Thursdays in the Park by Hilary Boyd

table. ‘I know what you mean.’
    ‘It went well, don’t you think?’
    ‘It was wonderful. You can never tell, but I think everyone enjoyed themselves.’
    ‘Jola’s boyfriend looked a bit baffled, and I’m not sure it was Bea’s scene.’
    ‘She probably can’t hear what people say in all that noise. I’m glad she came, though.’
    Bea was another neighbour, now in her nineties. They had known her for as long as they’d known each other.
    They talked for a while, then George got up and took Jeanie’s hands, pulling her to her feet.
    ‘OK . . . bed.’ Jeanie yawned, but George held on to her.
    Suddenly he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. A lingering kiss. Jeanie froze. No, she thought, no, please . . . not now. She felt his arms go round her, his hands stroking her, pulling the strap from her left shoulder and kisses being pressed to her bare skin. His breathing was quick and uneven.
    ‘George . . .’ She pulled away slightly, but he paid no attention.
    ‘Jeanie . . . come upstairs . . . please.’ He kissed her again, a terrible, desperate passion in his mouth that made her wince. It was as if he were doing something he knew he must, and gritting his teeth to get it done.
    He was pulling her towards the door, his hand firmly on her wrist, then seemed to change his mind and made for the drawing room, pulling her down on the sofa. Ten years she had longed for him, but this was wrong. Ray wasn’t the problem, she hardly thought of him; no, she felt furious, outraged that George should consider even for a single second that he had the right.
    ‘George, stop it . . . please . . . not like this . . .’
    And when he continued, ‘George!’ This time it was a shout.
    She pushed him hard in the chest and pulled herself up off the sofa, breathing hard.
    Her husband was slumped on the cushions, his glasses crooked, his face crumpled into the bleakest expression she had ever seen.
    ‘Sorry . . . sorry . . .’ George muttered as she stared down at him. ‘You looked so beautiful tonight. Oh, Jeanie, I thought . . . after so long . . . it was what you wanted.’ He blinked up at her.
    Jeanie felt the strength go out of her and sat down again beside her husband. ‘Not like this, George. Not suddenly. It’s been ten years . . .’
    George’s owl-like eyes stared at her sadly. ‘Ten years, is it . . . ? I didn’t realize.’
    There was silence.
    ‘So you don’t . . . you don’t want to any more?’
    ‘I do . . . of course . . . although it’d be odd after all this time. It was never my choice not to.’ She sighed in frustration. ‘But George, you still haven’t explained what happened, why you suddenly didn’t want to make love to me.’
    She watched as her husband fiddled with his right cufflink, trying to push it through the buttonholes in his folded shirt-cuff. It was a heavy gold monogrammed disc, given to him by his father when he was twenty-one, and almost too big for the holes. She leaned over and did it for him, waiting for him to speak.
    ‘Why, George?’ she finally asked into the silence.
    His eyes lighted on hers fleetingly, then flicked nervously away.
    ‘There wasn’t a reason.’ His response was childlike, sulky.
    Jeanie got up. ‘I’m too old for this,’ she muttered tiredly, feeling suddenly that she was indeed too old, as from today, to listen yet again to this ancient lie.
    Her husband’s look was dogged. ‘There wasn’t . . . I can’t explain.’
    ‘ “Won’t”, you mean.’ She snatched up her pale-blue wool wrap that lay over the back of the armchair. Making one last try, she stood with her arms crossed and addressed him as he sat, still slumped against the cushions. ‘Look at it from my point of view, George. Suppose we’d had sex tonight. I think, “That’s good, we’re back on track.” I don’t ask any questions, just assume whatever it was that got in the way has gone. Then you leg it again.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘I don’t think I