ridiculous. She stands there looking at me, wary, unsure – unhappy maybe: maybe I’ve spoiled something. She thanks me for the supper and I watch her leave through the thick plate glass of the Tudor Lodge hotel’s front door. As she bends into the taxi she turns and gives me a brisk, brief, final wave.
It was dawn by the time you parked the cerise Fiesta outside the bakery. ‘What a night,’ Yvonne said. ‘I can’t believe Irene’s staying. What did you say to her?’
‘I don’t really know,’ you said. Irene and Tommy had had a few words and then Irene had taken a taxi back to her mother’s, where she’d left her children. On the return journey to the open prison Tommy had been reflective, asking you several times to repeat the exchange you’d had with Irene. Tommy patted you gratefully on the shoulder, kissed Yvonne and slipped out of the car and into the night.
‘It’s just across the fields,’ Yvonne said. ‘They come and go all the time, Tommy says.’
‘Don’t they have guards at this prison?’ you asked.
‘Of course. But they trust the prisoners. That’s why it’s called an open prison.’
You followed Yvonne up the stairs, your eyes on the pale blue veins showing on the backs of her knees, at that moment you wanted to do nothing more than reach out and run your hand over her flexing calf muscle. You felt desire stir in you like a skittish animal.
You paused on the landing, fished in your pocket for the key.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee, or anything?’ you asked. You could see yourself in your narrow bed with Yvonne, belly to belly; you could smell her, feel her thick hair drag across your chest.
‘Better get some sleep. Got work in three hours.’
She backed away, slumped like a marionette for a moment to feign extreme exhaustion, straightened with a smile and blew you a kiss. As evanescent as a blown kiss, you thought. What could be more insubstantial?
‘Thanks a million, Ed. See you later, maybe.’
I tell Dale Auden I don’t like his tone. Don’t like his implications.
‘And I don’t like you, full stop,’ he says.
We are in the carpark. I throw my grip into the back of the Volvo and turn to face him. He jabs his finger at me.
‘You asked her up to your room.’
‘To continue the interview.’
‘Bloody pervert.’
I try to punch him in the face but he raises his arm and I strike his shoulder instead, hard. With astonishing speed he immobilizes me with some kind of double arm lock and hisses threats and obscenities into my ear. Then he pushes me brusquely away and I career into a shrub – twigs snap…
‘I’m going to call your editor,’ he says. ‘Pervert.’
‘Get a life,’ I shout at him. He laughs at that and wanders off. I flex my fingers: my hand hurts. Get a life.
You found the continued clattering and tramping up and down the stairs an irritation and eventually looked out of your room. Yvonne and a guy in a leather coat were coming down from her bedsit, Yvonne carrying a suitcase, the guy lugging a cardboard box.
‘Hi,’ you said, surprised. ‘Want a hand?’
‘No thanks, we’re fine, thanks. This is Tony.’
Tony nodded and grinned hello at you above his cardboard box.
‘Moving out?’ you said, suddenly realizing.
‘Yeah. Going to Penzance.’
‘Cornwall? My God. Never been to Cornwall.’
‘Come and see us,’ Yvonne said.
Five minutes later, she came back up the stairs and knocked on your door.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said, ‘Irene went to Majorca. Yesterday. Took the kids with her this time.’
‘God.’
‘Just goes to show.’
You tried to understand this news, wondering if in some way you were responsible.
‘How’s Tommy?’
‘He’s a bit cut up. Not surprising, really.’
‘Yeah.’
You stood there in your room with Yvonne and you both thought about that night you had shared, silent for a few seconds. Then you looked at each other. You flexed your fingers.
‘I’ll send you a change of address
It was dawn by the time you parked the cerise Fiesta outside the bakery. ‘What a night,’ Yvonne said. ‘I can’t believe Irene’s staying. What did you say to her?’
‘I don’t really know,’ you said. Irene and Tommy had had a few words and then Irene had taken a taxi back to her mother’s, where she’d left her children. On the return journey to the open prison Tommy had been reflective, asking you several times to repeat the exchange you’d had with Irene. Tommy patted you gratefully on the shoulder, kissed Yvonne and slipped out of the car and into the night.
‘It’s just across the fields,’ Yvonne said. ‘They come and go all the time, Tommy says.’
‘Don’t they have guards at this prison?’ you asked.
‘Of course. But they trust the prisoners. That’s why it’s called an open prison.’
You followed Yvonne up the stairs, your eyes on the pale blue veins showing on the backs of her knees, at that moment you wanted to do nothing more than reach out and run your hand over her flexing calf muscle. You felt desire stir in you like a skittish animal.
You paused on the landing, fished in your pocket for the key.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee, or anything?’ you asked. You could see yourself in your narrow bed with Yvonne, belly to belly; you could smell her, feel her thick hair drag across your chest.
‘Better get some sleep. Got work in three hours.’
She backed away, slumped like a marionette for a moment to feign extreme exhaustion, straightened with a smile and blew you a kiss. As evanescent as a blown kiss, you thought. What could be more insubstantial?
‘Thanks a million, Ed. See you later, maybe.’
I tell Dale Auden I don’t like his tone. Don’t like his implications.
‘And I don’t like you, full stop,’ he says.
We are in the carpark. I throw my grip into the back of the Volvo and turn to face him. He jabs his finger at me.
‘You asked her up to your room.’
‘To continue the interview.’
‘Bloody pervert.’
I try to punch him in the face but he raises his arm and I strike his shoulder instead, hard. With astonishing speed he immobilizes me with some kind of double arm lock and hisses threats and obscenities into my ear. Then he pushes me brusquely away and I career into a shrub – twigs snap…
‘I’m going to call your editor,’ he says. ‘Pervert.’
‘Get a life,’ I shout at him. He laughs at that and wanders off. I flex my fingers: my hand hurts. Get a life.
You found the continued clattering and tramping up and down the stairs an irritation and eventually looked out of your room. Yvonne and a guy in a leather coat were coming down from her bedsit, Yvonne carrying a suitcase, the guy lugging a cardboard box.
‘Hi,’ you said, surprised. ‘Want a hand?’
‘No thanks, we’re fine, thanks. This is Tony.’
Tony nodded and grinned hello at you above his cardboard box.
‘Moving out?’ you said, suddenly realizing.
‘Yeah. Going to Penzance.’
‘Cornwall? My God. Never been to Cornwall.’
‘Come and see us,’ Yvonne said.
Five minutes later, she came back up the stairs and knocked on your door.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said, ‘Irene went to Majorca. Yesterday. Took the kids with her this time.’
‘God.’
‘Just goes to show.’
You tried to understand this news, wondering if in some way you were responsible.
‘How’s Tommy?’
‘He’s a bit cut up. Not surprising, really.’
‘Yeah.’
You stood there in your room with Yvonne and you both thought about that night you had shared, silent for a few seconds. Then you looked at each other. You flexed your fingers.
‘I’ll send you a change of address
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