LOVE'S GHOST (a romance)

by Ellis, T. S.

“Yes, thank you, Barton. You may go.”

  Then it was just the two of us. The candles in the water began to die. We were onto coffee liqueurs.

  “Shall we go inside?” Carl asked.

  I nodded.

  He put a hand on my back as we walked up the path to the house. His touch caused a frisson of excitement from the small of my back up to my neck, causing me to jump.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s getting cold.”

  We walked in through the kitchen and towards the two sofas in capacious living room. Carl turned on the small wall lights. But it was still dark enough inside to watch the remaining lit candles in the river. I looked around at this amazing room, at the gabled ceiling way up above, and the balcony that led to the bedrooms.

  Then I sat down on the sofa. But I hadn't been there long before his hand appeared on my shoulder.

  "Come with me," he said.

  I took his hand and stood up. We walked away from the sofa down the corridor where there were other rooms. He stopped.

  He pointed at one of the doors. "That's a bathroom. In there is a bikini in your size. Put it on and join me in the flotation room. You can’t live your life and not experience this.”

  I wasn’t completely sure that I was ready to get semi-naked in front of Carl. And yet, I’d never experienced a flotation room before, so I was keen to try it. And it had been a wonderfully dreamy night so far.

  He smiled. His dark, intense, but also kindly, eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But you will kick yourself if you miss out.”

  My body took over. I was aroused. Probably not the best state to go into a flotation room. A thousand thoughts sped through my head. Russell appeared in my head, then disappeared. The two suicides ran past also. My own confusion tumbled by. But my body was insistent.

  I went into the exquisite bathroom, gold taps and polished granite surfaces, and changed into the simple, classical black bikini. It was my size. I folded my own clothes neatly and put them on a shelf.

  When I opened the door again, Carl wasn’t there. But the door to the flotation room was open. I slowly walked along the corridor on my bare feet and hovered in front of the door.

  “Come in.”

  I peered round the door. The dark tiles on the floor reflected the small, dim spotlights. Standing by the small, shallow pool was Carl in his Speedos.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said, walking into the sunken flotation pool, then lying down in it. I crept over and watched him for a moment. He was actually floating. I tried not to gawp at his muscly body for too long. He looked so smooth and solid. Not overdeveloped, just taut.

  “I can’t start the show until you get in,” he said.

  “What show?”

  “If you’re brave enough to get in, you’ll see.”

  I winced.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a projected show designed to work with the flotation experience. I designed it myself. Trust me.”

  I was already standing there in my bikini, so I might as well keep going, I thought.

  I dipped a toe in the pool. It was difficult to think that a few inches of water could hold the weight of a human being. I sat down in the water. There was plenty of room for two.

  “Just lie down and relax,” he said in those calm tones of his.

  Slowly I lay down in the pool next to Carl. I felt my feet rise up first and the rest of my body followed up to the surface. It was both bizarre and wonderful.

  While I was still getting used to the feeling of floating on water, the lights dimmed and the walls of the flotation room became one giant projector. Initially it looked like we were floating through the universe. Stars twinkled in the distance. A distant planet, no more than a speck, hovered. It was a surreal experience. Then the scene changed and there was nothing but an endless ocean surrounding us. The sounds of gently lapping water and distant seagulls encircled us. The flotation pool’s water was warm so it was a convincing effect.

  Next, we stayed on water but the horizon changed into mountains and valleys, as if we were floating in a swimming pool overlooking this spectacular scenery. Carl’s hand reached over to touch mine, his little finger lay on top of mine.

  Then we went somewhere that wasn’t of this world or any world. It was a succession of shapes and colours. Abstract. But so relaxing. I hadn’t felt this relaxed for months, maybe even years.

  The relaxation made me bold. I squeezed Carl’s hand. I heard the water disturbed and saw, from his silhouette, that Carl was on his side, no longer floating.

  His face came closer. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer. It was good to feel his firm body press against mine.

  The projections went on. But I was no longer floating — only in my head.

  Carl rolled on top of me and I reached up and put my hands around his well-defined back. I didn’t even have to think about what I was doing. It was just natural. He kissed me, his lips moulding themselves to my own, his tongue gently but firmly playing with mine.

  I wasn’t sure how far we should go with this. But my argument against giving in wasn’t what my body wanted to hear. The flotation tank had relaxed me so much that I couldn’t argue myself out of the passion that was taking over me.

  “I want you,” said Carl.

  I looked at him. I couldn’t speak, I just nodded.

  There was no reason to put the brakes on. I don’t think I could have stopped if I’d wanted to. My legs lost their shyness and parted to accommodate Carl.

  The water splashed around us as his urgency increased. I was usually quiet during sex, but not this time. Carl wasn’t quiet, either. His noises, though wordless, were expressive of his actions. And he made me climax three times, just through taking the time to find out what pleased me.

  By the time we had finished there was little water left in the flotation tank. We lay there, on almost bare tiles, exhausted.

