Was Paul there? Becca swiftly looked round the room, but couldn't see him among the crowd. Inwardly she cursed herself for not having thought of this before. It was obvious that Paul was a potential speaker. She knew he talked at conferences, and while this was slightly out of his area - hence his slot in the late afternoon when some delegates would have given up and gone home - she'd known that he was interested in getting his work with Shakespeare known to a wider audience than just theatre professionals.
Becca was tempted to leave right there and then, but Bill expected her to report back and would be angry if she didn't. The brownie points she'd gained from not making a fuss about Paul kissing her at the workshop would be lost. She looked around her. There were hundreds of people attending the conference, there was no need for their paths to cross. As he was speaking late on Saturday, he would probably skip the rest and just turn up for his talk. Maybe he might stay for a drink afterwards, but he'd be bound to want to get back home. So long as she kept a low profile, there was no need to panic. And to be honest, should they bump into each other, she was surely capable of being friendly, polite, and distant as befitted a professional conference.
In fact, she didn't see him that evening, although she kept checking the faces at the tables around the large hall. He wasn't there. Becca went up to her room feeling perversely cheated. She rang home, but there was no answer, so instead she opened a mini bottle of wine from the minibar - hang the mega cost, it was on Hamilton House - and settled down to watch Friday night television.
The room was furnished in hard stiff fabrics, with a turquoise colour scheme: turquoise curtains, turquoise bed covers, turquoise carpet. The walls were striped off-pink, cream and turquoise. It wasn't seedy, but there was nothing glamorous about it either. A businessman's hotel room, anonymous and impersonal. She guessed that she could be in any country in the world, and not know the difference. If I were home, she thought, I'd be doing the same but I'd have my feet across Martin's lap and we'd be eating chocolate as a Friday night treat.
Saturday proceeded without incident. The talks she'd chosen were interesting, and Becca enjoyed most of them. It was fascinating talking to other teachers and she took part in a lively discussion about the pros and cons of drama coursework over lunch. She'd almost forgotten Paul.
Almost, but not quite. After lunch she took care to check the lecture room she was in, to keep her eyes out for a tall figure. She had the advantage over him because she knew he was there, while he was ignorant of her presence. She changed her schedule and chose the afternoon talks on the basis that the rooms they were being held in were furthest from the one Paul was speaking in.
At four that afternoon Becca was sitting in a small room listening to a talk and thinking of Paul who was giving his talk on a completely different floor. She wondered if he'd attracted a large audience, if they were attentive. Perhaps he was fielding lots of difficult questions. He'd probably enjoy that, she thought, smiling. It would appeal to the fighter in him. She had no doubt that anyone who attended would be won over by his enthusiasm. With a start she realised that people around her were clapping. The talk was over, and she'd hardly listened to a word.
Next on the schedule were drinks at 6.30, followed by the plenary speech, and then dinner. Becca trailed down the corridor, wondering how to occupy herself for the next ninety minutes. Go to her room, have a cup of tea, put her feet up for an hour, then get ready for the evening she supposed. The thought of a cup of tea made with proper milk rather than those little cartons of UHT treated milk appealed, and having it outside her turquoise room appealed even more. She went to reception and ordered tea for one.
A black notice board with gold stick-on lettering announced their conference, an AGM and a wedding reception, and there were plenty of people about, the mix more varied than Liquorice Allsorts, some walking purposefully, others loitering and checking watches as if waiting for an important announcement. Grannies took tea with grandsons, men with laptops on their knees talked business, tourists examined maps and complained of sore feet. People busied themselves with a variety of activities here in the hotel reception, and not a single one of them was Paul.
