it to my table with a note that said ‘Hello from one Brit to another’ and then walked straight out of the pub without a backward glance. I couldn’t help but smile. After that he was quietly persistent, a ‘hello’ here, a ‘what are you reading?’ there and we gradually became friends. It took me a long time to lower my barriers but finally, almost one year to the day after we first met, I let myself love him.
It was a warm, balmy evening and we were strolling beside the river, watching the lights of the city flicker and glow on the water when Brian started telling me about Tessa, his late wife, and how devastated he was when she lost her battle with cancer. He told me how shocked he’d been – the disease had progressed so rapidly – and then how angry, how he’d waited until his son was staying with his granny and then he’d smashed up his own car with a cricket bat because he didn’t know how to deal with his rage. His eyes filled with tears when he told me how desperately he missed his son Oliver (he’d left him with his grandparents in the UK so he could fulfil a contract in Greece) but he made no attempt to blot them away. I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his skin, smudging his tears away and then I reached for his hand. I didn’t let go for three hours.
I push open the door to Brian’s study and approach his desk, instantly feeling that I have intruded too far. I wash my husband’s clothes, I iron them, some of them I buy, but his study represents his career – a part of his world that he keeps distinct from family life. Brian is a Member of Parliament. Saying it aloud makes me so proud but I wasn’t always that way. Seventeen years ago I was bemused when he’d rail against ‘Tory scum’, ‘class divides’ and ‘a failing NHS’ but Brian wasn’t content to sit on society’s sidelines and moan. When we returned to the UK from Greece, still flushed with happiness from our impromptu bare-footed wedding on a beach in Rhodes, he was resolute. We’d settle in Brighton and he’d start a new business – he had a hunch recycling would be big – and then, when it was established and making a profit, he’d run for Parliament. He didn’t have so much as an economics O-Level but I knew he’d do it. And he did.
I never stopped believing in him, I still do in many ways, but I am no longer in awe of him. I love Brian but I can also see only too well how vain and insecure his career choice has made him. Flattery goes a long way when you’re approaching your mid-forties, sixteen stone and balding – particularly when the person doing the flattering is young, ambitious and works for you. Brian has changed since Charlotte’s accident. We both have, but in different ways. Instead of our daughter’s condition bringing us together we’ve been forced apart and the distance between us is growing. If Brian’s having another affair I won’t forgive him again.
I take another step towards my husband’s desk and my fingers trail over the brushed silver frame of a black and white photograph. It’s of Charlotte and I on a beach in Mallorca, taken on the first day of our holiday. We’ve still got our travelling clothes on, our trouser legs rolled up so we can paddle in the sea. I’ve got one hand raised to my forehead, protecting my eyes from the sun whilst the other clutches our daughter’s tiny hand. She’s staring up at me, her chin tilted, eyes wide. The photo must be at least ten years old but I still feel a warm swell of love when I look at the expression on her face. It’s pure, unadulterated happiness.
A floorboard in the corridor squeaks and I snatch my fingers back from the photograph then sigh. When did I become so neurotic that every creak and groan of a two-hundred-year-old house sent me catatonic with fear?
I look back at the desk. It’s a heavy mahogany affair with three drawers on the left, three on the right and a long, thin drawer that sits in between. I reach for the brass handle of the centre drawer and slowly ease it open. Another floorboard squeaks but I ignore it, even though it sounds closer than the last. There’s something in the drawer, something handwritten, a card or letter maybe and I reach for it, being careful not to disturb the mounds of paperclips and rubber bands on either side as I attempt to slide—
‘Sue?’ says a man’s voice, directly behind me. ‘What are you doing?’
James and I had sex.
It happened on Saturday night.
He called me in the afternoon and the first thing he said was ‘I’ve barely slept for thinking about you.’
I knew exactly how he felt. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. I’d woken up on Saturday morning with the most terrible feeling of dread that I’d never see him again. I was convinced I’d said something unforgiveable on Friday night and that, in the cold light of day, he’d realized that I wasn’t the woman for him after all.
So sure was I that, when James rang and said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, I was totally floored.
‘Absolutely,’ I said when he said he needed to see me ASAP. ‘If I jump in the shower now then hop on the tube I could be in Camden in—’
‘Actually I was thinking that we could meet for dinner this evening.’
What must he think of me – taking him literally like I had no life and no self-control? He didn’t laugh, thankfully, instead asked if I’d ever been to some fancy restaurant in St Pancras. I’d never heard of it and said as much, so James explained that it had come highly recommended by a friend.
Of course then I had another clothing dilemma (finally settling on my tried and tested little black dress) and was twenty minutes late as I walked in the restaurant at 8.20 p.m., trying not to ogle the stunning décor, the linen and crystal dressed tables and the immaculately turned out maître-d’ who was showing me to my table. James stood up as we drew near. He was dressed in a three-piece grey suit with a lilac cravat at his throat and elegant silver cufflinks at his wrists. I felt dowdy in my three-year-old dress and scuffed heels but, when James looked me up and down and his eyes widened in appreciation, I felt like the most attractive woman in the whole restaurant.
‘I can’t stop staring at you,’ he said after the maître-d’ seated me, handed us our menus and then left. ‘You always look beautiful but tonight you look,’ he shook his head as though dazed, ‘ridiculously sexy.’
I felt myself blush as his eyes flicked to my cleavage. ‘Thank you.’
‘Honestly Susan, I don’t think you have any idea of the effect you’re having on me, and every other man in the room.’
I thought that was a bit over the top but when my eyes flicked to the two men having a business meeting at the next table they nodded at me appreciatively.
‘So,’ James reached across the table for my hand as I drained my first glass of wine. ‘What do you like?’
I glanced at the menu. ‘The scallops sound nice.’
He shook his head and slipped his fingers between mine, sliding them back and forwards. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
I tried to swerve away from the question, to a more neutral conversation, but James topped up my wine glass and fixed me with that intense look of his.
‘I haven’t
