Chapter 6

I am not stupid. At least, I don't think so and I've got some pieces of paper that seem to confirm that. But there's no doubting I am just not in Emma's league intellectually. So, I'm sorry, but I just don't have any sort of handle on what she does. Apparently while in Geneva, she got talking to one of the guys there – oh, nothing like that – who got her mind thinking laterally, or something. That night after she came home? When she was engrossed in whatever was on her laptop and she was in a snit with me and her mum? She escaped her mood into some rarefied intellectual plane. The result was a change in direction of her work. She kept in touch with the guy ... no, not like that – she told me the password to her email account so I could see what she was chatting about – and less than eighteen months after the award of her M.Sc., she completed her thesis and prepared to defend it. Then ... she was Doctor Emma Jane Lumley-Barrett.

Betty and I watched her in her mostly red gown collect her diploma from the Chancellor. Betty was proud, but pensive, thinking of Emma's father.

"I'm sure he's watching proudly," I said.

She looked up at me and smiled a little mistily. "I hope so," she said, "he was always so ... well, you know, Dads and their daughters..."

A couple of days later I got in from a seminar and Emma was already home, looking nervous.

"Um, Gerry..."

"Yes, Baby?"

"They want me at M.I.T."

Truly, I have no problem with America ... I just don't want to live there. No particular reason except being used to free health-care, that sort of thing.

I managed a smile. "That's great! A real compliment, I think!"

"Uh huh. The Prof here said he wanted me too, but he didn't have the money in his budget."

"I didn't know you'd applied to M.I.T."

"I didn't. I didn't even think of working outside Britain."

"An even greater accolade, then."

"I suppose so..."

"Well ... why don't we see what Tony can do for us in the way of a celebration? Perhaps give your mother a call, ask if she'd like to join us?"

"That's ... a lovely thought, Gerry ... but, you know, I think I'd like my husband to myself tonight. Do you mind?"

"Sweetheart, I never mind time with you – you know that, I hope."

My words resulted in Emma wrapping herself round me in an inflammatory kiss. When, some very enjoyable time later, we disengaged ... Tony happily accommodated us and we ate far too much, far too rich Italian fine cooking, accompanied by a little too much Italian red wine. Please, don't ask me to remember what we ate and drank. All I can say is that the combination of food, wine ... and Emma ... was ... paradise.

Of course we'd eaten too much for energetic love-making. The languorous, sensual, larghetto coupling, however, was a wholly satisfactory end to the day. In the afterglow, Emma murmured... "Would you mind, Gerry? Coming to America?"

"Whither you go, dearest, I follow."

It was no answer, of course, but it seemed to satisfy her. In truth, while I didn't really want to live anywhere but in Britain, I knew I wouldn't be happy without my lover, and where-ever I was, I could be happy as long as I was with her.

I got to sleep eventually, not that I minded laying there with Emma slumbering peacefully in my arms. In the morning I woke, a little groggily, to a blow-job, with Emma's curly dark head bobbing in my lap. She realised I was awake and impaled herself on me, placing my hands on her breasts, having finally got the message I liked them just the way they were. Having said that, perhaps it was just eating a little more regularly and getting a bit more exercise; perhaps it was regular sex boosting her hormone levels ... but she'd filled out to an extent and her little titties were slightly fuller and slightly higher.

Afterwards, before I had to get up to empty my bladder, we lay together for a few minutes. "I'm going to see Mum today. You're out all day, aren't you?"

"Yes, but only to Newmarket. Should be home by seven, I should think."

"That's good."

Groups vary, of course. Mine that day were fairly typical, a mixture of keen, resigned and resentful, but by lunch time I had them at least involved and participating and at the end of the day, they were all smiling to some degree. The feedback forms were complimentary and I took the day as a success. As I was packing up, I got a text from Emma, asking if I could call at her mother's, who would give us dinner and I could then take Emma home. I had no problem with that at all.

"I need to see someone at Sheffield University," she told me. "Could we go up for a few days next week? Your schedule was clear..."

With Emma at home most of the time, I hadn't been accepting as much work and, yes, my schedule was clear.

"Still is, Baby. We could go up Friday ... perhaps do a little walking in the Peak District ... look in on the house ... how long do you think you need?"

"I'm not sure. One day, at least, perhaps two ... Monday is open, he said."

"That works, then. If Premier Inn's okay?"

She nodded.

"Then I'll book Friday night to Wednesday morning. Can extend if necessary."

A rental car – small one, a Fiesta – got a deal on it for a week. Set off as soon as the Friday morning rush subsided; got to Newark in time for an early lunch at the 'Friendly Farmer'. Had less than the usual trouble negotiating that horrible roundabout forming the coming together of the A46, the A17, and traffic for the A1. Checked in to the hotel and got the car parked before the Friday afternoon rush got into its stride. Got coffee and cake at Café Rouge and sat outside watching little kids playing in the fountain in the Peace Gardens. Wandered round the City centre ... Emma didn't really need a guided tour.

Saturday, we took the bus out to Fox House; coffee at Longshaw Lodge, a walk down Padley Gorge and lunch at the Grindleford Station Café – steak-and-ale pie, mushy peas and chips – and a steep walk back. A longish wait for the bus. A light supper, showering together, making love energetically and at length (yes, after over two years married), drifting off to sleep wrapped up in my lover.

Sunday? We went to church. Why? I have no idea. It was high church; all robes and candles and incense. I didn't know the hymns and didn't care about the Virgin Mary, but there was something calming about it all. Emma was smiling as we came away, though.

Lunch, then we called in on my... our ... house, had a chat with the tenants, saw the garden was being kept up, made sure everything was going smoothly and the agents were keeping on top of any problems. It's an old house and can be draughty and creak, but the tenants knew that and loved the old place. "If we weren't moving away later this year, I'd be offering to buy," the man said. That was a thought, one that caused an uncomfortable sinking feeling in my gut. As we left, Emma abruptly turned.

"Won't be a minute – I think I forgot something..." and went back to the house. I waited on the path. Of course – it wasn't a minute, it was more like five before she joined me and we walked to the park, enjoying the early summer sun; the kids screaming and running around, the occasional howl as one fell off the climbing frames, or was thumped by one of the others for some reason. The river burbling in its bed, the sound of the ducks on the lake mixed with that of the gulls – gulls, so far inland...

So I walked with my pretty young wife, holding hands; we had a snack in the café and I chatted with the proprietor, with whom I was on friendly terms. Or, had been before moving away.

Monday... and Tuesday, as it turned out, were ... long. I know I'm not 'with' Emma all the time, but usually when she's tied up (no, not like that) I have other things to do – either seminars or workshops or just stuff round the house. But I did have the Library, galleries and my laptop, so it wasn't too bad, and I had Emma in the evenings, of course. She was just as enthusiastic to be with me as I was with her. In fact, there was something, almost a 'I know something you don't' feel to her. We didn't need to extend, but we had the car until Friday evening anyway, so we drove to York.