This is the last instalment in the 'London, 2020' series. Thank you for reading.
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"So, Callie. Did you look in my wallet?"
Shit.
I consider a few answers.
Yes. No. What wallet, Kris?
In the meantime his gaze steadily holds mine, as second after second ticks by. He's not afraid of the silence, but I can match him for that. Another second. And another. It's getting uncomfortable and I'm just about to stammer out something vague when I feel a sudden surge of anger. Who the hell does he think he is?
"I was thinking about it. I didn't, though. I hadn't realised it was a fucking test."
My tone is frostier than I'd intended. I swear I see a glint of pure malevolence in his eyes; and then his face creases into a massive grin.
"What?!" I'm even more annoyed now. "What's so bloody funny?"
Kris laughs out loud, delighting in my discomfort and confusion, before lowering his head to kiss me. I try to back away but he holds me fast, his lips pressing hard on mine, his hands coming up to capture my arms before I've barely had a chance to raise them. Bastard. My struggle is utterly futile, ludicrously weak...and exciting.
Fine, I think. Kris wants a fight - I'll give him one. I wriggle and squirm against him, my movements as fake as a Vegas showgirl, deliberately rubbing my breasts against his smooth, firm chest and pretending to shy away as his tongue forces its way between my lips. His erection is already thickening against my thigh. As he comes up for air, the mischievous grin is still in place.
"You're a good actress, Callie," he says mockingly, "Very good indeed."
I grin back this time, and mime another sexy jiggle. We collapse in howls of laughter, rocking the bed frame.
When we've recovered and he's holding me tenderly again, there's another silence - a comfortable one this time. Kris is the first to break it.
"I don't know why I did the wallet thing, really. I suppose I'd guessed you were a bit of a player, Callie. I knew the minute you came up with those carrier bags full of food in that cute little summer dress. Pure Stepford wife. You were too good to be true."
"And you wanted to see how far I'd go?"
"Something like that."
He gazes down at me, a new softness in his look. He delicately runs a finger down my cheek and says, quietly,
"Somewhere between 100 and 150, I think. I don't really count."
I frown, baffled by the apparent non-sequitur, and then I suddenly remember what the question was. Christ. My eyebrows raise so high I think they'll shoot off my forehead.
Kris laughs again.
"Well, you did ask."
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Need I bore you with the details of the week that follows? I cook. I clean. I inspect the fridge what seems like 357 times a day. I pour oil on troubled waters, breaking up the children's petty squabbles, and try and make a vague attempt to police their homeschooling. I'm sick of lockdown. Everybody is. I rejoice in the news as the numbers decrease, the infection rate slowly dwindling, but I ache at the thought of losing my lover. Once life returns to normal, we will have to go back to our old lives, but the changes will leave their legacy. When Kris moves away, will I continue to see him? Could I make plausible excuses for nights away from the family home?
In my mind's eye I see Kris.
Of course you could, Callie
, he taunts.
In the bath, lazing in the warm bubbles, I think about all the women he's slept with. 150? Really? I try to picture the number, all of them gathered together. A decent-sized church congregation. A meeting of executives in a hotel conference room. The world's biggest dinner party.
We didn't discuss my previous lovers, although I'd say Kris has the measure of me well enough. I never played a numbers game in my younger days but loved the thrill of the chase if an opportunity presented itself. Having married relatively young my wild nights soon became sedate; the sweaty Soho nightclubs were swapped for classical concerts at the Wigmore Hall; raucous house parties became polite cheese and wine evenings. And so it went on: a calm, well-ordered, cultured life. Or a boring, mundane, passionless life?
What is life now, anyway? Tedious queues for coffee and bread. Half-empty high streets, shuttered shops. People nervously dodging each other, hopping on and off pavements, as jumpy as crickets. Small gatherings in outdoor spaces having finally been approved by our failing government, the British weather has naturally arrived to put a dampener on the summer. Drizzly days with gusty winds now greet me every morning when I draw the curtains.
I no longer spy Kris in his garden, toning his hard body; neither does he send me emails, as his work is consuming much of his time. Other than our passionate Thursday afternoons, he might as well not exist, which makes our continuing affair feel all the more surreal.
I gaze down at the water, as if the milky, swirling depths were a crystal ball. What does the future hold? For any of us?
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On my Wednesday shopping outing in the village I buy a bag of fat cherries, glistening and warm and damson black. I secrete them in a corner of the attic and sneak them over the road on Thursday.
Kris is wearing jeans and a navy blue linen shirt I've not seen before, and looking ridiculously handsome, his torso supple and firm under the loose fabric. I'm accustomed now to the routine - tea, laughter, sex - and there seems no sign of the mutual attraction fading. Will it? Should it? The strange times we inhabit don't allow for that sort of questioning and I try to put it from my mind.
I think I look pretty good myself, today. Earlier in the week I'd had a brainwave and talked the family into a home 'spa day' - giving the kids manicures and deep conditioning hair treatments in a steam-filled bathroom. Not only did it lift everyone's spirits, it gave me a legitimate excuse to do some serious grooming in preparation for another private rendezvous with my lover.
My nails are painted seashell pink and I've put on a full face of make-up, blending eyeshadows in coffee and olive-green, smudging in lots of kohl and finishing with two coats of mascara. My tawny brown eyes look huge and sexy. I'm wearing tight jeans and a navy cashmere sweater with a low neckline that skims my shoulders.
Today I'm oblivious to the state of the world. Let the future bring what it may; Kris is here, right now, approaching me with a lustful gaze.
"How are you, Callie?"
"Not bad. Bit embarrassed by the outfit match - I didn't mean to come dressed as you," I deadpan, nodding at our navy ensembles.
