More than a year on from his wife's premature death, Julian found himself increasingly thinking about sex. Adventurous though they had once been, during the later stages of their marriage, and especially during the last months of Joyce's illness, sexual activity had dwindled virtually to nothing. Julian had learned to go without, to put the idea out of his mind. But now, given his freedom, the old urges were resurfacing ever more frequently.
In theory, there should have been no shortage of opportunity. Julian was fifty-one. He had a successful business as a consultant drainage engineer; he was contracted to advise on a number of major projects in the public and private sectors. Money was not a problem. The funds Joyce had inherited from her father had passed to Julian; once probate was complete, he had sold their house in a village thirty miles from the city and moved himself back into the centre. He took a penthouse apartment close to the business area but with views over the river and beyond. One large room was converted into an office with a smaller annexe for his secretary. With his files and computers installed he was able, when not out on site or in meetings, to work from home.
Socially, Julian's life wasn't extensive - the dinner party circuit had only ever had limited appeal - and he was now confronted with the difficulty of finding an outlet for his sex drive. His brother, Edward, a corporate lawyer in Toronto, had telephoned one day to see how he was coping with being a widower. "Never the same woman two nights running, eh Jules?" he'd leered down the line. "We should all be so lucky."
If only it were that easy, thought Julian. His youngish secretary came in on three mornings a week and a middle-aged cleaning lady on the other two, but he had quickly told himself they should both remain off limits. He'd tried dating agencies but gave up after one excruciatingly boring dinner with a blonde whose years of bleaching should have been buried among the ruins of the singularly uninteresting past which she recounted at length.
The Yellow Pages offered surprisingly long lists of escort agencies but he could envision little satisfaction with someone who was into sex for money rather than pleasure. If not love, at least there should be lust. He surfed the internet but the demand for mature single men wasn't huge, and what was available didn't entice him. When the net opened his eyes to Swingers Clubs he actually ventured out to one only to find himself in competition with too many single men almost all of whom were twenty or more years his junior. Group masturbation in semi-darkness while watching three couples writhing on a mattress drove him away.
Naturally, none of this was mentioned during his lunch with Audrey. The last person Julian would want to learn about his physical yearnings was someone who linked back to the hermetic circle he had left behind. It was his own fault that he was lumbered with Audrey. In circulating his change of address he had sent a block e-mail, forgetting that it would reach, among others, his erstwhile acquaintances in the village. That had been compounded by his immersion in a business file when Audrey telephoned. She was coming to town the next day ... would be lovely to see him again ... was he free, by any chance? Unable to improvise an instant excuse, Julian had offered lunch, and now here they were on opposite sides of the table at I Fratelli, a restaurant more expensive than the occasion warranted. Audrey was loving it.
Audrey Jones and her husband Bob were at the centre of many activities in the village (the inhabitants continued to refer to it as The Village even though it was rapidly becoming a small town). Bob, an accountant, devoted his spare time to designing and building scenery for the local amateur dramatic society. On Sundays he contributed a loud, unmusical baritone to the church choir. Audrey, a career housewife with no children to distract her, helped in the Charity Shop, went to aerobics classes and held coffee mornings. In an attempt to divert her from bringing him up to date with village changes since his departure, Julian made the mistake of allowing her to turn the conversation to his new circumstances.
"We saw from your e-mail that you've taken a penthouse near the river. Is it as gorgeous as it sounds?"
Julian conceded that it had its virtues, not least the views. Another mistake.
"It sounds marvellous." Audrey consulted her watch. "Look, I don't have anything to hurry back for - would it be awfully rude of me to ask if I could have a look round? is it far?"
Yet again Julian found himself unable to concoct a spur-of-the-moment excuse. "Of course not," he said. "Let's finish our wine and I'll take you - it's only ten minutes, if you don't mind walking."
Audrey didn't mind at all. On the way, she took his arm and said, "This is awfully kind of you, Julian." After they had walked a little further in silence, she remarked, "I suppose it's a bit forward of me asking a single man to take me to his home, but we're grown-ups, aren't we?"
When Julian looked down at her there was no sign of coquetry, merely a statement that meant what it said, no more, no less. "Yes," said Julian, "I suppose we are. Whatever grown up means these days." He wondered how it might have been were they both twenty or thirty years younger. Probably Audrey would have been quite pretty then. In middle age, conservatively dressed, hair neatly fashioned, gold-rimmed spectacles, unobtrusive make-up, she was still - his mind searched for a word - well, presentable.
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"My word, you have done well. It's quite breathtaking, isn't it?" Audrey was standing at the penthouse window gazing at the panorama spread out below.
"It's awful to say so, but I've got used to it now. Some days I hardly notice it."
"And you've nobody to share it with?"
"Share it? No, not really." Was the question prompted by mere curiosity, he conjectured. Or could it be ...? He chose not to explore the idea. Instead, he began to point out landmarks, churches, bridges, a new monstrous skyscraper. In doing so, Julian was standing slightly behind Audrey, pointing over her shoulder. That was when he became aware of her hand reaching round to touch his thigh. For a moment he didn't move and they fell silent. Audrey's head tilted back to rest lightly on his shoulder. Her hand inched sideways to his groin. His mind returned to the thought he had dismissed. Could it really be that this woman from his innocent past, a paragon of village rectitude as he had always thought, was trying to seduce him? It certainly seemed so. But did he mind? An involuntary erection straining at his zip gave him his answer.
Audrey sighed and half-turned to face him. "Julian, dear, before this goes any further, I think we should talk."
Mute, he allowed her to lead him to the sofa. They sat at opposite ends, facing each other, Audrey with her hands folded demurely in her lap. She took off her spectacles. "I only need these for long distances," she said. "You are close enough - and perhaps we can be closer. But first, if you will forgive me asking - when you say no-one shares your lovely view, does that mean you are still pining for Joyce?"
Julian paused before replying, trying to guess once again where he was being led. Eventually, he said simply, "No. Not any more."
"And there's no new woman in your life?"
