Carol startles. A stout nurse is standing in front of them, hands on hips. Her name tag says Elsie Bryers. She sighs with relief, realising only in that moment that it could have been someone she knew.
Jim is already on his feet. Carol jumps up too, and together they follow the nurse, who is already striding ahead down the shiny corridor.
‘Elsie Bryers?’ Jim whispers. ‘Isn’t she from Coronation Street?’
Carol whispers back, ‘Shush! She might hear you! Anyway that’s Elsie Tanner, you nutter.’
Suppressing giggles, they follow the nurse into a treatment room. Under the harsh lights, she cuts away Jim’s sock, stitches his shin and straps it up with lint and tape. She is deft, gruff and kind.
‘The stitches’ll take about a week to dissolve,’ she says, shaking her head at Carol, including her in some imaginary club of women and their loveable-rogue husbands. She hands her four painkillers in a paper strip and turns back to Jim. ‘Your wife can help you to the car, all right?’ She gives Carol a last smile and heads off down the corridor.
Carol pulls at her wedding ring. The nurse will have seen it and jumped to conclusions. But what can anyone ever tell from the outside? What does anyone ever know about what goes on in another person’s life? The ring is stuck fast behind her knuckle. Jim is standing up, leaning on her shoulder for support.
At the hospital door, they stop and look out into the night.
‘I’ll get a cab from here,’ says Jim.
She knows she should say that it’s been nice to meet him, that she’ll see him again. There are any number of things she should say.
But she doesn’t say any of them.
‘I’ve driven you this far,’ is what she says. ‘May as well take you to the hotel now.’
Eight
Carol
The lanterns outside the Holiday Inn put Carol in mind of a deserted street party – everyone home in bed and here they are, still shining. Ted will have been thrown onto the sofa by now. If he has woken up, he’ll know she’s not there. Her chest rises and falls. But there is some small relief in the knowledge that it’s too late to go back now. She didn’t mean to come this far. Only wanted to chat to Jim a bit longer. Jim, who doesn’t make her feel mad or stupid or wrong in everything she says.
She switches off the engine. There is, strictly speaking, no need to do this. The rain has eased off, the car windows have cleared. Jim’s seat creaks. She feels his hand, warm and rough, under her hair.
‘I must look a right state,’ she says, without glancing at him.
His hand traces round to her cheek. He guides her face towards his, leans towards her and kisses her on the mouth. It is no more than a couple of seconds, but unmistakably it is the kiss a man gives to a woman late at night in a deserted car park. She presses her forehead to his shoulder.
‘Come on,’ he says.
He limps around the back of the car. She holds her handbag on her knees. Three big breaths, Carol. One for the Father, one for the Holy Ghost and one for whatsisname, oh God, she can’t remember. The car door opens. As she unclips her seat belt, a sigh shudders out of her.
‘Come on,’ he says again, softly, holding out his hand.
She throws her feet out of the car and stands up into him. He kisses her again, more firmly, his mouth opening, taking hers with it. The air is chilly now that the night is here and she finds she is shivering, glad of his arms wrapped so tightly around her, like cords on a life jacket.
Through the empty lobby, they hold hands.
At his room, he takes the key from his sporran.
‘So that’s what that is,’ she says, giggling, trembling.
‘It’s my wee purse.’ He shows her through the door first. ‘Let me take your coat. Sit down. Sit on the bed.’
She makes her way into the dim room, trying not to look at the bed. ‘You’re the one who needs to sit down.’
Jim switches on a lamp by the portable telly and the tea-making things. He sits down on the end of the bed, pats the space beside him. The lamp throws a dim orange glow. She checks her watch. Quarter to one. She shouldn’t be here.
‘I better check that dressing.’ There is no need to do this. She sits on the floor by his feet, takes his shoe in her hand and unpicks the laces. Jim is still and quiet, save for the soft rush of his breath.
She loosens the complicated shoes. ‘Wouldn’t want to put these on in a hurry.’
‘I can do that.’
‘It’s all right, I don’t mind.’ She slides the brogues from his feet and rolls his remaining sock down and off. Her teeth chatter. She closes her mouth, but they won’t stop.
‘Should I make you a hot drink?’ she asks, her stomach rolling over.
‘I’m fine. Unless you want one? You’re shaking; are you cold?’
‘No. No, I’m fine.’
Ted will be on the sofa, dead to the world. Or not. Her brother in the armchair. Or calming Ted down, telling him … telling him what?
‘I better go,’ she says, kneeling up, gathering herself to stand.
‘Look at me.’
She can only look at the floor. ‘Jim, I’m a car crash.’
‘You’re not.’
‘You must know something. Tommy must’ve said.’
‘Come here.’ His voice is thick, different. He tips her head, runs his thumbs from her nose out to her ears, pushes back her hair. She kisses the insides of his wrists, aware of herself as if from above. She lays her hands on his knees, pushes her splayed fingers up his thighs. Under the kilt, movement. She draws back and laughs, her hand clapped to her mouth.
‘You think that’s funny, do you?’ He takes her hand from her mouth and holds it in his. ‘That’s the haggis.’
‘Give over.’
They giggle, relieved to know they are both still themselves, that they can go back to these selves at any time if they need to.
Jim reaches forward and pulls her onto the bed, onto him. He kisses her with an open, unhesitating mouth. There is no hiding in a kiss like that, and after years without, it almost sends her running from the room. She rolls off him, aware of her heart beating. He props himself up on one elbow to look at her. She watches him watching her, wonders what he sees. Between his thumb and forefinger he holds a button of her blouse. He slides it open and her breath catches. He meets her gaze and opens another button.
‘Jim.’ She makes to raise herself up.
‘It’s OK.’
She watches him pull the blouse down to her waist and away, watches to see if he’ll flinch at the sight of her, but his face is unchanged and tender. He kisses her left shoulder with no more than an eyelash’s pressure, returns his lips to her skin, over and over, sending little electrical currents through her as he makes his way to the bruise on her arm, which time has paled to grey. On her thigh, she knows he’ll find the thunder cloud, yellow at the edges like a halo of sunshine trying to break through. He spots it when he pulls her skirt from her hips, and then, yes, she sees something – in the tightening of his mouth, the quick flare of his nostrils.
‘Jim, stop.’ She sits up.
‘It’s OK.’
She shakes her head, willing herself not to cry. ‘It’s not.’ She shifts to the end of the bed, pulls on her skirt. ‘I’m sorry.’ She picks up her blouse and puts it back on.