wondered what he meant by coffee. He was walking next to her, an impatient roll to his stride as if he was in a hurry. She could smell the tang of his aftershave. He’d clearly sprayed on a good deal more when he’d visited the Gents just before they’d left. And he’d combed his hair. Jen thought he was well groomed, smart, suave even, but she hadn’t considered the wider implications of coffee.
They rounded the corner to Barley Mow Avenue, walking at a pace towards her little semi-detached house with the green front door. Jen’s thoughts were racing. She had coffee in the kitchen: an instant ground mix in a jar, some decaff at the back of a cupboard. She even had a cafetière and some Machu Picchu beans. She wondered what sort of coffee Eddie would drink. Or if he’d prefer tea. There was an unopened packet of custard creams somewhere too.
She glanced up at him and he winked again. She wondered if coffee mightn’t mean something completely different, not coffee at all, but an innuendo, a euphemism for something else. Jen caught her breath. She had no idea what to say to him. She pulled the key from her handbag, opened the front door and muttered, ‘Well, what takes your fancy, Eddie?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I mean, do you want it hot and strong, sweet, milky or just as it comes out of the spout?’ She felt herself blushing and fluttered her hands in front of her face.
‘Shall we take our coats off and sit down?’ Eddie glanced around the hall, at the thick carpet and velvet door curtain that kept out the draughts. ‘You keep it nice here, Jen.’
He sat in the lounge on the sofa, his feet on the rug. His shoes were damp and Jen wanted to tell him not to get mud on the carpet. He was glancing around the room, taking in the furniture, the books, the photos on the sideboard, her wedding photo with Colin in 1970. Jen was holding a bouquet as if it was heavy, a smiling bride with her long chestnut hair and the flowing white dress; Colin with sideburns and a fringe over his eyes.
She retreated to the small kitchen, banging open the cupboard door and clutching a small jar of freeze dried Costa Rican. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle. It had been a long time since a man had been in her house – there had been no one through the door since Colin had died and that had been four years ago, apart from her brother-in-law, Pete, and the young lad who’d serviced the boiler, of course. Jen wondered what Eddie might want to service. The porcelain cup slipped from her grip. She caught it just in time and placed it carefully on the saucer, on top of the tray with the jug of milk and the sugar lumps. Her heart had started to thud. She was not sure whether she was feeling excitement, passion or just unbridled fear.
She’d been married at twenty-three and, before Colin, there had just been one boyfriend, Ricky, who she’d loved from the age of fifteen until they’d broken up five years later, when he’d taken off to a pop festival, met some new friends and left to ‘find himself’ on the Isle of Wight. Jen had lost him and herself too, for a while, then she’d met Colin, an assistant in the local fishmonger’s shop, and settled for a quiet life. Colin had been promoted to manager; he was a good businessman, buying their house then purchasing the shop for himself. They had been comfortable, although it would always be a regret that they weren’t blessed with children. Colin had been kind, thoughtful and she’d never wanted for much. Then he’d had a stroke four years ago. He’d lasted three months. The second stroke had finished him off. Jen admitted to herself that she’d felt lonely ever since.
She missed the warmth of him more than the passion. Colin had been moderate in his desire for her. Her first love, Ricky, had been young, a sloppy kisser and a fumbler of buttons, more interested in his guitar than lust. She’d missed out on it really – mad passion, frantic sex. Sex had never been on her mind much at all, until now. Eddie had kissed her before, on the cheek at first then, several weeks ago, on the lips, briefly, every time they parted. There was warmth in his hugs, but she’d never considered that there might be something else. And now she didn’t know what she was feeling. Afraid? Glad to be desired? Perhaps she simply felt happy in his company. She wasn’t sure. She carried the tray into the lounge, her breath a little ragged. Eddie had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. She put the tray down and he patted the seat next to him, grinning.
‘Jen. Come and sit here. The coffee can wait a minute, can’t it?’
She wondered why her legs were being so obedient as she moved to the sofa and plonked herself down next to him, her shoulder against the arm he had draped across the back of the seat. His grasp circled her and he pulled her next to him.
‘Jen…’ He pecked her cheek. ‘Jenny.’
She wondered whether to sit up straight, wriggle away, feign a sudden interest in conversation and start gabbling about the lounge carpet, the deep pile, and the difficulties of finding a good hoover, one that would pick up all sorts of dust and get into the tricky corners. He nuzzled her cheek, his lips against her ear. Jen closed her eyes; the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. She inhaled the heady cinnamon and musk scent of his aftershave and wondered if he would kiss her. He pecked her on the lips and she blinked. He was staring at her, his blue eyes huge, his tidy grey hair framing a handsome face, his lips pursed to speak. ‘Jen…’
She wondered what would come next. The excitement and trepidation had turned into puzzlement. ‘Eddie… your coffee will get cold.’
‘I haven’t come here for the coffee, Jen.’ He moved his face closer to hers. ‘I ought to tell the truth. It was a ploy to get you here alone, just us, by ourselves.’
Jen felt her heart bump. She was thrilled, intrigued. He was going to kiss her, perhaps tug at her clothes. Her mind raced; she had known him for two months – she liked him a lot. But what if it wasn’t passion on his mind? What if he intended to steal from her, or worse? She did trust him though. His face was serious and kind. He surely couldn’t be a serial killer, but she’d read about such people in the papers, making widowed ladies trust them and then… No, surely not Eddie. His eyes were full of kindness.
‘I wanted to say something, Jen. I mean, we get along well…’
She caught her breath. He was going to tell her that he wanted to end the relationship. They got along well but that was all there was to it – she was expecting too much of him, a widower, set in his ways. Jen shook her head – no, it wasn’t that. He’d taken her out on Valentine’s night. Perhaps he was going to confess that he’d fallen for her, that he was in love. Then perhaps he’d rip open his shirt, fall on top of her and sink his lips against her neck.
Jen exhaled. She’d been reading too many romance novels. She reached out, patted his hand in an encouraging way. ‘What is it, Eddie?’
‘When we met on Boxing Day, we talked about how difficult it was being alone. You lost your husband. My wife, Pat, passed away two years ago. I’ve never become used to being by myself, to tell you the truth.’
He must be miserable, Jen thought. His face was serious, his eyes those of a lost puppy. She patted his hand again.
‘How can I help, Eddie?’
‘We get on, don’t we?’ He had suddenly become breathless, his words rushed. ‘I mean, we like each other. Jen, we’re not young. There’s no time like the present. Not a second to waste.’ He fumbled in his pocket, his face flustered, his lips open, panting. Jen wondered what he was searching for. An inhaler? Her eyes widened; she was astonished. He pulled out a handkerchief, unwrapping the neat folds, and held something out towards her. It was a ring, three diamonds in a row on a gold band, an antique style.
‘Jenifer Hooper, would you do me the honour…?’
She frowned, unsure what he wanted. The thought flicked into her mind that he was trying to sell it to
