My relationship with Mark was developing nicely. I put no pressure on him, agreeing to meet whenever it suited him, for lunch, coffee or simply to talk. We didn’t return to the hotel. He wanted to, of course he did, but experience had taught me it was better to keep a man wanting.
‘I need to get home,’ I said after coffee on our third meeting. ‘Mother wants us to spend more time together. She’s been so good to me; I don’t like to let her down.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, and maybe I could stay late then, if you’d like.’
‘I would.’ He reached across and grasped my hand in his.
But when the following day arrived, when he was almost panting with desire, I broke the bad news. ‘I can’t stay late.’ I looked at the slim, gold watch that encircled my wrist, a present from an old boyfriend whose name was long forgotten. ‘Mother is taking me out for dinner.’ I reached for his hand, drawing my fingers gently over his skin. ‘You know I’d prefer to be with you. You’ve saved me, you know.’ I smiled, lifted his hand and pressed a kiss on it. ‘When I returned, I’d hoped Mum would help me find my feet again but it’s been you, Mark; you’ve made me realise there is life after divorce.’ I saw the conflict in his eyes. Thwarted desire and the pleasure my words had given him vied with a wide band of guilt that was narrowing and loosening each day. Soon, I’d be able to pull it off, throw it away. Soon, but I wasn’t there yet.
He reached under the table to lay a hand on my knee, his fingers finding the edge of my dress, wriggling under, stretching over my skin. I almost changed my mind then and dragged him to the nearest hotel. But he was still wriggling on that hook; I needed him firmly caught.
‘When I find somewhere suitable to rent, I’ll have more freedom and you’ll be able to come around now and then.’ Keeping it easy, no pressure. Allowing him to believe the string he was on was completely elastic. That it would stretch as far as he wanted. The biggest fish were reeled in gently and slowly. And then they stayed caught.
* * *
I didn’t want to commit to a long-term rental so it made sense to find an Airbnb apartment. There was plenty of choice and it didn’t take me long to find exactly what I wanted. A two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment on The Grove, a five-minute walk from Mark’s office. Although it overlooked the car park, it was on the top floor, giving a view of the Floating Harbour from the tiny balcony. The kitchen was too small but then I hadn’t planned on doing much cooking.
It was available from the Saturday, so I had a day to spare. I could sit around my mother’s unfriendly house or drive to Ivan’s to tackle the pile of laundry. No contest. It would give me the opportunity to pick up a few things to lend a stylish air to the Airbnb’s rather bland décor too.
Rather than staying overnight in Windsor, I left Thornbury early. Ivan’s home, which I’d shared for the length of our marriage, had been inherited from his parents. An eighteenth-century manor house, it was set in an acre of land with a winding driveway leading from the front gate to the front door. Originally, the house had been surrounded by hundreds of acres of park and farmland but over the years, inheritance tax and various other money woes had necessitated selling portions off until finally the house and the acre of garden was all that remained.
I arrived after a little more than an hour and a half’s drive and pulled up to the gate. It was old and wasn’t electrified. I’d nagged Ivan about having it changed but he’d looked at me in horror. ‘That gate is over a hundred years old,’ he’d said, as if I’d asked him to cut off one of his fingers.
Old, but not particularly attractive, and a blasted nuisance to open, especially in the light rain that had started to fall the last twenty minutes of my journey. Both sides of the gate needed to be opened before I could drive the car through. By the time I was back in the car, rain had drenched my light jacket, turned my hair into rats’ tails, and seriously dented my mood. Leaving the gate open, I drove along the potholed, winding avenue to the house. The breeze had picked up, the rain changing to a thunderous deluge that, even at speed, the windscreen wipers battled to clear.
Luckily, I was able to pull up close to the front door. I still had my keys and they were in my hand as I climbed from the car and made a dash for the shelter of the porch.
‘Shit,’ I muttered as the wind-driven rain pelted my back. The lock, like the damn gate, was old, and I always struggled to turn the key.
‘You’re too impatient,’ Ivan had insisted. ‘Old things need a bit of finessing.’
He’d thought this was funny. In the beginning. But that was before he began to blame my advanced years on my failure to become pregnant. It always struck me as ironic for two reasons – I was six years older than he thought, and he was thirty years older than me.
Finally, the key turned in the lock and I pushed the door open.
I shivered automatically as I stepped into the wood-panelled entrance hall and shut the door behind me on the belting rain. It was a chilly room even on the warmest day and always smelt damp. Now though, something nastier than dampness was making my nose crinkle.
An oak stairway rose to the bedroom floor. I’d tripped on the moth-eaten stair runner several times over the year I’d lived there. But it had been hand-loomed specially, sometime early in the previous century, so rather than pulling it up, throwing it out and replacing it with something nicer, it was sprayed on occasion to treat the bugs who feasted on it.
Fortunately, for my sanity, the plumbing had been improved over the years and the bathrooms were modern and well designed. As was the kitchen.
‘Damn!’ The holdall with my laundry was in the boot of the car. I looked up the stairs. I supposed it was only polite to go up and say hello to Ivan before using his facilities. If I was lucky, the rain would have stopped before I came back down.
My soon to be ex-husband – I hadn’t exactly lied to Mark but we weren’t quite divorced – was exactly where I expected to find him. I knocked gently on the door before opening it. ‘Hi,’ I said.
