Don't Marry Thomas Clark (29 page)

I'm completely spent, and while I gulp in air and try to regulate the beating of my heart, I abandon myself between the covers. He releases his grip and lies down next to me. It takes a few seconds to resume contact with reality. We both need it. Only then does he pull me towards him and hug me, moving my listless hair.

I'm speechless. That was… That was…

‘Wow…' I hear him muttering behind me and think, ‘Yes, that's exactly what it was like – wow!'

I would never have thought it possible, but it's happened and now I feel strangely light. I realize that I've released all of the tension that I'd built up over these last few days and now I'm finally at peace with the universe. Everything seems perfect, even his arms around my waist.

I listen. Next to me there is silence, so I imagine that this must be the part where we fall asleep next to one another, exhausted.

‘No', an inner voice tells me when – on his, and I stress the ‘his', initiative – I find myself astride him.

In fact, we don't actually get to the part where we fall asleep exhausted until about three hours later, and I can assure you that by that point I'm absolutely, totally exhausted – but so, so, so happy. Perhaps it might sound absurd, but I feel completely comfortable, as if this was not the first, but just the latest of many nights spent together.

‘Have you got everything?' he asks, putting the bag in the trunk. It's the first time I've spoken to him since we… Well, yes, since then, to be honest. Anyway, we got back to Dover. I admit I said goodbye to the Othello with a touch of nostalgia. Leaving it like that, out of the blue, just when I had started getting used to it. I sigh, but then nod, and brush a lock of hair into place behind my ear.

‘OK, so we can go, then?' he asks me, closing the door.

‘I'd say so,' I reply, and walk towards the passenger seat, leaving him standing alone.

We set off. It's almost four o'clock, and as we drive I open the window to let in a little fresh air and lose myself in following the contours of the landscape.

‘Want to eat something? We could stop somewhere.'

‘OK.'

He muses to himself, then accelerates and we get to Canterbury, driving through the city. Another twenty minutes go by in silence. I thought he would have turned on the radio, but even that has been silenced. Every now and then I peek at him and I couldn't swear to it, but I get the impression that he wants to say something but can't. That doesn't surprise me. This morning I woke up and he wasn't in bed with me anymore. He avoided me in the dining room. A quick hello, then I disappeared into the multimedia room, avoiding him in favour of the company of Tom Cruise, Michelle Pfeiffer and three episodes of
Dexter
for the rest of the afternoon.

Why, I ask myself, do ideas that seem so fantastic at ten at night seem like catastrophic mistakes at nine in the morning?

‘Tomorrow I have to go to London,' he says now, interrupting the silence.

‘OK.'

He swerves to pull in at a rest area.

‘Are you OK?' I ask, alarmed.

‘More or less,' he replies. ‘Are you going to speak in monosyllables for the whole trip?'

‘Actually, I was thinking of carrying it on for the rest of our time together,' I admit.

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. Why are
you
avoiding
me
?' I ask.

‘Sandy, things are complicated enough…'

‘Don't I know it?'

‘Maybe, if we were to talk about…'

‘OK,' I say drily.

He gives me a dirty look and I decide to add to his discomfort, ‘Sure, let's talk about it… What do you think?'

‘Me?' He is taken aback. ‘Why should I start? What do you think?'

‘That it was a mistake!' I blurt out without thinking. He seems to collapse. He puts both hands on the steering wheel, looking forward he arches an eyebrow and begins to nod. ‘Yeah, maybe you're right.'

‘It's probably just being forced to live together,' I say, ‘and this absurd story of the marriage.'

He seems to agree. ‘I will admit that I'm starting to lose it,' he confesses.

‘Thomas, think about it seriously,' I urge him, with a conciliatory tone. ‘We both had a thousand and one reasons to be angry, but if we go on like this we're just going to ruin our lives. There are two possibilities: either we make some kind of agreement and wait for the next few months to pass, trying not to get in each other's way, or we continue this stupid ploy and find ourselves married for the next ten years,' I conclude exasperated.

