“What about now? Is there something here still?” he asks.
My voice is a whisper. “I think so.”
>
Gently, he takes the canvas and places it back, then runs his fingers across my cheek. I stare at his lips, taking in their colour, the way they tremble. I can’t even breathe, so afraid I’m going to do something, or say something, to ruin the moment. Instead, I close my eyes, breathing him in as his forehead comes to rest on mine.
“I’ll wait for as long as it takes,” he tells me. “I’ll be here; you only have to say the word.”
He smells of coffee and mint, the two scents mingling as he slowly breathes in and out. I open my eyes to find him staring right at me. I have to swallow hard before I find the strength to speak. “You’ll wait for me?” I ask. “Because I’m not ready, not now. With the separation and...” I trail off.
He cups my face with his rough hands and softly kisses my forehead. His lips remain there as he begins to speak. “As long as it takes.”
22
The morning of the gala arrives with a fierce rainstorm. It rattles the windows and makes me wake with a panic, wondering if the hotel has enough umbrellas or if there’s somewhere I can hire some. By six a.m. I’m in the kitchen, sipping at a mug of coffee and searching the web for rain canopies we can set up from the entrance to the road.
I’ve been growing increasingly edgy. My sang-froid of a week ago has boiled away, leaving behind a mixture of angst and anticipation that kills my appetite. Wisely, Simon’s been spending most of his time at the office, avoiding the rather crazy, soon-to-be ex-wife who’s haunting his townhouse.
When he pops his head around the kitchen door each night, announcing he’s heading for bed, I silently promise him that as soon as this gala is out of the way, I’ll be room hunting like nobody’s business. He already has one twenty-something daughter. If I don’t put some space between us, I’m in danger of becoming his second.
For the most part he’s been lovely. Courteous when asking how it’s going, sweet when inquiring if we should still be going together—to which the answer is, of course, yes. He paid for the table, after all, and it will be his friends filling the seats. I don’t want to embarrass him by leaving an empty chair beside him. I know I’m making it sound easier than it actually is—after all, how comfortable can it be sharing a house with someone you no longer wish to be married to—but after the pain we’ve been through, this stage seems almost easy in comparison.
By the time he gets up on Saturday, I’ve already arranged for a rain canopy, checked in with the caterers and have showered and dressed ready to head to the hotel. My gown is hanging from the doorway in a garment bag, because I won’t have time to come back and change. I watch as he slowly pours himself a coffee, a rolled Times clasped in his other hand. He turns to smile at me.
“Are you okay? I could hear you tossing and turning last night.”
For some reason that makes me blush. His attention seems almost too intimate.
“Did I keep you awake? I’m sorry...”
“Not at all. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“Ask me at seven this evening. If I’m still alive, that is.”
This time he smiles. “Do you want me to get there early?”
“No, it’s fine. You don’t want to see me pulling my hair out. Just get there after seven and I promise not to bite your head off.”
Simon walks forward and ruffles my hair. It’s a simple gesture, yet I find myself wanting to pull back, as if his touch is inappropriate. I don’t know if he notices the discomfort on my face, but he steps away, going back to his coffee and his crossword.
I stand there for too long, while he fills in the tiny squares with his neat writing. When he takes a sip from his cup I feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. Everything’s changing. I won’t be here for many more Saturday mornings. I won’t watch him filling in the crossword or flinching when I add too much cream to my coffee. He’ll be here and I’ll be somewhere else and life will still go on. The thought makes me wistful.
“I guess I’d better go.”
The day is spent in organised mayhem. I manage to miscount the number of guests, misplace two different auction items and lose my rag with the executive chef when he tells me there isn’t enough chicken to go around. Each time I manage to solve one mini-crisis, the next one bares its teeth and laughs at my ineptitude. By the time I head up to a bedroom to shower and change, the only thing I’m confident about is that everything that can go wrong has gone wrong.
Lara arrives a few minutes after I get out of the shower, and the hairdresser half an hour after that. We’re offered champagne but neither of us accepts—Lara because she can’t and me because I daren’t.
“When do you start house hunting?”
“Room hunting,” I correct, because that’s all I can afford. “Next week. I said I’d do it as soon as the gala was over.”
“And you’re still okay with that? It must be hard, leaving that beautiful house...”
We both know she isn’t talking about bricks and mortar. “It isn’t easy,” I admit. “But it’s right. I can’t stay somewhere just because it’s the easy thing to do.”
An hour later, guests are starting to spill into the hotel. I’m vibrating with anxiety as I watch them check their coats in at the cloakroom and mingle around the bar area, where staff offer them glasses of champagne. I wander from group to group, shaking hands, smiling where required, though my laughter seems off even to me. By this point I should be relaxing, but there seems no end in sight for my frazzled nerves. The next time a waiter passes, I grab a champagne glass and guzzle it down, willing to do anything to stop the trembling in my hands.