with the conversation we needed to have hanging over me. I wondered if Tim would notice I wasnât my usual self, but when I gave him a sideways glance I had the oddest impression that he wasnât really listening to what I was saying.
Deer Leap is a high spot on the Mendips, a broad parking area overlooking a beautiful valley, with paths angling off along the crest of the hill. There was no way we could walk them today, though â they were accessed by stiles in the drystone walls that bordered the parking area that I would have struggled to manage, and in any case, the fields beyond would still be soggy from the recent rain. Instead we remained in the car, parked to give us a panoramic view of the valley below.
Right, I thought â this was it. No more putting it off. Time to take the bull by the horns.
âTim,â I said, âwe need to talk. About us.â
There was a silence. I glanced at Tim. He wasnât looking at me, but still staring out at the view. He was chewing his lip and there were lines of tension in his face, as if he sensed what I was going to say. Then he reached across, switched off the radio, and turned towards me.
âI know we do. Iâm really sorry, Sally. Iâve been neglecting you, havenât I?â
âI realize itâs been difficult. With your job and everything, and me not able to lead a normal life.â I was trying to do this gently, to avoid recriminations and bad feeling if at all possible. âI do understand that, Tim . . .â
âYou do?â His eyes snapped up to mine. There was an expression in them that puzzled me.
âYes, of course I do. But . . .â
But itâs not just that
, I was going to say.
Itâs all kinds of other things as well
. . .
I never got the chance.
âI am truly sorry,â Tim said again, and it occurred to me suddenly that he was apologizing rather too much for simply not coming to visit me as much as he might have done.
âTim, thereâs no need . . .â
âThereâs every need. I should have confessed a long time ago. But with you in the state you were, I couldnât bring myself to upset you. It didnât seem right.â
I frowned. âWhat are you talking about?â
His eyes fell away again, his fingers played with the knob of the gearstick. By the time he looked at me again I had a pretty good idea what he was going to say.
âIâm sorry, Sally, but thereâs someone else.â
Still it shocked me. Tim had someone else!
âOh!â I said stupidly.
âI met her through work and things have . . . developed.â
For a moment I couldnât think of a single thing to say. Then something inside me exploded.
âA trolley dolly, I suppose.â I was astonished by how hurt I felt â hurt enough to refer to an air stewardess by such a derogatory term.
âActually, no. Sheâs my first officer,â Tim said, almost apologetically.
That took the wind out of my sails all over again, but of course, it made perfect sense. Women werenât only flight attendants now, they were also pilots. And I could just picture the scene â Tim in the left-hand seat, some glamour girl with gold braid on the shoulders of her uniform in the right, cocooned together in a cramped cockpit for hours on end. And then the two of them wheeling their suitcases through customs together, being bussed to the same hotel for overnight stays, sharing a meal and a drink â no, not a drink; eight hours between bottle and throttle was the golden rule. But getting very cosy, nonetheless.
âHow long has this been going on?â I asked tightly.
Tim shrugged. âDoes it matter?â
âYes, actually.â
And it did! Had Tim been seeing her when we were still together? When I was in hospital and he was visiting me, pretending concern? Was she the reason heâd been so ready to suggest I should come home to Stoke Compton to
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