The Darkening Hour (15 page)

Max is waiting for me beneath Boudicca.

I’m so relieved to see his open face, his guileless smile. I want to throw my arms around him, snuggle up close to him, rediscover his smell, his voice. I don’t want to waste a
second. If I had my way, we’d miss the next couple of hours, move straight on to the bit we’re really meeting for, the bar, the hotel room.

But as usual we’re awkward to start with, unsure of each other, our conversation strained, polite. It seems so long since we’ve been together.

Crowds flood past us across Westminster Bridge, butting us, pushing us against each other, bits of us making contact through our winter coats. We apologise. Laugh. We’re ridiculously
nervous!

‘Not the best meeting place,’ I tell him.

‘It’s busy. I hadn’t realised.’

‘You ought to let me choose! You like the statue?’

‘Sure,’ he replies, grinning. ‘She’s alluring, and rather formidable, don’t you think?’

‘Of course. Boudicca was a warrior. She famously resisted becoming a slave to the Roman invaders.’

Pigeons flap above us. The whole area has that jaded feeling typical of tourist spots that real Londoners steer clear of, but Max is keen to look at this statue and I’m keen to observe his
pleasure.

Now we’ve run out of erotic ones, the statues Max likes to meet beside are often dull renditions of long-dead dignitaries. But I don’t say so. He thinks they’re an insight into
a city’s moments of glory, the secrets contained within its folds, its dark past. And I secretly love the way he’s made them our special places of rendezvous.

I’ve never looked at Boudicca properly before.

I can see she is indeed quite splendid, the way her transparent robe drapes her upper body as she stands astride her chariot. She’s silhouetted against the evening sky that’s turning
pink ahead of us, darkening the river behind us. I think Max will consider her legs beautiful, exposed just enough to be tantalising, muscular and taut, and I’m right.

‘Aaaah,’ he sighs. ‘Look at those marvellous thighs. My God, how strong that woman must have been.’

He studies Boudicca for a while, cricking his neck to look up at her.

Traffic rumbles across the bridge; a speedboat roars down the Thames, Big Ben chimes five. I want to get somewhere quiet, somewhere still. At last Max puts his arm around me. Instantly I slide
my hand under his camel coat and into his back pocket, and we move up the road towards Villiers Street. The lights come on, pearly strings along the Embankment, twinkly blue over the river, red and
green beacons on the boats down below. The sky here never grows dark. It’s gone violet now where the sun sinks beyond Westminster. Only the silhouettes of trees along the opposite bank are
dark. Those and the river water, which has gone an impenetrable black and is flinging itself hungrily against the wall beneath us.

In the gardens, Max tugs me by the hand.

‘I wanted to show you this,’ he says. We’ve arrived at another monument, a bust mounted on a plinth in memory of Arthur Sullivan, the composer. Against his plinth, a woman, her
head buried in her arms, is weeping. Her clothes are falling off, her dress draped around her waist; she is the epitome of despair.

‘I read that she’s an allegorical figure,’ Max says. ‘Sullivan’s Muse, cast in granite and bronze. I had to see it. She’s lovely, don’t you
think?’

‘Yes, but rather tragic,’ I say. Something about the sight of this woman after the glory of Boudicca has upset me. She’s so vulnerable in comparison, stripped of everything,
her clothes included. ‘Looks as if she’s lost everything.’

‘A perfect rendition of grief,’ agrees Max.

He pulls me down onto a bench. It’s icy with a cold that seeps in even through our winter layers. The last leaves on the plane trees float past us, flipping over.

‘Look at that,’ says Max, only ever looking up, only ever seeing beauty. ‘The leaves are luminous! Beautiful.’

A blackbird lets out a solitary melody, ringing through the night air, sweet and high-pitched enough to be heard over the sounds of rush-hour traffic.

‘Just listen, he’s singing for us,’ Max whispers into my ear.

Max has a refreshing naivety about him; he’s always surprised, as if he holds the world in awe. Surprised by London’s hidden statues, surprised by me, surprised by the sex we
have.

His wife, a lawyer, either doesn’t have time, or doesn’t make time for sex. This is what his marriage lacks – one of the many things Max says I provide for him that she
doesn’t.

Our arrangement has always suited me. A full-time relationship was not what I’d been after when I met him. I knew its demands and its restrictions all too well from my years with
Roger.

