Theresa and Claire

I had never been a believer in fate. Yet I'm sure there are people who will swear that if they hadn't carried out one simple innocent action, taken one route against another, their lives would be completely different. So it was with me that warm July Saturday afternoon when I chose to walk into that coffee bar. I had not been in a coffee bar since my ex-wife, Cora, left me for more lucrative company three years earlier.

I had enjoyed a casual stroll around the city from bookshop to bookshop, checking which of them had my second novel on display. Out of five shops, only one had an appreciative display extolling the fact that I was a local author. But at least the others had it among a selection of recent publications.

The local park provided me with a comfortable break from my tour. I sat in the sunshine watching the world pass by, pondering on why my second novel had, so far, not had the success of the first. Cynically, I considered the reason to be that this one was less raunchy. Financially, with a movie option pending, that first one had put me in a very comfortable position compared with where I had been. Hard luck, Cora.

Coming out of the park I had spotted the coffee bar across the road with people sitting out on a wide terrace. It just looked inviting, on a fine day, and I was parched. An iced tea had some appeal. A couple were just leaving their table, so I was quickly settled in a seat which gave me a view of the street, as well as across the rest of the terrace.

As the pretty waitress took my order, I became aware that a lady sitting alone three tables away was staring in my direction.

"Anything to eat, sir. Creamed scone?"

I looked up into her wide attractive eyes, and said, "That sounds like a very good idea." She gave me a smile and as she moved away, I couldn't help noticing that the lady three tables away was still looking in my direction. Expecting eye contact, was she? Then I would oblige. Her eyes did not turn away from my glance. In fact, was that a slight smile that played at the corners of generous lips. That was when it struck me like a lightning bolt.

Those lips, that hair, the colour of a lioness, slightly longer than I remembered.. Surely it couldn't be, could it? We had been together only a few hours, and it had been -what?—seven years ago, when I was twenty two. I had to know, and I slid out of my seat.

As I approached she stood up. A trim figure in a neatly fitting yellow sundress. If she was who I thought, (she had been naked when we parted), her shape was undiminished by the years. But the fact that she stood up as I walked towards her confirmed that recognition was mutual.

Just as I was about to speak her name she said, "Ah, yes. It is you, Brad."

"Claire? I didn't think it possible that--" My voice faded away.

She laughed at my difficulty, "Quite a surprise, Brad. Please, sit with me."

I sat down, my head full of images of when we'd last been together. My mind full of questions. "You still dance?"

Her mouth drooped just a little, "No, I'm a buyer for a fashion company. You still working for that publishing firm--wanting to write, weren't you?

Trying to be as modest as I could, I told her that I had written two books, and her face lit up again as she responded, "Two? Marvellous. Would I know any of them?"

I saw the waitress heading for my earlier table and I stood up and waved. She came with my iced tea and scone, and I caught her glance between the two of us. "Would you like anything else, Mrs Leeman."

Claire told her no, and I was wondering why I should feel a little dismayed by the fact that she was married.

"They know you here," I observed.

She nodded, "I'm a regular. I work nearby."

"And you're married."

"Was. Just didn't drop the name. You're married, I suppose."

"Was," And we shared a laugh. "Just didn't have enough money."

"But your books?"

"I was a struggling author when she left, she wanted more security."

"Were you're books successful?"

"The first one.was. 'Catching Maisie'"

Her eyebrows shot up, "Oh, by Brad Newsome. That's you?"

"We never did exchange surnames, did we? But you've read it?"

She shook her head, "I will now. But it had so much publicity—in the press—I heard them talk about it on television. And some of the women at work were very turned on by the sex scenes." And the up and under look she gave me drove me back to our time together when two naked ladies danced before my eyes.

Suddenly I knew there was a question I should have asked earlier, "Theresa?" Even as I asked that question another was forming.

Claire's lips puckered as she shook her head, and said, "She went to London."

A little surprised that they were apart as they had seemed so close, I said, "But I thought the pair of you were set to go to America."

Her sorrowful face already told me that the answer was going to be a struggle for her, "London got in the way. Can we talk about something else, please. You've got cream on your nose."

