed, overwhelmed, made not to think. She couldn’t bear to be left alone yet and the only way she could ensure that Sam stayed a little longer was through sex. He was close to her; she could see the glitter of grey and even silver in his thick dark hair, a patch of rough skin at the corner of his nose, the dark colour of his full mouth. She didn’t answer, but loosened the knot of his tie and then moved quickly so that she sat across his lap, her back turned to the fire.
She bent her head slowly so that he couldn’t see the clock.
Sometimes Sam would lift her up and half carry her through to her bedroom. Tonight he undressed her where they sat, and they slid awkwardly and greedily, halfway between the cushions and the floor.
Afterwards he was late, and hurried. Beth pulled her clothes around her again and watched him blankly as he made ready to go.
‘I know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he mumbled when he kissed her again. ‘I’m going to make something happen soon. I promise you. Listen.’ He tilted her chin with his finger. ‘Do you hear?’
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