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10
November 2016
Rachel turned and quietly sniffed the crown of Michael’s head. If you liked the smell of someone’s scalp, she’d always theorised, then you were probably sexually compatible. And she did like the smell of Michael’s scalp. It had the scent of someone who shampooed daily, who never slept on grubby pillowcases or pulled on a sweaty baseball cap or ate a cheap burger and then ran their fingers through their hair. It had squeaky clean tones of sandalwood and citrus, but just enough musky hormonal tang to differentiate it from a spray of cheap room perfume.
She examined Michael’s face. Interesting to look upon the face of a man past his first flush of youth. Some open pores in the creases of his nostrils, deep lines in the forehead, and a sharp line down each side of his mouth, but his skin still soft and plumped up. Shewondered if he used any products; she strongly suspected he might go for professional facials. She didn’t have a problem with that.
The night had been a success inasmuch as they had had good conversation, good food and good sex. And now it was nearly 8 a.m. and here she was, sniffing his scalp, examining his pores, finding him attractive even as he slept. Rachel could count on one hand the number of dates she’d had which she could describe in such glowing terms.
Details of the previous night came back to her in shards. She remembered talk of his house in Martha’s Vineyard (‘no pool, but a hot tub with a view to die for’). She remembered talk of a boat moored in the Antibes harbour. The boat had a name; something to do with diamonds? Or silver? There was talk of a chalet in a ski resort. ‘Well, it’s more of a condo, I guess you’d say, but feels bigger than that.’ Rachel had never skied but the name of the resort had sounded familiar, so she assumed it was one of the expensive ones.
‘Do you like skiing?’
‘No,’ she’d replied drily. ‘But I do like drinking and I do like eating.’
‘Well then, you’d like a ski holiday.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
They’d left after two cocktails and a shared platter of charcuterie and wended their way back to her apartment where they’d opened the champagne and stood for a while on the balcony overlooking the canal, laughing about the stench of it, each finding more and more outlandish language to describe it: ‘Cheap pork sausage with a hint of rancid mackerel and an undertone of last night’s jism.’
Then he’d said, as their laughter died away, ‘I want to kiss you; let’s go indoors.’
She’d been expecting it to be harder, more urgent, moreall fours, lessstaring into his eyes. She’d been pleasantly surprised by the emotional intensity of it.
Surprised, but also unnerved.
Michael Rimmer was meant to be her ‘last hurrah’.
Not her first husband.
Rachel met her dad for lunch later that day. He wanted to know all about her date with ‘the American guy’.
She played it down. ‘He was nice,’ she said, leaning out of the way so that the waiter could place her Prosecco in front of her. ‘You’d like him.’
‘I would?’ Her father raised an eyebrow at her.
‘Yeah. I reckon. He’s smart, charming, successful.’
‘Old.’
‘Old-ish.’
‘How old, exactly?’
‘Forty-six.’
‘Hm.’
‘Hm, what?’
‘Why isn’t he married?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. Why aren’t I married?’
He laughed out loud as he tore a bread roll in half, then rubbed his floury fingertips against the linen napkin on his lap. ‘Well, just watch out. A man his age who’s never been married …’
‘He has been married.’
