The House Swap(12)

Back at my desk, the afternoon passes slowly. I work on autopilot, my thoughts elsewhere – shifting, rationalizing. It’s almost four o’clock when I look up and across the office to where his desk is. His eyes are already on me and, when he sees my gaze catch his, he doesn’t look away. He isn’t smiling.

Grant sets down two pints of lager and a glass of white wine on the table, then flops into the chair opposite mine. He’s flushed with recent exertions, sweat shining on his forehead. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘that was a pretty good one. I think the crowd went for it, didn’t they?’

‘I think they did,’ I agree. Underneath the table, I feel Carl’s knee nudge briefly against mine and when I turn my head to glance across at him he’s smirking down into his pint. Ten minutes earlier, we had been laughing about the fact that we had never seen a crowd of pub-goers so perplexed by what was going on in front of them. As Carl had predicted, Grant’s band is a fairly radical departure from the usual folksy, gentle outfit this venue generally attracts: a lot of wordless shouting, a lot of discordant guitar and seemingly random bursts of percussion. ‘As did we,’ I elaborate.

‘Certainly did,’ Carl chips in. ‘When’s the next one? Gotta get our tickets booked.’

‘Oh, no need to book,’ Grant says modestly. ‘Just turn up. I think we’re playing in Kentish Town next Friday, actually. And after that …’

He starts to recite his diary, ticking off dates and venues on the fingers of his hand, complete with a precis of what to expect from each night and some background on the other bands that might be playing. I struggle to concentrate, but all I can focus on is the sudden sense of bodily warmth at the edge of my left hand as it rests on the bench beneath the table. Carl’s hand is next to mine, only millimetres away, and then, somehow, some movement is made – I have no idea by whom – and our fingers are touching lightly.

The contact sends a small, decisive shiver through the length of my body. This isn’t like the other times. I look across at him again. He’s scratching idly at the side of his face with his free hand, ruffling his dark hair. His attention is seemingly entirely fixed on Grant; he’s nodding, making the occasional humorous interjection. The words flow over me like water. All I can think about is the tiny circle of warm air where my hand is touching his, and all at once I realize, with a clarity that shakes me, that this could really happen. It could happen tonight.

I try to work out how this makes me feel. I try to think of Francis, and the home we share with our child. But the happy pictures I want to conjure up feel so far away, and all I can think of now is the rising tension in my chest whenever I step through the front door; the clutter that neither of us can find the headspace to clear up, our jagged nerves that brush up against each other whenever we are in the same place for more than a few minutes and the unbreakable wall the pills are building up between us.

I had assumed that, if this situation with someone like Carl ever got out of hand, then I would pull myself back from the brink as easily and smoothly as breathing. Now that it is happening, I find that I can’t. I catch Carl’s eye, and he looks back at me with a flash of intensity that makes me catch my breath, and I know there is trouble brewing and I feel it in waves, closing over me and dragging me down, impossible to resist.

Grant is gathering his stuff, fumbling with his coat. ‘Anyway, sorry,’ he says amiably. ‘I’m going on and on about this shit. You’re probably bored stiff. I’m going to head off – busy day tomorrow, right? Are you coming?’

I hesitate. ‘I probably should, yes,’ I say. ‘Carl? What do you think?’

Carl shrugs, draining his pint glass. ‘Can do,’ he says. ‘Or I wouldn’t mind staying for one more, if you want.’

I find that I am nodding casually and automatically. ‘Sure.’

‘OK. Well, I’ll be off, then,’ Grant says, buttoning his coat and slinging his guitar on to his back. ‘Thanks a lot for coming, guys. See you in the office.’ And then he’s gone.

We sit in silence for a few moments. Despite what we’ve said, neither of us makes a move towards the bar. I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat, battering lightly and insistently against my skin. His hand has slid fully into mine and our fingers are loosely linked. It is the most innocent caress that we could be sharing, but it feels shocking, almost dirty. I can’t remember ever having been so conscious of touching someone, of the nakedness of my skin.

‘So,’ he says eventually, ‘this is interesting.’

I nod, staring intently at the tabletop. I can see the shadow of his reflection in the smeared glass, the lines of his shoulders and his face turned towards me in profile. ‘Interesting,’ I agree, ‘and not very sensible, eh?’

‘Well, we can stop it if you like,’ he says.

‘Do you want to?’ I fire back.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the bench. ‘Oh, Caro,’ he says. ‘What do you think? You know I …’ He trails off deliberately, letting the echo of the words linger. And as he speaks, it comes to me that of course I do know, that I’ve been lying to myself for weeks now. The offhand tone is belied by the dampness of his hand in mine, the glimmer of uncertainty that sparks in his eyes as he takes in my reaction. He is not sure either, I realize, exactly what is happening here, or how it will go.