‘Oh. He’s a clever boy. Committed to the cause. You know.’ She sounds embarrassed. ‘He’s the philosopher windbag. Hot air and purple prose.’ She feels she’s gone too far and tries to row back. He concentrates fiercely on his pizza and eats hungrily.
‘I’d have been the same,’ he says between mouthfuls.
‘Not that he’s ever up to anything, just a whole load of blather. Gets boring after all these years.’ She forces a grin. ‘Thank God I got away.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
His hand creeps slowly across the table and ends up resting on hers. She lets it linger. She means to pull hers away, but, if she’s failing at that, there’s no way she’ll let him know where she lives. She imagines Mrs Ryan, cigarette hanging from lip, looking down on her through the curtains of the front bedroom.
He offers to drop her home, but she declines, giving him a peck on the cheek before setting off down the dimly lit lane. There’s a spring in her step. He’s nice. Really nice. Pity she can’t let it go anywhere. But there’s no reason not to be friends.
Imperceptibly, they fall into a routine, controlled by when he happens to appear at the library – lunch breaks together when he’s there, sometimes supper out when she’s ahead of her work and doesn’t have the kids to do. Though she only ever uses work as an excuse for being busy – she’s not going to mention her life as a childminder.
Occasionally they see a movie – he loves discussing them as much as she does. Schindler’s List keeps them going for hours – he’s fascinated by the different ways a ‘good’ man can behave in the face of evil. At his suggestion, they go to Indecent Proposal – she feels her cheeks going redder and redder as the story unfolds and Demi Moore undresses. He turns to her, appears to notice despite the darkness, chuckles, pats her on the thigh, then withdraws his hand.
She’s impressed by how hard he’s working, and his sympathetic understanding that she needs space and time for her own studies. Sometimes they walk round the city; on cold days he might hold her hands to warm them. They give each other chaste kisses as they part. He offers no hint of sex or love.
As these days and early weeks pass, a puzzle begins to trouble her. She’s thrown by how much she’s liking this man – as she now sees him – and how much she wants to spend time with him. He’s amiable, relaxing, interesting. There’s no side to him. He’s also gorgeous – she feasts on him every time she sees him. There’s no avoiding it – she wants him and has tried at times to convey it in her eyes. The puzzle is how slowly they seem to be moving – or, rather, he is.
She’s sure he’s attracted to her. She thinks she sees the desire in his eyes – yet he seems content to go on playing it for friendship. Perhaps that’s one reason why she’s grown to like him so much. Over a supper out – he’s not short of money and will never allow her to contribute, which is a relief – she tries a gambit to move it on.
‘It’s great eating out, but sometime I’d like to cook for you myself,’ she begins.
‘That’d be good,’ he says, ‘another of your talents to explore.’
‘Trouble is,’ she goes on downcast, ‘where I live is girls only and the landlady’s a witch. No men allowed.’
‘That’s Stone Age.’ He grins.
‘I blame the priests,’ she says.
‘Well never mind, we’ll just have to live on pizza.’
Why doesn’t he take the bait and invite her to his place instead? A nasty thought surfaces. Has he got a girlfriend hidden away somewhere? But on that her instinct is certain: he hasn’t. So what’s stopping him? Is there something she’s missed? God, maybe he’s not even into girls. No, he is. She’s sure of that too.
If, in those early days, they’d ended up in a pub, had a few drinks, gone back to where he lives – even checked into a cheap hotel or behind the bushes on a rug for God’s sake, warmed by alcohol – desire would have taken over. That would have suited her after such long abstinence – an escapist fling with a dreamy boy hailing from a different planet, no strings attached. Now it’s gone too far and they’ve spent too much time together for it to be just that. The implications of eventual sex begin to weigh more heavily. Yet, though he always tries to answer everything she asks, she feels she still doesn’t really know this man she’s getting in so deep with.
‘So,’ she asks once, ‘you’ve never told me about your student days.’
‘They were pretty average,’ he says.
‘Hey, doesn’t matter what they were. I don’t mind.’
He’s silent, even gloomy, then speaks. ‘OK, I confess. I did history at Exeter. Now you’re going to really despise me.’
She laughs out loud, shaking her head at him. ‘You oul fool, I already know you’re a posh boy.’
Titbits like this are frustratingly meagre. Perhaps she has too idealized a view of what a relationship, even just a proper friendship, should be. Isn’t it about not just answering questions but immersing yourself into each other’s life, family, prejudices, experiences, all the pieces that make you the person you are – knowing there’s nothing you can’t share? It nags her that she’s only scraped his surface.
‘You know something,’ she says another time, idly twirling spaghetti on her fork, ‘we spend all this time together and it’s great. But I still feel I dunno anything ’bout you.’
He laughs. ‘What do you want to know? What is there to know? I’m all yours to see.’ He thinks, seeking to justify himself. ‘I’ve always told you anything you’ve asked.’
‘I know you have. I know you try. But it’s like . . . it’s like you’ve no family. No friends. None I know of, anyway. No past – sometimes what you tell me just feels like lines in a CV. We talk ’bout stuff but we never really talk ’bout you.’
‘I told you, I’m not very interesting. And I don’t have friends here.’ He pauses. ‘And, hey, I don’t quiz you about you. You said you’d got away. Maybe I’m the same.’
‘Fair enough,’ she says, ‘can’t argue with that.’
That’s it, and they change the subject, chatting as easily as always. But his face momentarily droops and she realizes she’s struck a nerve.
‘Remember you said you wanted to climb a hill?’ he says a few days later during the lunch break.
‘Yeah?’ She wonders what’s coming.
‘Weekend after next my mate Rob’s coming over. We’re driving to Connemara. We’d like you to come.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, we. He’s my oldest friend. I was thinking of what you said.’ She looks puzzled. ‘About knowing about me.’
‘Oh, right.’ She frowns. ‘Didn’t mean you to take it that literally.’
‘I didn’t. He was coming anyway. He’s good fun, clever too. A reporter for The Times. I’ll show you his byline. Rob McNeil.’
‘OK. Sounds great.’ The frown gives way to a beam and then to bleakness. ‘Look, I’d love to but I can’t.’
‘You can’t!’
‘I got a commitment: my flatmates are having a gathering.’
‘Can’t you get out of it?’ he pleads. ‘Just this once. Just for me.’
The beseeching in his eyes alarms her – he’s never exposed himself like that before. Has the moment come? Is this his foot pushing the accelerator? If so, she wants more than ever to be on the ride, though her strength of feeling has made it scarier.
Her