A waitress brought the tea. Becca sat on the edge of her seat and sipped it, wondering how best to pass the next couple of hours. At home, if Lily was around, they would sometimes watch television at this time - there was usually one of those programmes of video clips of people making fools of themselves, brides slipping at their wedding and showing their knickers, dads falling off ladders and ending with the can of paint on their heads. Becca and Lily liked the animal ones best, cats sticking their heads in unlikely places, dogs eagerly jumping up as if on mini trampolines. A tall dark man came through the revolving doors and her heart leaped. Paul! The man turned. It wasn't Paul.
She fidgeted with the sugar cubes now knowing why she was drinking tea in the lobby. UHT milk or not, she should be in her room and instead she was hoping that she might accidentally bump into Paul. She picked up one of the cubes and examined it. How did the crystals stick together in such perfect little white cubes? Perhaps when you dissolved one you were also adding a dollop of secret glue to your tea.
She put the cube on the table. I love him. Then another cube on top. I love him not. Another cube. I love him. I love him not. She was creating a substantial tower. I love him. I love him not. The tower trembled, then collapsed. There it was, foretold in a stack of sugar cubes. She didn't love Paul. I do, her heart countered. Of course I do, or why else would I be here in the lobby?
She poured another cup of tea and stared at the sugar bowl, unable to answer her own question. Was it really love she was feeling? Not the same love she felt for Martin and Lily. That was like breathing. Was he really the person she fell in love with? Was he worth loving? Wasn't he simply a charming surface that she'd projected feelings on to? Becca had to put her teacup down, her hands were shaking so much.
A hand touched her shoulder. 'Becca?'
And she turned, as she'd known she would, and smiled at him. 'Hello, Paul.'
He sat next to her. 'What are you doing here? Of course, how stupid of me. You're at the conference too. But you didn't come to my talk.' Becca shook her head. 'Never mind. You know the gist of it from the workshop, but there's quite a lot of other material I'd have liked to show you - photographs of productions, copies of some of the platts, entries from Henslowe's diaries, I've even got a copy of an original cue script -' He stopped and looked away. 'I'm sorry, I'm boring you. I get carried away.'
'No, it was interesting. What are...platts? Was that the word?'
He nodded, eyes lighting up. 'They were like the plot outline and would hang in the wings so the actors knew what happened in each scene, which characters were in it, and who played which parts. They're fascinating documents, for example, you can tell which of the actors were company shareholders because they're called Mr Fitzwilliam, or whatever, the hired actors were just Fitzwilliam, and the apprentices were known by their first names or nicknames. But enough about Shakespeare. Tell me about you. Have you enjoyed the conference so far? Has it been worth it?'
'I've enjoyed it. Some of it's been very interesting. I went to one talk...' and they began to talk about the conference in a relaxed and friendly way. Paul was such a good listener, Becca thought. He looked so intently interested in her thoughts and opinions. She felt herself speak more confidently, more fluently as if they were old friends. And Paul's attitude to her was that of an old friend. There was no hint of their previous relationship, it was back to how it had been before they'd kissed, but better because there was a warmth and appreciation there hadn't been before. It was good that he'd stopped sending her messages and saying he loved her, it really was. Now they had the chance to be friends.
When Paul stood up, Becca was thrown by how reluctant she was to finish their conversation. 'It's been great speaking to you,' he said. 'But I'm dying for a drink and I've got to take my stuff back to my room, so I'm going to head on up.'
Becca stood up too. 'You're staying over?'
Paul nodded. 'Suzy's taken the kids off to visit her sister, so I thought I might as well, rather than rush back home.'
'Are things all right at home?' Becca said.
Paul made a face. 'Not really. But you mustn't blame yourself for that, it really wasn't your fault. The fault was entirely mine. As Suzy tells me so very often.'
'I'm sorry.'
'All part of life. I have tried taking your advice to make up with Suzy, but Suzy doesn't appear very keen to be made up to.' He struck a theatrical pose. 'I am summoned by a large gin and tonic and I must go.'
'It was good seeing you again.'
'And you. So its goodbye then.' He touched Becca's cheek, smiled, then kissed her. For one second his arms were around her, his skin next to hers and she trembled as she murmured goodbye.
