‘You poor devil,’ he mouths to his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He makes a wide smile to check his teeth for stray food particles. Nearly ready. Opening the top drawer of a walnut chest he takes out the bottle of pills nestling on the stack of carefully folded silk squares. He swallows a pink tablet, selects a matching Liberty print handkerchief for his breast pocket, then closes the drawer.
The door-bell rings. He adjusts his gold cufflinks, pats his pockets for his keys and phone, and sweeps down the stairs. Offering a swift ‘Bye, see you later,’ to the back of the babysitter’s head, he climbs into the waiting taxi and disappears into the night.
7
Ruth
The banqueting room of the Town Hall is dimly lit. Ruth peers through the throng of people lining the bar. She tries to avoid catching the hem of her gown on her heels, aware that her teetering gait denotes a woman who is not comfortable in stilettos. She’s stopped in her tracks by someone in a multi-coloured wig, who’s selling raffle tickets. Ruth scrabbles in her crimson clutch bag for a ten pound note. Warmth bathes her cheeks as she looks around, anxious to spot a familiar face. She exchanges nods with several people who look vaguely familiar, members of the community nursing team perhaps. Priya is nowhere in sight. How long is she going to have to stand here looking awkward?
Mike is visible, at the far end of the bar, trying to grasp two glass tumblers and mixer bottles. His profile, acquired through breaking his nose in a rugby injury many years ago, is instantly recognisable. His face transforms into a kindly symmetry as Ruth approaches.
‘Ruth, so glad you could come,’ he says, clinking the glasses back down on the bar and embracing her in a warm hug. ‘You look stunning. Val won’t be long. What can I get you to drink?’ He tries to attract the attention of the barman. ‘Now,’ he says, turning back to Ruth, once he has placed another order. ‘I need to tell you about some of the company at our table this evening. I want you to meet-’
Another voice targets her from the periphery and she swirls round to encounter a beacon of shimmering sequins. It takes her a few seconds to process the image, having not seen Val looking so glamorous since her wedding.
‘Wow, Val,’ counters Ruth. ‘Look at you. You look fabulous!’
‘You too,’ gushes the woman who looks flushed with excitement. ‘First proper night out in two years. Let’s get the party started!’ The gist of Mike’s conversation is lost as the two women swap stories on dietary regimes, shoe purchases and the latest news on fellow alumnae.
More guests drift in for the evening’s entertainment, and the decibel level starts to climb. A smell of vanilla and stale sweat emerges as the temperature rises.
A gong sounds, the toastmaster instructs everyone to take their seats, and they make their way to their table, past the high-backed chairs decked out in purple and white bows. As they shuffle en masse towards the seating area Val turns to Ruth.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ she says, lowering her voice and leaning in a little closer. ‘How’s it going on the, er, the dating front? Did you post that profile in the end?’ Her mouth curls in a mischievous smile.
‘What d’you think? Ha, back on alikemind.com if you must know. But swear you won’t say anything to Mike. Promise? I’d die of embarrassment.’
‘I won’t. I need to warn you though. Mike has invited one of his friends to join us tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to match you up.’
‘And? So what, Dr. Armitage? Are you trying to warn me off?’
‘No. You’re a big girl now. You don’t need me to tell you what to do.’ Val pauses and raises her eyebrows. ‘Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.’ She glances around, ‘Anyway he may not turn up.’ Her dress glints like a sunbeam dancing on a magnifying glass as she turns to find her seat. ‘And you and I still need to have a girls’ night out soon. I haven’t forgotten. It’s been too long.’
They find their table. Adorned with a centrepiece of white roses and purple orchids it seats ten. As she looks for her place name, Ruth catches Mike’s whispered aside to Val.
‘Where the hell is Dom? Told you this would happen. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.’
She finds her seat along the middle of the table, and polite introductions are made all round. All couples, as Ruth suspected, but the seat next to her is conspicuously empty. This could be an early night. She is about to pull out her chair when a soft voice catches her,
‘Here, let me get that for you.’
