All the Hopeful Lovers (26 page)

As the train pulls in to Gatwick Belinda becomes ever more silent. It’s not nerves, or fear; she’s focusing her energy. Already her mind is reaching forward to the coming encounter. What she has been calling to herself ‘a bit of a laugh’ has grown into an event of significance, a test of something that matters to her very much.

Have I still got it? Or am I old now?

‘Good luck,’ says Laura. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Not that there’s much I wouldn’t do. In fact, I can’t think of a single thing.’

‘I wouldn’t go camping,’ says Belinda.

‘Yes, you’re right. There are limits.’

They smile at each other. The doors go pip-pip-pip.

‘Hey ho,’ says Belinda. ‘Away we go.’

She gives Laura a last wave as she crosses the platform to the escalator. At the top a short blank passage leads to automatic doors. They open before her, as if controlled by her will, ushering her into a space that seems no longer to be located within her everyday world. Above the check-in desks the flight destinations cast their magic spell: Orlando, Agadir, Faro, Kos. Distant gleams of sunshine and sensuality, the sheer otherness of the names flickers in this brightly lit and thronging hall. A ceaseless stream of passengers with trolleys or hauling wheeled suitcases flows across her path. People in an airport are no more beautiful than elsewhere, but they have about them an aura of soiled glamour that suits Belinda’s mood. Their lives are in flux. No social expectations bind these hurrying forms. They come from everywhere, go to everywhere, free from memory or obligation. The arrivals hall shivers with rootlessness.

Belinda looks for signs to the Hilton hotel and finds none. At the information desk she’s told to head for the coach station, where there will be signs. She joins the stream of arriving passengers, her own lack of luggage marking her out as an alien among aliens, and rides the travelator past a long red Virgin advertisement. The travelator moves too slowly. She starts walking on it, carried forward by her own power and by the motion of the conveyor beneath her. This makes her think of the greater motion that propels her, the spinning of the earth. And the planet’s orbit round the sun. Everything is in motion. Everything on the point of departure.

Caution. You are reaching the end of the conveyor
.

Yeah, right. Slow down. I’m not jetting away for a holiday romance. Not seventeen any more. Kenny’ll take one look and send for the cocoa.

But what if …

All those years ago, the rumour shared in girly whispers among her group of friends. Jimmy Kennaway has a really big one. Like, Oh boy! That is big!

The coach station is down one level. She descends the long ramp in a stream of screeching trolleys. Here at last she finds a sign to the Hilton, discreetly tucked beneath the arrows pointing to the Short Stay Car Parks and the Pick-up Point. That could be quite funny if she stopped to think about it, but she’s not stopping and she’s not thinking. On past the Orange Car Park. Turn left into the final approach: a wide white windowless walkway that rises gently towards the hotel entrance.

It seems to Belinda that her flight has now begun. This is take-off. With each step she’s leaving her former life behind. Somewhere below her now, rapidly dwindling from sight, is the land where Tom had his fling. Now it’s my turn.

Do I really mean that?

Hey, no one’s listening. It’s just me here. Who do I think I’m fooling? I’m a bad girl out to have some fun.

Christ, that takes me back. I was a bad girl once. Those were the days.

At the end of the walkway she finds herself passing through a Costa coffee bar. A cluster of men, all wearing suits, all with their ties removed, are talking to each other in low voices. Beyond the bar the hotel lobby proper opens up, an atrium of sorts, though without the grandeur the term implies. On three sides of a long rectangle rise open corridors of hotel rooms. Above, vaults of grey and grubby glass.

For the first time it strikes Belinda that she’s not sure exactly where she and Kenny are to meet.

She cruises the lobby looking for him. Or rather, since she has no idea what he looks like these days, looking for a man who looks like he’s looking for her. One or two of them glance up as she goes by, but then look away again.

Then she recalls that she’s to ask for him. She goes to the concierge’s desk. A screen on the wall is running Sky News. British banks admit losses in the Madoff fraud.

