Mid March was cold, but it was dry. Daytime temperatures were only a little above freezing and the nights were clear and frosty. The bed was cold without Jake’s body to warm me. I hadn’t slept well since I made him leave. Last night was like many nights these days – my sleep broken by dreams verging on nightmares. There were times when I wished I could remember what the dreams were about, but more, many more, when I was glad I could remember nothing. I remembered nothing about last night’s dreams except a distant feeling that I had been unhappy again.
Saturday mornings were times when Jake and I would often stay in bed all morning. I’d make coffee and toast for us both and take it upstairs. Feeling refreshed, we’d make love unhurriedly before showering, finally getting dressed before midday. Just. Nowadays, I couldn’t stay in bed at all. I didn’t need an alarm. I woke before 8:00am and the space in my bed made me aware of how much I missed him. And yet, I knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t, take him back. The trust that is essential in a relationship had been shattered into a million pieces. There was no way I could pick those pieces up and put them together again. I also blamed Jake, more than Neeta, for destroying my friendship with her. Saturday mornings were now a depressing time. And that Saturday was no different. It was made more so as Jane had gone home to see her parents.
I needed to buy a new cardigan and new trousers for work, to keep the cold out. It was warm in the shops but I wasn’t having much luck in finding what I needed. I had exhausted all the main stores and was feeling exhausted and deflated myself. I’d try the arcade. Maybe one of the smaller shops would have something suitable. I had wandered down one side of the arcade and was nearly at the end when I saw him. He had just come out of a shop, looked briefly in my direction, turned away and started walking away from me, disappearing behind one of the large pillars that supported the first floor gallery. I was stopped in my tracks. Had he seen me and deliberately turned away? It didn’t appear that way. What if he reached the end of the arcade, turned round and we met? My heart started to pound. I didn’t want to meet him. What if he asked to come back? Feeling as I did, I wasn't sure I would be strong enough to say no. Should I turn back to make sure I would avoid him? Should I duck into a store, any store, in the hope that he’d have gone away before I emerged again?
I was totally immersed in deciding what to do that the shouting behind me failed to register. Suddenly, a hand gripped my arm and yanked me aside. I lost my balance and started to fall. And then I felt another hand grabbed my waist. I was no longer falling, but looking up into the eyes of a complete stranger. I was about to scream that I was being assaulted when I heard a crash and became aware of the voices of others nearby, pleading for someone to help him. People didn't seem to be concerned about me but about someone else; a man. But who was he who needed help? And why?
“That was a near miss.” I became aware of the stranger who had grabbed me. He was tall, very tall, good looking, with Mediterranean blue eyes and a shock of hair whiter than any I had seen except on my grandfather. I followed the direction of his eyes. An elderly man in a shop mobility car had crashed into the pillar behind which Jake had disappeared and had been thrown out.
“You were lucky,” the man continued. “You looked like you were away with the fairies. If I hadn’t pulled you out of the way, he’d have knocked you down.” It was then that I realised he still had his arm round my waist. I disentangled myself from him. He smiled but looked disappointed. “Look, let me get you a coffee, or tea. You look pale. It’s probably only the shock, so a cup of sweet tea is just what the doctor ordered.” I was about to protest when I thought about Jake again. If he was still around, it was unlikely he would approach me if I was with someone else. I would hold my head high and pretend I had moved on. I also realised I was hungry. I thanked the tall stranger and politely accepted.
But we didn’t go to the little café in the arcade. He put his hand on my elbow and guided me to the exit. Where was he taking me? Had I made a huge mistake in going with him? As if reading my thoughts he told me we were going to the Halbright Glen Hotel, the most up-market hotel in town and just a hundred yards away. His name was Crispin, he told me and asked me mine. 'Crispin' - that was an unusual name, one I had never heard before. Maybe he was foreign, although I had detected no accent when he spoke.
