When I woke in the morning my first thought was that I had imagined it. It was so extraordinary, such a step outside the usual bounds of my life now: in London, yes, in the years before Richard, it hadn’t been unusual for me to meet someone and kiss them, even take them home, and then there was Richard himself, but that sort of physical contact belonged to a different era, a different me. Perhaps the whole thing had been a sort of drunken hallucination, born of wine and brandy and tiredness after running round all day getting ready. Then, though, I put my hand up and felt the back of my head where I’d banged it, the slight tenderness. Last night, I remembered, my skin had come alive where he’d touched it – my mouth, my cheek, my ears, my neck. I had felt the roots of my hair.
I hadn’t been honest with myself, I knew now. That afternoon on the boat with Alice’s jacket, hurting Pete had been the major part of my regret but it wasn’t all of it. I’d regretted jeopardising his good opinion: it had become important to me. I remembered the strange pride I’d felt that first time out in the dinghy when he’d said I was a natural rower, how pleased I’d been when I’d begun to understand the sailing and when he’d asked me out on the boat the second time. More than that, on Alice’s birthday, I’d begun to feel that he was offering a sort of friendship, inviting me into his confidence. And then I had ruined it.
The supper had been an attempt to get things right again between us. I had wanted another chance, an opportunity to make him think better of me. But more than anything else, I acknowledged, I had just wanted to see him again. I had been physically aware of him from the moment he walked through the kitchen door. I had watched him all evening – sitting on the stairs, big feet hanging over the bottom step; his look of concentration as he tried not to break the cork with the cottage’s cheap corkscrew; the way the muscles in his arms had flexed when he handed me the dishes. I had wanted him to kiss me. I had wanted him.
Though the washing up was done, of course – the J-cloth was wrapped around the mixer tap like a scarf, as he had left it – the table was still in the sitting room, the ashtray and the wine glasses I’d never refilled exactly where I’d put them down before it happened. I moved the table back, hoovered, and then went out in the car. I didn’t want to sit in the house all day and brood; it wouldn’t change anything.
I drove without any clear idea of where I was going but found myself on the road to Newport and then heading for Cowes. I took the turn to Gurnard and went along a road lined with wooden houses of all shapes and sizes, some little more than beach huts, others Swedish-looking, with lots of glass. Coming into Cowes itself, I had the sea on my left, blue today for the most part, its more familiar military green only visible beneath the infrequent patches of cloud. On my right, built on a high bank, were the mansions of Seaview which I knew from the County Press were some of the most expensive properties on the Island. They looked out over the Solent with an imperious sense of ownership.
In Cowes, I parked the car on the seafront and sat for a moment watching the small boats coming and going at the mouth of the river. A Red Funnel ferry, much larger than the ones which served Yarmouth, was making its way in, and through the open window I heard the announcement asking passengers to go back to their cars. People were walking on the esplanade, some with dogs, others just ambling. On the back of one of the benches two gulls perched side by side like an old couple.
I got out, put some change in the parking meter and walked for a few minutes, past the hotels and apartment buildings on the front in the direction of the Yacht Squadron, whose flag was beating vigorously in the breeze. I leant on the balustrade and watched the water. On one of the moorings there was a wooden yacht like Beatrice and I felt a momentary pang. That was probably it now for sailing, unless Chris put his boat back in before I left and was kind enough to ask me. Another pang, stronger this time. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans and walked on.
I couldn’t understand how Pete felt – how could I, or anyone? It wasn’t only that Alice was dead, which would be hard enough after so little time: he didn’t even have that certainty. How could he think about anyone else? It was wrong of me even to have had the idea. And I couldn’t blame him for his reaction. Thinking about the intensity of those moments, the hunger I’d felt on both sides, perhaps it had been best that he had gone, before things had got any further out of hand.
On the way back I bought an ice cream and sat in the car to eat it, watching the seagulls swoop and dive over the water. The ferry had deposited its first lot of passengers, loaded those returning and was already halfway back across the Solent to Southampton. For a moment, I wished I was on it. I only had a few weeks left but now I would have to spend them worrying about running into Pete. Perhaps it would be simpler to go. But no: I’d nearly done it, stuck it out; I wouldn’t concede defeat at this late stage. And there was the question of where to go, anyway, now that London was impossible. I had no idea where to run to this time. I remembered the poor Canadian woman again, and quickly slammed the door.
Before I set off home, I got out my phone and sent Helen a text: Feeling a bit insular. Do you fancy a jaunt out of London next weekend? Cornwall? The Cotswolds? Having sent it, I had another idea: I would sell Richard’s bangle and spend the money on a weekend for us both somewhere nice. We could go to a spa hotel: much more her scene than mine but that would be the point, if it was my treat. I left the phone on the passenger seat, expecting a swift answer, but none came, which surprised me for a Sunday when surely even she wouldn’t be in a meeting.
In the end, her response didn’t come until after eight o’clock, when I was grilling bacon for supper and the phone’s single ring made me jump. Would have loved to but I’ve said I’ll go and visit my parents – their wedding anniversary. Damn! Another time?
I’d warded off melancholy for most of the day but at about ten, I gave in to it for a few minutes. I poured the last glass of wine from the bottle that Pete had opened and took it outside into the yard with the cigarettes I’d bought in Cowes. What cloud there was moved swiftly, backlit by the moon so that it looked wraithlike and wan. The air was chill but refreshing, almost sweet. There was no ferry at the slipway and no traffic coming over the bridge on River Road: the night’s silence had settled. The first drag of the cigarette gave me a head-rush and I sat down on the step, feeling the cold of the concrete through my jeans. Tonight even the faint music of the breeze through the rigging in the harbour was muted. I took another drag and heard the next layer of tobacco crackle as it caught light.
I had been carrying my phone around all day in the hope that there would be if not a call – I could understand that would be difficult – then a text, saying thank you for dinner or apologising even if he didn’t mean it or perhaps making a joke of what had happened, just to take away some of the bite in case we met, but there had been nothing at all. Helen’s had been the only message. I’d thought about texting him, making some self-deprecatory comment to assume the blame, but nothing seemed right. I also hated the idea that he might think I was pursuing him.
All of a sudden now, in the darkness at the end of the yard, something moved. I froze, felt my heart tighten in my chest. I listened: nothing except the boom of racing blood. It moved again, whatever it was, this time close to the ground. I let out the breath that had caught in my throat and a second or two later, Pete’s cat appeared from under the car. He stood at the edge of the patio, his eyes and white bib bright in the light through the glass behind me.
I stood up, expecting him to dart away, but he stayed still, watching me intently as I approached. When I was close enough and he still hadn’t run, I knelt down and put out my hand to stroke him. I’d only touched him three or four times when he moved but instead of disappearing, he came closer and brushed against my knees. I felt the same urge as the first time I’d seen him, that day in the Square when he’d reminded me so strongly of Magpie. Wrapping my arms tentatively around his body, expecting him to wriggle away at any moment, I lifted him up and held him, resting my cheek against the soft fur on the back of his neck. How long we stood like that I wasn’t sure but he didn’t struggle to get free. He was a solid presence, warm in my arms. I caught sight of us in the glass of the sliding doors and it was like seeing myself twenty years ago outside the patio doors at home in Bristol.