to be tempted; there was this tiny bit that didn’t, and it would probably be bigger by morning, but tonight ... She swallowed, aware now only of the chemistry between them.
‘Two prawn cocktails coming up and what about some vino?’ Thelma, with a jangle of earrings, plonked a bilious pink mixture in front of her, and Bet, feeling like the lonely prawn adhering to the rim of the glass dish in which the mixture came, snatched her hand away from Simon’s and took a bread roll instead. For a second Simon, whose expression up to now had been that of a rather vulnerable small boy unpacking his first Christmas present, appeared nonplussed, but only for a second. Even before Bet had bitten into her unwanted roll, he’d turned back into the world-weary, slightly saturnine Simon she knew. And by the time Thelma, with a final wiggle of the hips and a shriek like a macaw, had departed for the kitchen, life had returned to normal.
Simon dug a spoon into his prawn cocktail. ‘To take away the taste of this,’ he said, putting the spoon down again and grinning across the table at her, ‘I could, if you like, tell you about old Saltpeter Westover. He was quite an amusing cove actually — about the only Westover who was — and although I says it myself, I’m not a bad hand at telling a story. Or if you prefer something lighter, what about my experiences as a courier in the travel business? The time I lost a party of Ulster Protestants bound for the Costa del Sol at Gatwick and they caught the wrong plane and landed up in Lourdes?’
And Bet, opting for the travel business, listened and laughed until she cried. For Simon Morris could be both funny and charming when he tried, and tonight he was trying his very hardest.
It was past midnight when they left the restaurant. Outside, in the market square, motor-cycles snarled and spiky-haired young erupted from Dirty Dan’s Disco on the corner by the Methodist church. ‘Did you know,’ Simon said, weaving Cyn’s Lancia in and out of the motor-cycles, ‘that a Protestant martyr was burned in this square in 1556? A kind old buffer, people said, greatly skilled in the art of healing. That didn’t save him, however, though they did put green wood on the fire to hasten his end.’
‘Green wood?’
‘You’re asphyxiated by the smoke before the fire gets you.’ ‘Oh.’
They didn’t talk much after that until Simon stopped the car at the Rectory gate. ‘I won’t drive in, Titania, I’ve no desire to rouse your family, and it looks as though they’re back. It’s been a great evening, and thank you for putting up with me.’
So he wasn’t going to try and kiss her. Would she have let him if he had? No need to answer that one, not now anyway. He opened the car door and she scrambled out and stood on the grass verge, looking in through the window. ‘I’ve enjoyed it, too, even the chips and the history.’
‘Am I a bore about history?’ Now he was looking vulnerable again, and Bet was a sucker for vulnerability. ‘No, you’re not a bore about history,’ she said, ‘you’re not a bore about anything — goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Titania ... and don’t let that family of yours bully you.’ She watched him turn the big car in the narrow lane and went on standing there on the frosty grass until the sound of its engine had died away, then turned and went into the house. Warm, humming darkness enveloped her. She switched on the light and Tib raised a sleepy head in greeting, then sank back into his basket. Thank God, the others must have gone to bed.
*
‘Pete,’ Pol poked her husband in the ribs, ‘I think I heard a car. Go and have a look out of the landing window.’
For God’s sake, ducky, it’s none of our business when Bet gets home.’
‘You’ve simply no feeling for anyone else, have you. Bet could have been raped, or anything. You know what the Normans said about that man and his reputation.’ Pete, however, was asleep again, there would be no
‘Two prawn cocktails coming up and what about some vino?’ Thelma, with a jangle of earrings, plonked a bilious pink mixture in front of her, and Bet, feeling like the lonely prawn adhering to the rim of the glass dish in which the mixture came, snatched her hand away from Simon’s and took a bread roll instead. For a second Simon, whose expression up to now had been that of a rather vulnerable small boy unpacking his first Christmas present, appeared nonplussed, but only for a second. Even before Bet had bitten into her unwanted roll, he’d turned back into the world-weary, slightly saturnine Simon she knew. And by the time Thelma, with a final wiggle of the hips and a shriek like a macaw, had departed for the kitchen, life had returned to normal.
Simon dug a spoon into his prawn cocktail. ‘To take away the taste of this,’ he said, putting the spoon down again and grinning across the table at her, ‘I could, if you like, tell you about old Saltpeter Westover. He was quite an amusing cove actually — about the only Westover who was — and although I says it myself, I’m not a bad hand at telling a story. Or if you prefer something lighter, what about my experiences as a courier in the travel business? The time I lost a party of Ulster Protestants bound for the Costa del Sol at Gatwick and they caught the wrong plane and landed up in Lourdes?’
And Bet, opting for the travel business, listened and laughed until she cried. For Simon Morris could be both funny and charming when he tried, and tonight he was trying his very hardest.
It was past midnight when they left the restaurant. Outside, in the market square, motor-cycles snarled and spiky-haired young erupted from Dirty Dan’s Disco on the corner by the Methodist church. ‘Did you know,’ Simon said, weaving Cyn’s Lancia in and out of the motor-cycles, ‘that a Protestant martyr was burned in this square in 1556? A kind old buffer, people said, greatly skilled in the art of healing. That didn’t save him, however, though they did put green wood on the fire to hasten his end.’
‘Green wood?’
‘You’re asphyxiated by the smoke before the fire gets you.’ ‘Oh.’
They didn’t talk much after that until Simon stopped the car at the Rectory gate. ‘I won’t drive in, Titania, I’ve no desire to rouse your family, and it looks as though they’re back. It’s been a great evening, and thank you for putting up with me.’
So he wasn’t going to try and kiss her. Would she have let him if he had? No need to answer that one, not now anyway. He opened the car door and she scrambled out and stood on the grass verge, looking in through the window. ‘I’ve enjoyed it, too, even the chips and the history.’
‘Am I a bore about history?’ Now he was looking vulnerable again, and Bet was a sucker for vulnerability. ‘No, you’re not a bore about history,’ she said, ‘you’re not a bore about anything — goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Titania ... and don’t let that family of yours bully you.’ She watched him turn the big car in the narrow lane and went on standing there on the frosty grass until the sound of its engine had died away, then turned and went into the house. Warm, humming darkness enveloped her. She switched on the light and Tib raised a sleepy head in greeting, then sank back into his basket. Thank God, the others must have gone to bed.
*
‘Pete,’ Pol poked her husband in the ribs, ‘I think I heard a car. Go and have a look out of the landing window.’
For God’s sake, ducky, it’s none of our business when Bet gets home.’
‘You’ve simply no feeling for anyone else, have you. Bet could have been raped, or anything. You know what the Normans said about that man and his reputation.’ Pete, however, was asleep again, there would be no
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