According to YES (7 page)

It's another Saturday morning, a few weeks later, but this time the twins are making the breakfast with Rosie and Iva, while Glenn and Thomas sit and wait to see what the junior chefs whip up. Pancakes are on the menu, which means that flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, milk, eggs and butter are on the floor. Some of the ingredients have survived and seem to have been sifted, whisked and fried, and with Iva's expert guidance, there is an unruly stack of blueberry pancakes in the centre of the breakfast table, along with a jug of hot maple syrup, some whipped cream and some chopped up fruit in a separate bowl. Red cut up the fruit, so it's his favourites of course, bananas and kiwi fruit only.

The boys and Rosie tumble into their seats around the table, covered in flour and egg, but mighty proud of their culinary prowess. ‘TA-DA!' announces Rosie, ‘Ladles and Jellyspoons, we give you …' and the twins complete it, ‘The Tower of Power! Pancakes to rock your world!'

This is, of course, Glenn's absolute nightmare because now, she HAS to eat. They cooked it, and they are watching, so she must.

Thomas is first to lunge at the Tower, ‘GUYS, Rosie, thanks for this, it looks darn delicious, here I go!' and he helps himself to a few. Glenn does some of her best fake happy smiling, pretends to lick her lips, and also sets about helping herself to a considerably smaller amount.

‘Hey! The cocktail!' shouts Three, as he rushes out to bring in a huge jug of maroon goo he has made in the liquidizer. No-one is quite sure just what his smoothie consists of, but Rosie saw some berries and beetroot and blue m and ms go in there. Rosie takes extra pleasure from watching Glenn attempt a mouthful of this challenging mixture, without visibly retching. More calories are entering Glenn in five minutes than have whizzed around her skeletal physique in the last five years.

‘Where's Dad?' asks Three.

Glenn answers, ‘He's not feeling too good today, so we're going to leave him be. OK?'

‘OK.' The twins agree, resigned to yet another day of no contact with him. Glenn and Thomas and Rosie all know the same thing, which they don't discuss, certainly not here and now. The fact is that Kemble hasn't been home for several days this week, and no-one, including his work colleagues, know where he's been. They are all worried in the Wilder-Bingham household, but as per usual, no-one mentions it.

‘Granma, Granpops, can we ask you something?' says Red.

Thomas stiffens. Please don't let him have to lie to this little guy about his father. ‘Sure.'

‘D'you wanna have a look at the garden? We've started it.'

Rosie intervenes quickly. ‘Guys, hang on. Wouldn't it be better if we wait til we've got it into better shape before we invite guests up there?!'

‘Yes,' agrees Glenn, who clearly doesn't want another commitment beyond this very challenging smoothie/pancake combo today, ‘wait til it's ready. I want to see it when it's all done.'

‘OK,' says a disappointed Red.

‘I'll come and check it out, fellas, just as soon as I've had another twenty of these big ol' boys …' says Thomas as he helps himself to more. He knows he'll feel sick, but so long as the little men are happy, so is he.

‘Teddy would, like, so love these, can we make them again when he's back Rosie?' asks Three.

‘Of course,' she replies.

Half an hour later, puffing, full and nauseous, Thomas climbs through the door at the top of the service steps, out onto the roof where, in one corner there is a three foot by three foot boxed-off planting container about eighteen inches high, full of new earth. There are bags of soil and spades and trowels everywhere and various small new plants in pots waiting to be dug in on the side. It's a holy mess, but the
twins have all the plans bubbling away in their heads, and they excitedly chirrup it all to their grandfather, ‘… a fountain here … some tomatoes here … plants growing up a stick … chairs here … basil … roses for Granma …' on and on they go, running about.

Thomas whispers to Rosie, ‘This is great, kid. Look at 'em, they're really into it.'

Rosie is delighted, ‘There's nothing like a bit of planting to remind you of what matters, and, y'know … take your mind off stuff.'

‘That's right, he says, ‘and, er, I just wanted to give you this. He quietly hands her a small envelope. ‘I hope I've … got it right … come on you guys, back downstairs …' and he wrangles the boys back through the door, glancing at her over his shoulder before he dips out of sight.