‘I wonder if you have a message for me. I’m Belinda Redknapp.’

A shiny-faced concierge consults a screen concealed before her at waist level, as if casting her gaze down in respectful modesty. Yes, there is a message. Mr Kennaway is in Room 1229. She dials the room and speaks into an unseen microphone, now looking a little to Belinda’s left and into the distance.

On the TV there’s a picture of a house in Dorset with a giant Christmas tree that comes out through the roof. How did they do that? You wouldn’t cut a hole in your roof for a Christmas tree, would you?

‘Miss Redknapp is in the lobby, sir. Certainly, sir.’

The concierge turns to Belinda with a smile that glistens with hostility.

‘Through Costa’s. Take a left. Room 1229.’

She looks down once more at her concealed screen. Belinda is dismissed.

What’s her problem? What does she think I am, a hooker or something?

This possible misunderstanding rather boosts Belinda’s self-esteem. As she walks back through the coffee bar she catches sight of herself in a glass divider screen. I could pass for forty in a dim light.

The promised corridor opens directly off the café. It stretches away into the distance, offering door after door as if reflected in parallel mirrors, identical and infinite. The carpet is ginger and cream, the doors pale blond veneer. She can feel her heart beating. The truth is she loves hotels, even corporate clones like this one. Their rooms offer anonymity and privacy, which is odd when you think how close they are one to another. How do they soundproof them? Behind any of these doors anything could be happening, and no one else would know. But it’s not hard to guess. What do you find behind every door? A room with a big wide bed. No wonder hotels are sexy.

Now she has reached Room 1229. She stands before it, preparing herself. The first look will tell all. He’ll open the door, he’ll see her, and … What? Will his face register a momentary flicker of disappointment? She wishes now she’d sent him a picture of herself as she is today. But how could she? That would have been too open an admission that they are meeting for a date. And anyway, he’s not stupid. He knows she’s over fifty. Even if she’s still seventeen inside.

So am I really going to do this?

Do what? It’s only a catch-up with an old friend.

She knocks on the door.

‘Belinda?’ A deep voice from within.

‘Yes.’

‘Door’s open. Come on in.’

She opens the door. She comes on in.

The room is in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn over the tall windows. A blond-wood desk. A flat-screen TV. The only light comes from a lamp with a boxy cream-coloured shade standing on the far bedside table.

The bed almost fills the room. The bedspread is dark blue. The pillows white. And lying on the bed, stark naked, is a man with a bald head and an erection. And, Oh boy! That is big!

‘Surprise, surprise!’ he says.

Yes, it’s a surprise.

‘Making up for lost time,’ he says.

She stands motionless, the door still open behind her. She knows she should turn and leave, at once, but for the moment shock has frozen her to the spot.

‘Shut the door,’ says Kenny. ‘Hell of a draught.’

She shuts the door. She’s in the room with a naked middle-aged man in a state of arousal, and she’s shut the door. I must be mad, she thinks. But what are you supposed to do in these circumstances?

She realizes she must speak. Whatever she says now must lay the groundwork for her exit. Dinner waiting to be cooked, Chloe waiting to be fed, Tom waiting …

‘Hello, Kenny,’ she says.

She hears herself with surprise. There seems to be a disconnect between what she wants to do and what she actually does. Who’s in charge here?

‘Hello, sunshine,’ he says. ‘Come and be friendly.’

He pats the side of the bed. His voice is a soft blur in her mind. He wants to be friendly. The habit of a lifetime prompts her to respond with answering friendliness. Already it’s too late to say, What are you doing there? She had just the one chance and she missed it. Perhaps she should have screamed. But why? She’s not a Victorian spinster.

On one point Belinda is crystal clear. This naked stranger does not excite her. His well-advertised desire does not arouse in her an answering desire.

Yet here she is, crossing the room like a sleepwalker, sitting down by him on the side of the bed, all to be friendly. She is held in the iron grip of politeness.

