Relative Love (8 page)

‘There we are. You can close now, Mr Harrison. Not too bad, I hope? I’d like to see you again in five days’ time. The nurse will write out a new prescription. One more course should do it.’

During the process of paying for his treatment, John remembered that he hadn’t yet sent his four children their annual cash gifts of seven hundred and fifty pounds, three thousand being the annual tax-free total that the Inland Revenue allowed. It wasn’t much, and lately, with the recognition of his own advancing years, he had been considering ways of handing over more. While this was alarming in that the inevitable approach of death did not make pondering its implications any easier, he had discovered that being organised about such things was also rather consoling.

On the way out of the surgery John checked his appearance in the mirror, thoughtfully hung in the entrance hall, to see if his face looked as lopsided as it felt. It didn’t, which was reassuring, although when he tried a smile only half of his lips moved, which was less good. It would be a couple of hours at least before he could decently manage even a cup of tea. As he got into his car he checked his watch. There was still time to join Pamela at the nursing-home, but he didn’t really feel up to it. Instead he would go back and rummage in the attic on Eric’s behalf, he
decided, a chore he had been putting off for days, deterred by both the physical effort of sifting through dusty boxes and the fact that he had no clear notion of what he was supposed to be looking for. Any memorabilia to do with Eric, Pamela had said, to help the biographer flesh out the facts. It would kill an hour or so anyway, John reasoned, give his face a chance to thaw to the point where he could manage some lunch. A few minutes later he was lurching out of his parking space into what turned out to be a dangerously narrow break in the traffic. An approaching white van braked within a couple of feet of his rear bumper and hooted vigorously.

‘And the same to you, mate,’ John muttered, unnerved in spite of himself, and accelerated so hard that it was several hundred yards before he remembered to change gear.

Cassie lathered the shampoo into her scalp with extra care. It was a matter of some pride that the white-blonde waves of her hair had never required the boost of chemicals. They had the advantage, too, of camouflaging the few grey strands now sprouting along her parting, which she never dared pluck out for fear of the old adage about two twice as wiry growing in their place. Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she towelled herself dry, she tried to imagine her features as they appeared to her lover, wishing she could be as sure of her own beauty as he seemed to be. She would have given anything to have met Dan earlier – ideally before he had married, but also before the hint of old-lady wobble in her thighs and the permanent indentation of laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

His wife, Sally, was a couple of years younger than her but, Dan gallantly assured her, far less attractive. They had met as medical students and got married because, after a few years of going out, it seemed the obvious thing to do. They had both gone on to qualify, she as an anaesthetist, he as a GP, but she had given up working after the birth of their first child. Dan said that it was with the arrival of babies that things had started to go wrong; that as well as picking fights about everything Sally had got sucked into the vortex of domesticity and let herself go. In subsequent years things had deteriorated badly, sex in particular becoming a reflex action, a release of steam rather than an act of love.

Cassie adored hearing such things, although when Dan showed her photos of his family (at her own request: she had wanted to know everything about him and had felt a sort of love for his children because they were his), the sight of his wife triggered neither the sense of triumph nor the half-baked pity she had been expecting. In none of the pictures did Sally look as if she had let herself go. Casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, her hair long and dark with a firm fringe, she had looked not only attractive but also entirely
normal
, so wholly integrated into the family scenes (buckets and lumpen sandcastles on beaches, barbecues with friends, toddlers clinging to her in fields and in front of famous monuments) that Cassie had experienced a surge of murderous resentment. How dare she, this attractive woman, so unappreciative, so selfish, so unloving, so nagging towards her dearest darling, hog the privilege of remaining at his side? It made her sick with anger. Dan was forty, his life was ticking by, he deserved some happiness. With her. Cassie gave her wet hair one last, vigorous rub and hung the towel in a tidy rectangle back on the rail. She was not, by nature, a tidy person, but these days made a special effort for Dan. His own house was, by all accounts, a tip, overflowing with piles of laundry and toys. Cassie wanted him to feel that her spacious two-bed-roomed flat in Pimlico was a haven of comfort and orderliness.

