Elizabeth went into the bathroom. Locking the door, she perched on the edge of the bath, and clamped a cool flannel to her face.
Laurence should take some of the blame for what she was contemplating. He expected her to hang around while he did his stupid cookery courses, squandering his – their – holiday allocation and forking out enormous sums of money. How dare he? Alex was as bad. He seemed to think that his mother had nothing better to do than look after a teenager who was cramping his style. That was how they thought of her. A good sport whose function was to make their lives more comfortable.
Following the termination, she had gone through a wobbly twelve months or so. Then along came kind, mature, understanding and (most important of all) patient Laurence Giles, who wanted her – despite what she had done. He hadn’t pressed her, leaving her to decide when their relationship should become physical. He offered absolution – a dressing to cover her aching wound. The diamond and sapphire ring – his grandmother’s – which he slipped on her finger, became her defence against the advances of other men. (It was as well to be shielded from the possibility of a second mistake.) So effective was this that, from that moment onward, no stolen kisses or fumblings, and positively no invitations to share a bed, had breached her defences. Fidelity was the deal that she’d made with herself. It felt the right and proper thing to do. And it hadn’t been difficult. (In fact it hadn’t been an issue until this week.) She and Laurence loved, liked and respected each other (although there was never any suggestion that they were ‘best friends’ which Elizabeth assumed had something to do with his being at public school). Theirs was a solid and comfortable marriage. Decisions concerning career, house and finances had always been made together and on the basis of what was best for the family. Now that the boys were no longer their responsibility, this amounted to what was best for Laurence and her. Their common good.
So there was nothing particularly noble in her twenty-odd years of faithfulness. Naturally, once in a while, when she read the The Bridges of Madison County or watched The English Patient, she couldn’t help … wondering. But that’s all. Maybe because she’d never encountered her own Robert Kincaid or Count Almásy, adultery was no more than a fictional notion. (George Clooney was a friend so he didn’t come into it.) On a practical note, were she to deviate, even fleetingly, from her ‘blameless’ path, it wouldn’t remain a secret. One day, when she’d had a glass of wine too many or when remorse overwhelmed her, she would find it impossible not to tell Laurence whose profession was, after all, winkling out the truth.
And yet.
The common good. Laurence’s unilateral decisions in the cookery field suggested that nothing was immutable. So could this mean that there was a case for the individual good? Her good? Might it not be beneficial, nourishing, reviving, to experience one illicit encounter in a lifetime? Yes? Then she didn’t have time to waste. With the menopause and the dismal symptoms that threatened to accompany it fast approaching, this would almost certainly be her only chance to take, and to enjoy, a lover.
A navy-blue wash bag, flip-flapped open to reveal several transparent pockets, dangled from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Razor. Nail clippers. A tiny tube of ointment to combat athlete’s foot. A strip of paracetamol tablets. Nothing out of the ordinary or unwholesome, and no designer brands for the Rain Man. Easing the deodorant from its pocket, she took the top off and rolled it along her arm, sniffing her skin, striving to detect him in the evaporating trail.
He was right. She did want him. Thinking about him agitated her and made it difficult to think straight. She was thirty years too old to be feeling as she did – confused and exhilarated. Damn the man. The whole thing was absurd. She met him less than four days ago. He was a cello-playing meteorologist with size eleven feet and a failed marriage – that was all she knew about him. She didn’t have a clue when his birthday was or whether he believed in God or if he liked Marmite. The list of unknowns was endless. Yet somehow she’d known him for ever. (How hackneyed – and how dangerous – was that?) Perhaps this craziness had something to do with her being a ‘displaced person’ – doubly displaced, in fact. She might only be two hundred miles from London but she was displaced from her home and her husband.
Recently someone had brought a cutting into work from one of those ‘science for the non-scientist’ magazines. It described a series of experiments that had been carried out to discover what encouraged couples who were in long-term relationships to remain faithful, even if they met someone else they ‘fancied’. Apparently, a few minutes spent thinking about their partner drastically reduced the attraction they felt for anyone else. It suggested that couples surround themselves with objects that reminded them of the loved one. Simple things like a photograph or a ring helped to make temptation less tempting. Perhaps she should keep a photo of Laurence to hand and look at it whenever thoughts of Dafydd rendered her weak with what seemed very much like desire.