He picked up his briefcase and turned to go, then turned back with a cheeky grin. 'Unless you fancy joining me. I could show you my platts.' His eyes were alight with mischief and Becca found herself grinning back at him.
- ooo -
'It's big,' Becca said with surprise as Paul unfolded a large sheet of printed paper.
'About two foot by three foot. Look, you can see the hole where they would have hung it up on a peg backstage.' He pointed at a square hole in the middle of the paper. 'This is a copy of the original at Dulwich College, where all Philip Henslowe's papers ended up. Philip Henslowe was the manager of the Rose Theatre at the time when Shakespeare was acting at the Globe next door.'
Becca read a bit out: ' "Enter King Gorboduk with 2 Counsailers. R Burbadge Mr Brian. Th Goodale. The Queene with Ferrex and Porrex and som attendants follow. Saunder. W Sly. Harry. J Duke. Kitt. Ro Pallant. J Holland.'' Was that Richard Burbage who was Shakespeare's friend?'
'One assumes so. Did you see the cue scripts I prepared for the workshop? This is a copy of an original.' He shuffled among his papers and pulled out a long piece. 'What modern actors call parts, they used to call lengths - you can see why.'
Becca bent her head over the text. 'This is fascinating.'
'The evidence is there and all the actors who've worked with cue scripts are excited by it. It makes so much more sense of the texts but it's an uphill struggle getting the academics to accept it. The guy who first developed cue scripts discovered no one had thought about how they rehearsed plays in Shakespeare's day, they simply assumed it was in the same way that we do today - if they thought about it at all. The academics don't like the idea of being told they're wrong by lowly theatre folk. But the plays were written to be performed, not studied.'
He rummaged among the papers. 'I'll show you some photographs of cue script productions. That's Measure for Measure in Japan, that's Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet, I did those for...' He flicked over one of the photographs. 'That was for a festival in Germany. And these ones are all from the States - they like me there, they're more open minded.'
'Don't they like you here?' Becca said looking at the photographs.
'Not much. I've ruffled too many feathers. Oh, that's an old one, not sure how that got in here. That's me at the RSC. God, I look young. Look at that hair.'
Becca touched a photograph of a young Paul, his hair flopping over his forehead, the stare at the camera intense and dark. Her finger was only a few centimetres from his. Millimetres. He had lovely hands, with long fingers. She thought of them on her body, touching her. So close.
'Were you with Suzy then?' Her finger traced the photograph.
His finger joined hers. 'No. I must have met her a couple of years later.'
The room felt incredibly small, filled to the brim with aching desire. She looked up at him, and suddenly thought, what if I kiss him? Every scrap of normal brain had vanished, pushed to the further reaches of her skull cavity by the big, throbbing statement of: I want to kiss him. His head was near hers as he bent across to examine the photograph, turning slightly sideways. The line of his neck disappearing down into his cornflower-blue shirt was irresistibly attractive. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Stop it now. This was a mistake. Go.
She straightened up and as she did, Paul did too. The papers caught, flipped up, and cascaded to the floor, spewing photographs and photocopies.
'God, I'm sorry,' Becca said, kneeling to pick them up.
'No, it was my fault,' Paul said, kneeling too. Their heads bumped. Becca sprang away as if Paul were on fire. Which was ironic, given that she could feel her own cheeks burning, her insides consumed with the heat of wanting him to kiss her. But it's such a cliché, some mad bit of her brain thought. The papers on the floor leading to a clinch. She stood up, her arms full of photographs.
'Sorry, they're out of order.' And so am I, she thought. She realised they were staring at each other. Paul's face was serious. The air was still between them. Her heart was pounding. She swallowed. 'I must go.' She turned for the door, breaking the eye contact. 'Thanks for showing me the platts and things.'
