Putty In Her Hands (3 page)

Did you have a gas leak?
asks Sally.

No, it was a false alarm –
silly me. Hi, Rob.

She flashes me that huge smile,
her teeth sparkling.
Hi, Dawn. We didn’t think you were going to
make it tonight
, I say, emphasising the
we
.

Nor did I. But it’s nice to be
here at last. You OK, then?

Yeah. Absolutely
, I say,
I am now that you’re here, I add in my head.

And now we’re in full swing.
Whilst Dawn catches up with her starter and main course, we’re onto
Christmas pudding and coffee. I try not to look down her blouse
that has one button too many undone. She’s wearing a lime green bra
with lacy straps. But I didn’t notice that.

I feel hyper and entertaining
my new table with witticisms and eagle-eyed observations on office
politics, celebrities and Chihuahuas. I enjoy holding forth like
this, it’s all drivel and I’m showing off, I know, but I have a
good audience. Dawn laughs heartily and I can feel myself going up
in her estimations. Everyone seems livened up by her appearance;
there’s almost a glow that radiates around her, a glow of beauty,
and I feel entirely intoxicated. She has a lovely laugh to add to
her list of attributes – it’s fulsome and genuine but without being
over-loud or embarrassing.

It’s late. Most people have
left, Ernie and Karen amongst them, but Dawn is still here. She
laughs at my jokes, momentarily rubs my sleeve, and tilts her head
to one side. The omens are good. She liked Stephen,
a lovely
man
and even Ernie –
what a sweetie
. The novelty soon
wears off, I thought.

It’s now eleven. The bar’s open
for another hour but in the restaurant we’re down to the last four
– Sally, Karen, me and Dawn; and I certainly wouldn’t still be
there if Dawn had gone. Sally and Karen make a move to leave which
involves long trips to the toilet, checking of bus passes and
purses, and kisses and hugs. And then they’re gone. Now, still in
the restaurant, it’s just Dawn and me. This is going well, I think.
She’s telling me about her real job, how the digital camera has
eroded the photography hence her need to supplement her income with
jobs in places like our HR department.
But in my younger day I
used to be on the other side of the camera.

Really, you mean you were a
model?

Oh yes, for years. You should
see my portfolio. Well, not all of it!

Now, that was intriguing.
What do you mean, not all of it?

She glances left and right as
if someone might sneak up on us, and says in
sotto
voice,
I used to do a bit of glamour. Nothing too raunchy but Page
Three and the like.

Wow!
All my principles
about female exploitation vanish out of the window. I’m
impressed.

The swing doors fling open and
out comes a massive, furry Alsatian, a beast of an animal, the
distraction ending our conversation just as it was getting
interesting. At the other end of the lead, the Scottish man I saw
earlier, the one in charge, now minus the antlers. Dawn swoons over
him, the dog that is, but it’s the man who seems happiest with the
attention.
What a lovely dog. What’s his name?

Rufus
,
he says in a manly voice. Lucky, I thought, the dog
isn’t a bitch called Trixibelle.

He’s gorgeous,
says
Dawn, ruffling Rufus’s mane of hair.

Aye. I’m just taking him out
for a walk; his late night constitutional.
Well, go on then, I
thought, be off with you.

But it gets worst. A
man-mountain of a woman appears, her accent thicker and deeper than
his.
Ah, is Rufus being all soppy again?
And that was it.
The three of them launch into a conversation about dogs, the
Christmas meal, hired staff, running the pub, how long they lived
in London, their whole fucking existence. And Dawn seems
exceptionally interested in all this. And then as abruptly as they
appeared, they disappear in a grunting flurry of dishevelment,
hairy dog and all.
What a lovely couple
, says Dawn.

Lovely.
But thank fuck
they’ve gone, now where was I…? My objective. But relief at the
Scottish retreat, sadly, is brief – the man returns without dog but
with a look of mischief on his phizog, carrying two small glasses,
within which are shots of clear liquid.

Here you are, on the house, two
white rums. Happy Christmas.

Oh, that’s so nice of you,
thank you.

Yeah, right. Thanks.

I take a sip. I don’t really
like spirits but it seems churlish to refuse.

Hmm, nice
, says Dawn,
purring.
What‘s your name?

Iain,
he says.
With
two ‘i’s,
and my wife’s Geraldine. Anyway, I have to tell
you this story about when we first moved down here…

Weren’t you about to take
your dog for a constitutional?
Did I disguise the irritation in
my voice? I hoped not.

Ack, Rufus can wait to
later.
And so his story unfolds – something to do with being a
murder witness and having to appear in court. On the surface, quite
an interesting tale but not the way he told it in his monotone
voice. Ten minutes later, he was finally coming to the end of this
saga and I began to feel the urge to start reading
War and
Peace
– it’d be quicker and less painful. Dawn, bless her, made
the appropriate noises, the odd
Really?
or
Noo?
which
only encouraged him to embellish and drone on. Thankfully,
Geraldine, the wife, came out and told him Rufus was getting
impatient. And so, unable to hide his disappointment, he scuttled
away. We thanked him for the drinks and finally we were alone.

Well, time to head home, I
guess,
says Dawn
.
I feel a lurch in my stomach. The time
had come.

I’ll walk you to your car if
you like,
I offer casually
.

You are the gentleman, Rob.
Thank you; that’d be most appreciated.

And so we left the pub and I
hope we wouldn’t be bumping into the Scot and his beast on their
midnight stroll. With her high heels, Dawn is a good inch taller
than me. We’d both parked a distance away, which means walking
along a cobbled pavement, lined with railings that run adjacent to
a canal on our left and a terrace of pretty decorated houses on our
right, Christmas tree lights shining through the windows. The
occasional arched bridge crosses over to a leafy park the other
side of the canal. Street lamps shine down on us, old-fashioned
ones, emitting a gentle yellowish glow. The air smells fresh and
damp, the trees on the other side of the canal rustle in the soft
breeze. The night is perfectly silent, the air perfectly
romantic…

I enjoyed tonight¸
says
Dawn, dreamily.