The doorman greeted him by name, Mr DeLongue Such a fancy name – Crispin DeLongue – and he was obviously well known at the Halbright Glen. I wished Jake could see me now. It would rub his face in it if he knew I was hob-knobbing with someone who was so obviously important, and rich. Our coats were whisked away to the cloakroom. A waiter appeared from nowhere and handed me the menu. I had never seen so many types of tea or coffee to choose from before. Crispin also insisted I ate something, and again I was overwhelmed by the choice. Eventually, after Crispin explained what it was, I selected a Croque Monsieur and breakfast tea.
“So,” he said when the waiter had taken our orders, “where were you when I saved your life?” I noticed the twinkle in his eye. He was teasing me. It broke the ice.
“Are you in the habit of grabbing women and whisking them away to a hotel?” I countered and then was embarrassed by it. Did it sound as if I was suggesting he had brought me here for more than tea and something to eat? And if it did, did it sound as if I was happy with the arrangement? Nothing was further from my mind. Again, he seemed to read my mind, assuring me nothing similar had ever occurred before. He had a way of getting me to talk about myself and appearing to be genuinely interested in what I told him. I was soon telling him about seeing Jake and then about Jake and Neeta.
And he was equally at ease telling me about himself. He had celebrated his fortieth birthday a month ago, was divorced twice, had no children and was glad as they complicated divorces, worked as a property developer, and lived in a penthouse apartment in the prestigious Cuthbert Docks complex. He didn’t actually say ‘prestigious’, that was me. In no time an hour and a half had passed. I hadn’t even noticed that the waiter had replenished the teapot and Crispin refilled my cup at least twice. There was a sense of disappointment when he said he had to go. And for the third time he appeared to have read my mind. He asked if I would oblige him by letting him take me to dinner that evening – if I didn’t have anything else planned. Could this be real? Could this gorgeous, important and rich man really want to take me to dinner? Of course, I didn’t have anything planned, but I didn’t want to appear too keen. I thought about it for a couple of seconds and replied there was nothing that couldn’t be re-arranged. “Oh God,” I suddenly thought, “I hope he doesn’t insist on picking me up from home. It would be even worse if he came inside. I’d be so embarrassed by my small untidy house.” I sighed almost audibly when he apologised he couldn’t pick me up but that he would send a car for 7:30. And then he asked for the address. How stupid of me. I should have said I’d make my own way there. But where? I asked and he smiled that it would be a surprise.
My next decision was what to wear? I wasn’t used to going to posh places and I doubted we would be going to a burger restaurant or a pizza place. I spent the rest of the day preparing myself. Finally, I decided upon the usual ‘little black number’. It was short, just above the knees, had a high neck, and was lacy with spaghetti straps. There was little choice really, as the only alternative had a stain just above the left breast. Hair up or down? That was the next decision. Down, I decided as it would hide what I considered my worst bits, my ears. I stuffed all I needed - my credit card and forty pounds in cash (all I had) - in the little black handbag I had. I was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date, and I could still remember that.
The car arrived about thirty seconds early. I had been counting the seconds until half past seven. It wasn’t an ordinary minicab, but an almost brand new Mercedes, with leather upholstery. The driver held the door open for me and closed it when I was safely inside. I had never been treated like this before. I prayed I wouldn’t disgrace myself this evening. Prayed I wouldn’t look like a fish out of water, even if that was how I was feeling right now. The journey took me to the outskirts of the town, a part I wasn’t familiar with and then I saw the sign. I knew of the White Forge but it was way out of my league. You had to book weeks in advance to get a table, especially at weekends, so how had Crispin managed it in an afternoon? They say the beat of a butterfly’s wing in Africa causes a storm in America. What would the butterflies in my stomach cause? Already they were doing more than just beating. I hoped whatever it was would happen a long way from here. As the car pulled up outside, Crispin emerged.