‘I'll call Frank as soon as we get home,' he agrees, letting himself fall back into his seat exhaustedly.

‘I think it would be for the best.'

‘And the other thing?' he asks.

‘What other thing?'

‘I'm talking about last night.'

I can no longer pretend not to understand, so I start to stammer, ‘Right. Well. As for last night, I say we should behave as if nothing had happened. It was a moment of weakness, never to be repeated. Each of us goes back to our own room. We should limit how much we meet and try to adopt a detached, mature attitude, like two rational individuals who know how to keep their instincts in check.'

‘Yes, you're right,' he agrees. It leaves me feeling a bit disappointed, as he obviously believes it's the best solution.

‘So, shall we go?'

I nod, and he starts the car.

OK, I would say that this is the epilogue.

‘Wait…' he whispers distractedly. ‘You have a strand of hair on your lips,' he says, bending over me. All it takes is for us to touch and I find myself catapulted into his eyes. And once again I'm completely lost – a moment before we were staring at each other in astonishment and the next we end up locked in an embrace, his hands running all over my body, and mine running through his hair. What happens in between I can't recall. Hazy memories.

‘I think this is potentially illegal,' I groan when he starts to pull down my jeans, his hands groping for my panties.

‘Only if someone sees us,' he says between one kiss and the next, not willing to be interrupted.

‘Thomas…' I say, panting now and pushing my hand under his shirt. ‘Weren't we talking about maintaining a detached attitude?'

‘Yes, but then we weighed up the pros and cons and opted for a more flexible interpretation.'

Needless to say, since then we've done nothing but debate this one particular issue. We even discussed it heatedly in his office in London.

‘Mr Clark, there is an urgent visitor here. Can I show her in?'

‘Miss Barnes, can't you see I'm in a meeting?' he replies while leafing through a report.

‘I realize that, but the lady says it's a matter of life or death,' she insists.

‘What can I say to that? OK, show her in,' he says, looking up at the door.

‘Good evening, Mr. Clark. Am I disturbing you?' I greet him as I walk into the room wearing a bright red trench coat, tottering on my high heels.

‘Miss Price, I thought you were in Canterbury,' he responds, looking surprised.

‘Actually, yes, I was,' I tell him, leaning my hip against a side table. ‘But I had to come to London on urgent business. Particularly to express the outrage of my animal rights association at the lack of interest shown by your company in the long-standing problem of monk seals. If there are not substantial changes in the management policies of the funds for your charitable initiatives, you will be in danger of finding your offices picketed by hundreds of aggressive protesters,' I threaten.

‘That would be very unfortunate,' he says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He gets up, gestures to the door and says, ‘Miss Price, I will give the matter absolute priority. Would you like to follow me to my office? I am sure we can find a preliminary agreement to provide a peaceful and prosperous future for these beautiful and extremely useful animals.'

We leave the room, followed by the astonished gazes of the staff, and walk to a small office on the right. Initially we walk side by side, but the last few metres he drags me by my hand.

‘What's this?' he explodes, closing the door, when I let the coat drop to the floor to reveal an outfit so skimpy that it's almost non-existent.

‘It's my own personal protest banner,' I explain mischievously. ‘The aim was to look convincing and intimidating. Was I successful?'

‘I should say so.' He can't stop looking at me. ‘Because I've just decided to agree to all of your demands…'

We even discussed it during the wedding practice in the church.

‘Mrs. Wilson, have you seen Mr. Clark?' the priest asks, looking around.

‘He was here just a moment ago. Wait, I'll ask Miss Price. But… How strange, she was sitting here in the front pew,' replies his assistant, looking about for me.

And we're discussing it at the moment, locked in the bathroom, with at least fifty guests waiting for us in the garden.

‘Can't you keep still.'

‘Ow! You're hurting me…'

‘Why don't you ever wear a skirt?'

