Dead Romantic (6 page)

But Paul was someone to go out with. He was polite, sometimes amusing, and he didn't keep grabbing at her all the time, like most boys. Sometimes she didn't understand a word of what he was talking about, but, until such time as someone better came along, she was quite content to go out for safe, predictable evenings with him.

When they got into town, they would usually go to a pub, paying round and round about, talking intermittently and making three drinks last an evening. Once or twice they had met friends from school and got into a crowd. Sharon liked that. She liked having a few laughs with a crowd. Paul appeared not to.

Other times they might go to the cinema, sharing the price of the tickets. Sharon quite liked the cinema, so long as there wasn't anything violent or sexy in the films. She liked a good story, something a bit romantic, preferably with Shirley MacLaine crying in it. The couple of times they had been, Paul had been polite enough to consult her tastes and they had seen her sort of film.

She didn't get the impression that Paul had liked the films as much as she had, but she let him hold her hand and put his arm round her, so he couldn't really complain. She even let his hand rest, for five minutes or so, on her breast, but when it strayed to her waistband or lower, she had said no. And he hadn't tried again, which was nice, and unlike certain other boys she had been out with who spent all their time trying to get inside her clothes and to whom she had had to become quite unpleasant. She was not going to get caught that way. In her projections of her future, along with the mortgage, the fitted kitchen and the matching bathroom suite, was a virginity to be yielded on her wedding night and not before.

At the end of their evenings together, usually about half-past ten, they would catch a bus up from the front and Paul would walk her home from the bus-stop. On her doorstep they would linger, though she would not allow the lingering to last too long because of the neighbours. He would put his arms on her shoulders and, gauchely holding her at a distance so that she could not feel his shame, he would give her wet and inexpert kisses. She was quite prepared to invite him in for a cup of coffee, but since he never asked, and since she knew that cups of coffee on the sofa could lead to awkward extrications, she was happy to leave well enough alone, and didn't raise the matter.

Paul would then leave. Sharon would have a bath and, neat in her crisp little nightdress in her crisp little bed, she would read her latest Mills and Boon romance for about twenty minutes before going to sleep, to dream of mortgages, fitted kitchens, matching bathroom suites and, perhaps, the tall dark-haired man with steely blue eyes who had just sent roses to the heroine of her book.

Paul, on the other hand, would go home in a state of new turbulence, and, in the sweaty creases of his bed, graft the recent memory of Sharon's lips on to the composite fantasy woman who directed the desperate movements of his hand.

That evening they sat on the top of the bus as usual, and as usual Paul asked Sharon how work had gone, and she, as usual but with minor variations, told him how a Frenchman had come in and bought some hair lacquer that he thought was deodorant and how the store detective had stopped an old lady who tried to walk out with a jar of bath-salts.

Then she asked him how his studying was going. She did this only out of politeness. At school her only concern had been how soon she could leave and get a job, but she was well brought up and she knew you had to show an interest.

‘All right, I think,' Paul replied. ‘I've got this very good teacher.'

The image of Madeleine, her red-gold hair loose and flowing, flashed across his mind, and he felt a pang of disloyalty for being with Sharon.

‘We've been working on Keats,' he continued.

‘Oh yes?' said Sharon.

‘Good stuff. Have you read any?'

She shook her head. ‘Don't think so. What's he write?'

‘Well, he's a Romantic, really.'

‘Oh.' She grew animated. ‘I might have read some of his things then. I read a lot of that. Is he in Mills and Boon?'

‘No. No, he was a poet. Early nineteenth century. Died young.'

‘Oh.' The animation was replaced by indifference. Paul was deeply embarrassed by her ignorance. He felt exposed, as if he were responsible for her, as if he would be judged by her.

‘Reading a good one at the moment,' said Sharon. ‘It's set on Crete. Sounds really nice. I'd like to go to Crete. They have wonderful sunsets there, apparently.'

‘Oh.'

‘You ever been there? Crete, or Greece?'

Paul shook his head.

