I see you’re a fellow lover of zoos. Fancy joining me on a trip next week? Meet at Regent’s Park perhaps? Vince
I waited two days before declining, using the icy conditions and snow forecast as an excuse. Trudging round the zoo in minus degrees doesn’t really appeal.
Perhaps we could share a glass of wine and set a date to see the animals in the New Year? I’m a real lover of fine wines too! Vince
The suggestion came back a day later. It was the stubbornness of the snow, I tell myself. The thick white blanket dulled the noise all around, and my world became even quieter and more claustrophobic. Roger told me not to drive until the ice had cleared and Natalie was happy walking the kids back from school. I might not have needed an excuse but this seemed as good a one as any. So I blamed the weather for my response to the messages.
Ok. I’m up in London on Friday. Perhaps a quick drink and I’ll bring my diary? If not, happy to wait till the New Year. Susan
His reply bounced back within five minutes, a disconcerting ping, as I was closing down the laptop. It was as if he’d been waiting, hovering or perhaps it was timing, coincidental.
Friday’s perfect. I’m also up in London that day! Le Ciel est Bleu off Regent Street. Great selection of wine and champagne. 6 o’clock any good? Vince
My stomach is in knots as I step out onto the platform. Butterflies are battering my insides and I want to turn back and re-enter the safety of the carriage but it’s too late. Rush hour is in full swing and I’m batted back and forth, like a volleyed tennis ball smacked with intent, between the dark-suited men. The doors have slid closed again. I rest for a moment on a metal bench, draw breath, and watch the train rumble away in the distance, commuters packed tightly and hanging precariously from the dangling straps.
Two men sit beside me; too close, talking in foreign tones. I feel uneasy and grip my handbag more tightly. Two minutes till the next train. I’ll go home; it’s all been a ridiculous exercise. One of the men moves in closer and I can feel his arm rubbing against mine. He smells of sweat and oil, a rancid combination. One minute. There’s a rumble approaching from the other end of the tunnel and a warning horn blasts through the muffled silence as headlights appear. I jump up, pushing away the dirty stained fingers that have wound themselves round the leather strap. No one’s watching. No one cares. This is London. I struggle to get away but finally manage to disentangle the stranger from my bag, before pushing and shoving wildly past the hordes, climbing the stairs two at a time in an effort to reach the exit gates.
By the time I’m outside on the street, there’s no air left in my lungs. I keep checking over my shoulder but no one’s following. Or perhaps they are; it’s difficult to be sure as the faces all pass in a blur. I feel safer outside, the brown icy sludge already beginning to melt, heralding firmer, more familiar footing. I pull my collar up round my ears, slinking down, and try to make myself invisible. I can’t go back into the underground, I need air. The strangers might be loitering. Vince suddenly seems like a safer option. One drink and then I’ll go home.
The side road where the champagne bar is situated is off Regent Street. It is ten minutes past six when I stop outside Le Ciel est Bleu. It’s dark inside. I nervously push open the door and scan the tables. I needn’t have worried about not recognising him. He is sitting at the bar with his back to the entrance. He doesn’t need to look round. He knows he’ll be sought out; it’s something in the outline, the bearing of his shoulders. The assurance of the silhouette draws me forward. I approach tentatively, unable to turn back. Perhaps I should. My leather skirt and boots give out the wrong message. A work suit would have helped me feign high-powered business sense but it’s all too late.
‘Susan,’ he says with a raised questioning eyebrow, turning and sliding effortlessly off his stool. He extends a hand, smooth, warm and strong. It mirrors the rest of him. A musky woody scent clings to him. I blush, my cheeks inflamed to match my hair and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
‘Vince.’ I smile.
‘Here, let me take your coat.’ Self-assured, relaxed.
I’m tongue-tied and embarrassment mingles with a distinct frisson of fear. A bottle of champagne nestles in a silver ice bucket on the bar and Vince asks the waiter to ‘bring it to my table’. I flinch at the word ‘my’. Perhaps Le Ciel est Bleu is a regular haunt or perhaps he works next door.
