ANNE WEALE - Sleepless Nights

‘But it didn’t bother you?’

‘I have hang-ups like everyone else...but that isn’t one of them. If a woman handles a car better than I do, it doesn’t hurt my ego. When my parents go out together, it’s always my mother who drives. She enjoys it. My father doesn’t. The traditional demarcation lines have always been flexible in our family.’

How different from mine, Sarah thought, before shifting the conversation into a safer zone by asking if the course had been a preparation for an expedition.

‘In Julia’s case, yes. Not in mine. It just seemed a skill that might come in useful some time.’

When they left the bar, about half an hour later, they passed Julia and her group. They looked a much livelier lot than Sandy’s charges. Although she was talking as they passed, Julia appeared to sense that Neal was nearby. Without breaking off what she was saying, she looked round and waved to him.

The gesture left Sarah feeling that, although it might not apply now, at some stage in their acquaintance they had been close...very close.

‘Shall we walk to the restaurant? It’s not far if we take some short-cuts,’ Neal suggested.

He appeared to know the city like the back of his hand, steering her down dark alleys she would have avoided had she been on her own.

The restaurant was in one of the busy thoroughfares. A signboard Simply Shutters indicated its presence but, on her own, she might not have found the entrance which was through a shadowy passage and up a flight of stairs.

The interior of the place was in marked contrast to the somewhat seedy way in. Inside it was immaculate, the tables decorated with fresh flowers, the young waiters informally dressed in Lacoste shirts with long white aprons.

Neal and Sarah were welcomed by the proprietor, a good-looking Nepalese who spoke perfect English and made pleasant conversation while seeing them settled at their table.

His restaurant was small but stylish and the people already there, although foreigners, did not appear to be tourists but residents of Kathmandu, perhaps working at the various embassies or with foreign aid organisations.

The menu was written on a blackboard and Sarah chose the walnut and mushroom roast. Neal ordered Spanish pork.

‘How long have you been a vegetarian?’ he asked her.

‘I’m not...I just feel in the mood for walnuts and mushrooms.’

‘You had a vegetarian meal on the plane.’

‘How observant of you to notice. But I suppose that’s an essential qualification for a journalist. I ordered vegetarian meals when I booked my flight because somebody told me they’re usually more interesting than ordinary airline food.’ She wondered if this revealed she wasn’t as experienced a traveller as he assumed her to be.

‘Some people think the kosher meals are the best,’ he said. ‘A colleague of mine did a behind-the-scenes feature on the food preparation at Heathrow. The logistics are mind-bending. British Airways alone needs around twenty-five thousand meals for its long-haul flights.’

The reminder that he came from the world of newspapers, a far more exciting milieu than her own humdrum background, made Sarah wonder how long it would take him to suss out that she wasn’t the kind of sophisticated career woman he was used to.

Racking her brains to contribute something amusing to the conversation, she thanked her stars that she had a friend like Naomi who was good at telling jokes and anecdotes. Her own forte—if it could be called that—was listening rather than talking. But by borrowing from Naomi’s repertoire, she managed to make him laugh a couple of times.

Towards the end of the meal, when they had both eaten generous helpings of ginger and apple pudding and were finishing the white wine, he said, ‘Instead of spending another night listening to Beatrice’s snores, why not come back to my place? I don’t snore and the room I’ve been given is a double with a vast bed and its own roof garden where I had breakfast this morning.’

The suggestion took Sarah’s breath away. She had been propositioned before, but never so soon or so openly. The others had done it obliquely, testing the ground before they came to the point which, with two exceptions, had never actually been reached because she had made it clear she wasn’t interested.

This time she was interested, but it was too soon...much too soon. Some women might jump into bed with a man within thirty-six hours of meeting him. Some might do it even sooner. But sex to her could never be something trivial...a fleeting pleasure to be enjoyed and forgotten.

‘I’m sorry...no,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d realised that was what you expected.’ To her chagrin, she found herself blushing.

‘I didn’t expect it,’ he said easily. ‘It just seems a good idea. If you don’t agree, that’s OK. I wasn’t sure that you would. Women usually take longer to make up their mind about these things. Maybe you’re already spoken for.’

‘If I were, I wouldn’t be here, having dinner with you.’ After a pause, she added, ‘If that sounds very old-fashioned, that’s the way we are where I come from. Small-town, provincial England is several light years behind what goes on in London.’

‘Slightly behind...not that far,’ Neal answered dryly. ‘In big cities there are fewer people watching and gossiping. Small-town people tend to be more discreet, but they’re still human beings. My grandfather’s favourite axiom is “Love, lust and heartache are part of the human condition. Always have been, always will be.” He should know. He’s been around a long time.’

‘But it wasn’t the way it is now when he was a young man,’ said Sarah, remembering her father’s attitudes. And he had been decades younger than Neal’s grandfather.

Neal said, ‘Grandpa likes life the way it is now. There’s less hypocrisy. The whole set-up is less rigid.’

She was tempted to say, ‘My father thought it was too slack, that morals had gone down the drain.’ But that was an area of her life she didn’t want to expose to him.

The uncomfortable truth of the matter was that she would prefer to keep almost everything about herself under wraps, knowing that, if she laid all the facts on the line, he would disappear...fast.

Instead of coffee, she was having jasmine tea. Neal had asked for hot chocolate. Her tea was set before her with ceremonious precision by the waiter. She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’

A few moments later Neal said quietly, ‘I like the way you relate to people...not treating them like robots.’ Before she could answer, he added, ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘We’re being taken to see a couple of temples.’

‘Are you free in the evening? We could do this again...at a different restaurant.’

‘I have to stay with the group. There’s a slide show and final briefing.’

‘You’d have more fun at Rumdoodles.’

‘What’s Rumdoodles?’

He lifted a mobile black eyebrow. ‘You haven’t been there? It’s a bar-cum-restaurant where climbers go to celebrate... the home of The Summiteers’ Club. The ceiling and walls are covered with cardboard cutouts of yetis’ feet signed by climbers and trekkers who’ve done expeditions together. The most famous signatures are Tenzing Norgay’s and Sir Edmund Hillary’s. I wonder who was the first to set foot on the summit of Everest...the Sherpa or the New Zealander? Not that it matters. It was a fantastic achievement.’

It occurred to her that, as well as being a well-known journalist, he might be an outstanding climber. He certainly had the physique for it.

‘Have you done it?’ she asked. ‘Climbed Everest, I mean?’

The planes of his face seemed to harden. His mouth became a grim line. For a moment he looked close to anger. ‘I’m not a mountaineer.’ The answer was clipped and curt. ‘There are too many people going up there, paying huge sums of money and putting others at risk in order to boast that they did it. The mountain is being degraded.’