Chapter 3

That kiss changed things, of course. Don't get me wrong; it wasn't a sexy kiss ... no tongues were involved, but it certainly had an effect on the way I thought about Emma. It also awoke feelings that I'd buried with Lilac's suicide, and necessitated regular masturbation, during which ... I confess ... I imagined Emma, naked, riding me or under me. It made me uncomfortable. It didn't seem right, so soon after Lilac's death, or to involve Lilac's flat-mate, another woman I thought too young for me, in my fantasies. I tried the porn site and inevitably ran across Lilac's video. That motivated me to contact the website; when I informed them that the video had been instrumental in Lilac's suicide, they removed it. Even so, I found the rest of the site unsatisfying...

Without Emma, I became very aware of Lilac's absence and for the first time wept for her. I spent several weeks walking by the Porter Brook with tears trickling down my cheeks. Gradually, the pain faded and though I didn't think I'd ever be without it completely, it was no longer the principal element of my thoughts. I was able to return to some sort of normality; I even managed to set Emma aside to some extent. Until, that is, I got an invitation to visit her in her new digs.

She had graduated – extremely well; a Masters was inevitable, and she was heading for a Doctorate – and needed a place she could share, as she couldn't afford the old flat without Lilac. Apart from that, she didn't want to stay there and be reminded of her friend every time her replacement came in. So she'd moved in to a shared house to take the place of a girl who'd graduated. I would have got a hotel room, but she insisted I stay with her. The other girls looked at me speculatively, and giggled, but didn't say much.

They ordered pizza. And produced some cheap red wine; we sat around and chatted as we ate. Neither the wine nor the pizza were outstanding, but I was consuming them in the company of five bright young women.

Emma was noticeably quieter than the others. Had I not known her, I might have described her as 'dowdy', but I could see behind the surface. I knew her to be intelligent, caring and considerate and suspected that with a little care in respect of her clothes and perhaps new glasses or contacts she might be very attractive. I noticed that the others teased her, and it was clear that they thought we were more than 'friends' ... that didn't bother me at all; in fact, I was beginning to think I wouldn't mind at all being 'more than friends'. On the other hand, I wasn't about to damage the friendship we did have by pushing things further than she wanted to go.

It was getting late, by my standards, when Emma stood and told me, "Come on, Gerry," and led me by the hand to her room. Her room, like all the others, was a fair size and had a double bed. Inside the room. She closed the door and stood, looking at me. "Gerry, I..." she paused, looking at the floor. "The other girls, they think you're my boyfriend."

"Oh?"

"Do you mind?"

I shrugged. "You're a lovely girl. I don't mind what other people think ... about ... you and me."

"They think ... they thought ... I was strange because I never had a date. But study's always been more important, and boys ... men ... have never shown any interest in me."

"Their loss," I shrugged again.

"I was hoping ... that you ... might be willing to ... pretend ... to be my boyfriend. You know, to get them off my back..."

I frowned, though inside I was smiling. "Wouldn't you like to be my girlfriend properly?"

She was biting her lip. "Um ... I'm a virgin, Gerry ... and I'm scared if I get involved ... that way ... that I won't be able to focus. So I think it would be ... unfair ... on you ... that way."

"You know I wouldn't do anything you didn't want?"

"Oh, yes. Lilac told me that. In fact, she told me it was a fight to get you to ... fuck her ... even though you knew she was ... experienced. That's not the problem. I'd want you to be able to find someone else without feeling bad about it. I think. It's just ... I want you to sleep in my bed, so I can say you did, but I don't want to do anything. If it's too hard for you, I don't mind sleeping on the floor; I've done that before often enough when we've had other visitors."

"Just one thing, Emma, Lilac and I never... fucked ... we made love. I would only do that with someone I really cared for. It's too important to me that ... making love ... intercourse ... means something more than just a few moments, an hour, a night's ... pleasure."

She coloured and looked at the floor. "Oh."

"I'd love to sleep in your bed, with you, even if we don't do anything."

She looked up and our eyes met; she smiled, and in that moment I realised she really was beautiful. I leaned forward to close the space between us and kissed her forehead. "Why don't we get ready for bed?"

Her reply came out as a sort of gasp. "Okay."

When our night-time routines were done, I got into bed, Emma turned out the light, climbed in beside me, and lay on her back, not touching me. Tired, I must have dropped off quickly, but I woke in the middle of the night and found Emma had snuggled up to me. It was ... very nice, but a little warm. I usually sleep nude, but had put on boxers and a t-shirt as a concession to modesty. Emma had on full coverage pyjamas, but they covered, rather than concealing, her figure, and I could feel her against me from her head on my shoulder all the way down to her feet each side of my ankle, including her small but very firm breasts.

Suddenly I had an erection and wasn't just warm, I was uncomfortably hot, so I edged away. Emma grumbled in her sleep, and followed. I was able, though, to stick my left leg and arm out from under the duvet, which helped. Somewhere in there, I dropped off to sleep again.

I slept longer than usual and when I woke Emma was still against me, but when I turned my head, she was awake and looking at me. "I slept really well," she said. "I hope I didn't disturb you – it was so nice cuddling up like this."

"I slept well, and enjoyed cuddling you too ... when I woke for a few minutes in the middle of the night. So ... any time you like. You know, Emma ... you're a pretty special person."

