‘Something the matter?’ Whatever gave him this idea?
‘I think you are feeling concerned about something. Or perhaps it is critical? You are thinking that I am underdressed. You would prefer I did not blend in with the crowd.’
‘Concerned? Critical? I wouldn’t say you blended in with the crowd, Dev. Not in the slightest, quite frankly.’ This might be misinterpreted. She looks around for other people from the subcontinent, but there seem to be none around.
‘And I’m feeling anything but critical, as a matter of fact.’ Is this too forward? ‘I was just preoccupied, I suppose. With how –’ she turns to him impulsively, quashing an impulse to grasp his hand, ‘extraordinary life is.’
‘Extraordinary, Vivien?’ He looks disconcerted.
‘Well, how it is sometimes, in a nice way, when it takes you by surprise.’ Better not try to explain. ‘But it does look as if it might rain. Should we perhaps get our skates on?’
‘Fortunately, there is no need for skates as I have a car. I discovered a temporary parking bay. It is next to some building works around the corner.’ He gestures in that direction. ‘I take it that you enjoy formal occasions as a rule, Vivien.’
What a curious non-sequitur. And it seems to be less of a question than an assumption. An unwarranted one, too. What can have inspired it? Was it her silly remark about hats and gloves?
‘Formal? As a rule? No, not much. Not at all, really.’ She detects a strong odour of displeasure. ‘That is, not entirely, Dev. I used to, but these days I don’t get much practice. I hardly ever go to anything that would call itself a formal occasion. Apart from funerals, that is.’
He gives her a keen glance. ‘But with more practice, I think you would enjoy them. In improved circumstances you would recover your former enthusiasm.’
It seems important to him, so she smiles encouragingly. They are walking side by side. No, Dev is not a tall man. He is below average height. Which is fine. She’s only five three and a half, which these days is also appreciably shorter than average. She decides he is perhaps three inches taller than her, at most. Three, or maybe two and a half.
‘Do you prefer to wear high-heeled shoes with your evening gowns, Vivien?’
What a strange question. Could he be a mind reader? Do I possess such an artefact as an evening gown? ‘Well, I don’t wear – gowns – all that often, to be honest.’
I never say to be honest; what is the matter with me? ‘Certainly not those awful stiletto heels. I never thought those instruments of torture would come back, but they have.’ Of course, some men find them very sexy. Might he have a fetish? ‘Why, do you like high heels, Dev?’
‘They are nice for elegant occasions. Stiletto heels no, certainly not, but you would not be taller than me in more modest heels, I have the distinct impression.’
So, that’s what was worrying him. ‘Oh no, I’m sure I wouldn’t be.’ She gives him another sunny smile. ‘So, we’ll be just the right height for all those black-tie balls and glamorous premières, won’t we?’
Rather to her surprise, Dev responds to this with several emphatic nods. ‘Yes, indeed. We will be finely matched as such a couple, Vivien.’ He stops at a small white car and unlocks it with a remote.
As a couple. Isn’t this rather a presumptuous phrase to use, at this juncture? Or am I being too literal? Maybe I’m taking his throwaway remarks too seriously. She slips into the passenger seat. There’s no room for her bulky bag on the floor, so she puts it on her lap. Dev hasn’t seemed the type to make throwaway remarks. Or light-hearted ones, for that matter. But perhaps this is just shyness. He doesn’t present as a gregarious personality. Anything but, really.
Still, neither does he appear to suffer from a self-confidence deficit. Having so much sex appeal, no doubt he is used to people – to women – making the running. Hitting on him, as Joy would say.
Viv marvels again. How astonishing life is. How extraordinarily unforeseeable. If it hadn’t been for the sex drought with my husband, and his lack of affection, I wouldn’t be here now, sitting in a very confined space with a stranger (who is also rather strange), something I haven’t done for years. Sitting extremely close to this improbably attractive yet curiously phlegmatic man as he concentrates on the road and gives his undivided attention to changing gears.
Does this mean that the rift with my husband has turned out to have beneficial side effects? Or would I rather it hadn’t happened, and I was sitting comfortably beside Geoff in our own car? They are speeding through sober streets of houses, in a suburban area still quite close to the station. ‘Dev, where is it we’re going to, exactly?’
