Women of a Dangerous Age (30 page)

‘Could you be planning on seducing me, Mr Gupta?' If only she felt anything like as coquettish as her words sounded.

A slow smile crossed his face. ‘That could be arranged.'

‘I can't think of anything I'd like more.' She tucked her arm in his. The idea of them making love in a hotel bedroom smacked of something shameless, exotic. Not at all what she was used to. Playing the role of femme fatale hadn't been part of her repertoire for years. If only she'd been more successful in the wardrobe department that evening, she might be more confident in her potential licence to thrill.

The taxi pulled up outside the hotel and in they swept, Lou still on Sanjeev's arm. They only stopped to pick up his key from reception. In the lift, they stood side by side, staring ahead, lost in thought, almost as if they didn't know each other. Lou was beginning to feel faintly embarrassed, but the brush of his hand against hers was charged.

He turned the key and the door swung open on a room dominated by a neatly made, rather clinical-looking double bed. A couple of jaunty sketches of Parisian street life hung on the cream vinyl wallpaper. On a table holding a bowl
with a tired-looking apple and a browning banana, a couple of tumblers wrapped in plastic stood next to a vase of white silk peonies, the inner curves of the petals finely filmed with dust. All Sanjeev's possessions were hidden apart from a pair of shiny black shoes lined up side by side near the door. None of this tallied with the scene Lou had conjured up for a hotel seduction. There the bed was inviting, the flowers fresh, the atmosphere … well, at least there was an atmosphere instead of the faintly antiseptic smell that emanated from the bathroom.

‘Welcome,' said Sanjeev, helping her off with her coat and hanging it with his on the back of the door. ‘It may not look much, but for now, it's mine. A drink?' He crouched over the minibar and held it open. ‘Or I could order us a bottle of wine.'

Plumping for a vodka and tonic on the basis that she would get it sooner than any bottle of wine brought by room service, Lou was suddenly aware that the mood had changed. As he passed her the drink, Sanjeev looked uneasy.

‘Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. We could go downstairs or to the restaurant round the corner,' he suggested.

‘It's a fine idea,' said Lou firmly. ‘I'm not hungry anyway.' Not quite true but, as long as her stomach rumbling didn't embarrass them, what did it matter? Even if the reality of a sandwich didn't match her vision of a small vase of roses on a white-tableclothed trolley with a waiter whipping silver domes from dishes of steaming food – too many black-and-white movies, Lou – she liked the intimacy and privacy of his room. She lay back on the bed in what she hoped was a reasonably seductive pose.
In her head, she saw Manet's
Olympia
. In the strategically placed mirror, she saw a middle-aged woman whose skirt had rucked up to emphasise her stomach. Undeterred, she patted the bed beside her. A relative newcomer to the ways of seduction, she'd had to rely on what she had seen in films. She shifted herself so she couldn't see her reflection in full any more. Nothing could be done about what she was wearing, bar taking it off, and it was definitely too soon for that.

He sat beside her, stretching his legs in front of him. ‘Shall we order food?'

‘And wine?' she suggested, sounding more desperate than she'd intended, focusing on his left big toe where his sock was dangerously thin.

After he'd rung down for their Welsh rarebits and Australian Merlot, they waited for a moment. Sanjeev was sitting ramrod straight. Lou adjusted her position again to avoid her arm cramping, unsure how to proceed. Side by side, they sat rigid, like two strangers. She was reminded of the poster for
The War of the Roses
starring Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas: a couple at war. Surely seduction wasn't meant to be as difficult as this? Especially not for two consenting adults – even if they were both a bit rusty. After all, it wasn't as if this was their first time.

‘Lou?' He sounded cautious, unsure.

‘Mmm.' She didn't dare speak in case she gave way to a sudden urge to laugh.

‘I need to tell you something.'

In the mirror, she could see how anxious he looked. He was clutching his whisky in both hands as if it was a life
raft. She took pity on him. ‘Of course. Whatever you like. I'm listening.' She stilled her nerves with her vodka.

‘I'm going back to Delhi.' So this was what had been troubling him. His relief at getting the news off his chest was obvious. ‘We've got the Birmingham plant of LBF Electronics running smoothly now, so I've been recalled to head office.'

‘Oh.' Lou wasn't sure how she was meant to react. What did this mean for them?

‘They only told me a couple of days ago. I'm leaving in three weeks.'

So they still had a little more time together. She gazed at his reflection. ‘Won't you be coming back?' She was surprised by how sad she felt, not heartbroken but deeply regretful. At the same time, the recognition that there was going to be no pressure on her to conform to a conventional relationship was nothing but a relief.

