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Doctor Adrian Lee Simons pulls into the Usk campus car park in a midnight blue Mustang convertible with the top down, sunlight glinting off his aviator shades. Students arriving for their morning lectures smile and wave, the boys watching the car, the girls distracted by its driver. He nods in response, turning into a space just opposite where I’m parked, and the Mustang’s roof unfolds, stretching over itself to seal him inside.
For the past four days, once Ange has left for work and Dan for school, I’ve driven out this way. But this is the first time I’ve had actual eyes on him. And he’s everything I expect. Until he steps out of the car.
Brown brogues with denim jeans, into the waistband of which his shirt is tucked, and a thin beige blazer jacket over the top, tells me he’s not what they call a man of fashion. So apart from the crisis on wheels, all he’s got going for him is an accent from over the pond that gives him an air of someone different, someone not from round here, and therefore someone mildly intriguing.
The denims ride up over black socks as he reaches into the back of the Mustang and pulls out a battered soft leather briefcase he tucks under his arm, then dives in again for a stack of cardboard folders. He bumps the door shut with his hip, locks the car, hesitates at the rear, peers closer, tilting his head, then moves away with his eyes still on the boot as if he’s reluctant to leave it. It’ll be his pride and joy. The thing he wanted all his life, until one day the saving and the dreaming was over, and now he spends the entire time he’s not in it worrying about it.
I think about having a word, but there are too many people around and he’s in a hurry. I don’t want him to have any excuses to get away when we meet face to face. The wind catches his hair so it flaps up and down on his forehead like a wayward sail on a stormy sea. I imagine he uses hair products to achieve such an effect, and wonder if he has his favourite brand of moisturiser shipped over from the States, too.
He strides the last ten yards to the front doors with a student in tow, a female with hair as long and as dark as Anna’s. She looks at him a lot as she speaks, hands doing most of the talking for her, and a smile split so wide he must wish he’d kept the shades on. She holds the door open for him. He glances at her, to thank her maybe, and she scurries in after him, the door banging shut behind them. I look back to the Mustang.
He’s doing alright for himself for a man who wears brogues with jeans and whose image is a cross reference of ‘90s cool and ‘80s geography teacher. Two lads are taking the chance, while the owner’s not around, to cup their hands to the windows and peer in. Another stands at the back of it with his head to one side, feet planted and hips tilted like he’s considering how best to mount it.
‘Jesus,’ I mutter to the dry air inside the car. ‘See it for what it is, boys. A mid-life crisis on wheels.’
Was that what Anna was too? A vulnerable young woman dragged into his crisis? Someone young and pretty on his arm, in his bed, to prove he still could.
I punch the button on the door to bring down the window and let in some air, the sound of which draws the boys’ attention, and as if caught doing something they shouldn’t, they straighten and walk on towards the college without looking back. Shame. If ever I’d wanted to witness someone put an elbow to a side window, knock out the ignition barrel or rip out the wiring, it was now. But they had too much respect for the car, and maybe its owner, to do that.
Sunlight rebounds off the rear lights, blinding me. I press my fingers to my eyes, but when I open them again the sun spots are still there. I glance left to the college building. Windows everywhere, but all I see in them are shifting clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky.
The car park’s quiet now, empty of students, everyone called inside to their lectures, and the Mustang just sitting there, alone and conspicuous. Gleaming bodywork and spotless alloys. It makes me wonder if Simons is one of those trusting types. Or if he’s newer to this country than I assumed he was.
*
I make dinner that night. Something simple that Ange and I eat at the breakfast bar and Dan asks if he can take to his room. I tell him, ‘Yes, mate, no problem.’ Ange had been about to say no, but Dan’s gone before the counterargument is raised.
‘You out tonight?’ I ask, between mouthfuls of chicken curry and rice.
‘Why, you want to do something?’
I glance up, but it’s the food she’s looking at, not me. Over her shoulder, the clock has it at almost seven. I’ll need to be out of here in half an hour.
‘Sorry, love, I can’t. Said I’d have a few beers with someone from work.’
‘Right.’ She pokes at the curry with the fork, shifting it around the plate.
‘Is it alright?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely. Thanks.’ Her eyes flick up to mine and away again, quick enough to tell me there’s something up.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I put down the fork, then catch myself and instead pick up the glass of water and take a sip.
‘Need a lift?’ she asks.
‘Nah, you’re alright. I’ll drive. Just have the one.’
She nods, pokes some more at the food. I glance again to the clock. If I get a move on, I’ll fit in a shower and shave.
‘Actually, Steve, I spoke to the estate agents today.’
‘Yeah?’
‘They’re hopeful of a quick sale of the Lobster.’
‘Well they would say that, wouldn’t they?’ The last of the curry is thick in my throat and I reach for the water, down it in one. ‘They won’t say it’ll be on the market for months and we’ll be paying them a small fortune in commission for the privilege.’
She pushes the plate away, half the food left. ‘But I was thinking. Seeing as the cottage will sell regardless, why don’t we use the savings to put the deposit down on the finca in the meantime?’
I’m glad I’ve finished eating, else I might have choked.
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, trying to judge if she’s serious.
‘But it makes sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t. And when you say the savings, you mean mine, right?’ The nice little nest egg from Mum and Dad’s inheritance, accruing some welcome interest, plus the extras I’ve added over the years. I hadn’t decided yet what I’d use it for, but it wasn’t for some crumbling shack in the Costa Del Bolthole, that’s for sure.
‘Well of course it’s yours, Steve. And you’ll get it back. It just means we won’t lose out on the finca while we’re waiting.’
The finca. The finca. The fucking finca.
‘Look, if the finca’s gone by the time we sell the Lobster, then it was meant to be,’ I say, calming it down, reminding myself I need to be out of here soon. But seems this isn’t the answer she was looking for.
‘So you’re getting all fatalistic on me now?’
‘Whatever, Ange.’ I get up from the stool and reach for her plate. ‘You done?’
She takes a moment to respond, green eyes searching mine for something she’ll be hard pushed to find. I won’t just roll over every time she wants me to. Not over this anyway.
‘Yeah, I’m done.’ She gets up, slamming the kitchen door behind her when she leaves.
I scrape her leftovers into the dog’s bowl, about the only thing that still gets Rumpole out of his bed and trotting from one end of the room to the other. And as I slip the plates into the tepid soapy water in the sink, I think about asking Tricia tonight if she knows anything about Simons.