Having emptied the bins, pummelled the sofa cushions and switched on the table lamps, she set to work in the kitchen, unpacking the thick, bloodied slabs of fillet steak she had bought from the
butcher and re-reading the recipe for the
béarnaise
sauce she planned to serve alongside it. It was new to want to cook for a man. Normally she would have been pressing to go out to restaurants, interested in enjoying courtship over appetising plates of food without the bother of having to prepare them. Left to her own devices, she was quite happy with Polystyrene boxes and a microwave. But Dan had triggered in her an unprecedented desire to nurture: she wanted to rub his temples when he had a headache, to fold the clothes he left lying by her bed. If he had asked her to she would gladly have washed his socks and clipped his toenails (he had beautiful feet, unlike those of any other man she had met, with slender, perfectly aligned toes and soft uncalloused heels).

He arrived a little late, looking becomingly tousled and cheerful, clutching a small bunch of daffodils. ‘My darling.’ He crushed half of the flowers in his eagerness to hug her, burying his face in her hair. ‘At last I’ve got you to myself.’

‘You can have me whenever you want me,’ Cassie murmured, loving the smell of his skin and the warm expression in his big brown eyes. They had been the first thing she had noticed about him all those months ago at the Ryle Street surgery, when she had been red-nosed with flu and he had burst out into the street after her, his sandy hair flopping across his forehead, waving the prescription she had left on the reception desk. Having rescued the flowers, she clipped their stems and began to arrange them in a vase, inwardly warning herself not to rush into difficult questions, to give him the chance to speak. With the flowers and the food and the pair of them standing so snugly in her little kitchen, it felt for a few glorious moments as if he was her husband, not someone else’s, returned from a regular day at work for a quiet night in. Going with the flow of these thoughts, she asked, ‘How’s your day been, my darling?’

Dan pushed his sandy fringe off his eyebrows, his expression darkening. ‘Fairly hellish. Roger called in sick so the rest of us had to cover his patient-list —’ He broke off, not wanting to sour the evening with trivial complaints about the realities of his everyday life. Cassie was his oasis, his promise of sweeter, better things, and he wanted to make the most of every treasured second in her company. ‘I’m here now, that’s all that matters. You’re all that matters to me, Cassie, I hope you know that. I hope you know that without you there would be no point to my life.’ He came to stand behind her, slipping his arms under hers and pulling her to him. ‘I’ve been so excited all day,’ he whispered, ‘just at the thought of seeing you … I could hardly concentrate. You don’t know what you do to me, my sweetheart, you don’t know what you do …’

Cassie dropped the daffodils and leant back against him, closing her eyes. I want this to go on forever, she thought, this moment in all its perfection. He slid his hands up under her shirt and began stroking her stomach. ‘Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful, but could it wait, do you think … for a little bit?’ He nuzzled her ear with his nose. ‘Or maybe for not such a little bit … maybe for quite a long time …’

‘Oh, Dan, I’ve missed you so.’ She turned to face him, finding herself almost nose to nose in her high heels. ‘You – make – me – happy,’ she added, planting kisses on his mouth between words. He smiled. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He peered over her shoulder at the array of half-prepared food. ‘Fillet steak, eh?’

‘And some really expensive wine – I got a cheque from my father this morning, seven hundred and fifty pounds … I thought I’d celebrate with you.’ Her voice was dry and dazed. She didn’t care a hoot about money or meals or wine. She wanted only to be held by him, to lose herself in him, to feel possessed by him. ‘Dan, I love you. In a way I wish I didn’t, but I do.’

‘Hush.’ He spoke fiercely, pressing his index finger to her lips. ‘Never say that. Never say you wish you didn’t love me. It breaks my heart.’ He began kissing her again with new urgency, at
the same time steering her out of the kitchen. Half walking, half staggering, clumsily like two animals locked together, they made their way into her bedroom, which she had hoovered and dusted in preparation for his visit. The sheets on the bed, changed that morning, were as crisp as an envelope. On the bedside table, between her book and the radio alarm, she had lit a perfumed candle, which cast a warm soft light across the furnishings. The room was full of its sweet scent, of honey and roses.

