All she could think of was Paul. It was unfortunate, because she had far too many things she ought to be thinking about instead of him - Christmas, for one - but he was the centre of her existence. They met when they could over the next three days. Paul's dog was a perfect excuse for him to escape, and Becca used the demands of Christmas shopping. She did wonder how Paul managed to be free quite so often at such a busy time of year, but he explained that as well as the Chinese au pair, they also had a housekeeper a couple of days a week. Suzy was very good, he said with a faint sigh, about giving him the freedom to concentrate on his work. Becca remembered the evening in the bar, when Suzy had been so aggressive with Bill.
'It must be good having her support,' she said, sitting as close as possible to him on the park bench.
'It's relentless,' Paul said, fondling the dog's ear. 'Sometimes I feel she's doing to me what she's done to the dog. You have no idea what it's like, living up to Suzy's expectations. That's why it's such bliss being with you. You're happy to just be.'
'Esse quam videri,' Becca said, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers. 'To be rather than seem. It's the Hamilton House motto.'
'You're lovely,' he said softly and Becca glowed with pleasure.
Earlier that day, Paul had been to Jack and Willow's nativity play. 'I cried,' he said as they walked across the park towards St James' Square where Becca had left her car. 'They were so sweet and innocent - they're only six and eight. And when Jack said his lines perfectly - he was the Innkeeper - I couldn't help myself. I'm useless, I just couldn't cut it in the business world.'
'I always cried at Lily's nativity plays too. She got to be the Star of Bethlehem in her last year at primary school.' She smiled at the memory of the angel telling the three kings to follow the star, and Lily's intent face as she guided them to the stable - she'd taken her duties as a guiding light very seriously.
Paul touched her cheek. 'Your eyes are shining like stars now.'
'It's the thought of innocence growing up,' Becca said, overcome with emotion at his presence. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue. 'Lily's not my baby any more.'
'You're beautiful,' Paul said, his voice intense like dark chocolate. 'I wish I was spending Christmas with you. Perhaps we should run away to a little cottage in the Welsh hills, and be together, just the two of us. We'd snuggle up beside the fire and you'd tell me everything about yourself.'
'Everything? It might put you off.'
'Nothing could do that.' He stroked her cheek. 'I want to kiss you all over.'
Becca felt breathless with longing. 'Do you?'
'Oh Becca.' He shook his head.
Their previous snatched meetings had ended in the same way, both reduced to inarticulation by the overwhelming feelings that engulfed them. They weren't doing anything wrong, Becca kept telling herself. Just enjoying each other's company. So long as nothing happened between them, it was fine to meet Paul. It would blow over soon, these tantalising meetings which didn't progress beyond dreams and yearning. Paul was going skiing in Courcheval for two weeks on Friday and wouldn't be home until after New Year.
'You must meet me tomorrow before I go,' he said, as they stood under the street lamp by Becca's car.
'But won't you have to be at home to help with the packing and everything?'
'Suzy will have that under control, she won't want me around mucking up her organisational skills.' He'd told her before that Suzy had baked, marzipanned and iced two cakes way back in September, one for home, one for taking with them. She'd also managed to find time to buy and wrap presents for over thirty assorted cousins, nephews, nieces and godchildren, bake and decorate gingerbread for a natural, eco tree complete with cinnamon sticks tied with scarlet ribbon. Becca felt exhausted just thinking about it. She imagined their home as a magazine set of the perfect family Christmas with two smiling children - one of each - settled round the Christmas tree with tasteful lights, fire roaring, parents with champagne glasses in their hands and beatific smiles.
'Promise you'll meet me,' he insisted.
What else could she do but promise? She would have promised him anything at that moment.
- ooo -
On Thursday afternoon she finally did the Christmas shopping she'd claimed she'd been doing while meeting Paul. She spent more than she should on presents for everyone, then panicked and bought some more just in case. Her credit card was practically red hot, steaming up the sides of her wallet. She imagined it panting in her wallet: please, don't take me out again, I'm exhausted.
The burning question was, what to buy Paul? It had to be beautiful, tasteful, unique. Something he wanted. Not clothing - he wouldn't be able to wear it. Not a gadget - too much the last resort of the time-strapped wife. Small, so he could slip it in his pocket away from Suzy. Personal, that it would have meaning for the two of them. But she didn't want to be too personal, she wanted to play safe.
He'd got her the Shakespeare sonnets, so poetry in return would be appropriate. The only Restoration poet she knew of was the Earl of Rochester, but she didn't think that his erotic verse would quite fit their romance. In the end she found a nineteenth-century edition of Lovelace's poetry, nicely bound in leather with marbled endpapers. Lovelace was a royalist who died just before the restoration of the monarchy, but she hoped Paul would appreciate the idea.