‘Dom, where the devil have you been?’ asks Mike. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’
The tall man, with thick dark hair and high cheekbones, slides out Ruth’s chair. Seemingly impervious to his friend’s rebuke he holds her gaze, his eyes crinkling as his smile widens. She notes the sartorial elegance, the corner of a Liberty handkerchief poking out of his top pocket, the thick gold band on his ring finger. Much later she would recall that very moment, how she held her breath for several seconds before giving a soft sigh.
‘Damn taxi took the long way round and then we got held up by the roadworks on the by-pass.’
Heads nod, tongues click and the consensus round the table is that the traffic in town at the moment is appalling. Dominic Peterson is introduced to everyone and he’s forgiven for being late. They sit down to dinner and the repartee round the table is relaxed.
‘So how long have you known Mike?’ asks Ruth, addressing the stranger to her right, as they pick their way through the first course of smoked salmon and salad leaves.
Dominic fixes her with a steady look. There is something distanced about his dark brown eyes, as well as an impeccable propriety. The stray hairs which brush his collar and the speck of blood on his chin, where he must have nicked his skin shaving, suggest a vulnerability. She glances across the table but Val is engrossed in conversation with another guest.
‘Mike and I go back a long way,’ he replies. ‘We met on the trading floor.’
‘The trading floor?’ Ruth says, feeling clueless.
‘The London International Financial Futures Exchange,’ interjects Mike, leaning in to Ruth’s left side, ‘or LIFFE, as we used to know it.’ Mike and Dominic both laugh, as if it’s a well-rehearsed routine, but the joke is lost on Ruth.
‘The Stock Exchange,’ says Dominic, quietly. ‘I worked as an Exchange official and Mike was a trader.’
Ruth nods, trying to digest this information.
‘We got to know each other,’ Dominic continues, ‘from our jostling on the trading floor. Then in 1998, when the market moved to electronic trading we both moved across to the same bank.’
A waiter hovers with red and white wine. Ruth notices that Dominic waves him on and refills his glass of water. She pushes lettuce leaves round her plate. Why hasn’t she met this guy before, if he’s such good mates with Mike?
‘And so you still work together?’ she asks, but Dominic has turned his head and the woman on his right throws her head back in laughter.
Feeling piqued Ruth engages in polite conversation with another couple. David, the man opposite, with close-cropped hair and eyes like flint, is a retired detective; his wife Angela, rake thin, with a tinkly laugh, is a criminal lawyer. It transpires that Angela is also a trustee for the hospice, which explains their attendance. ‘And we like to do our bit for charity,’ David confides, as he leans far enough forward for Ruth to notice a couple of gold fillings, flashing like doubloons.
Dominic seems to be having an entertaining evening, engaging the guests opposite. She is conscious of him pausing to look at her mid-conversations with others. It irks her that he has clocked her looking at him, so whenever their eyes meet she darts her gaze elsewhere. Instead, she looks at Val, who glances back and smiles.
‘Who is this guy?’ Ruth mouths to her friend.
Val shrugs, her eyes widen and she continues talking to the guest sitting opposite h
er. The evening drones on and, above the clatter of cutlery, Ruth is brought up to date with the antics of Mike’s wonderful children.
The jazz quartet strikes up a blues number on stage, as Ruth weaves her way back to the table from the Ladies’ cloakroom. She must find Val, to say good bye. She searches in her bag for the taxi number as a hand grasps her arm.
‘So you decided to come after all,’ says Priya, causing Ruth to start. She looks at her nursing colleague, barely recognisable in her butterscotch halter-neck dress and stylish up-do, then blushes. She’d forgotten she might meet Priya here. ‘You must come and join our table.’
‘Priya, you must forgive me,’ says Ruth, leaning over to peck her on the cheek, ‘actually I was just-‘
‘She was going to accompany me.’ The tall man with the Liberty print waistcoat intercepts them. Priya looks startled for a second, as if she recognises Dominic. She smiles at Ruth, her hesitation suggesting she was about to say something, but now thinks better of it.