Thomas is suddenly gone, and Rosie is left holding the en­velope, which she slowly starts to open. What is it? Is he giving her some money towards the garden? Why is he behaving so surreptitiously? Why did that last glance so interest her? What
is
this?

She slides her finger under the fold and rips it back carefully.

Not money, but a letter …

Rosie reads.

Goosebumps …

Rosie doesn't come down to this lower part of Manhattan very much, she's only just becoming familiar with the few blocks on the Upper East Side where the Wilder-Binghams live. She has visited Broadway and Soho a little bit, on days off, and she has come to know parts of Central Park, but China­town and, below that, the Financial District are unknown territory. This boutique hotel in Tribeca is unlike anywhere she has stayed. For a start, it's very dark. When she walks off the busy St Patrick's Day-crazy street, into the lobby, Rosie genuinely thinks they must surely be having a problem with their generator, she can hardly see a thing. Or perhaps she was having a brain haemorrhage? Then she notices that attractive people were sitting about in big purple velvet armchairs on flat animal skin rugs, in front of a roaring fire drinking green cocktails, regarding the very low light as perfectly alright. So it must be.

She makes her way to the dark lifts and exits at the sixth
floor, which is also very ‘atmospheric'. Rosie feels she might be on the set of
Mad Men
– the whole vibe of the hotel is retro sixties with the odd modern twist, especially the art. Intriguing art, which you would never choose, and which intimidates you, and insists that you admire it, otherwise you're stupid, right?

And now here she is, at the door of room 610, her heart beating fast and her hands clammy. She is carrying a very heavy bag, full of gardening books, with all her senses on high alert and certain in the knowledge that a moment like this simultaneously carries you forward and offers you no way back, she … eventually … knocks.

A pause.

Oh God, a pause.

Is it OK?

The door opens … it's Thomas, with eighty-three years of hopefulness glowing on his concerned face. They smile nervously at each other, and he stands back to let her in. She steps past him while he closes the door, and she stands still with her back at the wall. He stands opposite her in the narrow entrance hall to the suite, with his back at the other wall. They hold one another's gaze, unflinchingly, each hoping against hope that they haven't horribly misread the other.

They haven't.

The attraction is palpable, and just as her back leaves the safety of the wall to move towards him, so too does his. He has
to stoop to kiss her, but her willing puts her on her tiptoes to meet him at the lips. In one rush, so much happens, so much is suddenly known. She learns that the skin on his face is soft, but his lips are firm, she learns that he is nervous and eager, she learns that he smells like limes up close, she learns that he murmurs whilst he kisses, and she learns that her arms barely meet when they are wrapped around his great ursine torso. His kisses are light and many to begin with, and as he gradually believes her consent, he risks the real deep kissing he has missed so much, and Rosie submits happily.

Later, after, it's dusk and the room is slowly turning orange. Thomas and Rosie lie naked and easy together, their legs still entwined, but their bodies separate, seeking out the cool of the sheets. The sweat is drying on their skin, and they can hear each other's short gasps returning to normal breathing again. They've done it, they've had sex, they've crossed the line. Here they lie, masculine and feminine, now known to each other in the most intimate way, in the way they can never unknow. They lie quietly like this for some time, letting the actuality of it sink in, letting it be wonderful, and right now, letting it be … this.

Rosie is thinking, ‘So that's what it's like to do it with a much older man. Well, with this man. He takes his time, he knows
where everything is, and he puts in lots of effort, and best of all, thank you God or Venus or whoever, he knows himself so well that he isn't embarrassed or shy. He lets me know what he wants and he isn't afraid to ask for it. He
talks
to me, looking me right in the eyes, and tells me what he likes. Oh my god, he told me that my body was “made for love” and that the touch of my flesh sent his senses “spinning” and that the hollows at the back of my knees are “the most erotic thing” he's ever seen. Bloody hell! Something about how comfortable he is in his own skin makes him utterly gorgeous. I love how hefty he is, and how tender, and how … just
how
he is.'

