Chapter 4

Hank and Barbara settled into a flexible routine visiting each other two or three times a month. Normally, meetings were pre-planned and they alternated between feeding each other. Hank knew where he would rather go as he always was fed better but Barbara never criticised his lash-ups as he termed them. Occasionally one, more often Hank, after a stressful day, would ring the other. It did not always result in going to bed. The chief need on those days was to talk and they would do this snuggled up on the sofa. They both derived a great deal of peace of mind and happiness from the arrangement but each knew that they were not destined to live together.

"We're both set in our ways," said Barbara out of the blue one evening. "It's working out just as I thought it would. Neither of us wants to live together and yet we both rely on each other for mutual support and physical safety valves."

Hank smiled. "The clinical analysis of a psychologist," he teased. That earned him a feigned smack on the cheek and a bright-eyed hiss of mock disapproval.

"I love you, Hank Brierson, but not enough to marry you."

"Snap. We're pretty important to each other though, aren't we?"

"Yes. Very, very important to each other. But, I think that if we lived together we'd soon come to blows: not real ones but verbal ones."

"And that would destroy something very valuable."

She nodded and kissed him. "Yes, Hank, something very valuable indeed."

Hank pondered that conversation. He wondered what the missing element was in his deep affection for Barbara. She was warm, amusing, understanding and great fun in bed. He would go out of his way to help her if she ever needed it but then he would for any of his great friends. Then, looking back to his love for Anne, it began to dawn on him. It was a tangible love at a distance. He could walk into a crowded room where she already was and feel her welcoming him and he would know where in the room she was. He knew too that he gave back that love and that it was like an invisible umbilical cord. The question was why that had not developed with Barbara and he realised that, since she had made up her mind never to marry again, she had curbed it. He also realised that he was not transmitting either because there was nothing to connect to.

Some months later he met Deirdre Metcalfe at a dinner party. She was a childless divorcee in her mid-forties. He found her amusing, intelligent and attractive. She was the artistic director of a fashion company and was always turned out beautifully. She was not local but only lived some twenty miles away in a pretty and delightfully furnished cottage. After a slow start they began to see each other quite often and enjoyed each other's company. A high point was when they went out on the Thames at Pangbourne one Sunday afternoon and laughed themselves silly.

She invited him to accompany her to a fashion show in London. He was not sure it was quite his scene and voiced his doubts.

"Nonsense," she said, "You'll love it. Lots of pretty girls to ogle and chat up. You'll have a lovely time. Anyway, it'll be a new experience for you. If you don't enjoy it you don't have to do it again."

He went, albeit still with misgivings. He sat through the fashion parade. He was not impressed by the majority of models or what they were wearing. The girls all seemed to be inordinately tall and so skinny that they would probably be blown away by anything other than a gentle breeze. Their makeup was plastered on so that one could not really see whether they were pretty or not. As for the clothes they modelled, Hank found it difficult to visualise anyone normal wearing them. He thought that 'creations' was an apt word.

There was a drinks party afterwards. Deirdre latched onto his arm and steered him from group to group. He was not impressed. It seemed to him that everyone was putting on an act, including Deirdre. No longer was she the amusing woman he thought he had come to know. He watched her eyes darting round the room and then hauling him off to meet someone else who might be useful to her. She introduced him to all of them in what he felt was a rather proprietary way and kept on calling him 'dear'. He felt himself getting crosser and crosser and consoled himself by tucking into the small eats.

Finally, and as Hank thought at long last, she prepared for their departure saying they must not be late for dinner with people Hank had never heard of.

As they walked back to where his car was parked Hank said that he was unaware that they were going on to a dinner party.

Deirdre laughed. "We're not. That was just a little white lie. I hope you're going to take me somewhere nice and cosy for dinner à deux."

"I'm not hungry," said Hank shortly. "I ate too many of those canapé things. If you're hungry we can stop off at one of the motorway cafés."

She looked at him sharply. "What's the matter?"

"I don't like lies, even little white ones, particularly when they're just meant to impress."

"It wasn't meant to impress."

"Why did you tell it then?"

"I didn't want to get involved further with anyone this evening."

"Wouldn't an hour and a half's drive have been sufficient to refuse an invitation? As it was, I didn't sense anyone winding themselves up to ask us to go on out somewhere with them."

"You wouldn't have done. It would have been spur of the moment."

Hank snorted in disbelief.

They continued back to the car in silence. Indeed that persisted until Hank saw the sign for the Fleet Service Station. "Do you want to stop for a bite?" he asked.

"No thanks."

The silence continued until they reached Deirdre's cottage. Hank opened her car door for her and escorted her to the front door.

"I somehow don't think you're coming in," she observed.

"No thanks."

"Very well. Thank you for coming with me. I'll be in touch. Goodnight, Hank."

"Good night, Deirdre."

She gave him a peck on the cheek and let herself in. Hank drove home. He was not proud of his behaviour but he reckoned that forced conversation or even a quarrel on the journey would have been worse. She had taken the initiative in further contact so he left it to her to ring or write.