Nicola Upson - Two for Sorrow

‘What has it taught you?’

‘That there’s no such thing as pride any more. I used to think that my feelings for you were all or nothing, that if I ever had the guts to declare myself to you, I’d also have the strength to walk away. I meant what I said, you know—if the answer was no, I vowed I wouldn’t bother you again.’

‘And now?’

‘Now?’ She put Josephine’s glass down and took both her hands. ‘Now I think that just to be in the same room as you is adventure enough, that your friendship would be more exciting than most people’s love. All my good intentions left me the minute I set eyes on you today, and I know that even if I tell you to go now, sooner or later I’ll come crawling back like a spaniel begging for any crumb you might throw me. I know that my love for you will make me lie my way into your friendship, that I’ll deny the very fact of its existence just for the joy of seeing you.’ She looked away, suddenly self-conscious. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? I don’t want you to change at all, but I’ll become whatever I have to just to be near you—I’ll even be your friend.’

‘Don’t you think there’s more permanence in that, though? If we were lovers, you’d soon get tired of it.’

Marta laughed scornfully. ‘You think I only want you because I can’t have you? That’s really not worthy of you, Josephine. I’m forty-four, but even when I was sixteen I didn’t confuse those issues. I’ve told three people in my life that I love them, and each time I’ve known that it would always be true, no matter what happened. I meant it when I said it to Lydia, and I mean it when I say it to you.’

‘But Marta, you can’t go around collecting lovers—that’s not worthy of you .’ Josephine looked at her in disbelief and pulled away. ‘If you’re always going to love Lydia, I don’t quite see where I fit in.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I was just trying to convince you that this isn’t about a cheap conquest. And anyway, if it’s about fitting in, I have no illusions about the fact that I’ll have to fit in with you . I know you have a life. I know you have responsibilities. I look at you sitting there and I know that whatever we do or don’t do, you’ll have to go away some time. If you stay the night, morning will call you back to Cavendish Square; if you stay a week, you’ll still go eventually, and I’ll be left longing for you to return.’

‘And you really want that sort of life?’

‘I want you. If you come with that sort of life, then so be it. I can accept that.’ Marta sat as close as she could without touching her, and Josephine had no doubt that she realised the power of that restraint. ‘If you’re holding back because you really don’t want me in your life, then go—I won’t stop you again. But don’t do it for my sake. This sort of thing doesn’t happen very often, Josephine, or with many people. If we ignore it, we’re missing something splendid, and I think you want it as badly as I do.’

‘How can you have any idea of what I want if I don’t know myself?’

‘Because we’re alike, you and I. We both want peace and freedom. The only difference is that I believe you can find them in another human being—that we can find them in each other—and you’ve yet to be convinced.’

‘And you think you can convince me, I suppose.’ Josephine stood up and put her empty glass down on the table. For once, Marta seemed to have no arguments left; defeated by Josephine’s resolve, she sat staring into the fire, saying nothing. ‘Well?’ Josephine asked impatiently.

Confused, Marta looked up. ‘Well what?’

‘Do you think you can convince me? I don’t want to be right about this, Marta, so if there’s the slightest chance that you can prove to me what you say you can, then what are you waiting for?’

‘I don’t understand.’ Marta spoke hesitantly, scarcely daring to believe what she was hearing. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m not. I’m not sure about anything, and the more we talk about it, the less sure I become.’ Fear made Josephine antagonistic, and she took Marta’s hand to soften the words. ‘It’s going to kill us, all this talking,’ she said. ‘We analyse everything and it’s one of the things I love about us, but there are times when that isn’t necessary, and perhaps this is one of them.’ The truce had been so long in coming that Josephine was reluctant to place any more obstacles in its way, but she spoke anyway. ‘I need to know that you meant what you said, though—about understanding my life and not changing anything. If you’re just saying that, and you’re going to come to me in a week or a month or a year and want more, then I should leave now.’

‘A year?’ Marta grinned wickedly. ‘If you’re giving me a year, this must be serious.’

‘Don’t joke about it. This has to be between you and me, and no one else.’

The grin faded, and Marta looked at her for what felt like an age. ‘I was right,’ she said eventually. ‘They are grey.’ Gently, she touched Josephine’s cheek, just below her eye. ‘I’m not joking, Josephine. I know this isn’t a competition, but you’re not the only one who’s vulnerable. We both need to be sure of what we’re doing.’

For the first time, Josephine recognised how much Marta stood to lose by loving her, and somehow the fact that their bond was based on a mutual fragility gave it strength. ‘I’m sorry. That was selfish of me. It’s just …’

Marta interrupted her. ‘I know what it is. You need to be safe, and I understand that. But this isn’t Inverness, Josephine. It isn’t the West End. What happens between us, in this house, has nothing to do with anyone.’ She smiled and stood up. ‘Wait here—I won’t be long. I don’t have to lock the doors, do I?’ Josephine shook her head, and listened as Marta’s footsteps faded. When she came back a few minutes later, she stood at the door and held out her hand. ‘Come on.’

The bedroom was a beautiful, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house. Marta had lit a fire, and the flames threw a muted reflection on to the mahogany of the bed, turning the wood an even richer red. The only other colour in the room came from a painting on the far wall, an oil of a village street which reminded Josephine of somewhere in France she had visited as a girl. Everything else was white, and there was a stillness about it which seemed to underline Marta’s promise to her of peace. Suddenly unsure of herself, Josephine walked over to the window and looked out into the darkness; Marta’s reflection stared back at her, vague and insubstantial in the lamplight, and she put her hand up to touch it. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips.

‘Are you all right?’

Josephine nodded. ‘None of this feels very real, though. It sounds ridiculous, but I’m half afraid to turn round in case you’re not there.’

Marta kissed the back of her neck. ‘Where else would I be, now I’ve gone to all this trouble?’ She took Josephine’s hand and led her over to the bed. Slowly, they undressed each other. Transfixed by the curve of Marta’s back as she leaned forward, by the way her hair washed over her shoulders, Josephine was forced to acknowledge a need which had been suppressed for more years than she cared to remember. They lay down together and Marta pulled her close, kissing her hard as she became more aroused, then gently guiding Josephine’s mouth towards her breasts; as Josephine felt the nipple harden against her tongue, she had to fight the rush of her own desire to prevent her from hurrying anything about this moment. Aware that the first time would always be special, she explored Marta’s body inch by inch, tenderly stroking her skin, then allowing her hand to move softly across her pubic hair. Her touch—hesitant at first—grew more urgent, and she heard Marta whisper her name with a longing that both moved and frightened her. For a moment, she tried to deny the emotional impact of what was happening, but, as Marta cried out and pressed against her, Josephine knew it was useless to pretend that the joy she found in their bond was simply a physical attraction.