‘Would you excuse us?’ says Dominic, steering Ruth round in the direction of the door. ‘I was just going for a breather,’ he says in a gentle voice. ‘I think there’s a quieter bar near the foyer. Would you join me for a drink?’
For reasons she can’t fathom, Ruth nods in agreement and falls in step with this intriguing stranger. The strains of ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ dissipate in diminishing spirals as they walk away from the ballroom, towards the emerging glare of the outer bar. Within the confines of the narrow saloon, glass chinks on chrome, and laughter competes with voluble gossip. They perch on barstools, their knees touching. Ruth sits still, anxious not to draw attention to their jarring proximity, although she feels sure that the imprint of her companion’s bony edges will be left on her knee caps. The scalloped white lights behind the bar afford Ruth a better look at his face. The peeling skin on his furrowed brow, the broken capillaries on his cheeks and the slight greying of his temples delineate a man much older than she first thought. Strikingly handsome, but careworn. He nods his head and the barman immediately springs to attention.
She settles for a vodka martini, restraining herself from adding ‘shaken not stirred,’ although it may lighten the mood. He adds a lime and soda to the order. She wonders if he disapproves of her choice.
‘So, I hear you’re a doctor?’ he says, and there is a faint curl of his lip.
‘Yes,’ replies Ruth. ‘Val and I were at Med school together. We’ve been friends for years and I got in contact with her again when I came back from Aus-’
‘Excuse me,’ he says, leaning over her to reach for a paper napkin. This time she catches a faint hint of musk. Their knees are wedged so tightly together now that she feels a static electricity from her gown when she shuffles her chair to make more room. ‘Sorry,’ he says, as he places the napkin under his glass, ‘you were saying?’
‘Just that I’ve known Val for a long time. I had a short spell working in Australia, and when I came back nine months ago, and got a job in a local practice, we picked up our friendship again. I guess that’s what you do with good friends, isn’t it? It was her husband Mike’s idea for me to come here tonight.’ The vodka martini slides down her throat.
Dominic is stirring the ice cubes round and round in his glass. Left handed. His wedding ring catching the light.
‘Anything else, sir?’ The barman hovers but is dismissed.
Her cocktail glass is nearly empty.
‘So what about you?’ she says, eyeing the gold band with every stir of his soda.
She wonders why Mike has asked him along tonight. Maybe his wife is away at a conference. She can picture her, probably a bit older than Ruth, thin, chic, attractive, probably a career woman. She’s not going to make that mistake again. ‘Family at home tonight?’
Dominic stops mixing his drink and looks at her.
‘Yes, the babysitter’s in charge this evening.’
Another pause. Strobe lighting reflects in the mirrors behind the bar. The dull thump of a beatbox starts up from next door. Its repetitive throb echoes in Ruth’s head.
‘Sounds quite lively in there, doesn’t it?’ She thinks about the early start she’s going to have in the morning. It’s her turn to do Saturday morning surgery.
Dominic sits back in his chair. For a few seconds he appears to be staring into middle distance. He breaks from his meditation and looks at her.
‘Not very conducive to having a conversation, though,’ he adds. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to have a dance?’
‘Listen, Dominic, thanks for the offer,’ she says, scraping her chair back. ‘It’s been really nice meeting you, but I’m going to have to get going. I’m working in the morning.’
For a moment he looks deflated, then retains his composure. ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Your duty. I understand. My wife was a doctor.’
It’s a reply that halts her momentarily, and she sits back down.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, my wife. Madeleine. She died in January.’
Suddenly it all makes sense. The aloofness. The distracted behaviour. In the space of a heartbeat his pain comes scudding towards her. She rests her hand on top of his, knocking a cocktail stirrer to the floor. Dominic’s face crumples and a wave of sympathy washes over her.
‘The hospice was very good to us in her final days.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, ‘I hadn’t realised.’
