Part 22 (1/2)

She offered me her hand, which was thin and white and brittle-looking, so I shook it carefully. Then I glanced again at Mrs Denham. I never would have guessed that she was Rosie's mom. She was small and blonde, not tall and dark, and she had a sad expression in her light blue eyes. She looked kind of tragic. Or maybe she was cold?

'Mum, I'll be five minutes,' Rosie said and then she ran into the bathroom, shut the door. So I was left alone with Mom.

'When did you arrive in London, Mr Riley?' Mom enquired.

'I came here round about two weeks ago. You don't need to call me Mr Riley. Pat is fine.'

'You're a professor, Rosie said?'

'Yes, at JQA that's John Quincy Adams University, it's in Minneapolis. I'm over here in London to give a course of lectures and do some consultation, have some meetings.'

'What's your field?'

'IT I work on speech-to-text and thought-to-text.'

'How fascinating.' Rosie's mother sounded like she couldn't think of anything more tedious. 'Well, Mr Riley, I don't suppose you'll ever want for work. We're all so dependent on computers nowadays.'

This was going so well ...

But I could kind of figure out why Mrs Denham didn't want to be my mate, as they say over here. Anybody touches Polly between now and when she's forty-five, they'll have me to deal with, and it won't be pretty.

'Rosie went to Cambridge,' continued Mrs Denham. 'She read Modern Languages. She got a very gratifying degree. Languages are so important these days, don't you think?'

'They're useful, anyway. A guy can't easily get along without at least the one.' Shut up, I thought, stop trying to be funny. 'When did you come to London, Mrs Denham? Did you drive down this morning or were you here already?'

'I caught an early train.'

'I never rode the train. I guess I ought to try it some time.'

'Only if cold stations, dirty carriages and ghastly coffee are your thing, as I believe American people say.'

'You didn't want to drive?'

'I don't do long distance driving any more.'

'You come from Dorset, is that right, it's in the south of England? Dorset can't be very far from London?'

'I'm aware Americans regard a thousand miles as no great distance, but it's different here,' said Mrs Denham.

'How's your weather been in Dorset?' Yeah, lame question, but I could remember hearing someplace that when you first meet anybody British, you should always talk about the weather. It's code for hi, how are you doing and I don't have bad intentions. I'm not about to steal your seed corn, covered wagon, silverware or cow.

'Absolutely terrible, we've had some awful flooding.' Mrs Denham sighed. 'It's been a dreadful winter. The roads near us have been all but impa.s.sable at times, what with walls collapsing and ditches overflowing. The council needs to do more maintenance. But, as I was saying to my husband only yesterday, what with cuts in public spending and oh, there you are, at last.'

Yeah, the cavalry arrived. Rosie came into the living room, smelling gorgeous, hair still damp, but now she was warmly dressed and booted to go out.

'You're ready, Mummy?' she asked Mom. 'Or would you like some coffee? Do you want to use the bathroom?'

'We ought to leave,' said Mrs Denham. 'Our tickets are for ten o'clock. We'll need to find a taxi.'

'Off you go,' I said. 'You guys have fun.'

'Thank you, Pat. I'll phone you later. Maybe we could meet for dinner?'

'Yeah, sounds good to me.'

'I'll be in touch.' Rosie stood on tiptoes, kissed me briefly on the cheek. But then, quick as a wink, she flicked her tongue across my ear and made me gasp. I hoped her mother didn't hear or see.

'It's been very interesting to meet you, Mr Riley.'

I swear Mrs Denham shuddered as she said my name. But Rosie smiled a secret smile, reminded me to lock the door behind me, and then they headed out.

March.

ROSIE.

Pat's time in the UK was up.

Lexie and his children had flown home a week ago with Lexie's other man and Pat was expected back at JQA himself.

I wished I'd met his children. I was curious about them. I suppose I could have engineered it. But maybe it was better that I hadn't met them, that I hadn't watched him being Daddy?

I took him to the airport. I wondered what would happen if I made a scene, if I wailed and clung to him and sobbed and acted all non-British and emotional? I did nothing of the sort, of course. When we kissed our last goodbye, there wasn't any tongue stuff. As if by some unspoken, undiscussed but mutual agreement, we didn't do the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation thing. Maybe lurking somewhere among Pat's Irish and Italian genes there had to be some British?

When he went through the gate and then walked on without a backward glance, I felt bereaved. It was like a part of me had been torn out, was lying bleeding on the floor, would die. It was then I cried.

I tried to concentrate on building up my business.

But since Pat had gone away I didn't see the point. I couldn't have cared less about conditioners for dog hair. Or for clever marketing of cupcakes. But I had to earn a living somehow and working for myself was flexible. I wasn't bound by statutory working hours or practices. If I chose, I was allowed to work myself to death.

So did I not hear from Pat? Yes of course I did. We texted, emailed, called each other all the time. But I could detect no real feeling in his messages or phone calls no genuine emotion. It was as if we were just casual friends. He talked about the weather another foot of snow in Minneapolis overnight on six inches of ice, so there would be yet another snow day for the kids and although he often said he missed me, now he had gone home again I never quite believed him.

What had I meant to him? Maybe I had merely been an opportunity to have some casual s.e.x, a chance to get one over on his wife?

But he'd said he loved me, that he was in love with me.

Well other men had said the same.

They were just words.

One Friday in the middle of March, the doorbell rang.

I was not expecting anyone. It was four o'clock and I had just come in from work, bringing back a pile of client folders which I meant to work on through the evening.

The flights from Minneapolis, I thought they land at noon or thereabouts. But flights can always be delayed, so maybe ...

Please let it be Pat come back? Let him say he couldn't bear to leave me? Let him tell me he'd resigned from JQA, that he'd found a job in the UK and that as far as Lexie and the children were concerned, we could work something out?