Chapter 2

When I began to surface, initially I thought I was back in time before Rachel left. However, there were several elements that didn't fit. The bed was a little softer than mine ... the woman in my arms ... Kitty! She felt different, curvier, and her scent was different, too.

"Good morning, Geoff. Ready to face the world?" Her voice was different, too; a mellow alto, rather than a scratchy soprano.

"Don't know," I commented, lazily. "This is rather nice..."

"So it is, but I have work to attend to, I'm afraid."

"Pity. Perhaps we could do this again sometime?"

She frowned, but stretched forward so she could kiss my forehead. "Better not," she said, "you've been a gentleman in every sense and a pleasure to be with ... in every sense ... but you need a relationship, and that's not in my plans for my life, I'm afraid. Besides, my girls would be upset if I took their work."

I must have looked dejected, because she went on, "Believe me, there are hundreds of women out there who would jump at the chance to know you better."

"Really?" I felt sceptical, and it must have shown.

"Really. And if you need more practice, there are several of my young ladies who would be glad to offer you a discount once they hear what I have to say about you."

"Hmph."

"Let's have some breakfast, okay?"

It's probably no surprise that Kitty's breakfast was (apart from the coffee) just as healthy as the one I was supposed to eat; she obviously was at pains to maintain her health and figure. We ate mostly in silence and when we had both finished we stood together. Kitty came to me and took my hands in hers. Our eyes met.

"Geoff, I'm a little bit sorry I can't offer you more than I have," she told me seriously. "Please don't give up. I hope you enjoyed last night – I certainly did."

"Oh, yes ... I did. And ... perhaps you'd book me someone for next Wednesday?"

She smiled and nodded, then used the internal phone to call the young woman, Lida, to show me out.

"And come back when you've done that, will you?" she told the girl.

Having a week before my appointment with whichever young lady Kitty assigned as my escort, I embarked on a programme of catching up on things I'd neglected. That involved shredding a lot of documents that were no longer needed, disposing of junk mail, and giving the house a thorough clean and tidy from top to bottom. I had plenty of time to think. As a result, I decided that I didn't really want to spend an evening with someone I was paying to be with me. I didn't really want sex for the sake of sex, and if I was going to have sex, I'd rather it was someone ... someone like Kitty, but preferably someone who wanted more than a one-night-stand. Someone, I thought, of a similar age to me and someone with whom I could have a conversation.

I rang Kitty, and apologised for cancelling.

"Oh, it's not a problem," she reassured me, "I understand and, actually, I think you're right. You need someone who is at least a potential partner."

The encounter did have a positive effect, though. I felt positive for the first time in months. I remembered things I used to do BR ... Before Rachel. The world had changed while I'd been with her, but I could at least take my life 'off hold' and try to catch up. I was up to five miles a day and I worked out that I could do that and include a few hours in town at the main art gallery, or library. I felt I'd turned a corner and went back to see Phil, who shook his head.

"No, Geoff. I hear you, that you're feeling better. You're looking better, but your blood-pressure's still ... one-eighty over ninety. Weight's coming down, but not too fast. That's good, it's a longer term aim. You get a pat on the back and at least the rest of the four weeks off. Possibly more. Did you contact Miss Hawke?"

"Yes."

He just looked at me, waiting for more. I shrugged.

"The young lady she assigned me got ill, and I took her out instead."

"You took Kitty?" His surprise was most gratifying.

"Aye. Had a very pleasant evening," which was as much as I was going to tell him, except... "Would have liked to do the same again, but she..."

"Didn't want you to think there might be a relationship..." Phil finished for me, quietly. "I don't know what it is. If it's any consolation, you're the only client she's graced with her company in several years, as far as I know. Will you go back?"

"I don't think so. That evening helped ... a lot. But it's convinced me I don't want to pay some pretty young thing to keep me company. I want someone who wants me for me."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Just so you keep up what you're doing. Perhaps add some swimming."