‘We are going to the house, as was arranged previously between us, Vivien.’
‘Your house? Where you live?’
‘I have done.’ He shrugs. ‘It is not far at all. Don’t worry, Vivien, sit back and relax, and I will tell you when we have reached our destination.’
Viv shrugs too, internally. He seems set on being reticent. Or perhaps he is constitutionally secretive. She is resolved to live in the moment. Even if the moment, of itself, seems to be generating a degree of stress that is increasing incrementally. She feels as though she has been borne up bodily and is now hurtling towards an unknown destiny. A mise en scène, she has to admit, that is more or less accurate.
What is the internet dating etiquette? Do not meet until you have established some relationship through texting and talking on the phone. Meet in public places until you feel confident about the person. And if not, always tell someone where you are going.
But this is not internet dating, and Dev has been vetted. Presumably. Up to a point. And Viv’s instinct tells her there is nothing threatening about him. Then again, didn’t Joy think her husband was unthreatening when she married him? That Mr Ronnie, all bark and no bite, Joy thought. How wrong was that. Whereas Dev has not exhibited any bark at all, and as for bite …
The rows of small two-storey houses lining the street look the same as they did five minutes ago. Neat and unremarkable. The streets are almost empty. Where are the inhabitants? It’s like one of Geoff’s sci-fi stories, where they have been vaporised by some invading power.
Dev pulls up outside a beige house, indistinguishable from its neighbours. The curtains are closed, Viv observes, upstairs and down. Pebbledash walls, and a front door the shade of Geoff’s new jacket – dung. The passive, unsettling ambience of a Hitchcock movie crawls into her mind.
‘What did I tell you?’ her escort is saying in a reassuringly normal voice, if mesmerising can be in any way normal. ‘It took next to no time. We are there already, Vivien.’ We may be there already, matey, she hears Jules mutter, but there’s no there here. Know what I mean?
Dev is unlocking the door with a key from a large bunch. After a moment’s internal debate, Viv follows him over the threshold. He closes the door firmly behind her, and the outside world – unsettlingly quiet or reassuringly ordinary, take your pick – disappears.
The small hall is dark and stuffy. There’s a strong smell of disinfectant. The doors of the two front rooms off the hall are open, and she can see they are empty. The house, like the vacant street, appears to be unoccupied. She blinks.
‘Dev …’
He has switched on the light in the hall and is heading up a narrow staircase. She stands at the foot of the stairs, perplexed. ‘But there’s nobody living here, Dev. What’s happened to all the furniture?’
He turns round. ‘Don’t worry, nothing has happened to it.’ She hesitates. Could he be an estate agent? A burglar? But there’s nothing to steal. He comes back down and taps her on the shoulder. ‘Do we have any need of a nest of occasional tables and a sofa, right at this moment? Or a chest of drawers? There is a bed upstairs. That is the object of the exercise, I am thinking. It is all we need at this moment, isn’t it?’
Viv feels an agitated thrill. This moment. All we need. Dev is certainly not given to beating about the bush. No settling glass of wine – well, he probably
doesn’t drink. No cup of tea. Not even any preparatory small talk. The object of the exercise is upstairs. A bed. But this is precisely what I have travelled here for, isn’t it?
She follows him slowly up the stairs, aware that with each step her comfort zone is receding further into the distance. He turns into a small room off the landing. An open plastic venetian blind admits some shafts of sombre daylight. This room too is empty, apart from a grey carpet that gives out a faint odour of carpet cleaner. And lying on it is a mattress.
Viv’s eyes zero in on it as she parks her bag, hat and gloves in the corner. It is a thin-looking mattress, probably foam, draped with blue sheets. A pile of folded khaki blankets has been placed at one end. The sheets have been smoothed out and tucked in, she notes. Could Dev be a squatter?
She hears herself say, ‘This is a bit no-frills, isn’t it? Are you camping here? I was expecting a four-poster at least.’ It sounds surprisingly sprightly. Much more confident than she feels.
