THE TALK HAS finished, the speaker clapped, and the audience is beginning to leave. Jerry has already seen Sandra sitting several rows ahead of him, noticed how she kept glancing anxiously around until she spotted him, and now he is hoping to get out of the library before she catches him. She’s with her friend so maybe she has plans anyway, and won’t be suggesting that he joins them for tea.
He sets off at a fairly quick pace but he hears her voice calling him and reluctantly he slows down and turns round, arranging a half-pleased, half-surprised smile.
‘Sandra. Hi.’
‘Jeremy.’ She stands beaming at him and, as usual, her indefatigable goodwill defeats his intention to be polite but firm and keep walking. ‘Glad you made it. We were hoping you might be ready for a cup of tea. Good talk, wasn’t it?’
‘Very good. The thing is, though,’ he makes the pretence of glancing at his watch, ‘I’m meeting someone at half past.’
‘Oh.’ Her change of expression is almost ludicrous: disappointed, a very slight reproving pulling-in of the chin. ‘Oh, I see. I assumed that perhaps . . .’
She allows her words to falter to a stop but Jerry hardens his heart against her disappointment. He raises his hand to the friend who has now caught Sandra up, smiles at them both and turns away.
‘Just a moment, Jeremy.’ She doesn’t give in. ‘I wanted to invite you to Sunday lunch. Just a few of us have a rota going and it’s my turn this week. I’d love you to meet some of them. There’s a retired lecturer from Exeter University. I’m sure you’d have a lot in common with him, and his wife was a head teacher.’
The smile – hopeful, kind – is back and he is unable to refuse. Anyway, he can’t think of an excuse and it would look rude to just say ‘No, thanks,’ when she means so well.
‘That’s very kind,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
‘Wonderful.’ She is beaming again. ‘Come early and I’ll show you those books we were talking about.’
‘OK. Great,’ he says. ‘See you on Sunday then.’
He hurries away, down Fore Street, and across The Plains. His flat is in one of the buildings that once were warehouses, and he goes into the entrance hall, takes the stairs at a run, and lets himself in. His first action almost always is to go into the sitting-room and look down at Vire Island and along the river. Today, though, he hardly sees it; he’s thinking about Kat. He takes his phone from his pocket, stares down at it for a moment, and then begins to tap out a message.
I suppose you’re not around for a cup of tea?
He sends it, paces a bit, wondering if he’s crazy; it’s years since he felt so hyped up. Almost at once his phone rings and he flips open the lid.
I could be. Where are you?
In my flat. Where shall we meet?
What’s wrong with your flat?
Jerry gives a snort of amusement: what indeed? He sends the address, tells her there’s a parking space – and then panics. He dashes around tidying up, putting things away, checking that the visitors’ lavatory has a towel. Then he stands in the middle of the sitting-room, staring round him and trying to see it through her eyes. It’s a modern flat and very little of the big furniture that looked so right in the Victorian villa would have been appropriate. He shared the good pieces amongst his children, kept one or two smaller favourite items, but decided to make a whole new start. He’s chosen light-coloured wood, Impressionistic-patterned blinds, plain upholstery. The paintings are watercolours or charcoal sketches. For the first time since he was a student, he’s had the freedom to choose exactly what pleases him most. No cushions or shawls, none of the china ornaments that Veronica loved so much. Sometimes he feels guilty – as if he has rejected their life together – but he needs to stay minimalistic.
Sandra has already been to the flat, bringing some home-cooked treats – her hints had become quite impossible to ignore – and she looked around this big, light room and then smiled at him. It was a roguish, very nearly patronizing smile.
‘I can see that this is a man’s place,’ she said. ‘It’s definitely missing a woman’s touch. Not what I’d call homely.’
He busied himself with making coffee, not commenting, but next time they met for lunch in the town she brought a little parcel for him. It was a cushion: a small silky cream affair with a puppy embroidered on it. He was surprised at how cross this made him but he accepted it as graciously as possible and went along with her arch comments. When he got home he threw the cushion on the bed in the little spare room. He’d simply have to remember to get it out if he invited her again; meanwhile he was annoyed that she was attempting to impose her taste on him. After a bit he calmed down and felt guilty. It was simply a kind gesture, a generous act.
A ring at the bell and Kat is here. She comes in and at once his nervousness vanishes. She brings with her no delicious treat for tea, no cushions, only a bunch of primroses wrapped loosely in a tissue. She hands them to him, follows him into the sitting-room and looks around her.
‘How lovely to be high up,’ she says. ‘Lots of light.’
She makes an odd movement, almost as if she is translating the light and the shapes of his room into dance. When she looks at him he feels a strange mix of feelings: excitement and an odd kind of fellowship.
‘Feel free to dance,’ he tells her lightly.
‘I shall,’ she answers.
‘I’ll put these in water and make some tea.’ He hesitates. The primroses are wet with rain, and he bends his head to breathe in the faint scent.
‘I wondered after I picked them if you’d have a small enough vase,’ she said. ‘They were just there, in the hedge, and I couldn’t resist.’
He raises his head. ‘But I thought you weren’t allowed to pick wild flowers these days.’
She stares at him in amazement. ‘Aren’t you? Why on earth not?’
He feels rather pedestrian, shrugs. ‘Just some sort of protection for the countryside. They’re beautiful. What sort of tea?’
Veronica always drank fruit tea; Sandra likes Earl Grey.
‘Builder’s?’ she says. ‘Darjeeling? Whatever you’re having.’
He goes into the long narrow kitchen, puts the primroses on the surface by the sink, and fills the kettle, wondering where he put the teapot, realizing that he has no cake. He opens a cupboard, brings out a packet of biscuits and looks at them anxiously. He’s opened them, forgotten to put them into the tin, and now he wonders if they’ve gone soft.
Kat leans in the doorway watching him, amused. ‘I like your flat.’
She doesn’t offer to help, look for a vase or ask how he manages on his own. She and Sandra, he thinks, might be from different planets.
‘I’ve got some fruit tea bags somewhere. And Earl Grey. I drink pretty ordinary stuff, I’m afraid.’
‘Pretty ordinary suits me,’ she says. ‘I don’t like smelly tea.’
‘Nor me,’ he says, relieved. ‘Actually, I’d rather have coffee, myself.’
‘Me, too. Coffee then? Or why don’t we have a glass of wine?’
She nods at the bottle standing by the coffee machine. He glances instinctively at his watch, nearly five o’clock, and sees her smile as if she is mocking his conventionality.
‘Yes, why don’t we?’ he says recklessly.
He picks up the bottle and holds it towards her so that she can see the label.
‘Merlot? Or there’s some white in the fridge.’
‘Merlot sounds perfect. Only a small one, though, please. I’ve got to drive home.’
Briefly he wonders what she’d say if he asked her to stay but knows he hasn’t got the courage. He feels completely out of his depth – and he’s loving every minute of it.