The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

‘And now you’re starting to identify with this person, are you?’

‘A bit, yes.’ All at once I had the distinct feeling that I was stretched out on a psychiatrist’s couch. ‘Look, I’m not going mad, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that you’re clearly tired, you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ve even started talking to your SatNav and tomorrow you’re heading off to one of the remotest areas in the country. Can you blame me for hearing a few alarm bells?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘It may have been a long time ago, Max, but I did once qualify as a psychotherapist.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that.’

‘So I know something about what you’re going through. I know about depression.’

‘Well – thank you for your concern.’

‘Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I don’t know. I was going to find the nearest Travelodge.’

‘No way. Absolutely not. Come back home with me. You can sleep in one of the spare rooms.’

‘So what are you doing, exactly – putting me on suicide watch?’

Alison sighed. ‘I just think you need a good night’s sleep, and a late start in the morning, and maybe a few home comforts along the way.’

I tried vainly to think of objections, but all I could come up with was: ‘My suitcase is in the car.’

‘Fine. We’ll go to the car, get your suitcase, and take a cab back to my place. Nothing could be simpler.’

And put like that, it did sound the most sensible thing to do.

In the cab, an unexpected thing happened. We were sitting side by side in the back, a decent number of inches between us, when Alison edged up closer to me, leaned against me, and rested her head on my shoulder.

‘Hold me, Max,’ she whispered.

I put my arm around her. The cab rattled its way over North Bridge, past the railway station.

‘I can still see what you’re doing here,’ I said.

‘Mmm?’

‘This is some technique you were taught, isn’t it, as part of your training? You’ve wounded my ego, by making me feel as though I need help. Now you’re trying to build it up again, by making me feel strong and protective.’

She looked up at me. Her eyes glinted teasingly in the dark. Her slightly dishevelled auburn hair would have been close enough to stroke, had I wanted to.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’m really pleased to see you, and I don’t see anything wrong with two old friends, who’ve known each other since they were kids, giving each other a friendly hug.’

It felt like more than a friendly hug to me, but I didn’t say so.

‘I wonder if Philip will be back,’ she murmured.

‘Are you expecting him tonight?’

‘If he sticks to his schedule, yes.’

‘Will he mind that I’m here?’

‘No. Why should he?’

‘Do you miss him when he’s away?’

‘I get very lonely. I’m not sure that’s the same as missing him.’

Suddenly, and rather to my own surprise, it occurred to me that it would be nice if Alison’s husband didn’t come home tonight. I held her a little closer than before, and she nestled comfortably against me. I let my lips brush against her hair and breathed in its warm, inviting scent.

Was it actually going to happen, more than thirty years after it should have happened? Was I going to sleep with Alison at last? Was I being offered one, final, redeeming chance? Part of me yearned for this resolution; another part of me started to panic, to look around for excuses. And it wasn’t necessary to look very far.

Of course – Alison was married. Married with children. If I wasn’t careful, I was about to play the most contemptible role of all: the role of homebreaker. For all I knew, this bloke Philip might be the nicest, gentlest, most decent man on earth. Utterly devoted to his wife. He would be crushed, devastated, if anyone were to come between them. So what if he spent too much time at work? That didn’t make him a bad husband, or a bad father. In fact it made him a good husband, and a good father, because his motivation, obviously, was to provide the best possible standard of living for his beloved family, now and in the future. And here I was, planning to turn this paragon of fatherly pride and marital loyalty into a cuckold!

I withdrew my arm from Alison’s shoulder, and sat up straight. She looked across at me curiously, then sat up as well, tidying her hair and re-establishing those decent inches of space between us. We were almost home, in any case.

Once inside, she took off her coat and led me into the kitchen.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said. ‘Or something stronger?’ When I hesitated, she informed me: ‘I’m having a Scotch.’

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘I’ll have one too.’