‘Yes, maybe every three or four months, maybe a little more often than that. They'll still need me to ensure that everything's running smoothly. And you can't do that from a distance without visiting.' At last he turned towards her, his face concerned.

‘But we can see each other when you do?' She heard herself sounding like a heart-sick teenager and abruptly cleared her throat. ‘I mean, it doesn't have to make any difference to us, does it?' This time she sounded too brutally matter-of-fact. She tried again. ‘What I'm trying to say is that it sounds like a workable arrangement.' A workable arrangement? Where had she plucked that from? ‘We're adults. We can make it work if we want to.'

Sanjeev was staring at her, uncertain. ‘Really?'

‘Why not? I'd rather we took things as they come. If we can't see each other all the time – well, I think it's probably a good thing.' Sanjeev's expression told her she'd gone too far again. ‘Seriously. I'm not ready for full-on, bells-and-whistles commitment. You know that. Apart from making the shop work, I just want to have fun, and we can have that whenever you're here.'

Whatever had come over her? What had happened to the Lou who had never looked at another man apart from Hooker for the last God knew how many years? The Lou who had never thought beyond a full-time, committed partnership. Until now.

‘And when I'm not?'

‘I don't know,' she answered honestly. At least she owed him that. Maybe she would meet someone else. Who knew? ‘But can't we just make the most of the time you are here?'

To her astonishment, Sanjeev had started to smile. He took her hand and raised it his mouth, kissing her palm. ‘You are a remarkable woman, Lou Sherwood.'

‘I am?' Lou was thrown by this unexpected turning of the tide in their relationship, but she reminded herself of Ali's description of her life as a mistress. A no-strings relation ship, she'd said. And she'd agreed that came with no boredom factor, no irritating habits, no being taken for granted. That was what Lou had envied and that was what she was being offered. This was something to celebrate.

‘Yes, you are.'

They had both slid down the bed without noticing and were half lying on their sides facing each other, just a few
inches of freshly laundered bedlinen between them. They moved together to close the gap.

When the knock from room service eventually came, neither of them heard it. Or if they did, they chose to ignore it. The Welsh rarebit, when they rescued it sometime later from outside the door, was stone cold.

Lou was watching the kitchen clock. Never had the second hand seemed to move so slowly, inching around, giving a little shake every time it reached the next Roman numeral. Her coffee sat undrunk in front of her, the plate of four biscuits untouched. She had tidied the ground floor of the house with uncharacteristic care so that there was no room for criticism.

Hooker was due at seven. Tick. Tock.

She ran her eye around the room. Everything was in order, including her collection of teapots, old and new, that she had finally unpacked from their box and lined along the top of the units. In the sitting room, all the coloured threads had been vacuumed up, her knitting and patchwork had been stowed in her workroom along with the tailor's dummy, and she had covered the single rail of clothes with one of the mirrored bedspreads she had shipped back from India. How long ago that seemed now. She glanced at the photo of herself sitting on Diana's bench, sweaty and cross but exhilarated inside, at the Taj Mahal. She picked up the wooden frame, wiping the dust
from it by rubbing it on her hip, then looked at it more closely. Despite her doubts at the time, the shot was special after all. As she had self-consciously marked the end of her marriage with a photo to show her on her own at last, so she had struck up her friendship with Ali. How strange to think back to that day when they had no idea what close friends they'd become.

When she heard the bell, she replaced the photo on the table by the jug of pink and white gypsophila, beside the two she had framed of the children. At the doorway, she turned to check everything was in place, cushions plumped, pictures in line. She quickly straightened the framed sampler that she'd picked up recently at a vintage fair, imagining nine-year-old Rebecca Spilsbury, back in 1837, earnestly cross-stitching the birds and dogs and blossoming trees under the alphabet and religious verse. She nudged the ottoman with her knee so it moved closer to its chair. Only when she was absolutely satisfied, did she answer the door.

Lou led the way into the sitting room.

Hooker looked around him, noticing the order that had been imposed since his last visit. ‘This looks different.'

Lou didn't want to discuss her resolution to be tidier, to keep her home more the way Jenny would have liked. She just wanted to get everything said that needed to be. She sat down while Hooker picked up her Taj Mahal photo. He didn't comment but put it back at a slightly different angle.

‘Ali took that,' she said, unable to resist.

He didn't rise to the bait, but turned, expectant. ‘Aren't
you going to offer me a drink?' The musky scent of his cologne rolled across the space between them.

She went into the kitchen to pour him a whisky. For herself, nothing.

‘Have you seen Nic?' he asked when she returned. ‘How much longer to go now?' His face was pathetically eager for news.