He is unzipping his jacket. ‘No, you are right, Vivien. This is not a country house hotel.’ She thinks this might be his first witty remark. Was it intentional? ‘It is better to start off in a modest fashion, and then we can leave it behind us. We can look back on it all and share a hearty laugh.’
Dev and a hearty laugh would seem to be mutually exclusive. Is he trying to put her at ease? She’s never felt less at ease since she was the sole woman on a train travelling through Turkey when she was twenty-two. At least there the perils were readily identifiable.
‘I have already taken a hot shower,’ he is saying, ‘immediately before setting out to meet you. But on the assumption that you may feel inclined to do the same thing, Vivien, I have put out a clean towel.’ She turns her head reflexively. ‘No, not in here. It is hanging in the bathroom next door. I expect you will feel more comfortable if you freshen up.’
Sure enough, there are two neatly folded white towels on the bathroom rail. He selects one and hands it to her. ‘This one,’ a slight emphasis, ‘is for your use.’ He gives her shoulder another dispassionate pat. Up close, she detects tangy notes of pine and peppermint. She observes two mid-range bottles of aftershave and men’s cologne.
‘Unlike many English houses, there is a plentiful supply of hot water, and the water pressure is excellent. You do not need to hold back. Come in when you are ready, Vivien. You will feel more at home performing your hygiene routine in private, I am expecting.’
He closes the door behind him and she’s left standing, rooted to the spot. The utilitarian bathroom is compact, as an estate agent would put it, with a shower over the bath. Everything is perfectly (fastidiously?) clean. She registers the green of the tiles. Jade, popular in the 1970s. She too had showered before leaving the house. But a freshen up, as Dev put it, might be advisable. What they called at school a targeted wash.
She remembers her bag, still on the bedroom floor. The door is now closed. She pushes it open, with caution. Dev is sitting cross-legged on the mattress.
‘You are back already, Vivien.’ He sounds put out. How can you have performed your hygiene routine with any thoroughness, is the implication. ‘You are ready?’
‘No, of course I’m not ready,’ she retorts, quite tartly. But the minute she removes her clothes in the bathroom the butterflies return. A crowd of them, swarming in.
Her body is within the normal range and in better shape than many. But the truth of the matter is inescapable: she’s in her sixties, and nudity is pitiless. It conceals nothing and leaves nothing to the imagination. She regards herself in the mirror. I am not normally an insecure person. But this is an abnormal state of affairs, even though I voluntarily signed up to it. Some challenges were to be expected, and I did expect them. Just not these specific ones.
There are two options: I can go through with this, or I can do a runner. I can put my clothes back on and run downstairs and out the front door and no one, except Dev, need be any the wiser. Men are hard-wired. But Dev told me himself, emphatically, that he was looking for someone older. He wasn’t lying, I’m pretty sure about that. Unless I am seriously deluded. Which, of course, is perfectly possible.
The heating, if any, has not been turned on. She is shivering, and decides to have a shower after all while she mulls this over. Dev is right about the water, it’s hot and plentiful. There’s a new cake of Imperial Leather in the soap dish. He must have purchased it for this occasion. The detail is rather touching.
The water pressure is so strong she can’t avoid getting much of her hair wet. That’s something I forgot. Next time I’ll bring a shower cap. Next time? We haven’t even had a first time yet. She scrubs herself with the skimpy towel.
In for a penny, in for a pound. May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Viv has been familiar with both sayings since early childhood. They’re among her mother Judith’s favourite maxims. She looks inside the bathroom cabinet. No hair dryer. No traces of anything feminine, either, just the basics: hairbrush, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste. Has Dev’s wife, assuming he has one, done a bunk and looted everything? Are they selling the house? On the lower shelf she spots a lone hair-grip with a daisy decoration. A vital clue. Is there a daughter somewhere? Aged, perhaps, between seven and eleven?
Viv rubs her unruly hair with the damp towel and drags a comb through it. She uses the mouthwash and sprays perfume on her throat and, as an afterthought, on her cleavage. Should she put on her underwear? Black and lacy, purchased in one of her attempts to revitalise Geoff. Of course, it would only postpone the inevitable. But this could be helpful, and men have a well-known thing about sexy lingerie. Most bodies, and all non-youthful bodies, look better in pretty, well-designed underclothes. Perhaps she should have invested in the transformative properties of a black negligee?