Returning the deodorant to its place, she unlocked the door. The house lay still and peaceful in the summer afternoon, as though it were getting its breath back. The impression was enhanced by lyrical music – Elgar? – coming from Dafydd’s bedroom.
‘Anyone at home?’ A man’s voice startled her. ‘Dafydd? Daf?’
The man was in the kitchen, standing at the sink, filling the kettle.
‘Hello.’ She struggled to make her greeting casual on the assumption that thieves and rapists didn’t hang about making themselves cups of tea.
‘Hello there.’ He smiled. ‘Is Daf about by any chance?’
He was of indeterminate age – fifty or sixty? – with a neat brown-grey beard and a black bandana-affair covering his hair. His sweater, snagged in several places, was patterned with blue and green zig-zags and he wore corduroy trousers, tucked into tan, calf-length boots. The boots were scuffed across the toes, revealing metal toecaps. Bob the Builder meets Long John Silver – both seriously overdressed for the weather.
‘He’s taking a nap.’
‘Lazy sod.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Let’s not wake him. I’d much rather share an afternoon cuppa with a delightful stranger than an ugly bastard like Dafydd Jones.’
He took two mugs from the cupboard and held up a jar of coffee. ‘Instant do you? Milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, please. Just a dash.’
This intruder had somehow become the host and she the guest.
Feeling that she should establish a few facts she said ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m … my friend Diane … it’s complicated.’
He stopped her with a raised palm. ‘No names, no pack drill.’ Then he nodded towards the tent in the garden. ‘Camping, are you?’
Camping, are you? Despite the Welsh inversion, his voice was without any detectable accent.
‘No. The tent’s Jordan’s. I mean Jay’s. Well, actually it’s Carl’s.’
‘See,’ he grinned, revealing unexpectedly white teeth, ‘didn’t I warn you? Names lead to confusion.’
There was something compelling in his smile and she couldn’t help laughing. He offered her a mug of coffee. The fingers of his right hand were nicotine-stained but his hands were spotless, the nails trimmed and clean. Here was a man in heavy camouflage.
‘What’s the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had?’ he asked, canting his chair backwards.
‘The best? In what sense?’
‘In any sense you like. Quick. Off the top of your head.’
She raised her mug. ‘This one.’
‘Excellent answer.’
She felt like a child who had been awarded a gold star and, eager to show how sharp she was, she qualified her reply. ‘But who knows? I’ve only taken a couple of sips. I might go off it before I’ve finished it.’
He nodded and raised his forefinger. ‘Which proves my next point.’
‘Which is?’
‘Better to travel hopefully than to arrive.’
‘Unless you’re on the M25.’
‘That goes without saying.’
They continued, scrupulously avoiding introductions, debating the dunking virtues of various biscuits – ginger snaps lost to HobNobs – and whether coffee tasted better from a cup or a mug. Pitting words with this articulate stranger made her feel vivacious and she was disappointed when he glanced at his watch and said ‘It’s a tragedy but I must be on my way.’
‘Oh. Can I give Dafydd a message?’
‘No. Just passing.’ He stood up. ‘A pleasure to meet you, sad-eyed lady.’ Then, with an oddly formal salute, he left by the back door.
The novelty of the encounter evaporated within minutes to be replaced by frustration. The man-with-no-name had turned up at the critical moment, like an outlandish guardian angel arriving in the nick of time to save her from herself. There might be occasions when a guardian angel would be welcome but not today, not when she had almost made up her mind to discover what passion was all about.
She dumped the mugs in the sink, sending dregs of coffee slurping up the window. ‘Damn.’
She was reaching across the draining board, cleaning the glass, when Dafydd came into the kitchen.