Whatever, it’s clear that Vince is on familiar terms with the young bartender.
‘No problem, sir.’
I slowly relax as the minutes tick by. The champagne hits my senses, the bubbles fizzing warmly down my throat. I drink too quickly. Conversation starts to flow as we cover subjects ranging from favourite movies to holiday destinations, current affairs, and even skim over religion. It is all so easy and really very pleasant. We avoid talk about relationships, past or present. There seems no need. I can hear laughter, sporadically crackling through the atmosphere and realise it’s mine.
‘So, fine wines, eh?’ Vince clinks his champagne flute against mine, his eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘Red or white?’ He’s toying with me, playing a game. It’s difficult not to be flirtatious, he makes it so easy. As I sip the fizzy clutch, I think of Vince as one of the finer things in life.
‘I like both. Red with the meal, white beforehand.’ I hear my own voice, trying to impress.
‘I’m a red man myself. Merlots, Malbecs and Riojas.’ He tops me up, and then narrates tales of wine tours around France, Spain and Italy. I listen, mesmerised. I wonder if he’s worked out that I’m in my early forties, married with two children. I want to tell him but it doesn’t seem relevant and I don’t really want him to know. It might spoil the moment. Also I don’t ask about his background as there seems no need to know that either.
‘Do you really want to go to the zoo?’ His eyes tease me with intensity as he suddenly changes the subject. I have to look away. ‘Favourite animal?’ he asks. He turns the bottle upside down in the bucket. It’s finished. There’s an unwelcome finality in the action.
‘Sometime definitely; but not in this weather. It’s far too cold. Maybe in the spring.’ I do a mock shiver. ‘As for my favourite animal, it’s got to be the lion.’ I repeat Noah’s favourite; King of the Jungle. Of course it is Vince’s favourite animal too. It had to be. We laugh and it’s as if we’re playing a weird game, knowing all along that neither of us really fancied such an outing.
‘Listen, I’ve got to get going. It’s been lovely.’ I don’t want to go but sense danger lurking close to the surface. I stand up rather too suddenly, straighten my skirt and fidget with my gloves but my head starts to spin. I should have eaten. ‘Oops.’ I stumble.
‘Are you okay?’ Vince puts a hand across to steady me. The room is turning, round and round, too fast.
‘Yes, fine thanks. I think it’s the heat and alcohol.’ He pulls me gently back down into my seat, leans across and pushes a stray hair back from my face, smiling into my eyes. It’s hard to bring him into focus.
‘Can we do this again? I’ve really enjoyed it.’ His face is up close to mine, his breath tickling my cheeks. ‘You’re beautiful, Susan. Do you know that?’ I can’t move, my legs have collapsed under me and I have to grip the chair arm to ground myself. He leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my lips.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t help that,’ he says and draws back again. He’s teasing me.
‘Your coat, madam.’ The waiter’s hovering, a smirk on his lips. Something tells me he’s seen it all before. Vince doesn’t get up but watches as I button up my coat and sling my bag over my shoulder.
‘Thanks. Bye, Vince.’
‘Bye, Susan.’
It’s a long walk to the door, but I keep going. I don’t look back.
I sit like a statue, concreted to the spot, on the train ride back to Hampstead, ignoring the screaming admonishments accusing me of deceit. I can’t think straight. My leather skirt is sticking uncomfortably to my thighs and mascara has crept into the corner
of my right eye. I poke a finger in, scratching relentlessly and try to blink away the irritation. It occupies my mind for a few seconds; a welcome diversion from the mental angst.
A young couple opposite is holding hands in companionable silence, their smugness grating. Suddenly I feel old, bitter. The train screeches through the dark, pulling in and out of tunnels, dragging us along in its wake. The young woman smiles at me, perhaps she knows, can read my thoughts. But when I notice her boyfriend grip her hand more tightly, I realise she meant to impress him with her warmth; her charitable pleasantries to strangers. That’s what you do when you’re young and in love.