The least Lou could do was keep this civilised. ‘About six weeks. She's doing well, working like a maniac of course despite my trying to persuade her to take it easy. I hardly see her. But you should talk to her yourself. Do sort this out, Hooker. Call her.'

‘Do you think I haven't tried? She at least talks to me when I ring, which is better than it was, but she obviously can't wait to get me off the line. I don't get it. Shona was over so long ago.'

‘Oh, Hooker.' His lack of understanding made Lou almost sorry for him. ‘Don't you see that you've made her question all she thought she knew about our family? Her childhood wasn't what she thought it was – at least that's how she sees it. She feels betrayed by you.'

A glimmer of irritation was swiftly replaced by something more confident. ‘But it's going to be different now, isn't it?' He came over to perch on the arm of the sofa. She slid sideways to the other end so that contact would be difficult, if not impossible. He looked surprised but stayed where he was. ‘When you come home. Then, it'll be different. If you've forgiven me, then she will too.'

He was still in denial, believing that everything would
fall into place around him, just as it always did. Always. This time would be no different.

‘I'm not coming home.' She spoke as gently as she could, not knowing whether he'd be angry or sad.

‘I don't mean now,' he said bluffly. ‘Of course not. We've got a few things to work out, the playroom to adapt. But soon. You're coming soon.'

She was reminded of the children when they were young and had wanted her reassurance and encouragement over something. There was no way of letting him down gently. The fairest thing was to be straight with him.

‘No. Not now. Not any time. I'm going to live here alone.'

‘But you can't,' he blustered. ‘Not after everything I've said. I'm a changed man. You're all I want, all I've ever wanted.' He dropped down onto the sofa, next to her. ‘We could be happy together again, I'm sure.'

She got up and took a few steps to the centre of the room where she stood looking down at him. ‘I've thought so hard about what you said, about being grandparents together, but the way you've behaved has made me see our marriage quite differently. I'm not that woman any more. And you're not a changed man really, Hooker, are you? You couldn't even bring yourself to tell me the truth about Emma leaving you.'

He seemed to shrink as he closed his eyes and let out his breath in a long sigh. ‘I meant to but I thought—'

‘You thought you could twist the facts to convince me of your sincerity. But then Tom bumped into her and she told him the truth.'

‘Tom?' He sat up, alert.

‘He thought that it was far better I know. And it is. But
that's not the only reason I'm not coming back. We're better apart. We may miss out on some of the big family gatherings but I'm sure we can be civil towards each other, at least in front of the children. As for Nic? She'll get over all this eventually, I'm sure. And so will you. You'll just have to wait.'

He stood there, the proud, self-possessed man she had always known, looking at her as if disappointed by the change in her and the wrong-headedness of her decision, then he shook his head. The whisky glass hit the table with a thud. ‘There's no point in prolonging this. You've obviously made up your mind. I'd better go.'

Lou wanted one last stab at trying to make him see things from her point of view. Later he might remember her words and mull them over. ‘Hooker, listen. We're at an age where we've got time to change our lives, meet other people. You must see that. If we leave it much later, those opportunities might not be there.'

‘I don't want to meet
other
people. I want the mother of my children. I've been stupid, I know. But I don't believe that our marriage is irretrievable. I won't believe it. I never have.' He got to his feet. He looked for a moment as if he would break down, then recovered himself. ‘I'd better go.'

‘I think that's for the best.' Their marriage was over. At last. She saw him to the door, feeling nothing but relief that he had accepted her decision at last.

 

Ali lay on the sofa, eyes shut, groaning as Don's knuckles dug into a spot near the instep of her right foot.

‘Is reflexology meant to be this painful?' she asked, squinting at him.

‘Maybe I am a bit rusty.' He moved his attention to the other foot.

‘Ouch!' She winced. ‘I'll say you are. Tell you what. Let's stop and I'll make a start on supper. Lou will be here in a minute.'

He removed her feet from his lap. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting her at last.'

Ali went over to the kitchen, talking as she went. ‘Not as much as she is to meeting you.' This was the first time she had ever entertained as a couple and she was keen nothing should go wrong.

‘Can't I do something to help?'

Thinking of the mess that would engulf the kitchen if he did, she replied, ‘No, thanks. It's all under control.' She angled her hand to look at her engagement ring. Originally she had wanted to make it herself, but then realised the ring should be something they shared equally, so together they had chosen the violet sapphire and its plain platinum setting.

When the bell rang, Ali didn't hear it above the noise of the blender whizzing up the olive tapenade to go with the cod. Don answered barefoot, introducing himself as he let Lou in.

