And as always, he was right. Her hair piled on top of her head, swathed in a soft towel, an inelegant tumbler of sherry on the edge of the bath at her shoulder, she lay back in water liberally sprinkled with Boot’s best and she could feel the tight spring inside her beginning to uncoil and the weight of her day at the library slipping from her shoulders.
She put on a simple dress that night and twisted her hair up into an exotic confection of clips and stars. By the time they had walked back down the cold High Street the wind had pulled most of it down, but the effect, even dishevelled was, she knew, attractive to Neal.
Just as some men were supposed to be bosom men and some bottom men, Neal was a hair man, making almost a fetish of it, burying his face in it, holding the weight of it in his hands, winding it gently round her throat till it formed a silken glowing collar.
The bistro was half empty as they forced their way in out of the gale, the night lights on the tables flickering and dipping in unison as the door closed behind them on the evening darkness.
Captain Ferguson was there to usher them in, to take their coats, to bring the menus and then at last they were alone, facing one another across the table, the small clear flame between them.
‘Have you decided yet, Emma?’ Neal’s eyes were steady on her face, his voice low. Neither of them had opened their menu and she knew he wasn’t talking about the food.
‘Give me a little more time, Neal, please. There is so much to think about.
He scowled. ‘There is nothing to think about. Either we get married, or we go on as we are. Surely that’s not such a difficult question!’
But it was. Surely he could see it was.
They had lived together on and off for five years, sometimes as now, sharing her flat; sometimes camping in his, sometimes apart for months on end when his job as an engineer took him away, but always returning in the end to one another.
Of course she had wanted marriage once. All young women dreamed of marriage didn’t they, even in this age of emancipation? Surely the most hardened female libber had the occasional aberration and pictured herself in a swirl of white and orange blossom, but that had passed.
As she moved on into her late twenties life became real, and dreams were tempered with, not bitterness exactly, but resignation and, she supposed, maturity. Neal was part of that maturity.
They had met in the library where she worked now as head librarian. She had been an assistant then, when he had come in searching for some esoteric books on early music – his passion – and a friendship had developed.
Within three months there was more than that. They were living together and within six she knew Neal was thinking of marriage. Then it had been too soon to talk of it, but afterwards she realized there was more to her reluctance than that. She valued so much her independence; she valued her privacy.
Somehow she had evaded the issue for a long time, but lately Neal was becoming more persistent, hinting darkly that they would soon be too old to start a family …
Marriage or stay as they were was the choice he had offered, but there was always a third possibility. One he hadn’t mentioned. That they part.
She swallowed, staring hard at the candle behind which his face had become a hazy blur. The thought of parting had sprung unbidden into her mind without warning; it was the last thing she wanted; the last thing in the world.
‘Would you like to order now, sir?’ The waiter’s voice cut through her thoughts and she looked up. Neal was watching her across the candle. Visibly he pulled himself together, dragging his eyes from her face to that of the waiter.
‘We’ll both have steak.’
‘No!’ Rebellion flared again as the waiter raised his pad to write. ‘No, I’ll have the chicken.’
Neal shrugged. ‘White wine then? he queried, this time hesitant and, knowing that he preferred red, she nodded.
Neither of them spoke until the waiter had disappeared.
‘All right, go on, say it. I’m a cow!’ Guilt made her angrier.
He shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ Then suddenly he grinned. ‘You’re trying to be, anyway. Why Emma? What’s wrong? I’m not the enemy, you know.’
‘I know.’ Crossly she reached for a piece of bread from the basket and began to break it up.
And then it had happened. Her hair, still precariously coiled had begun to slip and Neal, leaning forward, had hooked his finger into one of the long heavy tresses. Gently he pulled. ‘You’re going grey, Emma,’ he said.
Later outside in the beating sleet she walked head up, her coat blowing open, alone. She followed the High Street winding down between the houses and turned across towards the quay. The light outside the harbourmaster’s office burned solitarily through the streaks of wetness, reflecting in a shivery rippled line in the water at her feet For a long time she looked down, then stiff and frozen she turned and slowly walked home.
When she got there all Neal’s things had gone. He must have left the restaurant almost immediately after her and loaded his car without a second’s thought. Head high, eyes blazing in her wind-pinked face, she stared at herself in the mirror. Then reluctantly she reached for her brush. At nine o’clock the next morning she was at the hair salon.
She met Chris four days later. He was in his forties, divorced, tall like Neal but very fair and broad shouldered and though he was outwardly quiet he had a tough rough streak in him that appealed to the Emma in her which had emerged as her hair fell to the salon floor. He took her tramping over the moors and, with feet and hands aching with cold, to watch rugger matches and once or twice to a point to point where she backed a horse and won herself five pounds.
Her flat without Neal was untidy now, defiantly untidy and she had put away one by one the things he had particularly loved. One especially, the patchwork quilt so lovingly worked by her great grandmother out of minute squares of coloured silk. Even Chris had admired it, but it did not suit her new image of herself: cool, sophisticated, modern and ageless.
