Somehow My Love

SOMEHOW MY LOVE.

I would have called myself an also-ran if I'd ever joined the race. At high school, all the girls in my class were older, and definitely grown up. At university, I'd already got into the habit of not trying.

Some women flaunt their sexuality. They enjoy being the centre of attention and the satisfaction of watching men react so predictably to a glimpse of cleavage and a lively, provocative manner of conversation. These women have their reward. There are others who give off a quiet radiance, so that everyone they meet feels they have lived for a short while in a world that was meant to be.

Audrey was one. I found it easy to talk to her because I knew I had no chance; and perhaps she liked to talk to me because I wasn't on the make. Despite her demure ways, she had her share of unwelcome male interest. I met her for the first time at a book launch, a good place to meet the eccentric and the pretentious. I was neither, I hope: I was genuinely curious about the book, written by someone I knew slightly at university. He had studied for the priesthood at the Gregorian, and could speak Latin. Could he write English? I was curious to find out.

Audrey was behind me in the queue for signed copies. After we'd each had our brief, insincere exchange with the author, she remarked casually to me: "At least we were spared the sycophantic interview, and he did read a good passage well."

"You must come to a lot of these then?" I didn't have much experience of talking to beautiful women I didn't already know, but I'd been told the first rule: get them talking about themselves.

And indeed she was beautiful: tall, with an almost transparent complexion and hair so full of life that it had defied her best efforts to brush it. She clearly knew the second rule of such encounters: deflect the question and see if he has anything interesting to say.

She simply smiled and said, "What about you? Do you know Martin well?"

To say she smiled simply is true only in the most literal sense. She lit up the space between us.

I told her about the would-be priest who had graduated from would-be author to published novelist.

"He might have done better as a priest, or had a better audience," she mused, gesturing at the paltry gathering. The weather wasn't good.

"Is that why you bought the book, to make him feel better?" I asked.

"No, it goes well with my outfit."

Not only beautiful, then, but with a sense of humour. She was wearing a dark red shirt which gave a hint of bounty which I could only dream of ever exploring.

In those days, I lived for these intimations of unattainable womanhood.

* * *

Our paths crossed again, not at the public library, which I was visiting more frequently than before, in hopes of meeting her, but at the tea-and-coffee shelves at the supermarket.

"Oh no," I thought to myself. "She'll think I'm the type who only drinks loose-leaf Earl Grey."

Audrey didn't trade in types. She hailed me cheerfully, and we got talking. She was the tea connoisseur, it turned out. I tried not to appear over-enthusiastic. We strolled along the aisles. She took down a bottle of Courvoisier, looked at the price, and put it back reluctantly. I couldn't help wondering who drank cognac with her.

On the way out of the mall, we passed a multi-screen cinema. To my surprise, she turned to me and asked, "Say, how would you like to watch a movie?"

What was this? A young woman, way out of my league, asking me on a date? No, of course not, she just wanted company, and I was at hand. She hadn't said, "watch a movie with me."

What did she want to see?

"It's been ten years since Michael Jackson died. They're showing his last movie, This is it."

That shook me. She didn't look like a Michael Jackson fan. As for the title, its significance didn't even enter my head.

She had the most shapely legs I had ever sat next to. An hour and a half in that dim light was almost unbearable. Fortunately, she was utterly absorbed in the movie, and I was finding out things about MJ I had never known or appreciated.

One of the best dance routines was on the go when she clutched my arm in excitement. Her bosom was alive with her emotion.

moment passed, and she was still holding my arm. After a while, she slipped her hand into mine.

What was I to do? Her hand was cool and comforting. At first, I assumed she was swept up in the mood. A current was passing between our joined hands, and I felt united with her, watching MJ. It was a little like what happens when you're in the pub watching football, the final whistle blows and Spurs have beaten Arsenal. Strangers throw their arms around each other. But no, this wasn't just fellow-feeling. It was something more. Could it be?

