I never told a soul. Not even Ginny. Which is probably a fair measure of the scale of the deceit, because ordinarily I tell Ginny just about everything. Whether she wants to hear it or not.
To be perfectly honest, since John’s death there have been a couple of occasions when, after the third or fourth glass, I’ve been tempted to blab about it. But I’ve always managed to stop myself just in time. I’ve instinctively known, I think, that I’ll regret it – either the next day or the very next minute. It’s as if, when John was still alive, I’d made a vow to keep it to myself, and that spilling the beans now that he’s gone would be unfair on him. Of course, it could just be me covering up my shame. Not the shame of the actual affair (of which there isn’t much to begin with) but the way that it ended. Maybe there’s something in that.
In fact, Ginny should probably shoulder some of the responsibility. It was, after all, her who browbeat me into signing up for the short course at Dartington Hall in the first place. And if she hadn’t backed out at the very last minute because of some drama with her current beau, then she would’ve been there, like my very own chaperone, and that would’ve been that.
I was tempted not to bother going myself, but finally decided to make the effort. The course was fine. One or two of the sessions weren’t particularly inspiring, but there you go. I’m pretty sure I’d seen Paul around the place, though that could just be me investing some sort of significance after the event. But on the last night I definitely noticed him. There was a ceilidh in the Great Hall. And whilst we didn’t actually bump into each other amongst all the dose-dos and stripping-the-willows, I do remember glancing over at him once or twice and seeing him watching me.
The whole thing was drawing to a close and the band had struck up the opening bars of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or something equally maudlin, and I’ve always been deeply allergic to that sort of forced sentimentality, so I headed for the door. I’ve tried a hundred different times to remember exactly what was going through my mind as I made my exit. Whether I felt any sense of disappointment at not having spoken to him or just how much of an impression he’d made on me. And I honestly can’t remember. But from that moment on it’s as if everything is carved in stone.
Between the Great Hall and the quadrangle there’s an old porch, like a church porch only bigger. And when I stepped through the wooden door into it I found him sitting there. I wasn’t even aware that he’d left the hall. I pulled the door to behind me and as I passed, happened to glance over at him. He said, ‘I’m sorry for staring. But you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.’
I carried on walking. Down the stone steps, and headed across the quadrangle, towards the door which led up to my room. I made it all the way across the lawn. Was standing at the door, with the key in my hand. It was like some sudden, debilitating sickness. As if, within those fifty yards or so it had taken hold of me and struck me down.
I’ve often wondered if it was something to do with the way he said it. I feel quite sure that if he’d been smirking or even smiling then that would’ve been the end of it. But he wasn’t. The words seemed almost sad.
I was still standing there in the doorway, with that stupid key in my hand. I was having trouble breathing.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said. My heart was pounding. Then I turned and headed back across the lawn.
It makes no significant difference how long there was between me walking back over to him and talking to him and the two of us being up in my room and on my bed, screwing. Whether we chose to go straight upstairs, or spent half the night wandering round the gardens, quoting poetry at each other by moonlight as some sort of preliminary. The fact is that as soon as I turned away from the door I knew that we’d be sleeping together. That decision had been made.
I’d had a couple of drinks but was barely even tipsy. I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t taken advantage of. Even so, it might well be that the fact that we were both on our own and far from home might possibly have contributed somehow. That, in effect, there was nothing to connect whatever went on that night down in Devon to our lives back home. And that, if we’d chosen to, we could have remained quite nameless. Like some perfect little crime.
But within about five minutes I’d decided that, whatever this was, one night of it was not going to suffice. Not by a long chalk. And before the sun was up the following morning I was already plotting to make sure it didn’t slip away from me.
I can clearly remember sitting on the train the next day in a state of absolute distraction, not least by my newfound loveliness. Apparently, this young man, fifteen years my junior, had identified it, buried so deeply in me that I wasn’t even aware of it myself. As that train dragged me back towards London a great many things went through my mind, one of which I particularly remember. And I’m well aware just how supremely selfish this is going to sound. I kept thinking, ‘Whatever this is, how can it be anything other than a good thing?’ And not simply because it was providing me with so much unalloyed joy. It was as if my very spirit had been plugged into a whole new universe of goodness. Everything around me was transformed. The world was kinder. Dammit, the world was downright wonderful. And how could that possibly be a cause for regret?