‘Kids back? I thought I heard voices.’ He pointed to the spattered windows. ‘Everything okay?’
He wore shorts, nothing else, and he was rubbing his hand across his chest, occasionally tugging at swathes of hair which he trapped, scissor fashion, between index and middle fingers.
She looked away. ‘A man wearing a bandana came in and made himself a cup of coffee.’
‘That’d be Lenny. Lenny Butler.’
The name was familiar but it took her several seconds to pin it down. ‘What? Lenny Butler as in Wolfman?’
‘Yep. That’s the one. The old rock ’n roller himself.’
‘Good gracious. But he looked like?’
‘That’d be his incognito outfit. He doesn’t want anyone to recognise him. Apparently.’
‘On and off. He’s got a place a couple of miles from here. An old farm. He’s converted the outhouses to a recording studio. Dad did a lot of work on the house. Lenny started coming over here for a shower when the water was off at the farm. Now he’s a fixture. Did he want anything in particular?’
‘Only a cup of coffee. We had a chat. I must say he’s very charming.’
‘He’s an old lecher but, for some inexplicable reason, women can’t resist him.’
‘I can,’ she said, risking a smile.
‘We’ll see.’
As he turned to go, she noticed the skim of hair extending across his shoulders and down his back, like a downy cape. A week ago, she would have been repulsed by a hairy back but today it was all she could do not to reach out and touch it.
Her phone rang. It was Diane.
‘Are they back yet?’
‘Yes. The kids have gone up to the pub and Dafydd’s asleep.’
‘I’m at the café near the beach. Why don’t you come down? I’ll treat you to a piece of carrot cake.’
When Diane had invited her to Cardiff, she’d imagined that they would spend a lazy week indulging themselves and catching up on things. With the exception of Monday morning’s session, they’d spent scarcely any time alone together and, although she would prefer to remain at the house, she agreed. ‘Won’t be long.’
As she checked her handbag for car keys and sunglasses, she glimpsed herself in the mirror. She looked somehow different. Less composed. More animate. She undid another button on her shirt, revealing a hint of cleavage.
Applying a touch of Diane’s strawberry lipgloss to her lips and a squirt of Rive Gauche between her breasts, she took a calming breath and tapped on Dafydd’s door. ‘Dafydd? It’s me.’
He was lying on the bed, still wearing only his shorts, his eyes bleary with sleep. When he saw her he jumped up, standing alongside his bed like a soldier ready for inspection.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m going down to the beach café to meet Di. I thought I should let you know. In case you … in case Jordan … anyway … we won’t be long.’
Beyond these walls, out there in the sunshine, people were picnicking, surfing, and sunbathing, having harmless fun whilst here, in this airless little room, she was on the point of becoming an adulteress. Holding his gaze, she moved towards him and placed the palms of her hands on his chest, marvelling at the springy denseness of the hair. He stiffened but made no move to touch her.
‘What’s this in aid of then?’ His face was expressionless, his voice stern.
‘I came to tell you that, yes, I do want to sleep with you.’
He stepped back, scooping a T-shirt from the end of the bed and pulling it on. It was a bewildering response to her declaration.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you cross?’
He dipped his head. ‘I’m not cross. I’m bemused. Try and see it from my point of view. Less than hour ago, you were telling me to bugger off. So why the sudden change? I had you down as a woman who makes up her mind and sticks to it. Now I’m confused. And you are too, if I’m not mistaken.’
She shook her head but before she could interject he continued, ‘Let’s go back to the night of the thunder storm. When you stood outside the window, it was obvious that you had me down as an uncouth exhibitionist.’
‘Well you were prancing around in your—’
‘It was the middle of the night, Elizabeth, and I was in my own living room. Okay?’
She nodded.
‘I like you very much. No doubt you think I say that to every woman I meet – I promise you I don’t – and, in any case, you’re different.’
‘How?’
‘For one thing, I feel as if I’ve known you for a lot longer than three days.’