“You look a picture,” he greeted me, taking my hand and kissing it. When I had seen other men kiss a woman’s hand, I’d always felt like retching. It seemed so effete and affected. But with Crispin, I felt as if it was a mark of respect. I loved it. Was I being hypocritical? If I was, I didn’t care. He put my hand on his arm and walked into the restaurant with me. As at the hotel, he was greeted by name, and he was offered his ‘usual table’. The restaurant was already half full. The men all looked like successful businessmen and the women designer clothes-hangers. I tried not to look at them. Several women were much younger than their male partners. Almost without exception, they were slim, well groomed and displaying far too much cleavage for my tastes. Sugar daddies, I presumed.
Our table was in a corner with a potted plant that shielded us from the remainder of the diners. There was sufficient space between the tables to allow people to have conversations without being overheard. “I have never been here with a more beautiful woman,” he assured me. “And there is no more beautiful woman here tonight,” he added. A woman likes to be admired, but not if the truth is being stretched. And yet, Crispin seemed to mean it. And then he changed the subject. His mood was light and teasing. He asked so many questions that seemed not to make any sense. What was my favourite colour? Favourite sound? Was I ticklish? He asked about my house, if I lived alone or shared it. He told me Jane was a lucky woman to have a friend like me. Did I think I’d ever get married again? This was tricky ground, and far too soon in what wasn’t even a relationship. As he’d been married and divorced twice, would he risk a third marriage? He was unequivocal. If he found the right woman, then of course he would.
I wanted to know more about his penthouse apartment. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me, making it all up or if he was giving me an honest and truthful account. It had, he said, windows on three sides, each window giving a different view of the town. One looked towards the motorway and he could see a string of lights from the traffic. The second looked towards the cathedral-like St Ethan’s church, and the lights danced on the river which was just visible. The third looked over the river towards Edgar’s Marshes. It was a total contrast to the other two in that there were almost no lights in that direction. It was like looking at a different world. It sounded intriguing.
And the conversation changed again. He was the second of four boys. One brother had died in a suicide bomber attack in Iraq. One worked with their father as an investment banker and the third brother was an art dealer. The art dealer brother was married to an artist but was childless. The investment banker son was regarded by their mother as the only successful one. He had been married and divorced, but had produced a son and a daughter. He was now living with a woman whose husband was a catholic and refused to get divorced. She had produced a baby boy the day before Crispin’s birthday. I offered the fact that I had an older sister, happily married with two boys. My parents were healthy and active and played bowls. My paternal grandparents were alive, although neither was in the best of health and my maternal grandmother was in her nineties. She was a widow and lived in an old peoples’ home.
I hardly noticed the food, or the other diners. It was as though we were the only two people present. The waiter topped up my glass again. How many glasses had I drunk? I hadn’t kept count. The glass had never been empty. When the bottle was empty Crispin shook his head imperceptibly as the waiter, equally imperceptibly, inquired whether he should bring another bottle. And then the bill was paid and it was time to leave. Without any apparent request, our coats were delivered from the cloakroom and we were helped to put them on.
The blast of cold air as we left the restaurant cut like a knife. I drew myself into my coat for warmth. Crispin told me to look upwards. At first I could see nothing and then I noticed the stars. First one, then a handful and then it seemed like a sky full. And there was a crescent moon, bright and yellow. It seemed years since I had seen the sky like this. “It’s beautiful,” I said, like a child seeing it for the first time.
“I know somewhere where it will look even better, if you’re interested.” I was. “Get in,” he instructed as the car that had picked me up glided silently alongside us. Perhaps I was naïve, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he was taking me to his apartment. When the thought finally occurred to me, I wasn’t sure I minded. He had made the apartment sound so exciting and luxurious that I was already looking forward to seeing it.
The big old dock building had been spruced up. Although the façade was as it had always been, a requirement of the planning permission, the stonework had been cleaned and the doors were of new solid oak. The key to open the door was large and heavy, but once inside, we were in a different world. The entrance hall had marbled floors and there were four doors leading off it, each to a separate apartment. In the middle was a glass fronted lift. Crispin opened the door and pressed the button for floor five. When the lift stopped, he used a key to open the door. Apparently, there was a different key for each floor. The lift opened up onto a small corridor, with a door at each end. I followed Crispin to the left and he opened the door to a world I could only dream of.