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‘The best,’ he says.
‘Can you see yourself ever getting married again?’ I pause, then add, ‘If you do get divorced, of course.’
He picks up a cork coaster and spins it in his hands.
‘I don’t think so.’ He lowers his eyes. ‘I can’t imagine anything like that right now. Though funnily enough, this weekend has been the first time in a while I’ve felt fine about her being gone.’
‘That’s great, Ted, that means you’re moving on. You can’t see yourself with anyone else though?’ The question sounds loaded; I don’t mean it to be, I’m just curious about him, about how he feels.
Ted’s pupils look like heavy weights, rising from a murky sea as he turns to me and says, ‘I don’t think I can be anything to anyone at the moment.’
He says it slowly. It feels almost as though he’s trying to let me down gently, or warn me off, in case I have misinterpreted his friendliness towards me, or this energy between us. I’m embarrassed that he might be remembering my flirty drunken behaviour on the beach.
‘Well, when you are ready to meet someone, I can highly recommend airport baggage carousels. Just go and rummage through a few bags until you meet the woman of your dreams.’ I flash him a silly grin, ‘It worked for me.’
He frowns, with two creases on his forehead rather than one.
‘So, letters, keep or bin?’ I ask, with a clipped, efficient tone.
‘Maybe flick through, check we’re not throwing away anything crucial.’ Ted holds out a hand, and I pass him a stack of papers.
My pile is old gas bills from years ago, letters about Jersey Heritage membership, Scamp’s vaccination certificate. Gerry’s filing system could definitely use some improving. Then, amongst the typed letters, I come to a handwritten piece of paper. It looks to be the second page of a letter, though the first page isn’t here.
If you need me urgently, you can contact me via the details below.
All my love, Belinda
And then there is an email address and a telephone number.
As I scan the words, my chest contracts; my fingers squeeze the letter, bending the paper where I’m clasping it. Belinda, Ted’s wife, wrote to Gerry; her phone number is right here in my hand. Did Gerry intend to keep this from Ted? I should give it to him, he could call her, find out where she is, finally have some closure. But then I look up at him and see how tired he looks; how emotionally draining this night has been – it’s nearly one in the morning, I’m not sure he needs to see this tonight. My mind feels paralysed by the responsibility.
‘What’s that?’ Ted asks.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say quickly, shuffling the paper to the bottom of the pile. ‘Your dad wasn’t the best at filing paperwork, was he?’
I didn’t even consciously decide to lie, I just heard myself do it.
‘That’s an understatement,’ Ted says.
When he goes upstairs to the bathroom, I find the letter again and stuff it into my handbag. I don’t have any kind of plan here, I just don’t want Ted to have to deal with that right now – I’ll keep it safe, give it to him tomorrow in the clear light of day.
I hear his feet on the stairs and look up to see Ted run a hand through his hair as he walks down, tilting his hips to avoid the wooden pillar at the bottom.
‘Well, you’ve made more progress in a few hours than I’ve made in weeks. You’re ruthlessly efficient.’ He yawns, ‘Maybe you can get inside my head and do the same sort of clear-out.’
‘Maybe I can,’ I say. Then he looks at me, and for a moment, it feels like he wants something more from me.
‘You need your bed. I’m going to head back to the cottage. Thanks for—’ For what? What am I thanking him for? ‘I enjoy talking to you, Ted.’
‘Me too,’ Ted ruffles a hand through his hair. ‘Let me help you to your bed, I mean – to your house,’ he says, stumbling over his words. ‘I’ll bring a torch, it’s dark outside.’
I smile at his embarrassment.
‘Such a gent.’
He picks up my case, then grabs a torch from the kitchen and shines it ahead of me, walking with me to the cottage door.
‘Thank you for tonight, Laura,’ he says, looking down into my eyes. ‘I’m glad you got into my car yesterday.’ There’s an invisible pull in the air, as though I don’t want him to leave, and my mind jumps back to that moment on the beach, when I wanted to nestle my face into his beard. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Night, Leonard,’ I say, feeling on safer ground making a joke. He smiles back and I pat him on the head. ‘There’s a good doggie.’
‘Night, Lady Muck,’ he says, and then turns to walk back up the slope.
As I watch him go, I wonder at how different these two men are who I’ve spent the evening with. Jasper is energetic jazz, whereas Ted is the steady beat of a low drum. Jasper is loose-leaf Oolong; Ted, a warm mug of builder’s brew. I shake my head as I open my front door, unsure why I even feel the need to compare the two.
