Encounters (49 page)

But Richard was there behind her. His arm was round her shoulder. ‘Happy Christmas, lover,’ he whispered and gently he kissed the back of her neck.

Bel was watching solemnly from the doorway. ‘Have you given her your special present yet, Uncle Richard? I know where it is.’ The child was clutching the doll (‘Look, Uncle Richard, she wets her nappy!’) which her mother had sent for her. ‘Shall I fetch it?’

Pat turned. ‘What special present?’

Richard shook his head in despair. ‘Don’t I have any secrets any more? Fetch it, then. Carefully.’

The present was wrapped in the same stripy paper. It was so tiny the sticky tape enveloped it. It was a very little box.

‘I thought it might get lost if I put it in that great hairy stocking,’ he muttered as he took it.

The kettle was clouding the room with steam but Pat took no notice. Shaking, she held out her hand and he gave her the box. A ring box.

‘And besides,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I expect Father Christmas is married already.’ He grinned mischievously.

‘I’m the one who wants a wife …’

‘C
hérie, je t’aime.’

I nestled into André’s arms, his soft whisper so close to my ear that I couldn’t tell if I felt the warmth of his breath or the brush of his lips on my hair.

‘My Suzie, we must go.’

Reluctantly I allowed him to push me from his knees and I stood up, conscious of my crumpled skirt and unbuttoned blouse. I was a mess. I could never look glamorously dishevelled as I imagined his French girlfriends would have looked under similar circumstances. My make-up would certainly have run and my tights had snagged on the cushion zip as we sat down. I felt overwhelmingly depressed.

I had met André three months before at my niece’s graduation party. He was twenty-three and I was nearly forty. At first I had been amused by his attentions, and flattered of course.

‘But
chérie
,’ he had said, gently teasing. ‘The Frenchmen are always fascinated by older women. Surely you know that?’ And I laughed and accepted first his compliments and then his invitation out to dinner.

But that one evening together had led to more and before I knew it I was falling in love with him. It was no use my telling myself every morning as I gazed in the bathroom mirror that I looked old enough to be his mother. I didn’t. I had a good skin and as yet the crows’ feet were minimal, but even so I found I was spending far more time and money on my appearance than I had before I met André. I had the notion that Frenchmen expected their women to be chic and feminine and I intended to live up to André’s every expectation. Even in bed. When he first made it clear that he wanted so sleep with me I had objected, in a real panic that once we had slept together there would be nothing left to attract him, but I did us both an injustice. When at last I gave way unable to hold out any longer against something I wanted so much, he proved a superb lover and his attentions became more marked and more loving every day.

As an assistant lecturer in French at the university he had a room in one of the men’s hostels and acted as assistant warden there. At the weekends we would make toast in front of his electric fire and lie on his narrow bed together listening to tapes. But it was difficult there. We could never be sure that there wasn’t going to be a knock on the door at any moment. The best times were when he came back to my flat and we knew we would be alone.

You may ask why I wasn’t married. Most people did, in their usual tactless way. When I was twenty-two I had become engaged to a young man whom I worshipped. But our engagement grew longer and longer. Each time I tried to persuade him to fix a date he would find an excuse. At last after five years I had realized what my friends and family had probably known all along, that he was not the marrying kind. It broke my heart, but ours had not been the stable relationship which can last without marriage. After we parted I avoided any serious affairs, nursing my wounded pride beneath a stout campaign for the independence of women. Until I met André.

Now, in his cosy bed-sitter, in the dim light of the shaded lamp I looked up at him as he stood before the mirror combing his hair and I knew I loved him as I had loved no one before and I was afraid.

He turned and smiled, holding out his arms. ‘I wish you did not have to go, Suzie.’

I loved the way he pronounced my name. He made it sound exotic and a little wicked. Other people just called me Sue.

We kissed long and passionately and then reluctantly we went out into the dimly-lit hall, tiptoeing so as not to disturb any sleeping students. From behind some of the doors came the muted sounds of music, but most were quiet. The lines of light beneath the doors showed that few were asleep. It was only a week from the exams and I suspected that many a set of brains was being cudgelled that night to try and make up for lost evenings earlier in the term.

