I Could Love You (30 page)

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 takeoff. 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.

‘Satis-fuck-tion!’ cries Matey. ‘Satis-fuck-tion!’

‘You’re a comedian, Matey,’ says Kenny.

It’s a well-rehearsed act, presumably performed many times before. Belinda wants to laugh, both at Kenny and with him, but she also wants to maintain some last vestige of distance.

‘I can see you two have done this before,’ she says.

‘Oh, yes,’ says Kenny. ‘But this is the gala performance.’

‘I don’t know that we should,’ she says.

Kenny gives her a look that’s puzzled and sweet at the same time. ‘I’ve been waiting so long, gorgeous. Now you’re here, it’s a dream come true.’

‘Is it, Kenny?’

This is the point of no return. Now is her last chance to make her excuses and leave. But what can she say? That he’s grown old? That his humour isn’t to her taste? That she doesn’t find him attractive? He’s crass and he has no understanding of her, but he wants her so much, which is a gift of a kind. And the plain fact of the matter is she finds she hasn’t got it in her to disappoint him. His expression of desire has set the terms of their encounter. The appropriate response on her part can only be to satisfy his desire. For any other course of action she must generate what amounts to a counter-desire, she must show anger or disgust, she must hurt and humiliate him. Does he deserve that?

You make your bed, you have to lie on it.

‘So how about you get your kit off?’ he says.

‘I’ll undress in the bathroom,’ she says.

The light in the bathroom is brutal. She avoids looking at herself in the mirror as she undresses. The pretty bra and knickers come off too. Kenny has ordained that they cut to the action. Naked among the white tiles Belinda feels herself shivering.

Hey, it won’t take long. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.

‘Kenny,’ she calls through the closed door. ‘Turn out the light.’

‘Whatever you say, sunshine.’

The lamp clicks off in the bedroom. The bathroom light switch is on the outside of the door. She opens the door a crack and feels for it.

‘Don’t I get a look?’

She opens the bathroom door so that he can see her naked but in silhouette. She stands tall to lift her breasts, and pulls her tummy muscles in. Then she finds the light switch and plunges them into darkness.

As she lies down on the bed beside him he says, ‘We’ve got all the time in the world, gorgeous. I took a little blue pill. Matey’s good for hours.’

32

No one notices Cas leave the house, which is the way he wants it. It’s Wednesday morning and his mum is out at work. Alan is in his study, Alice is in her room, and the man building the new bathroom is at the top of the house. Cas has not asked if it’s okay to go out because then they’ll want to know where he’s going, and he means it to be a surprise.

Cas is going to visit his half-father Guy in London.

He’s been planning the journey for days. He’s wearing his camouflage coat, which is warm and waterproof and zips up to his chin. He’s going to go by train. He’s copied down Guy’s address and phone number from the computer. Guy lives at 19 Windsor Street N1. Cas knows Guy will be pleased to see him, but more than that he’ll be amazed that Cas has come all by himself. That’s really what Cas is doing it for, that look of amazement on Guy’s face. He’s taking Roboguy with him in a Tesco carrier bag. He wants to show Guy the dance he can now make Roboguy do.

The station is close to where they live. He finds it without difficulty and goes through the swing doors into the ticket office. There’s a long queue for tickets. Cas thinks that as a child he doesn’t need a ticket, but just in case he’s brought some money with him. He borrowed the money from his mum’s purse. He has a ten pound note.

Into the ticket office comes a chattering laughing swarm of children accompanied by several adults. The children are older than Cas, but not much. There must be twenty of them at least. Cas watches them, wondering if they have to have tickets. One of them, a stocky girl in a pink tracksuit, sees him staring at her and puts her tongue out at him.