She walked towards Milsom Street, heading for M&S. She always bought a selection of clothes for Martin, who normally resisted any form of clothes shopping. M&S was perfect. She bought, he tried on at home, she took back what he didn't like. And there was always something he liked so she was safe. He could have been a poster boy for the shop - middle class, middle aged, middle of the road.
The book in her shopping bag was wrapped up in brown paper as if it were pornographic. She felt vaguely dissatisfied. Yes, the book would do, but she wanted to do something more for Paul. A book was playing too safe. And he wasn't a man who played safe, she thought, as she paid for two crew-necked sweaters in olive green and a tawny brown, and a tan casual jacket in a chenille fabric she wasn't sure Martin would like.
She wandered back via the abbey, trying to think about what else she could get Paul. The Christmas market had been dismantled but she could see the ravaged grass on the green where the little huts had stood. She popped into the sweet shop to get some sweets to drop into Lily's Christmas stocking, fizzy lemon sherbets and the ones called pink and green apples that left the insides of your mouth feeling shrivelled up from prolonged sucking. She came out, dropping the little packages of sweets into the M&S bag. Then she had a brainwave. On impulse she went into the shop opposite.
- ooo -
'That's sweet of you.' He unwrapped her present to him as she watched his face. Their last night before Paul went away, the last of their snatched meetings in pubs and cafes where they thought no one else they knew would be likely to go. This one was noisy, people pressing in around them, full of Christmas good cheer and excitement, but they'd managed to find a tucked-away corner. She didn't want the evening to end.
Paul turned over the book in his hand. ' "Stone walls do not a prison make/Nor iron bars a cage." '
'You know Lovelace's poetry?' She should have known he would.
Paul nodded, flicking through the pages. 'Though not as well as I should do. I'll enjoy reading this on the flight.' He leaned across and kissed her cheek, even though they were in a crowded pub where anyone might see them. 'Thank you, that was very thoughtful.'
'I didn't know what to get you.' She suddenly felt shy about giving him the other present. It hadn't been expensive and now she thought he would be embarrassed by it.
'You couldn't have got me anything I'd have liked better. Now, for my turn. I'm afraid it won't be nearly as thoughtful as your present.' He pulled out a small square box.
'Oh, I wasn't expecting anything; you got me the sonnets.'
'I wanted to get you something more.' He handed her the box. 'I can't tell you how much I wish I wasn't going away, but here's something to remember me when I'm away.'
She didn't recognise the blue box, but the ribbon was printed with the name of the grandest and most expensive jewellers in Bath. Becca untied the ribbon, half hoping, half dreading what she would find inside. Jewellery was so difficult - Martin always got it wrong. One year the necklace and earrings he'd bought had been so not her, she'd taken it back to the shop and got something else but she'd always felt guilty about it. She opened Paul's box. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, tiny pearls woven with white stones like moonbeams.
'I thought it might remind you of our starlit evening at the stone circle,' Paul murmured.
She looked up at him, remembering the stone circle and the magic between them, the yearning for excitement. She found herself drawn to him, despite being in the middle of a crowded pub, and their lips met. Somehow, the press of bodies made their corner more private, more hidden.
They separated, and she knew that the big grin on his face was mirrored by her own. She bent to put the bracelet on, trying to fix the catch but not succeeding.
'Here, let me.' Paul took her wrist and fastened the bracelet around it, dropping his head to kiss the inside of her wrist.
'It's beautiful.' Becca said, turning it this way and that so it caught the light. She blushed. 'I got you something else.'
'More presents?' He touched her hair. 'You're too generous.'
'It wasn't expensive.' She handed over a small box. 'To keep you safe on your travels.'
It was a St Christopher medal on a fine silver chain. Paul bowed his head and she fastened it round his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin against hers, the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. She paused after fastening the medal, hands around his neck. 'Take care, while you're away. Come back safely.' She kissed him again, clinging to him because she knew that their time together was nearly up and she wouldn't see him again for two whole weeks. It seemed intolerable. 'Come back to me.' she whispered in his ear.
He hugged her tightly. 'I will,' he whispered back. 'I will.'
They walked through Bath towards the car park. Becca longed to link her hand with his, but knew it was impossible. But it was romantic to brush hands every now and then, and for him to look down at her, and for her to realise that this was, in a way, a date. Oh, but she shouldn't be thinking about things like that. Dates were for unmarried people.
The car park was emptier now it was later in the evening. There was no sign of people, and when their hands brushed Paul held hers. Strange how something as simple as holding his hand made her heart sing. The car-park lights shimmered on the tarmac, the frost edging each of the remaining cars with sparkling white, and she was completely happy.
It turned out they'd parked practically next door to each other, although Becca hadn't realised it. Tonight he was driving a large navy-blue people carrier quite unlike the silver sports car she'd seen before.
They kissed, a deep smoochy kiss. 'I don't want to leave you,' he said when they came up for air. 'I want to stay here.'
