The rain tattoos against the windows of Heathrow airport – the mercury-coloured wet needles bring a smile to my face. There is a finiteness to nature that I love – no wishy-washy human emotions. The man with the laptop perched on his thighs smiles at me and I dip my head back to the postcard I’m writing to Hugh:
Hi Shugs
Just a few lines to say I’m missing you and can’t wait to see you again at the weekend. Don’t forget that Kirsty’ll need a lift to karate on Thursday – Sapphire’s mum will drop her home afterwards. My presentation went well and I’ve been asked to go back next year for the annual conference. Flight to Belfast is on time – boarding in ten! Hope you’re coping without me - haha - love you billions!!!!!
Linda xxx
I slip the Van Gogh Sunflowers card in the see-through letterbox and watch it belly-flop onto the hieroglyphics. I don’t feel an iota of guilt about last night.
I have to make the seat belt bigger – crikey – middle age and all that. I ask for a slimline tonic with my gin and settle down to replay.
It must have been twenty years or so since I’d last seen Gordon. How weird was that - that we should be checking in to the same hotel at the same time. He looked great – all confidence and gay repartee (had the receptionist in fits in no time). It was really good to see him, and Covent Garden was a place to delight in with a ballet of at least two people. And he certainly gave a theatrical performance.
I was a bit drunk. We shared a bottle of claret in the restaurant and a brandy back at the hotel lounge – then another in his room. He craned down to the mini-bar, freckly wrists sticking out of his white shirt and I remembered the first time I went to bed with them - his freckles. I remembered how cramped it was in my single bed in the halls of residence – how his feet poked out from under the faded brown duvet – how his feet clanked against the radiator the first time he, well, you know…
He came to sit beside me on the bed - I could smell his aftershave (Davidoff?) - and as he handed me my glass I could see the tarantula of his chest hair attempting to flee as he loosened his amber tie. Amber… was I going to be able to stop?
How we’d laughed – about our first date at a Hall and Oates concert – how his red (shy) face had clashed with his crimson shirt which winged its way across the lapels of his denim jacket. How we’d roared (when he slipped his socks off) that his hen toes were still hen-toe-like and his bandy legs still couldn’t stop a pig in a close (when he took his trousers off). How we giggled, just like we used to at uni, until our neighbour chapped on the wall and we muffled our hilarity in the pillow. He reminded me how him and his friend called me ‘the squaw’ until he got my name from my pal in his history tutorial. He asked if I still made spag bol with corned beef and cheesecake out of boxes – not literally, of course.
I became almost sober when he helped me out of my lilac blouse, praying that he wouldn’t think I looked fat after all these years, glad of the uplift my Wonderbra gave and breathing in until he got up to use the bathroom.
It was bliss to feel his fingers trace the hairline at the side of my head (which he’d always loved) as we lay in our underwear like teenagers. It had felt wonderful to chat about the decades since I’d cancelled our wedding arrangements, to say the things I’d never been mature enough to say then. To realise that although he loved his wife and three sons (to bits) he had a curve of his heart with my name looped around it still. I ran my hand up and down his sun-freckled arm and remembered the warmth of his love, the sincerity of it, and how hard it had been to throw away the surety of it. But we’d become like old-timers before our time – matching cardigans and nights in to watch Cheers on Fridays instead of living – it had seemed too predictable, too settled for a pre-marital state. I knew I was taking a chance on hopes and dreams – perhaps I should have tried to re-stoke the embers of passion? When I left - it hurt - too much.
The plane shudders along the runway. I peer through the window – it’s raining in Belfast too. I stare into the dark eyes of my reflection – philosophising - and cherishing my secret memory of framing the past.
© 2006 Kim Schroeder
