Father pt.8
8
I watched Angela take another bite of the pasta she was eating. Her lips were thinner than Rachel’s, and she wore a paler shade of lipstick, but I still found it a little seductive the way her tongue slipped out between her lips, and slid over her bottom one, collecting a lingering drop of the red pasta sauce. I wondered if she had done that deliberately because she knew I was watching.
“Have you seen Trainspotting?” Angela asked, swallowing the pasta she had just put into her mouth.
“Yeah, a couple of times,” I said, moving my attention from her lips to her eyes. Angela’s were blue; Rachel’s were brown.
“I saw it for the first time on Tuesday; my friend brought it round on DVD.”
“Did you like it?” I asked.
“Yeah, it was pretty good. It was pretty disgusting too, like that bit when he goes into the toilet, or the bit with the baby. Yeah, I didn’t like that bit, I had to look away.”
“I always hated the bits where they showed you the needles,” I said, “I can never watch stuff like that. I’ve always hated needles since I was a kid.” I cut away a piece of the steak on my plate and put it into my mouth. It was not often I had steak, one of my favourite foods, because it was two expensive to buy for three. Angela seemed to watch in the same way I had watched her.
“I’ve always been afraid of bats and moths, and things like that, that fly at night,” she said, “I don’t know why.” She laughed a little. Though I could not help comparing her to Rachel in my head, she was charming in her own right, I decided.
There was a little pause while we continued to eat. It was not an uncomfortable pause, I felt, but I still felt the need to break it.
“Your hair looks nice,” I said. For a second I felt very unimaginative, clichéd, with such a standard comment, but Angela smiled and almost involuntarily put her hand up to her hair, which was shining golden in the restaurant lights and with a slight wave that hung down on the left side of her face.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling, “I don’t usually have it down, it usually annoys me too much.”
We continued to talk in this way until we had finished our meal. I found Angela easy to talk to, and she was attractive too. It seemed hard to believe that such a great woman had just walked into my life without me even having to do anything. It was early days yet though, I reminded myself, and I was still wary of falling for anyone too quickly, because then my loneliness would be so much more keen afterwards.
“Do you want dessert?” I asked her when she put down her fork.
“Oh no, I’m full thank you,” she smiled, “but go ahead if you want any.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said. I put my hand up and called the waiter over, asked for the bill. He returned a few moments later with the little slip of paper on a small, white dish. Angela began to reach for he handbag, but I said,
“No, it’s fine, I’ll get it.”
“Are you sure?” She asked, her handbag halted in mid-air. I smiled and said I was. “Thank you,” she said, “you’re a perfect gentlemen.”
“Oh, I’d hardly say ‘perfect’” I replied jokingly, putting the money onto the dish. “Shall we go?” I stood and offered her my arm. She took it and we walked out the restaurant together.
The weather was warm for April, so we forwent the car, parked in the restaurant car park, and walked to the cinema, it only being a few streets away. When I had arranged to meet her I had realised her clichéd a dinner followed by a movie was as a date, but at the time, or even now, I had not been able to think of any alternative, except maybe the theatre or a concert, but there was nothing good on at the time. Also, I suppose, such things have become clichés because they are reliable, you really cannot go wrong with dinner and a film.
Angela insisted that I let her pay for the tickets as I had paid for dinner and, after a short debate over whether to see ‘Hot Fuzz’ or ‘Becoming Jane’, we went with Angela’s choice and bought two tickets for ‘Becoming Jane’. It was not really the sort of film I would have chosen to see, but, as I sat there, I thought at least I was there with an attractive woman, and not watching something at home on my own, or a kid’s film with Lucy.
A couple of times during the film I considered using the old trick of pretending to yawn then putting my arm around her. After all, clichés seemed to have worked so far. But I did not have to rely on any embarrassingly old-fashioned moves in the end because, just a little way into the film, I felt Angela snuggle up in her seat against my shoulder. I put my arm around her and we remained like that until the movie was over.
Walking back to the car, my arm resting lightly around Angela’s shoulders, I asked,
“Do you maybe want to come back to mine, have a glass of wine maybe?” She smiled, perhaps noticing again the slight hint of the nervousness I was feeling, but had not felt around her since our I had picked her up at her flat, that must have crept into my voice as I asked. It was not often I was able to ask a woman back to my house, my children usually being in, and even rarer for me to actually have anyone to ask back. But tonight was going perfectly, and continued to when Angela replied,
“I’d love to,” and looked up and smiled at me.
