Amherst (22 page)

They walk on. She finds she’s shivering, with shock or excitement or both.

“There are limits,” she says.

“If you say so.”

“Don’t tell me if I’d said yes you’d have just dropped your jeans and got down to it.”

“I don’t need to drop my jeans,” he says. “Just undo a few buttons.”

“Well, I do. If I was going to. Which I’m not.”

“Yes,” he says. “You’d have to pull your jeans down to below your knees. And your knickers.”

“That’s enough. I get the picture.”

The trail winds on before them, following the bends of the river gorge. After a while they meet a pair of middle-aged women hikers, in serious boots, walking with Leki sticks. They nod and exchange greetings as they pass.

“There,” says Alice. “They’d have seen us.”

“What if they had?” says Nick.

“I’d have died!”

He seems to be genuinely puzzled by this.

“But why? You don’t know them. You don’t care what they think about you. And anyway, how’d you know they wouldn’t have liked it? A lot of people rather like sex.”

“If you don’t understand,” says Alice, “I can’t explain. It’s just . . . it’s just private.”

Despite her protestations she finds the idea lodges in her mind. She imagines it, in detail: his jacket thrown onto the carpet of leaves, her tight jeans tugged down her thighs, his buttons undone one by one. The trees, half undressed like herself, rising tall on either side. The rush and roar of the river.

Maybe one day, she thinks. When I’m braver.

As they drive back she says, “I’ve no objection to doing it the normal way, in a bed.”

What she means is: I’m excited now. I want you to fuck me.

“The normal way?”

“Okay. The comfortable way.”

“You know what I think we should do?” he says. “I think we should have a party. A celebration.”

“For who?”

“For you and me. Can you dance?”

“Of course I can dance.”

“No, I mean real dancing. Not just making it up as you go along.”

“What, like ballroom dancing?”

“Yes. Like waltzing.”

“No one can do that anymore.”

“I can.”

This is so much not her picture of Nick that she bursts out laughing.

“Are you serious? You can waltz?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s romantic. Because it’s beautiful.”

“Oh, Nick. You never stop surprising me. Sex in the woods. Ballroom dancing.”

“I could teach you.”

“Really?”

“Then I could dance with you.”

“What, now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll give it a go.”

But what about the fuck?

So the day that began in a forest changes scene to a ballroom. Nick’s house, or Nick’s soon-to-be ex-wife’s house, has a pair of linked rooms easily big enough for a ball. Nick pushes back the furniture and rolls up the rugs. He puts a CD of
Best-Loved Waltzes
on the music system, and he takes Alice in his arms, and he teaches her to dance. They’re still in their jeans, the jeans they didn’t drop in the forest, but now her body is pressed tight against his. Nick teaches her almost entirely without words, using slight pressure on her body to indicate to her how and where to move, and making the lead steps with short clear movements himself. After some initial stumbling she finds she’s picking up the basic pattern, letting him nudge her a step back, a step to the side, round, all in time to the beat of the music.

“There,” he says. “That’s the turn. Not hard, is it?”

They dance on. He holds her strongly in his arms, virtually carrying her through the unexpected rotations. The more they do it, the more her body responds.

“Don’t think about the steps,” he says. “Your body knows better than your brain.”

Somewhere a phone rings. They ignore it. The dance absorbs them entirely.

“What’s the music?” Alice says, realizing she knows the tune.

“Right now? This is the waltz from
The Godfather
.”

One track ends, another begins. One dance ends, another begins.

“You know this?” He’s sailing her round the room.

“Of course,” she says. “It’s ‘Edelweiss.’ From
The Sound of Music
.”

“I thought you might be too young for it.”

“Everyone knows
The Sound of Music
. All girls do, anyway. Oh, Nick. You do keep on surprising me.”

“Tonight we’ll dance to the real thing. Lehár. Strauss.”

“Why? What’s happening tonight?”

“We’re going to have a real ball.”

