the sink, he came round and the way he looked at me I think he could read how I felt. So he had his way with me – there we were, at three o clock in the afternoon. We had several such afternoons in my small bed. I’ve never enjoyed the physical side of things very much, but he was gentle, got it all over nice and quick, none of that slow messing about that Bill used to called ‘forward play’.
I remember Mrs. Grant, around that time – she notices everything – was concerned about a rash on my cheek. It was Gary’s stubble agitated the skin, I knew, but of course I couldn’t tell her. She gave me a lovely tube of cream: didn’t do anything, though I pretended it did. Mrs. Grant would have been horrified to think I’d taken up with a man who followed me – an unknown man – a stalker, no less.
I may have been kidding myself about being in love with Gary, of course: it’s nice to think you’re in love with someone, though. In honesty our friendship was going nowhere, he only talked about football. It became quite boring. Then one day – one of the days it was tea only, bed had been petering out – he said goodbye Gwen in an odd, gruff sort of voice, and went. And never came back. I didn’t see him anywhere in the streets or the local shops, for two years. Disappeared off the face of the earth. In my heart of hearts I was relieved.
But a couple of months ago, just as I was taking out a pack of peas from the chiller cabinet, I heard this voice behind me. ‘Gwen,’ he said. I froze cold as the peas in my hand. I turned. There he was, same stubble, teeth still missing. ‘I’m not interested in any more cups of tea and afternoons in bed,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I’m after. What turns me on is finding out what’s going on, the unlocking of mystery, know what I mean?’ The unlocking of mystery? Whatever was he talking about? I swear he had murder in his eyes. Before I had time to say a word, ask him what on earth he meant, he’d gone. My knees were shaking so much I had to lean on my trolley. God knows how I managed to get to the check-out. I felt sick, cold, terrified. What was he going to do to me? Why had I ever let him in?
I got home best as I could, tried to turn my mind to comforting things like doing out Mr. Grant’s study next day. But I was really unnerved, and there was no one I could talk to, was there? I thought of going to the police, but they wouldn’t be very sympathetic to that sort of domestic matter, would they? ‘What, once your lover, now he follows you about? Never hit you?’ They’d laugh in my face.
This afternoon I took a peep behind the curtain to see if the way was clear. I needed to go to the shops to get something for my supper. Blow me down, Gary was still there, other side of the road, looking about. So I stayed indoors, heart beating, hungry, cursing Thursdays. He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, whistling. He was still there at tea time. I sat at the table, not up to anything, full of regrets. Over and over again, I thought, what a fool I’d been. What a fool I’d been to let him in in the first place.
ISABEL
Goodness knows why, but the thought of Gilbert and Carlotta at the Wigmore Hall occupied an unreasonable amount of my thoughts last night. At supper Dan and I speculated about how they were getting on. Dan thought she would irritate Gilbert so much he’d probably never go out with her again. I didn’t know what to think.
And now Dan’s on his way to Rome. High among the clouds. I know he thinks it’s silly, but I always pray that the journey will be safe. I never feel totally easy till he’s rung me to say he’s landed. I hate it when he goes away, even for a few days.
All morning I worked hard on a bird mask – glorious blue black feathers spurting from a golden heart (a rather ingenious upside down heart, so that the point would touch the forehead and the two curves would fit each side of the nose). Then I went down to the
I remember Mrs. Grant, around that time – she notices everything – was concerned about a rash on my cheek. It was Gary’s stubble agitated the skin, I knew, but of course I couldn’t tell her. She gave me a lovely tube of cream: didn’t do anything, though I pretended it did. Mrs. Grant would have been horrified to think I’d taken up with a man who followed me – an unknown man – a stalker, no less.
I may have been kidding myself about being in love with Gary, of course: it’s nice to think you’re in love with someone, though. In honesty our friendship was going nowhere, he only talked about football. It became quite boring. Then one day – one of the days it was tea only, bed had been petering out – he said goodbye Gwen in an odd, gruff sort of voice, and went. And never came back. I didn’t see him anywhere in the streets or the local shops, for two years. Disappeared off the face of the earth. In my heart of hearts I was relieved.
But a couple of months ago, just as I was taking out a pack of peas from the chiller cabinet, I heard this voice behind me. ‘Gwen,’ he said. I froze cold as the peas in my hand. I turned. There he was, same stubble, teeth still missing. ‘I’m not interested in any more cups of tea and afternoons in bed,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I’m after. What turns me on is finding out what’s going on, the unlocking of mystery, know what I mean?’ The unlocking of mystery? Whatever was he talking about? I swear he had murder in his eyes. Before I had time to say a word, ask him what on earth he meant, he’d gone. My knees were shaking so much I had to lean on my trolley. God knows how I managed to get to the check-out. I felt sick, cold, terrified. What was he going to do to me? Why had I ever let him in?
I got home best as I could, tried to turn my mind to comforting things like doing out Mr. Grant’s study next day. But I was really unnerved, and there was no one I could talk to, was there? I thought of going to the police, but they wouldn’t be very sympathetic to that sort of domestic matter, would they? ‘What, once your lover, now he follows you about? Never hit you?’ They’d laugh in my face.
This afternoon I took a peep behind the curtain to see if the way was clear. I needed to go to the shops to get something for my supper. Blow me down, Gary was still there, other side of the road, looking about. So I stayed indoors, heart beating, hungry, cursing Thursdays. He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, whistling. He was still there at tea time. I sat at the table, not up to anything, full of regrets. Over and over again, I thought, what a fool I’d been. What a fool I’d been to let him in in the first place.
ISABEL
Goodness knows why, but the thought of Gilbert and Carlotta at the Wigmore Hall occupied an unreasonable amount of my thoughts last night. At supper Dan and I speculated about how they were getting on. Dan thought she would irritate Gilbert so much he’d probably never go out with her again. I didn’t know what to think.
And now Dan’s on his way to Rome. High among the clouds. I know he thinks it’s silly, but I always pray that the journey will be safe. I never feel totally easy till he’s rung me to say he’s landed. I hate it when he goes away, even for a few days.
All morning I worked hard on a bird mask – glorious blue black feathers spurting from a golden heart (a rather ingenious upside down heart, so that the point would touch the forehead and the two curves would fit each side of the nose). Then I went down to the
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