by Tanith Morse
‘Wow David, this looks amazing,’ I gasped.
‘I just hope it tastes as good as it looks,’ he winked, taking a seat next to me. He took a bite of his curry and smiled conceitedly. Obviously, he considered it to be a success.
Hastily, I took a large forkful of mine. It tasted heavenly – just the right balance of ingredients and hands down the best Thai curry I’d ever tasted. No, the best curry I’d ever tasted, and that included Indian.
‘David, this is divine. I didn’t know you were such a brilliant cook.’
‘Oh, I dabble a little,’ he smirked.
‘Dabble? You could be on Masterchef.’
He nodded vacantly. ‘What’s on TV? Shall we find something to watch?’ He picked up the remote and started flicking through the Freeview channels. He stopped when he got to an old black and white film.
‘It Happened One Night! I absolutely love this movie.’
‘Me too,’ I enthused. ‘Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. They make the best double act ever!’
‘I know. They’ve got such chemistry, haven’t they?’
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His face was so alive, so excited. I smelled a rat.
‘I thought you said you weren’t a film man?’
‘I’m not, really. But there are some classics that you just can’t ignore. It Happened One Night is one of them.’
I nodded enthusiastically.
‘Do you like old films then?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, they’re the only type I watch. I think the old stuff is way better than the crap they’re churning out now, hence why I rarely go to the cinema anymore. Have you ever seen Sunset Boulevard?’
‘Gloria Swanson. Amazing!’
David turned and stared at me, his glasses catching the light like two sun reflectors. ‘You’re a real movie buff, aren’t you? I bet I could name any film and you’d be able to tell me who starred in it and what date it was made.’
I blushed and shovelled another forkful of curry into my mouth. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’m quite that good. It’s just, well, when you spend a lot of time alone, you get through a lot of movies. It helps to pass the time.’
‘Have you spent a lot of time on your own?’ His voice was warm, tender.
I was so annoyed at myself for giving too much away. Now that I’d opened the floodgates, who knew what else I’d let slip? That I wasn’t thirty-six? That I hadn’t had sex for twenty-five years?
I decided to play it cool.
‘After Mum died, I just needed time to get my head together, you know? I couldn’t stand being around people, so yes, I did spend a lot of time alone.’ I paused. ‘Anyway, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with one’s own company.’
‘Couldn’t agree more. But not to the point where you start to feel isolated.’
I turned back to the TV and watched the film in silence for a couple of minutes. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me, studying me. I wondered what he was thinking. Probably that I was a right weirdo.
David put down his fork and moved closer to me. Placed his hand against my cheek and gently turned my face towards him. His eyes seemed to reach deep into my soul.
‘Do you feel isolated, Madeline?’
I hesitated. ‘Sometimes, I guess. But what can you do? That’s life. Some people are just meant to be on their own. They find themselves alone, even if they don’t want to be.’
‘And is it what you want?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said passionately. ‘I don’t want to go to my grave thinking there was stuff I didn’t do. I want to enjoy what’s left of my life. I want to make the most of it, go places, see people.’
‘What do you mean “what’s left” of it? Madeline, you’re only thirty-six. You talk like you were an old lady. You’ve still got plenty of life ahead of you.’
‘It doesn’t feel that way sometimes. There are times when I feel like life is just passing me by and, you know, I haven’t got much to show for it.’
David reached over, took my hand. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ he whispered. ‘Come, let me show you a little trick to help you relax.’
Gently, he opened my palm and started tracing invisible shapes with his fingers. Slow, sensual circles. My breathing grew shallow as I relished that familiar, electric touch of his. Everything the man did was so inexplicably sexy. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. It was like he was in tune with me, like he knew exactly what buttons to push. How to turn me on.
I closed my eyes, started fantasising about where this could lead. Then, abruptly, he stopped.
David took his hand away, adjusted his specs, suddenly awkward. He stood up sharply and said he was going to the toilet. He was in there for absolutely ages. I wondered what the heck he was doing.
When he finally returned, his face was flushed but he seemed a lot calmer. ‘Listen, do you fancy going out somewhere tonight?’
I glanced at my watch. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little late?’
‘Nonsense! The night is still young.’
‘Er, well okay. What did you have in mind?’
‘Let’s go to West End and see where the wind takes us.’
‘Sure, why not? Could be fun.’
* * *
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ David asked earnestly.
‘Yeah, it’s fantastic,’ I beamed.
We could barely hear each other over the roar of the samba music. We’d gone to a Cuban bar on Charing Cross Road called the Havana Café - an intimate venue that ran daily salsa classes before transforming into a nightclub around nine-thirty.
We were sipping Mojito cocktails at a small table that overlooked a large circular dance floor, watching a salsa class led by a good-looking Latino man dressed in a dark lycra body suit. It was absolutely hilarious watching the pro dancers mixing with clumsy novices such as myself. A complete riot. One couple in particular stood out – a fat balding man with his tiny little Peruvian girlfriend. The man was trying desperately to lead and failing miserably. I smothered a giggle as he thrashed about the floor like a whale caught in a fisherman’s net.