  15. Swimming upstream

  I WOKE UP in Carl’s bed but he wasn’t there. My bleary eyes flickered a few times before opening fully. There was no sign of him.

  I stared at the walls as I tried to wake up. They seemed to be made of the same glossy material as in the other rooms. Perhaps they, too, were screens that could project trips through the universe.

  What a magical night.

  We had moved to the bedroom not long after we’d made love in the flotation room. Then we spent most of the night touching each other, building ourselves into a feverish fervour, then calming down, but not letting the sensuality go off the boil.

  Carl explored my body with the inquisitiveness and care of a man who’d just discovered a rare artefact in the desert. There was power and intensity as he grabbed me with those large rough-hewn hands, an artist’s hands. Thinking about that made me smile. Another image came into my head. I was like a sculptor’s clay and he, the artist, had been shaping me with his hands.

  I got out of bed and put on one of the robes. The view out of the window was beautiful. I could see a stretch of the River Thames and a skyline of trees in the distance — parkland. The turrets of Hampton Court Palace rose above them to my left.

  When I looked down at the river again, I saw a figure in the water, swimming. For a moment I couldn’t believe my eyes. What a brave soul. Or a crazy fool. I’d never seen anybody swim in the Thames. It was spring but the water temperature must still be very cold. Wasn’t it possible to cramp up in these temperatures and sink?

  The figure was putting a lot of effort into his front crawl, the water splashing around him. He swam towards the bank and got out.

  It was Carl.

  He swept his hair back as he walked towards the house. He didn’t seem to mind the cold.

  When he disappeared from view, I tried to make sense of what happened the previous night. I’d had the best sex of my life, that’s what had happened. But I couldn’t lose that feeling of guilt. It didn’t seem to matter that Russell might be off
having the best sex of his life with someone else. That could only be an assumption. He might also be holed up in his flat feeling miserable.

  Somebody once said to me that she got through a breakup when her therapist had told her not to feel that she was responsible for somebody else’s happiness. I could understand the sense in that. But I’d met Russell in my late teens. We had shared so much. He’d helped me through difficult times, such as the death of my grandparents in a car crash. Things like that you don’t just brush off.

  I padded out of the bedroom onto the open-plan landing overlooking the huge lounge below. I watched Carl walk across the living room, a trail of wet footprints following him. He walked up the steps, grabbed my hand and dragged me back into the bedroom.

  The en suite shower was easily big enough for two. Jets of water came at us from the walls as well as the shower head above.

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Swimming in the Thames? It must be freezing in there. People die in that water every year.”

  “Lucky them,” he replied.

  An odd remark, I thought. But I didn’t pursue it as he had just lifted up one of my legs and wrapped it around his waist. He took me in a frenetic wave of urgency. The water spattered off our bodies as we gently rebounded from each wall in a spinning dance of lust. I was alarmed at how easily he could assuage my misgivings with his body. It was like a painkiller that worked for a short time, but when it worked… wow.

  It was the longest shower I’d ever had. After our lust was spent, he tenderly soaped me down and I returned the deed. We emerged from the shower and dried ourselves.

  That’s when I noticed a change in his expression. It reminded me of the first time I met him. There was that look of intense concentration, the same look he’d had while reading that book.

  “I have to work,” he said.

  “Okay,” I replied. But I needn’t have said anything. It was as if I wasn’t there anymore.

  “I’ll call you a cab.”

  I’d wanted to suggest that I stay and maybe just hang around while he worked. But the call for a cab wasn’t a suggestion. He said it with such certainty that I knew it wasn’t negotiable.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go and work right now.” He put his hands up, as if he were defending himself. It was strange, as if the person with whom I’d spent a romantic and passionate fifteen hours had disappeared. It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I understand your need to work. But do I have to go this minute?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

  I was speechless. Words tried to come out, a whole stream of thoughts jockeyed for position. But I croaked out only the one word. “What?”

  “I jumped the gun. You are still very troubled. It was selfish of me. I’m sorry.”

  Most of the men I’ve met have little idea what women are thinking. But Carl seemed to have a telepathic connection to my thoughts. In the throes of passion I could let go of everything. But when it ebbed way, my mind regained control of my body. And that’s when the guilt returned. It was exasperating. But he was right.

  I wasn’t sure what Carl thought of it. Going by his face and the tone in his voice, I’d say he found it equal parts curious, odd, disconcerting, with a touch of concern for my welfare.

  “You’re throwing me out because you regret what we did last night?” I spat the words out.

  “No. I don’t regret anything I do. What is the purpose of regret? We both gave in to our bodies’ needs. But this morning I can’t help feeling concerned for you.”

  “Throwing me out is a bit extreme.”

  “I’d be throwing you out even if I wasn’t concerned for you. You see, I have to work. My job is not like others. And I don’t mean that in a pompous way. I mean that it’s not nine till five. I paint from the heart. When the heart beats faster, that’s when I produce my best work. And I can only work alone.”

  I nodded, though I would never be able to understand fully. I’d never had that sense of vocation. To me, a job was something I had to do to pay the bills. I didn’t run to it on a Saturday morning, unless I was being threatened with the sack.