I had tried a bite at the cream scone, and her laugh was partly relief at escaping from my queries. I wiped the cream away with my handkerchief.

She looked at her watch, "Oh, I'm sorry. I have an appointment."

So much to talk about, and she was arguably even more delectable, than I recalled from seven years ago. Maturity loaned an added sensuality to her demeanour. I needed to see her again.

"Could I take you out for a meal--there's no hurry. How about tonight?"

She laughed, "Fast worker? Or desperate?" Then her face hardened a little. "No strings? I mean it's not a case of picking up where we left off."

If I was pressed I would have had to admit, that prospect didn't bother me at all. "We can't," I said lightly, "there were three of us then."

A cloud momentarily crossed her face, but she said, "I would like to see you again. If you recognise it is just a friendly get together."

I held up a hand. "Nothing else."

Within minutes we had agreed to meet at a nearby up-market restaurant at eight o'clock. "I'll be staying in town. You will excuse me not changing?"

"Oh, that makes it difficult," I said, determined to keep it light. I had detected a certain sadness in her that I hoped I might erase.

"Not smart enough?" she asked.

"On the contrary. You'll look too alluring."

A slight tightening of her mouth before she replied, "No sweet talk, please."

"That wasn't sweet talk. It was truth."

She gifted me a grateful smile, before standing up, and saying, "I hope you don't think I'm applying too many restrictions, but could we avoid talking about the past."

Something was clearly bothering her. Had our meeting up like this. stirred up some unwanted memory? Again I applied a teasing tone when I said, "Even mine?"

A wider smile this time, "No, I have questions to ask you."

I finished my coffee as I watched her walk away, swaying between the tables. A seductive mover then, a seductive mover now, as other pairs of male eyes watched her exit.

Back in my flat, I sat down in front of my computer to attempt an early outline for a third novel. I fancied dipping into the crime thriller genre, knowing the type I liked. In neither of my two published novels had I known exactly what the end would be when I started the writing. Would I, with this genre, need to know exactly where I was going?

I had sat there for over an hour, and had made very little progress. Why? Illusive as a half forgotten dream, Claire and voluptuous images from that one sensuous night would not clear my mind. The fact that our coffee bar meeting had been so unexpected, plus, and probably more significantly, the sheer breathtaking appeal of her face and body, would just not let me concentrate.

How old would she be now? Our previous encounter had taken place in 1986. So that would make her thirty years old now, one year older than me. But judging on that brief meeting of the afternoon, she looked so much younger than her years.

After another struggle to sustain my efforts on my book, I gave up, and ran myself a hot bath. Luxuriating in the warm suds, I again found that evening seven years earlier on my mind, but, totally relaxed, I was able to regain a more positive picture of how we met.

I was twenty two years old, recently out of university with decent degrees in English Literature and Creative Writing, with what might sound like a pompous idea of becoming a novelist. There had to be some starting point, and I was fortunate to find employment with a well-known publishing company. It couldn't write the books for me, but I hoped to gain insights into how submissions were treated, and if possible, what was being looked for.

Towards the end of my first year I was offered the opportunity to attend an informal presentation dinner for the year's newcomers in fiction. This was somewhere I had hoped to be in due course.

There must have been about a hundred people seated at the long tables in one of the popular hotels. I found myself seated beside a grey haired man, perhaps in his late forties, who kept on moaning about his bad luck in not hitting the right publisher. Fortunately for me, and doubly fortunate I was to find out, directly opposite were two extremely attractive young ladies, bare shouldered in loose fitting, sparkling tops, that gave just a hint of the shapeliness that lay beneath..

Their faces were high cheek boned, with generous lips, and, from across the table, similar wide brown eyes. Did I imagine that the young lady in the green top looked directly at me, before leaning close to her partner in the blue top, and whispering something that had blue top glancing in my direction? Probably wishful thinking. They were certainly stunning.

