Clock-watching? I write back. For an instant, I let my eyes slide across the room. He’s reclining in his chair, staring at his computer with an expression of studied boredom as he stretches out and lazily taps a few words. I glance at my screen. Too right, the message says, and don’t tell me you’re not. As I look up, he does the same, and our eyes meet for a couple of seconds. The electricity of it makes me shiver, and I can barely believe that everything around us is carrying on as normal, sullen and oblivious. Impatience rockets through me. I push my chair back and walk quickly over to his desk, clutching my notebook to my chest.
‘Do you mind if we go through those accounts now?’ I ask lightly. ‘I know we said midday, but I want to get to the post office at lunch and I’d be better off going earlier.’
He stares up at me, expressionless. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Just give me five minutes, yeah?’
I grit my teeth. ‘Of course,’ I say sweetly. I walk back to my desk and sit down, flipping open the notebook and bending my head over it with an air of studied concentration. Picking up a pencil, I colour in between the lines, shading a pattern. My fingers are slippery with sweat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that the messenger icon is flashing again, but I ignore it, seemingly intent on my task. I know he’s watching and, sure enough, it’s barely two minutes before he gets up and comes over, albeit at a maddeningly slow pace.
‘You know what,’ he says, ‘I think I’m ready now.’ He’s holding his laptop under his arm, his other hand stuffed casually into his pocket. I stand up and walk beside him through the office, towards the turning that leads to the meeting room. It’s the closest we’ve been all morning. He’s wearing the aftershave I like best, and the scent of it collects in the air between us, making my head swim.
I follow him into the room and close the door, shutting the rest of the office out. He puts the laptop down on the desk, plugs it in carefully and brings the presentation we have planned to discuss up on the screen. Then he turns to me and grins.
‘Give me five minutes,’ I say. ‘You—’ but I don’t have time to say anything more because he’s crossing the room fast and pinning me back against the wall next to the door, thrusting his body up on to mine and knocking the breath from me as he kisses me. His hands are holding me tightly in place and I push back against them. ‘No,’ he says, under his breath, increasing the pressure. My stomach clenches with desire and my fingers tighten in his hair, and I’m completely lost in this, wanting him to wrench my clothes away from my body and throw me down on to the floor. He kisses me again, harder. Time shifts and changes. I have no idea how long we’ve been doing this. I don’t want it ever to stop.
At last, his body relaxes and I feel the tension inside me unwind. He holds me more gently, brushes the hair back behind my ears. His smile starts at the same time as my own, and before I know it we’re laughing quietly together, still loosely intertwined. We kiss for a few more minutes, slowly now, his lips barely grazing mine. ‘You know,’ he says after a while, ‘you’d think this would get old.’
I nod, because I’ve thought the same myself. It’s been almost eight weeks now – snatched half-hours in this room or on the occasional lunch break, rationed to avoid suspicion; the odd precious evening out. We spend our time sitting around staring at each other like teenagers, talking and joking and kissing. Nothing else. It’s a physical and mental boundary that I don’t dare to cross while we are spending eight hours a day in each other’s company.
He smooths the crumpled collar of my shirt, his long fingers moving along my shoulder. ‘Steven talked to me again yesterday, about the transfer,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. ‘Looks like it’s all going ahead. Couple of weeks, and I’ll be working out of the Bishopsgate office. So, you know. No longer colleagues.’ His voice is a mixture of regret and anticipation.
‘A bit of space to think. I guess it could have its advantages,’ I murmur.
‘It could.’ He tightens his grip on me again, just slightly, but it makes me push myself up against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. ‘Only if you want it to,’ he says, his lips against my neck, ‘and if we decide it’s a good idea.’
‘We’ll have to see how it goes.’ It’s the closest we come to talking about the future. When I am on my own, I spend hours turning it over – trying to understand what on earth we are doing, what the point of it is, what we want, where it is going. Somehow, when we are actually together, these thoughts crumble into nothing.
His hands are snaking up underneath my skirt, running slowly up my thighs and stopping just at the place where my skin meets the thin fabric of my knickers. I know he won’t go any further, not here – not anywhere, until I say. Sometimes it seems that his capacity for self-control is far greater than mine. I am constantly battling the impulse to move his hands exactly where I want them, to show him that I don’t want to wait any more. His fingers are stroking lightly across my skin and I lean my head back against the wall, hearing my breath come hard and fast as his mouth finds mine again. He bites down on my lower lip, gently at first, then so hard that I gasp and scratch my fingers across his back, pulling him into me.
He draws back a little, his dark eyes thoughtful and appraising. ‘You really like this,’ he says, ‘don’t you.’ His voice is low, sending a shiver rushing through me. Silently, I nod. We stand motionless for a few moments, regulating the rhythm of our breathing together. I dip my head down to his chest, feeling the warmth of him against me.
‘We’d better go back,’ I say after a while.
‘Yeah.’ He shifts against me and sighs. ‘You’d better go first. Give me a couple of minutes to calm down, you know.’
‘OK.’ I disentangle myself from his arms, slipping out and away. I glance back for a second, my hand on the door handle.
He smiles at me, his eyes creasing at the corners. ‘Go put your lipstick back on.’
I nod, and it hits me again – the bizarre ease that there is between us, the lack of game-playing or confrontation, the happiness. I know it when I feel it, even after all this time. The trust we had built as friends has moved unexpectedly and fluently into this new context, and it feels natural and right, despite the fact that we both know it should be wrong. The truth is, I don’t care. All I know is that I need it, and I’m not about to stop.
At six o’clock, I’m turning into our road and walking towards home, counting the houses and looking for the light burning in the lounge window. It’s cold for April, too cold for the short skirt I’m wearing, but that isn’t why my legs are shaking. I’m replaying the telephone conversation I had with Francis on my lunch break, trying to remember how he sounded. There isn’t a lot to remember because he barely spoke at all. These days, my husband has only two modes of expression: long, rambling monologues which he rattles off so fast they veer towards mania, and veiled, monosyllabic utterances that feel more like crossword clues than conversation.
As I turn the key in the lock, nausea flutters and tightens inside me, making me catch my breath. It’s insane, to feel this level of trepidation at entering my own home. Gritting my teeth, I stride through the hallway and into the lounge. Eddie is sitting in front of the television, rapt before a Disney video; when he hears me, he waves and calls out a greeting, then returns his attention to the screen.
‘Hello!’ Francis is smiling, but my heart sinks. His eyes are too bright, his movements jerky and exaggerated. He’s overcompensating, trying to make me think he’s fine. The disappointment roots me to the spot and I stand unmoving as he springs up from the sofa and embraces me. ‘Look!’ he calls to Eddie, too loudly. ‘Mummy’s back.’
‘Not for long,’ I say, slipping out of his arms. ‘I’m going to give Eddie his bath and put him to bed, and then I’m going out again, remember?’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Francis says hurriedly, though his eyes cloud with momentary uncertainty.