Virtual Strangers (21 page)

‘Work!’ I bellow at last, pulling on boots.

‘
Work
?’ Ditto chirrup.

‘I’ve been hoping for snow,’ I improvise. ‘So I can get some decent shots of the Rutland’s place. It’s -’

‘Work? On New Year’s
Day
, Charlotte?’ My father looks concerned. ‘And what about lunch? Charlotte?’ He follows me into the kitchen. ‘Are you
sure
you’re all right?’

I nod an affirmative while I rummage feverishly in the kitchen drawer for gloves.

‘So - what
about
lunch then?’ he calls after me.

‘Lovely. Look forward to it!’ Then I make my escape.

‘Season’s greetings, Mr Rutland!’ I hear myself chirrup twenty minutes later. ‘And a happy and prosperous New Year to you both!’

Mr Rutland, who’d no doubt consider himself a fine figure in his zip-up suede cardigan and leatherette slippers, emerges, grunting, from his transylvanian porch. (Why does he always look as if he’s just been masturbating? Don’t accept angina explanation. Except as something exacerbated by former.)

‘Charlotte,’ he confirms. As if identifying a species. ‘And to what do we owe this pleasant, if unscheduled, surprise?’

He thinks he’s such a gent, and he’s actually such a wanker.

‘I know,’ I say, waggling my new Willie JJ digital camera,’ that it’s a terrible liberty, on a bank holiday and so on, but it occurred to me this morning that a blanket of snow would be the very best thing to set off your lovely, lovely home, and that we could really capitalise on this lovely, lovely unexpected meteorological bounty. But it could all be gone by the weekend, couldn’t it? So I thought, as I happened to be passing anyway -’

‘You thought
what
?’

And stupid with it. But what
am
I doing here? ‘That I might take a few photos,’ I say sweetly.

‘Photos?’

Of your house. You stupid git. The better to hide it.

‘Of your beautiful home. Er...enhanced by the snow.’

Mrs Rutland appears. With the pooch under her arm. Which farts.

‘Hmmm,’ she says, tipping her face forward. ‘Charlotte?’

‘Come to take pictures, apparently,’ says Mr Rutland.

‘
Pictures
?’

‘Some new ones,’ I enthuse at her. ‘Of the House. In the snow. The present ones are rather unseasonal, aren’t they? What with the blossom and so on. I know it’s not the best time, and if its inconvenient, then -’

‘In the
snow?
’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘
Why
?’ she asks.

Jesus.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘sometimes -
occasionally
- if the photograph of a house has very obviously been taken some time ago, people
sometimes
think that there might be something wrong - might be some reason why its been on the market a long time and so on, and that can
sometimes -
well, you know. I just thought cherry Ditchling would look rather -
does
look rather -’ (Plus the fact that Metro, whose tacky board has now been affixed outside lowering the tone of the streetlamp, have a more recent picture and a big advertising budget.) - well...
seasonal.
You know?’

‘Hmm,’ says Mrs Rutland, peering at my hiking boots. ‘Outside, you say?’

‘Back and front. Plus the garden.’

‘Hmm,’ says Mr Rutland. ‘if you must, I suppose. But move the rubbish first.’

In the end, I persuade them. And, having relocated five bin liners containing a lot of swampy God-knows-what round the back, I spend ten frustrating ten minutes trying to convey, by means of a wide angle lens and the power of digital, how a crumbling heap of unattractive spew coloured masonry can be transformed by the addition of a dump of iced rain into something you can imagine yourself being happyish to live in. Oh, I’m
not
in a happy mood, me.

By the afternoon I’m feeling marginally less frenzied. And cheered, at least, by Ben looking a great deal better. However, he sensibly submits to my dictate that the best place for shrivelled up bronchii is bed.

It’s peculiar - if cinemascope dramatic - to be going on the Cefn Melin annual New Year’s Day village walk up mountain without Dan, without Ben, without a soul in the world. The landscape is glittering, perfect, captivating; an ideal partner to my intense and soulful mood. I feel like a heroine traversing a snow scene on the cover of a Thomas Hardy novel. Feel that, in spirit at least, I am wearing a voluminous hair skirt and lace up boots; that tendrils of dark, curly hair are escaping from my bonnet and undulating, cloud like, on a stiff winter breeze; that I have smouldering beauty, a resolute expression, a crippled great aunt and a bundle of logs; that I’m on my way back to our hovel on the far edge of a sheep field, having learned of my dark lover’s betrayal of trust; that I’m smitten by tumultuous and dangerous emotions; that I am tossed on a great tide of apocalyptic events.