In the silence that follows, Ruth’s hand lingers. She’s worried that if she lifts it too soon it may expose hurt, like a plaster being peeled off a wound. She raises her head slowly until her eyes meet his. It would be okay to let go now, but she doesn’t want to.
‘You mentioned you had a babysitter?’
‘I have a daughter, Isabella. She’s four.’
Ruth squeezes his hand.
‘My wife was ill for a long time. Multiple sclerosis. She was diagnosed in 1999, two years before Isabella was born. Her health was in gradual decline for the last two years.’ He clears his throat. ‘But then I guess you’d understand that, as a doctor.’ Suddenly he retracts his hand. ‘I need to get going too,’ says Dominic. ‘Mustn’t forget the babysitter. And anyway I’m not a great fan of strobe lighting. Where do you live? Maybe we can share a taxi?’ He takes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls down the screen.
‘Here,’ says Ruth, extracting a card from her bag. ‘I have a taxi number. I live in Tadwick.’
‘Ah. And I live in Byefield. Other side of the by-pass. Opposite direction.’ He takes her arm and they walk towards the cloakrooms. Away from the noise of the band, the corridor is quiet and half in shadow. ‘Well at least let me call you a cab.’ He pauses. ‘And allow me one more thing.’
Ruth smiles. ‘Which is?’
He looks at her intently. She wonders if he’s trying to decipher her moral compass.
‘Would you write your number down for me? I’d like to call you.’
‘Of course.’
Thinking about this later he must have taken her look of bruised expectancy as his cue. His hands move to either side of her face now, lifting it up to meet his lips. His mouth feels soft, and there’s an urgency in his embrace, as his tongue grazes her teeth. Gently he guides her further into the shadows, until her back is pressed against the wall. He touches her chin with his fingertip, then slowly traces the line of her throat, pausing at the notch at the top of her breastbone. A moment so unexpected that she catches her breath. She wants to hold it in freeze-frame. They stand in silence for a few minutes, his peppermint breath warm on her neck. She’s unwilling to break away. Then he moves his hands to the top of her arms and steps back to look at her. The subdued lighting in the hallway casts a luminous sheen across one side of his face, and he smiles. They disengage and walk towards the cloakroom to collect their coats. Ruth turns her face away. She has surprised herself at her brazenness and is
unable to contain her smile.
8
Ruth
‘In nomine patris et filii…’
Sister Immaculata walks towards her, across the tennis court. Her wimple flaps, like an angry crow, revealing the high shuttered windows of the convent over her left shoulder. She has eyes like currants, set in puffy pockets of dough, and she fixes them on Ruth.
‘You’re going to need to speak louder, my child. You’ll need to be heard at the back of the church. Now, when I raise my hands, try again.’ She turns back towards the net, and her habit billows around her feet. Ruth sways on the baseline and waits patiently for the signal. The cold seeps through her thin plimsolls, tormenting the chilblains on her toes. Her cheeks are chapped, her throat dry. She wants to reach under her knicker elastic and the scratch of hessian, for a hanky to wipe her nose, but Sister Immaculata is ready, her arms raised in supplication.
‘My God, I detest all the sins of my life,’ begins Ruth, as the wind teases her voice into diminishing spirals. ‘I am truly sorry that I have sinned, because thou art infinitely good, and sin displeases Thee, have mercy……’
The hands are down again. Ruth senses the nun’s irritation. Sister Immaculata rustles towards her once more. Her eyes are flashing.
‘Contrition, my child, contrition. It’s your Holy Communion! The Good Lord needs to hear that you’re sorry. So do the people at the back of the church! This is your very last chance to practise. Say it again for the last time.’
Ruth takes a deep breath and studies the nun’s face. The thinning eyebrows and the complexion flecked with sun spots belong to another person. A quizzical furrow divides her brow. A corn-coloured frizz circles her face, her lips are dusky blue. Ruth looks for absolution in Margaret Tremayne’s face.
Love Until It Hurts Page 4