Becca leaned her head into his chest. 'Don't be silly, you'll have a wonderful time. Christmas in the snow. It must be magical.'
'Not as magical as being with you.' He kissed the top of her head. 'Don't go just now, stay a little longer and talk a little more.'
'It's cold. We'll freeze.'
Paul looked around the car park. 'Tell you what, hop in the back and we can talk.' He swung the door of the people carrier open.
Becca hesitated, then ducked her head and clambered in, feeling that her bottom must be sticking out in an ungainly manner. Paul climbed in after her, and slid the door back in place.
'Oh Becca, darling,' he whispered, drawing her to him. It was difficult to be comfortable on the seats which resolutely faced forward. She'd once seen an ad which had demonstrated all the configurations the seats could make including picnic table and seats; it had, however, omitted one for illicit lovers. 'You are the only thing in my life that makes it worth being on the planet.'
'You know that's not true,' she said, stroking his hair. 'There are your children and your work and -'
'I don't care about any of them, I only care about you.' He leaned back against the seat, eyes shut, hand holding hers tightly. 'This move south has been difficult for me. Suzy's been - well, Suzy's always been a bit bossy, but now she's unbearable. Her job is hugely demanding, and I do try to support her, but she makes it so difficult. Every thing I do is wrong, and she resents it when I say I must keep my own work going. The play - she didn't want me to do it, you know. Said it was a waste of my time.'
'I know you've done amazing things, and we can't begin to compete with professionals, but I think it was worthwhile.' She gave a happy smile. 'I thought it was wonderful, to be honest. It wouldn't have been half as good without you.'
'You are lovely.' he said, rubbing his face with his hands. 'I shouldn't slag her off, it's just... well, I'm dreading Christmas to be honest. I don't want to spend time with her. I only want to be with you.' He kissed her, his mouth sweet and loving.
Her whole being was consumed with the need to kiss him, to be with him, to hold him, to feel his arms around her. It felt the only time she was whole, and yet it was bittersweet, infused with a guilty sharpness. Paul's hand was on her breast, sending electric currents of excitement throughout her body. Their breathing changed, becoming heavier, deeper, their mouths passionate.
She broke away with a laugh to hide the fact that she was more aroused than she knew what to do with. 'The last time I did anything like this was when I was sixteen, and it was in a Mini. I was a lot more flexible then.'
'Oh Becca.' Paul was breathing heavily, nuzzling her neck, his hand on her shirt. 'I want you so much.'
'I want you too,' she said, her head floating as if she'd had two bottles of vodka, instead of two small glasses of chardonnay. She had a sudden misgiving that perhaps he was going to give her a love bite and shifted slightly. 'Don't you think we're a bit too, well, old for this?'
'You're never too old,' he said. She could feel him pressing against her, and her heart beat even faster with a heady mix of excitement and panic. Her body was squealing 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' but her head was urging her to take her time, to consider. Once she stepped over the line of physical intimacy there would be no going back. Go slowly her head counselled. But I want him, her body moaned. I want him.
Becca was pressed against the car seat. She could feel the seat belt clasp digging into the small of her back. Paul was leaning heavily across her, his hands rummaging up her shirt. He pushed one of her bra cups up exposing her left breast. 'Oh, Becca,' he groaned, and bent his head. 'You sexy woman.'
Becca stroked the back of his head, feeling the underwiring on her bra digging into her chest, and the other cup twisting against the skin. 'Darling,' she whispered. They kissed and Becca felt weak with wanting him. His hand reached up her skirt, touching her. It was instantaneous, like suddenly turning the gas flame full on.
All reservations forgotten she pressed against him, entirely shameless. She could feel him through his trousers, knew that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. His hand was tugging at her knickers and she lifted her hips to help him slide them off. Something crinkled under her buttock, sharp edges digging into soft skin. Paul's hand was at his belt buckle.
'We can't,' she murmured, wanting him, knowing that it was impossible. 'We mustn't torture ourselves like this.' The crinkly something was a lump under her bottom, so she shifted to try and dislodge it but it wouldn't move. Like the princess and the pea, she couldn't get comfortable. Paul must have taken her writhing as encouragement.
'I want you,' he muttered thickly. She heard a metallic click as buckle and zip were undone. Her brain whirled with conflict, between sharp desire and the yearning for love. Yes, she admitted it, she wanted Paul to make love to her, but not like this. Not this desperate groping, with her back starting to ache from the peculiar position on the seat, with a hard lump digging into her behind.
'I want you too, but we can't.' Her tights had wedged themselves into an uncomfortable roll at the crease of her buttocks, forming a latter-day chastity belt that Paul tugged at ineffectually, trousers slipping down. Tentatively she stroked his back, under his shirt and sweater, feeling his skin slightly roughened against her fingertips. 'We mustn't.'