He’s her leader. She rests in his arms and moves as he wants her to move. Her body knows better than her brain.

“Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” she says.

On his instructions she goes up to her room and showers and changes into the only smart frock she has brought with her, a tight-fitting black jersey dress. She takes trouble over her hair and face. This is a big date. She’s invited to a ball.

Still children at play, but why not?

When she comes downstairs, she finds he has transformed the big rooms into a wonderland. The drapes are closed, and candles glow in candelabras on side tables and windowsills, on the covered
piano, on the two mantelpieces. Nick himself has changed. He wears a dinner jacket, with a dress shirt and a black bow tie. He stands there in the candlelight looking impossibly handsome, watching her descend the wide stairs, smiling with admiration.

“How beautiful you are,” he says, holding out his hand.

He draws her into his arms and kisses her.

“I like this game,” she says.

“This isn’t a game,” he says. “This is our very own ball.”

He turns to a side table, and there she sees a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He fills the glasses and hands one to her.

“Honestly, Nick,” she says, “don’t you think your routine needs updating?”

She sees a shadow cross his face, and realizes she’s hurt him. This is not what she expected.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s only because I’m having a little trouble with my self-image here. I have to keep telling myself it’s a game in case I find out I like it too much.”

“I want you to like it,” he says. “I want this to be one of the most wonderful evenings of your life.”

“But why, Nick?”

“No reason.”

He raises his glass to hers.

“To a magical night of love,” he says.

“What an old romantic you are!”

“Stop it, Alice. Just let me lead.”

“Yes, Nick.” He’s holding her eyes so intently. Why not surrender? God knows, she wants to. “To a magical night of love.”

They clink glasses and drink.

“Do we get to eat, in our magical night?”

“No,” he says. “Just champagne, and music.”

He starts the music. He’s turned the volume up since the afternoon, and the sound of the orchestra fills the room. He puts away her glass, and his own. He takes her in his arms. The slow majestic chords of the “Emperor Waltz” sweep them away down the candlelit spaces, and all at once Alice feels as if she’s flying. There’s no effort involved, all she has to do is surrender to his controlling arms. When the change comes, and the orchestra bursts into a more urgent rhythm, she finds herself spinning as she dances, half falling, losing the beat, finding it again, laughing, holding tight, feeling his arms forever hurtling her onwards. Now back comes the slower tune, and they float together gracefully, smiling into each other’s eyes, sharing the joke that they’ve never done this before, and yet here they are, moving together as if they were born to dance.

When the waltz finishes, Nick pours them each a second glass of champagne.

“You really mean it,” she says. “Just champagne and music.”

“How d’you like it so far?”

“I love it.”

Her eyes shining like a girl of sixteen at her first ball. Which this is, when she thinks about it.

“I should be wearing a long, floaty white dress.”

“I should be wearing tails.”

“This really is fun, Nick. Thank you.”

More music, more dancing, this time to Lehár’s “Gold and Silver Waltz.” Alice feels herself glowing, with the champagne and the spinning dance and the sensation of Nick’s gaze on her.

Even if I’m not really beautiful, he makes me feel beautiful.

All at once she’s flooded with gratitude. The feeling is so overwhelming you could almost call it love.

Round and round they go, up and down the long rooms in the soft glow of the candles, and the real world recedes into the far distance.

It’s only a kind of dream. It means nothing. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“Are you seducing me, Nick?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You don’t have to. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I ask you to be happy.”

“I’m happy.”

More champagne. More music. “The Merry Widow.” “Tales from the Vienna Woods.” Then at last the “Blue Danube,” and Nick sets a wild pace, turning, spinning, reversing, skipping, leaving her gasping for breath as she follows wherever he goes. By now she trusts him completely, so that it feels to her as if he alone is causing her to fly about the room. And so with the last great chords of the waltz, as they spin to a standstill, she falls helplessly into his arms, flushed and panting, and waits to be kissed.

“Is it over?”

A voice small as a child’s. That’s what it does to you: you’re ready to hand yourself over on a plate.

