Daphne
Daphne
“So, this must be the famous Margaret I’ve heard so much about,” said Sidney, a few days after Christmas. He crouched down to pat Maggie Thatcher’s head. Daphne was reluctantly impressed. At their age, achieving an actual crouch, and standing up again without clutching on to something or wobbling, was no mean feat. Although Sidney was only sixty-five, so it was no wonder he was so sprightly. A toy boy! She’d never had a toy boy before.
Margaret looked at Sidney a little warily. Wise woman. Daphne had looked at Sidney much the same when she’d first met him. It didn’t do to let one’s guard down too quickly.
“You’re looking gorgeous, as always, Daphne,” said Sidney, moving in to kiss her. To her surprise, his lips landed on hers rather than on her cheek.
It was the first time another mouth had touched hers since Jack’s, and she found she liked it. Or, at least, didn’t dislike it. His lips were dry, but warm and welcoming, and it felt like exchanging a secret, or a promise. It wasn’t anything like the first time she’d kissed Jack, of course. That kiss had set her alight. It had affected her so fundamentally that she’d been surprised when she’d looked in the mirror later that she’d appeared just the same, apart from the flush in her cheeks and the glitter in her eye.
It would take more than a kiss to set her alight these days. It would take a can of gasoline and some matches, and even that was unlikely to achieve more than a slow smolder.
Dating Sidney kept bringing back memories of Jack. Memories which she’d spent so long suppressing.
She’d met Jack when she was just eighteen. She’d finally left Hopesbury House behind, with all its stifling formality and rules, and the constant expectation of gratitude, and moved to London, where she’d found a job as a waitress in a West End club.
The table Jack and his friends had been sitting at hadn’t been making a huge amount of noise, but they had been sucking up all the attention, all the energy. Jack always did that. When he walked into a room, it was as if every molecule in the atmosphere shifted, coalescing around him.
She’d gone over with a tray of drinks, and a hand had brushed across her bum. An electric shock had shot up her spine and down her legs, making her tremble. She’d had to focus hard to keep the tray level, and had cursed her treacherous body for reacting so enthusiastically to such an impertinent violation.
“Touch my arse again and you’ll get the next drink in your lap,” she’d said.
He’d laughed, hard. “I love a girl who stands up for herself,” he’d said. And within a few minutes her manager had called her aside, telling her that Jack had requested that she spent the rest of her shift sitting at their table. She still didn’t know how much Jack had paid him, or whether he’d just owed Jack a favor. She’d soon learned that everyone seemed to owe Jack something.
That evening was just the beginning. Before long, she was Jack’s “girl,” and then his wife. And for the first time in her life, she found herself not at the bottom of the pecking order, but at the very top. And all the things she’d lusted after from afar her entire childhood, she could have. All the clothes, the jewelry, the furnishings, the art, the respect, and the admiration.
But it was lonely at the top, she’d discovered. And everything had its price.
Sidney was no Jack. He didn’t make her heart hammer in her chest, but nor did he scare her. He was safe. Dependable. And good-looking, despite the inevitable ravages of age.
Sidney took his hand in hers, and they started walking along the towpath, past all the cheerfully colored moored houseboats, covered in potted plants, from Hammersmith Bridge toward Barnes Bridge, gulls swooping above their heads. The low winter light had turned the murky river into a ribbon of shimmering silver.
“Thanks again for spending Christmas Day with me,” he said. “I haven’t enjoyed Christmas that much for years. And it stopped me worrying too much about Sonny.”
“I loved it, too,” said Daphne. Which was true. She usually spent Christmas Day pretending it wasn’t happening, which meant staying in bed all day with a good book featuring a high kill rate, and avoiding the TV, radio, or newspapers until at least Boxing Day.
Daphne and Sidney had eaten a huge traditional Christmas dinner in the local bistro, while exchanging endless details about their lives. Some of which Daphne hadn’t even fabricated.
“Sonny sent me a new photo,” said Sidney, passing her his phone.
The photo was of a ruggedly handsome young man wearing khaki, crouched down and smiling at a group of grubby, grinning kids, one of whom wore his arm in a sling. Sonny was, Daphne knew, an aid worker, helping refugees on the Polish-Ukrainian border.
“You must be so proud of him,” said Daphne, handing back the phone.
They sat on a bench, overlooking the river.
“You’re so beautiful, Daphne,” said Sidney.
“Huh!” she replied. “I’m older and more wrinkled than Art’s underpants.”
“Who’s Art, and why are you looking at his pants?” said Sidney, in mock indignation.
“He’s an extremely irritating man at my social club, and I haven’t seen his underwear, but you can just tell it would be manky,” said Daphne.
“Anyhow, it’s those wrinkles that make you beautiful,” said Sidney. “They’re signs of laughter, and wisdom and experience.”
“What utter bollocks,” said Daphne, resisting a childish urge to make retching noises. “I was far more beautiful when I had skin like a peach. Does that line usually work with the women you date?”
Sidney laughed. “Yes, it does, actually,” he said. “And they’ve never referred to other men’s undergarments. You’re not like other women at all, Daphne, are you?”
“God forbid,” said Daphne as she pulled her cigarettes out of her bag and lit one, enjoying the first catch of nicotine in the back of her throat. Then she felt something against her head, and she lashed out at it instinctively. Beside her, Sidney screamed.
“You burned me!” he said, jumping to his feet and showing her the round, raw cigarette burn on the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” said Daphne. “But you really shouldn’t touch someone’s head like that without warning.”
“I was just stroking your hair!” he replied.
Daphne was going to have to get used to this whole intimacy thing, or she’d scare him off completely. And, she realized, she didn’t want to do that. Not at all.