Page 42 of One Summer Weekend
If only it was that simple. The next two days were spent with the spectre of Jack Smith as I completed the deep-dive report based on all the information I’d gathered. It was a work of art, crafted from personal as well as professional observation, but carefully worded to cover up any visible cracks in my coaching armour. And yet … every comment was weighed down withmemories and double meaning. ‘Jack is quick to take the initiative and responsive to feedback. This was apparent following the senior management meeting and subsequent debrief, when he researched more consultative leadership techniques and implemented them at the union meeting the next day.’Even more apparent on the Saturday night, when I kissed him and he gave back as good as he got …‘He canbe very persuasive and single-minded in pursuing his own agenda. He volunteered the metaphor of a rifle shot – identify the target, take aim, then fire.’A metaphor that we started to explore together, in a motorhome called Hermann, until we were interrupted by a phone call …‘He seems to be widely respected by the workforce because, as one of the union representatives explained, he’s given themhope.’And that’s exactly what he gave me – hope of finding love again. This time with somebody more capable of returning it. And now that hope’s been well and truly dashed …
Every so often, by way of light relief from the deep-dive report, I reviewed Judy’s notes on the session she’d been going to deliver at the conference. She made transferring the learning from executive coaching to lifecoaching sound straightforward, a matter of imposing structure and formality. The irony of being her replacement wasn’t lost on me: these notes would be delivered by a woman who’d apparently learnt very little from her career as an executive coach. A woman who’d just allowed a disastrous personal event from her past to screw up a client relationship. Even worse, a woman who’d been on the brinkof falling in love with that same client …
Friday evening drifted up on me like a mist. As I intended to go straight into London from the office, I worked late. Not that I had much actual work to do by then; it was more a case of filling in time until I could be sure of avoiding any involvement with the informal drinks party.
To my surprise, Celia was at her most helpful, staying beyondfive o’clock and offering to book me a taxi to the station. Bemused, I allowed her to organise my journey and arrived at the hotel around eight. True enough, my room had a bath – and not just an apology for one. I turned on the taps, reckoning that it would take a while to fill the deep tub with enough water for a relaxing soak. In the bedroom I unpacked and undressed, eking out both tasks withthe expertise of someone used to long hours of solitude. Then it was on with the sleek white velour robe provided, and on with the kettle.
Good selection of tea – too much choice, in fact. Peppermint? Earl Grey? Or maybe—
A knock at the door. Room service, confusing me with another guest? I let out an exasperated sigh, tightened the belt of my robe and crossed the room. The securitychain meant that the door opened no more than a couple of inches – wide enough to send whoever it was away.
‘Yes?’ My tone was designed to give the shadowy figure standing in the corridor no encouragement. Judging by the height, this must be a man; the subdued glow of the corridor lighting hampered any further identification.
‘It’s me, Alicia.’
That unmistakable black-velvetvoice – its simple, intimate greeting directed atme. I stared in disbelief, waiting for this weird dream to relax its grip. But no – as my eyes adjusted to the half-gloom, I could make out everything that was now familiar about Jack Smith: the shape of his head, the cut of his shoulders, the angles of his face … The drab remains of the evening took on a new lustre – and this moment was somethingto savour, rather than rush. ‘What areyoudoing here?’ I managed, at last.
The ghost of a grin. ‘That very much depends on you.’
‘In what way?’ My gaze lingered on his mouth, while my mind battled those inevitable memories.
‘I thought we could have that talk, the one we didn’t have on Sunday.’ A pause, while he looked me up and down. ‘I was going to suggest we went to the bar—’
‘Let’s stay here,’ I said firmly, undoing the security chain; the last thing I wanted was to be in the company of others when we talked. Yet, as he came through the door, I found myself turning away in confusion. No need for role play any more – but would our script have changed?
I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. ‘I was just making tea – would you like some?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Got anything stronger?’
‘You’ll have to make do with strong tea,’ I said primly, recovering my composure. ‘Sit down.’ I gestured to the easy chair furthest from the bed, and busied myself with taking two teabags out of their sachets.
A low chuckle. ‘I love it when you boss me about.’
An invitation to give him other orders, like ‘Hold me’ and ‘Kiss me’and ‘Take me to bed’? But I said nothing. Meanwhile, on its little wooden shelf, the kettle grumbled loud and long, erupted into a crescendo of boiling, and came to rest. I poured the water into the chunky china teapot, and set out the two cups and saucers. With the kettle silenced, there was nothing to drown out another sound – the sound of running water …
I dashed into the bathroom andturned off the taps, not a moment too soon. My heart was thumping, and it wasn’t just because of the near-flood. I knew he was behind me, and I knew what would happen next. My fingers fumbled with the belt of my bathrobe, then stopped. Why deprive him of the pleasure?
‘Alicia.’
I turned, as if in slow motion; our eyes met and held. In the end, it was my voice that whispered the question:‘Do you want to talk now … or later?’ He gave me his answer without uttering a single word, untying my bathrobe, easing it from my shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Then he stepped away, undoing the buttons of his shirt, studying every inch of me through half-lidded eyes. My initial embarrassment at his scrutiny soon gave way to impatience, and I moved nearer to help him off with hisclothes. When at last that was done, I could admire – more openly than ever before – the taut, lean beauty of his body.
And so we resumed what had begun in the motorhome – a journey into the known and the unknown, the familiar and the new, the anticipated and the unexpected. With it – for me, at least – came the erosion of old barriers, the healing of secret hurts, the rediscovery of thevery essence of living.
We made love slowly, wonderingly, joyfully. The tea cooled in the teapot, the water lay undisturbed in the bath. And, after three long years, the ice that had numbed my heart began to thaw.