He stared at me, that silly smile he thought made him look sexy still on his lips. It didn’t work on me then; it certainly didn’t work on me now. Mark was my future. ‘I need to pick up a few things, and I’d like to use the washing machine, if you don’t mind.’
I spent as little time as possible chatting with him. He’d never been an entertaining conversationalist. Money was the only vocabulary he thought he needed; he thought it bought everything. And for a while, he was right.
Back downstairs, when I opened the front door and looked out, the rain was still pelting down. The laundry wasn’t going to come in on its own. I squealed on the mad dash to the boot, wrenching it open, water splashing into my eyes. I grabbed the bag, slammed the boot shut, then dashed back inside.
‘Bloody weather!’
The washing machine was a massive one, Ivan labouring under the idea that big, like old, was better. Except, of course with women. Then it was young and slim. And sexy.
I shook him and his stupid ideas from my head and started the delicate cycle running.
It was going to take time, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I made coffee and took out my phone to check my socials. I wasn’t obsessive; once or twice a day was enough to catch up with the crap that most people posted. It helped pass the time.
The washing machine conveniently gave a countdown of time remaining. Ten minutes. I’d use the time to collect some things to prettify the apartment a little.
Ivan wouldn’t come to check but anyway, there was no fear that I’d pinch any of his valuables. The old paintings on the walls, the porcelain figures that roamed the shelves and mantelpieces, the pots and vases. All suited this old mausoleum; they would look scarily out of place in the Airbnb or any place I saw myself living in the future. Mark’s super modern home, for example. I smiled at that thought as I walked through the rooms searching for anything suitable.
I found a couple of candlesticks. Heavy glass, they were old, might even be antique, but they were nicely made, with a simplicity that was almost modern. Ivan wouldn’t miss them. He had a fear of candles ever since Windsor Castle had been so badly damaged in the fire of 1992 and wouldn’t allow any to be used. It didn’t matter that candles hadn’t been responsible for that fire; he had it fixed in his head that it could happen to his precious house.
I’d resisted the temptation to tell him that it would have been the best thing to have happened to the ugly dump. Burn the whole lot down, build a big modern house. With a swimming pool, perhaps. And a home cinema. Maybe a home gym. I hadn’t said it, hadn’t even been tempted to set the pile alight myself. I might have done if I hadn’t realised the marriage wasn’t going to last much longer.
Back in the utility room, I put the damp clothes into the tumble drier, checked it was at the right temperature and set it going.
There wasn’t much more I wanted to take. Some bed linen and towels. A bottle of whisky, one of vodka, a few bottles of wine. I wasn’t a big drinker, but I’d noticed Mark liked a tipple. We could sit on the balcony, stare out over Bristol, and sip a whisky.
I left everything by the front door and was humming as I turned to go back to the kitchen. A bang from upstairs stopped me mid-stride. I’d never managed to get used to the old house’s creaks and groans when I’d lived there; they’d come out of the blue, startlingly loud at times, making me yelp in fright. Ivan, used to the sounds it made, would laugh. In amusement in the early, love-flushed days, derisively, sneeringly later.
From where I stood, I could see the door to his bedroom. It was still shut. He wouldn’t be coming to catch me filching his booze.
When there was nothing more worth taking, I returned to the kitchen and unpacked my clothes from the drier.
That was it. I checked the time. Almost midday. Plenty of time to get back home and pack up, ready for an early departure the following morning. The owner of the Airbnb had promised to be ready with the keys at ten. Mark was calling around in the afternoon. No doubt we’d christen the apartment. Maybe even twice. After all, there were two bedrooms.
I went up to say goodbye to Ivan. ‘Thanks for letting me do my laundry.’ He didn’t reply. An unpleasant odour made me beat a dignified retreat. He’d let himself go a little since I’d left. ‘I’ll call back in a week or so, see how you’re doing.’ And with a wave, I left.
It was still raining when I opened the front door. Instead of using the boot, I dumped everything onto the back seat of the car, swearing loudly as a trickle of water fell from a gutter overhead as I was shutting the door. It ran down my neck and between my breasts.
I was still swearing when I went to shut the front door. It was always more of a problem when it rained. According to Ivan, the wood swelled. To me, it made a clear argument for uPVC but he seemed to think it added to its charm.
There was nothing charming about me trying to get it to shut. I grabbed the doorknob and slammed it a couple of times, feeling the rain soak through my jacket again. My hand slipped when I tried to pull it shut again and it was sorely tempting to leave it ajar. To allow the rain to soak the entrance hall, drown the bloody house.
Luckily, it was third time’s a charm and it closed as if it had been teasing me all along. It must have realised I was near the end of my limited availability of patience.
In the driver’s seat, I peeled off the wet jacket, used a dry patch of it to rub through my hair and over my face, then started the engine and went back down the driveway. The heavy rain had filled the potholes, making them impossible to avoid and the car bumped and lurched as it hit one after the other. I hadn’t secured the bottles on the back seat, and when I hit the third pothole, I hear the distinct and ominous sound of one bottle cracking against another.
‘Shit!’ I stopped, undid my seat belt, and twisted to see the damage. Noise, but thankfully no damage. I separated the bottles so they wouldn’t drive me crazy clinking together all the way home. Starting the car again, I barely slowed as I drove through the gates, leaving them wide open behind me.
Ivan would understand.