‘Actually it’s nearer—’
‘Let me finish, please. I won’t insult you by pretending that I’m a monk. I don’t mean to sound big-headed but I get plenty of offers. It goes with the telly territory. Since Gwenno and I parted, I’ve slept with three women. Three in three years. Does that seem excessive? I thought that you and I both deserved – I don’t know what to call it – consolation, I suppose.’
‘What makes you think I need consoling? If you say it’s because I look sad I’ll scream.’
‘Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Last night I was sure that you felt as I did. I never intended it to turn into a philosophical debate. I thought that sleeping together could be a sort of gift to each other. A sort of spontaneous conjunction. But I see now that it can’t be like that for you.’ His voice was gentle and without acrimony. ‘Elizabeth, I couldn’t bear to think that I’d bullied or dared you to have sex with me. If I did, I’d be no better than those yobbos at Hills End. I’m not trying to be melodramatic, but perhaps we should let it go.’
She felt sick. ‘You’re not bullying me. And I don’t want to let it go.’
‘Then at least take a little more time to think it through.’ He paused. ‘And I’d rather you made your own mind up – not discuss it with Diane.’
She frowned. ‘You and Diane haven’t—?’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?
All I’m saying is that, if you have changed your mind, you need to be absolutely clear why you’ve changed it.’
Diane was outside the café, sitting on the wall, small rucksack at her feet.
Elizabeth parked the car and joined her. ‘How’s your day going?’
‘Good. I’m pleased with what I did. And yours?’
She told Diane about the mysterious intruder who had turned out to be Lenny Butler.
‘I’m jealous. I saw him at Glastonbury, twenty years ago. Dead sexy. Wasted on you, of course.’
‘I have to admit, he’s quite charismatic.’
Diane rolled her eyes. ‘Blimey. He must be if he can impress you. D’you think we could wangle an invitation to his place?’
‘Let’s eat before we plan your next seduction.’
The café was busy and while they waited for their food, Diane showed her the pastel sketches of the dunes she had completed that morning, talking enthusiastically about using them as a starting point for a sequence of paintings.
Elizabeth had forgotten how seriously Diane took her work, and what an accomplished artist she was. Whenever they were together, they ended up discussing her personal life, rarely her work.
‘I’ll buy a couple,’ Elizabeth said, ‘on condition they match the décor in our sitting room.’
The waitress brought their food and, as they ate, she told Diane how she and Jordan had joined forces in the garden. ‘I was amazed that he stuck at it.’
‘He’s a normal lad, not a monster.’
‘I suppose so. But I can’t seem to warm to him.’
‘Have you tried? It’s obvious that you don’t like his mother.’
‘Well, I don’t like her so why should I pretend I do? I’m still pissed off with her and Alex.’
‘You should be grateful.’
‘Grateful?’
‘Yes. We wouldn’t be down here if Jordan hadn’t been on the scene.’
The hum of conversation increased and heads turned towards the door. Elizabeth glanced across to see what was causing the stir. Lenny Butler, still ‘incognito’ but, nevertheless, plainly recognisable to many of the customers, entered with a man who was wearing knee-length shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Grasping the opportunity to meet Butler again (now that she knew who he was) and also to introduce Diane to her idol, Elizabeth raised her hand. He immediately made for their table.
‘Don’t look ’round. It’s Lenny Butler. And he’s coming over. Let’s pretend we have no idea who he is.’
Diane clamped her hand to her chest. ‘I’m hyperventilating.’
When the men reached their table, Butler greeted Elizabeth with his odd little bow. ‘We meet again. May we join you?’
Elizabeth gestured towards the empty chairs. She smiled at the stranger – a short, good looking man with tousled grey hair – and nodded towards Butler. ‘My newfound but anonymous acquaintance here is adamant that names are confusing so…’
Butler laughed. ‘Did I say that? I talk a lot of bollocks, don’t I?’
‘Indeed you do.’ The man held out his hand. ‘I’m Joe. Not to be confused with,’ he nodded towards Butler, ‘Len.’ His voice was husky and he had a slight but definite cockney twang.
She introduced herself and Diane, explaining how they came to be staying in Llangennith.