He hushed her with kisses, one hand trying desperately to push the wodge of material further down her thighs. She wanted him to calm down, to take things more slowly, to seduce her properly instead of this frantic flailing. This wasn't the romance she'd hoped for.
'Slow down,' she whispered. 'Darling? We don't have to rush.'
'God, but I want you.' He pushed against her, his excitement ever more obvious, and an equal response flared inside her, smothering the desire for romance. Now she tugged her pants too, like an adult variation of The Giant Turnip fairy tale. The tights responded by twisting themselves even more firmly into a knot. Becca could feel them tighten like tourniquets around the top of her thighs. She tugged them up, thinking the only solution was to start again, but Paul continued tugging down.
'Up,' she panted. 'Up, up.'
'Please, Becca,' Paul groaned, tugging down, down. There was a ripping sound and the tourniquets eased. 'My darling.'
He pushed at her, and to make it easier she shifted sideways, banging her head on the window. The shock made her open her eyes and... Oh God, there was someone coming.
A couple were walking towards them, clearly lit in the car-park lamps. Becca pushed at Paul. 'There's someone coming.' she hissed, trying to sit up and stuff her errant breast back into the bra before anyone could see. Oh, the shame and humiliation of being caught out. Her fingers fumbled with her shirt buttons. She could hear their voices, cultured and considered. They'd probably been to a classical music concert. And they were heading straight for them. Just their luck, they probably owned the only other car parked near them. She leaned forward, hearing an ominous tearing sound, trying to pull her ripped tights and knickers up her legs. Her fingers touched what felt like acres of bare skin, the tights must be in shreds. The couple were nearly at the car, they'd be able to see. Panic. She lurched forward into the footwell, hoping not to be seen.
'Sit up, sit up.' Paul hissed, pulling at her shoulders as he tried to retrieve his trousers from round his thighs. 'Or they'll think you're...'
Becca's brain whirred - the kneeling woman, the man with trousers half-mast. She sat up promptly and caught Paul's face with a smack that reverberated round her skull.
Paul gave a muffled yell, hand to nose. 'You've bloody broken it.'
'Sorry, sorry.' She reached out to him, but he pushed her hand away.
'Don't worry about me.'
She smoothed her skirt down over her knees, trying to make a stab at respectability. Her left breast ached as she hadn't managed to pull her bra far enough down. The couple were near now, about to pass the people carrier. She couldn't pull her bra down properly now or they'd notice. The couple gave them sideways glances as they passed. Becca thanked heaven for being British. At least there wouldn't be any passing comments, or even faces peering into the window. The worst would be surreptitious glances. She stared straight ahead, feeling her breast squelching out either side of the bra band. At least they couldn't see the state of her tights. The couple unlocked their car and got in. It felt as if her left breast was being cut in half. They adjusted their seat belts.
'Come on, come on,' Paul whispered. 'Turn the engine on.'
Becca could see they were in their sixties, white haired, ultra respectable in sensible woollen coats. They were having a discussion. Probably about us, she thought. They're saying it's disgusting, and shouldn't be allowed. They're deciding if they should report us. The man checked the rear-view mirror. Whatever was under her bum was setting up permanent residence for itself. She looked down and saw that her buttons were buttoned up all wrong.
Yes! The man started the engine. They were going very very slowly, as if they were having to negotiate the QE2 out of dock instead of a Nissan Micra from a virtually deserted car park, the car edged forwards and Becca and Paul were alone again.
Crinkle crinkle. She reached under her bum and hauled out a sweet paper with the remains of a large gobstopper, obviously spat out by one of Paul's children. The remnants of her passion turned to ashes.
'I'm sorry,' Becca said, fishing around inside her shirt to sort out her bra. 'I can't do this. Call me old fashioned, or just plain too old, but I can't have sex in a car. Not even a people carrier. I just can't.'
'I'm sorry too. I got carried away.' Paul's brow creased in anxiety. 'It's not because you don't want to?'
'Of course not.' She held his hands, trying to will away the sordid memories of the last twenty minutes, to regain the romance of before. He stroked her face. They kissed gently, the intense passion gone, but the sweetness remaining.
Becca nestled under Paul's arm, feeling happier now the groping had stopped. 'I'm sorry about your nose.'
'I'll survive.' He squeezed her shoulders and sighed. 'You are so beautiful and lovely, I can't bear the idea that I'm not going to see you for two whole weeks.'
'I can't bear it either,' Becca said. 'The thought of Christmas fills me with horror.'
'We'll stay in touch with text, though.' He kissed her hands. 'And I'll try and phone whenever I can.' He kissed her hands.
Becca shook her head. 'It's best not to.'
He held her face between his hands. 'At this moment, all I want is to be with you, to touch you, to hold you, to kiss you. I can't tell you how you make me feel. You won't forget me, will you, when I'm away?'
'Never,' Becca whispered.