explain before he has the chance to ask. ‘It’s been a strange couple of weeks.’
‘I understand completely,’ he says, resting a hand on mine. But because it’s not Murray’s hand, because it’s an unfamiliar hand, I freeze – feeling guilty for liking it – and my whole body tenses.
David squeezes my fingers and goes to place our order at the bar. I watch him standing there – at least six feet tall, maybe more – telling the young waitress how he likes his steak, ordering more drinks. I also notice the way his body language suggests to me that he could be flirting, making her giggle, knowing exactly how to get his steak the way he likes it. It’s harmless, I tell myself, and stare at the flames as he returns to the table.
‘All sorted,’ he says, placing a new drink in front of me. I want to ask if he knows the young girl but that would be rude. He’s a doctor; he’s bound to know people of all ages in the community.
We chat nonstop. About where we’ve travelled, what our favourite books and films are, what sport we like – a kind of skirting around each other’s lives in a mix of genuine laughter and warmth but so far at a safe distance. Our meals soon arrive. We eat, glancing up at each other with food balanced on our forks – me trying not to spill anything and David tucking into his rare steak. Conversation flows as if we have decades of catching-up to do.
‘So am I your first?’ he asks. The crab falls off my fork and splats into the salsa. ‘Meal out since you and Murray separated,’ he says, underlining what I should have known. He didn’t say date , I notice; no implication of any strings attached. I feel slightly empty.
‘Yes.’ It sounds as if I’m confessing to having no experience at a job interview. ‘Murray and I have . . . well, we were together for a long time. Meeting other people isn’t so easy when you’ve . . .’ Do I admit Murray was my first and my only lover? ‘When you’ve only had . . .’ I can’t do it. ‘Murray and I were childhood sweethearts.’ David seems intrigued by this bit of news. ‘You can understand that it’s hard for me to . . .’ I’m trying to let him know I see this evening as a date – the first of many, I hope. But I just can’t say it outright, in case he doesn’t feel the same.
‘Of course I understand.’ His eyes say it all. They are full of compassion. ‘So, I imagine that Murray would know you better than anyone else.’ He rests his knife and fork down.
‘I guess,’ I reply, drenched in my husband once again. A deep breath, half a glass of pineapple juice, a visit to the ladies’ – it all helps me not think about Murray. I have to concentrate on why I am out with David, and really, it shouldn’t be so hard.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ I say to myself in the mirror above the washbasin. I wipe off the remainder of my lipstick. I don’t want it to smudge. ‘So stop being so bloody stupid.’
One glance at him across the room rights my feelings as I return to our table. I get on with my meal – him offering me a mouthful of the legendary steak on his fork ; me tentatively asking if he’d like to try a crab cake. We laugh when it falls on to the table. All the while I can’t help wondering how the evening is going to end.
An hour or so later, David helps me into my coat and we leave the warm pub for the windswept street. The cold air is welcome after the crowded bar. Anything to blow away the moment when we part, don’t part, kiss, don’t kiss. ‘Look, do you fancy a ten-minute walk?’ He’s drawing it out. He starts walking anyway, as if it’s a given.
‘Sure,’ I say too quickly and he hooks his arm through mine when I catch up.
The streets of Burwell are quiet. It’s a pretty place, with everything you’d expect in a Cambridgeshire village; a place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. Except maybe tonight.
‘You’ve changed your name already,’ David says.
I recall the fuss that
‘I understand completely,’ he says, resting a hand on mine. But because it’s not Murray’s hand, because it’s an unfamiliar hand, I freeze – feeling guilty for liking it – and my whole body tenses.
David squeezes my fingers and goes to place our order at the bar. I watch him standing there – at least six feet tall, maybe more – telling the young waitress how he likes his steak, ordering more drinks. I also notice the way his body language suggests to me that he could be flirting, making her giggle, knowing exactly how to get his steak the way he likes it. It’s harmless, I tell myself, and stare at the flames as he returns to the table.
‘All sorted,’ he says, placing a new drink in front of me. I want to ask if he knows the young girl but that would be rude. He’s a doctor; he’s bound to know people of all ages in the community.
We chat nonstop. About where we’ve travelled, what our favourite books and films are, what sport we like – a kind of skirting around each other’s lives in a mix of genuine laughter and warmth but so far at a safe distance. Our meals soon arrive. We eat, glancing up at each other with food balanced on our forks – me trying not to spill anything and David tucking into his rare steak. Conversation flows as if we have decades of catching-up to do.
‘So am I your first?’ he asks. The crab falls off my fork and splats into the salsa. ‘Meal out since you and Murray separated,’ he says, underlining what I should have known. He didn’t say date , I notice; no implication of any strings attached. I feel slightly empty.
‘Yes.’ It sounds as if I’m confessing to having no experience at a job interview. ‘Murray and I have . . . well, we were together for a long time. Meeting other people isn’t so easy when you’ve . . .’ Do I admit Murray was my first and my only lover? ‘When you’ve only had . . .’ I can’t do it. ‘Murray and I were childhood sweethearts.’ David seems intrigued by this bit of news. ‘You can understand that it’s hard for me to . . .’ I’m trying to let him know I see this evening as a date – the first of many, I hope. But I just can’t say it outright, in case he doesn’t feel the same.
‘Of course I understand.’ His eyes say it all. They are full of compassion. ‘So, I imagine that Murray would know you better than anyone else.’ He rests his knife and fork down.
‘I guess,’ I reply, drenched in my husband once again. A deep breath, half a glass of pineapple juice, a visit to the ladies’ – it all helps me not think about Murray. I have to concentrate on why I am out with David, and really, it shouldn’t be so hard.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ I say to myself in the mirror above the washbasin. I wipe off the remainder of my lipstick. I don’t want it to smudge. ‘So stop being so bloody stupid.’
One glance at him across the room rights my feelings as I return to our table. I get on with my meal – him offering me a mouthful of the legendary steak on his fork ; me tentatively asking if he’d like to try a crab cake. We laugh when it falls on to the table. All the while I can’t help wondering how the evening is going to end.
An hour or so later, David helps me into my coat and we leave the warm pub for the windswept street. The cold air is welcome after the crowded bar. Anything to blow away the moment when we part, don’t part, kiss, don’t kiss. ‘Look, do you fancy a ten-minute walk?’ He’s drawing it out. He starts walking anyway, as if it’s a given.
‘Sure,’ I say too quickly and he hooks his arm through mine when I catch up.
The streets of Burwell are quiet. It’s a pretty place, with everything you’d expect in a Cambridgeshire village; a place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. Except maybe tonight.
‘You’ve changed your name already,’ David says.
I recall the fuss that
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