‘You know what’s so bloody wonderful about growing older?’ he says. ‘You don’t have to pretend any more.’

‘No,’ says Belinda, pretending.

‘You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he says. ‘I swear, I’ve been hard for days.’

He pats his enormous cock with a broad hairy hand.

‘That’s nice,’ says Belinda.

She has no idea why she’s saying these trite and pointless things, except that they seem to come naturally. Like when some friend does her hair in a new way that makes her look like a dead lesbian and you say, ‘Love the hair.’ It’s just the way the world works.

Kenny puts an arm round her waist.

‘One of my lifetime regrets,’ he says. ‘That you never got to meet Matey down here.’

Matey. Oh, God.

He holds his cock in his hand and wags it at her, speaking as he does so in a growly mock-Cockney voice.

‘Wotcher, Belinda. I’m Matey.’

‘Hello, Matey,’ she answers helplessly.

‘Shake ’ands, sweetheart,’ says Matey.

Kenny takes her hand and places it on his cock. The cock feels warm and hard against her palm. In order not to look at it she looks at Kenny’s face, and because he’s smiling, she smiles.

Up to now she has avoided taking in the details of his appearance. The very first glance told her the Kenny she has treasured down the years has gone. Now in his place she sees a slack-jawed face, flushed cheeks, hairs growing out of both nostrils, one discoloured tooth. And that smile.

Her hand is moving up and down his cock.

When did I start doing this? Why am I doing it?

Somehow the situation requires it. When you have your hand on a man’s erect penis, you stroke it. What else are you there for? It’s a matter of common etiquette. To do anything else would be embarrassing to all concerned.

‘My golly, Kenny,’ she says. ‘This certainly is a surprise.’

‘Isn’t it just?’ he says, beaming away. Then in his Matey voice, ‘Give us a kiss, darling! Give us a kiss!’

At the same time he gives her thigh a squeeze with the hand wrapped round her waist.

Belinda makes a kissy sound with her lips, hoping by this to show friendliness but not enthusiasm. Matey is unimpressed.

‘What you doing, darling? Blowing bubbles?’

‘No hurry,’ says Belinda.

At once she regrets it. Her primary aim is to leave this room as soon as is decently possible.

‘Damn right,’ says Kenny. ‘After thirty-four years I reckon we’re entitled to take our time.’

‘My God!’ says Belinda. ‘Is it really thirty-four years?’

She wants to get a conversation going, talk about the old days. Then with a bit of luck Matey will lose interest.

‘Who cares?’ says Kenny. ‘You’re here now, and I’m here, and Matey’s here. I vote we get snuggly.’

‘I was thinking we might do some catching up first,’ says Belinda.

Why am I saying
first
? When did we agree that we were going to fuck? She looks back in her mind and realizes that she signalled her willingness the moment she closed the room door behind her. Even earlier, maybe. As long ago as early this morning, when she chose her underwear for the day with such care.

But I’m not willing. I don’t want to do this. I owe Kenny nothing. He has no power over me. So why am I going to do it?

Because he’s set the agenda from the start. Because he’s friendly and means no harm. Because his giant erection is flattering, in its way. I mean, the guy’s making an effort.

‘Okay with me,’ says Kenny. ‘Let’s check with Matey. You want to do some talky-talky, Matey?’

He holds his cock and makes it wiggle about in Belinda’s hand.

‘Bloody rubbish!’ he says in his Matey voice. ‘Get yer kit off!’

Then in his own voice, ‘Now, now, Matey. Show respect for the ladies.’

‘Show us yer tits!’ says Matey.

‘Sorry about this,’ Kenny says to Belinda. ‘Matey’s not very sophisticated. But he’s a good lad at heart.’

‘Good at me job,’ cried Matey. ‘Satisfaction guaranteed or yer money back.’

‘He’s right there,’ says Kenny.