* * *

Nothing was said. We went to the movies again, occasionally, and sometimes we would hold hands. Was I meant to make the next move? That's what my brother advised when I told him. Women like Audrey would expect it, he said. He had a lot more experience. But what was the next move?

Dinner, obviously.

To choose between fake sophistication and real innocence was difficult. Just be yourself, everyone says. If she doesn't like the real you, don't try to impress her. On the other hand, doesn't every woman like to be courted?

At the table, her low-cut dress increased my nervousness. Was it meant to encourage me? Or was it just the kind of thing women wore to a quality restaurant? You would have thought those days were long past.

Audrey took quiet control of the situation. I was grateful.

"Relax, Ian," she said. "Do you really think I drink Courvoisier when the price is right? I couldn't tell the difference between brandy and cognac."

"I don't think I could, either," I began, "but..."

She fiddled with her wine glass. "You were about to say, 'but I know true cognac when I see it', weren't you--and stopped yourself just in time."

I nodded.

"You're learning."

Not even the smoothest of talkers would be able to pull any tricks on Audrey. In my inexperience and awe, and despite our easy friendship thus far, I had almost made a fatal blunder, and she had saved me. It was a great relief, not to have to pretend any more.

I learned that Audrey's parents were divorced, and she was an only child.

"My father had an affair, and she divorced him straight away. She wanted me to take sides."

It was a familiar tale, give or take how strong the wife could be. Audrey went on: "What do you think of the word cheating?"

"Well, it's not like cheating at cards or in an exam," I said, wondering whether that was true.

"It's an ugly word," she said. "An ugly word for an ugly thing." Was this a question? "I think people fall in love."

"Does that excuse it?" I knew better than to say no one could ever cheat on her.

"No, but excuse belongs to the language of blame. Things are not so simple. Take MJ. He did a lot of bad things, but the world would have been poorer without him. I love my dad. I respect my mom."

I could see, now, why she was so serene, so self-contained, so utterly without airs.

We were drinking coffee and I was bracing myself to ask for the bill. Effortlessly she raised a hand and a waiter glided up to our table.

"All right to split it?"

I hadn't expected that, nor did I expect her, once the bill was settled, to smile that same consciousness-raising smile, and say, "Your place or mine?"

I was sure she was teasing. Then she leant forward and I couldn't be bothered any more to work out what game she was playing. This was it.

* * *

The pictures hanging in her apartment were bolder, more striking than I anticipated. When she stood at the kitchen counter in her deep blue dress with the not-quite-plunging neckline, pouring cognac, she was more than desirable, more than irresistible--she was incomparable.

I won't try to make any comparisons when I tell you how she came to sit next to me on the couch and touched her lips with her glass. Or how the skirt of her dress rode up just enough to recall that first visit to the cinema. How far would this go? I hadn't even allowed myself to imagine knickers she was wearing, or what her breasts would feel like in my hand. It was enough to be so close, enveloped in her presence, hoping against hope that the evening would last, that I wouldn't spoil it. As for sex, she would be able to tell straight away that I was out of practice.

Kissing was all right, though. I didn't need to be an expert. The sheer warm pressure of her lips on mine taught me all I needed to know. The taste of cognac enhanced the pleasure, and also must have emboldened me because I put my arms around her and kissed her some more.

Glancing down, I took in the shape of her breasts, guessing what I could not yet see.

She must have followed my eyes, because she took my hand and pressed it against her bust. Things were now quite out of control. I moulded her breast with my palm, and she kissed me more deeply.

Yes, I did see her breasts that night. My fingers followed the lace pattern on her knickers, and her kisses told me it was all right.

We stopped just short of what I most desired in all the world yet feared most too, in case I lost her at the finishing post.

I've had many women since, some of them as beautiful as Audrey, some of them as exciting to touch and endearing to listen to, but none to compare with her generosity, her loving intuition, and her decency. If I know anything about love today, or even the slightest thing about sex, I owe it to her. She owed me nothing--that is the wonder of it.