Chapter 16

 

 

 

Becca rushed through Sunday lunch, whisking the plates away as soon as they had finished. 'What's the hurry?' Martin asked, looking wistfully after his plate. 'I was thinking of having a bit of cheese.'

'Cheese would be good,' Frank chimed in. 'I like a bit of cheese.'

'You'll have to get it yourselves then. I'm going out to the cinema.' Becca cleared the plates into the kitchen, dumping them above the dishwasher. How could either of them want cheese after roast chicken and all the trimmings and helpings of treacle tart - double helpings in Frank's case?

'You didn't tell me you were going to the cinema.' Martin came in with their used glasses stacked up.

'I did.' Becca shrugged, feeling guilty because while strictly speaking she had told him, it had been when he was in the shower. 'I told you I was going this morning.'

'Mmm. I quite fancy the cinema this afternoon.'

Becca swallowed, and took the glasses from him. 'If you want. It's that French film I was telling you about. The one with subtitles.'

'Who's in it?' Martin ambled over to the fridge.

'Juliette Binoche, and that chap who was in Jean de Florette. Put the milk in, and the veg, while you're there.'

Martin paused, milk container in hand. 'She's pretty, the girl in Jean de Florette.' He rootled around in the fridge, looking for cheese, Becca assumed, like an overgrown rodent.

'Emanuelle Beart. Yes, she's very pretty.'

'But she's not in this one?' Martin had extracted a lump of cheddar which he held between his fingers.

'No,' Becca said, preventing herself from screaming by the narrowest of margins. 'Juliette Binoche is.'

'I quite liked Jean de Florette,' Martin said, through a mouthful of cheese.

'Well, this isn't anything like it,' Becca said. 'It's supposed to be a sort of thriller. Heavens, Martin, if you're going to eat cheese, at least get a plate.'

Martin rummaged around and found a couple of plates, and some cheese biscuits. 'That sounds good. I like thrillers.'

'Come if you want to,' she said holding her breath. 'But it's not that sort of thriller, it's French.'

'Was there any cheese?' Frank came into the room.

'Here.' Becca handed him a plate and the cheese biscuits, inwardly panicking in case Martin decided to come.

Martin riffled the Sunday papers so the television guide was on top, and flicked it open to Sunday. 'No, I don't think I'll go. The Grand Prix is on the box this afternoon, I'd rather watch that. You up for the Grand Prix, Frank?' Frank nodded, and Martin turned his attention back to Becca. 'You go, if you want to.'

Becca thought of saying, I wasn't asking you for permission. Actually, I'm going to meet my lover. Not that Paul was her lover, of course. 'If you're sure you don't want to.'

Martin shook his head. 'You have a good time. Oh, look, Time Team's on later. You'll be back in time for that?'

Becca nodded, feeling guilty that Martin was so easy to deceive. Not that she was exactly deceiving him, because she was going to the cinema, just not alone. 'I expect so.'

 

- ooo -

 

She had forgotten how crowded Bath could get on a Sunday afternoon even without people doing their Christmas shopping. There didn't seem to be anywhere to park. She circled round the one-way system, willing shoppers to return and pick up their cars. Finally she squeezed into a space so small she wouldn't have begun to try unless she was desperate. Wrenching the wheel round and breathing in as if that would make a difference, she did it in two moves. She quickly checked her make-up in the rear-view mirror, noting that her eyeshadow had already creased. She dabbed furiously at it to smooth out the line that had formed. Oh well, it would be dark in the cinema anyway. No one would see. She hopped out, slamming the door shut, and half walked, half ran to the cinema. As she rounded the corner she could see Paul loitering outside, an anxious expression on his face.

'Sorry I'm late,' she panted. 'The parking...'

'Never mind, you're here.' He opened the cinema door for her. 'I've got the tickets.' They hurried past the doorman and up the black painted stairs, climbing to the top of the building where the second, smaller screen was. The ads and trailers had already started and Becca blinked into the sudden darkness unable to make out much beyond the screen.

'What about here?' Paul whispered.

'Fine,' she whispered back, unable to see a thing. She followed the outline of his back down a few shallow steps then squeezed past the legs of other viewers, whispering apologies. She realised Paul was sitting, and sat herself, but forgot to put the seat down first so her bottom caught the edge then collapsed it down with a bump. Hardly the coolest thing to do.

'OK?' Paul whispered.

She nodded, then remembered he wouldn't be able to see her. 'Yes, fine.'