‘Girl I work with went to Corfu. Ipsos. Lovely she said it was. Really good discos they have. Every night. I like discos,' she added wistfully.

Well, it was worth trying. She had expressed her liking for discos to Paul before. She thought going to one might enliven their dates. She enjoyed dancing in public, showing off the steps she practised so assiduously in front of her bedroom mirror. But, from what he said, Paul didn't seem to like discos. So far he had not risen to any of her suggestions.

That evening's met the same lack of response. Accepting this philosophically, Sharon went on with the plot of the book she was reading. ‘You see, what happens is this feller's in Crete on business and he meets this English girl, Virginia, who's out there working as a courier and he falls for her and they have this amazing evening where they just walk along the sand and talk and, you know, it really works, it's the real thing. And he fixes to meet her the next evening, but when he gets to this restaurant where they fixed to meet – “taverna” they call it in the book – that's Greek for restaurant, I think – anyway, he sees her dancing very close with this Greek. And he's furious and goes off, but he doesn't realise that this Greek is one of the owners of the company that Virginia works for and, you know, although it looks sexy, in fact they're just being friendly. And the trouble is, he – this feller, the Englishman, Randall he's called – he's going back to England the next day, and so Virginia rushes off from this taverna place to try and find him and explain, but he's checked out of his hotel and when she gets to the airport, she finds he's taken an earlier flight and he's gone.'

She pronounced this with finality. ‘So what happens?' asked Paul.

‘That's as far as I've got,' admitted Sharon. ‘But I know it'll be all right. They'll get together in the end.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘They always do.'

‘Doesn't it make it a bit boring, knowing what's going to happen?'

Sharon looked at him curiously. He really did say the oddest things at times. ‘No, that's what's nice about it.'

‘Oh.'

‘Happy endings are nice. Does that feller you was talking about – Keats – do his poems have happy endings?'

‘Don't think so, much. There's a lot about death in his poems, death and love going together, Pleasure and Pain, you know.'

Sharon shivered. ‘Don't think I'd like it much. My Mum always says there's enough nasty things in the world without people writing about them.'

Paul couldn't think of anything to say to that. There was a silence. Then, for something to do, he reached out impulsively and took her hand. She did not seem to mind and gave his a reassuring squeeze. Greatly daring, he leant across and brushed his lips against hers. They were warm and seemed possibly to open slightly at the contact. He was instantly aroused, though, in a sitting posture, this did not cause him problems.

He looked into her clear blue eyes, blank as boiled sweets. ‘You've got nice eyes,' he said.

‘Thank you.' She gave his hand a friendly squeeze.

Emboldened, he continued, ‘In fact, all of you's nice. ‘You're just nice.'

‘So are you,' said Sharon, to be polite.

He leant across and placed his large lips on hers, which parted slightly and pressed back with some enthusiasm. Sharon did not mind being kissed in public. In fact, in many ways she felt safer being kissed in public than when she was alone with a feller. On the top of a bus there was no danger of anything going too far, so she was prepared to be responsive.

Paul misread the reason for her warmth. He felt suddenly ecstatic, uplifted. She really fancies me, he thought. She's really panting for me. She wants me. Right, tonight's the night. We won't go to the cinema, we'll just have a few drinks, get her a bit tanked up, then back to her place, I'll ask to come in for a coffee, and then we'll
do it,
quick, before her Mum and Dad get back from the pub. The restaurant part keeps going after closing-time, they're never back till after midnight, I've got plenty of time. She wants it, too, no question about that. God, the time I've wasted. Should have got in there straight away.

He drew back from the kiss, smiled and leant forward for another little peck. She smiled back, a nice, safe, domestic smile. He looked out of the window. ‘Hey, we're there!'

He grabbed her hand and they scampered down the stairs, both feeling good, full of youth. On the pavement, he put his arm round her shoulder and planted a little kiss on her cheek.

‘You are nice,' he repeated, incapable of further invention.

‘So are you,' she repeated, polite again.

