After Isabella

by Rosie Fiore

  It seemed a revealing and personal thing to tell an almost stranger, and Esther was a little taken aback. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘It must have been very hard.’

  He nodded his thanks and kept walking in silence.

  Esther understood now. This story was Phil. It was the essence of him, and he clearly felt that if she was to know him, she would need to understand how this marriage, Sue’s death and his regrets underpinned everything. Did it mean he was broken? Unable to commit? She didn’t think so – he had been eager to ask her out, seemed keen to extend their interaction. He just needed her to know. And that was all right. She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m sure the tea garden has quietened down now. Can I buy you a coffee and a cupcake?’

  ‘Tea and a scone and you have a deal,’ he said, and smiled down at her gratefully.

  Over tea, she found herself telling him about the demise of her marriage to Stephen – the irritable exchanges that gradually morphed into constant sniping and point-scoring, the weekends spent deliberately apart, and finally, the New Year’s party where, on going into the kitchen, she had come upon Stephen kissing an acquaintance of theirs. It wasn’t his putative infidelity that was the last straw, but her own response to it – she felt no anger or jealousy, just a quick rush of relief that this was a big enough reason for them to end the whole tiresome, brittle charade. As soon as they agreed to part, they found they got on much better. It had been the most civilized and amicable divorce.

  Stephen had always loved Lucie and been a good father, but once he left, he became increasingly distant. He kept his weekly visitation dates but often didn’t bother to ring her in between. He started dating pretty much as soon as he moved out of the family home and had a few short-lived relationships before meeting Melissa. They had married within a year, and when her work had offered her a transfer to Manchester, Stephen seemed content to relocate. By necessity, he became a part-time father.

  Esther surprised herself with her frankness – in twenty minutes, she had told Phil more than she had shared with many of her friends. Was this middle-aged dating? Was it usual to embark on a first date by laying your baggage down on the table and inviting the other person to paw through it? It seemed odd and rather un-English, but it was practical, she conceded. Everyone of their age had damage. At least this way, you knew up front what dents and scratches you were buying.

  The sun was starting to sink and the shadows were getting longer. Esther shivered a little in her thin cardigan. Phil looked concerned. ‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Shall we move on somewhere indoors? A pub? Would you like some dinner?’

  Esther could so easily have said yes, but she felt vulnerable, almost peeled. She had revealed more than she had intended to. She could imagine the two of them at a small table in a dimly lit Hampstead pub, sharing a bottle of wine and more confidences, maybe some kisses. It was tempting, but she didn’t feel ready for it. She needed to go back to her safe house and regroup.

  ‘Thanks, but I need to get home,’ she said, and then cursed inwardly when Phil looked crestfallen. She had told him Lucie was away with her dad, so what could she possibly need to get home for? She considered inventing a dog, but in the end settled for, ‘Work, you know, never ends.’

  She had been uncharacteristically open and honest already, but she wasn’t going to say, ‘This is my first date in two and a half decades and if we drink and you keep being nice and sensitive, I might end up naked with you and I’m not ready for that.’

  Phil nodded, as if he understood, but he still looked a little sad. Walking back towards their cars, Esther found herself overcompensating. She kept finding excuses to touch him, and she kept her tone light and flirtatious, so he would know she was still interested.

  He insisted on walking her all the way to her car, although his was parked much nearer to the entrance to the Heath. At the car, he became awkward and clumsy again, shifting from foot to foot and making inane small talk, as if he didn’t want her to go but was too scared to do anything compelling enough to make her stay. Eventually, Esther found herself leaning in to kiss him. It hadn’t been her plan to do so, but it seemed the correct way to end the date, and he was clearly too scared to initiate anything. He kissed her back – sweetly and dryly. It was a mouth kiss, definitely more than a friendly peck, but far from a passionate snog.

  She was furious at herself as she drove away. She should have left it – either let him kiss her or said goodbye without any kiss at all. Now she was worried that he might feel she had stolen the initiative or think she was more eager than she really was. Curse this strange and unfamiliar dance, an unfathomable process of advances, retreats and failed attempts to anticipate the movements and intentions of one’s partner. It was all too difficult, this middle-class, middle-aged dating.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Phil emailed her on the Monday morning.

  Dear Esther,

  Thank you so much for yesterday. I enjoyed it very much. If I am not being too forward, I was wondering if you were free on Wednesday evening? I got an email inviting me to a wine-tasting event, and I thought it would be more fun not to go alone, and much more fun to go with you. I am not a wine bore, promise, and not a big drinker. I just thought it might be interesting to do something new.

  Anyway. Let me know.

  Phil x

  It made Esther smile. He was clearly trying to play it cool, but the fact was that he had emailed by ten o’clock on the morning after they’d been out, and she could imagine him agonizing over the kiss at the end. She decided to wait a couple of hours before replying. Not to play games – in fact, just the opposite. She wanted to temper her rather gushy behaviour at the end of their date the day before. She liked him, of course she did. But she wasn’t sure how much. He was perfectly fine, on paper, but she needed to think about how she really felt. Was it genuine attraction or the novelty of having someone attracted to her? She was so out of practice, she just didn’t know. She was keen to go to the wine tasting, to have another evening out, to get to know him a little better. But she wasn’t feeling any great swoops of emotion or electric currents of attraction. It was probably just too early to know.

