He doesn’t add anything as he sticks the cigarette in his mouth and lights it before nodding towards a hedge. ‘I’m going to have to hide behind there,’ he says. ‘I’m on a second warning for smoking on company property. You coming?’
I follow him past my car and around a corner until we’re tucked into a hidden alcove where one hedge meets another. The area must be permanently in shadow because the ground is damp. There’s also a telltale collection of cigarette ends dumped in the mud.
‘What do you wanna know?’ Gavin asks.
‘I suppose what you remember.’
‘About you?’
‘I guess.’
He inhales from the cigarette and puffs out a plume that spirals high over the hedge. ‘You were in by yourself,’ he says. ‘I was on night shift in the bar and Jimbo had called in sick so I was by myself. At first I figured you were one of those career types who spend the evening getting steadily plastered. Anyway, you were a drink or two in when this bloke sidled up and sat next to you.’
‘Stephen?’
‘I guess so. You were getting on like a house on fire. Went off to the window for dinner, then came back to the bar. You were so pissed. I served you three wines and you were gone. I thought you must have spent the afternoon on the lash.’
‘I hadn’t had anything to drink before I got to the hotel.’
‘Well you were pretty much off your head – and I only served you three glasses.’
He clearly doesn’t believe me and gives a suit yourself shrug. I’d bet he sees this type of thing regularly: people in suits and business wear away from home and the office getting lashed on expenses.
‘Alcohol hits me hard,’ I reply.
It’s not exactly a lie – but it normally takes more than three glasses of wine to get me going. I don’t want to interrupt his flow by arguing over how much I drank. He seems clear enough I only had three.
He snorts. ‘You’re not wrong on that.’
‘What else happened after we came back to the bar after eating?’
That smirk returns for another brief appearance before he catches himself. ‘Not much.’
‘But something did…?’
Gavin is smoking quickly and has almost got through his rollie. He switches it from his right hand to his left, gulping down the smoke and breathing it out again.
‘You went to the toilet,’ he says.
I have no memory of that but I tell him I remember anyway.
‘I had a chat with your bloke,’ Gavin adds.
‘What about?’
Another puff and the cigarette has gone. He drops it to the ground and mashes it in with the others. ‘Well, no offence, but I asked him what the deal was. He was, like, twenty-odd. Some gym guy. A model type. And you… well…’
He tails off but the point is savagely clear.
‘You can say it,’ I reply.
‘Right, well, I ask him why some fit young guy would be chatting up an older woman. I thought he might have a type, y’know? Like some dudes are into black chicks, or Indian girls. Some blokes like ’em young, or whatever. I asked if he went for the MILFy-types.’
‘I’m a MILFy-type?’
He shrugs. ‘Not my type, but, y’know, some guys are up for anything. I have a mate who’s into furries. You know what that is?’
‘I honestly don’t want to know.’
Gavin bats a hand. ‘Anyway, I asked him what the deal was and he smiled and said, “What do you think?”.’
I stare at him, confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
Gavin sighs and then rubs his thumb across his forefinger and middle finger. The universal sign for money. Like some dodgy market trader trying to get something cash-in-hand.
‘I still don’t understand.’
Gavin steps around me and moves towards the car park. ‘I dunno what to tell you. That’s what he told me.’
It takes a second for the penny to drop. ‘He told you he was talking to me for money?’
Gavin rocks back and laughs. ‘Aye, talking for money. That’s a new one. I thought you might be some rich divorcee who got a big settlement. Flashing the cash and gash. All that.’
He’s already another step away when I tell him I don’t have any money.
He looks back over his shoulder and laughs. ‘Whatever. I’ve gotta get to work. Have a good day, an’ that.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I’m on the way home thinking over the conversation with Gavin by the secret smoking corner. None of it makes sense. Stephen was paid to talk to me? It makes no sense.
Gavin’s snidey giggle about talking for money is true. Who pays someone to talk to them at a bar for an hour or two?
I’ve only gone a couple of miles when I pull into a layby and turn the engine off. My brain is hurting from trying to force the memories. It would explain why Stephen chose to speak to me instead of the smattering of other people in the bar. It now fits why I found him so charming and why he seemingly thought the same of me. I wondered those same things at the time, suspecting that perhaps he had a thing for older women.
In all honesty, I didn’t care. He was young, handsome, intelligent and charismatic. I’ve not had anyone like that pay attention to me in a long time. I’m not sure about ‘MILFy’ but there was a big part of me that hoped he did have a thing for older women. It was exciting, making me feel important and wanted.
I now remember a really clear thought from the time. We were sitting at the table by the window, looking out over towards what I know now is a chapel. We were trying to figure out what it was, speculating that it might be an elaborate shed for a demanding gardener. It doesn’t sound like much now but, at the time, it was hilarious. I turned to him and took in this beautiful man and thought, why should all the skinny gym girls have all the fun?
It crossed my mind that I would be cheating on Dan. I’ve never been with another man since marrying him, despite the way we’ve argued in recent years. We had already agreed to separate and I wondered if this counted as adultery. I was still wearing my wedding ring, yet Stephen either didn’t pick up on it, or didn’t care.
My relationship with Dan in recent times has very much been something like don’t ask, don’t tell. He’s had weekends away at teaching conferences, nights away for courses. More recently, he’s been at the gym a lot; or he’s said he’s at the gym a lot. I’ve considered that he might be doing his own thing with another woman – or women – but I’ve never asked because I didn’t particularly want to know. Without the truth, the illusion of our marriage could continue for Olivia; with it, everything might come tumbling down.
I thought about all of that in the moment by the window with Stephen – and I decided that if he wanted me, then I wanted him.
But I don’t remember much after moving from the table back to the bar with him. It’s only vague flashes after that. After waking up in my car, I assumed I’d been drinking – but Gavin says I only had three glasses of wine. That sounds about right. Two or three is my limit nowadays, especially when I’m out.
There is a blurry flash of the lifts, that jackpot machine dinging which I found hilarious for no reason. I was leaning on Stephen as I giggled myself stupid and then… we were in my room. Another smoggy memory of him lowering me onto the bed. He was telling me I was fine. The sheets were tucked hard and he lowered me down. I leaned in, kissing him on the neck, feeling that prickle of stubble against my lips. He said something like ‘that’s nice’ and then… I was in the car in that field.
But none of it was real. Stephen was paid to be with me.
So who paid him? It wasn’t me.
And was he paid to sleep with me?
If he was, then I’m almost certain he didn’t. Perhaps it was because I was too drunk, perhaps he changed his mind. I’m sure I’d know if we’d done that and am about as convinced as I can be that we didn’t. It didn’t stop me wanting to. It didn’t stop me kissing his neck, or spending the night flirting.
* * *