André and I sauntered down the moonlit road, breathing in the heady summer air. My flat was about two miles from the hostel through the peaceful sleepy suburb and on fine nights I loved the walk back there under the stars, with André holding my hand. I was entirely happy.

We reached the bridge across the river and leaned over the parapet, looking down into the dark water rushing far below. Only the occasional flash of white showed in the gloom as a wave hit the rocks.

André put his arm round my shoulder. ‘Suzie, there is something I must tell you.’ His tone was ominously serious. I turned to him and waited without a word.

After a moment he went on. ‘I have been offered a job in France, Suzie. It is one I want very much.’

That was all he said.

I looked down at the water again, trying to bite back the tears. After all, I had known it could not last, but I had not expected this. I had thought he would grow tired of me and find another woman and that my own cynicism would be there to comfort me, but no. He had said the words as though his heart too would break.

I glanced sideways. He was looking down as though the river would hold his attention for ever and in the luminous night I could see his profile with its firm nose and chin, the high forehead, the irrepressible curly hair. Somehow I stifled a sob. He must not know that I was crying.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s late.’

He didn’t come in for a coffee and as I shut the door I felt as though my whole world was shattered. He had gone off without another word.

In my living room which was really more of a studio – I was a painter as well as a teacher at the art college – my portrait of André stood on the easel, nearly finished. I gazed at it for a long time, pleading silently with those warm brown eyes as if he could really see me. I felt empty; dead. Then I blew a sad kiss towards the glistening oils and turned for my lonely bedroom.

The next two days were busy ones as a rule for both of us and we had agreed not to meet until the Friday. I don’t know how I prevented myself from ringing him in the interval, but I did.

As the hour approached when André would be picking me up at my flat I grew more and more nervous. Tonight I would find out when he was to leave and whether I would ever see him again. I grew increasingly depressed as I dressed in one of my prettiest summer dresses, one which I knew he particularly liked, but to my surprise André himself looked anything but depressed when he had at last appeared at the door.

‘Bring a coat and scarf, Suzie,’ he commanded. ‘I have borrowed a car.’

We were swiftly in the country and as we roared through the fragrant evening with the roof of the car folded down I lay back and closed my eyes. Wherever we were going I was not really looking forward to it. There was too much talking to be done over the meal.

When we at last drew up in the forecourt of an old pub my cheeks were burning from the rush of wind and my hair, in spite of a scarf, felt tangled.

‘Wait, I have something for you.’ André put his hand on my arm as I leaned forward to open the door. From the glove pocket in front of me he produced a single white rose, its petals creamy against the tissue paper in which it was wrapped. ‘I hoped you would wear that dress,’ he said quietly. ‘It is for that dress that I chose the flower.’ Gently he tucked it into my bodice.

Our table was in the corner by the windows which opened out onto a mossy lawn, bordered with sweet smelling heliotrope.

André ordered with his customary efficiency and as the waiter poured out our wine I sat bemused, unwilling to break the spell of silence. Then André spoke.

‘I have given in my notice at the university; next year I commence my job at Toulouse.’ He waited, looking at me hard, but I refused to meet his eye, too bleak and miserable to make any pretence of being glad for him.

‘Suzie?’ He took my hand. ‘What is the matter?’

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

‘You are disappointed it is not Paris?’ He closed my fingers around the stem on my wineglass. ‘But that may follow after a year, or maybe two or three.’ He looked at me hopefully.

At last I managed to say something. ‘I am glad, André. Truly glad. I know it’s what you wanted.’ I took a sip of wine.

‘You are not glad, Suzie.’ He sounded hurt and reproachful.

‘Yes I am.’ I took some more wine. ‘It’s just that I shall miss you, that’s all …’ My voice cracked as I spoke the words and I fought to hold back the tears. I would not spoil a beautiful evening by crying like a teenager. I clenched my fists.

‘But,
chérie
,’ André looked amazed, ‘aren’t you coming with me? I thought you had said so often you would love to live in France?

It was my turn to look amazed. I hadn’t thought; I hadn’t understood.

We were silent as the waiter brought the vinaigrettes, but as soon as he had gone André pushed away his plate and took my hands in his. He looked so earnest, his brown eyes pleading.

‘Suzie, I had not meant it to be like this. I had planned it to be so romantic, later. But I have decided. You will marry me. We will be married next month before we leave, then we have the rest of the summer to find a flat in Toulouse. See,’ he fumbled in his breast pocket, ‘I have brought you the ring.’

