Roger groaned. Two weeks stuck in the office. Even worse, two weeks of evenings and weekends at home with his wife, Gloria. He looked out of the office window at the clear blue sky. Just the sort of day to be out there doing the job he enjoyed. He was a good salesman with an excellent record. Most of the hairdressing salons he visited were run by women. It was so easy to flirt with them. He felt he did them a favour. Every woman likes to feel admired and he had that knack of making each one feel special.
He tried to think positively. It was, after all, a step up the ladder to have been selected to take over the manager’s job whilst he was on holiday.
Many times he’d considered leaving Gloria but it was all a question of money. Although earning a reasonable salary, it could not pay for his expensive taste in clothes, golfing holidays and, most importantly, the other women he met on his travels. Wining and dining them cost money and he could hardly put the bill on expenses. Gloria became a wealthy woman after the death of her parents. The only problem was that her father had stated in his will that the property and capital were to remain in Gloria’s name until her death and then it was to be split amongst several charities. It was as though he had seen see right through Roger from the start.
He glanced at his watch. Lunchtime in five minutes. A whole hour of freedom. The manager’s secretary looked after things whilst Roger took a break. So he left the office and walked along the corridor, pausing a moment to look in the long mirror at the far end. He smoothed back his thick, greying hair and couldn’t help admiring the way his tall, slim frame fitted so perfectly into his charcoal grey suit.
Only the other day, Sharon, the young receptionist had remarked, “You remind me of that man in the advert on the telly. You know the one. He opens a door in the bath so he doesn’t have to climb over the side. Ever so like him you are. You should take up modelling, Mr Pettigrew.”
Roger had found the perfect place to spend his lunchtime. He wasn’t an art lover but the Lynchester Gallery, a fine Victorian building was close by and offered good lunchtime meals..
After lunch, he’d saunter through the gallery. The rooms were divided into different periods. Neo-Classical, Romantic, Pre-Raphaelite, Realist, through to the more modern styles. He’d no special favourites but preferred landscapes to portraits or still life.
Roger would sit on one of the red, imitation leather benches in front of a painting and dream. He was dreaming that day. The day Helen came into his life...
A room had been set aside for an exhibition of twelve Impressionist paintings lent by various private collectors and galleries. Roger looked round twice before choosing a landscape by Monet. To him, it had a magical quality which drew the onlooker into the picture. He wanted to lie on the sunlit grass in the foreground and then board the train silhouetted against the sky, high up on an embankment. Smoke was billowing out of the engine which was obscured by a row of trees.
He’d just closed his eyes, imagining he was one of the figures basking in the sunshine when he heard footsteps on the hard, wooden floor. Curiosity aroused, he opened his eyes. A woman was standing in front of the painting. Her light grey suit was nipped into her slim waist and chestnut coloured hair fell onto her shoulders.
When she turned to face him her large blue eyes fascinated him. They sloped down at the corners which made her look sad and vulnerable. She glanced at him briefly before sitting at the other end of the bench. Turning to look at her profile, he liked her small nose. Nice balanced features, he thought. She looked in her mid-thirties or thereabouts. Her skirt was just short enough for him to catch a glimpse of thigh as she crossed her legs. He sat upright and cleared his throat.
“Lovely painting, isn’t it?” he said.
Turning towards him, she smiled and her eyes seemed to smile too.
“Yes, it is,” she said, slipping off her jacket.
"One of my favourites,” Roger said, staring at the contours of her ample breasts beneath the pale pink blouse. “I like to see the shapes,” he said, lifting his eyes back to the painting.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The one over there looks a bit blurred. Looks like he did it in a hurry,” he said, pointing to Monet’s painting of the Houses of Parliament. “It’s too…er…”
“Impressionistic?” she suggested.
Roger nodded. “Of course. I just couldn’t think of the word.”
She smiled. “Well, ‘Train in the Country’ is one of his earlier paintings. In his later work Monet let go of form to some extent. It no longer mattered. He wanted to convey authentic light effects at the expense of realism.”
Roger stared at her. He felt uncomfortable. Out of his depth. His ignorance must have been obvious to her.
“You seem to be something of an expert,” he said.
She giggled. “No, I just sound like one. I’m studying the Impressionists at my art appreciation class and we’ve such a good teacher. He’s so enthusiastic. I just remember what he tells us.”
“So, which one is your favourite?”
“I like most of them,” she said, looking round, “but there’s none by Renoir who is one of my favourite painters. There’s an exhibition of his work at the National Gallery in London.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” she said, turning to face him. “I’m Helen, by the way.”
“Peter,” he said, convincingly. He often gave a false name and had seized on the connection with her favourite painter. Roger never used his real name if a new lady came into his life. It allowed him to disappear without trace when he’d tired of their company. But this time, his reasons were different. He was far too close to home.