Thomas is thinking, ‘What a woman, so irresistibly plump and inviting … and so completely unashamed. She actually
wants
to make love, she
wants
pleasure, she
wants
me. She's a cascade of a person, full of light, and … look, she lit me up. At last. Nothing was difficult or awkward, it was so … natural. I can say anything. I did. I said everything that was in my mind, and it was OK. More than OK. It was great. And I love the smell of her hair …
all
her hair. She has real English pubic hair, soft and curly and unshaved. And I love the fullness and the taste of her lips …
all
her lips. She's – fresh and salty. Christ, she's something else, and for this little chink of time, she's mine.'

Rosie rolls in towards him and lovingly cups her hand over his cock.

‘Hey, you're shaking,' she says.

‘It's my age, things shake.' He says.

‘You're getting cold, come on,' she pulls the sheet around them both, and cuddles into his shoulder. Gradually, he stops shaking and warms up.

‘I'm amazed by this, just so you know…' he reassures her, ‘Amazed. Thanks for … turning up. I wasn't sure you would.'

She sighs, ‘I wanted this as much as you. I just didn't realize until I read your letter. But I knew straight away that you'd take care, of this … of me …, of us …. that it would be really private. And I knew that you saw the real me, the same way I believed I saw you. It's need, isn't it? With both of us. How could I resist? And anyway, the timing is great, because you are lying next to a person who has just recently decided to live her life according to yes. Enough of “better not” and “thanks but no”, I'm trying “yes please” for size.'

‘That's good,' he strokes her nice-smelling hair. They can hear strains of ‘Danny Boy' in the streets outside. He holds his hand up as if to grab the orange light. ‘Everyone else seems to love a sunset. Postcards. Photos. Sunsets all over the world. I hate them. Don't get me wrong, I know it's pretty 'n' all that, and … natural … and … God even, but I don't appreciate the light seeping away from me like that, deserting me. No thanks. Keep your sunsets. I'll take noon every time. Seriously. I get why wolves howl.'

‘Why?'

‘They are crying, grieving the end of another day of glorious
light. They are yelling at the moon, for celebrating another day gone,' he explains.

‘No-one's stopping you from howling,' she teases him, ‘howl all you like.'

Thomas lowers his arm and lets his finger circle Rosie's nipple, which instantly responds by bunching up and out for more. It sends a shiver of delight right through Rosie.

‘There are other, more pressing things I'd rather do,' his deep voice buzzes in her ear.

‘Right.' She puts her hand over his. ‘Are there? Are there things you really want to do?'

‘Well,' he thinks about it, ‘what, you want me to tell you now?'

‘Yeah, I think so. You were inside me twenty minutes ago. I'm supposing now would be as good a time as ever to do the “getting to know you” stuff? Whaddyathink?'

He laughs at her cheek, and lies back to properly think. ‘OK,' he says, finally. ‘Let me see. I want to wear shorts to board meetings.'

Rosie chips in immediately, ‘But you're one of the founding partners of your company, your name is in the title, pass a law: “shorts can be worn”. Ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom. Done. Next.'

‘OK. I want to play electric guitar again, I used to be in a band …'

‘Course you did. Name of band?'

‘The Right Solutions,' he is nearly proud.

‘Hilarious. Appalling. That's achievable easily.'

‘I guess so. I want to go on a date with Nicole Kidman and have her beg me not to go home, I want a motorbike …'

‘No! Cliché. Not allowed.'

‘OK. I want to drink absinthe and sleep in a field under a huge moon. I want to dance a waltz.'

‘Oh please promise they're not
all
sentimental.'

‘No. No.' He thinks hard. ‘No. Well, yes, but no. I want to paint a portrait, a good one.'

‘Can you paint?'

‘No, but I would love to. And I want to hold a younger, stronger man down in osaekomi-waza, it's a judo hold. I want to get it so right that he can't move at all, be in charge with skill and device, not just brute force. Would love that, and know what? I'd love to dye my …' He nearly says it, but his smile fades, and Rosie slumps a little as it does. He continues, ‘Listen to me. I want, I want. It's all too late anyway. There's no time …'

Rosie kisses his big chest and looks deep into his eyes. She dares him, ‘Oh, we have time. We have plenty of time. So finish that sentence, please …'

It seems you can find anything in downtown New York. Half an hour later, Thomas is sitting on a chair, naked except for a draped towel. Rosie is dressed and sits on the edge of the bath
next to him. She flicks off a rubber glove cheekily, and asks, ‘Any burning, sir?'

