The Other Woman by Jill McGown Page A

that not only could I write my name, but I could write the column too,’ he said, teasing her.
    It was being syndicated to a few local papers now, and some money was coming in. But he still worked for the garage.
    He sat back again and looked at her. ‘So why have I just told you my life story?’ he asked.
    She shrugged, and drained her glass, feeling pleasantly woozy and warm, despite everything. ‘I don’t wear lip-gloss,’ she said. ‘No,’ she relented, smiling at his offended look. ‘ I suppose it’s just talking to a stranger. It’s easier.’
    â€˜You’re not a stranger though, are you?’ He leant over towards her, and tapped her knee lightly. ‘You’re adrift in an open boat too. I can tell.’
    She made to stand, to go and get another round, but he caught her arm and gently pulled her back down, taking her empty glass.
    â€˜It’s no answer, Melissa,’ he said. ‘Believe me.’
    He released her, but there was a tension between them now that he had touched her. She hadn’t led a particularly sheltered life prior to Simon, but she had never picked up a man in a bar before. She could pick Mac up; that much was obvious.
    She had toyed with the idea when he had first arrived, and it had seemed crazy. She barely knew the man. By the time she had finished her drink it had seemed an attractive idea, and now that she had downed her fourth, all she knew was that he was right. She was adrift in an open boat, and he could rescue her. He could put his arms round her and haul her into safe harbour for the night.
    She wanted that more than anything, and set about getting it with the same single-mindedness as she had done everything else since meeting Sharon Smith. It didn’t take long; she did have another drink, despite Mac’s advice, then excused herself and went to the ladies to look at herself in the mirror. Her head felt a little detached from the rest of her, she conceded, but otherwise she was all right.
    He stood up as she came back.
    â€˜Bag,’ she said, leaning across him to reach up to the shelf.
    â€˜Let me get it,’ he said, but it was too late; she had caught the bag but lost her footing as she tried a too-complicated balancing manoeuvre for her displaced centre of gravity. She fell against him so that all three of them landed on the pink velvet; him, Melissa and the bag.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she said, giggling just a little tipsily as she lay sprawled on top of him. She felt his physical reaction as she moved, and smiled at him, disentangling herself slowly, as much for her own benefit as his. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
    He didn’t need to be asked twice.
    Frances had come up to bed while Lionel was in the bath; he had made as little noise as possible as he got into bed beside her, though she could have slept through an air-raid. He wasn’t sure why he was taking such precautions anyway; if she did wake, there would still be no conversation, and no need to answer the questions that he could feel hanging over him. Questions that would be asked. Sooner or later.
    Her heavy, rhythmic breathing filled the room, and he lay in the darkness, wide awake. He wasn’t convinced that he would ever sleep again, but the worry and the fatiguing drive home had worn him out, and his eyelids grew heavy.
    They shot open again as the dream which had instantly invaded his unconscious mind became unbearable.
Swaths
arrived
of mist hung round the hedgerows as Simon Whitworth home for the second time that evening. Melissa must be
    home this time; the light was on again. But of course, he remembered, he of the carefully contrived alibis had deliberately left it on, as it would have been if he had never been home. Which would, of course, be his story.
    Their house was built at the top of a hill just on the town boundary, where built-up areas gave way to farmers’ fields with sheep grazing, and tiny villages. It