Something to Hide by Deborah Moggach Page B

such obliterating joy. I love the way he tells me
you’ve got one of the six most beautiful backs in Britain.
I love the silliness of this; there hasn’t been enough silliness in my life and isn’t this the point of everything? Silliness and companionship, in the truest and deepest sense, with the person who makes you your best self and you his. The wonderment of this takes away my breath. And his too; we’re in this together.
    It’s insane. When he’s left the bedroom I gaze at the depression in the pillow with such tenderness. His head has rested there –
oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony.
    And we find ourselves having those conversations when you go back over the past, luxuriously, the two of you lying in bed. He talks about the old days in the flat downstairs.
    â€˜I remember when you came in from the bathroom,’ he says. ‘Your hair wet, rubbing it with a towel.’
    â€˜What were you doing?’
    â€˜Fixing Bev’s inner tube.’
    Bev and I had two ancient bikes. ‘I still bike everywhere,’ I say, ‘it’s the only way to get around London. I mean, I jump on it, a slip of a thing, and twenty minutes later I’m in Trafalgar Square.’
    â€˜That’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I jump on you, a slip of a thing, and five minutes later I’m in paradise.’
    I burst out laughing. ‘I do love you.’
    â€˜I love you too.’ He puts his mug on the bedside table and leans back against the pillows, gazing at me. ‘I always have, you know.’
    â€˜That’s not true.’
    â€˜Well, I fancied you rotten. But you were with that bloke with the earring who played the guitar so appallingly.’
    â€˜I didn’t fancy you.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜You were such a rugger-bugger. Not my type at all.’
    â€˜Not arty.’
    â€˜Not arty. And you wore cavalry twill trousers.’
    â€˜I never wore cavalry twill trousers.’
    â€˜Well, you looked as if you might.’
    I’m not entirely telling the truth. I can remember, as if it’s yesterday, my sickening envy when I heard his laughter through the wall. I didn’t love him but I envied Bev having him, if that makes sense.
    â€˜Anyway, you married Beverley.’
    He nods. ‘I married Beverley.’ He’s about to say something but stops. Pushing back the duvet, he gets to his feet. ‘Stay there and I’ll bring us breakfast.’
    I lie there. The bed reeks of sex. Strangely enough, our early failures have made us more frank and vulnerable, more open with each other. He’s becoming a delicious lover as he gets to know my body.
Gentlemen sleep on the damp patch
. I remember a girl at school saying that, with a superior toss of her head. She hadn’t a clue of course, none of us did, we were all virgins. Since then a lifetime has passed. Jeremy and I would seem like old codgers to her and yet we’re as thrillingly new to each other as teenagers. New and yet profoundly familiar. It’s the most intoxicating sensation. I want us to stay locked in my house for ever.
    I know I should feel guilty. I’m betraying my oldest friend. Bev emailed me recently.
I forgot to thank you for looking after Jem. He feels a fish out of water nowadays when he goes to London, so it was great that you took time out of your busy life to entertain him. And I like those shirts! He never approves of what I buy him but I’m sure with YOU he was on his best behaviour! He said you had a good old natter about the old days in The Dungeon. Wish I’d been there but he probably enjoyed being let off the leash!
    Jeremy comes back, carrying a tray. He knows his way around my house now; we’ve become a couple, it’s as if we’ve lived here all our lives. This feels utterly natural although I know it’s both wicked and untrue.
    We sit in bed, buttering our toast. He pauses, knife in hand. ‘To be