(I could, instead, have shared a prosaic discussion with my father about the preserve-related merits of whinberries, sloes and hedgerow fruit generally, but a stop was put to father coming on the walk by the kindly but firm Mr Prestwick, chair of the local walking society and person with whom the exercise-induced death-toll-buck stops.)

And I am
glad
to be a tragic heroine. I am glad for a chance to wallow in unhappiness and self pity. I’m glad for the opportunity to drink in the drama of my surroundings and to compare them with the drama of the intractable problems of affairs-of-the-heart. I concentrate, therefore, on maintaining a solitary front end position, and immersing myself in sad thoughts.

My solitary front end position turns out not to be particularly solitary, however, as the snow (coupled with laughably unrealistic personal fitness assessments in some cases) has encouraged a positive multitude of earnest ramblers. Fortunately, the twin irritations of gradient and snow depth are such that by the time we are fifteen minutes into our endeavour, the reality of hangovers and half tons of Quality Street have reduced all but a few to a slow creaking trudge. A few, however, is still more than one.

‘Didn’t expect to see you,’ puffs Phil as we head up the twinkling white slope. ‘Thought you weren’t keen on this sort of thing.’

Despite myself I feel uncomfortable. And listen hard to see if I can detect a bitchy twang in his voice, but the observation seems genuine. Phil can’t help it if he thinks I’m a couch potato. Why would he know any different? I spent most of the six months of our tepid encounter wheedling my way out of doing such things with him. I note the tilt of his Barbour and the bulge in his pocket. As Karen strides, red-faced (breathless, speechless etc.), alongside him, I fancy a manual of outdoor sexual gymnastics, but logic tells me the bulge will be just as it always is - the Field Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Britain, carefully annotated and bristling with post-its.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she says brightly, and I feel myself blushing. Not least for the curmudgeonly tone of my thoughts. I wonder what she knows of me. Though what’s to know, really? ‘You walk a lot?’ she goes on, chattily. ‘You look very fresh.’

‘I’m gathering my thoughts for the year,’ I tell them both. ‘Doing what everybody does, I suppose. Getting fresh air into my lungs and resolutions into my psyche. Plus escaping my dad and his girlfriend for an hour. Hester Stableford, Phil? they’ve got a thing going on.’

Because I am embarrassed, I put the word “thing” into verbal quote marks, and as soon as I do so, I think; bugger! Because I don’t mean this
at all
. And Phil - who is now nodding and going hmmm - will think I am pining and bitter and completely dried up sexually and someone who’s life has been one long round of failed relationships. All of which is patently untrue. Right now I feel exactly as I
think
I remember I used to when I was young and full of simmering sexual appetites and had been shagged senseless by Felix when he came home on leave. Which is one mighty achievement for a simple kiss from a late thirty-something in a sensible suit. Which makes what happens next more than unfortunate.

‘Hello there!’ A vision in luminous Gore-tex. Addressing
me
. With a wave and a back slap.

Davina!
Davina?
On a hike? In the snow?

Yes. Obviously. She extends her hearty greeting to take in Phil, Karen, and much of the surrounding population.

‘Well, well! Quite a crowd today! Who would have thought it! And - aaaaahh! - why don’t I do this more often?’

Oh
God
. Where is he? Is he here? Did he come too? Is he walking behind me? Has he seen me? Has he...oh, stop it!

‘Nature,’ announces Phil, once introductions have been effected. ‘Is ambrosia for the soul.’ Karen nods happy agreement. Then squeaks. ‘Phil! Look over there!’

We look.

‘It’s a badger! Good grief! At this time of year! And in daylight! Do you see it?’

‘Davina nods. ‘I do!’ Then looks back down the hill. ‘Adam! Bill! Look! A badger!’

So, yes. YES. He
is
here. Bugger the badger.
He
is here. Uuurrrrgh. Cope, Simpson. Calm, Simpson. Eyes forward. Legs straight.

My pace slows (quite without my telling it to, which is disconcerting), while the soul food junkies speed up in pursuit of the badger. They take their noise with them and, apart from my heartbeat, all I can hear now is the soft flump and squeak of what I know are Adam’s boots in the snow.