As I climb the stairs again, out into the chill night air, my phone pings. I notice a text from Roger and two missed calls.
Hi. Just wondered how you’re getting on. Kids in bed. See you soon. X
As I stand in the freezing cold, watching my breath vaporise, I wonder why he’s texted. I never text him when he goes out with friends, certainly not as early as eight o’clock when his message was sent. Perhaps he suspects something but there’s nothing to suspect. I told him I was shopping with a friend and having a bite to eat afterwards. I decide not to reply. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes and need to move, help the frozen blood circulate through my veins.
Walking back down the hill towards Riverside Close, I notice a voicemail message on the screen. I take my glove off again, shoving it momentarily into my mouth, and click to listen.
Hi Susan. Lovely to meet you. Hope we can do it again soon. Vince.
I delete the message, frantically looking left and right in case Roger might have strolled up to the tube to meet me. I switch off the power. He’ll be worrying that I haven’t replied but I’ll be home soon. My left leg starts to cramp, the cold frosty air constricting the blood flow. I inch forward, one step at a time, and need all my concentration to avoid the rogue patches of ice lining my route.
On reaching Riverside Close, a huge wave of relief floods over me. I’ve made it; all in one piece. I hesitate by our front door, and wonder why I’ve been so worried. The warm bright lights are welcoming and I’ve really done nothing wrong; nothing with intent, that is.
I tuck the phone back into my handbag and decide not to say anything to Roger about the evening. It’s all been a big mistake, a weird turn of events that conspired to make things happen the way they did. I’ll delete myself off Join Me or perhaps share the site’s intrigue with Roger. Perhaps we can join a group outing to the London Eye. I can decide tomorrow. For now, I’m glad to be home.
As I turn the key in the lock, a rogue thought kicks in. White lies and secrecy, Roger says, make up the first rung on the ladder to adultery. It’s his job; divorce cases. Affairs and infidelity are his speciality.
9
Caroline
Jason’s at home. I know his every move. Staying in control requires that I’m always one step ahead of the game. It’s eleven o’clock when I quietly insert the key in the lock. I’ve been out. Jason thinks I’ve been socialising with the bored housewives from the gym, swapping anecdotal tales of errant husbands. He never asks for names or details; he’s not that interested. In reality I’ve been biding my time in the seedy pub up the road.
Once inside, I check my appearance in the hall mirror and tousle my hair for effect. I need to look my best. Old habits die hard but something tells me Jason won’t notice. I think he takes me for granted.
From my vantage point, I can see his bare feet resting on the coffee table but I can’t see his face which is out of view.
‘Hi,’ he yells over the noise of screen shooting. Guns and car chases. His feet don’t move. He’s relaxed, content. I don’t answer but creep up behind him and plant a kiss on top of his head. I close my eyes for a second and inhale his scent.
‘How were the kept ladies?’ His tone is mocking but he doesn’t let his eyes wander from the onscreen massacre. I bristle. I want to ask how his tart was and feel an uncontrollable urge to throw nasty disparaging remarks in his direction. I don’t. I know better.
‘Well, thanks.’
He doesn’t look up.
I unwrap my scarf, strip off my gloves and go back into the hall and hang my coat over the end of the stairs. The pub’s cheap wine has turned my stomach but I automatically go to the fridge and uncork a half-drunk bottle of rosé. The top up will help bury the demons. The alcohol will soften the lurid images and a couple of sleeping pills will render me unconscious; until tomorrow. Relief from the mental torture is always fleeting.
Jason turns up the volume, a clear message that he’d rather not talk. He senses the wine will agitate me and he’s right.
‘What time did you get back?’ It’s a simple question, part of my job. ‘It’s Friday and you usually get home later.’ I’m trying to be pleasant, businesslike, but his unemotional responses wind me up. We made a pact that we wouldn’t discuss details pertaining to his trysts, only making rare exceptions when money became an issue.
‘Eight o’clock. Do you mind if I watch the last ten minutes? The film’s nearly over.’ He smiles but his tone is dismissive.
