Barefoot in the Dark

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘No. No, really.’ Jesus! She didn’t want the bloody table! ‘I’ve got to measure up and everything. And I’m not sure it’s the one I want anyway. I need to… Look, thanks, but no. Don’t worry. No rush for the table. You go.’

  Hope stayed standing by her car while they drove off, her brother giving two long toots on the horn to signify their departure to the rest of the neighbourhood, and Suze, with a face like a driven-over biscuit, staring very pointedly ahead. She felt for all the world like a teenage girl who’d just been caught smoking by the bike sheds.

  Except it was so much worse than that.

  He’d been asleep when she’d woken, edged into consciousness by the unfamiliar ticking of a clock somewhere. Fast asleep. She’d slipped quietly from the bed, so as not to wake him, and pulled on a T-shirt that was crumpled in a pile of clothes on the floor. Then she’d taken their soup bowls out into the little kitchen, washed them both up and stacked them on the draining board. She’d pulled back the net curtain but there was a man down in the garden – Leonard, she supposed – so she’d lowered the net again quickly and made a pot of tea. There was only just enough milk for two mugs.

  She hadn’t known quite what to do or think. Only that she shouldn’t be there. She’d taken the tea in and put his beside him on the bedside table, only inches from his nose. His features, in sleep, looked smooth and untroubled. She could fall in love with this man, she knew she could, and the thought, so powerful and so utterly unwelcome, was almost enough to make her run from the room. She didn’t want to feel like that. Not now. Not about him. But she couldn’t seem to help it. She was awed by his body, bemused by his maleness. The way the hair under his flung-out arm was so pale and wispy, yet the rest of it was so dense and wiry, running in a cross over his chest and almost from neck to groin. She had been glad the duvet covered that bit. She didn’t want to see such an intimate part of him in the cold light of day. It would feel too personal. Too intimate, in fact. Altogether more so than the sex.

  She let herself into the house and dropped her bag on the floor by the hall table. The answer-phone light was winking frantically at her, recording, no doubt, the chain of events that had placed her sister-in-law on her drive. She wondered if Jack’s voice would be on there too, but she didn’t press the button. She didn’t think she could bear that it might not be. She went up to shower instead.

  It was the knickers, really. The stepping back into the pair of knickers that she had worn last night. They never seemed to mention things like that in books or movies. The dirty-laundry implications of unscheduled sex away from home. Of staying the night. Of hanging around. Of still being there in the morning. Oh, God. Stupid. Stupid. Thank heavens she was home now and could get it all off.

  She hadn’t been able to shower at the flat – there wasn’t one – so, not wanting to breach any house rules by filling the bath, instead had washed herself all over at the sink. The bathroom window, she’d noticed, was still wide open. She gazed out of it while she cleaned her teeth with his toothbrush, watching the blobs of rain streak down the window frame, pooling at the bottom before re-falling below.

  And then she’d had to go back into the bedroom and re-dress in the clothes she’d scattered to the four winds last night. Unswizzle her knickers, unravel her laddered tights, pull the now shapeless wool dress back over her head. All this while he’d slept. She didn’t want to wake him. She knew if she did he’d be on her in an instant, which, given that she knew she’d be unable to resist him, would only compound the angst now crowding her mind. Or worse. Or worse, he might be indifferent. Vaguely hostile. Be unable to hide the fact that he didn’t want her there. Why did she feel this way? Would he really be like that? Yes. Yes, he would. If not immediately, then soon after. She stepped into the shower to wash it all away. She’d never in her life felt so ashamed.

  The house was as she’d left it. There was no reason why it wouldn’t be, but as she had never spent a night away from it since moving in, it felt strangely unfamiliar – cold. As if she’d just returned from two weeks in the Med. She rubbed herself dry and padded back naked to the bedroom, where the sight of her torso in the dressing table mirror brought new waves of horror to wash over her again. What had got into her? What had possessed her to let him have sex with her like that? What would he think of her?

  God, but why did she think so little of herself? She was an adult, wasn’t she? A single adult. There was no reason on earth why she shouldn’t have sex with anyone she saw fit to have sex with, at any time she saw fit, and without reference to any of the cock-eyed rules of morality that had informed her teenage years. She was an adult. She needed to have sex. Sex was something fundamental to life, wasn’t it? And hadn’t she enjoyed it? Yes. Yes. But she still shouldn’t have done it. She pulled on fresh underwear and scowled at her reflection. She shouldn’t have let him. She shouldn’t have done it. What would he think of her now?