She blushed and buried her face against my neck. We lay like that until I was forced to get out of bed to deal with my bladder.

We went to a small nearby café which clearly usually catered for students, and had some breakfast, then spent the morning wandering the streets. As a University town, one of the oldest in Britain, in fact, it featured many fascinating bookshops. When Emma apologetically told me she had to work that afternoon, I took the chance to browse – which kept me happily occupied until I met Emma again for tea. The other girls tried to interrogate me, but apart from some basic information (I was a widower, forty-three years old, a consultant in business management) I just smiled and deflected their questions.

That night was much like the previous one, except that Emma cuddled up to me immediately, instead of waiting until I was asleep. When I woke, I lay there looking at my companion. Asleep, without those heavy, horrible glasses, she really was ... quite pretty. She woke slowly and snuggled, humming contentedly until I intimated that I needed to get up.

"Just a moment, Gerry..." she paused and cleared her throat. "Um ... is it still alright for me to come to yours after Christmas?"

"Sure – of course. I'm looking forward to it."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

We breakfasted on cereal and coffee. When it was time for me to leave, watched by a couple of the other girls, Emma stretched up to kiss me again. It was a lingering kiss, and very nice. When our lips parted, I leaned in to initiate another like it.

I couldn't interpret her expression as we separated; I puzzled over it as I travelled home, and off and on for the next couple of months. Our regular emails didn't give me any clue as to what was going on in her head.

Christmas approached. Unlike the previous year, I arranged to visit my parents, who were in their seventies but quite hale. I had to almost bully Mum into allowing me to prepare a Christmas lunch; for the several previous years they'd arranged for a turkey dinner to be delivered to simplify their arrangements. They were pleased to see me, I wasn't alone ... and we all had freshly cooked turkey with all the trimmings. I was to take most of the bird home with me and Emma could help me eat it up; I left to return to Sheffield Boxing Day afternoon.

Emma didn't come.

I had to admit she'd said she might not be able to make it Boxing Day evening, but I didn't get a call either. Come to that, we hadn't spoken to wish each other Happy Christmas. I had to tell myself sternly that we had no claim on each other beyond friendship ... but surely even friends ring to say 'Happy Christmas'?

It was the evening of the next day before she rang, apologised for not ringing before, and said she couldn't come because her father had been rushed to hospital, and she didn't want to leave her mother alone. Her voice was somehow ... remote. Distant. I didn't know what to make of her manner at all.

"It's okay," I told her quietly. "You know you'll be welcome whenever you're ready. I hope your Dad's okay?"

"We don't know yet," she said, still distant. "They're doing all sorts of tests."

And that was it. I tried to call her, but the calls went to voice-mail. I could understand that if she was spending a lot of time at the hospital. I emailed a couple of times, but didn't get a reply. After a couple of weeks without any contact, I shrugged and tried to turn my thoughts away from her. I thought I'd succeeded as I threw myself into work more energetically than I had since before Helen died. Apart from work I found all sorts of things to occupy my mind. I even allowed myself to be manoeuvred into a couple of dates with Georgia Taggart and tried to convince myself she was a possible match.

Three months after Christmas, I got an email. The subject line was simply 'Emma', and I didn't recognise the address.

"Please call me. Sarah Evans." And a mobile number.

The name was vaguely familiar, though I couldn't immediately place it.

"Hello, Mizz Evans? Gerry Barrett." I could hear conversation in the background.

"Oh, Mister Barrett. Thank you for calling me back."

"Not a problem. What can I do for you?"

"Just a moment. I'll go somewhere quieter." There was a hiatus, the sounds of doors opening and closing, and most of the background noise disappeared. "We met when you visited Emma Lumley. I'm one of her house-mates."

"Oh, yes?"

"Um ... have you two fallen out, or something?"

"Not exactly..." I thought for a moment before deciding it wasn't really private. "She just stopped returning my calls," I finished.

"Are you angry with her?"

"No ... well, maybe, a bit."

"She's ... really withdrawn. Down. Hardly speaking to any of us, and bites the head off anyone who asks if she's okay."

I didn't know what to say, so I kept quiet.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here. I just didn't know what to say."

"It's just ... you seemed to care for her ... when you were here before."

"Oh, I did. I do. I didn't want to push myself on her if she'd lost interest. After all, I am quite a bit older than her."

"She seemed really happy when you were here, and afterwards ... your name came up, rather often. She was really looking forward to Christmas. But when she came back, she'd changed."

"Oh..." I paused. "You know her previous flat mate committed suicide?"

"She said something about that."

I considered mentioning my relationship with Lilac, but instead, "Do you think Emma might..."

There was a long pause. "Maybe," she said, reluctantly.

"Suppose I come down at the weekend?" I suggested. "I'll get a hotel room, and be on the doorstep at ... say ... nine o'clock?"

"That could work. I don't think we could stop her if she decided to go out, but she doesn't usually leave the house before then on a Saturday. I've got your number, anyway, in case she decides to go home."

One of the other girls actually asked Emma if she was going home at the weekend.

"Why on earth do you want to know that?"

"Oh, we were thinking of having a party, but if you're going to be here, we won't."

"Well. I'm not. Perhaps next weekend."