“Yes. It’s over now.”

“But our magical night isn’t over?”

“Almost,” he says.

He leads her to one of the deep couches he pushed against the wall, and they sink down among the soft cushions.

“I want you to kiss me, Nick.”

He kisses her. She holds him close, needing to feel all of him.

“I’m not in love with you, Nick.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

“But you are lovely. Thank you for my magical night.”

“My magical night too.”

“I’m not at all hungry.”

“Me neither.”

“Will we sleep together tonight?”

“If that’s what you’d like.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’d like that.”

She snuggles into him. She thinks what a nice smell he has. Her body can still feel his body pressed to hers, spinning round the dance floor.

“Will we do it again?” she says. “Now you’ve taught me.”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

Why not? Is he going away? It comes to her then that he’s planned this whole evening, the candles and the champagne and the dancing, for a purpose. It’s a valediction.

“Are you going away?”

“Yes,” he says.

“When?”

“Soon.”

Now she knows her instinct is right.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan.”

That’s the plan. So all along there’s been a plan. She feels the dread gathering in her stomach. She shuts her eyes, and has a short, sharp tussle with herself.

Get a grip. He’s not your boyfriend. You’re not in love with him. He’s free to go when he likes, where he likes.

“So what’s this plan?”

“I suppose it comes under the general heading of moving on.”

“You’re leaving this house?”

“This is Peggy’s house. She’s been very tolerant. But I should go.”

“Where will you go?”

He doesn’t answer that. So she’s not to know. Not to know and not to follow.

Hold on tight. This is not a tragedy. You’ve had some fun. It was never meant to last.

“Will you be okay?” she says.

That touches him, her concern for him. He strokes her cheek.

“Yes. I’ll be okay.”

“I think there’s a bit of you that could be quite sad,” she says.

“You’re right there.”

But you’re not sad with me. We have fun together. We have magical nights.

“Will I see you again?” she says.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You might be in England one day. I might come back here.”

Nothing from Nick. She tries to stop the feeling but it’s there. A little hurt, a little angry.

“If we’re never to see each other again, what was the point of tonight?”

“Oh, Alice. Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m only asking.”

“Can’t we just have a good time together, without it being some kind of down payment on something more?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, we can.”

She feels ashamed; she hadn’t meant to sound needy. But then she thinks, It’s not being needy. If you have a good time with someone, it’s natural to want to do it again. It doesn’t mean you’re in love or anything.

“I’m just saying we had fun,” she says. “That’s all.”

“I wanted to see if I could make someone happy,” he says. “At least for one night.”

“You can,” she says. “You did.”

Someone was happy. Someone loved it more than she had allowed for. Someone is now wanting it not to end.

“Nick, if you’re going away, does that mean I should leave too?”

“No, not at all,” he says. “I’ve spoken to Peggy. The room’s yours as long as you want it.”

“So I’d be in the house alone?”

“Actually, I think Peggy’s planning on coming back any day now. Maybe tomorrow.”

This is all so strange. He speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, but she’s never met Peggy, and Peggy was his wife, and she is or was his lover, however briefly.

“There’s something else you should know,” he says. “Tonight’s meant a lot to me. You’ve been wonderful. Everything I could have wished for. Thank you.”

“Thank you too, Nick.”

Then for no reason at all she starts to cry. She stops herself as soon as she realizes it’s happening, and snuffles a bit, and dabs away the tears.

“Too much champagne,” she says. “I’m falling apart.”

“Let’s go up.”

She sleeps with him that night in the big bed in the master bedroom. They make love without words, holding each other close, and for the moment it’s as if they’re dancing again. Then they sleep.

•  •  •

In the morning she wakes to find herself alone. She gets up and goes downstairs. The yard door is open, the screen door propped back with a duffel bag. Nick is carrying stuff out to his truck.

She stands shivering in the cold breeze, watching him load his life into the truck. Then he’s done and he comes and gives her a good-bye kiss.