‘I love this room.' Lou stood for a second, just looking round her, taking in the space, the light, the careful arrangement of everything, disturbed only by Don's cast-off shoes and the couple of mugs on the table. ‘It's everything I'd like, but can't quite achieve. Or at least not for more than about five minutes.'

Ali rushed from the kitchen area, amused to find Don trying not to be transfixed by Lou's get-up, her uncontrolled frizz of red hair and bright lipstick. She'd obviously come straight from the shop, cutting a somewhat colourful figure in her fuschia lace gloves and matching tights. ‘I didn't even get to introduce you!'

Drinks were soon poured, seats were taken and talk began to flow, Don and Lou discovering they had a shared interest in classic movies when she mentioned a coming retrospective on femmes fatales of Hollywood. Within seconds they were debating the merits of Barbara Stanwyck, Rita Hayworth and Lauren Bacall and the various films in which they'd starred. As the conversation carried on, Ali was delighted that the two of them were hitting it off better than she could have hoped.

Eventually she broke in with an invitation to the table where the good-humoured discussion continued, Ali weighing in with an argument for Dietrich and then Hepburn in
The African Queen
.

‘You couldn't call her a femme fatale in that, surely. If ever,' Lou challenged while Ali hit back with a spirited defence. After they'd eaten, Lou turned the conversation to Ali and Don, their plans for the future.

‘As soon as Don gets time off, we're going to Scotland.' Ali looked sideways at him.

‘In her car, with her driving,' teased Don. ‘Ali doth not a good passenger make.'

She punched his arm affectionately, then looked more serious as she turned back to Lou. ‘I took both your and Don's advice and went back to see Dad.' She waited to see the effect on Lou who failed to hide her surprise.

‘You never said.' A piece of cod fell from Lou's fork.

‘Some things you have to keep to yourself until they're resolved. I know you understand that. It took a bit of time, but I did listen to you both and I reckoned that however furious I feel with him, I should try and paper over the cracks. He's an old man and has done his bit for me after all.'

‘And?' Lou leaned forward, glass of wine in hand.

‘And he told me that Mum had been diagnosed bipolar, not that they called it that then, after I was born. She had another bout when I was tiny – she tried to kill herself when I was at a friend's but Dad found her in time. After that she was medicated up to the hilt and after seven years of living in grey, the years I remember her, she took herself off the pills. The rest you know.'

‘Are things better between you?'

‘I can't pretend it's easy. I still feel he could have done everything differently and I keep thinking I might have saved her, if only I'd known, though the rational bit of me knows I couldn't have done anything. We were both powerless, really.' Her voice faded away as Don took her hand.

‘But look.' She recovered herself and crossed the room to the sofa. From the shelf beneath the coffee table she pulled a brown envelope. She held it upside down and out slipped several loose album pages stuck with tiny Box Brownie prints along with a couple of other larger photos. Lou picked up the pages that were stuck with small black-and-white images captioned in careful loopy handwriting. In them a man and woman were photographed in different
holiday poses, against their Austin Cambridge, having a picnic, by a hotel, in front of a municipal statue. Smiling. Always smiling.

‘It's Mum and Dad on their honeymoon in Buxton. He hid them because he couldn't bear to look at them again, but he dug them out for me along with this.' She passed over the larger photo. ‘And this is us.'

In it a young woman sat smiling into the camera, her eyes distant, a young girl holding a teddy bear standing by her. She was unmistakably Ali, scrubbed and dressed up for the photograph. The similarities between her now and her mother were marked: same smile, same reserve that Ali showed when Lou first met her.

‘I couldn't stop crying when I first saw us together,' Ali said quietly. ‘I'm just glad Don was here to pick up the pieces. Again.' She turned to smile at him, then looked back to Lou. ‘I remember seeing these when I was a kid, in fact I think I even remember this one being taken, but I'd forgotten all about them.'

Lou was turning things over in her carpetbag and eventually retrieved her pair of smudged reading glasses. With them on the end of her nose, she studied the photographs one after another.

‘It's as if Dad closed down after her death, and admitting what really happened has opened him up again. He wants to share all this with me at last. He even sent me a cheque for two grand – that's a huge amount for him. Here's the letter. You can see for yourself.'

Ali waited while Lou read the letter. It was written in the same hand as the captions, but now betraying the tremor
of old age. She had read it so many times herself that she knew snippets of it off by heart.

‘This is so unlike him.' She couldn't wait for Lou to get to the end. ‘I wish I could remember what he was like when Mum was alive or at least when they were happy together. He must have been so different then. But I can't. Not really. Of course, I'm going to send the money back.'