David followed my gaze. ‘I don’t know why you’re laughing, Madeline. We’re up next, you know.’
‘No way!’ I laughed. ‘There’s absolutely no way you’re getting me on that dance floor.’
‘We’ll see,’ he winked, ‘I can be very persuasive you know.’
I reddened and looked away. There was still that awkwardness between us, when he seemed to be flirting with me, giving me hope that he found me attractive. Yet maddeningly, I was still no nearer to establishing what his true intentions towards me were. He was giving out such mixed messages. Was I merely his friend, a buddy to take out occasionally, or did he see us in romantic terms? I wished to God I had the guts to ask him, to tell him how desperately I needed him to validate our relationship. But my inexperience of these matters rendered me dumb. Left me terrified of rocking the boat.
‘How’s Beth?’ David’s question roused me from my musings.
I told him a little of the trouble she was having with Phil. I didn’t, however, go into too much detail as previous experience had taught me that men seldom like gossip. Sure, they can take the odd anecdote, but a full-fledged bitchfest usually reflects badly on the messenger.
‘Well, I hope they manage to sort out their differences,’ David said. ‘They’re both nice people. Twenty years is a long time to be married so it’s not going to be easy starting over. Hopefully this is just a blip and they’ll be able to resolve it amicably.’
‘Yes, I hope so too. Especially for Vicky’s sake.’
I was extremely impressed by how generous he was being, particularly after Phil’s obnoxious behaviour at the dinner party. This was yet another sign of his maturity, I thought.
‘Er Madeline, I’ve got a little something for you.’
I looked up inquisitively from my Mojito cocktail. My head started to feel a little woozy. David reached inside his jacket poc
ket and produced a small velvet box. He laid it on the table. I picked it up gingerly and flipped open the lid.
‘Oh my gosh!’ I covered my mouth with my hand.
Inside was a pair of diamond earrings. Costume jewellery of the finest, to be sure, but absolutely beautiful nonetheless. Tears choked me. It was the first time a man had ever bought me jewellery.
‘Are they okay, Madeline? Do you like them?’
I nodded dumbly. My voice had temporarily deserted me. I was too emotional to speak. I was having to take small breaths to keep myself composed. I toyed with them in my fingers.
‘Thank you, David,’ I said quietly. ‘This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever bought me. I love them.’
Hastily, I took off the earrings I was wearing and slipped on David’s. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Clearly, he approved of how they looked.
‘They really suit you,’ he smiled.
I fluttered my eyelids coquettishly. His words were like music to my ears. Then I turned round and accidentally knocked over our cocktails.
‘Oh fuck,’ I mumbled, embarrassed that I’d just spoiled a perfect moment.
David took it good-humouredly. ‘Excuse me, could I get a towel to mop this up?’
The waiter nodded and returned with one from the kitchen.
‘I’m so sorry, David,’ I said, sponging up the table. ‘Those lovely Mojitos. I’ll get us another one, don’t worry.’
‘So, does this mean I can have that dance?’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to have to make this up to me on the dance floor. I’ve earned that at least that, haven’t I?’
I gave a goofy grin, conceding that I now had little choice in the matter. David took my hand and led me down a small flight of stairs onto the dance floor. The music changed to a salsa type song with a fast rhythm. The other couples seemed to recognise it, letting out a loud cheer as trumpets signified a familiar chorus. David twirled me round a number of times then pulled me toward him in a tight embrace that I found particularly thrilling. As stiff as I was, he somehow managed to make the two of us took good. I was never going to be the best dancer, but with him I came alive in a way I never had done before. I couldn’t care less how bad I looked rocking and shaking like a demented robot; I had David for a dance partner and that was all that mattered.
Presently I noticed a tall, exceptionally lean man with dark hair standing by the sidelines. He was watching us intently, his eyes narrow and hypnotic. Strange. Very strange, I thought. Perhaps the spectacle of me dancing amused him. Or perhaps he’d never been to a salsa class before and was drinking in the atmosphere. But then, his expression was so cold, so disapproving; it chilled me to the bone.
After two songs, I insisted that we return to our table. I went to the bar and ordered us another couple of Mojitos. As I walked back, I instinctively felt my earlobe and realised that one of David’s earrings had fallen off. Panicking, I started scanning the floor for it.
‘What’s wrong?’ David inquired when he saw how anxious I was.
‘I’ve lost one of my earrings.’
‘Oh God.’ A look of terror crossed his face as he dived under the table, frantically searching for it. After a minute or two, he remerged clutching the prized earring. The look of relief on his face was indescribable. I felt so foolish for putting him to so much trouble. First I’d spilled the drinks, now this. What a klutz I was.
Taking the earring from him, I took off my other one and placed them both back in their box for safekeeping. Then, downing my Mojito in one gulp, I made my excuses and escaped to the toilets to cool down. I needed to psyche myself up, raise my spirits, get over my humiliation. I had been behaving like a complete moron all evening.
When I returned, I was surprised to see David deep in conversation with the dark-haired man who had been watching us. David seemed angry, the man having said something that riled him. As they saw me approach, the stranger scurried off into the shadows like an odious vampire bat.
