Jim said goodbye to Nancy at the cafe door. He had wanted to walk with her in the sunshine, but she’d said she had to get home for a music lesson—she’d seemed a bit flustered at the end. Now, as he wove his way along the narrow pavements, dodging the other pedestrians going about their daily lives in the busy town, he silently berated himself.
Why the bloody hell weren’t you honest with her, you pillock? Why didn’t you tell her you were still technically married, that you were living with your wife? But he knew the answer, of course. A woman like Nancy would have flatly refused to have anything to do with him if he’d said he was married. And explaining that he lived with Chrissie, but didn’t live with her, would have sounded plain ridiculous. She’d just think, Yeah, right. Or, at least, he would, if she’d told him the same scenario.
God, she was gorgeous, though. He loved those intelligent eyes, which seemed totally gray one minute, then bright, almost gold another, like light falling on water. Chrissie’s eyes were green, but they were always the same shade, never varied that he could see. And Nancy’s smile—quite wry, a bit wary: it was clear she took no prisoners where bullshit was concerned. Perhaps got too much from her cheating ex. He loved the way her mouth lifted crookedly on one side. He’d made her laugh, which was a good sign, and they’d talked for hours, about everything on the planet, which showed they had something going on. He’d definitely detected a sexual buzz too, when she’d relaxed a bit. But, hell, what was the point in chatting her up when the whole thing would fall apart like a house of cards, as soon as she found out about Chrissie?
I’ll tell her next time, he promised himself. Although they hadn’t made any plans for a next time. Should he have nailed it, while she was there? Maybe he’d text her later . . . Or was that too keen? And did it matter if it was? They weren’t kids, although right now he felt just as unconfident as he had back them. He groaned softly. I don’t know how to do this. I never did.
He was experiencing an odd mixture of excitement and fear. Perhaps this moment was as good as any relationship ever got. This churning, this thrill, all unrealistic, nothing committed, nothing known, but the possibilities appearing to be endless.
It was way too early to say, obviously, but he had a feeling about Nancy, a feeling he knew was too premature to be anything but irrational, but was so strong as to be overwhelming. Maybe this time he could reach beyond the thrill, find something deeper and more satisfying than he’d ever had with Chrissie.
As Jim walked on, his head heavy with all the things he had to brave in order to disentangle his life from his wife, he badly wanted a cigarette. But he’d deliberately thrown out the two packets he’d had in the drawer and left his lighter at home. He was passing all kinds of shops where he could have bought more, but on the one-step-at-a-time principle his friend Jimmy P had banged on about when he’d given up the booze, he kept telling himself he could stop at the next, then the next, and he got home without buying any. Small triumph, but then his thoughts were a powerful distraction, even from nicotine. Nancy predominated, of course, but even she was being edged out by a fog of agents, lawyers, banks, surveyors, property websites and, worst of all, Chrissie’s angst.
*
Yesterday, Sunday, had been hell. The same old boring row had started up at breakfast. Chrissie had made a plan months ago for them to spend the day in London, meet up with their friends Mick and Jen and go to a gig in Camden where one of Mick’s friends was playing. Mick was a bass guitarist who had sometimes taken Jimmy P’s place in the Bluebirds when Jimmy’s drinking had got out of hand. He was a bloody good player, in Jim’s opinion—quite brilliant at times—but his voice was lousy: he couldn’t hold a tune to save his life.
Anyway, Jim had told Chrissie at breakfast that he wasn’t going.
“Why not? Are you ill?” she asked, glancing up from the grim bowl of granola, seeds, yogurt and banana she insisted on eating every morning. The radio was playing loudly—some chirpy schmaltz his wife seemed addicted to. He went over and turned it off.
“No. I just don’t want to. You go, should be fun.”
She frowned. “But they’re expecting us both, and you love Micky. We haven’t seen him in ages.”
He perched on one of the high stools that stood beside what Chrissie called the “breakfast bar,” although she always ate her breakfast at the table. “That’s the point. It’s what I keep telling you. We aren’t together, Chrissie. And we shouldn’t keep pretending we are. Mick and Jen don’t even know there’s a problem. That’s why they’re expecting us both.”
His wife’s expression darkened. “What are you scared of, Jimmy? We both went to Lisa’s party a couple of weeks ago and I come to your gigs all the time. What’s changed?” She’d stopped eating, but still held her spoon in her right hand, her eyes narrowing. “Like you’re suddenly terrified to be seen out with me . . .” When he didn’t answer, she continued to stare. “Who is she? Because all this bullshit about selling the house and getting a divorce . . . I know you. There has to be a woman involved.”
Jim couldn’t help but remember asking Nancy to drop him off at the end of the road so that Chrissie wouldn’t spot her, him creeping upstairs like a thief, feeling as if he were cheating on both women. “It’s not bullshit.”
“Well, it is from where I’m standing. I’ve told you a million times, I hate the idea of selling this place. And spending God knows what on lawyers to get a divorce when neither of us is planning to get married again seems totally daft. Unless . . .” she raised her eyebrows “. . . unless I’m right, of course.”
Jim didn’t know what to say so, ill-advisedly as it turned out, he said nothing. Chrissie slammed down her spoon, got to her feet and leaned over the table toward where he sat, her pale skin pink with rage, her white cotton dressing gown gaping open, exposing her small breasts.
“You have, haven’t you? You sneaky fucking bastard, you’ve been seeing someone behind my back, haven’t you? Jim, answer me! Haven’t you? Christ, you lying, lowlife bastard.”
Jim got up too and, keeping his voice as even as possible, he said, “You talk as if I’m cheating on you, Chrissie. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but we haven’t had sex since you came crawling home after Benji dumped you. That’s not a marriage, not in my book anyway. So I don’t need your permission. I can do what I bloody well like.”
Her green eyes filled with angry tears. “I don’t believe you, Jim. I don’t believe you don’t love me anymore.” She stood up and tugged roughly at the tie on her dressing gown, yanking the material off her shoulders, letting the robe slither to the kitchen floor. Standing before him entirely naked, hands dropped to her sides, head held defiant, slim, toned body, smooth-skinned and youthful even at her age, she seemed painfully, heart-achingly vulnerable.
“This is the body you promised to worship, Jim. To love and to cherish till death us do part.” She raised her hands and planted them on her hips, relaxing her body into an altogether more sexual pose, thrusting her small breasts toward him, bringing her lips together into a pout. “And I know you want me. You’re just too fucking stubborn to admit it.”
She began to walk round the table toward him and Jim was horrified to realize that he was, indeed, aroused. Sex had always been their thing and her nakedness instantly evoked the intensity of their past lovemaking, the way she had moved beneath him, her legs wrapped tight around his body, the taste of her nipples on his tongue, the charming way her lips turned pinker after orgasm. And it had been so long.
He didn’t move or speak as she came closer, pressed her body against his own and raised her face, her green eyes alight with desire.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. “Go on. You know you’re fucking dying to.”