But he thawed again when I told him about the one-day mindfulness course that Alastair had persuaded me to go on. ‘We had to spend half an hour eating a single raisin. Then an hour appreciating a flower. The thing that these live-in-the-moment merchants don’t seem to get is that I can appreciate things speedily. I can see a flower and think, Ooh, that’s pretty. Right, moving on. I don’t have to stop in my tracks and, like, lick every individual petal.’
That drew a proper smile from him, a full, symmetrical, white-teeth dazzler, and it felt like winning a prize. ‘What’s your favourite movie?’ he asked.
I put my head in my hands and groaned. ‘Stop. Don’t. We’re not kids. Next you’ll be making me a mix-tape.’ I peeped through my fingers. He looked hurt.
‘I’m just trying to get to know you.’
Quickly I’d said, ‘I love Wes Anderson’s films.’ Slightly defensively I added, ‘I know they’re more style than substance, but I love their atmosphere.’
‘At least you didn’t say something starring Jennifer Aniston.’
‘I like Jennifer Aniston too.’
When he gave me a you’re-joking look, I said, ‘I do.’
‘Oh-kay.’
‘So what about you? What’s your favourite movie? No! Let me guess.’ I ran through the usual suspects – The Godfather, Raging Bull, Citizen Kane … Suddenly I was utterly certain. ‘The Lives of Others.’
His face went quite blank. A beat passed, then another. ‘How did you know?’
It wasn’t that hard. Most of the men I knew would have that on their list. (Mind you, Hugh’s favourite was It’s a Wonderful Life.) ‘Just,’ I said. ‘You know …’
‘Wow.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a great movie, isn’t it?’
‘Um, I haven’t seen it.’
‘Jesus.’ He’s appalled. ‘That’s a crime.’
‘Movies are your passion?’
‘My passion?’ He lingers on the word while looking me in the eye. ‘One of them. Script-writing, yeah, I’d have loved …’ He changes the subject. ‘What about art? Your favourite artist?’
‘Everyone probably says Picasso or Van Gogh, and I do like them …’ I hesitate before saying any more.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t go to third-level education. I’m a bit touchy about it – people act as if you were brought up by feral dogs – and I’m worried you’ll judge me.’
‘I didn’t judge you for the Aniston thing.’
‘Ah, you did, a bit.’ I smile at him. ‘But you definitely won’t have heard of my favourite artist. A Serbian woman called Du?anka Petrovi?.’
Regretfully he shook his head.
‘She paints in the naive style. I’ve only seen her work on Pinterest but I love it.’
‘Does she do exhibitions?’
‘The only ones I’ve found are in a Serbian town called Jagodina. I’ve emailed to see about buying prints but they probably don’t understand English, and I’ve tried ringing but no one answers the phone.’
‘Maybe it’s closed.’
‘Things happen on their Facebook page. I can’t understand the language but the dates are current.’
‘But your artist must have a website?’
‘Swear to God, she doesn’t. She mightn’t even be still alive. But one day I’m going on a road trip to the Jagodina place.’
A flash of resentment sparked in me. All my holidays were picked to please the girls and Hugh – mostly the girls, to be fair – and everything got prioritized over what I wanted.
There was never enough money for Hugh and me to go on weekend jaunts to European cities. Very occasionally one of us would be sent to an appealing work spot and the other would tag along for a day and a half at the end.
But the one time we found ourselves with some spare money, due to an unexpected tax rebate, and I’d asked Hugh straight out if we could visit the museum in Jagodina, he’d said, ‘I’m sorry, babe, I just can’t get excited about Serbia. The thought of spending money on going there when we could spend it instead on Marrakech or Porto …’
‘You okay?’ Josh was watching my face.
‘Yes.’ No way would I ever complain to him about Hugh.
Josh changed the subject by enquiring about my clothes, so I told him about Bronagh, and as I spoke, he watched me avidly, the admiration in his eyes contrasting with the granite set of his face.
All of that attention was seductive and, call me pathetic, it was pretty cool to see myself as an interesting woman dressed in one-off vintage and whose favourite artist wasn’t a predictable pick but some low-key Serbian. The reality, of course, was that I was hard-up and badly educated, but everything is about presentation.
At the end of the lunch I said, ‘So we’ve managed to get through an encounter without me propositioning you. Progress.’
Another proper smile. Then, ‘Proposition me any time you like.’
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha.’ I blushed – and he noticed.
‘Amy …’ He touched his knuckles to my hot face.
‘Gotta go.’ I scarpered.
Since then we’d had lunch three more times, always on a Tuesday, always in the same place, always with me doing most of the talking and him watching me as if I was the most interesting woman alive. His questions were about things that nobody else usually asked me.
I tried turning the tables and grilling him, but he offered up a lot less than I did. All the same, he admitted a few things: that he loved the sea, that his most favourite place in the world was the Northumbrian coast; that he suffered from early-waking insomnia; that he rarely cried but when he did it was usually triggered by a news story about wounded children – ‘That little boy in the ambulance in Aleppo did my head in. When you’ve kids of your own, you personalize everything.’
Things went a bit awkward with that remark, reminding us both of our other lives, where we had children and spouses.
Derry was the only person I told about the lunches and she wasn’t impressed. ‘How would you feel if Hugh was meeting a woman the way you’re meeting Josh Rowan?’ she asked.
I squirmed. I’d be deeply wounded, deeply, and worried sick. ‘Nothing has happened,’ I said. ‘Nothing is going to happen. It’s just harmless flirting.’
Except there was nothing harmless about it. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and la-la-la-la-la-la away the truth that emotional infidelity was a thing. Maybe not as bad as actual carnal-knowledge infidelity, but still bad.
‘I’ll tell you what you’re doing,’ Derry said. ‘You’re easing yourself into a thing with him by Normalizing the Abnormal.’
I knew that phrase, which had originated in addiction circles; it meant that a person didn’t go to bed one night perfectly healthy and wake up the following morning a full-blown addict. Instead it was something that happened in stealthy increments. A person took a single daring step away from the correct course, and only when that no longer felt aberrant did they take another. Once again, they waited for the shame and fear to settle, and when it did, they were emboldened to take one more step, all the while moving further and further off the righteous path.
‘Nothing is going to happen,’ I repeated. ‘Hey! Would you like to see pictures of him?’ I was already reaching for my iPad.
‘No. Amy. Get a hold of yourself. Listen to me, this isn’t Josh Rowan’s first rodeo. Soon you’re going to have to move this forward. I don’t know the man, but I can tell you one thing. He’s not in this for the hand-holding.’
‘We haven’t held hands. We don’t hold hands. We don’t even air-kiss hello.’
‘Men like to fuck things.’
‘Ah, Derry!’
‘You and him aren’t any different from anyone else considering an extra-marital fuck-fest.’ She was being deliberately brutal. ‘Seriously, Amy, don’t try dressing this up with talk of special connections or irresistible attractions.’
That plunged me into despondency because, yes, it’s what I had been doing.
‘Can I ask why?’ she said. ‘Is it Hugh? Is he being … I don’t know, not there for you?’
‘It’s not Hugh.’ I was adamant. ‘Whatever this is, it’s all on me. Could I be bored of monogamy?’
‘It’d be entirely out of character if you were. But all of this is out of character. Could it be your age? Maybe your body knows the decline has started and is urging you to have one last hurrah.’