The screen flickered, the curtains withdrew a little further, and a notice came up on the screen saying that Caché ('Hidden') was passed for viewing at certificate 18. I am sitting in the cinema with Paul, Becca thought to herself. Paul, who is not my husband. Paul who has kissed me. She looked sideways at him, eyes adjusting to the darkness. In the light from the screen she could make out his profile. I don't really know him, she thought. Just through the theatre, and yet I feel he knows me better than anyone else on the planet. We are in tune. She could remember his hands touching hers, and as if he could read her mind, he glanced at her and smiled, his face lighting up. His hand reached for hers, and their fingers entwined. Becca had never been happier, her arm running against his from shoulder to elbow, her fingers linked with his. She felt enveloped in a warm golden haze, like a summer's day. She wanted to lean her head on his shoulder, to rub against his jacket, like a cat. Her body was inwardly purring with contentment, just from holding hands with him.

Paul sat attentively, his chin resting on one hand, eyes intent on the screen. He probably knows all the technical jargon, Becca thought happily. I'll have to pay attention so I can say something intelligent afterwards. But hard to feel intelligent when your brain was a happy mush.

Years ago she'd been to a production by an experimental theatre company. One of the characters had worn a tall hat and spooned porridge out of it, as if able to eat his own brains. As he'd eaten more, he lost control of his physical abilities and lurched alarmingly across the stage. But he'd been happy, and got happier as his brain capacity diminished. Just like me, she thought happily, and gave Paul's hand a squeeze. He squeezed back, with a smile that flashed like sunshine in the darkened room.

The film carried on, washing over Becca, who was far too occupied with thoughts of Paul. I must remember every minute of this, she thought. Every minute he is with me, I must remember. We've always been in darkness, or underground, tucked away in corners, snatched kisses backstage or in subterranean dressing rooms.

She stared at the screen having completely lost track of the plot, in more senses than one. At one point a man cut his throat, right there on screen, and she gave a little yelp of horror, so unexpected was it. Paul had also jumped - as had most of the cinema audience - but he immediately turned to her. 'All right?'

'I didn't expect that to happen.'

'Do you want to go?'

'I'm fine.' She tucked her arm into his, and leaned into him, feeling protected. Sweet that he should be concerned. Of course, Martin would have been too, she had to admit. He was always protective of her. Thinking of Martin made her draw back a little. She shouldn't really be here, sitting in the cinema alongside Paul. It's a public space, she reasoned to herself. If anyone saw us, we could just be friends. I did ask Martin if he wanted to come, and he chose not to. She looked around the cinema, as if she could distinguish between the heads in the darkness. Any one of them might be someone she knew, or worse, someone who knew her but she wouldn't immediately recognise - a parent from Lily's school, or a neighbour.

What if I get found out? What if someone sees us together? They could bluff it out, she supposed. And it wasn't as if she'd had sex with Paul. Desire stabbed her insides like a bolt from the heavens, and she knew that whatever her mind might think, her body wanted him. The point is, she told an imaginary audience, the point is, I haven't. And I won't. This is a harmless flirtation that will blow itself out. I bet Martin has wistful yearnings for other women from time to time, she thought. I bet everyone does. It doesn't mean you're being unfaithful. A couple of kisses were not adultery. Holding hands wasn't a crime. Still, she moved a little away from Paul, and was relieved, when the lights went up, to see that she didn't recognise anyone else in the audience.

'Have you got time for a drink?' Paul's voice was low, confidential. He dug his hands in his pockets as if, unless they were tethered, he'd sweep Becca into an embrace. On the other hand, he might just have been cold.

They walked to a nearby pub, Becca itching to link arms with him. Paul got drinks while Becca found seats. She checked her watch. Time Team would have started by now, and Martin was probably asleep in front of the television.

'You look pensive,' Paul said as he sat down opposite her. 'Thinking of the film?'

'Thinking of my husband,' she said.

Paul took a sip from his pint. 'He seemed very nice.'

'He is. Martin is good, and kind, and funny.' She smiled, thinking of Martin pretending to be Gollum. 'Martin's lots of good things...'

'But...?'

'Does there always have to be a but?'

His expression hardened. 'If there wasn't, you wouldn't be here.'

Becca dropped her gaze down to her glass of wine. 'I know marriage is about compromise, but sometimes it feels as if I'm the one doing all the compromising. Martin's just living his life. It's as if nothing touches the sides. It's like when I found that pregnancy test - I couldn't talk to him about Lily. I don't know why but I couldn't discuss it with him. And my parents - I've tried talking to him about how I feel, but he makes me feel silly for being upset about it.' Paul took her hand and squeezed it. Becca sat up. 'Heavens, I don't know where that came from. I'm sorry, you must think... well, I don't know what you think.'