  She needed to talk to Madeleine. Madeleine would make her feel better. Less the victim of a stupid adolescent crush, and more an independent woman who had just happened to have sex with a man. Madeleine, now in her late fifties, had sex whenever and with whoever she felt like, and it never seemed to bother her in the slightest. Hope wondered if it wasn’t something to do with having been bereaved as opposed to divorced. Madeleine’s sex life with her husband had been legendary. If it wasn’t actually in the middle of a shag that he’d keeled over, even Madeleine herself wasn’t fazed by the notion that their energetic couplings might have been a factor in his untimely death. A short life but a happy one. She’d said that more than once.

  Maddie hadn’t been rejected. That was the thing. She didn’t have that switch, so it couldn’t be turned on.

  She called Madeleine, while still in her bra and pants.

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Been to bed with someone.’ It sounded, surprisingly, all right, saying that to Madeleine. Sort of rugged. Uncompromising. Cosmopolitan-esque.

  ‘Sweetness! That’s marvellous! Do I know him? Was it good?’

  ‘Yes, you know him.’ She took a breath. ‘Maddie, it was Jack Valentine.’

  There. She’d said it. And she felt a little better for it, which surprised her. Madeleine whooped.‘Finally! You harlot, you! Mind you, I knew it was only a matter of time.’ Of course she’d known. But more to the point, had Hope known that too? Yes, of course she had. It was just the amount of time that she’d miscalculated. But it was all right. She could be a sexual animal when she was talking to Madeleine. It felt like it had been – exciting. Spontaneous. It didn’t feel shabby. She could pretend it didn’t matter if he didn’t call her now.

  But he hadn’t called her yet. And where, oh where, was her optimism now?

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ she added anxiously.

  ‘Not if it’s a secret. Though why it would be I have no idea. You’re both available, aren’t you? Wowee,’ she added. ‘So how did all this come about? I mean, I knew you had a bit of a thing for him, but, my word, you’re a shifty mare.’

  Hope told her about the cushions. It had seemed such a nice, uncomplicated idea at the time, untarnished, she’d told herself, by ulterior motives. Just a gesture. A gesture of friendship. Of empathy… She sighed. That wasn’t true, and she knew it. ‘… and then, God, I don’t know. It just sort of happened.’

  ‘And I can hear the glow in your voice, darling.’

  ‘It’s not a glow. It’s a tremor. I feel awful.’

  ‘Awful? Why on earth do you feel awful?’

  ‘Because I just threw myself at him, Maddie. Went round there and threw myself at him. God, I can hardly bear to think about it. How could I do that? How could I be so forward?’

  How indeed? Madeleine made a tut tut sound down the phone. ‘Sweetness, get real. Which century do you imagine you’re living in?

  ‘I know. I know. But it still feels wrong to me.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because
he must think I’m so, well, easy.’

  ‘Dear me, Hope – you sound like Jackie magazine circa nineteen-seventy. The world doesn’t work like that any more. It’s only sex, darling. That’s all. Who cares about the logistics of who made the first move?’

  It was actually not so much the logistics. She knew that. It was her crushing insecurity. Would there ever be a time when she didn’t have to lump it around with her? When she loved herself enough again not to care who else did?

  The telephone rang finally, at a quarter past six, and she eyed it for a moment, almost too frightened to pick it up.

  It was Simon.

  ‘Only me,’ he said. He always said ‘only me.’ As if he didn’t much matter. As if it being only him would never be anything other than a disappointment to anyone. To her, at least. Which, right now, it was. There was a brief pause. ‘Well,’ he said then. ‘Are we on?’

  They were supposed to be running at seven. She had not forgotten. Merely put her head in the sand. Hoped that if she did nothing and he did nothing it simply wouldn’t happen. Which was stupid. She had answered the phone and now she would have to go running with Simon. How could she not?

  ‘We’re on,’ she said, trying to sound like she meant it. Perhaps a run would do her good. Clear her head. If not her conscience. ‘Anyone else coming?’

  ‘Just you and little old me,’ he said happily. Oh dear.

  ‘I can’t make it a long one,’ she said quickly. ‘I have to be back for the kids.’