“You said there’s an exhibition in London.”
“Martin, he’s the tutor, has organized a coach trip at the end of the month. We leave early Saturday and return Sunday evening.”
“Is it just for the art group?” Roger asked, thinking he wouldn’t mind a weekend in London especially with an attractive young woman.
“Yes, it is really. He teaches a few other classes and they’re going as well to fill the coach. So you’re interested in art?”
“I don’t know much about it. I need some lessons.”
Helen smiled. “I’ve learnt a lot. I wanted an interest outside work and being new to the area, it takes me out for an evening.”
“Where are the classes held?”
“In Lynchester. At the Adult College.”
Roger tensed. Lynchester Adult College. That’s where Gloria went for her woodwork course. “When?”
“Friday evenings.”
Roger breathed an inward sigh of relief. Woodwork was on Thursdays. He relaxed back into the seat. “Do you work in the city?”
“Yes. I’ve just opened a small shop. Beauty products. It’s all a bit hectic but I have a part-time assistant. Covers my lunch hours and helps on Saturdays.”
“I’d like to know about the Impressionists,” he said. “Could you tell me about them? That is if you haven’t to rush back to work. ”
Helen glanced at her watch. “I’ve still twenty minutes left.”
“If you’re sure.” Roger felt pleased with himself. He wasn’t in the least interested in the Impressionists but his pretence had worked. He edged a little closer to Helen.
He didn’t listen to her words, more to the sound of her gentle voice. He watched the way she moved her hands as she spoke and he breathed in the aroma of her perfume.
She suddenly stopped talking. “I must go,” she said, reaching for her jacket.
Roger stood up. “Thank you for spending your time with me. I’ve really enjoyed it.”
“Well, Peter, I have too,” she said, holding her hand out.
He clasped it tenderly. It felt soft. So small, so delicate, he didn’t want to let go.
“I come here every weekday,” Roger said. “If you’re not too busy perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch sometime.”
And she did. The next day and the day after that. They continued to meet over the next two weeks. Lunch and then a stroll around the gallery.
It was Friday. They’d just finished their meal.
“The manager’s back on Monday so I’ll be away in the week,” Roger said. “I’m going to miss you. Perhaps we could meet up sometime at the weekend?
“I’m not free on Saturdays because of the shop and my sister’s coming on Sunday. Then the following one is when we go to the art gallery in London.”
“What about the shop?”
“My assistant is looking after things on Saturday.”
“Wish I could come to London,” Roger said, quietly.
“Well, a friend of mine has had to drop out because of family problems. She was going to sit next to me. So there’ll be an empty space. I’m sure Martin wouldn’t object. We’ve all had to pay in advance so my friend would have lost her money. She’d be glad if someone were to take her place.”
“What about you?”
“I’d really enjoy your company. I don’t think there’ll be a problem with the hotel booking. We’d booked single rooms.”
Pity, Roger thought.
Helen opened her handbag and took out a small notebook. “I’ll write down Martin’s phone number. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you.” She paused. “I don’t know your surname.”
Roger had already anticipated this. He’d found inspiration in the Neo-Classical Gallery having seen paintings by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
“Reynolds,” he said, without hesitation.
Roger rang Martin that afternoon. He had no objection to Roger joining the party and told him to be at the coach station in Lynchester at eight o’clock prompt on Saturday morning.
Roger made sure everything was in order for the manager’s return before phoning Gloria to say he wouldn’t be home for a meal. Somehow he couldn’t face her. Not this evening. He was filled with thoughts of the trip to London in a week’s time.
He played golf most of the weekend. On Sunday evening, he watched the television after Gloria had gone to bed. She always retired early. They’d long since ceased to share the same bed. She’d been a bit upset at first but he explained that her snoring had become so unbearable, he was losing sleep.
Roger was working in Yorkshire the following week so he’d decided not to return home on the Friday evening before the trip to London. He would book into a hotel near Lynchester so he could be at the coach station in plenty of time. He’d told Gloria that he would be away that weekend on a managerial course which was to start on Friday evening.
He switched the television off and was on his way upstairs when he remembered his new suit was in the large wardrobe in Gloria’s room. He needed it for the weekend. Creeping up the stairs, he opened her bedroom door quietly and tiptoed into the room.
Without glancing at Gloria, he stood for a moment in front of the mirror. He thought how good he looked for fifty-eight and he could understand why Helen had been attracted to him despite the age difference. She occupied his thoughts most of the day and even appeared in his dreams. He was just imagining her full lips pressed against his when he heard a snort, followed by heavy breathing.