Bill strides on and past me. I feel like a sniper. I have Davina firmly in my crosshairs as I sense Adam drawing level. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t smile. Just matches my stride.

‘Hello,’ he says, softly. ‘Didn’t think you’d be up here.’

‘Why not?’ I snap. ‘I like hills. I like walking. You, of all people, should realise that. I come every year. I bring Dan. And Ben, usually. And I’ve never seen you on the New Year’s day walk before.’

I turn as I say this. I’m so desperate to look at him.

He looks cold. The end of his nose is red. ‘I didn’t mean because you wouldn’t want to. I meant because it was late, last night, and with Ben and so on. And I certainly
was
here last year.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Though I did only get half way. I had to come back. Jack Patterson You know him? The man from the video shop? That was asthma, too, funnily enough. I had to help him back down.’

Belatedly, this fact returns to my memory. It seems forever ago. Pre our...our... our...
this
.

I sniff. I feel cross. But I nod. ‘So you did.’

‘And the year before that.’

We toil on for some moments.

‘Don’t remember,’ I say, finally. ‘It was a long time ago.’

I hear him exhale. ‘It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? All that time when we didn’t...you know...
register
this.’

This
. Aptly vague. Aptly oblique. I look ahead and say nothing, having thoroughly registered. Davina fluoresces a few yards up the hill from us. Her words float down in snatches, like quarrelling gulls.

‘Don’t you think?’ he continues.

I stomp on and then glare at him. ‘I wish I could laugh,’ I say. ‘Really I do.’

‘Oh, Charlie -’

‘Don’t start.’

‘Get my email?’

‘What email?’

‘This morning.’

‘
What
email?’

‘I just -’

‘
Why
did you email me? We’d stopped that, remember?’

‘Stopped what?’ This is Phil again. Damn the man. Damn.

‘Crossing the top field,’ declares Adam, pointing. ‘Drifts,’ he adds, quickly. ‘So we’re going around it. How are you, Phil? Any new developments, rolling stock wise?’

I take the opportunity to quicken my stride now, and in moments I’ve gained a good half dozen yards. If I can keep my distance I can cope with his nearness. If I can avoid his gaze I can maintain control of my own. If I don’t have to talk to him I can turn my thoughts elsewhere. But as I clamber up minutes later to negotiate a stile, I can’t resist turning back and scanning the group below for a glimpse of him. And when his eyes meet my own and I know he’s been watching me, the thrill’s so intense I know for sure I am lost.

What a mess. What a ridiculous, juvenile mess. I got home at four and practically ripped my snow boots from my feet. Then, panting and sweating, I wrestled myself from my coat. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t function. Could only chant bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody
hell
. Couldn’t, mainly, get into the study fast enough, and careered across the hall in such a lather of excitement that I narrowly missed colliding with the recumbent Kipling, who, perhaps knowing his fate following Ben’s obvious allergy, had developed a death wish, and decided to make door thresholds his location of choice. And never -
never, ever
- has the boot up, type password, dial, log-on process taken such an inordinate length of time.

But two emails! Not one.
Two
emails from Adam.

[email protected]

Just in case you weren’t absolutely clear where I’m at now, I just wanted to let you know who’s on
my
list.

Charlie Simpson

That’s it. That’s all. The ball’s in your court.

No names. No identifying detail. No fuss. Straight to the point. Ow
ee
. I mouth the words back at it. That’s it. That’s all. The ball’s in your court. My court.
My
court. Scrabble with the mouse and bring the second email forth. Then spend several moments not daring to look at it - like a schoolgirl with her very first note from a boy.

[email protected]

Dear Charlie,

I feel bad about what I sent earlier. It somehow devalues what this is really all about. I know what you said and I understand why you said it, and I’m not about to kid myself that this is anything other than entirely the wrong thing to do. But I can’t help myself. Have you managed to convince yourself that these feelings are
really
going to go away? Well, they’re not going to go away for me, not even if you blank me from here on in. Not now we’ve got to where we’re at. You know that, don’t you?

Adam.

Of course I know that. Of course. I sit in the gloom and consider the great crushing weight of morality. Consider the unfairness of everything. Consider the unfairness, particularly, of having feelings (and then some) thrust, hissing and spitting, into the previously tepid water of my emotional life. Consider mentally re-locating and spending the rest of my life in an emotional desert and find the idea not without its merits. Consider the tragic fact that I was thrust unwittingly into the role of other woman before I realised another woman was even involved. Not fair.