Thistles and stubble slowed them down, then she detoured trying to avoid tall nettles, but they brushed her thin overalls and the vague tingle of stings came through, increasing her desire for him. ‘Won’t we be seen from the keeper’s cottage?’
He waited for her to catch up. ‘I expect he’s too busy with Lady C. – if you see what I mean.’
They clambered over a ruinous stile, Tom scuffing a chocolatelooking stag beetle from a beam before handing her across. Unnecessary, but it was fun to let him think he could help. The way down levelled under foliage of clustering elms, brambles and small bushes almost covering the track. He stopped at a clearing.
Collared doves warbled, flapping at the disturbance. There was nothing to be said, hadn’t been since eyeing each other across the table, her hands as forward as his as she drew him down, seeing his glazed eyes and still lips, and sweat on him also. An aroma of damp undergrowth played around the cool wood as she undid the straps of her overalls, and pulled at the buttons of her shirt. The crack of a twig sounded from some animal, or a disturbed branch, and she hoped there’d be no unseen audience.
She had never made love in a wood, while he obviously had, and she wondered at the unfamiliar air so cool to her nakedness. When he took off his shirt and trousers she could hardly bear to wait. The heat went back into her, and they seemed a thousand miles from the nearest human. He knew what he was doing, in ways she hadn’t thought of before, but passion took care of them in any case.
Unexpectedly discovered love put them into a state of indolent stupefaction. She hoped there would be no wet patch on her overalls for the others to notice when they got to the river. His instinct was good, for he passed her a newly ironed handkerchief from his back pocket. ‘Use this.’
‘You came prepared.’
‘Be unforgivable if I didn’t.’ He never felt better than after a good long fuck, and hoped she did too, complimenting himself that it hadn’t been for want of plying the old skill if she didn’t. ‘The idea of sadness after sex must have been a liberal middle-class invention, like socialism or anti-smoking, or not eating meat. Anything to stop people enjoying life.’ Gratified at her laughter, he lit a cigarette. ‘This is the first weekend I’ve had off in months. I get up at six, and am never in bed before midnight.’
‘It certainly keeps you fit,’ she said languidly.
He flicked his ash towards a butterfly. ‘I spend an hour at the gym every day. Otherwise, I’d seize up.’
‘You certainly didn’t get anywhere near it then.’ She wanted to sleep in a big white bed with him, but stood to smooth the aches in her hips.
He straightened his collar. ‘We’d better go, I suppose, or they’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
He wasn’t there when she next went to Charlotte’s, and she had almost grovelled to get invited. She had to push aside foul Norman Bakewell, who ragged her all through a lunch that would only have been good if you were peasant-hungry. He taunted her at Tom’s absence, as if his wormy novelist’s mind guessed every detail of their encounter.
Walking towards the wood made the distance seem twice as long. She was depressed and chilled in the damp glade, rain trickling from the foliage. The half-hour with Tom had been so perfect, she might have known it was too good to recall. Her mac was like wet muslin on getting back to the house. Luckily, Norman Bakewell was asleep in the lounge, though sending up vinous fumes and the stink of foul cigars.
Home dead beat from work, she picked up the phone to hear Tom’s unmistakably nasal tone. ‘It’s been a long time, far too long, but can I come and see you?’
A month had gone by, and while knowing his number she had waited rather than do him the honour. The stab of wishing they had never met came now and again, but their idyllic summer’s day would return in smell and touch, visual detail flooding in so that the innermost part of her belly yearned.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Now.’
He came out of the lift wearing Reeboks, jeans, and a Gap shirt. A copy of The Big Issue showed from one pocket of his blue cashmere overcoat, and a bottle of White Horse stuck its neck out of the other.
‘I’m serious.’ He sat by her on the couch, a drink cupped in his free hand. ‘I can’t ever forget you. I love you, and want to see you all I can. The trouble is, I’ve been rushing here there and everywhere these last weeks, and couldn’t find a minute to get in touch.’
She was glad, having been too often on the point of ringing him. ‘Is your wife away tonight?’
‘Nothing like that. I’m working late. I always am.’
She sipped whisky and Evian, and fought away laughter at noting that Evian backwards spelled ‘naive’. She felt mischievous. ‘Does she have a lover?’
‘She could, for all I know.’
‘Would you mind?’
He laughed. ‘I’d kill him, maybe.’
‘Suppose he played squash as well? But would your wife kill you?’
‘I’d expect her to try, even if only to prove she loved me, or because I’d made the elementary mistake of letting her find out. It’s never an accident when someone does. There’s malice in it, you can bet. If you really care for each other – I mean, beyond love – you make sure the other never knows. Carelessness in that situation is sheer stupidity, maybe even hatred, or to get revenge.’
Men are all the same, she thought, though she’d never had a lover with the wit to speak so openly, which threw her so much off balance that she could only join in, and give up wondering what he meant by caring for somebody beyond love. ‘What about those who have affairs by mutual agreement?’
He followed her into the kitchen. ‘It ends in disaster, which must have been what they wanted.’
She put two pizzas in the microwave. ‘Hungry?’
‘Starving,’ as befitted, she thought, someone who spoke in such a way. ‘You seem to have had plenty of experience.’
‘It’s all speculation. Or intelligent observation, if you like.’ He leaned across and kissed her. ‘Most of it comes from reading Norman Bakewell.’
‘I do hope not,’ she said into his ear.
Her parents had sold their house in France two years ago, and bought a flat in Sevenoaks. Having too much furniture from that rambling old mill, they had given her a double bed, and because they or their guests had slept on it Diana was put off when sporting with her lovers. Another thing was it took up too much room: all right to stretch out on in summer, but hard to warm with her own heat in winter. With Tom as a lover she didn’t care who had humped on it before.
A call of once a month was hardly sufficient to serve someone like her. She wanted to have an affair, and this was more like a treat from heaven whenever he cornered a spare hour. Time that dragged into a month had a ball and chain to its feet, though as soon as she heard the bell it was as if he had called only days ago. Out of chagrin she would greet him as if he were a stranger, forcing him into his most charming mode to get them back into high romantic style. Not until after the meal and bottle of wine, when she was lying naked on the bed, and he was leaning over in a very satisfactory state, did this feeling come about.
After they had made love she said: ‘I’d like a phone number, in case there’s a need to get in touch with you.’
‘You have the office one already.’
‘The home number, if you don’t mind.’