The Intervention of a Good Man

5

In which the suspense is at its height.

An ineffective strategy.

Disaster foretold.

At a quarter past nine our hero gets up, takes a shower, and goes down for breakfast. He is just drinking his Lipton tea with its international yellow teabag tag when his eye settles on the digital clock. It flashes three figures: 8:55.

Because did you know, dear reader, that Scotland is one hour behind mainland Europe? Our hero suddenly remembers this and realizes to his despair that it is not yet nine o’clock while his wretched cell phone is still saying it is 9:58. He spends the additional hour trying to sleep. It will prove in vain.

Ten o’clock, well, five minutes to (he did not hold out). He catches our heroine asleep. In a weary, irritable voice she agrees to meet him at eleven. Seeing me again, he thinks, is definitely far from urgent. She names a new meeting place, outside a pub on the A32, because she is worried he will not be able to find the previously agreed place, by the sign to Inchnadamph, if you remember.

Our hero takes his precautions, and arrives, of course, with half an hour to spare. The pub is a miserable affair, the creepily unnatural love child of a franchised truck stop and a traditional inn. It looks out over the main road, is utterly deserted. Later, our hero will gather that people have wedding receptions here. He turns back over the white gravel, and decides to go to the previous meeting place, about a mile farther on. There, he opens the trunk, carefully reads the manual for the Nissan Almera, and manages to collapse the rear seat, planning to put a bicycle in the back shortly.

For some time now, our hero has dreamed of this crossroads between the A32 and S70, the place where they would be reunited. He pictured somewhere more rural, dry stone walls, something more — how could he put this — Scottish. A recently built church devoid of any charm stands facing a featureless roadside cafe, the road is wide, busy, noisy. He leaves the car, walks a little way along the S70, sets off over the narrow bridge that spans a peaceful river, and looks at the undulating moor and copses from which she could emerge. Suddenly frightened by his own nerve, he goes back to the car.

It is a beautiful day. He is not sure whether this is a good thing. The cold shower he can feel looming will dry quickly in the sun.

Our hero is sitting in the Nissan, parked, with the engine off, in the church parking lot, when our heroine goes past. She is on foot, pushing her bicycle, and has not seen him. What is it they say in bad novels? That his heart feels squeezed like a sponge, that his blood freezes? Alas, all the clichés are true. He is amazed to feel so much emotion, so feverish, hates himself for his sentimentality.

She gets back on her bicycle, and he does not call out to her. He looks at her, her hair, her back, her buttocks, let’s admit it. He dare not call out her name. He can tell that this hesitation is a bad sign: Does he know he is already in the wrong for parking here, where she was not expecting him? Or perhaps, fearing he is condemned, he does not want to hasten the hour of his execution? So he lets her pedal on awhile, starts the car, overtakes her, and goes to wait for her at the appointed place, on the crunching white gravel.

It takes only a few minutes to bicycle just over a mile. Enough for him to regret subjecting her to such an arduous hill, in the crushing heat, and he decides to turn back. He immediately meets her on the road and comes to a stop, facing her. She was finishing the hill on foot, bicycle in hand. A lock of blond hair clings to her slick forehead. She sees him, manages admirably well to hide her pleasure.

Our hero steps out of the car, our heroine keeps on pushing her bike. She sketches an appropriate sort of smile, with no result. He has not practiced any opening lines, and tries a conspiratorial grin. Perhaps we should forget the ensuing exchange of words which is pitifully mundane. She kisses him, their lips brush past each other for a fraction of a second. She does not want this kiss to last, and he immediately gathers he is not welcome, he should not be here at all. How strange, he thinks, that the worst is always foreseeable. Let’s go somewhere else, not this pub, he suggests. And adds, Even to split up, I’m sure we can find something better. She makes no comment.

He puts her bike in the trunk, which refuses to accommodate it: the gap between the rear seats is too narrow, the saddle will not go through. He pulls down the trunk door, which will have to remain partly open. She shrugs her shoulders. Either way, her gesture implies: we won’t be going far. It is an excellent summary.

She sits down beside him, not looking at him. Where are you taking me? she asks. He gives the name of the hotel where he has booked a room for the second night. The Glen Carron Park Hotel. She knows it. It is nearby. She adds: It’s the next turn on the right. They are off.

They drive along. Her perfume instantly pervades the car despite the open windows. It is such a distinctive fragrance, lily of the valley mingled with vanilla. The smell of their rare moments of Parisian intimacy, of her pretty naked body beneath his, of the nape of her neck docile to his kisses. It is a gentle perfume but a heady one that he took everywhere with him, that stayed with him for hours, long after he had made love to her. It is an almost painful scent as the two of them drive along to the Glen Carron Park Hotel.

Occasionally, as a riposte, our hero would spray himself with Chanel Pour Monsieur. Eau de toilette versus perfume, cistus and oak versus lily of the valley, it was an unequal battle. Be that as it may, in his haste, he has forgotten to bring the bottle.