She dons the black bra and French knickers. Having no recourse to a negligee or a dressing gown, she picks up the other towel. It’s marginally dryer. She wraps it around herself and tucks it in. She pushes the bedroom door open – no point knocking – and finds Dev sitting in the same position. He has removed his jacket, shoes and socks, leaving the white shirt tucked into his tracksuit pants.
‘You are wearing your towel, Vivien,’ he says, surprised. Neutrally, she thinks.
‘It’s your towel, actually.’
‘Mine?’ He sounds scandalised.
‘Well, they’re both yours technically, aren’t they? But your one was less damp. Not much, but every bit counts in a crisis.’ She’s unsure what is driving this strained levity. It might be an attempt to undercut his solemnity. Or to conceal the fact that she finds herself suddenly, and she fears visibly, shaking. Whereas Dev looks expressionless and untroubled. He could be about to do anything, or nothing at all.
Nor does he look as if he has noticed anything about me, apart from the fact that I’m wearing his towel. Is that something to be thankful for? Or is it the opposite?
He gets to his feet. ‘You would prefer to have the light switched off, I am thinking.’ She nods. Could this mean it is dawning on him that I have cold feet, in more ways than one? He has closed the venetian blind and the room is (thanks for small mercies) murky.
‘You’ve still got your clothes on, I see,’ she says.
An infinitesimal pause. Then, ‘That is because I thought you would like to undress me, Vivien.’
Had he pronounced such a thing in the cafe, or possibly even in the car, it might have had an effect not unlike that of an electric shock. Now, in this airless room, the words seem to have lost their potency. The deep yet strangely impersonal voice washes over her like muzak. But with the unexpected fringe benefit of soothing her nerves, or at least damping them down. Like his towel, which is still clamped around her.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Did you?’ Is this what she’d like? She assumes it must be. In the recent past her fantasies tended to begin with her unknotting his tie. But this was always preceded by a long, swoon-inducing kiss. Dev, it would seem, does not do kissing.
With
cold fingers that are cooperative, if lacking in zeal, she unbuttons his shirt. He stands passively as she eases his arms out of it. She makes a mental note: this must be what it’s like to undress a shop-window dummy. Underneath he is wearing a T-shirt. Without being prompted, she rolls it up and over his head.
His chest is smooth and hairless, not at all like Geoff’s. Viv has always appreciated chest hair, but according to Daisy it is deeply unfashionable. Dev’s chest is baby-smooth. Might he have had laser treatment? Or perhaps there was never anything much there to begin with.
The damp towel is still precariously in place. This might be an appropriate time to let it drop. But Dev shows no reaction, either to the manoeuvre itself or the result, so she pushes on. She thinks (and briefly considers saying): I’ve started, so I’ll finish. She guides his tracksuit pants down past his hips. He steps out of them with no comment, nor any evident physical response. Could he be in some kind of Eastern trance? More likely he’s thinking he has been undressed with too much practical haste and not enough caressing eroticism.
He’s wearing low-rise Calvin Klein trunks. They are a close fit, but Viv is up to the task of getting them down. Yet she feels unmoved as she performs the operation. Joy’s phrase ‘grasp the nettle’ keeps recurring, a disconcerting hindrance. She avoids grasping it out of, she can only suppose, some inbuilt perversity. Now, what is it that you plan to tell me I would like to do next?
She will not be kept in the dark for long, as Dev appears to throw off some of his inertia. ‘I think you would like to arouse me now, Vivien,’ he says. And she feels a nascent stir, in spite of everything.
He guides her hand to his groin.
11
THE AFTERMATH
Afterwards, Viv discerns a surprising change in Dev’s demeanour. In the car he’s bordering on chatty, initiating fresh topics of conversation in a way she would almost call breezy. Although when she surveys these topics, having found a seat on the crowded train and composed herself sufficiently to think about anything, she realises they were variations on a single theme: glamorous upmarket vacations. Romantic resorts in the Bahamas, luxury cruises and exclusive, long-distance train journeys.
The Age of Discretion Page 12
