My fiancé, Dr Alan Storey, lived in St Fagans on the outskirts of Cardiff, in a converted sixteenth century manor house. The house was luxurious without being ostentatious, while its surroundings – unspoilt woodland and rolling green fields – spoke of paradise. I felt at home here. The building, and Alan, helped me relax. And I could be mistress of this domain. All I had to say was, ‘yes’. Yet, I hesitated, my thoughts clouded by the past, by concerns about the present, by doubts about the future. By nature, I was a ‘corkscrew thinker’, I could think around corners, and that was an asset in my job. However, convoluted thinking was not conducive to a harmonious relationship and, quite often, I could tie myself in knots.
Alan was an excellent chef and for dinner, he prepared a Bulgarian dish, a vegetarian version of sarmi – carrots, onions and rice wrapped in grape leaves, seasoned with a hint of paprika, dill, parsley and garlic, all washed down with a bottle of Bulgarian wine supplied by his friends Petar and Pavlina.
While munching my way through the sarmi, I asked, “How’s Alis?”
“Fine.” Automatically, Alan glanced to his left, to a sideboard and a picture of his teenage daughter. “She’s enjoying her adventure holiday. She’s been potholing today.”
“And you don’t mind?”
Alan paused, no doubt recalling the tragic moment, the painful event when he’d lost his wife to a climbing accident. After gazing at his wine, he asked, “Because of what happened to Elin?”
I nodded.
He took a sip of wine then shrugged philosophically. “We have adventurous genes in our family; I guess that’s why I’m attracted to you. In my youth, I was into all the risk-taking pastimes: rock climbing, potholing, rugby...after Elin died, I had to curtail that, for Alis’ sake, but I still get the urge to do something dangerous, sometimes.”
“And you allow Alis to respond to her adventurous urge.”
“It’s all part of growing up. In truth, I’d prefer if she stayed at home with me, but for her sake it’s good to allow her as much freedom as possible.”
After our satisfying meal, we moved on to chess. Alan had taught me the basics of chess and I’d reinforced that knowledge through the study of grandmaster games and chess books. Alan always won our competitive encounters. However, the games were getting longer and I was getting closer to toppling his king.
“So, what are you working on?” Alan asked as he moved his queen to threaten my rook.
“Shush, I’m concentrating.” Should I protect my rook with his mate, retreat or advance? It was a difficult choice, a tricky situation...
“Multitasking...I thought the female mind was good at that.”
I glanced up and scowled. Alan’s gamesmanship had shattered my train of thought. I would have to rewind and start my calculations again. “Did Spassky talk with Fischer while they played?” I complained.
“I’m not Spassky,” Alan smiled, “and you’re not Fischer, thank God.”
“He was a genius,” I said. I would advance and attack. I had a powerful position. I was winning this game.
“At the chessboard, yes,” Alan agreed. “Away from the board...sometimes, many times, the gifted pay a horrendous price for their talents.”
I played my move and Alan responded instantly, shunting his king out of harm’s way. “Anyway,” I said, “I don’t multitask...this female has a one-track mind.”
Alan grinned. He glanced towards the bedroom. “Yes, you can say that again; you certainly do have a one-track mind, as the scratches on my back will testify.”
I scowled, blushed and moaned, “You’re trying to put me off my game, and succeeding.”
To move my queen into the attack or to capture his knight with my bishop; how could I decide with a series of erotic images crowding my brain?
“Check,” Alan said, responding to my queen move with a knight sacrifice.
I had to take his knight, or it was checkmate. But then what? To move a bishop, my queen, a pawn...the variations blurred into one as they competed with thoughts of carnal delight. This wasn’t fair; it was psychological warfare, not a friendly game of chess.
“You’ve left your bishop en prise,” I said after we’d made a series of moves.
Alan merely smiled at me then at the chessboard. “If you want my professional opinion, that bishop is not the only thing en prise in this room.”
I blushed again then shuffled in my seat. It was no good; I couldn’t concentrate on the game; I played a move on instinct. “I’ll take your bishop.”
“You really want to make that move?” Alan cautioned.
I sat back and studied the board. However, the chess pieces had lost their form, hidden behind images of Alan and yours truly wrapped in a passionate embrace. “Yes,” I sighed, “yes I do.”
“Then I’ll take your pawn. Checkmate in five moves.”
Once again, I studied the board and considered the variations. He was right; it was checkmate. Yet, I was winning this game. Alan leaned forward to kiss me. I responded. Our lips met and the kiss lingered for a long, long time.
When we came up for air, I asked. “How come I feel like I win when I lose?”
Alan laughed. “One track mind...”
And without any further ado, I dragged him towards the bedroom.
Later, in the afterglow of contentment, we lay together with our bodies, minds and souls entwined. The silence, the sense of calm, was blissful, while the moon and stars shone down, shone for us and us alone, or so it seemed. We had the moon, the stars and each other; we had everything we’d ever need.
“So, what are you working on at the moment?” Alan mumbled.
In a sleepy voice, I told him about Vincent Vanzetti and Vittoria.
“You think that’s wise,” Alan asked while propping himself up on one elbow, “working for a hardened criminal like Vanzetti?”
“As the man said, this is about Vittoria, not about him.”
Alan lay back on his pillow. He gazed at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful. “Any closer to finding Vittoria?”
“Ask me that question tomorrow.”
“And what about the question I asked you the other day?” he replied, his hand reaching for mine, his fingers caressing my engagement ring.
“Which question was that?” I asked innocently.
“You’ve forgotten already?”
“Marriage?”
“Uh-huh.”
I shrugged. “Where would we live?”
“Here, your place, on the moon. Maybe we could buy a star. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be with you.”
“Here would be better,” I reasoned.
Alan nodded. “Agreed. So, you move in with me.”
I thought for a moment and tried to picture our future. The perspiration had dried on my skin, so I slipped my naked body under the duvet. “Maybe it’d be better if we just lived together, without marriage.”
Alan joined me under the duvet. He brushed back my hair and kissed my lips. “If it’ll make you happy.”
“Or maybe we should stay as we are. We’re good for each other, as we are.”
In the semi-darkness, he grinned. His fingers wandered over my sensitive skin and I giggled. “We are that,” he said.
“I don’t want to spoil anything, ruin what we have.”
“Marriage should enhance, not blemish,” Alan said, his fingers caressing my cheeks, my shoulders, my hair.
“I can be a very difficult person to live with.”
Now, he rubbed his cheek, somewhat ruefully. “I’ve had a flavour of that.”
“And I like time on my own. And I keep unsociable hours.”
He shrugged. “I can adapt.”
“I’m a useless cook, a terrible housewife.”
He shrugged again. “I enjoy cooking; I find it relaxing. Besides, I already employ a maid.”
The perfect man, the perfect house, the perfect lifestyle. And a maid. I know what you’re thinking, why is she hesitating? The answer to that question was complex and, maybe, beyond my comprehension.
I stared at the ceiling and said, “You really want to marry me.”
Alan nodded decisively. “More than anything.”
“Okay. But give me a few days to think it over. Once I’ve made a decision, I won’t change my mind. But it has to be the right decision. I want to make sure that we do the right thing.”
Alan hugged me. He kissed me again. “You always do the right thing.”
I kissed him back then asked warily, “And you’ll still love me, no matter what I decide?”
“Samantha,” he said while gazing deep into my eyes, “I will love you forever and a day. You are the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with; more than that, I cannot say.”