Kissing Through a Pane of Glass (14 page)

To see her after six months in that place is a heartbreaking sight. She is calm, certainly; almost docile. Like someone who has completely given up on life, she has the appearance of a ghost - frail, almost translucent. Her hair is lank, her eyes are dull, her lips cracked and dry. After a week with me in London, she becomes transformed. We buy new clothes; we go to the hairdresser, the manicurist, the solarium. We buy make-up, shoes, perfumes. Like a withering plant that is finally given water and sustenance, Liana bursts once again into life, becoming her old, radiant self. That is when we start to visit friends. Liana sparkles like a polished diamond on these occasions, her fast wit eager to engage with the people she most cares about.

And of course, she looks as ravishing as ever; in fact, in my eyes, as Liana heads towards mid-life, she has taken on an even more alluring beauty, a mature sophistication that, whilst no longer setting the heart off at a gallop, lingers insidiously in the mind. It is a beauty that is recalled long after she has disappeared from view.

Keeping up the pretence is particularly hard work, especially with our oldest friends like Adam and Emma. After all, where exactly does Liana go for the winter? We have a simple but clever lie. Devon: an artists’ colony, a retreat, way out in the heart of the countryside, where she paints and sculpts and enjoys the company of like- minded people.

And as if to add credence to the lie, whenever we go visiting, Liana always brings along one of her paintings. She is still immensely gifted in this field, and her work, which is easily accessible, always elicits words of praise and admiration from our friends which, of course, Liana adores. To see her, if only for one evening, basking in the warmth and love of these true companions, to see her happy, laughing, is worth all the sorrow and hardship that invariably follows.

For a few hours once, maybe twice a week, Liana can be completely normal and content, without fear or terror, and there is no price one can put on such a thing.

My parents greeted my return home with a mixture of shock, surprise and delight. I had not had time whilst in Delhi to call them - everything had been so rushed - and besides, trying to place an international call from India was something of a hit and miss affair at the best of times.

When my parents asked me why I had returned early, I stalled them, saying only that my trip had been great, that I’d had a wonderful time, but that it was all a bit overwhelming. I cited exhaustion as the main reason for leaving India, and if you had seen the state of me when I arrived back you would not have doubted it for a moment.

I was tired, jetlagged and dirty, but as soon as I’d managed to convince Mum and Dad that I was alive and well, I made my excuses and went out to phone Liana. I could have made the call from home, but that would have entailed explanations, and I did not consider it the right time for love stories.

I could barely contain my excitement as I raced up the High Road to the phone box. It had only been a day or two since I’d last seen Liana, but already I was missing her. On the plane journey I had whiled away the seemingly endless hours envisaging various scenarios for the two of us - all wish-fulfilment stuff, wild fantasising in some instances.

I saw us living in a beautiful thatched cottage, nestled away in the heart of the Cotswolds, Liana in her studio turning out saleable masterpieces, I in the study churning out literary bestsellers. We would have a beautiful garden (that, being an English fantasy, was green, glorious and required no attention what- soever) in which we would frolic during the long, hot summers. We would have friends over for dinner parties - writers, artists, people from the theatre and television, as well as dear old friends from school and university days.

During the winters we would take long holidays to exotic locations and bask beneath a tropical sun, returning only to the crispest of wintry days, with snow-covered fields and bright blue skies. We would huddle together on a soft rug in front of the open log fire and drink expensive cognac. We would make love by candlelight and count our myriad blessings. It would be, I knew, a perfect life.

By the time I had reached the phone box the skies had grown dark and the first few spots of rain fell on to my bare arms - I was still dressed for India - and the coldness sent a shiver up my spine. The mix of nerves and anticipation, along with my general tiredness, caused me to dial the wrong number no less than three times, but on the fourth attempt a woman answered the phone with a very polite, “Four seven six four”, and I knew I was through to Liana’s home.

‘Is that Mrs Rogers?’ I asked as politely as possible.

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but would it be possible to speak to Liana?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. I wasn’t quite sure what Mrs Rogers said next, although I believe it was:

‘She’s not in at the moment. Can I take a message?’

I was, to say the least, disappointed that Liana was out; I hadn’t expected there to be any delay in restarting our relationship.

‘Could you tell her that Michael phoned - she has my number - and if she gets home before, say, midnight, could you ask her to call me?’

I wandered back to the house in the light rain, suddenly very weary with all that had happened. My enthusiasm and expectations had kept me going until then, but now I realised just how tired and jetlagged I was. Still, at least Liana was home, safe and sound, and it would be just a matter of hours before I’d hear from her.

I spent the rest of the evening talking to my parents about India and my experiences there. I told them about Liana, without going into any details, and mentioned that she might phone sometime.

By ten o’clock I was fighting to stay awake. Liana hadn’t called, and even if she were to it was unlikely that I’d be capable of intelligent conversation, so I decided to turn in. Mum and Dad would be staying up, so if Liana phoned they were to explain that I’d gone to bed and would talk to her in the morning.

As soon as my head hit the pillow I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and did not wake until ten the next morning.

***

With all the travelling and time changes I’d experienced in the previous few days, I had completely lost track of what day it was, so when I finally descended the stairs, heavy-lidded and dry-mouthed, I was a bit surprised to find my father sitting in the kitchen with a half-filled coffee cup, reading the papers.