  Regina came into her office with a handful of post.

  ‘Good weekend? How was the Tate?’

  ‘Good. Good. Interesting.’ Esther turned back to her computer. She wasn’t ready to talk about Phil. She couldn’t discuss him with someone else if she didn’t know what she thought herself yet, and she was certain that Regina would be terribly excited by the whole story and would make all sorts of assumptions. After Wednesday perhaps. There might be more to tell then.

  The wine tasting was held in a cellar bar in Mayfair, around the corner from Claridge’s and down a narrow flight of stairs. Esther approached the venue and once more saw Phil standing outside waiting for her. He smiled carefully when he saw her. He had obviously given himself a talking-to and decided not to look too eager. Esther had, rather uncharacteristically, gone shopping for a dress. She had decided it was worth splashing out on something new, as much to celebrate going on a date as to impress Phil. It was a silky jersey wrap dress in a deep burgundy (appropriate for the event, she thought), and it accentuated her shape. As she passed him to go down the stairs into the bar, she noticed him noticing and smiled quietly to herself.

  The wine tasting was not, as she had expected, a thinly veiled excuse for a piss-up, but a formal teaching event, with bottles wrapped in paper sleeves and questionnaires to fill in. The activity kept them busy but rather ruled out any in-depth conversation. Esther put on her glasses, took it seriously and got stuck in, tasting, thinking and writing detailed notes. She was so engrossed that it took some time for her to notice that Phil had gone quiet. When she glanced over, she noticed a sheen of perspiration at his hairline. He saw her watching and looked up – guiltily, she thought. His eyes were watery and unfocused. He was drunk. Of course, she thought. He’s a marathon runner, supremely fit, and the small amount of alcohol we’ve drunk h
as gone straight to his head. She gave him a gentle smile.

  ‘Can I order you something to eat?’

  ‘Hmm? Me? No! I’m fine. Unless you’re hungry.’ He was definitely slurring a little.

  ‘I could eat something,’ she said. She called over a waiter and ordered a cheese platter with some extra bread. That should do the trick.

  Eating something did seem to slow Phil down a little and he lost his slightly glassy look. Esther was relieved. She was too old to be nursing a man who was vomiting or passing out. They tasted the last round of wine, and she suggested they take a stroll around Grosvenor Square before they went their separate ways. The bar was dark, intimate and a little claustrophobic, and she thought a breath of fresh air, or the London equivalent, would do them both good.

  Phil had been very quiet all evening, and he remained so as they strolled up South Audley Street towards the square. Esther made small talk about the wines they had tasted and mentioned some of the interesting facts she had gleaned from the notes. He made a few brief replies to her comments but didn’t seem particularly interested. Then he said, abruptly, ‘Tell me about your friend.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your friend. You said you had a friend who died of cervical cancer.’

  ‘Isabella, yes.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Eight years ago.’ She felt odd. She didn’t really want to talk about Isabella, although she wasn’t sure if it was more that she didn’t want to talk about her, or she didn’t want to talk about her to Phil.

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Very. We met at primary school and stayed friends through university and beyond.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘An architect – brilliant, creative, braver than me.’

  ‘An architect? Was she well known? Would I have heard of her?’

  ‘If you were a real architecture buff, possibly, otherwise not. She won some competitions, had a few good commissions, but then she got sick. She didn’t live long enough to reach her true potential. That’s the thing about cancer…’ She stopped. Phil knew all too well the cost of cancer. ‘Her name was Isabella Millais,’ she finished.

  ‘Millais?’

  ‘Like John Everett Millais, the painter.’

  He nodded. ‘Was she married? Are you in touch with her husband?’

  ‘No husband. No children either – just a mum and a sister. Her mum died recently.’

  ‘Are you still friendly with the sister?’

  Esther wasn’t sure how to answer this. Was she Sally’s friend? It seemed an extravagant word to use for their tentative connection. ‘We’re still in touch, yes,’ she said.

  They reached the corner of the square nearest the American Embassy. Two heavily armed policemen stood in a pool of light in front of the imposing building. Phil stopped and Esther turned to ask if he was all right. He grasped her upper arms and abruptly pulled her in towards him, then kissed her hard on the mouth. She was surprised, and a little embarrassed that this was happening in the line of sight of two men wearing Kevlar and carrying semiautomatic weapons. But Phil’s ardour was unmistakeable. His mouth was firm on hers, and she could feel his arousal against her stomach. He wound his arms around her tightly, so the softness of her body pressed against him, and she heard him groan – actually groan – against her mouth. Then, just as abruptly, he let her go.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘I… I haven’t done that for so long… I don’t know… I’m out of practice… But you… in that dress… Oh God… what an idiot.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said gently. ‘I’m out of practice too. And for the record, it was very nice.’