  It would do her good. The evening was dry and crisp and threatening a frost, and her breath was cotton wool in front of her as she jogged up to meet him. She liked running best when there was a chill in the air.

  They met at the park. Two circuits of the pavement that ran around the perimeter of the park, Simon told her, came to exactly three point two miles, as long as you included the war memorial. Just a spit over five kilometres, which was perfect. He knew this, he said, because he’d driven it earlier, to check. He had a chunky watch on, one of those watches that could tell you the time in Buenos Aires while simultaneously monitoring your mean gradient and reminding you how far off sea level you were. He spent some moments fiddling with it before they set off.

  ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s kick some gravel.’

  Hope kicked, pushing on hard, in order that she would be breathless, and wouldn’t have to talk back to him too much. He didn’t seem to care. He matched her stride easily, keeping up a commentary on the fun run as they ran. Hope wasn’t really listening. He was banging on about one of the sponsors, and how he’d offered to have his team all dress up as comedy hearts.

  ‘I think he’s mad,’ he was saying. ‘But it might help with the TV coverage.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Oh, and talking of TV, that reminds me. I spotted our man, as it happens.’

  Hope slowed a little as they approached a junction, knowing, precisely, which man he meant, because there was only one man on her mind.

  ‘Saw who?’

  He was becoming breathless himself now, his early pace obviously catching up with him. ‘Jack Valentine,’ he panted, jogging on the spot while a train of cars streamed past from the lights. He placed a hand against her back now and began to herd her across the road. She wished he wouldn’t. She lengthened her stride again. He caught up. ‘In that free magazine. The one you get at the doctors. You know –’

  She was listening now. ‘No.’

  ‘That one they give away. Ladies Only, or something? I meant to bring it in for Madeleine.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Well, she’s so keen to get someone from the television involved. Only he was with that woman. I thought Madeleine might be interested. I mean if his girlfriend’s a big shot at HTV, it might be useful, mightn’t it? You never know, do you?’

  Hope didn’t know. More to the point, Hope didn’t much want to know. ‘What woman was this?’ She kicked her legs harder. What woman?

  ‘That woman from the telly,’ he panted. ‘You know her. Used to present that news programme. Hey – we on a mission here or something?’ He was gasping audibly by now. ‘Allegra something. Allegra S something… Staunton, that’s it. Hey, he gets about, our boy, doesn’t he?’

  Hope didn’t watch a lot of television, but the name rang a definite bell. ‘In a magazine? How come?’

  ‘The CancerCope ball. One of those society features. They always do them. The great and the good. The “glitterati”.’ He said this with what Hope took to be a wry flourish. We are not worthy.

  Hope couldn’t imagine why someone like Simon would be a reader of society pages. But then there was lots about Simon she didn’t know. And she was perfectly happy for that state of affairs to continue. Though not perfectly happy right now. How could he have a girlfriend? How could he have a girlfriend and sleep with her?

  Their cars were coming into view, and Simon began to slow. Hope ran faster, sprinting now. She was breathing in gasps as Simon drew level with her.

  ‘Well,’ he said, beads of perspiration crowding his forehead and nose. ‘Twenty-seven thirty-two. You certainly know how to make a man build up a sweat!’

  Hope wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead. She felt nauseated. And dizzy. She’d had nothing to eat since midday and her body was yowling its protest. She walked a few paces up the road to cool down, while Simon stood, bent-backed, his pale hands on his paler knees. Yes, she did know who Allegra Staunton was. She could picture her. A telly blonde. That was the accepted vernacular, wasn’t it? Just the kind of woman Jack Valentine would have on his arm. Simon was sniffing now. Loudly. Then swallowing. Horrible. But better, she supposed, than spitting. Iain always used to spit when he ran. She fished her car key from the little pocket in her shorts. She needed to get away from Simon now, before any other nuggets of innuendo occurred to him. She started back. Simon had fished out his own key.

  ‘You know, it’s daft us bringing both cars down here,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll pick you up next time. Make much more sense.’ He seemed to be hovering.

  It would make no sense at all. It would place him outside her house when they finished their run and leave openings for him to hover even more.

  ‘I’m happy enough to drive myself,’ she said, conscious as she said it that she must also avoid intimating that her picking him up would be workable. Simon was getting too close for comfort. She unlocked the car and opened the door. ‘I’ve got to stop off at the Spar, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He began walking towards her. ‘Wednesday? Thursday? Er… Hope, I –’

  ‘We’ll sort it out at work,’ she said hurriedly, sliding into her seat. ‘Better dash or the kids’ll get there before me.’

