“Yes,” I said.
“Yes?” His voice was curious. “What do you mean, yes?”
“Yes about what you just said.” With each breath I took, my body moved against him. “About resolving things.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he agreed.
“Of course we will,” I said, not entirely certain what we had just agreed to do. “One other thing,” I added. “If you ever get divorced and we want to see each other, we start over.”
“Absolutely. That makes perfect sense.”
“In the meantime, we’re colleagues and friends.”
“That’s exactly what I want, too,” he said.
At half past six, we sped along Park Lane, both of us silent in the backseat of a Rover driven by an officer of the Metropolitan Police. In darkness, I watched the lights of London go by, and I was disoriented and vividly alive. Hyde Park was a sea of spreading black, lamp smudges of light along winding paths.
The flat where we were staying was very close to the Dorchester Hotel, and Pakistanis pooled around that grand old hotel this night, protesting their visiting prime minister with fervor. Riot police and dogs were out in numbers, but our driver seemed unconcerned.
“There is a doorman,” he said as he pulled in front of a tall building that looked relatively new. “Just go in and give him your identification. He will get you into your accommodations. Do you need help with your bags?”
Wesley opened his door. “Thanks. We can manage.”
We got out and went inside a small reception area, where an alert older man smiled warmly at us from behind a polished desk.
“Oh right. I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
He got up and took our bags. “If you’ll just follow me to the lift here.”
We got on and rose to the fifth floor, where he showed us a three-bedroom flat with wide windows, bright fabrics and African art. My room was comfortably appointed, with the typical English tub large enough to drown in and toilet that flushed with a chain. Furniture was Victorian with hardwood floors covered in worn Turkish rugs, and I went over to the window and turned the radiator up high. I switched off lamps and gazed out at cars rushing past and dark trees in the park moving in the wind.
Wesley’s room was down the hall at the far end, and I did not hear him walk in until he spoke.
“Kay?” He waited near my doorway, and I heard ice softly rattle. “Whoever lives here keeps very fine Scotch.
I’ve been told we are to help ourselves.”
He walked in and set tumblers on the sill.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked.
“It’s never been necessary in the past.”
He stood next to me, and we drank and leaned against each other as we looked out together. For a long time we spoke in small, quiet sentences, and then he touched my hair, and kissed my ear and jaw. I touched him, too, and our love for each other got deeper as kisses and caresses did.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered as clothing became loosened and undone.
We made love because we could not help ourselves. That was our only excuse and would hold up in no court I knew.
Separation had been very hard, so we were hungry with each other all night. Then at dawn I drifted off to sleep long enough to awaken and find him gone, as if it all had been a dream. I lay beneath a down-filled duvet, and images were slow and lyrical in my mind. Lights danced beneath my lids and I felt as if I were being rocked, as if I were a little girl again and my father were not dying of a disease I did not understand back then.
I had never gotten over him. I supposed my attachments to all men had sadly relived my being left by him. It was a dance I moved to without trying, and then found myself in silence in the empty room of my most private life. I realized how much Lucy and I were alike. We both loved in secret and would not speak of pain.