On his palm lay an exquisite little circle of sapphires and diamonds in a red gold Victorian setting.

I was speechless.

He smiled happily and took my hand. ‘Let us see if it fits.’

He slipped it on and I gazed at it, enchanted. I was still looking at it when the waiter came to take our plates. He reappeared a few moments later with a half bottle of champagne and bowed in front of André.

‘The compliments of the manager, monsieur. We could not help noticing the little ceremony just now and he hopes you will accept this with our congratulations.’

Amazed, we looked at each other and then round the room and to my intense embarrassment I found that everyone at the other tables was looking at us. They had been watching the whole thing. One man raised his glass in salute. ‘To the happy couple,’ he said smiling and one after another the other people followed suit.

It was I think the happiest evening of my life. It passed so quickly, in a haze of wine and food and good wishes. Then there was the scented moonlit drive back in the early hours of the morning.

It was an anti-climax to realize that I was to spend the next afternoon with my parents and my sister and her family at home. They had met André only a couple of times and knew nothing of my relationship with him.

Before I left to go to them reluctantly I took off my ring. I wanted to break it to them gently that I was going to live abroad and I wanted to be able to pick my moment.

I was still walking on air when my father opened the door to my knock. ‘Come in, Susan darling,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tea’s all ready. Your mother is just bringing it through.’

I bent to fondle the little Jack Russell which had bounded out to greet me and then followed my father into the sitting room. My sister Gwen and her husband Phil were already there, curled up on a sofa by the fire.

‘Hi,’ Gwen said when she saw me. ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a gigolo, Sue. I can’t think how you managed to tear yourself away.’

‘Gwen.’ Father automatically stepped between us, but I saw at once from his amused face that it would only be minutes before he joined in with the teasing. With Gwen I could cope. We had been at each other’s throats all our lives and I was used to her catty remarks. I put them down to jealousy – but Father – that was too hurtful.

My cheeks flamed. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ I said as repressively as I could and to forestall any further remarks I headed for the kitchen.

In the hall I stopped in front of the mirror. My face was flushed and my eyes suspiciously bright. How stupid not to be able to hide my feelings at my age. If only I hadn’t known what Gwen meant. I wondered who had been gossiping.

Taking a grip on myself I went into the kitchen and kissed my mother fondly. One look at me told her something was wrong of course and before I knew it I had poured out the whole story. She listened quietly and then put her arm round my shoulders. ‘Poor Susan. It must be dreadful for you to take such a decision.’ She turned to the kettle. ‘But I think you are right to turn him down. It might seem hard now but in ten years you’ll be glad you did it.’

‘But I didn’t turn him down,’ I sobbed, anguished. ‘Mother, I love him. I want to marry him.’

‘But dear, think.’ She put the tea things down and looked at me hard. ‘Think very carefully. There is not only the difference in your ages, as if that wasn’t enough, but he’s foreign. He wants you to leave this country and all your friends and go off with him heaven knows where. Oh Sue darling, you can’t do it.’

In my heart I wondered if she was right but at the same time I was indignant and angry. How could she talk like that about André? He was mature well beyond his years. He was responsible. He would not ask me to do anything that would leave me unhappy.

Eventually I dried my eyes and gave her a watery smile. ‘I’ll think about it a bit longer,’ I said as steadily as I could. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more now.’

Obviously Gwen and Phil and my father had reached the same conclusion because nothing more was said on the subject the whole afternoon. We just chatted about various things and I tried very hard indeed to ignore the deepening depression which was hanging over me.

My mother’s words had reawakened my own terrible doubts about the difference in our ages. It was something I had tried to forget, but as I walked slowly home from my parents’ house I remembered all the little things. André was still childishly optimistic and irrepressible and in some ways yes, he was a little irresponsible too, while I was cynical and inclined to be weighed down by cares. Possibly these were differences of character rather than age but to me they pointed to one thing only – my approaching senility, his carefree youth. I thought of his hard lean body; his cheeks and eyes, young and bright and I remembered the way I had to throw my shoulders back and pull in my stomach when I appeared before him naked. He told me that my body was beautiful, but I never quite lost my self-consciousness before him and dared not relax for one second.