Grey hair had obviously been attracted to them too, as he diverted from boring me with his failures to trying to impress the young ladies with his dubious charm. Having learned they were not writers he gave them a brief outline of his successes, which, after our conversation, I guessed he must be inventing. I don't think he even noticed green top's glance at her companion, before she tapped a clenched fist over an exaggerated yawn.

Having ended his limited success story grey hair then asked bluntly, "You girls looking for some companionship after this?"

Again it was green top who responded, "That could be interesting. Do you know of any young men who might be interested?" The look in her eye, and the way she stressed that word, 'young' had grey hair giving a grumpy 'Huh' before turning to bestow his moans on the lady on his left.

Green top favoured me with a quick smile. In spite of having some success at university, my confidence with women was still in the adolescent stage, but the situation now did seem to present an opening.

"Are you in publishing?" I asked rather inanely.

"We're dancers," she replied, brushing the crow black hair from her face, and from that point the evening moved at a rapid pace. There were a few mutually admiring glances, as we slowly and gradually built our conversation, which started with the weather, and by the third course, we had exchanged names.. The girl in the green top, was Theresa, and the blue top was Claire. I learned that, they were in fact, sisters, and Theresa, at twenty five, was the elder, by two years.

Intrigued by the fact that they were dancers, I moved the conversation back to the subject by asking, "Ballet?" At which the girls exchanged indefinable glances, and Claire, who unlike her sister had a neat bob of tawny hair, seemed to be the more withdrawn of the two, told him, "That's how we started." And Theresa added, "But we have extended our range, become more—more-"

"Flexible," Claire finished for her, and giving him an up and under glance, added, "More athletic."

"Oh, yes," Theresa agreed, "Definitely that. We have to stay supple" And they gave a joint tinkling laugh before Theresa asked, "Are you in publishing?"

I told them I was, and how my ambition was to be a novelist. Claire showed more interest in that. As we talked it became clear that she was the one more interested in the arts, particularly books and film.

Then I asked them how they came to be present, and in telling me they had been invited, they named a renowned publisher of a large firm. I was impressed but wondered how such an association had been made.

Late in the proceedings it was announced that a well known local comedian was to close the evening. A middle aged guy, smartly dressed in a light blue suit, stepped up onto the stage, and started with, "A drunk staggers down the street late at night. Comes to a lamp-post and stands trying to poke his key into it. A constable comes along and tells him, "I don't think anybody's in there, mate." The drunk nods his head, " Yes, there is. See? There's a light on upstairs."

As the laughter faded, I saw Theresa turn anxiously to her sister, pointing at her watch, "We're going to miss our train." And that was my chance to show off my second hand, recently purchased car, and, without being too hopeful, my chance to test the waters of all the glances. So, I asked where they lived, and it wasn't too far out of my way. I asked if they'd trust me to give them a lift. and they were more than eager to accept.

When they eventually stood up, I saw how slender they both were. They were wearing identical long black skirts that buttoned up the front, and although the tops hung loosely, there could be no doubt that they were a very shapely duo.

So, I drove them to their house, and into what was, for me, the totally unexpected. But my bath water was cooling, and I shut down my thinking on that subject, wondering how deeply I might recall subsequent events. Anyway, as I dried off, I thought it best to get off the subject since I had promised Claire there was to be no looking back. But I was so curious to know what had split her from her sister.

Knowing that she was going to look casual in that close fitting yellow dress, I wore my light-weight jacket over an open neck blue shirt and fawn pants. I was in the restaurant by ten minutes to eight and was shown directly to a table. For just a few minutes I worried that she might have had second thoughts, but at three minutes to eight she came in.

I knew how she would be dressed, but something thudded in my chest as she swayed in my direction, a warm smile lighting her lovely face. Maybe being aware that she had been a dancer had me accounting for the way she moved, confident and sensuous. I could imagine that I saw the body that moved under that dress. Once again male heads turned watching her slinky progress, and their lascivious looks turned to glances of envy in my direction., which made me feel so privileged..

I stood to greet her, and held a chair out for her. All very gallant. She told me I looked very cool and elegant and from there the evening went perfectly. Well, almost perfectly. Food was marvellous, and our conversation was bright as we talked about books and films. As promised she questioned me about my past. I told her of how working at the publishers kept the wolf from the door.

