Not even subtle. Bloody Robina.
He picked up his pace.
And up she hopped as she saw him coming, tossing back her hair and moving into the middle of the walk to intercept him. ‘Hi! Good to see you! I was just thinking—’
The wind whipped the rest of her words away as he powered up, tossing, ‘Excuse me,’ at her as he flew past, settling in for a hard run between Eastingdean and Rottingdean, the wind flipping his hair. People watched him. He was used to that. Weaving past buggies and children; past the underpass and on to the slipway below the White Horse Hotel, slowing, trotting up the stairs, down the slope, up the stairs, down the slope, on to the steep beach and, as the tide was out, down to the sea, careful not to turn an ankle on the pebbles. Then back the wayhe’d come, welcoming the wind to cool him until he turned into the underpass and around into the park to beat up and down the grassy slope, feeling his buttock muscles begin to burn and then his calves. Turn at the top, trot down, muscles relaxing. Turn, run back up.
He slowed, cooling down a level. Slowed again when he reached the tree that he and Honor had lounged beneath, its dappled shade dancing over her body. He checked his watch and ran on up the slope . . . turn . . . down. He was jogging towards the rubber courts now, where a volleyball net was being run between the posts. One of the men securing the net turned and waved. Martyn lifted his hand in return. ‘Hey, Jamie.’ Last one. Up . . . turn . . . down.
Then he trotted into the court, high-fived with Jamie, who he’d known since school, back when Jamie was thinner, shouting hellos, receiving a few good-natured insults in return. Throwing a pound coin into a box, he took a bottle of cold water out, making himself sip instead of gulp, taking up station at the back in the freezone, ready to return long serves. The blokes nearest to him, Tim and Elliot, grinned and said, ‘All right?’
And he said, ‘Yup. You?’ That was all the conversation needed.
Saturday morning volleyball was shaped by who turned up; the game seemed to organise itself. They’d played fourteen-a-side a couple of weeks ago. Nobody cared. It was fun, an opportunity to run and stretch, dodge and return the ball. Martyn had no competitiveness for sport at this level — he just enjoyed hanging out with the guys. He didn’t even know all their names and it didn’t matter.
Jamie pinged the net and shouted, ‘Everyone ready?’
Martyn’s laconic, ‘Just get on with it,’ acted like a commence-of-play whistle and the ball was punched up towards the sun.
The moment the old grey ball sailed towards Martyn he forgot all about his irritation with Clarissa and Robina. He jumped, he passed, he spun out of the way of a teammate with a shout of, ‘Yours!’ and he served with ferocious spikes. He got hot enough to yank off his sweatshirt, grinning through the resultant yowl of catcalls. He gave the impression that he was focused on nothing but the game.
But the impending visit to the bungalow floated around his mind.
He glanced up to where they’d talked together on the grassy slope. He’d done everything except stick a sign on his forehead sayingInterested!He leapt high and punched the ball back over the net, where it clipped the corner of the court and squirted away before it could be returned. ‘Yesssss!’
What was it with married women not wearing wedding rings?
* * *
After five sets the game broke up with as little ceremony as it had begun. The net and ball were bundled into Jamie’s holdall and the players melted away in ones and twos. ‘See you!’
‘Yeah, next week.’
Martyn wriggled back into his top and drank the rest of his bottle of water. He felt good. The exercise had soothed him.
He strolled across the grass towards Marine Drive, the shortest route to the bungalow. The traffic, changing gear for the hill, seemed loud after the comparative calm in the park. His legs felt pleasantly worked and, for once, he walked, rather than ran, the whole way, even up the steps to the bungalow.
When Honor opened the door, she smiled her surprise. That mouth. Her smile punched right into his soul.
He dragged the — now dogeared — leaflet from his sweatshirt pocket and her smile faded. ‘Oh shoot. I guess yoursi — Clarissa worked on you to come. I didn’t mean to get you another errand to run. Just leave the instructions and I’m sure to be able to figure it out.’
‘It’s OK,’ he found himself saying, as if he hadn’t spent all morning fulminating about how not OK it was. ‘I told Clarissa I’d make sure the thermostat’s functioning.’ For a moment their eyes locked and held, as if they were both remembering the kiss that never was, right here against this very door. And reaching unanimous agreement to move on.
In a white shirt and black jeans, her hair rippling from a ponytail high on her head, she was more of a turn on than all the women he met who spent their days in full make-up and sexy, expensive clothes. Someone else’s wife or not, she was lithe and graceful and pretty as hell. And he still liked the shape of her mouth. The shape of all of her, in fact.
She stepped back to let him in. ‘Sure, if you really have time to be the hero, it’s in the hallway. I’m trying out for a new job at eleven so I don’t have the time to argue.’ She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar, as he stooped to peer at the digital readout of the wall thermostat.
He could hear her rustling around. ‘So, what’s the new job?’ He gazed at a diagram labelled in three languages.
‘You’ll hate it.’
‘I’llhate it?’ He looked at the little white plastic thermostat.
‘I’m helping out at the Eastingdean Teapot. You know, taking orders, carrying food, bussing tables.Clearingtables.’
‘You’re joking!’ He found the reset button under the plastic box of the thermostat unit and all the figures flicked off and came on again. When he turned, through the half-open door he could see her making big eyes at the mirror whilst applying her mascara in tiny flicks. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’ He stabbed the mode button twice and heard the boiler hiss into life in thebathroom, then leaned his back against the wall and watched her some more.
‘No . . .’ The word elongated as she turned her face slightly and tickled the lashes at the corner of an eye. She studied the result, gave a little nod and put the mascara away. She squirted something at her neck and then a different something over her hair.
