Crazy Paving (21 page)

‘Will you go down to Southampton?’ Annette asked.

‘Oh I don’t know Girlie,’ he replied.

She plugged the kettle in and turned back to the sink, to finish cleaning her plate and knife from earlier. There was a moment or two of silence.

Then, she became aware that he was standing close behind her. He had removed his heavy coat. He lifted his hand and, with the backs of his fingers, brushed the soft towelling of her robe.
‘Been a long time Girlie,’ he said.

She stopped with her hands in the water. ‘No Keith,’ she said. ‘No. It isn’t what I want.’

‘Eighteen months?’ he asked. ‘Maybe longer. We had that drink in Leicester Square.’

He lifted his other hand and, very gently, pulled her loose hair away from her neck.

Annette closed her eyes. Then she felt his lips soft and full against the back of her neck. For a moment she felt irritation with his persistence, then nothing, then – to her surprise
– a sense of heat. Her breasts were still full and heavy from William’s attentions, her vagina still damp. Sated, warm, relaxed, her body was responding to the familiarity of
Keith’s touch.

He moved his hand up to the back of her neck and began to massage it, strongly and slowly. Almost instinctively, her head fell forward. His other arm came over her shoulder and grasped her
firmly across her chest. He pressed her forward against the sink unit. She could feel his erection through his thin trousers, pushing at her buttocks. Her hands were still in the washing up water.
I don’t believe this is happening to me, she thought. I don’t believe it. Tonight, of all nights. He turns up tonight.

All at once, she felt a rush of anger, not against Keith but William. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here, preventing this? They had made love and then he had got up and dressed and gone home
to his wife: burning, sweet love, the sort of love that leaves you clinging to another’s body through the night, even in sleep. And he had gone home to his wife. He was probably in bed with
her now, puking excuses. She owed him nothing.

Keith’s arm withdrew slightly and his hand slipped into her robe, cupping the weight of her left breast. His thumb and forefinger moved to circle the nipple and then began to work it,
gently.

He turned her round and she lifted her face, her damp hands resting on his shoulders. ‘Still my Girlie . . .’ he murmured as their lips brushed. I taste of William, she thought. Can
he tell?

I taste of William
, she thought, ten minutes later as he parted her thighs and lowered his head to her clitoris. He must be able to tell. She was lying on her back on the bed. Perhaps
he doesn’t mind, likes it even. He had carried her upstairs and laid her down, pushing the crumpled bulk of the duvet to one side. She and William had used a condom. Surely there would be the
taste of that? There had never been any need for that with Keith – he had had a vasectomy when he was thirty. No accidents for Keith. He knew the purpose of sex. She reached out and tugged
softly at his hair, lifting him up. As he rose, she searched his face for signs of distaste. She saw only the same, familiar, sleepy lust. He reached out one hand and picked up a pillow from behind
her head. Then, lifting her slightly, tucked it underneath her buttocks, so that she was raised to him. As she continued to wonder at the unlikeliness of what was happening, he pushed into her.

Afterwards he lay on her for a long time, while she stroked his hair.

‘Keith . . .’ she said gently.

‘I know,’ he groaned. ‘I’m sorry Girlie. It wasn’t planned, I promise. I was passing, really. It was an impulse – I couldn’t help it. Then you opened
the door. I’ve never stopped feeling for you, you know that.’

‘Keith. That is the last time. I mean it.’

He raised his head from her chest and looked at her. He pulled a face. She met his gaze. ‘I mean it Keith. Don’t turn up like that again. I don’t care if you’re passing
or not. It’s the last time.’

He lowered his head again. ‘Oh well . . .’ he sighed. She could sense that he didn’t really mind, quite liked it in fact; same old Keith – pretending she was the one in
charge while nudging her the way he wanted. It would always be like that.

He rolled off her and lay at her side. He groaned. ‘I’m getting old . . .’ he said. ‘Look.’ He prodded his heavy belly, the crumpled paunch against her smooth
flesh. She smiled lightly. There were advantages to Keith. However worried she might get about the fine crows’ feet around her eyes, she would always be twenty-four years younger than him.
She knew he wanted reassurance but resisted the temptation to give it. He had seduced her, after all. She should feel some anger, or mild reproach at least. Instead, she felt a kind of gratitude.
She had been unfaithful to William, the man she loved. The knowledge of this would protect her from loving him even more.

