‘Ah yes,’ said Edgar knowingly. ‘Didn’t recognize you in civvies. You’re the one whose wife slipped her moorings.’
He didn’t intend to be the last to leave, but when he found himself alone with Mary, the final set of taillights disappearing down the track, he was struck by a sense of inevitability, that somehow they were always going to find themselves in this situation.
Or not.
Maybe he was deceiving himself. It wasn’t as if he had much experience of such matters. It was quite possible he’d imagined the unspoken complicity, the words behind her eyes.
‘I should be going,’ he said.
‘What, and leave me to tidy up on my own?’
They carried everything inside to the kitchen on trays. She washed up; he dried, putting crockery and glasses away in the cupboards according to her instructions. It was an ordered kitchen, spotlessly clean, and he vowed to himself that he’d make an assault on his own the very next day.
She suggested a nightcap, and they retired to the veranda with their glasses, where they sat on wicker chairs, their knees almost touching.
‘Are you working tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Sunday?’
‘The night shift.’
‘Do you have any plans?’
He tried to think of something, anything.
‘I thought I might take in a movie tomorrow night.’ He hesitated, mustering the courage. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m going walking.’
‘At night?’
She smiled. ‘Tomorrow, but I’ll stay over in Springs. I sometimes do.’
‘Friends?’
‘A friend.’
‘Oh.’ He swirled the wine around his glass, suddenly aware how late it was, and wishing he was gone.
‘Do you want to come?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘With me. Walking.’
‘Walking?’
‘You’ll pick it up quick, it’s very easy.’
He smiled. ‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Tom.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to kiss me?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, I’d like to.’
‘Your glass.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
He put it down beside the chair.
They both leaned forward and their lips met.
For a moment he felt ridiculous, detached, as if observing himself from on high. He could see the small patch of thinning hair on the crown of his head as he craned his neck, her hand sliding up his arm, taking a hold and drawing him closer. Then her tongue forced its way between his lips, and he dropped back into himself.
Only two tongues had breached the barrier of his lips before. One had belonged to Lydia, the other to a downtown whore he’d arrested—a pasty young Ukrainian who had lunged at him in a bid to secure her release. That time, the kiss had lasted no more than a couple of seconds, though he still wondered whether that wasn’t just a little longer than had been absolutely necessary.
Unlike Lydia, who kissed like she was stoking a fire, Mary’s tongue was soft, gentle, probing. And then gone.
‘Mmmmmmmm,’ she said, smiling, looking deep into his eyes.