I grunted at that. I enjoyed swimming as a boy, but I don't float – something to do with bones and muscle, perhaps – and, well, I get a bit short of breath. But, just maybe, I ought to try it.

A few days later I was in the library and went to the café to have a coffee. As I looked around for somewhere to sit, I noticed someone I recognised ... the blonde from the escort agency. What was her name? Lida, that was it. The place wasn't that crowded, but I didn't see the point of occupying one of the few empty tables, if she didn't mind my company.

"Er ... hi," I said, "would you mind if I sat here? Um ... it's Lida ... isn't it?"

She looked up from the book she was reading and blushed. "Da ... yes ... I am Lida ... Mister Brown. Please ... be seated."

I could see that the book was in Russian, or at least in Cyrillic script. "Excuse me, but what are you reading?"

She blushed again. "Pushkin," she said. "He ... expresses ... Russia ... I love my country, but it is not a great place to live nowadays."

"Isn't it better than communism?"

"I don't remember communism, but there is much ... corruption ... and the ... economy is bad."

Her head dipped down again and I decided I ought to let her read in peace, so I got out my own paperback and settled down to read. I was aware, and looked up, as she finished her drink, put her book away and stood. But then she held out her hand, and I took it. "Goodbye, Mister Brown. It was pleasant to meet you again."

"Goodbye, Lida. It was good to see you, too."

The following week, I saw her again. Okay, I admit it, I had been watching for her. We had a chat, which included a vigorous discussion of the relative merits of tea and coffee. I thought I detected a reluctance in her as she stood to leave, but she smiled as I took and held her extended hand a little longer than socially necessary. She gently squeezed mine before detaching herself.

"Another two weeks," Phil said when I kept my – I had hoped 'final' – appointment. "You're doing well enough, but I don't think you're there yet."

"But..."

"No buts, Geoff."

Usual day, usual place. My little encounters with the pretty Russian blonde, though short, were becoming something I anticipated with pleasure and even a little anxiety. 'Will she be there, this week?' We talked about poetry, which is not my favourite subject, but I really enjoyed myself. The only poetry I can sit and read has straightforward rhythm and scansion and a subject I can identify with – Kipling, for example. Or John Gillespie Magee's 'High Flight'. When we parted, she held my hand a little longer again.

"I have enjoyed talking to you, Mister Brown". She squeezed my hand again and left before I could come up with an appropriate response.

The call from Kitty Hawke came as a surprise, but I wasn't going to turn down an invitation to coffee with her. Perhaps she would reconsider her position regarding a relationship?

The coffee was as good as I remembered. Kitty, though not gussied up for a date, was elegant and beautiful, but a little remote. We chatted about inconsequential things for a quarter hour or so before she got to the point.

"Mister Brown ... Geoff ... I need to ask you a favour." I raised an eyebrow. "Please," she went on, "feel free to refuse, as it'll involve quite a trespass on your privacy."

I was intrigued. "Go ahead," I smiled, wondering why she was so reluctant to come out with what she wanted.

"I need you to promise not to divulge what I'm about to tell you..."

"As long as no laws are being broken, certainly."

"Lida Mikhailovna Zhestakova..."

"That's a mouthful," I interjected, but subsided as she frowned at me.

"I try to look after my girls," she went on, "but I failed Lida. I check – usually carefully – the reputations of potential clients. I accepted one from out of town on the recommendation of a director of a local firm, who has since been transferred out of the area." She took a deep breath. "Lida was uncomfortable with the man and at the end of the assignment asked to be brought back here. She was raped, Mister Brown. And now ... she is pregnant, refuses an abortion, and is uncomfortable around men. I have kept her here as a housekeeper, but..."

"But there's no place here for a baby," I concluded.

"No. And with the exception of my flat, these are business premises, not residential. It's possible there would be problems, both for Lida, using this as her address, and for me, letting her live here."

"I see. And the favour?"

"Lida tells me she has met you informally on occasion."

"Why, yes. We've had some enjoyable chats over coffee, or in her case tea, in the library café."