shirt over her head. He gave an involuntary gasp. Her skin was olive and her breasts extraordinarily beautiful, unexpectedly full—the nipples ringed with bold circles the color of milk chocolate. Later, he believed he had tasted vanilla in the creases of her body.
14
It felt good to be driving with her beside him.
For Henry, true intimacy in a car had always taken place in the
front
seats, not the back. He did not mean the head in lap kind of thing, though in his teens he had not been a complete stranger to that. No, the romance had been in the simple act of driving with a woman next to him. There was the obvious togetherness, the common destination, and the pleasure in a shared landscape. He particularly liked driving at night, when the glow from the dashboard mimicked the lighting in 1940s black-and-white movies. At night, all his companions had been beautiful.
But best of all had been the talk. He and Nessa had always had their truest conversations on long drives. In a car you are side by side, not looking directly at each other, warily watching for the minute tics and involuntary gestures that belie the spoken words. The Catholic Church, with its curtained confessional, had always known that face-to-face is no way to learn the truth. Analysts have us lying on a couch, none of that nonsense about looking each other in the eye.
He glanced at Maude’s knees—less distracting now thatshe had a road map resting on them. At Mildenhall, he had taken a wrong exit at the roundabout and she, realizing his mistake, had found a left turn that would get them back on course. In this manner they had discovered one of the most beautiful roads in England, the kind of road that immediately knocks fifteen miles per hour off a driver’s speed, for no traveler wants to leave it too quickly.
A lesson for our road planners, Henry had thought, composing in his mind a new letter to the
Times
. Perhaps trees and landscaping can achieve through beauty what speed guns and cameras have failed to do by threat.
The neatness of his argument was undermined by the niggling suspicion that speed cameras might have been effective. Never mind, he could rework the argument to make the point that the advantage of beauty as a deterrent is that it causes pleasure, not a resentment of the forces of law and order. Yes, there was something in that. He would think about it back in London.
He had slowed the car to twenty miles per hour and opened the sunroof. There was no traffic, most drivers preferring the signposted route to Brandon that takes them past the American Air Force base at Lakenheath, with its screaming jets and scruffy golf course.
This slower, alternate route undulates through the edge of the Thetford Forest and seems like a throwback to the fifties, literally, a memory lane. Initially, the forest keeps its distance, recent felling opening up vistas on either side of the two-lane road. After a mile or so, the trees advance—first, strands of Scots pine and birch and then the full canopy of the forestitself arching over the road. Even in mid-April, the architecture of the overhanging trees was thrilling and Maude had temporarily put aside her misgivings about the trip. At first, she had refused to come.
“Henry, it’s an awful thing to do. You haven’t seen Tom in years and then you turn up with some bimbo girlfriend.”
“You’re not a bimbo.”
“That’s what he’ll think.”
“It will be less awkward if someone else is there—less chance of recrimination. He can’t be angry in front of strangers.”
“You’re wrong. It will be a disaster.”
In Swaffham he pulled into the market square and rang Tom as requested—some culinary timekeeping demanded notice of his whereabouts. Henry had been mostly silent during the call and Maude had grown uneasy.
“All right, I’ll see you in about forty minutes.” He put the phone down and turned to look at her.
“I need some air.”
He did not move to open the door as she
14
It felt good to be driving with her beside him.
For Henry, true intimacy in a car had always taken place in the
front
seats, not the back. He did not mean the head in lap kind of thing, though in his teens he had not been a complete stranger to that. No, the romance had been in the simple act of driving with a woman next to him. There was the obvious togetherness, the common destination, and the pleasure in a shared landscape. He particularly liked driving at night, when the glow from the dashboard mimicked the lighting in 1940s black-and-white movies. At night, all his companions had been beautiful.
But best of all had been the talk. He and Nessa had always had their truest conversations on long drives. In a car you are side by side, not looking directly at each other, warily watching for the minute tics and involuntary gestures that belie the spoken words. The Catholic Church, with its curtained confessional, had always known that face-to-face is no way to learn the truth. Analysts have us lying on a couch, none of that nonsense about looking each other in the eye.
He glanced at Maude’s knees—less distracting now thatshe had a road map resting on them. At Mildenhall, he had taken a wrong exit at the roundabout and she, realizing his mistake, had found a left turn that would get them back on course. In this manner they had discovered one of the most beautiful roads in England, the kind of road that immediately knocks fifteen miles per hour off a driver’s speed, for no traveler wants to leave it too quickly.
A lesson for our road planners, Henry had thought, composing in his mind a new letter to the
Times
. Perhaps trees and landscaping can achieve through beauty what speed guns and cameras have failed to do by threat.
The neatness of his argument was undermined by the niggling suspicion that speed cameras might have been effective. Never mind, he could rework the argument to make the point that the advantage of beauty as a deterrent is that it causes pleasure, not a resentment of the forces of law and order. Yes, there was something in that. He would think about it back in London.
He had slowed the car to twenty miles per hour and opened the sunroof. There was no traffic, most drivers preferring the signposted route to Brandon that takes them past the American Air Force base at Lakenheath, with its screaming jets and scruffy golf course.
This slower, alternate route undulates through the edge of the Thetford Forest and seems like a throwback to the fifties, literally, a memory lane. Initially, the forest keeps its distance, recent felling opening up vistas on either side of the two-lane road. After a mile or so, the trees advance—first, strands of Scots pine and birch and then the full canopy of the forestitself arching over the road. Even in mid-April, the architecture of the overhanging trees was thrilling and Maude had temporarily put aside her misgivings about the trip. At first, she had refused to come.
“Henry, it’s an awful thing to do. You haven’t seen Tom in years and then you turn up with some bimbo girlfriend.”
“You’re not a bimbo.”
“That’s what he’ll think.”
“It will be less awkward if someone else is there—less chance of recrimination. He can’t be angry in front of strangers.”
“You’re wrong. It will be a disaster.”
In Swaffham he pulled into the market square and rang Tom as requested—some culinary timekeeping demanded notice of his whereabouts. Henry had been mostly silent during the call and Maude had grown uneasy.
“All right, I’ll see you in about forty minutes.” He put the phone down and turned to look at her.
“I need some air.”
He did not move to open the door as she
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