‘How about you two?’
Butler muttered that he had a place nearby, and that Joe and he were ‘old mates from way back’.
Joe smiled at Diane. ‘We meet again, too.’
‘Hi, there.’
‘Our paths crossed earlier,’ Joe explained, ‘on the beach.’
They kept up the charade of celebrity ignorance, commenting on the array of camper vans assembled in the car park and the ghastly pattern on Joe’s shirt. (He confessed that it he’d bought it not in Honolulu but in Brighton.) But the game was soon up when the waiter asked for autographs.
‘Are you famous then?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Take no notice of my friend,’ Diane said. ‘She thinks she’s being amusing.’
‘I honestly didn’t know who you were until Dafydd told me,’ Elizabeth said.
‘And why on earth should you?’ he said. ‘What else did Dafydd tell you?’
‘That you met when his father-in-law was working on your house.’
‘Yes. Trevor’s a great guy. He and Margery made me really welcome.’ He frowned. ‘It’s a real bummer.’
There was a moment’s silence whilst they reflected on life’s unfairness.
‘What are you doing in Wales?’ Diane asked. ‘Surely London’s where it’s all at.’
‘Allegedly. Like a lot of my contemporaries, I got this hankering to find a bolt-hole. Set up a little recording studio. Enjoy a bit of normality.’
‘Midlife crisis?’ Diane asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘But why Gower?’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s lovely and everything but it’s a long way from London.’
‘When I was a kid, I used to come down here on holiday with my grandparents. Five or six years ago, when I was looking for a property, this felt like a good place to start. I was lucky enough to have the money. And I’ve still got my flat in London. So – best of both worlds as they say.’
It was evident from the way Joe laughed at everything Diane said, that she had made another conquest. And when the two of them went outside for a cigarette, Joe threw an arm around her shoulder, guiding her towards the door as if she needed protecting from the locals.
Elizabeth watched them through the window, sitting close together on the wall, comparing mobile phones. ‘I feel awful asking but is Joe in Wolfman? I don’t even know his second name.’
‘Carman. Joe Carman. Yes. He’s our keyboard player. And he’s a bit of a wiz on the production side.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t but it sounded exciting.
As they watched, a lad, mobile held at arm’s length, walked past the couple on the wall. Joe, his attention apparently focused on Diane, extended his arm towards the boy and raised his middle finger.
‘That’ll be on YouTube within the hour,’ Lenny murmured.
‘He’s filming them? Isn’t there a law against that?’
‘Yes. But it still happens. There was a time when I might have thumped him but it’s not worth the hassle and the sore hand.’ Lenny pulled his chair nearer to hers. ‘Let’s forget about him. Let’s talk about you.’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘I can’t believe that, my sad-eyed Elizabeth.’ He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Why didn’t we meet when we were both young, free and single?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you saying I’m old?’
‘No. But I am.’
A few perfect white clouds decorated the perfect blue sky. A red-sailed yacht scudded across the indigo sea. Lenny Butler – the Lenny Butler – seemed to like her, and Dafydd Jones – the Dafydd Jones – was waiting for her to make up her mind. She felt intoxicated with the unaccustomed attention.
‘We should be getting back,’ Elizabeth said when Diane returned. ‘I promised Dafydd we wouldn’t be long.’
‘Perhaps we can get together again before you leave,’ Lenny said.
‘You can think up some more ways to insult my shirt,’ Joe added.
Diane smiled. ‘That’d be fun.’
The car had been shut up for an hour with the sun pouring through the windscreen. When they got in, the leather upholstery burned the backs of their legs.
‘This feels unreal,’ Elizabeth said as she drove cautiously up the hill.
‘What does?’
‘Hanging out with people who get asked for autographs. That’s makes three of them now. How did you meet Joe, by the way?’
‘I was sketching at the end of the beach. He stopped to watch. Offered me a fag. We chatted for a bit then he went on his way.’
‘You didn’t recognise him?’
‘No. But I thought he looked kind of … cute.’