Maureen eased open the kitchen door and hurried into the dark of her backyard with no intention of abiding by the rules of separation laid down by Lucian. She wanted to feel his whiskers against her face, tongue in her mouth.
Maureen tasted anchovies and garlic and guided Lucian’s hand below the small of her back. But when nothing firm appeared at the front of his trousers the pair awkwardly stepped apart.
Sorry.
I told you before, it doesn’t matter. I just like being with you.
I wanted to say thank you for the dinner. He doesn’t make it as well as you do though.
Of course he doesn’t, but the poor kid couldn’t think of anything to cook, and I know it’s one of your favourites.
The conversation suddenly faltered, allowing the nocturnal movements of the mountainside to grow louder.
How is everything? How’s the book coming along?
Lucian shook his head. Don’t ask. What’s been happening around here?
Nothing much. More of the same. What are you reading?
The Good Soldier.
Again?
Has it been two years already?
Probably not, but I felt the need to go back one final time.
What do you mean by that? Is something the matter? Are you sick? Is that why you’re having trouble…
Everything is fine. It was just an expression. No need to jump to conclusions. I’m probably not thinking or speaking straight. Too much pot after dinner.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you.
You didn’t. I worry about you too, you know.
Really? Because that makes it even more confusing as to why we’re no longer together.
Lucian pointed to the upstairs window with a light on. You have a husband in there, remember?
It was never enough of a reason before.
I should be getting back.
If there was something wrong you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t try to hide it from me?
Lucian kissed Maureen goodnight and smelled roast chicken and coffee on her skin. Nothing is wrong. And yes, I would hide it from you. I don’t want you to ever think of me as anything other than a healthy, dirty old man with his hand up your skirt. Now please go back inside where it’s warm.
Just over three months had passed since Lucian had ended his affair with Maureen, and as he trudged through the dark scrub that led back to Brenan Street he could not deny a certain thrill at still being able to excite her. He recalled their afternoons together in hotel rooms all over Hobart: his fascination with the wrinkled skin between her breasts; the elegance of her shoulders as she stood in the shower; the way she wore her underpants to bed so he could enjoy taking them off. Maureen was considerate like that. So charming she could diffuse any bad mood Lucian found himself caught up in, and calm enough to lie beside him in bed reading for hours without saying a single word. She was uninhibited, fundamentally sensual, with a face of such atypical beauty that there were moments when it appeared rather plain, even unattractive. Her intellect was steady and pointed, and the times she outwitted him – of which there were many – made Lucian feel unworthy. Maureen was a prize, and always would be. Whereas he was difficult and intense, with a greedy, ungentlemanly imagination. And hardly in his physical prime. Short – five-ten. Hair more grey than black, with a deep line down the centre of his brow. His teeth were okay, and Maureen said he had the hands of a prince, but he smoked too much pot and at times imagined things that weren’t real, leading to jealous outbursts. Even a simple love message, such as the dinner he had eaten that night, could still trigger a sharp pain in his chest. Heart attack, heartache or heartburn, either way it forced Lucian to sit down in the middle of a dark country road and rub his sternum, fretfully awaiting the discomfort to subside.