‘I would die for a coffee . . .’ Keith said cautiously, not wanting to push his luck.

Annette rose with good humour. She had given him a fuck for no good reason. Why not a coffee? Anyway, she was bursting for the loo. Her arms were still in her robe. She stood and pulled it round
her, tying the belt. ‘While you’re down there,’ Keith added, ‘could you bring up my ciggies? They’re in my coat pocket.’

As she reached the door he sat up and said suddenly, ‘No come back here a minute.’ She was a few feet away. He reached out and caught her hand, pulling her back. He knelt up on the
bed and embraced her. ‘You’re a fine girl. Always were.’

She waited patiently while he kissed her, feeling nothing. She realised she was exhausted. He feels nothing either, she thought, but he wants to reassure himself this wasn’t just sex.

He buried his head in her hair, then sat back, reaching out a hand to brush her fringe back off her face. ‘Can I stay the night?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘Keith I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘I know, so have I. We’ll just go to sleep now. I’ll run you to the station in the morning. I’m over the limit. It’s a long drive.’

She turned away, her silence acquiescent. She went into the bathroom, lifted her robe and sat down on the toilet. She knew that he would be lying down on his back, his hands behind his head, as
he always had done.

‘You’ve got this place spick and span I see,’ he called out to her, chirpily. Now he was confident. ‘I like to see you’re still a good little housewife.’

‘Piss off,’ Annette called back.

‘Ah, Annette. Is that any way to speak to your husband?’

William and Alison sat next to each other on the sofa, in silence, watching the advertisements which followed the news and preceded the weather report. Then, Alison rose and
left the room. William picked up his mug of tea and looked into it. It was still half-full, and stone cold.

Alison returned ten minutes later. In her arms was a bundle of bedding almost as big as herself: the spare duvet, a folded sheet, a blanket, a pillow. She dropped the bedding down beside the
sofa and said, ‘Goodnight.’

She closed the door behind her as she left.

Annette woke to the solid unfamiliarity of another human being in her bed. She was hot. The duvet cover felt clammy. Keith had rolled over with his back to her and was snoring
softly. She looked at the thinning hair against the back of his neck, his speckled back. He was a large man but loose, with a layer of soft flesh over his solid torso. It was strange to observe the
ageing process in him with such detachment. When they had married she had been eighteen and he forty-two. Now, he was something more than older. He was old. Poor Keith, she thought sleepily,
listening to his harsh breath. Poor Keith – he was bad for me, but only by accident. He had, in all honesty, believed that their marriage could last. When she had left him, he had wept. That
was six years ago and he still turned up once in a while, all broad-shouldered and big-hearted. They were man and wife, he would murmur, in his heart, although he had not contested the divorce.
Untangling her life from his had been a good deal less traumatic than moving in with him had been. She frowned to herself, remembering her mother’s rage: the shrieking, tears in the
supermarket – the strangled voice crying out down an aisle of tinned vegetables, ‘Your father is turning in his grave!’ – the other shoppers staring, grinning at the
unexpected entertainment. No, she would not think of that. It was behind her now. She and her mother had not referred to it for years.

She lay curled up, trying to pull her mind towards the day ahead. Then she remembered William. She closed her eyes. William would never believe that she could be capable of having sex with
another man immediately after him. The thought would be unimaginable to him, much as it had been unimaginable to her. She would never be able to explain.

She rolled out of bed and crossed the room swiftly. Closing the bathroom door gently behind her, she began to run her bath.

She was still in the bath, rinsing her hair, when there was a tap at the door and Keith came in. He had pulled on his trousers and shirt and was holding two mugs of tea in one hand. He put hers
down on the edge of the bath. It was black, exactly the right strength. He perched precariously on the edge of her wicker laundry basket and raised his mug to his lips.

‘Close the door,’ she said. ‘You’re letting the steam out.’

As she took the tea and lay back in the bath he said, ‘You want to be careful overfilling that you know. I can see from here. It’s coming away from the edge on the window side. You
should put some sealer in otherwise you’ll get damp downstairs eventually.’

