will be. And then it will get better and better. Shall I get the bill?’
We walked back – sedately, arm in arm – to our pensione. There was a part of me that wanted to make love to her there and then: to pull her into an alley, push her up against a wall and tear my way into her clothes; and all the while the rain would patter on our heads and shoulders, the lamplight would glitter in the puddles, and the snarls and honks of the traffic would make a savage, distant music.
At the pensione, we collected our key and went upstairs. I locked the door behind us. I turned to find her standing in the middle of the room with her arms by her side.
‘Vanessa.’ My voice sounded like a stranger’s. ‘You’re lovely.’
I took off my jacket and dropped it on a chair. I went to her, put my hands on her shoulders, stooped and kissed her gently on the lips. Her lips moved beneath mine. I took off her coat and let it fall to the floor. I nibbled the side of her neck. My fingers found the fastening of her dress. I peeled it away from her. She stood there in her underwear, revealed and vulnerable. Her arms tightened round my neck.
‘I’m cold. Can we get into bed?’
I was a little disappointed: I had looked forward for months to slowly removing her clothes, to touching as much of her body as I could with my mouth. But all that could wait. She allowed me to help her quickly out of the rest of her clothes. She scrambled into bed and watched me as I quickly undressed. My excitement was obvious.
‘My handbag. I’ve got a cap.’
‘I’ve got a condom.’ I dropped my wallet on the bedside table and slithered into bed beside her.
There was goose flesh on her arm. It was hard to move much because she was holding me so tightly. The restraint somehow increased my excitement. I kissed her hair frantically.
‘I want you,’ I muttered. ‘Let me come in.’
She released her hold. I rolled over and found the condom in my wallet. My fingers were twice as clumsy as usual. At last I extracted the condom from its foil wrapper and rolled it over my penis. Vanessa was lying on her back, her legs slightly apart, watching me. There was a noise like surf in my ears.
‘Now, darling,’ I said. ‘Now, now.’
I climbed on top of her, using my knees to spread her legs wider. I abandoned all attempts at subtlety. I wanted one thing and I wanted it now. Vanessa stared up at me and put her hands on my shoulders. Her face was very serious. I lowered myself and thrust hard into her. She gasped and tried to writhe away but now my hands were on her shoulders and she could not move. I cried out, a groan that had been building up inside me for ten years. And then, with embarrassing rapidity, it was all over.
Trembling, I lay like a dead weight on top of her. In a moment, my trembling turned to sobs.
Once again her arms tightened around me. ‘Hush now. It’s all right. It’s over.’
It wasn’t over, not for either of us, and it wasn’t all right. Two hours later, I wanted her again. We were still awake, talking about the future. Vanessa agreed with me that it would obviously take time before we were sexually in tune with each other. That was to be expected. The second time everything happened more slowly. She lay there while I explored the hollows and curves of her body with my mouth. She let me do whatever I wanted, and I did.
‘Dearest David,’ she murmured, not once but many times.
After I had come again, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she said no, not this time. She went into the little bathroom. I lit a cigarette and listened to the rustle of running water. When she came back, she was wearing her nightdress and her face was pink and scrubbed. Soon we turned out the light and settled down for sleep. I rested my arm over her. I felt her hand take mine.
‘How was it?’ I asked. ‘Was it very painful?’
‘I’m a little sore.’
‘I’m sorry. I should have –’
‘It doesn’t matter. I want to make you happy.’
‘You do.’
We were in Florence for seven days. We looked at pictures, listened to music and sat in cafés. And we made love. Each night she lay there and allowed me to do whatever I wanted; and I did. On the seventh night I found her crying in the bathroom.
‘Darling, what’s wrong?’
She lifted her tear-stained face to me, a sight which I found curiously erotic. ‘It’s nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s a little painful. Sore.’
I smiled. ‘So am I, as a matter of fact. Not used to the exercise. I dare say we’ll soon toughen up. It’s like walking without shoes. One needs practice.’
She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite come off. ‘And my breasts are rather painful too. I think my period is due.’
‘We needn’t do anything tonight,’ I said, my disappointment temporarily swamped by my desire to be kind.
We sat in bed reading. She was the first to turn out the light. The evening felt incomplete. I lay on my back and stared up into the darkness.
‘Vanessa?’ I said softly. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you feel about making love when you have a period?’ It had suddenly occurred to me that it might be several days before we had an opportunity to do it again. ‘I should say that I don’t mind it, myself.’
‘Actually, it’s very painful for me. I have heavy periods. I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ I said; I turned and put my arm around her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sleep well. God bless.’
As usual, her hand gripped mine. I lay there, my penis as erect as a guardsman on parade, listening to the sound of her breathing.
After our return from Italy, Vanessa and I slipped into the new routine of our shared lives. We were even happy, in a fragmentary fashion, as humans are happy. Though what was in store was rooted in ourselves – in our personalities and our histories – we had no inkling of what was coming. As humans do, we kept secrets from ourselves, and from each other.
Towards the end of May, Peter and June Hudson came to supper. They were our first real guests. The meal was something of a celebration. Peter had been offered preferment. Though there had been no official announcement, he was to be the next Bishop of Rosington.
‘It’s a terrifying prospect,’ June said placidly. ‘No more lurking in the background for me. No more communing with the kitchen sink. I shall have to be a proper Mrs Bishop and shake hands with the County.’
‘You could be a Mrs Proudie,’ Vanessa suggested. ‘Rule your husband’s diocese