A short drive later and we were walking up the short garden path of my house. Before I unlocked the door, Angela stopped me, pulled me close to her, and kissed me. I was surprised at first, but fell into the rhythm of the kiss within a few seconds. I tasted the pasta sauce on her mouth, and the glass of red wine she had drank with her meal as well. She pulled away after maybe a minute. I felt a bulge begin to grow in my trousers.
“What was that for?” I asked, smiling at her. She shrugged,
“I just felt like it.” She said.
I pushed open the door, bent down and began to untie my shoes. Angela slipped off her shoes stood behind me. I was distracted for a moment by her elegant legs, her nylon tights making them shine. I was almost tempted to run my fingers over her calves right then, kiss them maybe, but in a second she drew her leg away.
I pulled my second shoe off and was about to stand up when I suddenly noticed something. Looking up the stairs I saw someone stood at the top, Gemma. I stood up slowly and just stared at her for a moment, puzzled. She was staring back at me, wearing an open dressing gown over her dark t-shirt and jeans. Her eyes were streaked black with eye make-up that had run down her face; she had been crying.
She just stared back at me as I stared at her, then she looked at Angela. Angela had only now noticed what I was staring at. I looked at her and she was staring at Gemma. No one spoke. I felt the bulge in my trousers diminish.
“Mark, you never said you had a kid,” Angela said slowly, looking at me now, surprised, accusative. Gemma too was looking at me, stood there above us both. She had the same expressions on her face, but looked sad and angry as well. I felt wretchedly awkward, caught between the gazes of the two.
“I was going to,” I said hopelessly, “I just hadn’t gotten around to mentioning it.” I felt guilty too; Gemma looked like Rachel.
Angela began to put her shoes back on. “I better go,” she said. She looked as if she was about to cry herself. “Sorry, I… thank you for dinner and everything,” she said, opening the door. My mouth was becoming very dry, and the Angela’s taste was fading from my tongue.
“You don’t have to go,” I said, pleadingly perhaps.
“No, sorry. Look, I’ll email you or something,” she was out the door now, talking to me on the front step.
“At least let me give you a lift home,” I said.
“No, it’s fine, I’ll call a taxi.” She closed the door. I shut my eyes tightly for a second and inhaled deeply. Some of Angela’s perfume lingered on the air in the hallway. I exhaled and turned around. Gemma was no longer stood at the top of the stairs.
“Gemma,” I said through her bedroom door.
“Go away,” she replied, her voice high. I tried the handle but the door was locked.
“I thought you were out tonight. Why aren’t you at Marisa’s?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice sounded closer to the door now, perhaps just on the other side. I leant against it, feeling the hard wooden surface pressed against my shoulder, my face. “Why weren’t you in? Who was that you were with? Why haven’t you told us about her?”
“I…I only met her a couple of weeks ago,” I explained, “We just went out for dinner and watched a movie, that’s all.”
“And then you brought her back here.”
“Is that a crime? I thought you were out.” I wondered if I would be pleading my case so desperately if Gemma had been in the same room as me, if I could see her.
“I suppose not,” Gemma said, “you can do what you want.” She sounded less emotional now, although she seemed to put particular stress on ‘you’.
“I was going to tell you about her.”
“Were you going to tell her about us?”
“Of course, in time. I just didn’t want to put her off.” I only realised after I said that how bad the choice of words was.
“Put her off?” Gemma repeated, angry again.
“Not put her off. I mean…I’d want her to be comfortable with me before I introduced you all. It’s just unfortunate that you met like this. I think you’re overreacting.” Surely Gemma must understand that I could not just stay alone, sexless and pining for my lost wife until I died. She said nothing though.
“Gemma, don’t ever think that I stopped loving your mother,” I said through the door, “but everyone gets lonely.” She was crying again now, I could hear her sobs, so close that she must be pressed against the door as I was. I imagined her, sitting there, back against the door in that dark room.
“It’s not just about you, Dad,” she said between sobs.
“Let me in, Gemma,” I said. I wanted her to stop crying, to forgive me, partly I felt, because Rachel could not.
“I just want to be alone.” She said. What else could I do?
Tags: family, father, Fiction, isolation, loneliness, novella, original fiction, part eight, Relationships, Silent Hill 2