  Hope drove through the darkening Sunday evening streets and tried to still the new waves of regret that washed over her. The woman wasn’t necessarily his girlfriend. Even if she had been when the picture was taken, that meant nothing. The CancerCope ball had been three months back – January? Before Christmas, even. She recalled Madeleine mentioning it. Commenting that a fundraising ball was something they might attempt at some point. God, she wished she could get hold of a copy of that magazine. But what would be the point? What possible purpose would it serve except to confirm her suspicion that Jack Valentine was someone who went out with glamorous women? Why wouldn’t he? By his own admission he had a lot of lost time to make up. He’d made no bones about it. God, why had she slept with him? It wasn’t even as if they were seeing each other. A slick of ruby shame burned on her cheeks. When had he ever sought her out? When had he ever asked her out? They’d had dinner, yes, but that had been work. Must have been, in hindsight, because nothing had come of it. Since then – God, it was too awful to contemplate. Her first real connection with someone of the opposite sex and she’d run completely away with herself. She’d chased him, that’s what she’d done. She’d sought him out. She had. With her stupid cushions. Trotting round there, all smiles and eyelashes. What had she been thinking? She
’d simply handed her body to him on a plate. She pulled her keys from the ignition and hated herself.

  Why would he call her? He’d already dined.

  Chapter 14

  By three on Sunday afternoon, Jack had decided he would stop hanging around at the flat in case Hope phoned him, and went off to visit his father instead.

  He’d woken at ten, feeling refreshed and relaxed in an entirely unfamiliar way. It was a full half minute before he realised why, but only twenty seconds more before he realised she’d gone – all evidence of her being there having vanished, bar a single black hair that was coiled on his pillow and the mug of cold tea that sat inches from his nose. He’d padded around the flat, naked, grinning, and fisting the air, as the rewind of the previous night spooled through his mind. Result! Result! A fine night. A night to remember. A watershed night, in fact. He’d broken his duck and he felt like a lion. No. He just felt like a man again. Sated. Which was plenty to be going on with. Though it was a little strange she’d shot off like that. No note or anything.

  Still, he’d thought, peering hopefully into the fridge for more milk, perhaps she had to get somewhere early, and had decided not to wake him. That was probably it. His discovery that he didn’t have her number was a bit of a blow. Quite apart from the fact that he’d quite like to talk to her, being sated was something with a limited life span. What he’d most like to do would be to drag her right back and have sex with her again. And this, in itself, was an interesting thing to contemplate. His memory of similar encounters pre-Lydia was that his principal, number one, morning-after feeling was one of wanting one of them – himself, her, whichever – to be gone. To be somewhere else. And yet, here she was, gone, and he wished that she wasn’t. Curious. But no matter. He went to fetch the mug of tea, and brought it back out to the kitchen to microwave. She’d call him, no doubt, when she could.

  But by the time he was ready to leave for the nursing home she still hadn’t called him, and his entire journey there – a one-way trip of about thirty-five minutes – was punctuated by bouts of post-coital insights small and large. Many of these were of an unashamedly carnal and ebullient nature, but nestling among them now was the nagging thought that perhaps it was not such a bad thing that he didn’t have her number, because it was never a good thing to seem too keen where women were concerned. He’d been there already and where precisely had it got him? No matter how much his loins were telling him he wanted to see her again, there was another more insistent voice telling him not to start getting too over-enthusiastic about a woman he hardly knew. Not to regard his morning-after euphoria as anything more meaningful than it actually was. Not to confuse the message with the messenger, in fact. It had been an awfully long time. And not just that. He’d done what he’d set out to, hadn’t he? Why go inventing problems that might not even be there? The words ‘commitment’ and ‘relationship’ ebbed and flowed along the shore of his consciousness, and despite knowing full well that these were simply two staples of the old-bag lexicon that had informed most of Lydia’s bitchings about men (bloody rich, as it had turned out), he was fairly certain they were endemic in much of womanhood. Along with walking in front of the TV during replays and leaving things halfway up stairs. No. He shouldn’t fret about not being able to call her. No rush. He could get her number in work in the morning. Whatever. Bloody hell, but he’d shagged someone at last!