‘And besides, Viagra takes an hour to kick in. By the time it hit my bloodstream, you’d be halfway down the Northern Line.’
Stephie swung herself out of bed and pulled her knickers on. Her skirt quickly followed. She dressed like a woman who has just been told the building is on fire.
‘Look, all I’m saying is that we’ve been doing this for the best part of a year and I’m not exactly sure where we’re going with it,’ I said.
The bra was hooked and a sweater pulled over it.
‘Don’t be like that, Stephie . . .’
She struggled into each boot and headed for the door.
‘At least let’s talk about . . .’
And that was the last thing I said before Stephie left the bedroom. I imagined her retrieving her coat from the sitting room and waited for the front door to slam.
That she felt she was betraying Don’s memory was why our random trysts were never referred to. At least that was Odeerie’s theory and he was the only person I’d discussed it with. He recommended that I enjoy things while they lasted. He wasn’t right about everything but it looked as though he was right about this.
My cock peered at me reproachfully from its nest of greying pubes. ‘Don’t you fucking start,’ I said. And then the bedroom door opened again.
‘Okay,’ Stephie said. ‘Let’s talk.’
When Malcolm’s company decorated the flat, the aim had presumably been to appeal to all tastes. In doing so it appealed to none. Each room had been painted an innocuous pastel colour and the furniture bought with utility in mind.
I had attempted to rid the bedroom of its safe-house ambience by hanging a repro of a Walter Sickert painting above the fireplace. By the window stood the only furniture I owned – a brass-hooped sea chest that had belonged to my great-grandfather. Stephie sat on it, hugged her legs and stared at the floor.
‘Don was the only guy I’d ever slept with,’ she said in a voice so soft it was barely audible. ‘I was sixteen when I met him and we were married three years later. There hadn’t been anyone else before.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Stephie shrugged. ‘Why would you? How many women my age have only been with one— with two guys?’
‘You should have said something.’
‘You reckon?’
‘No, probably not.’
I dragged the duvet over my lower half and reached for my Marlboros. Stephie occasionally had one. Not this time. I lit up and waited for her to continue.
‘That first time was a bit of a test,’ she said after opening the window. Cold air eddied into the room, with the sound of chattering people from the street below.
‘You mean it wasn’t an accident?’ I asked.
‘An accident?’
‘After all that vodka, I thought maybe . . .’
‘I didn’t go through with it because I was pissed, Kenny. I got pissed so I could go through with it.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so touchy. If it was going to be anyone it was going to be you. The only reason I had the vodka was because I felt . . .’
‘Guilty?’
Stephie bit her lower lip and considered the question.
‘More sad than guilty,’ she decided. ‘It was a year before I gave Don’s clothes away and even then I cried for two days. You can imagine what it was like sleeping with another man.’
‘Why didn’t you wait?’ I asked.
‘Because I’d have waited forever, Kenny.’
‘And it hasn’t got any easier?’
‘Maybe I will have that fag after all.’
Stephie left the chest for the edge of the bed. I gave her a Marlboro. She took a long drag and sent the smoke in the window’s general direction.
‘The truth is that in some ways it’s got easier and in some ways it hasn’t. But there’s only one way I’m going to be able to create some real change.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m moving back to Manchester.’
It took a moment or two for this to sink in.
‘For good?’ I asked. Stephie nodded. ‘But your home’s in London.’
‘It was but the Vesuvius is finished and Jamie’s in Auckland. I need some change in my life. The money I get in for the flat will buy something really decent up there.’
Jamie was Stephie’s son. He had married a Kiwi girl he had met at university and emigrated the previous year. Stephie stared at the tip of her smouldering cigarette.
‘And I’d like you to come with me,’ she said.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m talking about relocating to Manchester,’ she said, reacting to the incredulity in my voice. ‘Not a one-way trip to Mars.’
‘But what would I do up there?’
‘I’m sure they’ve got skip-tracing agencies. If they don’t, you can open one up. It’ll be a fresh start for both of us.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘No, it isn’t. All you have to do is rent an office and put an ad in the paper. I’m closing the V at the end of next week and going up a couple of days later.’
‘Don’t you have to sell your place first?’
‘I already have.’
‘But you can’t have bought anything in Manchester yet?’
‘I’m renting for six months. It’s got two bedrooms and one of them’s yours. If you’re interested, that is . . .’
‘What if it doesn’t work out?’ I asked.
‘Then you come back to London. It’s not as though you’ll be taking much of a risk, but if you think it’s a total non-starter . . .’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘When do you need to know?’
‘Before I leave,’ Stephie said. ‘Otherwise you’ll sit on your bony arse forever.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ I said, but we both knew she was right.
After Stephie’s offer there didn’t seem much else to talk about. She stubbed out her fag and said she had to be going. I pulled on my pants and a T-shirt and escorted her to the front door. She left for Piccadilly Circus station after a chaste peck on the cheek.
I spurned the Smirnoff for a bottle of Highland Monarch. The supermarket Scotch isn’t triple-distilled or filtered through activated carbon but sometimes it’s better to stick with what you know, even if it does only cost ￡9.99 a bottle.
Nursing a large one, I tried to imagine life in Manchester. An image of myself with a foamy pint in my hand discussing homing pigeons and the state of Stockport’s back four came to mind. And yet, when they called time in the Rovers Return, I’d be catching the tram home to Stephie. All of which begged the question: why hadn’t I bitten her hand off? Just before midnight I gave up trying to find an answer and broke the seal on the white envelope that had been waiting for me on the doormat. Inside were two A5 photographs of Harry Parr.
The first had been taken in a studio. A blonde in her thirties looked into the camera with a muted smile. Make-up and expert lighting had given Harry an air of sophistication that was absent in the second shot. This featured her wearing a Breton T-shirt while leaning against a sun-dappled wall. She was grinning broadly and what the grin took away in terms of sophistication, it repaid in charm.
Whatever I decided about Stephie’s offer, Harry Parr would turn up safe and sound in a couple of days.
They always do.
FIVE