Хилари Боннер - A Kind Of Wild Justice

‘For God’s sake, Paul,’ she said. ‘If we have to continue this can we at least do so at home and not in the bloody office?’

He muttered something indecipherable. She’d had enough. She got up and left.

If she had been angry with Fielding in the restaurant it was nothing compared with the anger she felt against Paul now. She had never been unfaithful to her husband. Not once during their eighteen-year marriage. In fact, there had never been anybody else since the first time she had slept with Paul. She had turned Fielding down, for God’s sake, and she told herself that she had never had any intention of doing anything else.

Until now. She wasn’t sure quite what she intended now. Not after the ridiculous interrogation Paul had submitted her to.

Several heads turned towards her as she walked back to her desk. She realised she was doing what they told her she always did when she was angry — the Bartlett Stomp, positively thumping her way across the newsroom. She slowed down and eased up — just a little. But her anger did not subside.

To hell with it, she thought. She sat down at her desk, picked up her phone and dialled Fielding’s mobile number.

He was in his car on his way home when he took the call, unusually having stuck to his plan to have a sober day. He was delighted to hear from her and told her so.

‘It’s OK about the restaurant,’ she said. ‘We’d both had too much to drink. You must have done to behave the way you did. No style at all, Mike, I have to tell you. Not like you!’

Alone in his car, he smiled. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’m losing my touch.’

‘What a relief for the women of the West of England.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘Indeed I do. Anyway, you’re on. Lunch next time you’re in town. How could I deny you the chance to make amends.’

He took his left hand off the wheel and punched the air. ‘Yes,’ he shouted to himself silently.

Aloud he said, ‘Great. I’ve got to come up again next week. Any chance?’

They agreed on the following Tuesday and when their call was over he promptly called the inexpensive hotel he had so disastrously attempted to take her to after their previous lunch and booked it for that day.

He had lied to Joanna. He had no call to be in London the following week. But he could take a day off and go up by train. Even though the hotel was reasonable by London standards it would be a pricey trip without any expenses to claim back. He didn’t care. There was no way he was not going to have a room booked. If the opportunity arose he wanted to be prepared. Maybe he was pushing his luck, but he had a gut feeling that might not be so. He couldn’t stop smiling as he continued his journey. Perhaps his pass had not been so clumsy after all.

Yet again they met in the same Italian restaurant. This time she was there before him and she wondered if that was significant. When he arrived the first thing she was somehow instantly aware of was that he had not been drinking. He had maybe decided that had been a mistake previously. He moved quickly and deftly across the restaurant towards her. He had always moved well for such a tall, rangy man. The second thing she noticed was his clothes. He was wearing a mid-blue jacket and darker-blue trousers. So was she. His face broke into a crooked smile the moment he saw her and he was still smiling when he sat down opposite her.

‘We match,’ she remarked in greeting, smiling back.

‘So we do,’ he responded lightly, looking as if he had almost said something else in answer to that.

Like we always have matched, Jo thought to herself.

Afterwards she could not remember the details of their conversation through the meal. They talked about O’Donnell, of course, and Shifter Brown, because that was always there between them, but they both knew that was not what their meeting was about. Not this time.

Joanna had no plan, she had made no decisions before the lunch. What happened at the end took her half by surprise even though she was the instigator.

They both turned down dessert. Then he asked her if she would like more wine or coffee. They had drunk much less this time, just one bottle between them. Still enough at lunchtime to shock the new puritans rigid, she thought obliquely.

She suddenly heard herself say: ‘No, thank you. Life’s too short, don’t you think, and for all too many people turns out to be a lot shorter than they might reasonably expect.’

She sensed the change in him at once.

He became very still, his gaze steady and serious. She knew he would be determined not to make a fool of himself again. Not twice. Not Mike Fielding. He was a picture of restraint. ‘That’s true enough,’ he murmured eventually in a non-committal way. But she knew he was already on her wavelength.

‘Well, you said it yourself last time, we never used to waste too much time over lunch.’

His eyes widened. He had been fiddling with his wineglass, turning it round and round on the white linen tablecloth. He took his hand away and sat back in his chair. ‘Are you suggesting what I think you may be suggesting or are you playing games with me?’ he asked. This time he sounded almost stern.

Typical Fielding, she thought, he would never let someone else be in charge for long. ‘Now would I play games with you?’ she enquired, in a bantering sort of way.

His eyes narrowed.

She’d make him angry if she carried on like this. Maybe neither of them was quite as good as they thought they were. Not any more, anyway. ‘No games,’ she said, absolutely serious now. ‘Have you got a hotel or do we need to find one?’

His eyes softened at once. For a second or two she thought she could see tears welling in them. She had seen that before, in the days when most people would have said Fielding did not have an emotional cell in his body. God, the man was a curious mix all right.

But that moment was over almost as it began. He said nothing. Just stood up, reached into his pocket, half threw a handful of notes on to the table, gestured for her to rise too, put a hand on her arm and steered her quite firmly out of the restaurant, almost as if he feared she might change her mind.

She had intended to pay the bill this time. But it somehow did not seem an appropriate moment to start fishing out her credit cards. Instead, she let him be masterful.

It was not the best of hotels. One of those slightly sleazy ones in Southampton Row. Joanna could have afforded something much better, but he would have hated that. She had no idea, however, that he had paid for the room himself, just assuming that it was on expenses, as in the past. Fielding had always been good at fixing things to fit in with his personal life. If you were married and had also been embroiled in as many affairs as she knew he had, then it wasn’t surprising. But she really did not want to think about that. Not now.

They had taken a black cab to the hotel, even though it was really quite close, each sitting at opposite ends of the bench seat, as if they were afraid their bodies might touch by accident. They barely spoke. The room had only a single bed, she noticed, which was a nuisance, but at least it indicated that he had not been taking her for granted. She was unaware, of course, that he had quite deliberately decided to book a single, not to save money — although God knew he could not afford to pay out for too many London hotel rooms — but to create exactly the impression she had indeed gained.

She felt awkward in that bare, impersonal room with its cheap furniture and nasty net curtains. It was hardly romantic. But then, afternoon sex in downmarket hotel rooms was not about romance and she’d known that well enough before re-embarking on it after so many years, she told herself.