I watch him through the alcoholic haze, still mesmerised by his perfection. The chiselled jaw and full sensual lips. I stare at him, unbelieving in such physical beauty. A desire to run my fingers through his thick brown hair threatens to overcome my resolve. Nearly three years have flown by since we got married. I still can’t believe he’s all mine. Or is he? The doubts are always there, more and more intense. I can manipulate his liaisons but there is always the unforeseen. The not-to-be-trusted third parties cause the problems, the unknown menacingly threatening. The nagging knot in my stomach returns. I go upstairs, carrying the wine glass with me.
Jason’s linen jacket is slung over the back of the chair. I rifle the pockets as per my nightly ritual, peering closely at the collar for signs of stray hairs; straggling red strands perhaps. Masochism has become a hobby. I’m not sure who he was meeting tonight although I know the times. I’ve been trying with increasing difficulty to blot out names and faces. Names bestow lives and personalities and make it real. I like the number identifications that attach to the profiles. I enjoy mocking his women by calling them by a number. They’re like prisoners after all. Their profile pictures mirror the numbered mug shots of convicted felons, imbuing them with a demeaning identification.
The gunfight is still blasting up from downstairs so without hesitation I check the inside pockets. There’s nothing unusual, a few loose coins alongside his precious pens, a gift from his late mother apparently. That’s what he says. Entertainment receipts are thrown innocently into the receptacle beside the bed. They invite my scrutiny but there should be no need because they’re unhidden and will be entered as business expenses. I’ll log them tomorrow.
I sometimes wonder if perhaps he’s clever and not entirely at ease with our working partnership, hiding the occasional entertainment receipt from me. I open out the scrunched-up pieces of paper and notice one for a small bistro in Golders Green. This wasn’t in the diary. When was he there? Monday evening. I pocket it. He’ll not notice as he left it there, in the middle of the pile, oblivious to my suspicions.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice behind me makes me jump.
‘Jesus! You startled me. I didn’t hear you come up.’ He wanders over and lifts his jacket from the back of the chair and hangs it neatly in the wardrobe. He does this every night, taking great care with his expensive outfits. He glances at the collection of receipts, unconcerned by my interest and ignores the fact that I’ve been going through his pockets.
He kisses me on the cheek, blocking my way as I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Once inside, I lock the door and sit on the toilet seat for ten minutes, finishing my glass of wine which is stuck to my fingers.
Jason’s in bed when I creep back out and in the darkness, I can make out his sleeping shape under the duvet. He’s left the curtains open as he doesn’t like sleeping in a blackened room. A full moon s
tares through the small square window, unblinking and all-seeing. Childhood nightmares haunt him apparently.
I’m jealous of his body and his perfection and am tempted to slide in under the silken covers alongside him. I could then imagine for tonight at least that he is completely mine. In the warmth of slumber I pretend that he’ll belong to me forever.
I resist the temptation, however, as the urge to check the website is ever present. Jason had time this evening to browse and get lured into his next seedy little encounter. I have my suspicions as to whose profile pictures he’ll have been viewing and feel an urgency to check up on the activity. Instead of yielding to the moment, I bend over and kiss him on the top of his head and whisper ‘goodnight’. He murmurs ‘I love you’, before he slips silently into his own dark world of sleep. I’m jealous of the night. It has taken him away from me again.
I go back downstairs and start up the computer. Join Me’s screen flickers into life. I keep the main lights off and let myself get sucked into the glaringly lit underworld filling the monitor. The home page is bright and dazzling. The azure blues and sunshine yellows give no hint of dubious intent. They’re happy colours, Jason says; deliberately unthreatening.
I wipe away a stray tear that’s settled stubbornly in my eye as I scroll down the new recruits. I’m not sure how I’ve been reduced to this. My obsession with Jason has led me to the brink of madness but I can’t let up. I read the numerous emails, asking why we only operate in London. Do we have any profiles to display of interesting people living further north? Yorkshire perhaps?
4 Riverside Close Page 5