David moulded his face appropriately to disguise his anger.
‘Sorry, was I gone long?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ he replied hastily, pulling out my chair for me.
I sat down, looked at him. An awkward silence hung between us.
‘Who was that guy you were talking to?’
‘Oh, just someone who thought they knew me.’
‘And did he?’
‘Did he what?’
‘Know you?’
‘No, no, of course not. But he was very persistent; he didn’t want to take no for an answer. However, I think the matter is now resolved.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay, David? You seem a bit rattled. You’re not in any sort of trouble are you? Because if you are, I want you to know that you can count on me. You can trust me to keep my mouth shut.’
‘What on earth are you talking, Madeline? I’m absolutely fine. Like I said, I’ve never seen the man in my life. Let’s just forget about it, okay?’
David’s eyes sparkled with venom. I was slightly taken aback. It was the first time he had ever displayed his temper to me before. I decided not to question him any more about the incident.
For the next twenty minutes he remained distracted, agitated and soon requested that we leave Havana Café altogether. I, for one, was not sorry to go. What had started out as a magical evening had descended into farce, then into disaster. I didn’t like being around David when he was in such a foul mood and hoped that perhaps when he’d had time to reflect on things, he’d be back to his loveable old self.
Some chance! The following morning he slotted a postcard through my letterbox. On the front was a photograph of the Eiffel Tower. On the reverse was a brief note saying that he’d gone to France for six weeks on a modelling assignment and would be back after Christmas. He wished me well and told me to take care of myself. It was signed with a smiley face and two kisses. I almost died.
Chapter Twelve
At first I didn’t know how I was going to survive for six weeks without David. With Christmas fast approaching, the prospect of a lonely festive season was depressing enough without the added mystery of whether or not I would see him again. I tried to go about my usual routine, tried to keep myself busy and not dwell on it, hoping against hope that he would be back for me. He had to be. My optimism for a reunion was the only thing that kept me going.
Not that there wasn’t enough to keep me busy. The Beth and Phil saga had become like a soap opera. The week following the reveal of his infidelity, Phil had moved out of the marital home into a little flat in Archway. He saw Vicky twice a week, took her to the cinema, the park, all the while begging for Beth’s forgiveness.
My sister played the wronged wife to perfection: she refused to take his calls, refused to discuss anything other than the childcare arrangements and resolutely stood by her original assertion that their marriage was over. She was on the phone to me constantly, filling me in on every last detail of their separation. From morning until night, I was updated on his movements, his pleas, his tears, his tantrums, his feeble declarations of love. Beth related it all with mischievous glee, clearly enjoying the power she exerted over the situation.
In some perverse way, it was almost like she had a newfound respect for him because he had cheated on her. Like she had discovered a new dimension to this downtrodden man she had so long thought incapable of defying her. The fact that he had slept with someone else, shared his body with someone else, helped her to view him as a sexual being again. She analysed every sordid text message and found that they were the key to understanding a hidden side to her husband. The key to understanding what was missing from their marriage. And, although she hated to admit it, I think my sister found it all rather exciting. Drama of any kind was what Beth craved. Anything to shake up her mundane existence.
It didn’t happen overnight but, little by little, I could sense her resolve wearing thin. I knew it would be only a matter of time before she took him back. Tough a
s she pretended to be, I knew my sister just wasn’t strong enough to be anything other than a stay at home wife. It was more the lifestyle she feared losing, the financial security than the love of her husband. Above all, she didn’t want to leave the door open for that bitch (Peter Cushing) to take the spoils of her twenty-year marriage. ‘Over her dead body,’ she shrieked.
By the third week, Phil began working his way back into her good books. On visits to see Vicky, he’d linger in the living room and leave little gifts behind which Beth collected with a grudging admiration. He spoke of them recapturing their youth, of starting over again, of being a better man now that he had learned what it was like to lose all that he held dear. And from the way my sister gushed about this on the phone, I could tell that divorce was definitely off the cards.
Meanwhile, I had David Powell on my mind. Every day when the mail arrived, I’d wonder fleetingly if perhaps he’d send me another postcard or something. Nothing came, but this didn’t stop me from hoping. Sometimes I’d hover in the landing, staring at his locked door, wondering if I’d see him again. Once, I even phoned the landlord on the pretext of tracking David down to deliver a parcel to him. Jim was a bit of an old gossip so it didn’t take me long to discover that David had paid the whole year’s rent in advance, which I found extremely uplifting. At least it confirmed that he intended to return to England. I mean, who would want to lose out on a year’s rent?
By the fourth week, I had cheered up enough to go shopping in the West End. I had always been keen on astrology and occasionally browsed the New Age bookshops in the Convent Garden/Shaftsbury Avenue area. Places specialising in mind, body and spirit titles had long been a source of comfort to me on lonely weekends.
About one o’clock, I exited Leicester Square Tube station. It was typically busy for a Saturday, the streets heaving with tourists and shoppers eager to grab a bargain in the run-up to Christmas.
