Encounters (20 page)

Mark had left for the party at about six, not guessing anything, and Annabel, strangely contented, reached for her brush. ‘I’ll only look in at the party for an hour or two, and be back in time for supper,’ he said as he left.

She stroked the paint onto the skirting board in long even strokes, concentrating on making the creamy ridges merge and glisten into a smooth flat strip. She almost decided to tell him when he came home. Something kept telling her that he would be pleased with her news. She pushed her dark hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist and easing her cramped position a little, painted on. Behind her the clock struck nine.

Annabel stopped at last, finished cleaning her brushes and pressed the lid back onto the paint tin. She was exhausted but the painting was finished, all but the door. She could do that tomorrow. She glanced at the clock; it was after eleven. She frowned. Surely Mark should have been home long since?

Shrugging she went to turn on the bath. They didn’t worry about each other as a rule. It was part of the way they lived. After all, office parties and office colleagues were a hazard they both lived with and on the whole ignored. It made for a free, happy relationship, and today’s news should – would – make no difference. She flung open the bathroom window and leaned out, taking a deep breath of the fragrant summer night and wondering idly if Mark were still there, and she felt a wave of pity at the thought of him, bored but dutiful, still making polite conversation to the delegation from Frankfurt.

She was asleep when Mark got home. He let himself into the flat quietly and stood in the hall smelling the cloying tangy wet paint. Then, creeping into the kitchen he poured himself a glass of milk. He was restless, and he didn’t feel in the least bit sleepy. The bathroom was a little steamy still and rich with the scent of bath essence and talcum when at last he began to undress and he let it relax him deliberately, standing a long time looking down into the clear water as it ran into the bath, allowing the reflections and the swirling transparent bubbles to mesmerize and soothe him, making his mind go mercifully blank.

Annabel was lying naked beneath the sheet, her dark hair tossed in a shadowy web on the pillow in the moonlight, an arm half across his side of the bed. He stood and gazed at her for a long while and then gently, so as not to wake her, he eased himself into bed.

Leaving the coffee perking quietly on the stove the next morning Annabel pulled on her jacket and slipped round the corner to the shop. Hot rolls and the Sunday papers were their special treat each weekend and they took it in turns to go out and buy them.

Mark was still asleep when she carried in the tray. She smiled at the sight of him so vulnerable with his face relaxed, half smiling in his dream. She set down the tray and dropped a kiss on the end of his nose. Lazily he opened his eyes and grinned up at her.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi. It was your turn, you know, but I went as you were so very asleep. What on earth time did you get in?’

Remembering the events of the night before he pushed himself up in bed. ‘Midnight, I think.’ He hesitated guiltily.

‘It must have been a good party after all.’ She was breaking open a crusty bread roll, buttering it, unscrewing the jar of honey. There wasn’t any need to look at his face; she trusted him absolutely.

‘It was quite fun.’ He reached for the paper.

‘Did you have a look at my painting when you came in?’ She handed him the roll. This time, glancing up, she saw the look of guilt.

‘I came in so late, Annabel. I’ll go and see in daylight.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Not much to see, really; it’s just a bit fresher, that’s all.’ She felt absurdly hurt.

They read and ate in silence for some time and then at last Annabel got up. She glanced at him again. ‘Are you going to get on with the papering? We could finish that room today, between us.’ She was collecting their plates.

Mark glanced at his watch. ‘Annie, I’m sorry and I know it’s Sunday but I’ve got to slip back to the office this morning. I was supposed to bring some papers home yesterday and I forgot. I won’t be long.’

He did not look at her as he spoke.

She wandered into the kitchen when he had gone. She didn’t as a rule spend much time cooking, but today she wanted to do something special. She began to search through the cupboards and the fridge and then when she started to lay the table and set wine glasses she realized why. It was today, after a special meal, that she would tell him.

The quiet happy assurance of the evening before had gone. That morning she had awoken early and lain in bed, gazing at the cool sunlight through the thin curtain, thinking. She had wanted to wake Mark then, tell him everything, ask what he wanted her to do, feel his comforting arms around her, but she had stopped herself in time. It wasn’t like her to want reassurance and she lay puzzled and a little frightened, watching the hands of the clock tick round until it was time to get up.

He was late for lunch. She drew the cork from the wine bottle on her own and sipped a glass as she stirred the gravy, hypnotized by the circling creamy brown vortex beneath her spoon, thinking about Mark. When he came at last she could sense at once that something had happened and she knew she could not tell him now. He was elated and yet, as he refused to meet her eyes, in a strange way he was almost surly. She poured his wine, disappointed and watched him eat. Her own appetite had gone.

‘You’ve remembered Bernard and Joy’s dinner party tomorrow night?’ she said at last, to break the silence.

He looked up and frowned. ‘Oh Annie, I can’t make it. I forgot to tell you. Something’s come up at the office. We shall be having a meeting till all hours, I’m afraid.’ He looked so ashamed as he spoke, tapping his knife on the plate until the gravy splashed across the cloth, that she shrugged her disappointment aside.

‘It can’t be helped. I know you’re very busy there at the moment. I think I’ll go though; I enjoy their evenings.’

‘Yes, you go. Enjoy yourself, Annie. Please.’ He was almost over eager. He put his hands on hers for a second. His skin was ice cold.

Annabel didn’t enjoy the dinner party as much as she had hoped. She was too blatantly the odd one out; the single woman suddenly cast by the wives there in the role of predator. She might have laughed at the situation and flirted with the husbands deliberately if Mark had been there to egg her on; if Mark had known. But of course if Mark had been there she would not have been alone.

She smiled to herself climbing into her car. He would laugh when she told him; and next time he would see to it that he was at her side, mocking and teasing, there to enjoy the jokes with her.