'Becca...' Paul caught her shoulder and her heart missed about six beats. She felt she had shot from turbo-charged acceleration and smashed straight into a brick wall. 'Don't go.'
'I think it's better. You're married.'
'And I can't tell you how much I wish I wasn't.'
'Every marriage goes through rough patches,' she said, still with her back to him.
'My rough patch seems to be lasting a lifetime.'
With a blinding flash of clarity, Becca knew that this was the moment she should leave. She should say something anodyne like, never mind, hang on in there, I remember how difficult it was when Lily was the same age as your children - except it hadn't been. Or, have you tried talking it over with a marriage guidance counsellor?
'I don't know what to say,' Becca said truthfully. 'Everything seems banal or trite because I don't know you well enough to say something meaningful.'
'Don't you know me? I feel I know you. I felt it when we first met. A sense of connection. That you were the person I was meant to meet.'
Becca put her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating so fast it threatened to escape from her ribcage. There was no room to breathe. Becca stared at the carpet as if the swirling pattern held the answer to the meaning of life. 'You mustn't say these things to me. Please don't.' And still she didn't go, her feet had rooted to the ground.
He touched her shoulder. 'Turn around and look at me.'
She shook her head, but allowed him to turn her around then pull her gently towards him, one hand cupping her head. I could still go back, Becca thought for one blinding moment. I could still pull away and leave. She turned her face up to his and rested one hand on his shoulder.
His mouth was soft on hers, soft and sweet as she'd remembered. Past and future were gone. All that was left was an intense awareness of the present, the here and now. Exploring, delighting, all her conscious thought fully engaged in what she was doing at this moment, kissing Paul. His hands were everywhere, burning against her skin. She felt breathless and dishevelled, holding his body to hers. Paul's hands were untucking her shirt, then were inside it, skin on skin. And then they were falling on to his bed, mouths clamped together, hot and sweaty, she could hear Paul kicking his shoes off, he was kissing her neck, his breathing heavy, his hand pushing up her skirt.
'Too fast, too fast,' she breathed, pushing his hand away.
'I want you,' he muttered, and she buried her head in his chest so she didn't have to answer, thoughts whirring round her head faster than her racing heartbeat. Did she want him?
'I need time...' she panted.
He pressed against her as if he hadn't heard, his weight pinning her to the bed, his tongue pushing hard inside her mouth and she realised that she might not be able to stop him. I don't know this man, I don't know him, she thought in panic. I am grappling on a hotel bed with a stranger. 'Paul, no. You're hurting me.'
To her relief he pulled back. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'Getting carried away a bit. Shit, is that the time? I've got to shower and change before dinner - I'm one of the after-dinner speakers.' Paul rolled away from her completely and stood.
'I ought to change too,' Becca said, sitting up, thrown by his change of mood from loving to businesslike.
'Come and join me.' Paul indicated the en-suite shower room with suggestively raised eyebrows.
Becca shook her head. 'My stuff's in my own room, I'll change there.'
'OK. Meet you back here? We can go into dinner together.'
'OK.'
He kissed her, a long lingering kiss. 'See you back in fifteen minutes. Hey, you could help me run over the notes for my speech.'
She nodded, and he shut the door. Becca waited a couple of seconds and then she heard the gush of the shower going on. As if it were the starter's pistol, she was off.
She grabbed her bag and coat then ran from the room. Down the corridor to the lift, up another two floors, then down more corridor to her own room. She swiped her keycard and entered, slamming the door shut behind her. She slumped against it. Now what?
- ooo -
Seventeen minutes later Becca knocked on Paul's door. He opened it. 'Come in, come in. You look lovely. I'm just putting a couple of last-minute touches to my speech.' He turned back into the room and Becca followed him. 'Do you want a drink?'
'No thanks.' Becca waited calmly.
Paul scrabbled around on the top of the desk. 'Now, where was I? Ah yes.' He picked up a piece of paper. 'This is my speech. Have a read and tell me what you think of this.' He held it out to her then stopped. 'You've got a suitcase.'