But recently, on evenings when I’ve had no one to see and nowhere to go, and only Leo and Daddy for company in the house, I’ve resented it. I have given up so much for Max –
he, nothing for me. I wonder why we can’t see each other more often, and for longer. Then I set eyes on him again and I forgive him. He has a magical effect on me, with his tall, lean form,
his surgeon’s long, strong fingers, his smell of other continents, bringing to mind cacti and men on horses crossing hot sandy streets, leather holsters banging against their hips. Even
though he is in fact a New Yorker.

We grasp at each other until we become aware of tourists peering at us as they pass. Two middle-aged people necking on a park bench attract a kind of prurient curiosity; if we’d been
teenagers, I don’t suppose anyone would have glanced our way.

This evening we have exactly eight hours before Max has to be off again. We find the restaurant Max read about in an in-flight magazine, just off the Strand, and squeeze into a dark corner,
close up together on the red banquettes.

‘Get the lady a martini,’ he tells the waiter. I love the way he says this, like Humphrey Bogart in
Casablanca
. ‘And a cold beer for me. Hey,’ putting his arm
around me, pulling me to him. ‘Good to see you. You’ve been through a lot as well, honey. Rough times, eh?’

The martini is perfect; the glass properly chilled, plenty of ice, a bright sliver of orange zest. I sip it, feel the slow seep of it in my muscles.

‘How’s the programme?’ Max asks. ‘Tell me about the latest freaks you’ve had to deal with.’

‘Don’t be cruel.’

‘Your words, not mine.’

‘It’s fine. Good. Listening figures are up. I’ve heard murmurs – I don’t want to tempt fate, but I think they’re about to move me to prime time.’

‘That’s great, baby. You must be thrilled. So what does it mean? You’ll be more than the Voice of the South-East?’ He pulls my head into his shoulder, kisses my hair.

‘I guess so.’ I try not to sound too full of myself. ‘It’ll be much bigger listening figures anyway. I’d be hosting special guests as well, so there would be more
kudos – more recognition. The current presenter is in fact pretty much a celebrity this side of the pond, though you’ve probably never heard of him. And of course there’d be a pay
rise.’

‘Theodora Gentleman, Voice of the South-East, her voice alone will knock you out.’

I smile. He’s said it all before but I still love to hear it.

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Where’re you off to this time?’

‘Conference in Hong Kong. I’m giving a paper. Be there for a couple of days, then a meeting in Paris, and home.’

‘How’s the family?’ The words stick in my throat, but I force myself to ask.

‘Not bad.’

I squeeze his hand. Wait. Never sure if Max wants me to ask about his home-life, whether he wants to get his troubles off his chest or forget them when he’s with me.

‘It’s strange,’ he says. ‘The last kid is about to leave home, and Valerie is away a lot as well. It’s not much of a home these days. And I’ve started to look
back, wonder if we could have done things differently. The girls hardly even come home. I think they’re relieved to get away from the bad atmosphere.’ He smiles a rueful smile.

‘Don’t be regretful.’

‘Ah regret,’ he says. ‘The curse of mid-life.’ He looks at me.

‘What bad atmosphere?’

‘Oh, you know. Valerie getting at me for this and that. It’s so strange. You marry someone when you’re twenty-something, for years you’re immersed in bringing up kids.
You muddle along together, and then you emerge, as if into the light, with time and space to be together. Discover you’re face to face with a stranger. Someone twenty years older and quite
different to the woman you married. We misunderstand each other constantly. I’m trying to work out who she is. Who I am myself.’

‘That’s funny. It’s what I’ve been thinking about, having Daddy living with me. That we have both changed in the intervening years and now it’s as if we’re
strangers, getting to know each other all over again. It’s really very disconcerting.’

‘I can imagine. We all move on as people, and sometimes it’s in opposing directions. I seem to have stopped caring about certain things, while Val cares more and can’t
understand my indifference. I guess once we both wanted the same things.’

‘What things, Max?’

‘Material things mainly. Owning stuff. And making an impression. Status. Enough of me though. How is your dad anyway? And Leo?’

I don’t really want to change the subject. I want to hear more, but Max often does this – closes up the minute he’s started to open.

