I stormed out of the room and out of the house. Yet another futile discussion about our sex life, following yet another dry month. I could hold my own in court, but at home I was outmanoeuvred every time. Somehow, whenever I wanted to discuss the situation, she managed to make it appear that I was making unreasonable demands.
What was I to do? At first all I could do was walk, fast, aimlessly, using up my nervous energy. Then a short tube ride to Picadilly Circus, so that I could dive into Soho. I roamed up and down the narrow winding streets, tantalized by what was on offer: the prostitutes brushing against me and whispering their invitations, the peep shows and the garish neon titillation.
This time I was so angry I decided to act. Before I could change my mind, I turned into a hostess bar.
A young woman got up from her perch on a bar stool on the pavement and followed me, shedding her jacket as we went down the stairs. She guided me into a curtained-off booth with a semi-circular couch.
“What will you have to drink?” she asked. She was a fetching, beautifully proportioned black woman, dressed simply in a dark blue one-piece and tights. “We have very good cocktails.”
“Whatever you’re having.” This was a first time for me. I was prepared to be ripped off and to put it down to experience.
Cocktails were brought. She soon asked for a second. Meanwhile, she got cosy and asked me the usual questions about myself. When I asked questions in return, she was evasive. Still, I liked her. Soon my hands were on her breasts. She tugged her straps down so that I could have my unhindered way with them. I admired the large brown aureoles and the gutsy nipples, and she encouraged my hard-on through my pants.
“I’m sorry there are no rooms available right now,” she said, “but if you come back later tonight you can have anything you want.”
So that was it. I took pleasure in groping her for a bit longer and then got up to pay the bill. The cocktails were over a hundred pounds each. I threw a fifty pound note on the counter and walked out, steadily and firmly, without making a run for it. Despite the protests, I reckoned they wouldn’t try to follow me into the street.
Half an hour with those juicy breasts was better than nothing, and a lot more than I’d had at home for a long time. I glanced into the telephone booths decorated with prostitutes’ cards but I couldn’t face having to compare a real sex worker with a picture on a card. I also didn’t have the stomach to queue for a strip show or a sexy revue.
Instead, I treated myself to a comforting dinner in an Italian restaurant I knew in Southampton Row.
“Ah, Signor Jones,” the padrone welcomed me, and motioned to a cosy table inside. I couldn’t help comparing it to the booth I had just left. One was risky and enticing, the other familiar and comfortable. With a carafe of red wine and an appetizing meal, I regained my equilibrium.
But I wasn’t going to abandon my quest. I’d never picked up a woman before and had little idea how to go about it. Still, emboldened by the wine, I glanced at a neighbouring table. There she sat, mid-thirties, I guessed, and definitely my type: self-possessed, good-looking, grown up.
Being on her own, she was whiling away the time between courses with a book. I was surprised to see that it was a hard-cover, and not new. She must be a serious reader, I thought. If so, she must have an imagination.
The padrone may have divined my interest. In any case, when he brought over the decanter of limoncello at the end of the meal, he offered it to my neighbour as well.
“And for you, signora?”
“You’re too kind, signore.”
She had an American accent. That made it easier.
I raised my glass; so did she. “What’s your book?” I enquired.
“The End of the Affair,” she replied, tilting it up so I could read the cover.
“Ah, Graham Greene. A favourite author of yours?”
“Yes. You know it?”
“I’ve read it. Well, no, I’ve seen the movie,” I acknowledged. The end of the affair? The beginning of an affair?
“Good movie. I thought I would read the book again.”
“So the fact that you know what happens in the end doesn’t spoil it for you?”
“No.” After a pause, she said, pointedly, “A bit like an affair itself.”
“Explain?”
“You know it will end badly, but that doesn’t have to spoil it.”
She was looking straight at me. I didn’t want to break the spell, so I spoke slowly and hesitantly, “As I recall, the story isn’t about an affair ending badly.”
“You’re right. It’s more to do with the Gospel according to Graham Greene.”
“I’m intrigued. Could you tell me more?” I got up and walked across to her table. “May I? By the way, my name is Ivan.”
“I’m Lucy.” We shook hands and I sat down. “Where are you from, Ivan?”
I thought I should be asking her. After all, she was the visitor. “I’m a Londoner. This is my favourite restaurant.”
“I see: that explains why you’re here on your own.” She had noticed my wedding ring. “I like to do that, too: take myself out to a restaurant of my choice.”
“Also married? Visiting England?”
“No and yes. Was married; got tired of him. I’m here to do some research in the British Library.”
So she was an academic and I was a barrister. At least I read books.
On an impulse, I ventured: “Like to go for a drink?”
It was as easy as that. I reminded myself that Americans were like this, happy to befriend you for an evening, nothing more. We took a cab across to St Pancras station to drink Manhattans in the high-ceilinged pub next to the Eurostar. On the way, our shoulders touched. It was strange, exciting, new, but somehow it was also familiar, friendly, comfortable. I had no idea how the evening would end, or what I would say to my wife when I got home, but I put those thoughts out of my mind.
The place was quite full but we found space at a counter and continued our conversation.
“The Gospel according to Graham Greene,” I prompted her.
“Of course. You must know he was an atheist who converted to Catholicism to get married?” I felt I would convert to any religion, just to spend the night with her. “So his books are full of whisky priests and lapsed Catholics and doubters, and he always prefers the sinners to the saints.”
“You’d rather be a sinner, then?”
“It’s not as simple as that. There’s this idea that to become a saint you need to find out what it’s like to sin.”
Sin boldly. I was ready to start that journey to sainthood. I leant closer. Her lips briefly on mine made me forget even the breasts I’d fondled in Soho.
We strolled along the pavement in the direction of her hotel. When we got there, she reached up and kissed me goodbye. She wasn’t the type who brought someone in off the streets for the night. “You must go home, now,” she said. “But let’s meet again tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
When I got home, the intensity of the matrimonial fight had subsided. Belinda had won her battle, and she could see I was calm again.
“Good meal at Paolo’s?” She knew me well, how I usually dealt with discomfort.
I took The End of the Affair to bed. Belinda was mildly interested that I had finally got round to reading our copy. She was on her iPad, scrolling through emails and social media. Eventually she switched off her bedside lamp and composed herself to sleep, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I read on for a while, put the book down and lay awake in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling. If the woman sleeping next to me would respond to my advances and give herself to me as in the long forgotten days, perhaps I would not be entertaining such delicious thoughts about Lucy. But you could be sure Belinda would not oblige; there was no point even in trying.