Roger turned to look at his wife. Gloria was was lying on her back, mouth open, her large head sunk deep into the pillows. Greasy grey hair framed her flabby, ashen face. The duvet tucked under her double chin hid her huge, sprawling figure moving rhythmically as she breathed. Roger sighed. He found it hard to imagine her as she once was, a slim girl with a lovely smile. She’d be fifty-five on Thursday. He’d try not to forget. Rarely at home on the actual day, he would always order an inexpensive spray of flowers to be delivered. They’d be on the dining-room table when he arrived home, displayed in the cut-glass vase. Tulips, irises, the usual spring flowers.
He closed the wardrobe door quietly and carrying his suit and tie, walked along the landing to the bedroom at the back. The anticipation of the weekend in London with Helen filled him with an inner excitement. A tingling feeling. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past eleven. This time a week on Saturday, he’d be with Helen. Perhaps having a drink at the hotel bar or, with any luck, in bed together.
Roger had met all sorts of women in his time. Travelling around the country and staying in hotels offered many opportunities. But the truth was most of his conquests were hungry for companionship rather than sex. All this rubbish about the independent woman. Even those who professed to be career women were really looking for security in a long-term relationship. He usually chose women in their late forties or early fifties. They never took much persuading. A casual dinner and up to their room. Some almost leapt into bed with him.
But he’d grown tired of them. Tired of their wrinkles, sagging jaw lines, and bleached hair. He longed for the touch of taut skin, firm breasts, and smooth legs. He sighed. Even for one night…
Roger left home before Gloria was awake on Monday morning and as he drove north along the motorway, his thoughts returned to the following weekend. He hadn’t felt so excited for a very long time.
He enjoyed his week in Yorkshire and had successfully introduced some new products to the customers, raising his sales figures. On Friday he finished at lunchtime to begin the journey back south. Considering it was Friday the traffic was not too bad and he arrived at the small hotel outside Lynchester in good time for the evening meal.
He’d arranged an early breakfast the next morning as he had to be at the coach station at eight o’clock. When he arrived, only one coach was waiting beside a row of shelters. Two men were standing next to the coach, one carrying a clipboard. Must be Martin, Roger thought. Younger than he’d imagined. About Helen’s age. Tall and good looking with an easy smile.
“Peter Reynolds,” Roger said, as he approached.
Looking down the list, Martin ticked off his name and the driver put Roger’s suitcase in the luggage compartment. As he was early, Martin suggested he bought a drink at the café.
Roger sat on one of the white plastic chairs outside and slowly stirred the coffee, waiting for it to cool down. Within minutes passengers began to appear. He was just finishing his coffee when he saw Helen. She ran straight up to Martin and he pointed in Roger’s direction.
“Peter,” Helen called, looking flustered. “I’ve tried so hard to reach you.”
“Reach me?”
“You didn’t give me a contact number and I’d no idea where you were staying. You’ve never even told me which company you work for…”
“Haven’t I? Why did you want to get in touch?”
“I’ve had to cancel the trip. Martin would have given you the message but I wanted to see you myself to ……”
“Cancel!” Roger felt almost sick with disappointment.
“You see, Linda, my assistant has had to go into hospital. So I’ve no-one to help me in the shop today. I can’t afford to close it. Saturday’s my busiest day. I’m so sorry Peter.”
Roger sat back in the chair and sighed. “I’m very disappointed but you couldn’t help it. I suppose I could cancel. It …”
“No, don’t do that. You’ll lose your money.”
“But you have.”
“No. I’ve been able to sell my seat to someone. You see, Martin changed the class to Thursday because of the trip the next day and in the break, I went into the coffee room. There was a lady sitting there. I could see she’d been crying. I felt so sorry for her.”
“Thursday, you said.” Roger was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Yes. Apparently, it was her birthday and her husband forgot to send flowers. He’d never forgotten before. A few cheap spring flowers but she didn’t mind that.”
It can’t be, Roger thought. His throat felt dry. “Flowers,” he repeated, as though in a trance.
“Yes. It was really sad. She really needed someone to talk to, I suppose, and I was there. She told me all about her private life. She said there’d always been other women but he’d cared enough to remember her birthday. I told her she ought to leave him but she said it was too late and no-one would want her.” Helen paused. “You need to get away, I said. It was then I came up with the idea.”
“What idea?” Roger asked, in a voice barely above a whisper.
“That she should go to London in my place. Take her mind off things. Well, she jumped at the chance and gave me a cheque for the trip there and then.”
“You mean, she’ll be….”
“Yes. I thought she’d be a suitable companion. You’ll like her. Once she cheered up, she was really good fun,” Helen said, turning round.
A queue of people had formed next to the coach.
“Oh, there she is. Come on, I’ll introduce you…”
