The Bedroom Assignment

He buttoned the shirt briskly. Ran fingers through his still- damp hair. Looked at his watch again.

‘I know,’ she said dryly. ‘You have to go or you’ll run into the Sunday evening traffic.’

‘You’re an understanding woman,’ he teased.

‘Yes.’ But she did not laugh.

She came down the rickety stairs with him, still in the kimono. She did not let it billow. She clutched it round her like a blanket in a storm. At the front door she put a hand on his arm as he went to slip the latch.

‘Jay—’

He suppressed irritation. He had so nearly got out of the door without a fight! But he was a gentleman. Both grandfathers had seen to that, in their different ways. He turned to her courteously.

‘Yes, my dear?’

She gave a faint smile. ‘Thank you, Jay.’

‘What?’ He was bewildered.

‘You have such lovely manners. But I’m not your dear. And it’s time we both faced it.’

He searched her face. She was rather pale, but her eyes were steady. No pleas, no desperation. Jay had never respected her more.

‘Is it?’ he said gravely.

She swallowed, but then she nodded once, decisively. ‘I made myself a promise. If you looked at your watch as soon as you woke up today I’d finish it. You did. So I am.’

He winced. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s overdue.’

‘I mean I’m sorry I hurt you,’ Jay said painfully.

She shook her head. ‘It’s a shame. I could have loved you if— But you don’t let anyone get close. Maybe you’re right and you can’t. Well, not me, anyway. Time I recognised that.’

He had nothing to say.

She bit her lip. ‘I’ve met someone. It’s nothing yet. But— it might be, in time. If you know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘I know what you mean.’

Carla’s chin came up. ‘I don’t want to cheat. Not on you. Not on him. Not on myself. So—I want to be free now. Free to look for a relationship that works for me.’

Jay drew a long breath. ‘Can we be friends?’

‘Maybe. I don’t want to see you for a bit, though.’

He was surprised at how much it hurt. But he had no right to complain. Carla had never lied, either. This sort of rejection came with the way he ran his life. From the way he was.

‘Very well.’ He touched her face briefly. ‘Call me when I can buy you a drink.’

She gave him a watery smile. ‘Sure.’

On a burst of anger at himself he said, ‘I wish—’

But she stopped him, soft fingers over his mouth. ‘No, you don’t. You know yourself very well, Jay Christopher. You don’t have to tell white lies to comfort me.’

‘No. I know I don’t.’ He kissed her quickly on the mouth. They had been making love just a couple of hours ago, but already it felt awkward, as if she were a stranger. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

She brushed back his hair. ‘You, too. You’d be a prince— if anyone could ever get through.’

She closed the door before he reached the garden gate.

It was lonely journey back. He liked lonely.

He played sitar music. And Josquin des Pres. And Bach. Every girlfriend he had ever had hated them all. It was exhilarating, playing them again, not having to tread carefully any more.

But not as exhilarating as it had once been. He had hurt Carla. He had never meant to. He had tried not to. She had said she understood his limitations, accepted them. But in the end he had hurt her. It didn’t feel good.

Was it always going to be like this?

You’d better give up nice women, he told himself bitterly. You can’t change. And they can’t cope.

But what was the alternative? One-night stands? He pulled a face.

His lost grandfather had said to him once, ‘You must be careful. Very few men are made for solitude.’

But, as Carla had said, Jay Christopher knew himself very well. And he knew that he needed the right to walk away from a relationship—any relationship—the way he needed the right to breathe.

‘Hello, solitude,’ he said aloud. ‘Welcome back.’