Instead she bought a black satin bedspread by mail order and secretly, for sewing too was for the birds, she appliquéd on it a huge scarlet ‘EM’. She almost wished when she had finished it that Neal could see it. She wanted to watch his reactions.
‘Come on, Em. Let me stay.’ Chris had his arm around her shoulders, his right hand firmly anchored over her right breast. She squirmed uncomfortably.
‘Chris, I’ve told you. I’m not ready. Not yet.’
‘And how long does it take for you to be ready?’
She smiled and edged a little further away from him on the sofa. ‘Not long, I promise. Come on, have some more coffee. Then you will have to go. I must get to the library early tomorrow.
He was frowning this time as he stood up and she knew that he would not take her excuses much longer. Either sleep with him or break up with him. Chris would not waste time on a relationship that was going nowhere.
She ran her fingers through her hair, exasperated, after he had gone. Why did men always want something more? Why when there was so much to a relationship besides sex did they reduce everything to that one denominator and threaten so much else that was good?
Of course she knew her reaction meant she did not love him. How could she love him when at night, alone, shivering beneath her black and scarlet satin, her thoughts always came back to Neal. Neal who was gentle. Neal who was strong and understanding and patient with her.
Next morning she rang Chris from her tiny private office behind the book stacks. ‘Chris. Tonight. Come to my place for a meal. We won’t go out anywhere, OK?’
‘You mean it, Em?’ From his voice she knew he understood.
‘I mean it, Chris.’ She stared down at the phone for several minutes without seeing it after she had hung up. Then, with a shrug she turned back to her desk.
Chris went to considerable trouble with his appearance that evening. And on his way to her he stopped off at the florist and bought, for a small fortune, one single hot house rose. Somehow it seem
ed right for Em.
For her part she had bought two bottles of red wine. Only one bottle, all to herself, would bring her to it and if Chris wasn’t going to drive home that night he might as well have one too.
Rain was lashing the windows as she pulled the curtains closed and turned up the gas fire, listening for a moment to the reassuring purr as the flame licked across the cold elements. She laid two places at the low coffee table before it and set the two cushions in place. Then she searched out a record to match her mood.
The bedroom was perfect. Small, intimate, the huge scarlet letters writhing across the swell of the pillows. The room had none of the warmth and love which Neal had known but then, she swore at herself sharply, it wasn’t Neal she was expecting.
She was in the kitchen when the bell rang, a wooden spoon in her hand, dabbing ineffectually at a creamy mushroom sauce which was sitting on the cold burner waiting only to be poured over the chicken and put into the oven. Her bottle of wine was already a third empty.
She stared at Chris, her stomach suddenly contorting into a cramp of apprehension as he stood in the doorway, his hands behind him. He looked different, strange; scrubbed and almost shy, like a schoolboy on his first date as reluctantly, even awkwardly, he produced the rose. ‘Do you want to stick this thing in some water?’
She took it, more embarrassed than he was, ridiculously touched at the gesture and fumbled in a kitchen cupboard for a tall glass to hold it while he stood in the doorway behind her watching. Then, all at once, they were laughing. The strain had vanished. They were no longer circling teenagers, awkward because of the contrived situation. They were adults again. He poured himself a tumbler of the wine and hauling himself up onto the worktop he sat and watched as she anointed the chicken with her sauce and put the dish into the oven.
They ate, they talked, they sat lounging on the cushions before the gas fire listening to records which almost but not quite drowned the sound of hailstones lashing against the windows under the heavy curtains. Chris made no move to touch her, watching her from time to time from beneath his heavy brows as she talked and laughed, her face a little flushed from the fire.
She was, he thought, more beautiful and more vivacious than he had ever seen her but quite unlike herself. Surely she knew that he had guessed she was playing a part, wearing a pretty social mask. He had realized from the moment he set foot through the door that he would never sleep with her now.
The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked round to one o’clock and she was still talking hard into every silence when at last Chris leaned forward and put his hand on her wrist. She stopped, electrified by his touch.
‘It’s late, Emma,’ he said gently. ‘We’ve both got to work in the morning.’
She nodded and clutching the coffee table to steady herself she stood up.
‘I’ll make some more coffee, shall I, before …?’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Before I go. Yes, please, Em. I’ve drunk a bit more than I should.’ He smiled. In fact he was stone cold sober. It was Emma who was a little tipsy.
‘Oh but you can’t go, Chris. I don’t want you to. I want you to stay. Truly.’ She waved vaguely towards the bedroom door.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her towards him, staring down at her. ‘Thank you, Em. But no. I’m not blind. I can see how it is with you. I understand.’
After he had gone she sat down again in front of the fire and stared into the hot depths of the flames.
But how is it with me? she thought miserably. I just don’t know.
She still saw Chris; they were too fond of one another to part, but their relationship had steadied into a warm friendship which contained no demands. She had never mentioned her past to him. He knew there must have been other men, but she was a creature of mystery, a strange old-fashioned type of person inspite of her efforts to be different and he respected her for it. He was even pleased with himself now for taking her the rose. It hadn’t been such a silly gesture after all.
