He stopped kissing her and pulled away. She shifted to the edge of the cushion and lowered her feet to the floor, about to stand up, gather her things, walk out. But his eyes were locked on hers, gluing her to the sofa. It was as if she’d been hypnotised, split in two. Part of her wanted to leave but the other part, the part that prevailed, could not move. Paul was looking at her, smiling, waiting for her to act. Without speaking she started to undress. Soon he was down on her with his firm lips and strong tongue.
He pushed himself inside her, burying his face in the cushions. She was staring past the side of his head to the ceiling as he plunged into her. His curly grey hair tickled her cheek. Her mind was drifting. She should never have come. She needed to get home. She no longer knew this man in this bland house that looked like something out of a TV property show. He needed a woman and she could have been anyone. She’d responded from habit and because she didn’t know what else to do. It was too late, but it would soon be over. It was. He slid off her, reaching for the Kleenex on the coffee table. She heard strange gulping sounds, and when she looked up at him, he was sitting with his head bowed over his knees, heaving with sobs. ‘Forgive me, Mel.’
‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself say. And then. ‘I wanted it too.’
‘Not like that.’
‘What is it, Paul?’
He didn’t answer but handed her a bundle of Kleenex, turning away from her as she wiped herself and pulled up her knickers and tights.
‘Do you want to shower?’ he asked. She looked up. His eyes were pink and puffed with tears.
‘No, I’ll do it at home.’ Not here. Not in this house.
‘I’ll take you to the tube.’
‘This minute?’
‘You won’t want to hang around here. I’m no use to anyone.’
‘Christ, Paul, it’s not just about fucking. You’re upset. It happens. It doesn’t matter. I know you’re not like that.’
‘It doesn’t matter?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘No.’ It did, of course. Everything mattered. But he was no longer weeping. That was a relief. She said, ‘I’ll make more tea.’ She stood up and moved to the spotless kitchen area, glanced about her and switched on the kettle. Inside one of the cupboards she found a row of teas, herbal, China, English breakfast. Choosing English breakfast, she put two teabags in cups, poured on boiling water and found milk in the fridge. When she turned around, he was dressed.
They sat with their tea, the air heavy with silence. She stood up. ‘You’re right. We’re both upset. We both have stuff in our lives. It’s not going to work. I shouldn’t have come.’
And he murmured with unexpected tenderness, ‘What stuff?’ When she didn’t reply he added, ‘I’ve been a selfish shit. The least I can do is listen to your stuff.’
She sensed the effort it cost him to speak like this. Whatever he had done, this was an old friend who knew her better than anyone else and she needed a friend. The man with the puffy face who had just fucked her on the family sofa was not the whole man. That was an aberration. What if he had gone a step too far with this student? What if his whole career was on the brink of ruin? Should they not be partners in iniquity? At the very least she could give him time. She asked, ‘Did you hear anything more from Natasha Baker?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Only she’s had an accident. She’s off work.’
‘What sort of accident? Is she OK?’
‘I think so. Sort of. I mean, it was serious, but she seemed OK when we left the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’ He sounded alarmed.
And she told him. Not what she had wanted to tell him. The version she offered him did not bring the sweet unburdening she had longed for, but it was the version that would become increasingly familiar over the next few weeks.
‘So, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. She didn’t hurt me. She tried to, but she fell. She was totally out of control. Doesn’t like being challenged.’
‘Still… going behind your back like that… I mean if she wanted to meet your mother she could have just asked you.’
‘She did. It’s a long story, Paul. She lost my trust months ago, soon after she started. You remember the email. She likes to stir it up.’
‘Lucky she didn’t get the tenancy then. But… did she say anything else?’ A slither of fear ran through his voice. She knew what he was alluding to. Had Natasha mentioned his name? But no, she reassured him, Paul had not featured in the quarrel.
He looked unconvinced, abandoned his tea and stood up to pour himself another whisky. She had been unable to finish her own. It tasted like their last kiss. The distance between them had never felt so vast. How could she tell him about Jacob? She was mad to even consider it.
‘Listen, I ought to go. Jacob will be home and I’ve got to prepare for tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take you to the tube.’
‘I can walk. It’s a nice afternoon.’ She needed to get out of this house.
‘I’ll take you.’ His expression was set, determined and she sensed that he would have her do what was required, and that if she tried to leave now, he would stop her. He handed over her jacket. The crying man had vanished. She was edgy and unsatisfied, and the ludicrous thought came into her head that they might try again. Then she asked herself how and why she could think such a thing. She was beginning to hate him, but she hated herself more.
And she knew why he didn’t want her to walk out alone. It wasn’t worth a confrontation. She’d had enough of confrontations. She followed him to the car. He opened the door and she dropped onto the passenger seat.
He drove quickly away in the comfortable knowledge that none of his neighbours, nor the women on the street with buggies, would have noticed a lone woman in her early forties turning up at his door with a large bag, spending an hour in his house in the middle of the afternoon when his wife was away.
They reached the station car park. He turned off the engine and waited for her to get out. She sensed he was not going to kiss her, not going to suggest another meeting. She sat for a moment, turned and pecked him on an unresponsive cheek. Would he say sorry again? He said nothing.
‘Goodbye, Paul.’
‘Bye, Mel. Let me know how you get on.’
‘You too.’
She opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the pavement. Paul drove off and she stood alone for a few minutes. Commuters scurried out of the tube, jostling past her. The long summer evening rolled out before her.
There was a letter on her doormat when she arrived home. A letter inviting her to attend Tolpuddle Road Police Station at ten a.m. the following Tuesday. Miss Natasha Baker had made a complaint.
Chapter Thirty-five
Mel
Everything about the room was horribly familiar, the grey metal table and chairs, the flickering strip-light, the hard acoustic.
Two male officers introduced themselves; Mel immediately forgot their names. One, sandy-haired, pasty-faced, not much more than twenty years old, made no contribution to the interview other than turning the tape on and off. The other was a coarse-featured man in his thirties whose flat vowels rasped across Mel’s nerves like nails on a blackboard. She forced herself to focus as he outlined the case against her. Neither of the two friends she had called was available and she wasn’t going to accept any old duty solicitor. Better to manage alone.