As they left the house he said, ‘Why don’t I run you all the way to work? There’s time. I’m not in any hurry.’

Annette hesitated. It was exactly a week since the London Bridge bomb. She had commuted as usual for the previous two days. She had stood on the footbridge at Hither Green and watched the trains
coming down the line. On both occasions, a picture had occurred: the people who had run for the eight seventeen that Wednesday, trotting down the platform to catch the train that would bring them
in on Platform 3. ‘The station will be fine,’ she said, but her voice was uncertain. He glanced over. She had not told him about the bombing. He would have comforted her, like William
had, and that would have seemed more of a betrayal than the sex had been.

‘I don’t have to be in Eltham until twelve,’ he replied.

‘It’s miles out of your way.’

He shrugged, and started the engine.

As they pulled up at the front of John Blow House, Keith said, ‘So this is it, Girlie? You’re a pretty grand sort of secretary now.’

‘Office Manager,’ Annette replied, ‘if you want to be precise.’

He turned to her. She was undoing her seatbelt. He leant towards her and put one hand over hers as she struggled with the clasp. ‘Are you angry with me?’ he said.

She looked down the street. Jefferson Worth was walking towards their car. He turned and bounded up the steps without noticing them. She realised she was disappointed that it had not been
William who had passed by as a strange man pulled up with her in his car at five past nine in the morning.

Keith reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘You know you can call me anytime, don’t you?’ he said. ‘If things get bad.’ This was too much. If William
were to walk past now there would be no mystery. A man tucking her hair behind her ear could only be another lover.

‘I’m not angry Keith, honest,’ she said, speaking quickly as she turned to get her handbag from the back seat. ‘But I was serious when I said it was the last
time.’

He let her go with good grace. ‘You’re a beautiful girl,’ he said as she opened the door to climb out. As she turned to slam it shut behind her he called out,
‘Don’t forget what I said!’

Joan looked up as Annette walked past her desk. She watched her as she put down her handbag and removed her coat. Annette said, ‘Morning.’

‘Morning,’ Joan replied.

Annette looked over.

Joan rose from her seat and came and stood next to Annette. ‘In okay today?’

Annette nodded.

Joan reached out and pulled over a typist’s chair to the left of Annette’s desk. She sat down and pressed her knees together. ‘You know I’m off on holiday next
week?’

Annette sat down. Joan looked slightly anxious.

‘Well, I know it’s only a week,’ Joan said, ‘but I thought I had better talk to you before I went in case anything happened while I was away. I mean, about
Helly.’

Annette pulled a face. ‘I know. I’ve been wondering about that too. I thought Richard had it all sorted out. I haven’t spoken to him recently but last time I did I had the
impression she would be gone by now. It’s all very awkward. I don’t think he realises.’

‘That’s just it,’ Joan said. ‘I wasn’t too happy from the start and now I really don’t think, well, she’s been walking around and we’ve been
talking to her. She doesn’t act like someone who’s nicked anything. I mean, it’s not as if she’s being extra friendly or anything, she’s just as bad-tempered as ever
and her time-keeping hasn’t improved. If it was you, wouldn’t you be on your best behaviour?’ Annette pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Anyway,’ Joan continued, ‘I
don’t understand. It’s over two weeks since my money went missing. If he really thought it was her she would have been out by now. And I don’t know about all this doing it
quietly. Why should he do her any favours? What’s in it for him?’

Annette put her elbows on the table and leant forward, resting her chin in her hands. ‘Oh I don’t know, I don’t really think it’s up to us.’

Joan looked at her. ‘I’m sorry Annette. But it is.’

Annette sat back up. In the whole time she had worked with Joan, Joan had never once disagreed with her or tried to alter her opinion about anything.

‘We can’t let it happen as if it was an accident and just hope we got it right. If she didn’t nick my money then she shouldn’t get the sack. If Richard wants to sack her
on other grounds, then that’s up to him.’ Not long ago, Joan thought, I passed a child dying in the road; and it seemed wrong to be seeing it. There was nothing I could have done, then.
But that isn’t the point. ‘When she took you home after the bomb,’ Joan asked, ‘didn’t you get a feel for it? Didn’t you want to ask her?’