Junction X

for him. My mind was racing as I tried to think of something to say.
“Let me know when you’ve got it running, then.”
He stopped on the other side of the gate. He was looking at the ground and his brows were contracted, as if he was deep in thought. I had the feeling that if he could have given back the train and never seen me again, he would have, but his good manners prevailed. He rested the box on the fence between us and held out his hand. “Thanks.” And then he smiled.
I knew it was all right then, that he hadn’t taken my behaviour for anything strange. Feeling a groundswell of relief run through me, I shook his hand, then watched him walk down the drive.
If he hadn’t smiled, I wonder how different this account would have been. If he’d really been embarrassed or angry and hadn’t made that one small gesture, would I be writing this now?
Strange that for all that I do or do not remember, that smile of his, golden and warm, stays with me. Easiest to recall, and the last thing to fade—like the grin of the Cheshire Cat.
That afternoon, I attempted to do some paperwork and read the week’s Financial Times again from cover to cover, but I was restless and distracted. I couldn’t settle. In Valerie’s absence, I had a couple of whiskies, though it was unsuitably early.
The weather echoed my mood, turning changeable and blustery through the afternoon. Eventually, I found myself staring out into the garden, thinking terrible thoughts of long legs in denim. As soon as those thoughts drifted into my mind, I tried to wipe them away, but that wickedness was replaced by one of a mobile mouth and grey eyes whose expression constantly changed, each expression better than the last.
I stood. I paced. I had another drink.
The afternoon passed in a scatter of pink newssheets and turbulence. I tried to think, to rationalise, constantly returning to thoughts of Alec, but it was all pointless. For one terrible moment, I even wanted Valerie to be there; maybe I would have spilled it all out there and then, after three—or four—whiskies.
Or would I? Is that more self-delusion? I wanted to make this account as honest as I can. Even this early on, I wonder if that’s going to be possible. Or am I seeing it all wrong?
I got nothing much done that afternoon, and I was unpopular that evening for drinking during the day, for not clearing up the dust sheets and for being so quiet when the children wanted to tell me of their day. In the end, Valerie told the twins that I had a headache and that they were not to bother me, but the look she gave me left me certain she would bring this up with me later.
I sat up long after she had gone to bed, wrapping myself in music and black thoughts. When I went to bed, I still hadn’t been able to erase the image of the boy next door and his innocent, elusive smile.
I didn’t sleep well, either. I had the strangest compulsion to hold Valerie tight—wrapped in my arms, and I did, until she got restless and irritable and slid from my embrace complaining of the heat. As dawn crept through, dragging a wet Sunday morning behind it, I made love to her, but it was half-hearted at best. I didn’t even get as far as penetration before I pushed away from her and we finally fell asleep, back to back.
The relentlessly rainy morning found me groggy, suffering a real headache. As I dressed, I glared blearily at the weather and tried to convince myself that the thoughts of the day before had been some kind of aberration brought on by God knows what.
“That’s the twins’ picnic ruined,” Valerie said, pushing me off the bed so she could make it.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
She flicked the sheet out with a snap redolent of the best bullfighters and smoothed it with a capable hand. “Oh, we’ll stay in. You won’t be playing golf today?”
“I doubt it.” I played in a lot of weathers but torrential rain with a strong wind wasn’t one either Phil or I relished. It turned a game into a pitched battle against the elements, when, frankly, it was a tough enough fight when it was just man against the ball. “I didn’t get much work done yesterday. I’ll finish that and see what the day does. Do you want to go out for lunch?”
She smiled then. “That would be nice. Do you think we should ask next door?”
My stomach gave an alarming lurch.
“We could go to The Sands, couldn’t we?”
“Well, yes. We could.” In all honesty, I couldn’t think of a reason not to go there, but I was trying hard.
“I’ve heard good things about the chef.”
“Erm…”
“Are you all right, darling?” She finished with the bed and came around to look at me.
I shrugged her off; I didn’t like to be fussed with when there wasn’t anything really wrong with me, and I didn’t want to say I really had a headache after my bear-with-a-sore-head impression yesterday. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep well.”
“I noticed,” she said before leaving to scoop up the twins who were, by the sound of it, attempting to flush each other down the toilet.
Sunday was the one day of the week that Valerie insisted we all take breakfast together, and that particular Sunday began as an ordeal. The twins were argumentative and fractious, having had their day out postponed, so I was glad to escape to the study for a few hours until I needed to change for lunch. However, my peace was short-lived. Valerie followed me.
“You’d better go and invite them early,” she said. “They might have plans. Oh, and ring and make a booking, first.”
I decided to lie. “I don’t know if new members can invite people for lunch.”
She smiled, and I knew there was no quarter to