by Hilary Boyd
‘Can we not talk about it?’ he asked.
They got into bed, Jo on her side, Lawrence on his, deliberately keeping space between them. Jo shivered.
‘These sheets feel damp . . . almost wet.’
After a moment’s quiet, Lawrence said, ‘Come over here, otherwise we’ll both die of pneumonia.’
Jo wriggled to his side, grateful for Lawrence’s warmth. The wind continued to howl and soon, as they lay huddled together under the cold sheets and stiff, pre-war blankets, they heard the rain begin to hurl itself against the panes.
‘This is more like Baskerville Hall than Fawlty Towers,’ Jo whispered, as a sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the room with a silver-blue flash. ‘Any minute now we’ll hear The Hound.’
Lawrence chuckled, but all they actually heard was a terrifying clap of thunder directly overhead, which seemed to shake the very foundations of the old house. In response he drew her closer and began to rub her back, first quickly to warm her up, then slower, moving his hand in circles, the rubbing now a gentle caress as his fingers wandered over her back, then down over the rest of her body. Jo felt herself begin to relax, allowing first the warmth, then the beginnings of desire to flow through her, all resistance, all thought, driven out by alcohol and tiredness. It was just her and Lawrence, in their own dark, sensual cocoon as the tempest raged outside, responding with heightened pleasure to each kiss, each caress as if it were for the first time.
*
Jo woke with a start. It took her a moment to realize that cold water was dripping on her face. She sat up, dazed. Another drop, and another. The ceiling was leaking, not just drops now, but a thin stream of water, directly on to the pillow. She gave Lawrence a sharp nudge as she jumped out of bed.
‘Bloody hell.’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘Where’s it coming from? We’re not under the eaves.’
‘Maybe a blocked gutter or something? The water’s travelled across the ceiling till it found a weak spot. No wonder the bed felt wet. It was wet! This probably isn’t the first time.’
The light coming in through the window told them it was dawn, but still very early. Lawrence pulled back the curtains, the brocade drapes releasing a cloud of dust over his head. The storm had passed and the day was perfect, washed clean and fresh by the rain, everything sparkling in the morning sun. He checked his watch. ‘Ten to five.’
‘What are we like?’ Jo said, as they looked at each other across the room: naked, bedraggled, hungover, at a loss. Jo felt a bubble of hysteria as she tried to stifle her giggles in the silent house. But the more she tried, the harder she laughed. Lawrence joined her now, bent over, breathless, clutching his side, pointing to the water still dripping from the ceiling.
‘Gives a whole new meaning to “ensuite shower”.’
‘Shh . . .’ she managed, between gulps of strangled laughter.
‘They can’t hear us.’
‘I’ll never complain about the bathroom being miles away again. We need a bowl or something to put under it. Or we could move the bed,’ she said, when she got her breath.
Lawrence waved his damaged wrist in the air. ‘Weighs a ton,’ he said. ‘And then we really will wake the whole house.’
In the end Jo laid the two bath towels put out for them by Maria, doubled over, on the sheet beneath the drip – although the damage was already done.
‘What shall we do?’ Jo asked, shivering as she went in search of her clothes. ‘We can’t go back to bed and the others won’t be up for at least six hours.’
Lawrence was pulling on his shirt, still grinning. ‘Leave,’ he said, decisively. ‘We’re going to pack up, write a note and drive off. If they think we’re rude, then they think we’re rude.’
Jo laughed. ‘Right . . . OK. Good plan, Stan.’
For the next few minutes they tiptoed around the room, hurriedly stuffing belongings into bags, while the water still drip, dripped on to the towels. Jo had no time to think about what had happened last night. But underneath the tiredness and hangover she felt a quiet knot of pleasure.
They crept along the corridor – horribly aware of all the sleeping bodies behind the closed doors – down the stairs, each creak making them stop, pull a face, tiptoe on. The last thing they wanted was to be caught red-handed in their dawn flit by Jono or Alana. They left a note on the hall table, the paper torn from the Moleskine diary that Lawrence always carried, explaining that he was ill – of unspecified origin – and that they felt it better to go home than be a burden on their hosts.
The gravel of the circular drive crunched alarmingly beneath their feet. The doors closing sounded like a bomb going off, the car like a traction engine in the dawn stillness.
Lawrence let out a whoop as they reached the road. Jo realized she had been almost holding her breath for the last ten minutes. They grinned at each other.
‘I feel a bit bad about Jono,’ Lawrence said as they drove away. ‘I didn’t get a chance to talk to him properly. But I can’t be doing with all this posh-boy stuff. He never used to be like that, before Alana. I mean, he’s always been confident, a bit loud, but not in that upper-class braying way he seems to have adopted.’
‘No, he’s definitely changed. Or maybe reverted. But I wouldn’t feel bad. He’ll understand. He knows we’re going through strange times.’
Lawrence turned his head to look at her. ‘Was last night so “strange”? Not the word I’d have used,’ he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. And Jo gave a quiet smile, as much to herself as to him.
*
It was still not yet eight when Lawrence pulled the car to a stop in front of Jo’s flat. As the engine died they both sat there in silence, staring ahead through the dusty windscreen. She felt a flutter in her stomach.
‘You could come in,’ she said. Last night still hung around her like a soft glow. She had always thought that if she and Lawrence ever did make a go of it again, that it would be more of a relief, a comforting return to familiarity. But their lovemaking had been so intense, surprisingly new. And mixed with the powerful desire was a sadness, a desperate yearning that felt almost painful, and seemed to come from the depths of her soul, and his, as they came together so passionately in that cold, damp bed. She knew there were no guarantees, that they still had a long way to go if they were ever to make it work between them. But last night at least felt like a start, a breath of promise on something she had feared was dead.
‘Yes?’ The look he gave her was hesitant.
‘I’ll make some coffee.’
He smiled. ‘I’d like that . . . very much.’
THE END
Reading Group Questions
Should it make any difference to Jo that Lawrence has run off with a man, rather than a woman?
Is it plausible that Jo didn’t have any idea that Lawrence could find a man attractive?
Do you think Jo makes enough effort to get Lawrence back?
Does Jo’s affair make it easier for her to understand Lawrence’s behaviour?
Matt calls Cassie a brat. Do you agree with him?
Does the fact that Jo and Lawrence have been married (faithfully) for thirty-seven years make it more or less difficult for her to forgive him?
Should Jo be worried about what her grown-up children think about her affair?
Is it OK for Travis to just walk away, even though he never makes any promises to Jo?
Can you imagine trusting someone again who betrayed you in the way Lawrence does?
Long marriages are challenging. Is it ever OK to give in to an affair?
Does anyone ever really regret falling in love?
Do you react in the same way to Lawrence being with a younger man as you do to Jo being with one?
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