She drove home fast, glancing at her watch. It was nearly midnight. He would be back by now. The flat would be warm and cosy, with Mark probably watching the late show on TV; perhaps a hot drink warming on the stove. She would tell him; now.

She parked the car and ran upstairs to their door.

‘Mark?’ Her key turned impatiently in the lock. ‘Mark, I’m home.’ The flat was in darkness. Puzzled, she clicked on the light and glanced round. He wasn’t there. She went through to the bedroom to see if he was already asleep but the room was cold and empty. ‘Mark?’ she called again. ‘Mark?’

For the first time she felt a tremor of unease.

Susannah was sitting with her head resting sleepily against Mark’s knees. She was unbelievably happy. Still she could not bring herself to believe that this man could have fallen so deeply and so painfully in love with her so quickly. She was frightened too; vulnerable in her own sudden defencelessness. She felt his hand on her hair and she looked up at his face, strongly shaded in the lamp light as they smiled at each other. He set down his coffee cup and slowly pushing her head away he stood up and reached down for her hands. She let herself be led, trembling a little, into the bedroom. Deliberately he pulled back the counterpane and sat down on the blanket, still holding her hands, drawing her close so that she had to stand near him, her knees touching his. Gently he reached up to touch a curling tendril of her hair, which had fallen between her breasts.

He felt overwhelmingly protective towards this girl. She was so fragile, so defenceless; she brought out in him a strange almost fatherly feeling; the need to look after her, a feeling which he had never experienced before with Annabel and which he found exciting and stimulating. It was undeniable. He stroked her breast, feeling her shiver a little at his touch and then slowly he pulled her down beside him on the bed.

Annabel was sitting on the floor of the sitting room, her chin resting on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. She had turned on the television for company but she wasn’t watching the screen. She had been deciding what to say to Mark. She could not carry the burden of her knowledge alone any more. He had to know. Now. She was uncertain and vulnerable and she needed him. She knew it was out of character and it was frightening to feel herself so undecided and exposed, but whatever his problems at the office, and ever since yesterday she had known that he had them, she knew he would help her. Her hot chocolate grew cold beside her and a skin formed on the surface as the minutes ticked by and she waited for him to come home.

She didn’t turn round when at last she heard Mark’s key. He crept in, not wanting to wake her and stopped abruptly as he saw her sitting on the floor, her narrow shoulders hunched as she gazed at the television in the corner.

‘Hello,’ she said wearily. ‘How was the meeting?’

‘OK.’ His own voice too was colourless. ‘The dinner?’

It seemed like a hundred years ago. ‘Boring. Your drink’s in the saucepan.’ She turned then and watched as he went across to the kitchen, his feet dragging as if he were intolerably tired.

‘Mark?’ She scrambled up and stood in the doorway behind him as he lit the gas, nerving herself. ‘There is something we must talk about. I can’t put it off any longer.’

He looked round. He knew she was right; they had to talk. He could not pretend with her, or let things drag on. She deserved far more than that and seeing the pain and doubt in her face he knew that she must have guessed something at least of the conflict that had been going on inside him for the last three days. He swallowed hard and for a moment he glanced away, unable to meet her eyes. He couldn’t bear to hurt her and yet he knew it would be more cruel to deceive her. They had never lied to one another; never hidden anything.

Bewildered by the emotions within him, not certain suddenly what he should do or what he was going to say he forced himself to look at her again. There was a long pause. Then impulsively he held out his hands.

‘You’re right, Annie; we must talk.’ He hesitated.

She swallowed. Now that it had come to it she was afraid. He might think she was going to use the baby as a lever to make him marry her; he might try and force her to get rid of it. Suddenly she knew she wanted to keep it more than anything in the world.

Why, when she loved and trusted him so much did she have this strange feeling of foreboding? Why, now that he was here, had she begun to feel so very cold?

She took a deep breath, but before she had time to say anything he had rushed in ahead of her.

‘Annie, as you’ve guessed there is something you have got to know. There is something I must tell you. I wasn’t at a meeting this evening at all …’

Unnoticed by either of them the milk stirred and began to rise in the pan on the stove.

She looked at his face and suddenly she knew. The anguish, the uncertainty she saw there were not because he had guessed her secret; they were there because he had one of his own. Her mouth went dry and she began to shiver uncontrollably.

The boiling milk hissed angrily over the sides of the saucepan and put out the flame. Automatically she released her hands from Mark’s and pushed past him to turn off the gas. She was still shivering as she stood with her back to him, looking at the puddle of milk on the enamel round the gas burner.

‘What do you want to tell me?’ Her voice was tight with fear.

‘Annie, we’ve lived together a long time. I’ve always thought – well, assumed – that we’d go on like that, but …’ He stopped, fumbling for words, his eyes on her tense narrow shoulders. He wished he could see her face.

‘Annie, we’ve never thought about marriage, either of us. We’ve always agreed that we’re free. It’s been a good relationship …’

He broke off again.

There was a moment of silence.

‘It’s over, is that what you’re trying to tell me?’ To her horror Annabel could feel unheard-of tears welling up into her eyes. She gripped the edge of the cooker until her knuckles whitened.

‘There’s someone else, Annie. I never meant it to happen. I still don’t know how it did. But I feel so much for her. So suddenly. It’s as if she’s been waiting there all the time; I don’t understand it. I’ve been so happy with you. I care for you so much, but this – this is different. I can’t explain.’

He pressed his hand to his forehead in despair.

‘How long have you known her?’ Still she didn’t face him.

‘We met at the office on Saturday.’

‘Saturday! That’s three days!’ At last she turned and her large grey eyes seemed enormous in the pinched whiteness of her face. ‘We’ve been together five years, Mark. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

‘We’re not married, Annie.’