prying, he says.
Her mother is ill, you see. Francesca’s. She’s knocking on, he told me, and keeps falling over. She hurts herself, breaks her bones. This latest issue is nothing serious but she needs an operation, he thinks. And there’s talk of a home, but she won’t go into one. Which isn’t really terribly fair on Francesca, who has her own life down here and can’t keep dashing up to the Dales every time her mother sneezes.
‘Anyway, stroke of good luck, eh?’ he said when he telephoned me with the news.
I don’t like him to telephone me at work. He rings my mobile, never the shop telephone. On my mobile I have him listed under the name of Ashley.
I leave ‘Ashley’ in the lounge. In the kitchen I cook, and sip my own glass of wine. I consider showing him my grandfather’s letter. But I decide against it. The Dearhead would probably not be interested, and I would feel I was somehow betraying both my grandparents. Especially Babunia. It’s private.
I’m luxuriating in fine silk underwear, purchased only yesterday for the big occasion. In a dark red colour, like blood from a deep cut. It looks pretty, but it’s all rather uncomfortable; I’m ignoring that, and projecting ahead to his delight later when he removes my clothes to reveal the lingerie. I hope it’s his thing. I hope we have a wild … no, not wild – what am I thinking? – a nice time.
We deserve it.
We do have a nice time. Charles is good in bed, and I may as well be honest about that. It’s a very major part of his charm, and one of the reasons I remain his … other woman. But, somehow, there’s a cynical emptiness to it all.
There’s something missing.
‘What do you expect?’ Sophie, hands on hips, irate, hearing my tale.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come off it.’
‘I thought … I don’t know what I thought. It’s good to have a lover, for want of a better word. Actually, it’s fun.’
‘Yes, of course it is, and you deserve some fun. But you won’t get it from him, not long term. Being involved with a married man is rubbish, constantly looking over your shoulder. You can’t relax, you can’t hold hands in public unless you’re, I don’t know, three hundred miles away, and you can’t be normal. There’s more to a good relationship than just sex, you know?’
‘I know. I do know that. It’s all a bit … soulless, I think.’
‘Whatever. If I were you, I’d drop him. Get your life back. That’s the way forward.’
And I think. I hear and rehear Sophie’s words, and I end my relationship with the Dearhead. Two days later, over the telephone. Like this.
‘Charles? I’m sorry to ring you at work. But it’s important. Look, Charles, I don’t think we should see each other any more. It’s got to end. I think things have … have fizzled out, rather.’
Of course, he is excessively polite. And after pondering for several moments upon his own shortcomings, he apologises for screwing my life up.
I tell him my life is not remotely screwed up. I’m just uncomfortable with the whole thing; he’s a married man, after all. And I’m a little bored, if I’m honest.
He’s less polite now and says he’s boring, is he?
I say no, he is not boring. But the relationship is, frankly. It’s getting tiresome. And it’s hardly right, is it?
He says I’m not very sensitive, and he always thought that of me. I’m brusque.
I apologise. I try again. The thing is, Charles …
The conversation ends with a promise from him not to attempt any further meetings. Of course, we will both be cordial and professional within the confines of the Old and New. And thank God, that is the only place we are likely to encounter each other.
So now the relationship is over. I can keep the cat. He hates cats, anyway. Bloody butchers.
And we shall be happy together, she and I. Of course, I won’t miss Charles at all, not even on alternate Thursday nights. I shall, instead, make myself useful. I’ll catch up with housework.
Her mother is ill, you see. Francesca’s. She’s knocking on, he told me, and keeps falling over. She hurts herself, breaks her bones. This latest issue is nothing serious but she needs an operation, he thinks. And there’s talk of a home, but she won’t go into one. Which isn’t really terribly fair on Francesca, who has her own life down here and can’t keep dashing up to the Dales every time her mother sneezes.
‘Anyway, stroke of good luck, eh?’ he said when he telephoned me with the news.
I don’t like him to telephone me at work. He rings my mobile, never the shop telephone. On my mobile I have him listed under the name of Ashley.
I leave ‘Ashley’ in the lounge. In the kitchen I cook, and sip my own glass of wine. I consider showing him my grandfather’s letter. But I decide against it. The Dearhead would probably not be interested, and I would feel I was somehow betraying both my grandparents. Especially Babunia. It’s private.
I’m luxuriating in fine silk underwear, purchased only yesterday for the big occasion. In a dark red colour, like blood from a deep cut. It looks pretty, but it’s all rather uncomfortable; I’m ignoring that, and projecting ahead to his delight later when he removes my clothes to reveal the lingerie. I hope it’s his thing. I hope we have a wild … no, not wild – what am I thinking? – a nice time.
We deserve it.
We do have a nice time. Charles is good in bed, and I may as well be honest about that. It’s a very major part of his charm, and one of the reasons I remain his … other woman. But, somehow, there’s a cynical emptiness to it all.
There’s something missing.
‘What do you expect?’ Sophie, hands on hips, irate, hearing my tale.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come off it.’
‘I thought … I don’t know what I thought. It’s good to have a lover, for want of a better word. Actually, it’s fun.’
‘Yes, of course it is, and you deserve some fun. But you won’t get it from him, not long term. Being involved with a married man is rubbish, constantly looking over your shoulder. You can’t relax, you can’t hold hands in public unless you’re, I don’t know, three hundred miles away, and you can’t be normal. There’s more to a good relationship than just sex, you know?’
‘I know. I do know that. It’s all a bit … soulless, I think.’
‘Whatever. If I were you, I’d drop him. Get your life back. That’s the way forward.’
And I think. I hear and rehear Sophie’s words, and I end my relationship with the Dearhead. Two days later, over the telephone. Like this.
‘Charles? I’m sorry to ring you at work. But it’s important. Look, Charles, I don’t think we should see each other any more. It’s got to end. I think things have … have fizzled out, rather.’
Of course, he is excessively polite. And after pondering for several moments upon his own shortcomings, he apologises for screwing my life up.
I tell him my life is not remotely screwed up. I’m just uncomfortable with the whole thing; he’s a married man, after all. And I’m a little bored, if I’m honest.
He’s less polite now and says he’s boring, is he?
I say no, he is not boring. But the relationship is, frankly. It’s getting tiresome. And it’s hardly right, is it?
He says I’m not very sensitive, and he always thought that of me. I’m brusque.
I apologise. I try again. The thing is, Charles …
The conversation ends with a promise from him not to attempt any further meetings. Of course, we will both be cordial and professional within the confines of the Old and New. And thank God, that is the only place we are likely to encounter each other.
So now the relationship is over. I can keep the cat. He hates cats, anyway. Bloody butchers.
And we shall be happy together, she and I. Of course, I won’t miss Charles at all, not even on alternate Thursday nights. I shall, instead, make myself useful. I’ll catch up with housework.
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