LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) (13 page)

I got out of bed and put on one of the robes. The view out of the window was beautiful. I could see a stretch of the River Thames and a skyline of trees in the distance — parkland. The turrets of Hampton Court Palace rose above them to my left.

When I looked down at the river again, I saw a figure in the water, swimming. For a moment I couldn’t believe my eyes. What a brave soul. Or a crazy fool. I’d never seen anybody swim in the Thames. It was spring but the water temperature must still be very cold. Wasn’t it possible to cramp up in these temperatures and sink?
 

The figure was putting a lot of effort into his front crawl, the water splashing around him. He swam towards the bank and got out.
 

It was Carl.

He swept his hair back as he walked towards the house. He didn’t seem to mind the cold.

When he disappeared from view, I tried to make sense of what happened the previous night. I’d had the best sex of my life, that’s what had happened. But I couldn’t lose that feeling of guilt. It didn’t seem to matter that Russell might be off having the best sex of his life with someone else. That could only be an assumption. He might also be holed up in his flat feeling miserable.

Somebody once said to me that she got through a breakup when her therapist had told her not to feel that she was responsible for somebody else’s happiness. I could understand the sense in that. But I’d met Russell in my late teens. We had shared so much. He’d helped me through difficult times, such as the death of my grandparents in a car crash. Things like that you don’t just brush off.

I padded out of the bedroom onto the open-plan landing overlooking the huge lounge below. I watched Carl walk across the living room, a trail of wet footprints following him. He walked up the steps, grabbed my hand and dragged me back into the bedroom.
 

The
en suite
shower was easily big enough for two. Jets of water came at us from the walls as well as the shower head above.

“You’re crazy,” I said.

“How so?”

“Swimming in the Thames? It must be freezing in there. People die in that water every year.”

“Lucky them,” he replied.
 

An odd remark, I thought. But I didn’t pursue it as he had just lifted up one of my legs and wrapped it around his waist. He took me in a frenetic wave of urgency. The water spattered off our bodies as we gently rebounded from each wall in a spinning dance of lust. I was alarmed at how easily he could assuage my misgivings with his body. It was like a painkiller that worked for a short time, but when it worked… wow.

It was the longest shower I’d ever had. After our lust was spent, he tenderly soaped me down and I returned the deed. We emerged from the shower and dried ourselves.

That’s when I noticed a change in his expression. It reminded me of the first time I met him. There was that look of intense concentration, the same look he’d had while reading that book.

“I have to work,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied. But I needn’t have said anything. It was as if I wasn’t there anymore.
 

“I’ll call you a cab.”

I’d wanted to suggest that I stay and maybe just hang around while he worked. But the call for a cab wasn’t a suggestion. He said it with such certainty that I knew it wasn’t negotiable.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go and work right now.” He put his hands up, as if he were defending himself. It was strange, as if the person with whom I’d spent a romantic and passionate fifteen hours had disappeared. It was like
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand your need to work. But do I have to go this minute?”

“Yes,” he said. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

I was speechless. Words tried to come out, a whole stream of thoughts jockeyed for position. But I croaked out only the one word. “What?”

“I jumped the gun. You are still very troubled. It was selfish of me. I’m sorry.”

Most of the men I’ve met have little idea what women are thinking. But Carl seemed to have a telepathic connection to my thoughts. In the throes of passion I could let go of everything. But when it ebbed way, my mind regained control of my body. And that’s when the guilt returned. It was exasperating. But he was right.

I wasn’t sure what Carl thought of it. Going by his face and the tone in his voice, I’d say he found it equal parts curious, odd, disconcerting, with a touch of concern for my welfare.

“You’re throwing me out because you regret what we did last night?” I spat the words out.

“No. I don’t
regret
anything I do. What is the purpose of regret?
 
We both gave in to our bodies’ needs. But this morning I can’t help feeling concerned for you.”

“Throwing me out is a bit extreme.”