‘Don’t move. I’m going to undress you.’

Cassie lay down on her back and watched as his fingers released the buttons of her shirt and his mouth brushed her stomach with kisses. He stared intently at her skin while he caressed it, as if seeing it for the first time. She closed her eyes, feeling the love flow like electricity from his lips and fingertips. ‘Dan?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you always love me?’

‘Always.’ He shifted his position so that he was lying on top of her, resting on his elbows so as not to crush her chest. ‘And now I’m going to show you how much.’ He began to kiss her again and Cassie responded feverishly, wishing she could feel as certain of the future as she did of the reassuring solidity of his body sliding over hers.

It wasn’t until after they had made love that she felt one of the old familiar twists of desperation. With sex over, there was just the meal to eat and then he would be gone, back to his other life. The evening, which an hour before had stretched ahead as a prospect of endless joy, was disappearing, seeping through her fingers like water. ‘When will you tell her, do you think?’ she ventured, knowing he knew whom she meant, hating herself for pressing the question that hung between them as it always did.

Dan turned to her, his face tensing. ‘I know it’s hard for you, my darling, all this waiting. But it will come to an end soon, I promise. Her sister is coming to stay – we’ve got to get through that.’ He placed his palms on either side of Cassie’s head, steering her gaze to meet his. ‘Please understand how it is … We’re barely talking at the moment. I think she knows what’s coming. I think, in fact, that she’s reaching a point where she wants a way out as much as I do. It will be a relief for both of us. The time to tell her will come soon, I promise. I can’t live without you, Cassie, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She sighed, rolling away, loathing her own neediness and the pressure it placed upon him. It was always harder to disguise after they had made love, when her confidence ebbed out of her, when she could already feeling him pulling away from her, mentally preparing himself to leave. ‘Shall we eat?’

‘Yes, but I must shower first.’

‘Okay.’ She spoke brightly, even though she hated this part of the proceedings, the way he rushed to wash every trace of her away. Of course he had to. He was supposed to be out to dinner with a colleague from the practice. In a couple of hours he would be slipping into bed beside his wife. It was different for her, being alone. After his evening visits she never washed herself until the next morning, not even her face, so that she could curl up blanketed by the faint mingling smells of his aftershave and their lovemaking.

Before getting out of bed he ran one finger down her cheek, studying her with a tenderness that she knew meant he sensed her sadness and wanted to make up for it. He always knew what she was feeling. It was one of the many astonishing things about him. ‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘one day, very, very soon now, you’ll be mine. If your cooking’s up to scratch, that is,’ he teased,
switching moods in an instant and giving her a gentle poke in the ribs. ‘Which means there could be a lot at stake tonight, ha-ha.’

It wasn’t a good joke, but Cassie laughed, and hurled a pillow at his retreating bare behind. He caught it deftly and tossed it back at her, then disappeared into her bathroom.

The ball bounced high off the front wall, just below the red line, then soared towards the back left-hand corner of the squash court. Peter, ready for this eventuality, turned and sprinted towards it, his trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. It was a difficult shot and one that, as he was so far in the lead already, he could have afforded to concede. Charlie, he could see out of the corner of his eye, was making no preparation to move, already half relaxing under the conviction that this one small triumph would be his.

Peter ran so fast that he careered into the back wall. He turned at the last minute, so that his left shoulder took most of the impact, and swiped at the ball, flicking his wrist to ensure that it travelled back in an almost straight line. Both men watched, only their heavy breathing breaking the silence as the ball kissed the corner of the main wall, then dropped like a stone to the floor. ‘Shot!’ exclaimed Charlie. He pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe away the perspiration that was pouring off his face. ‘Game, set and match, I believe. You bastard. Six years older and still fitter. I’ll buy the first round.’ He offered his brother his hand, which Peter took, feeling as he always did that Charlie’s genuine good-humour about losing rather took the edge off the pleasure of winning. ‘Are you playing a lot, these days?’