‘Daddy’s not good, it’s upsetting. He loses things, forgets what day it is. He even forgot my mother had died. And Leo, as you’ve witnessed yourself, can’t be
counted on. But it’s going to be easier now. I’ve hired a carer,’ I say. ‘It means I’ve help with Daddy. As I told you in my text, it’s freed me up.’

‘Aha. Yes, I do remember.’

He doesn’t admit that he never replied to that particular text, but I let it go. He’s here now. That’s the main thing. ‘Well I’m glad you’ve sorted something.
It was a bummer that you had to leave early last time.’ His voice drops another note. ‘I was all primed for it.’

He’s moved on already. I envy him this. He doesn’t appear to carry resentment around with him the way I would do if he let me down.

‘Is she living in then, this helper?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her.’

Max presses his nose against my ear and I can feel the prickle of his goatee against my cheek, something that, though rough, always arouses me.

‘Oddly, finding Mona was thanks to Roger.’

‘Oh?’

I’m not sure what passes through Max’s mind when I mention my ex-husband. He knows I left Roger after meeting him. What he doesn’t know is that he played the key role in our
break-up. I don’t want to dump that burden of responsibility on him.

‘We always had female staff when we lived out there,’ I explain. ‘He suggested he brought someone over to help with Daddy, since I was coping with Leo as well. A guilt
offering! She’s a friend of his housemaid.’

I take a swig of my drink. My tongue plays round a piece of ice, toys with it. I want to see how long I can hang onto its chill before it melts.

‘Perhaps we could meet in Europe, now you have help,’ he says suddenly. ‘Just from time to time, to ring the changes? There are lots of galleries I haven’t explored yet,
and all those sculptures and statues – think of Rome, or Florence!’

I look at him. He’s got his twinkle back and I let myself dream for a minute. Max and I strolling arm-in-arm up steep Mediterranean streets, admiring views of vineyards and olive groves.
Sitting on rims of fountains, white marble statues writhing above us. The tinkle of water. Me in a sundress, my legs bare, toenails painted crimson, in sandals with thin straps. It’s been a
long time since I felt that free.

Perhaps I can leave Daddy for a weekend, for longer, now I have Mona.

A warm glow of possibility suffuses me.

His thumb traces the contour of my ear. This is it, I think. This is the pinnacle. I know it by now, I can pinpoint it. The bit of the evening where we’ve relaxed, but haven’t got to
think about leaving yet. The part where everything hangs in perfect balance. This moment, right now. I have to roll it around my mouth the way I’m rolling the ice. Suck every last tang of
flavour from it. Assign it to my memory before it melts away. Because I know it will do. It’s vanishing even as we speak.

The waitress brings our starters – scallops with a black olive jus and a bottle of Sancerre in an ice bucket. We eat in a daze, chewing the tender white flesh, staring at each other,
half-laughing. A candle flickers on the table between us.

Max puts his fork down, wipes his beard.

One arm’s around me, his other hand tucked up under my skirt, stroking the top of the stockings I’ve bought specially. Our half-finished meals are pushed away from us. We’ve no
interest in anything but each other.

‘Tell me about her,’ he whispers suddenly.

‘Who?’

He puts his mouth to my ear. ‘Your woman,’ he breathes. ‘Her thighs.’

Max has never hidden his penchant for women’s thighs. It’s an innocent enough sexual proclivity, judging by some of the things I hear on the phone-in. And one I’m willing to
participate in, even if I don’t get the same thrill from it as he does. But the thighs usually belong to imaginary people – the statues or pictures we’ve looked at – they
dissolve the minute we stop talking about them. This request, for me to talk about the thighs of the woman I’ve employed as carer and home-help, is a new departure. One I don’t
like.

‘Are they firm and strong?’

In spite of myself I find myself whispering back to Max, not wanting to dissipate the charged atmosphere between us as his hand grips my leg.

‘Gorgeous. Smooth and firm, the way you prefer,’ I say.

‘Hmm,’ he purrs, moving closer to me. ‘Do you look at them? When she’s cleaning, I mean? Can you see them when she, say, bends down to sweep up the floor?’

‘Yes,’ I lie. The trouble is, I like his excitement, I like turning him on.

And Max will never meet Mona. She’s a figment of his imagination. So I’m safe – aren’t I? – to fan the flames of his fantasy. Me and my live-in maid, a
cliché of course, but one which he’s embracing so whole-heartedly, so boyishly, I haven’t the heart to stop him.