“I’d be throwing you out even if I wasn’t concerned for you. You see, I have to work. My job is not like others. And I don’t mean that in a pompous way. I mean that it’s not nine till five. I paint from the heart. When the heart beats faster, that’s when I produce my best work. And I can only work alone.”

I nodded, though I would never be able to understand fully. I’d never had that sense of vocation. To me, a job was something I had to do to pay the bills. I didn’t run to it on a Saturday morning, unless I was being threatened with the sack.

Then his eyes lit up with an idea. “You can stay if you let me paint you. Although I should warn you that when I paint people I only paint nudes."

Well, there was no chance of that. “Er. Yes. But no.” I cleared my throat. “Couldn’t I just hang around? I wouldn’t disturb you. Make you lunch, when you wanted it.”

He shook his head and tried to suppress a smile. I guessed that other people had made this suggestion before.

“I don’t have lunch. When I work, I lock myself away. I can’t have anybody else in the house. Just by being there, they distract me. My head has to be clear to think only about the work.” He sighed. “I apologise.”

I hadn’t seen this side of him. I’d only seen the considerate side. But now, the selfish artist was coming out to play. Did I really have to leave the house? It was a strange feeling. Being involved in the world of fashion, I’d met my fair share of temperamental photographers and diva models. But they seemed like they were playing a part, like some really hammy actors. Carl looked like he was genuinely pained to be saying what he had to say. It was more like the confession of a drug addict.

He walked across the bedroom to pick up his mobile phone.

“No,” I said. “It’s okay. I’ll walk home. The walk will do me good.”

He was insistent. “I’ll get you a cab.”

“No. Honestly, I’m not saying it because I’m annoyed. I could genuinely do with the walk.”

I laid my hands on his upper arms, as if testing the waters to see if he really wanted to repel me. He grabbed one of my wrists and kissed the inside of it. It was a strange kiss, one of passion and regret, two contradictory emotions. Or at least that’s how I read it.

“I have to go now,” he said. “Do you mind letting yourself out?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He kissed my wrist one more time and walked out of the bedroom.

I put my clothes on as quickly as I could. It was then that I realised I only had my dressy shoes with the big heels. The walk home would be at least forty-five minutes. I couldn’t do that in those heels. But I didn’t want to hang around, either. So I decided I would walk until I found a café or pub, and call a taxi from there.

On my way out I was tempted to take a detour, go past his studio and watch him at work through the glass wall. But I speculated that he might fly into a rage at my interruption of his work.

Instead, I walked straight to the front door.

My outfit was unmistakably evening dress, so I felt odd walking along the street at mid-day. It took a fifteen-minute walk before I found a café. Sunbury isn’t the largest of places. It’s like a village but with a metropolitan flavour, being not a million miles away from London.

I found a table in the quiet café and phoned for a taxi. While I waited, I sipped my cappuccino and massaged my feet.

“What were you expecting?” Russell had reappeared. Not the actual one, but the inconvenient one who popped up mostly when I didn’t want him to.

“I don’t know,” I said, in my head. The other people in the café had no idea I was holding this conversation with my… what was Russell now? My ex? My cuckold? What a mess.

“I’ll give the guy one thing,” he said. “He’s perceptive. He’s got you sorted. He can wrap you round his little finger.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Russell had always been the voice of reason. Until recently, of course.

“I have to say, I’ve never had sex like that before.”

This shut him up for a moment or two. But not for long.

“That’s because he’s new. Because you’re both exploring each other. It won’t always be that good.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do you want to be thrown out of the house every time he has to work?”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing,” I said, getting quite agitated. “Perhaps that’s where we got it wrong. Perhaps that’s why you finally became uncomfortable, needed a break. If we’d lived a little less in each other’s pockets, we might not be on this break.”

I imagined Russell’s face as he thought about that. Then he spoke, “No. You can’t run a relationship like that. That’s not intimacy. You still know that I’m the better bet. You know that. You can’t let go of me that easily. You know it.”