Becca nodded. 'I'm going back now.'
'Not staying...?' Becca shook her head, and he sat on the edge of the bed with a thump. 'I don't understand. What about the dinner? The conference? What about us?'
Becca sighed. 'There is no "us". I'm sorry. I thought of going straight away, but felt I owed you an explanation. The thing is... the thing is, that if I stay I've basically agreed to spend the night with you and that's crossing a line I don't want to cross. We don't really know each other very well. I hardly know myself. What I've realised is that I'm not the sort of person who can lightly go into an affair, play around, and then come out the other end without touching the sides. And even if I was that sort of person, I suppose it all comes down to choices.' She smiled at him. 'I find you hugely attractive. Life is exciting when you're around. Your company is stimulating, and fun, and things happen. I like being with you. A huge part of me wants nothing more than to sleep with you.'
Paul scratched his head. 'Why do I think there's a "but" coming...?'
'It's been really hard, because I do have feelings for you. You're very loveable but...'
'There it is.'
'But.' Becca took a deep breath. 'I made a choice to be with Martin a long time ago. I've never regretted that choice, I've never thought to question it until you came along. You were right - I was feeling low and unappreciated. You made me feel like the star in my own life again, that I was someone who things happened to. And I needed that.'
'Then why aren't you staying?'
'Because that's not what it's about. It's fun and exciting because it's just the surface. It's all the thrills, but you can't live like that. It's not real life. Tell me my favourite food, my favourite record, what I like to read. Do you know which side of the bed I like to sleep on? Do you know what I'm most scared of, or what makes me happiest?'
'Yes to the last one - me!'
Becca laughed. 'Sometimes. And the saddest too. But all those things are part of me, who I am, and I don't know them about you, and you don't know them about me.'
'But getting to know is part of the fun.'
'And then what? You can't keep that level of excitement up for ever. Real life sets in.' Real life with Paul must be frustrating, she thought, however charming he is, like having another extremely demanding child. Poor Suzy. 'Why did Suzy ring Martin?' she asked, thinking this might be her last chance to find out. 'She couldn't have known anything because there wasn't anything much to know.'
Paul looked at her, his eyes wide and innocent. Too innocent. 'I don't know,' he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
And Becca realised he must have told Suzy. She stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief. 'Why on earth did you do it?'
Paul looked annoyed but didn't bother to deny it. 'I wanted you to see how much I loved you.'
'That's so...' Becca couldn't begin to think of the words to describe his behaviour, the articulate bit of her brain had frozen over. How could he have been so irresponsible? There were other people - their children for starters - to consider. 'How could you be so selfish?'
'Yes, I told Suzy we've been having an affair,' he flung at her, standing up. 'And it wasn't a lie. Maybe we haven't actually slept with each other but sex isn't the only thing an affair is about. I wanted to shake things up, to stop you playing the martyr and putting duty and obligations before love. You wanted me, I know you did. You still do.'
'Not now,' Becca said her eyes wide at how she could have been so mistaken. 'Didn't you think about your children? No wonder Suzy doesn't want to make up with you - I wouldn't.' She picked up her suitcase.
'He doesn't deserve you,' Paul said. 'I love you.'
'I don't deserve him,' Becca said sharply. 'I haven't been a very good wife to him these last six months. I don't think I've been a good wife these last years. We've lost sight of each other, got too wrapped up in our own little worlds.' She walked to the door. 'It's time for me to go home.'
- ooo -
Back in Bath, safe at home, Becca paid off the taxi driver, giving him an enormous tip for bringing her back to Martin. There were lights on in the house - it wasn't that late, only 9.30. She let herself in through the back gate as she usually did. As she stopped by the back door to hunt for her keys she glanced at the kitchen window. There was Martin, but not on his own. Una was with him, and Martin's arm was around her shoulder and he was kissing her.