Relief flooded through him. It was going to be all right. She fancied him.

Pulling her by the hand, he ran down towards the pub. Sharon, who thought he was behaving a bit oddly but couldn't see that there was any harm in it, ran along with him.

The euphoria lasted into the pub. Paul felt in charge, felt for the first time for ages that he was dictating events rather than being dictated to. ‘Don't think we'll go to the flicks,' he said authoritatively. ‘Just have a few drinks.'

‘All right.' Sharon was disappointed. There was a Shirley MacLaine picture on at the ABC ONE that her friend at work had said was frightfully sad, and Sharon had really quite fancied seeing that. But on a date it should really be the feller's decision, she supposed, so she'd better go along with what he said.

‘Then maybe back to your place for a coffee,' Paul continued, atypically brave.

‘All right.' Sharon acquiesced to that idea too, but she was aware of the warning sign. Still, she'd been lucky with Paul so far and, if he did try anything on, she felt confident she could handle it. She'd dealt with much more persistent boys in the past. And it was only to be expected. Paul had been slower than most, but there came a time when all of them, for reasons she recognised but did not fully understand, seemed to want a bit of a cuddle on the sofa. She would just ensure that it wasn't more than a cuddle.

‘So what are you drinking?'

‘I'll have a bitter lemon, thank you, Paul.'

‘Oh, come on. Have a gin in it.'

Another warning sign. ‘A bitter lemon, thank you, Paul,' she repeated, with some asperity. ‘On its own.'

He couldn't argue further. She went to find a seat in one of the booths along the walls, while he ordered the drinks. He got her bitter lemon and, rather than his usual light ale, a whisky for himself. He didn't like the taste much, but he thought he might need a bit of bolstering that evening. When it was put down on the counter, the whisky looked very small, so he asked for a double. That still looked small, so he drowned it in water. He was surprised how much it cost.

‘What's that you're drinking?' Sharon asked suspiciously as he sat down.

‘Whisky,' he replied with some bravado.

‘I see,' she said, recognising a third warning sign. But she did not stop him from taking her hand.

‘You're nice,' he said, still stuck for a development of the compliment.

This time she didn't reciprocate, but that didn't worry him. His confidence was overweeningly high. It was going to work. He would just be firm and it would happen.

There was silence between them. Silence never worried Sharon. In fact, very little worried Sharon. There were things in life which she recognised to be annoyances, but she knew how to deal with them.

Into their silence came conversation from the invisible occupants of the adjoining booth. A man's voice. ‘Yes, it is sad, but one learns to accept it. One learns to accept everything, I suppose, after a time. I suppose that's what happened with my marriage. I've just accepted that there's something that used to be in my life and is no longer there. Nothing good seems to last.'

A woman's voice. ‘ “Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, Bidding adieu.” '

Paul was electrified. Sharon winced at the involuntary squeeze he gave to her hand. ‘What's the matter?'

But he only had ears for the conversation behind him. He took a gulp of the watery whisky.

‘Yes,' said the man's voice. ‘Love can die. Or be killed by external circumstances.'

‘Or', said Madeleine's voice, thick with emotion, ‘the one you love can die, and the love itself can stay alive.'

‘And never be transferred to someone else?'

‘It would take a long time. And maybe it would not be the same love.'

‘No. Maybe not.' But the man's voice sounded happy rather than sad.

They sank into their own silence. ‘What
is
the matter with you?' asked Sharon, breaking the other silence.

‘Nothing. I just think. . . You'd really like to see that movie, wouldn't you?'

‘Well, yes, but if you'd rather

‘Let's go.' Paul rose abruptly. ‘We'll just get there if we. . .'

His voice trailed away as he heard Madeleine's saying, ‘I'll get us another drink. No, really, it is my turn.'

There was no escape. He stood transfixed as she rounded the corner of the booth. She looked to him more beautiful than ever, the wonderful hair loose, a heightened flush on the cheeks beneath those violet-blue eyes.

‘Paul. Hello. What a surprise.'