He looks up at her, wide-eyed, ‘Believe me, if there was any burning you'd know about it, Toots.' They sit in silence and look at the towel.

‘Your turn,' he says.

Rosie knows he is inviting her to reciprocate and open up about herself. She smiles fondly at him, shaking her head and fiddling with the rubber glove. ‘Honestly, Thomas, I'm better off as a bit of a mystery. The actual truth is a bit boring.'

He stares at her as if to push the matter, but it doesn't work, so he softens, and tentatively asks, ‘Is there someone? At home?'

‘Do you mean physically or mentally?'

‘Why are you British always so evasive? You know I'm asking if there's someone special in your life …'

‘No. Yes. Not sure.'

‘One of each. OK. Is that why we did this?' He kisses her hand, just to reassure her there's no judgement in his question, just a need to understand her.

Rosie isn't ready to be entirely understood just yet. ‘We did this because there's a funfair in those eyes of yours.' She stands over him, and takes his lovely big face in her hands and kisses his lips fully, savouring every lavish moment of it, mingling her tongue with his in succulent shared bliss. When they break apart, she looks under the towel, and says, ‘What if the missus sees this?'

It's the first time Glenn has entered the room, and Rosie is aware of how uncomfortable that is, but she's not one to pretend the difficult stuff away. Glenn is part of the truth of all this.

Thomas responds, ‘Not much chance of that. We stopped the naked together stuff years ago. We used to, yes … but the nightclothes slowly crept in … like the hairy ears and the enlarged prostate … mine not hers.'

‘And I'm not the first, am I?' questions Rosie.

He half smiles in a sad way, then he suddenly winces.

‘OK, now there is a slight, hot … ness …' Rosie looks under the towel and clasps her hand to her face. He continues, ‘If this all ends in my death, I want you to make up something very dignified.' He suddenly looks like an excited boy up to no good. A timer bell rings on his watch.

‘And rinse!' says Rosie, as Thomas drops the towel and steps into the shower.

Much later in the evening, back in the apartment kitchen, Rosie is tucking into a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup she picked up in a Vietnamese grocery store on the way home. However much she uses these stores, she cannot get used to the bounty they offer, so different to corner shops in Cornwall. At home, she'd be lucky to get a decent block of cheddar and
some Twiglets for a munchie. Here there are deli counters and hot cheesy pizzas and Chinese food and meatloaf and aisle upon aisle of soups and salads and sandwiches. For a woman with a thumping appetite, all of this choice is dizzying. Rosie thinks it a crime to pass an ice-cream fridge without giving a home to a tub or two who might … otherwise be rejected. So here she sits, cosy in the kitchen, scoffing her soup from the cardboard shop container. Iva has, unusually, chosen to sit with her, and is tucking into kielbasa sausage and sauerkraut which she cooks in beer. She looks at Rosie.

‘What?' says Rosie.

‘What?' says Iva.

‘You're staring at me, Iva.'

‘Free to look, isn't it? No tax on that. Just watching you with the soup, you are liking, yes? Liking so much, like you have not eaten food for three years. Hungry, hungry. You must have busy day, no?'

‘It's my day off.'

‘OK. So, you been doing what? Walking or shopping or what? To make you so hungry?'

‘I've just been enjoying myself, Iva.'

‘Enjoying yourself. Yes. I can see somebody is happy.'

‘When is your day off?'

‘Tuesday.'

‘What will you do?'

‘I go to Greenpoint. In Brooklyn. Little Poland, and I eat with
my friends. I can speak there. We speak. My language. And I go to my bank. Put my money there, for my plane home three weeks in summer.'

‘Oh, lovely. So you will see your daughter?'

‘Yes, I will see.'

‘When did you see her last?'

‘The summer before.'

‘Last summer? Blimey. That's a long time.'

‘Yes, she live with my sister, and I will bring her to America for college.'

‘Oh, that will be great. How old is she?'

‘Fourteen.'

‘Do you have a picture? What's her name?'

A pause. It all becomes a bit too difficult for Iva.

‘No. I keep her for me. No photo, no name for you. Just for here …' Iva pats her heart, and gets up to wash her plate.

‘Sorry, Iva, I didn't mean to pry or upset you. It must be so hard for you.'