‘ Tonight I said,’ insisted Ann. ‘Just tonight.’
They returned in the direction of the theatre, near which his car was parked, as slowly as they had set off on the outing and Brinkman even drove slowly back to the complex. Brinkman had left wine on ice, flat this time because he felt there was a limit to the amount of champagne it was possible to drink, particularly before a meal. He’d arranged cold food, fish which was good in the concessionary places and caviar because, as he kept reminding her, it was his birthday. With the caviar he served vodka, deeply chilled, taking it the Russian way, down in one. She obeyed the instructions and laughed and coughed at the same time, protesting that she would get drunk. While they ate he tried to guide the conversation to Blair but Ann appeared reluctant to bring her husband into any conversation, insisting instead of talking about the Cambridge they had known, most of which they had already talked about. For Ann it was part of the evening, still gripped by the beauty of the performance and edging into reverie, wanting to find other, special memories. For Brinkman it was a confirmation of something by now he didn’t need confirming. He didn’t think, either, that Ann could help him, even inadvertently: consummate professional that he was, Blair wouldn’t have allowed Ann the mistaken opportunity of letting anything drop. There was a small but unexpected feeling, the thought that he could now relax and be completely comfortable with her, not forever alert for openings. He was finding Ann very comfortable to be with. After the meal they left the table uncleared and Brinkman played more Tchaikovsky, not Swan Lake because that wouldn’t have been right, but The Sleeping Beauty, which he thought would compliment Ann’s mood. He sat beside her on the couch, his arm stretched behind her along its back. Ann settled into the crook of his arm as unthinkingly as she had earlier held him walking from the theatre.
‘This is heavenly,’ she said, her voice distant. ‘Heavenly.’
Brinkman put his face into her hair and kissed her, very lightly, hardly making any contact. ‘Wake up, princess,’ he said.
She didn’t react against his gesture. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I want to go on sleeping for a hundred years, just like the story says I’ve got to.’
‘It’s a fairy story,’ he said.
She settled against him more comfortably and said, ‘I want to stay in the fairy story.’
He kissed her hair again, more positively this time, thinking how clean it smelled. Everything fresh, he thought. He said, ‘Thank you for tonight; for the icon and for getting the tickets, too.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it as much as you,’ she said. ‘Maybe more.’
The side ended. There was a slight distortion on the record arm, so that it made a loud sound clicking off. He said, ‘Do you want to hear the second half?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to move.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’
Ann had to raise herself, for Brinkman to move his arm and when he did, making to stand, they were very close to each other. Briefly they stayed just inches apart, faces unmoving, eyes held.
‘I’d better change the record,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Brinkman turned the disc over quickly, fumbling so that he almost dropped it, glad that his back was to her and that she wouldn’t have seen his nervousness. He was reluctant, when the record dropped, to turn back to confront her. When he did her expression hadn’t changed. He went back to the couch, holding her eyes, and she had to move again, slightly, to let him sit where he had before. The settling back against him wasn’t as unthinking as it had earlier been and it wasn’t the same, either. This time her face was nearer his, not her hair. ‘Still a fairy story,’ she said.
He kissed her, high on the cheek this time, and she turned her head, bringing her lips up. There was a bird- peck hesitancy about them, each unsure of the other, each nervous and ready to pull back from danger. But the pecking became more fervent and they stopped being nervous. Brinkman twisted from how he sat, so that she lay back the full length of the couch and he knelt beside her, looking down, kissing not just her lips now but her face and her neck and her throat where her dress was open. He plucked at the buttons, trying to open it more and she made a token protest, whispering ‘No, no,’ several times but he didn’t stop and she gave up trying to stop him, actually twisting for the bra to become unclasped and then whimpering at the delicious pain when his teeth trapped her nipple. He played a long time and then she felt his hands move and she made another token protest, as ineffective as the first. He tried to make love to her actually on the couch but there wasn’t room enough so she rolled off on to him and they made love first on the floor, encumbered by clothes and as nervously as they had started kissing. It didn’t work, because of the awkwardness and the nervousness and he got up to go to the bedroom and she said ‘No’ again and again she did. The second time was much better. She was an experimental lover, more so than he was although he tried to match her, not wanting to be shown the more inexperienced. He thought, anxiously, towards the end that he was going to fail her but he managed to hold back just long enough and they came together, a mutual explosion. Ann didn’t let him move away from her. Instead she held him with an almost desperate tightness, fingers pressed into his back, legs encompassing his.
‘What have we done?’ she said, after a long silence. ‘What the hell have we done?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
She relaxed slightly, letting go her hold on him. ‘It never happened,’ she said. ‘It was all part of the fairy story.’
Could they sustain it, in the claustrophobia of their lives? ‘All right,’ he said. Feeling he should go further Brinkman said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I suppose I should be.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so, yes. But I don’t know, not really.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Brinkman, changing the earlier automatic apology.
‘I wish I could sleep for a hundred years.’
‘With me?’ he said, trying to lift her depression. It wasn’t the end of the world, not yet. A mistake and an embarrassment, but not the end of the world.
‘That’s something else I don’t know.’ said Ann. ‘I think the answer might be yes.’
Blair tried to anticipate everything, determined against any oversight. He went to see the parents of all the other boys who had been involved with Paul and found them as resentful and confused and bewildered as he had felt. Had felt. Blair left each meeting growing more and more convinced that he’d crossed more bridges with Paul than any of the others had with their kids. David Hoover, who was divorced like Blair was and had returned like Blair had done was convinced that the marriage break-up was the only cause and wouldn’t consider any other discussion. As well as all the other parents Blair saw again the two counsellors, knowing that Erickson was submitting a report to the court – and guessing maybe Kemp would as well – and wanting them to know all about his talks with the boy. Both seemed impressed and Blair was glad, not because of their praise but because they were supposed to be experts – more expert than him at least – and if they approved then maybe it was some sort of indication that he’d got it right.
He talked things through with Ruth at every stage and the day before the court hearing went over it all again, insisting that she try to find something he’d forgotten, while there was still time to put it right. She couldn’t.
‘I know I’ve said it before, but thanks for coming back, Eddie. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘I mean what I said, about staying as close as possible to the boys,’ said Blair. ‘I fouled up. Badly.’
‘We found out in time,’ said Ruth.
‘Let’s hope it’s in time.’
‘You were the one who used to reassure me, remember?’
She deserved the honesty, thought Blair: that was the new, inviolate resolution. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said.
‘Come up?’
Blair told her about the meeting with Hubble, not everything about the encounter because he was experienced enough to recognise the sensitivity about disclosing too much of what had happened as a result of his Moscow assessments but enough for her to understand why he was being asked to extend.
‘But there’s one thing,’ he said. ‘One paramount, overriding thing. If I accept then it’s only going to be when I’m completely satisfied it’ll enable the new situation with Paul and John.’