‘Because trousers are more comfortable,' I say, trying to help him undo the fly.

‘I swear that tonight I'm going to throw them all out,' he complains impatiently and I burst out laughing, removing his hands from my waist. ‘Wait, let me do it…'

‘Is that a nice way of saying that I'm not able?'

‘I think it's jammed,' I admit, sadly. ‘OK, I give up.'

‘No, that's not an option,' he says, trying the zip again.

‘Come on, there are fifty people in the garden. They'll be beginning to wonder what the hell has happened to us,' I say, in an attempt to convince him to give up. ‘Can't you wait until they've all gone away?' And I circle his neck with my arms, planting a kiss on his forehead.

‘No,' he says, squeezing me. ‘I haven't seen you for four days. I'm going insane,' he whispers in my ear.

For a moment I lose my spatial coordinates and find myself suspended in mid-air, but he takes my face in his hands and kisses me, bringing me back to earth. When we leave, I try to look elsewhere. It has created a strange atmosphere between us. Something that I wouldn't know how to define.

Intimate. The only word that comes to mind is intimate. It happens more and more frequently. Just a glance to see what the other is thinking and there's no need to talk. A caress to illuminate a gloomy day. Little things. Instinctive gestures. If we sit next to each other, our hands reach out for one another. If something happens, our eyes meet. We've never talked about our feelings. I can't work out his. Mine? At this point I think I'm completely and hopelessly lost, but I try not to worry about it.

‘I'm leaving tomorrow,' I say nonchalantly.

‘Where are you going?' he asks, sounding alarmed.

‘London. I really have to sign some papers for the bistro and then there's Kelly's birthday and I still have to pay Marie the rent,' I reel off.

‘How long are you planning on staying there?' he asks, stroking my forehead.

‘A week at most,' I say vaguely.

He seems disappointed, but doesn't comment, only saying, ‘Let's go back out there, shall we?' as he walks off.

I nod and follow him into the hallway.

We spend the rest of the evening visibly striving to smile. We fall asleep in each other's arms without mentioning it and the next morning we say goodbye with a kiss, agreeing that we'll call each other when necessary. I think we're both too busy to expect the other to call just to say that everything's OK, or perhaps we don't want to admit that we expect to miss each other.

‘Thomas,' I shout to him before getting into my rented car.

‘What?'

He stands there with his hands in his pockets and a peaceful expression on his face.

‘What are we?' I ask doubtfully.

‘What do you mean?'

‘What is there between us?'

I don't know why I ask. I shouldn't have. I promised myself I wouldn't. I wouldn't know how to answer that, I just know, now, that I'm here and I want to hear what he thinks, with my heart pounding in my throat and my hands starting to sweat. I don't look at him. I can't. I don't want him to notice my mood.

‘You know,' he replies.

‘If I ask you, maybe it's because I don't know if you feel the same way. We said we would go and see Frank to find an agreement, but you haven't wanted to speak about it since… We said it would be a matter of a few days, but it's September and…'

No, that was not what I meant. Damn.

I look up at him. His face has darkened and he's staring at the pavement over my shoulder. ‘Don't worry,' he says, emerging from the awkward silence into which we have sunk. ‘I'll call him over the next few days and we'll go and see him as soon as you get back. As for the other thing, I thought you liked it too. You're not obliged, you know,' he says with an icy tone.

‘I didn't mean that I don't like it,' I say, afraid of offending him. ‘I just don't understand where all this is taking us.'

‘I'd say nowhere,' he concludes. ‘I'll take my things to my room.'

‘Thomas, wait…' I try to hold him back by his arm. ‘I didn't mean to hurt you.'

‘Hurt me?' he asks, amazed. ‘Why should I be hurt? It was fun while it lasted, but now the date of the wedding is getting closer and we really ought to pick up the threads of our own lives.'

I don't say anything else. Giving me a weak smile, he walks off, and my heart breaks into a thousand microscopic pieces, there near the fountain with cupids.