Neal saw her several hundred yards away, threading her way towards him up the crowded Saturday High Street, her duffle hood pulled forward around her face, her hands deep in her pockets, a basket hitched onto her elbow.
He stopped and stared at her for a moment, then he turned away towards the nearest shop to avoid her. In the doorway he stopped abruptly, his eye caught by his own reflection, by the acute misery he had surprised on his own face and he felt a surge of anger. Pride had kept him from her all these weeks, but now she was there a few hundred yards from him and he would stay away no longer. Swinging back into the thoroughfare he pushed his way through the crowds and caught her arm.
‘We’re going for a walk.’
Emma, dreaming, had not even seen him coming and she bit back a cry of surprise as she found herself being pulled round into the teeth of the wind, but after only a second’s hesitation, she went.
Stormbound, the fishing fleet clustered into the shelter of the sea wall and down river the slate water blended with a slate sky heavy with unshed snow. Side by side they stood and stared down at the restless decks jostling against the quayside. Then slowly Emma raised her head and grinned at him.
‘You know, I think I’ve missed you.’
‘And I think I’ve missed you.’ His eyes narrowed. Her hair whipped from beneath the hood and was flailing around her eyes. He raised his hands and pushed the hood back from her face.
She waited, defiant.
He shook his head. ‘You cuckoo. Why?’
The gesture seemed so empty now. ‘I wanted to change my image.’
He laughed. ‘And have you?’
‘Of course. Can’t you tell?’
‘Not yet. But then I haven’t seen much of you. Come and have a coffee.’
Thankfully she followed him into the warmth of the coffee house near the church where they found a corner table and faced each other free of the blinding wind at last. He stared at her critically as she slipped back her duffle coat.
‘You’ve lost weight, but so far you’re the same Emma. Say something, then perhaps I can tell.’
She grinned. ‘Pearls of wisdom fall from my lips these days. And I’m called Em.’
‘Why not Fred, it’s more feminine. To me you’re Emma and always will be.’ He sounded sterner than she had ever heard him, almost schoolmasterly, and she resisted the answering urge to stick her tongue out at him and chose instead a large Danish pastry from the trolley.
He watched amused. She was different. More confident perhaps; more mature; calmer and more ordered.
‘I hear you’ve been going around with Chris Foster,’ he said after a moment’s silence.
She met his gaze squarely. ‘For a couple of months or so now.’
‘Serious?’
‘Depends what you mean by serious.’ She stared beyond him towards the window where the snow was again feathering down; a sign, back to front on the glass read, Order Your Valentine Cake Now and there was a picture of a thick creamy chocolate heart. Suddenly her eyes were full of tears. She blinked them back angrily. Grown women do not cry in public at the sight of a piece of romantic tomfoolery aimed at teenage children.
She groped in her bag for a handkerchief and blew her nose hard, still not looking at him.
‘Could he spare you one evening, do you think?’ His voice sounded husky against the usual coffee house squawk of women.
Squaring her chin she looked at him at last. ‘That’s for me to say, not him.’
She chose a date a week away so as not to seem too eager and they met, impersonally, at a pub they had never visited together before.
But he had a present for her – a tiny silver pendant – very modern in design. Not once did he mention her hair.
She ached for him to touch her, but he was strangely distant and formal with her, meticulously polite. But for the pendant which grew slowly warm against her skin as she played with it nervously on its chain, they might have been strangers as they sat facing one another
across the table, their hands a few inches apart. There was no candle between them, but she felt as though there might have been a hundred miles.
And then suddenly he pushed back his chair and relaxed and laughed. ‘You know, Emma, you haven’t changed one bit. You’re still the same delightful old-fashioned girl at heart, for all the sculptured haircut and the space age dress! I’m glad. I wouldn’t have you any different for anything.’ And his hand reached out at last and covered hers.
She grinned, thinking suddenly of the black satin bedspread. The day she had met him again she had put back her patchwork quilt. The effect had been devastating. She felt calm and reassured; back home; undeniably herself once more. But perhaps it was too late. Perhaps Neal no longer wanted her. Perhaps after all she no longer wanted him.
‘How can you tell I’m the same?’ she asked him, her fingers lying easily in his.
‘The way you talk, the way you sit. Even the way you do your hair.’
‘But –’
‘But it does suit you, you’re right,’ he went on critically, his head a little to one side, ‘although of course it makes you look older …’
She had spotted the glint in his eye. ‘I could grow it again if you really thought I should,’ she said. ‘But it would probably take fifteen years.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘As long as that?’ Then he was smiling again. ‘OK. I’m prepared to wait. I’ll hang around until it does. If you want me that is?’
It was what she had been hoping he would say and yet now she hesitated. ‘I’m more changed than you think, Neal. It might not work, us being together again. I want it to, but …’
The grip of his fingers tightened for a moment. Then he released her hand. ‘I won’t push you, Emma. But think about it, won’t you?’ He smiled and picked up the menu. ‘This was where things went wrong before and I’m not going to make the same mistake again. You ordered chicken and white wine, remember?’