The Dead Ex(8)

‘Tell me about your life,’ he’d said, straight out. David had a way of listening with his cheek resting on his right hand, as though you were the only person he wanted to hear in the whole wide world. How old was he, I found myself wondering. Those crinkly lines with a hint of a suntan suggested late thirties perhaps, like me. How had he got that slightly hooked nose which somehow didn’t detract from his good looks? Maybe a sporting injury. He looked like he might play rugby.

‘That’s amazing,’ he said when I gave him a brief outline. His brown eyes – with a hint of green in the middle – locked with mine. Something stood out about them. That was it! He wasn’t blinking, which added to the intensity of his gaze. But it was his deep voice that really struck me. There was laughter there: something I’d been missing for so long! It seemed at odds with that strong, set jawline, which spoke of determination. I had a sudden urge to run my finger along that faint hint of stubble as he continued to talk. ‘I’d love to know more, Vicki. May I call you that?’ He glanced at my place setting.

He was still there at the end of the evening when the great and the good and the press had filtered out. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a drink,’ he asked. ‘My place is near here.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘My ex-wife always said I was handy with both a corkscrew and the coffee machine. One of my few pluses, apparently!’

Ex-wife. I glanced at his left hand. No ring. To my embarrassment, he noticed.

‘Single,’ he said, with a directness I admired. ‘You?’

‘The same.’

Sometimes we act completely out of character. Of all people, I should know that. Or perhaps my boldness was down to something one of the girls had said when she’d seen me earlier, all dressed up in heels and a lime-green suit that seemed to go with my hair.

‘Letting you out for the night, are they?’

She must have sensed how nervous I was. It can be daunting after being inside for so long.

I’d walked on, conscious of the titters behind me and the odd word like ‘lezzie’.

If only they could see me now.

‘You’re not what I expected,’ David said later.

We were lying face to face in his huge bed in a massive loft conversion – with an incredibly complex security entrance on the ground floor – overlooking the London Eye. I knew I could get into trouble for being back late, but for once I ignored the nagging voice, telling myself I was entitled to some fun for a change.

‘In what way?’ I asked.

I often wonder how people really see me. But very few have the courage to tell me to my face. Instead, I get the odd sideways look. An expression that conveys a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Even fear.

‘You’re more …’ He hesitates. ‘I was going to say “feminine”, but that sounds disparaging.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It does.’

He stroked the side of my face as if memorizing the texture of my skin or the position of my mouth. ‘Let me start again. You’re strong. You’ve done things that many women – and men – wouldn’t or couldn’t have.’

This talk was making me nervous. ‘I suppose. The last few years haven’t been easy.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sure they haven’t.’

It had been a long time since I’d had such a frank conversation. Despite the unease, I felt a sense of relief at meeting someone who seemed to understand.

His right hand was tracing the outline of my back. ‘Do you have any regrets?’

David’s touch made it hard for me to concentrate. It’s as though this man already knew each curve of my body, even though we had only just met.

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘You?’

‘Several – if I let myself dwell on them. But I don’t.’ He turned away to lie on his back. My body felt cold without his skin on mine, despite the warmth of the centrally heated air. ‘Instead I keep myself busy.’

This was my cue now to question him. Physical attraction was all very well, but it’s what lies beneath that matters in a long-term relationship. Then I caught myself. Long-term? What was I thinking? I didn’t know this man. And he didn’t know me. I wanted to tell him that I’m not the kind of woman who goes to bed with someone on a first date. But that sounded too much like a cliché. The truth is that I had to do this. Call it intuition or lust or loneliness or a desire to prove that I could get a man if I wanted. But here I was. And now I wanted to find out everything about David Goudman. I sensed there was more to him than met the eye.

‘How did you start your business?’ I asked.

‘Through sheer hard work and luck. My old man pushed me to go into the army, which I did, but it wasn’t for me.’ A strange look flitted across his face and I wondered what horrors he’d seen. ‘I got out as soon as I could and hooked up with a bloke I’d met through the forces who’d gone back to the States, where he ran a business. He wanted a UK presence and I began developing land. He had the capital and I seemed to have a knack of finding the right plots at the right time. Then I was able to set up on my own.’ He spread out his hands. ‘The rest, as they say, is history!’

I was impressed.

‘What do you do when you’re not working?’ I asked.