"But not far enough away for your wife?"

I could look at that episode without rancour now, as I told her, "It was a story of two wolves. The one at my door, and the rich Frenchman who whisked her away to Paris."

Her face showed genuine regret, "How awful for you."

"Well, yes and no. We were drifting apart already, and two weeks after she left I heard that my book had been accepted, and that the film rights had already been sold."

"Oh, you didn't tell me that. That's marvellous." She took a sip of her wine before asking, "How long were you married?"

"Only two and a half years. "

"Was she good in bed?"

The question made me gulp it was so unexpected—from her. In the brief time I knew them it had been Theresa who had done most of the frank talking, who asked the most intimate questions.

As I struggled to give my answer, she said, "Oh, I shouldn't have asked in that way." Then she gave me a little smile, "You see, I bought your book after I left you. I read the first two chapters before I came out." Her head nodded appreciatively, "Quite sexy. So that husband and wife and their activities weren't based on experience?"

I laughed, "Your question surprised me, but the answer is a 'no'. She tended to make bed a cool place."

She turned her head away for just a moment, and I said," Would it be out of place for me to ask why you and your husband separated?"

When she turned to face me again, she wore a smile that looked to be almost a chuckle, "A cool place, you said. And coincidentally, that's exactly what he said about me."

"What? You? Was he mad? Had you changed since we--?"

She held up a hasty hand, "No looking back we agreed."

I nodded as she went on, "Brad, when you're a warm person, it takes a lot of ice to make you cool." She looked down at her plate, "And there was an iceberg he called a heart."

I was pleased she could talk about it, "Well, you're a free woman now."

"Almost," she said, but did not elaborate, and that little session was the only low point of the evening. Almost perfect, as I said earlier. Perfect would have been taking her into my arms, and kissing her, before she climbed into her taxi. A smile, a brief touch of hands, and a date fixed for three days time was all that happened.

Over the next three weeks we met a number of times. We took in three movies, a jazz concert, and a host of different restaurants. After much protest at the distance, (we lived at opposite ends of the city) she allowed me to drive her home. As I told her, "I've done it for you before." She frowned slightly and I remembered her ruling about the past.

By the end of that third week she had taken to first, holding my arm as we walked, in the park, or on the street, but that quickly moved to her hand in mine. I looked at her on the first occasion, and she returned what I could only call a 'shy' smile. Short kisses became deeper, but always rather chaste. Always I sensed a reticence.

One night during our fourth week together, I drove her home, and she invited me in for coffee. It had happened once before with only one of the brief kisses to end it. But on this occasion, as I was leaving, she clung to me at the front door and her tongue searched mine as we kissed. Feeling ecstatic about this move, I could have swept her into my arms and carried her to the bedroom. At that moment she was the only thing in my life.

But then she broke the kiss and stepped back. Her eyes were clouded with what I hoped was passion, yet they were also moist. Were they tears? And I knew they were from what she said next, "Brad, you know I have this bug in my head. It's a hurt, a pain that I've lived with for a few months now, unable to move on, unable to react to you in the way I would like."

I tried to remain calm, hoping against hope that she was opening out. "Don't worry, Claire. I've accepted it."

"But I feel I'm not the real me. I need to purge the hurt away, to talk it all out." Now she moved in close again and those wonderful eyes looked soulfully into mine. "Brad," she whispered, "would you allow me to cook you a meal on Saturday? I need someone I can talk the whole thing out with, and I'm convinced now that you'll be sympathetic."

"You know I will, If that's what you want."

"It is," she said, and gently brushed her lips over mine before adding," It might be a miserable night for you though."

"I'll take that risk, if it eases your mind."

All the way home my mind was in turmoil. Just what did she want to tell me? I was pretty sure it was something to do with Theresa, and the way they had fallen out with each other. When I reached home, my thoughts were full of the pair of them, as I'd known them for that one unforgettable night. I poured myself a generous glass of Lagavulin malt, sat down in my favourite chair and let the remaining memories of that special night wash over me.