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They staggered as far as the living room. Once he discovered her lack of underwear, the whole thing lasted seconds, but they laughed at themselves, still half clothed and breathless on the antique rug. Afterwards, he opened a bottle of red.
‘To us,’ he said.
She was getting better at stifling the giggles and replied simply, ‘To us.’
Leaving him to cook a sauce for spaghetti he boasted would change her life, she left her second glass of wine in the kitchen and went upstairs. She showered and shaved her legs with his razor, which she rinsed carefully, dried on the towel and replaced. She put on the new, fancy lingerie – why not? She considered the new black dress but at the sight of his soft denim shirt on the back of the chair, she threw that on instead. Cheesy, but she was caring less and less.
At the sight of her, he turned off the gas and held out his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this properly, shall we?’
Later still, after dinner, he made love to her again, and in the night she woke to his kisses down her spine, his hands sliding around her. Afterwards, when he told her he was crazy with love for her, she kissed his chest and told him she felt the same, the urge to giggle almost gone.
And now here they are, in his white king-size bed with sun filtering through the blinds. A dream. A blurry reality that has left her absolutely exhausted.
‘I know it sounds sudden,’ he is saying, taking her hand in his. He has little tufts of dark hair on the backs of his fingers; his nails are manicured perfection. ‘But trust me, when you get a little older, you realise that this’ – he waggles his finger between the two of them – ‘doesn’t happen very often. If at all. It’s never happened to me, at least.’
A current of what feels like electricity passes through her. ‘But what about Marcia?’ The question is practical enough, but in reality, she can’t take it in, can’t take any of it in. A dream. Shut up, Samantha.
His brow knits. ‘What do you mean, what about her?’
‘It’s just … I live with her. I’d be letting her down. There’s no way she can pay the rent without me.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll pay your share until the end of the year. And she has a boyfriend, didn’t you say? Jake?’
‘Jacob. Yes, she does.’
‘So you’re not leaving her alone. And she can visit.’
Visit. He makes his house sound like prison. He lifts her empty cup from her hands, places it on the bedside table. Another second and his lips are on her belly, his hands under her buttocks. ‘So, Marcia will be fine, yes? What else?’ His breath is hot on her navel. He is smoothing his hands over the tops of her legs, now over her hips, her waist. He makes a soft hum of appreciation, plants baby kisses on her abdomen.
I could live here, she thinks. In his house on the hill. This would be my home, my life. She imagines it, this life, unfurling before her. In her mind, it takes the form of the last twenty-four hours: intimate conversation and fine wine, listening to him talk, passionate sex the moment they walk through the front door, clothes strewn in the hall. A little reading, an afternoon glass of wine, a ragout simmering on the range, Massive Attack through the ceiling speakers in the bedroom, more wine, more sex, her body attended to with sure hands, an expert mouth. And on … Conversation. Theatre trips. Travel. A home to return to. Not the village, not the city. Here.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I will.’
Five
Lottie, Lancashire
The Stevensons arrive on the dot of ten. At the end of the long tarmac drive, iPad clutched against her chest, Lottie watches them park their bronze Audi at the kerbside of the cul-de-sac. She smooths out her pencil skirt, checks her name tag is straight and, seeing a spot of muck on her court shoe, gives her foot a quick rub against the back of her shin. Never explain, never complain and always look your best, her nan used to say. Wise words – not that Lottie’s got anything to complain about. It’s a lovely day.
The Stevensons are smartly dressed. Clean-looking. Lottie shakes their hands with a firm-but-not-too-firm grip and wishes them a good morning.
‘I’m Lottie,’ she says, her best professional smile in place. ‘We spoke on the phone. Keith? And you must be Bev, is that right?’
They return her greeting and together they wander up towards the detached four-bed new-build.
‘It’s a corner plot, as you know,’ Lottie says, really for conversation. They have the schedules in their hot little hands, but it doesn’t hurt to emphasise the unique selling points. ‘There’s roughly thirty per cent more garden, so that’ll come in handy if you have a family – extra playing space, washing line and what have you. There’s a patio to the rear, ample flower beds for planting if either of you have green fingers and the rest is laid to lawn.’
She unlocks the front door. It’s one of her favourite bits, this: the sound of the key sliding into the lock, the click of the turn, and Open Sesame! In these moments, it’s as if the house is hers, as if she’s coming home after her day at work, and she has to stop herself from calling out:Cooee, Joanne! Mum’s back!
She doesn’t do that, obviously; that would be nuts. Instead, she shows the Stevensons through to the fitted kitchen, the double reception room, the under-stairs loo and hand basin.
‘The garage you can access from the drive via the door, obviously,’ she says. ‘Which incidentally has its own remote. But there’s also an internal door here, to the immediate right of the front door, which is very practical.’ She throws open the door and stands back to let them have a nosy. ‘The back of the garage has enough space if you wanted to set up some kind of utility arrangement, washing machine, dryer and what have you, give you more storage then in the kitchen, if you needed it.’
‘That is spacious,’ the woman, Bev, says, nodding at the empty garage. ‘Plenty of room for shelves, isn’t there, Keith?’
If Keith reacts, Lottie misses it.