Yes, so did I.
Somehow
the objective, which seems, in theory, so close to being achieved,
feels, in practice, very, very distant. I simply don’t know what to
do next. How in the fuck do I kiss her? Christ, it’s years since
I’ve kissed a girl. In
that
way.

Listen, Rob, that stuff I told
you earlier, you know about doing Page Three and the glamour
modelling… you won’t tell anyone, will you? Please, I mean it, keep
it to yourself.

Dawn,
I say, stretching
out her name.
Who would I tell? Anyway, you can trust me.
And with these reassuring words my arm slips round her waist.
I
promise – I won’t tell a soul.
And there my arm stays, hooked
round the slimmest of waists as we stroll along the path. And then,
with total calmness, my mind devoid of thought, I stop, turn to
face her, lean forward and kiss her very gently on the lips.

She doesn’t shriek, slap me or
resist at all. I pull away; see the street lamps reflecting in her
eyes and the look of bemused shock on her face. A faint hint of a
smile plays on her lips. I kiss her again, Dawn leaning against the
railings. And she responds gently, hesitantly, our lips moist.
Wow,
she whispers.
That was nice. Where did you learn to
kiss like that?

Aha,
I say, leaning in
for more.

You’ve done this before,
haven’t you?

Frequently.

Robbie…?

No, really, you’re the
first.

We here footsteps, a couple
arm-in-arm, dark figures. And so we amble down the path, floating,
Dawn and me, our arms around each other, our shadows overlapping.
I haven’t been kissed like that for years. You naughty
boy
.

A naughty boy, eh?

She giggles. Still floating, we
stop every few yards to kiss again.
Oh, Rob, Robbie, that was
soo nice.

Doesn’t your boyfriend kiss you
like that?

Boyfriend? I don’t have a
boyfriend.
I feel her shoulder tense up and realise I’d
broached a sensitive subject. I kiss her again to erase this
momentarily tension. I study her face – her warm eyes, the flawless
skin, the defined cheekbones. Had I ever kissed anyone so
beautiful?

Everything seemed perfect, as
if all the roads of my life had led to this one moment: to kiss
Dawn, in this wonderful place, at this moment. Everything that
happened tonight seemed to want it to happen: going right back to
when she ditched her other party for ours, to my swapping seats
with Stephen, to her coming in at the moment a spare seat offered
itself next to me, everyone else leaving before us, the quiet
pathway, the perfect light. And already, on reflection, it all
seemed so easy, so natural. Couldn’t work out how the Scottish
couple fitted in but hey…

We cross the final bridge
leading to the tiny car park, and stop halfway across and kiss
again. The canal flows lazily below us carrying little islands of
dead leaves. She pulls me tightly against her; I feel the shape of
her breasts under our layers and my heartbeat quickens a fraction
more. In the near distance a church, its spire reaching into the
night sky, its shadow falling over the grass. And so finally, we
reach our cars, parked only yards from each other.

That was such a lovely
evening,
says Dawn, dreamily.
I can’t believe you kissed me.
Men are usually too frightened to even talk to me. And you kiss so
well.
Her hand strokes my cheek; her smile is melting me.
Are you working tomorrow?
I nod.
Good, I’ll see you then.
But listen, Robbie, don’t ignore me tomorrow, eh? Don’t pretend
this didn’t happen.

Don’t worry, I won’t ignore
you.
How could I, I thought.

And so, after one final,
lingering, time-stopping kiss, we part. I wait for her to leave,
blowing a kiss as her taillights disappear down the High
Street.

I drive back in a haze, arrived
home and had no recollection of the drive. I keep expecting guilt
to hit me – but it doesn’t, maybe it will later. But I’d been right
about fifth December after all; something
did
happen, the
objective
was
achieved, and how.

It is about 12.30; Emily is
already in bed. I sit downstairs, listening to the silence of the
house, wife and children asleep, wondering how exactly I managed to
achieve such a result, replaying the course of events in my mind.
Ginger comes out to see me. I’m pleased to see him. Finally I go to
bed, undressing quietly so not to wake Emily. I slide into bed and
she asks sleepily,
Was it a good night?

Yes
, I say.
It was. A
really good night.

Thursday, 6th December

Given the choice between
updating job descriptions for clerical staff on temporary
contracts, working out sick pay for a long-term absentee or
reliving last night by writing my diary, I choose the latter. I’ll
stay late and catch-up, I tell myself.

I woke up this morning feeling
great, and positively jumped out of bed. But as I drove the six
miles to work the clouds of doubt began to descend – Dawn knew I
was married, had kids, etc, although she didn’t know about the cat.
And she would have gone home last night and realised the folly of
what we’d done. She’d come to work this morning saying
Rob, last
night, we shouldn’t have done that. It mustn’t happen again. It was
stupid of us.
And I would agree. It had been stupid; what were
we thinking of? So why did my heart flip when I saw her from a
distance this morning? She came in, carrying a folder under her
arm, saw me, smiled the briefest of smiles at me, then disappeared.
I spent the next ten minutes trying to decipher that smile and what
it meant. All my conclusions were in the negative and my last
slither of morning enthusiasm evaporated.

Ernie came up to my desk
carrying a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and an envelope in the
other.
Get way from me with that,
I said, eyeing the
mistletoe nervously.

He even laughed in a Yorkshire
accent.
It’s for Marjorie in accounts,
he said, dropping the
letter in my in-tray.

I hope she knows what’s in
store for her.

Don’t you worry, my posh
friend, I know what I’m doing.