Teresa and I first got to know each other at college. We'd both had unhappy encounters with young men - overgrown boys, really - who were eager for sex but lacked experience, patience, technique, everything you look for in a compatible lover. Not that we were experts ourselves but there was an inescapable mood of hedonism at the time that led us to discuss what we might be missing. Perhaps it was inevitable that one evening after we had shared a bottle of cheap plonk, we found ourselves in bed together.
What we discovered was that if two women could shed their inhibitions they had an innate instinct for the means to please each other. At first it was little more than kissing and caressing but after the first steps the body's desires take over. We soon learned not to leave each other unsatisfied.
Nevertheless, it has to be remembered that we were both only nineteen. In later years I came to look back on it as a crush that grew overheated. Or you might like to characterise it as some kind of female rite of passage. It lasted until graduation, though with lessening intensity, and then we went our separate ways. There was no emotional break-up, just a mutual drifting apart. We remembered each other's birthday, exchanged cards then and at Christmas, became friends who were no longer lovers.
Anyway, as we matured we had to acknowledge wider sexual horizons, while at the same time learning to differentiate between men. The sheep from the goats, you might say. And there were plenty of goats. Charles wasn't one of them. He was charming, intelligent, courteous and he made me laugh, which was the deciding factor when I agreed to marry him. We had already been to bed frequently - everyone did, it seemed - and sex was fine if unadventurous. Possibly I was retreating a little from my fling with Teresa, content to be on my back with Charles thrusting until fulfilled. It seldom took long. My own orgasms were not guaranteed but masturbation was an acceptable alternative.
It shouldn't have been. I realise now that I was aware then, if only subconsciously, that sex had more to offer. We should have discussed it, Charles and I, but we didn't. He was involved in sustaining the family bookselling business, which made heavy demands on his time and energy. So when our two sons came along I felt it necessary to take on the major responsibility for their upbringing. The years passed and sex became an occasional unsuccessful attempt to rekindle what had never been a raging furnace in the first place. When I tried to raise the subject, Charles was uncomfortable. He thought I was exaggerating. People of our age change, he said.
Alone with my vibrator, I wondered if he was right. More and more, I began to believe he was profoundly wrong. But what to do about it? The boys grew up, graduated and left home. Neither showed any inclination to sell books, especially as the internet and the big chains were making life increasingly hazardous for the small independents. The demands on Charles grew. We wouldn't go bust but we couldn't sell up either. Economies meant fewer theatre trips or concerts. No holidays. At my most depressed I even contemplated divorce. It wasn't an option. I loved Charles. He remained a good husband, faithful, gentle and considerate, if less frequently able to make me laugh. Overall, a good husband in every respect - except one. My body was demanding more than the attentions of a battery-powered piece of plastic.
Then a card arrived from Teresa. It was two days before my birthday. Charles was due to take me out for a meal. West end restaurants were no longer possible but there was a more modest, acceptable place nearby. That dinner gave me the chance to suggest to Charles that as we wouldn't be holidaying this year, I was wondering if I might visit an old college friend for a weekend. Charles gave his blessing, as I knew he would. I felt guilty but I didn't tell him I had already telephoned a surprised Teresa who had said she would be delighted to see me.
Having taken the plunge, I sat on the train suddenly apprehensive. More than thirty years had passed since we had last seen each other. I knew from a brief note on a Christmas card that she had lost her husband to an untimely heart attack, but that was all. I couldn't even be sure I would recognise her. And what, exactly, did I expect us to say to each other?
To be honest, when I arrived at the station I looked straight past the smartly-dressed, slim, dark-haired woman until she cried, "My darling Billy - how are you?" I had graduated from Wilhelmina to Billy while still at school and in time even my family had accepted it.
As for Teresa, the voice was my first clue. That hadn't changed at all: low in pitch, educated upper-middle-class. And when I looked, I could see that this was still the same Teresa. Instinctively, I wondered if I had worn as well. The oval features, the high cheekbones, the narrow waist, the good legs, the dark tailored suit - they all added up to deliver a very well-preserved, attractive woman. Teresa hadn't just worn well, she had improved dramatically in graceful middle age.
Even as we drove to her village some twenty miles away, my doubts about the wisdom of the visit began to recede. The gauche undergraduate I remembered had blossomed into a warm, relaxed hostess. Her home spoke of taste and understated luxury. A cautious question about her deceased husband elicited the information that he had done well in the City; and there had been family money which he had invested profitably. Teresa had been comfortably provided for.
I unpacked in a chintzy guest bedroom that overlooked fields and distant wooded hills. Peace and quiet and open air - isn't that how the song goes? The village,Teresa had said, was very small and getting smaller, refuge for a dwindling number of retirees. But very friendly people and supportive, she said. At the time, I took the statement at face value, never dreaming quite how friendly they could be.
Dinner was already prepared. "Just some smoked salmon and salad," Teresa said with a laugh. "My diet rules. I hope that's all right with you. I can allow myself a glass of wine."
Momentarily I recalled a shared bottle of wine in our college rooms, but put the thought aside. We sat at the table catching up on our disparate lives during the long interval. If I envied her financial security, I sensed that she was wistful when I spoke of our sons; Teresa was childless. But as the evening wore on and the sky outside darkened, I felt that we were not quite the strangers I had feared we might be.
We carried our wine glasses and the half-empty bottle of Muscadet through to the sitting room. "I shouldn't indulge," Teresa said, "but Billy, it's so good to see you again, so why not celebrate?"
Soft lighting revealed a room that said a good deal about Teresa's situation. She saw I was looking at a number of paintings that I would have guessed were early twentieth Century without being able to put a name to the artists. I was contemplating a landscape of dappled sunlight with a distant train when Teresa broke in, "Pissaro. Spencer thought it might be a Pissaro but Sotheby's said not."
"A pity."
"Oh, it's still valuable. Or you would think so if you saw the insurance premiums. Spencer had an eye for work that would appreciate in value," she said, "but to me they're not important for what they are worth; to me, they are a lasting link with him."
"Do you miss him very much?" I asked.
"Yes. But not as much as I used to. I don't want to sound callous but I have to move on. I made up my mind I wouldn't be the grieving widow. I wanted something more than sympathy. People here have helped a lot." She turned away from the pictures, and we sat facing each other,Teresa in a deep armchair, me on the sofa. She sipped her wine. "Tell me about your Charles."
I hesitated for only a few seconds but long enough for Teresa to go on, "Please Billy, tell me if I'm intruding and I'll shut up. The fact is I can't help noticing we've spent the last couple of hours catching up on our lives yet you've hardly mentioned your husband. If there's some kind of problem you don't want to talk about, we'll change the subject. But we're not naive girls any more so if you do want to talk, I can listen."
If I am truthful, it was precisely why I was there but when the moment came I didn't find it easy. I'm afraid I rambled a good deal, about the business, about the boys going away, about the pressure Charles was under, what a good husband he was in so many ways, until Teresa interrupted.
"But not in every way?"
"Well ..."
"Sex rears its ugly head. Am I right?"
"Not often enough."
"For you or him?" The questions were direct and perceptive but they were spoken kindly.