  As they walked up towards the Tube, the silence between them felt awkward, so she tentatively took his hand. After the quiet of Grosvenor Square, Oxford Street was busy and buzzing. They got to Bond Street station and people were thronging in and out. Phil drew her to him again and began to kiss her. It seemed so odd to be snogging outside a Tube station like a couple of teenagers. She stiffened for a second, self-conscious, and then decided just to go with it. After all, she was supposed to be embracing new opportunities. She relaxed into Phil’s arms and ran her hands up and down his back. He was strong and fit, and after months – years – of sensory deprivation, it was novel and exciting to feel male muscles and smell his warm, musky skin. He clasped her even closer and she could feel he was very turned on. Then he drew back for a second, and his gaze was unfocused with desire and drink.

  ‘I know this is going to come out wrong,’ he said, his breathing uneven, ‘but I know a hotel…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Esther, before she had time to think. ‘Let’s do it.’

  The hotel he had in mind was a few blocks away. Phil walked quickly, holding her hand tightly, almost dragging her along, so she had to half-trot to keep up. In the five minutes it took to walk there, Esther began to wonder if she was making a terrible mistake. Was she about to have a… well, it wasn’t a one-night stand, they had been on a couple of dates after all, but… an unplanned sexual encounter? It seemed crazy. She had imagined that if they were going to sleep together it would be more sedate and would involve dinner out or at home, music and soft lighting, not a mad rush to an inner-city hotel. And what kind of hotel did he have in mind? Was he about to drop hundreds of pounds on some five-star establishment? Or would it be a shabby, squalid place with grubby sheets and neon lights flashing in the windows? She was about to bring their speedy march to a halt and call the whole thing off when Phil stopped outside a boxy business hotel – not seedy, but impersonal.

  He seemed in an enormous hurry, striding in and banging his hand on the counter, his credit card firmly held between two fingers. The night clerk looked up, unsurprised. He was obviously used to people checking in at short notice and without luggage, and within minutes, Phil had a room card key and they were in the lift.

  They started kissing again in the lift, and Phil barely drew breath as they spilled out into the corridor, found their room and got the door open. Rather than being transported with desire, she felt uncomfortable, aware of Phil’s slightly sour wine breath and the pressure points his grip had left on her shoulders. But perhaps she was expecting too much. She pushed her misgivings to the back of her mind. A blip, that was all. She’d try to fancy him more. There was certainly no way to back out of the encounter now.

  Half an hour later, she sat propped up on the pillows in the hotel room, looking down on Phil lying beside her. It had been… well, all right, she supposed. She hadn’t had an orgasm, but then, why would she? It took time to establish rhythms, find what the other person liked, surely? It had been years, decades since she had slept with someone for the first time, so she had very little to compare it to. Sex with Stephen, refined during years of familiarity and mutual knowledge, had been an entirely different experience. Still, this encounter seemed to have been over very quickly, and Phil had certainly… gone straight for the prize, as it were. No leisurely foreplay or time taken to explore her body or his. And as soon as it was over, he had drawn away and lain quite still, staring at the ceiling and not speaking or touching her. Then he had fallen asleep.

  She glanced at her watch; it was only just midnight. Suddenly, there was nothing she wanted more than to have a bath in her own bathroom and then fall asleep, alone, in her own bed. If she hurried, she would make the last Tube home. She slipped out of the bed and began to gather her clothes and dress as quietly as she could. She wasn’t sure what to do about Phil. Should she wake him to say goodbye? Leave a note? Send a text? She wasn’t familiar with the etiquette in these situations. But when she looked up, he was lying, eyes open, watching her.

  ‘You’re going,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Work tomorrow. Early start.’ She didn’t have a lecture till eleven, but the urge to leave was becoming stronger.

  ‘Of course.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Well, be careful how you go. C
an’t imagine what the bloke on the front desk will think. I didn’t even get the whole hour.’

  Esther finished dressing, grabbed her handbag and hesitated before leaning over the bed and giving him a quick peck on the lips. He seemed to have no intention of dressing or leaving with her. As she rode down in the lift, she mulled over his last comment. Maybe he had intended it as a joke, but it had a hint of real nastiness… suggesting she was a prostitute, and not even a very good one at that. She held her head high and didn’t make eye contact or greet the clerk as she left the hotel.

  The next morning, she woke up feeling slightly ill. What had she done? Her behaviour had been very out of character. Having sex with Phil had been a mistake, a precipitous, drunken error. Well, chalk it up to experience. She never had to see him again. But when she got to the office, an email from him popped up in her inbox. The subject line said ‘Sorry’.

  Dearest Esther,

  What a pig I am. I let you go out into the night alone. I wanted to say I am so, so sorry. The whole experience last night was so overwhelming for me, as I am sure you can imagine, and I kind of… lost myself. I hope you can forgive me. Please let me see you again. As soon as possible. Please. Let’s go back a step and get to know each other properly.

  Phil

  PS. I’ll ring you later and try to set something up for Friday, if you’re free.

  The email was so reasonable and thoughtful that she softened. Of course, he had not slept with anyone other than his wife for years. It must have been huge for him, and very emotionally fraught. She would do her best to be more understanding.

  When he rang at around lunchtime, she was on her way to a tutorial and didn’t have time to chat, but she agreed to see him on the following evening.