I wanted him to shut up. But, in a way, I was addicted to these imaginary conversations I had with him.

“I don’t know anything for sure anymore,” I said. “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

“And I’m betting you miss that certainty. You do, don’t you? This Carl is all very exciting, but you’ll never have the sense of security you had with me.”

I snapped. “And look where that got me.”

“Things might change. You never know.”

Another voice broke into the conversation. “Taxi for Ms Brockway.”

RUSSELL AND I used often used to spend Sunday mornings at a bar round the corner. I call it a “bar” but it’s one of those places that changes identity throughout the day. During daylight hours it’s more of a café. Early evening it becomes more of a restaurant. Only later on, is it truly a bar.

It’s at its best on a Sunday morning, though. The decor is relaxed. Traditional wood panelling on the wall and simple wooden chairs and tables just lend it a very relaxed ambience. And there’s an open fire. It’s not lit in spring, but its old-fashioned mantelpiece is still reassuringly homely. The Sunday newspapers wait on a rack, and there’s plenty of them. They also cook an exquisite eggs Benedict, which was my weekly naughty treat.

Since Russell and I have been on a break, I haven’t wanted to go there. But Emily suggested we have Sunday brunch together, so I said that I knew of nowhere better.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m not staying away any longer just because of a few memories. It’ll help me move on. And I miss the eggs Benedict.”

I told her what had happened on the date. Well, most of it. I told her about the romantic dinner on the water. I told her that the sex was great without going into too much detail. And I told her how it had concluded.

“He threw you out of the house?”

“No, not exactly.” I took a sip of coffee.

“He threw you out of the house,” she repeated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, but…” I stopped. I could see that it was pointless disagreeing. He
did
throw me out of the house. “Okay, yes, he threw me out of the house. But, you know, that’s who he is. This guy believes in what he’s doing. It’s his passion. And I think his passion for his art feeds his passion for a woman. And, call me crazy, but I like that.”

Emily wore one of her mischievous smiles. “So you’re saying you liked being thrown out of the house.”

“No, but… he’s a passionate guy. He’s different from other men I’ve met. Yeah, other men are passionate. But it’s just about sex. It’s a really shallow kind of passion. As soon as they’ve had sex with you, then there’s no passion left. Until they feel horny again. With Carl it’s different. He’s passionate about everything he does in life. He put real thought into our date. It was amazing. And then in the morning, while I was still in bed, he went for a swim in the Thames. He’s just so… like a force of nature.”

Emily nearly choked on her coffee. “He swam in the Thames?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that proves it — the man’s insane.”

“In that case,” I said, getting carried away, “I’m finding ‘insane’ seriously sexy.”

Emily stroked her chin as if she were playing a professor in some amateur production. “So, my patient, you’re saying that you are finding insane a little sexy. What we have to ask you is this: does this mean that you, too, are insane?”

I didn’t want to laugh, but the silly accent — I think she was trying to do an Austrian Dr Freud sort of accent, but I’m not sure — it was hysterical.

“Yes, doctor,” I said. “I think I’m starting to be attracted to insane men. Do you think this is a problem?”

“Well, yes, my dear.” Emily was having trouble stopping herself laughing, but she carried on playing the part, the accent becoming more exaggerated. “I think this might be a problem. Of course you are having the hot sex. And that is not to be underestimated. The hot sex is very important, both the ‘sex’ bit and the ‘hot’ bit. Put them together and insanity is sure to follow. My prescription is this. Join your new lover in the Thames which will surely cool your ardour. Either that or you will drown. No breast stroking will save you if you get caught in the reeds.”

We both started laughing out loud in the bar. People were looking around to see what was going on. I shushed Emily and she shushed me back. But we only stopped when our sides began to hurt.

“Oh, Em, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just remember there is no right or wrong. If you want to see him again, see him again. If you don’t, don’t. But don’t let thoughts of Russell affect your decision.”

I tilted my head. She knew that would be difficult.