Page 3 of The Stranger in Room Six
Three rings.
But would it hurt – would itreallyhurt – to hear Imran’s voice if no one else knew? The temptation is just too much …
I think back to our Oxford days. To those heady long summer evenings when we’d lie in his narrow bed in the men’s hall (or he in mine in the women’s). But then he’d flown home to get married, and I’d sloped back to my mother because I couldn’t afford a flat on my tiny salary, and it was as though Imran had never existed.
Until his letter arrived last week.
I’ve been treasuring the pale blue envelope ever since, so that now and then I can reread it. Of course, I tell myself in my stronger moments, I won’t respond. What good would it do?
But one little phone conversation …
Don’t I deserve that? It’s not as though I’m going to do anything.
Four rings.
He’s not answering. It’s not meant to be.
I put down my mobile.
My knees are trembling so much that I can barely stand up. This isn’t me. I like to think I’m pretty fit; in fact, I play tennis three times a week and often choose singles over doubles so I can get more exercise.
But doubles in marriage isn’t what I thought it would be.There’s no passion. There never has been. It’s a comfortable routine. A secure pattern of him going to work and coming home; me looking after the girls and the house (‘There’s no need for you to work, Belinda’); badminton, tennis; and my book club meetings, although Gerald isn’t keen on my going out on winter evenings. (‘Don’t you want to stay inside and watchMorseon video with me instead?’)
It sounds old-fashioned and it is. I often think that Gerald should have been born in a previous decade.
I look at my mobile again. Surely Imran will see the missed call? Then again, he won’t know it was my number. I’m not even sure how he got my address, unless it was through the university alumni society.
Still the phone remains resolutely silent. He’s not ringing back. Not yet, anyway. And even if he were to, is it possible that I’ve read too much into his words?
I smooth the crease of the paper and read it again. It’s not so much a letter as a three-line note, although it is written on Basildon Bond paper:
It’s been a long time. Things have changed in my life. Can we meet? How about dinner on Tuesday night in London? I’m going to be there for work. Please ring me. I can’t wait to hear your voice. x
Then he’d put his phone number.
‘Things have changed in my life.’
What does that mean? Is he divorced? No. He’d often told me that he couldn’t do that in his religion. Has he changed his mind? Is he widowed now? The thought makes my heart thump with excitement, which, in turn, makes me feel horribly guilty.
‘That’s wicked,’ I tell myself sternly. Maybe it’s as simple as Imran moving back to London with his job. That’s it!He’d want me to meet his wife. Probably his children. He’s bound to have them. They’d all sit there and make polite conversation. Gerald would have to come too.
I couldn’t take that. I know I couldn’t. Why haven’t I ever been able to get Imran out of my head? Is it because Gerald simply never measured up to that rush of first love; that bolt of electricity when Imran would take my hand as we’d walk across the quad to lectures; that ‘Oh my God, he’s kissing me!’ when our lips had first met during the freshers’ summer ball; the way he ran his fingers through my hair (‘It’s like spun autumn gold, Belinda’); that terrible agonizing emptiness when he’d left after graduation.
Is that why, despite being married now to a perfectly decent man, I can’t stop dreaming of a parallel universe where someone hadreallyloved me? Really listened to me,desiredme.
Why do we make such hasty choices in our youth, without realizing the impact they have on later life?
I jump. My mobile’s ringing! A number I don’t recognize. Imran must be calling back; he would have guessed it was me. Guiltily, I stuff the letter into my pocket, as if someone is watching.
My heart is thudding so violently that it threatens to leap out of my chest. What am I going to say? I think back to the last time we saw each other, my things packed up waiting to go. His trunk already at the porter’s lodge. His eyes on mine.
The lie I had told him.
Shaking, I press green to accept on my mobile.
‘Is that Belinda?’
It’s a woman’s voice. Sharp, clipped, official.