  Then his eyes lit up with an idea. “You can stay if you let me paint you. Although I should warn you that when I paint people I only paint nudes."

  Well, there was no chance of that. “Er. Yes. But no.” I cleared my throat. “Couldn’t I just hang around? I wouldn’t disturb you. Make you lunch, when you wanted it.”

  He shook his head and tried to suppress a smile. I guessed that other people had made this suggestion before.

  “I don’t have lunch. When I work, I lock myself away. I can’t have anybody else in the house. Just by being there, they distract me. My head has to be clear to think only about the work.” He sighed. “I apologise.”

  I hadn’t seen this side of him. I’d only seen the considerate side. But now, the selfish artist was coming out to play. Did I really have to leave the house? It was a strange feeling. Being involved in the world of fashion, I’d met my fair share of temperamental photographers and diva models. But they seemed like they were playing a part, like some really hammy actors. Carl looked like he was genuinely pained to be saying what he had to say. It was more like the confession of a drug addict.

  He walked across the bedroom to pick up his mobile phone.

  “No,” I said. “It’s okay. I’ll walk home. The walk will do me good.”

  He was insistent. “I’ll get you a cab.”

  “No. Honestly, I’m not saying it because I’m annoyed. I could genuinely do with the walk.”

  I laid my hands on his upper arms, as if testing the waters to see if he really wanted to repel me. He grabbed one of my wrists and kissed the inside of it. It was a strange kiss, one of passion and regret, two contradictory emotions. Or at least that’s how I read it.

  “I have to go now,” he said. “Do you mind letting yourself out?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  He kissed my wrist one more time and walked out of the bedroom.

  I put my clothes on as quickly as I could. It was then that I realised I only had my dressy shoes with the big heels. The walk home would be at least forty-five minutes. I couldn’t do that in those heels. But I didn’t want to hang around, either. So I decided I would walk until I found a café or pub, and call a taxi from there.

  On my way out I was tempted to take a detour, go past his studio and watch him at work through the glass wall. But I speculated that he might fly into a rage at my interruption of his work.

  Instead, I walked straight to the front door.

  My outfit was unmistakably evening dress, so I felt odd walking along the street at mid-day. It took a fifteen-minute walk before I found a café. Sunbury isn’t the largest of places. It’s like a village but with a metropolitan flavour, being not a million miles away from London.

  I found a table in the quiet café and phoned for a taxi. While I waited, I sipped my cappuccino and massaged my feet.

  “What were you expecting?” Russell had reappeared. Not the actual one, but the inconvenient one who popped up mostly when I didn’t want him to.

  “I don’t know,” I said, in my head. The other people in the café had no idea I was holding this conversation with my… what was Russell now? My ex? My cuckold? What a mess.

  “I’ll give the guy one thing,” he said. “He’s perceptive. He’s got you sorted. He can wrap you round his little finger.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “No?” Russell had always been the voice of reason. Until recently, of course.

  “I have to say, I’ve never had sex like that before.”

  This shut him up for a moment or two. But not for long.

  “That’s because he’s new. Because you’re both exploring each other. It won’t always be that good.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Do you want to be
thrown out of the house every time he has to work?”

  “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” I said, getting quite agitated. “Perhaps that’s where we got it wrong. Perhaps that’s why you finally became uncomfortable, needed a break. If we’d lived a little less in each other’s pockets, we might not be on this break.”

  I imagined Russell’s face as he thought about that. Then he spoke, “No. You can’t run a relationship like that. That’s not intimacy. You still know that I’m the better bet. You know that. You can’t let go of me that easily. You know it.”

  I wanted him to shut up. But, in a way, I was addicted to these imaginary conversations I had with him.

  “I don’t know anything for sure anymore,” I said. “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

  “And I’m betting you miss that certainty. You do, don’t you? This Carl is all very exciting, but you’ll never have the sense of security you had with me.”

  I snapped. “And look where that got me.”

  “Things might change. You never know.”

  Another voice broke into the conversation. “Taxi for Ms Brockway.”

  16. Dangling

  RUSSELL AND I used often used to spend Sunday mornings at a bar round the corner. I call it a “bar” but it’s one of those places that changes identity throughout the day. During daylight hours it’s more of a café. Early evening it becomes more of a restaurant. Only later on, is it truly a bar.

  It’s at its best on a Sunday morning, though. The decor is relaxed. Traditional wood panelling on the wall and simple wooden chairs and tables just lend it a very relaxed ambience. And there’s an open fire. It’s not lit in spring, but its old-fashioned mantelpiece is still reassuringly homely. The Sunday newspapers wait on a rack, and there’s plenty of them. They also cook an exquisite eggs Benedict, which was my weekly naughty treat.

  Since Russell and I have been on a break, I haven’t wanted to go there. But Emily suggested we have Sunday brunch together, so I said that I knew of nowhere better.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m not staying away any longer just because of a few memories. It’ll help me move on. And I miss the eggs Benedict.”