'I think you are...' he kissed her index finger, 'beautiful,' then kissed her middle finger, 'charming,' he kissed her ring finger, 'sensitive,' he kissed her little finger, 'and talented.'

'Gosh.' Becca felt she was blushing all over. 'I don't think anyone's ever said anything as nice as that to me before.'

'Then the world is full of fools,' Paul said, kissing her palm. For a second Becca wondered if it was a quote, but then Paul often sounded as if he were quoting from something. It must be his theatrical background. Quote or not, it was delicious to be sitting with an attractive man telling her she was beautiful and charming and sensitive and talented and that the world was foolish for not having noticed before.

'Your wife seemed nice too,' she lied, thinking that Suzy had seemed a mixture of terrifying and horrible.

'Ah yes, Suzy. My wife.' He stared at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration. 'My wife is driven. She's ambitious, intelligent, smart, attractive - you can't fault her in any way, as a mother, as a wife, as a career woman. Whatever.'

Previously Suzy had come across as intimidating, now she sounded formidable. Becca felt a hopeless underachiever just hearing Paul describe her. 'She sounds perfect.'

'Oh she is,' Paul said, his mouth downturned. 'Perfect in every way. Everything she does is perfect. She got our last house in a magazine called Perfect Homes, or some such. We only moved to our current house a few months ago, and already everything is perfect, everything in its place down to the last picture on the walls. The photographers will be round any minute.'

Becca sipped her wine, thinking guiltily of the picture that was still propped up against the wall of her sitting room after four years. She'd get Martin to help her hang it this very evening. 'I expect you'd find my house very shabby.'

'I'm sure your house is as delightful as you are.'

'I don't think so,' Becca said, thinking of the chipped paint on the doors, the new handles for the kitchen that she'd never got round to changing, the bedroom ceiling that had a water mark from where the roof had leaked two winters ago. It was her home, and she loved it, but no one in a million years could say it was a perfect home. 'Your wife isn't an interior decorator though. Someone said she was a lawyer.'

'She's a corporate lawyer and earns a fortune. But look, let's not talk about her. I want to talk about you.' He leaned forwards. 'Have you done anything about acting in the future?'

'I got the brochures back from some of the drama schools, but the fees for even a year are huge. There's no way I could afford it, and I'd have to give up teaching too.'

'There are always scholarships. If they want you they'll find the money.'

'You make it sound so easy.'

'It is easy. Just decide what you want, and go for it.' His eyes were shining as if he could already see her name in lights in Shaftesbury Avenue, or leading a distinguished cast at the RSC.

Becca shook her head. Paul was so certain, so convincing, and yes, drama school sounded attractive, but was it really what she wanted? She could hardly claim it was a life-long dream when she hadn't thought about it for years. 'I know it's what I wanted when I was eighteen,' she began, 'but I also really really wanted Rob Baker to kiss me, and to have a pair of six-inch platforms and go to an Ian Dury and the Blockheads concert, and I don't want any of those things now. Except possibly the Ian Dury concert, and he's dead now anyway, so I can't have that.'

'All the more reason to seize the day. Take your chances now, when you have the chance.'

'I don't know. I loved doing the play, but...I'm not sure it's what I'd want to do. Even assuming I could get work.'

'Don't be defeatist. Of course you'd get work.' He spread his hands out wide. 'I'd employ you any day.'

Becca giggled. 'Is that so?'

'I'd think myself lucky to have you.' His voice had become more serious, and suddenly the whole tone of the conversation shifted as if they were talking about deeply personal and meaningful things. Becca felt her heart beat faster, and her eyes widen. I could fall in love with you, she thought. I'm on the edge of the abyss and it's a long, long way down.

'I must go,' she said, getting up, leaving her drink half finished. Her scarf was tangled in her coat sleeves. 'I've stayed too long as it is.'

'The clock hasn't struck midnight yet,' Paul said, but he stood too and helped her disentangle the scarf and settle the coat on her shoulders. 'Whatever you want.'

She turned to look at him, feeling uncertain, insecure in the world that she'd have said only a few weeks ago was entirely stable. Things were happening and she didn't know what she wanted. Go forwards to Paul and the unknown or go back to normality. 'I have to go,' she said.

'Meet me again.' It wasn't a question.

'Yes,' she replied quickly, then ran all the way back to her car and safety.