‘Good morning,’ he said chirpily. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘With a vengeance,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

He smiled. ‘I live here.’

Always the joker. ‘No work?’

‘It’s Saturday, Michael.’

‘Oh,’ I muttered. My head still felt thick with sleep. I slumped on to a chair, hoping someone would appear to offer me sustenance.

‘Coffee?’ said Dad, as if he’d read my mind.

‘Please.’

‘Coming up. You must still be exhausted.’

‘I do feel a bit dozy. By the way, did anyone phone last night?’

Dad shook his head. ‘Mum and I were up until midnight, but no one rang. Perhaps your friend didn’t get home until late.’

I nodded. It seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation, but somehow I didn’t feel completely happy about it.

The coffee worked wonders, and by eleven o’clock I was beginning to feel vaguely human again. I showered, dressed, and then made the first of several abortive attempts to phone Liana. On each occasion the line was engaged, and by one o’clock I was so frustrated at not being able to speak to her that I decided to go down to Surrey and call on her in person.

I could not understand why she hadn’t tried to call. Even if her mother had failed to give her the message, Liana knew when I would be arriving home. I wasn’t sure whether I should be worried or angry, and it was only as I left the house that I realised anger was an inappropriate response: Liana would not have forgotten, nor deliberately chosen to remain incommunicado. There would be a simple explanation, I was sure. There had to be.

It took rather longer to get to Godalming than expected and, as I was totally unfamiliar with the town, I decided to take a taxi to the address Liana had given me. The driver was familiar with Lisburn Crescent, and twenty minutes later I was standing outside number seventeen, a rather impressive Georgian house with a huge, manicured front lawn and neatly trimmed hedges. As I strode up the gravel driveway to the front door I couldn’t help but smile: Liana hadn’t mentioned that her family was so ostentatiously well-to-do

I was nervous with anticipation as I rang the doorbell. I suddenly had doubts about the propriety of turning up unannounced. Perhaps I should have tried to call from the station, at least to warn the occupants that I was on my way?

I did not have much time to concern myself with such thoughts, as at that moment the door was opened by a very attractive young woman. She had shoulder-length dark hair, deep brown eyes, full, rather sensual lips. She was wearing a white sweatshirt and tight blue jeans which revealed a very pleasing shape. I noticed that she was barefoot.

‘Ah, hello,’ I said a little uncertainly. ‘Is this the Rogers’ household?’ It sounded ridiculous talking this way, and I felt sure the pretty young woman would mistake me for a Seventh Day Adventist or one of those meddlesome opinion poll takers.

The woman said nothing for a moment, although her eyes gave away her evident amusement. She nodded.

‘Ah, good. Erm... is Liana at home?’

Her expression changed then from amusement to puzzlement.

‘I’m Liana Rogers,’ said the girl. ‘What can I do for you?’

Richard laughed at me the first time I mentioned fidelity to him.

‘What!’ he shrieked. ‘Are you serious? This is the twentieth century, Michael. Fidelity went out with Queen Victoria. No one remains faithful any more.’

‘I do.’

‘Then you’re a fool. You’re also probably in a minority of one. I mean, what’s the point? There are all these gorgeous women out there, and you’re restricting yourself to just one. Don’t you think that’s a little selfish, Michael, denying them all a chance to become intimate with you, all because of an outmoded sense of misplaced loyalty?’

‘No, of course not. I think it would be unfair to Jo if I was to screw around behind her back.’

‘Did I say anything about screwing around behind Jo’s back? Haven’t you heard of open relationships?’

‘But I couldn’t stand the idea of someone sleeping with Jo.’

‘That,’ said Richard, ‘is because you’re possessive. And you’re possessive because you’re insecure.’

‘Perhaps . . .’

‘No “perhaps” about it. What are you afraid of Michael? That she’s going to find someone who’s better in bed than you are and leave you? Think about it. If she’s really that fickle, she’s not worth having. And if she isn’t that fickle, then no harm’s been done. You both get to stay together, and you both get a chance to spice up your lives a little. Could do wonders for your sex life. I mean, weren’t you two both virgins when you first slept together?’

‘So ?’

‘Well, put it this way. I could introduce you to a woman who could teach you a few things that, at present, I should imagine you could only dream of. Does Jo give a decent blow job?’

‘Richard!’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to get personal, it’s just that... well, you could probably do with a bit of variety.’

‘You’re missing the point, Richard.’

‘And you’re missing a whole lot more. Take it from one who knows. Fidelity is just a trap, a guilt trap, devised by women to hold men back. And once they’ve trapped you, that’s it. They start to lose respect for you; they see you as weak, ineffectual, unmanly. And before you know it, they’re dropping their knickers for the first Tom, Dick or Harry who comes along with a decent chat-up line. Especially Dick.’

‘That’s a pretty cynical outlook.’

‘Realistic, Michael, just realistic. Look, you don’t owe Jo anything. You’re good to her, you’re kind, you tell her you love her. None of that has to change.’

I sighed loudly. ‘You don’t understand, do you? I don’t want to screw around. I don’t want to be unfaithful. I don’t want another woman.’