The two weekends were far more difficult. Sylvie had met some people from the university who shared her interest in letters, and she’d made arrangements with them on both weekends. Leonard was pleased for her, he wanted her to be happy, but wished her new friends had not appeared right at this time. In the end, he played golf on the Saturdays, and on the Sundays he went to the beautiful minister’s church.

16 YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR LIFE

16

YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR LIFE

Sylvie was sitting at the table in Mark’s kitchen. A ripe washed-rind cheese oozed onto a board alongside a crispy baguette, and the coffee pot was on the stove. Leonard was playing golf, and she and Mark had the whole afternoon together.

A rally was to be held at the city square in support of Nelson Mandela, and Mark had suggested they might go. Mandela had been transferred from prison to hospital because of a flare-up of his TB, but would be returned to prison on his recovery. The rally was to protest his imprisonment, both past and future. With the exception of the Vietnam moratoriums, when even conservative people with sons of call-up age took to the streets, Sylvie had never been to a political rally.

What do you do when you start so far behind?

That she should steer a steady course her entire life, and only at this late stage diverge onto the road less travelled, was incredible. That she should be a woman in clear sight of old age when first she experienced passionate love was incredible. That she might be washing dishes, peeling potatoes, driving for the Blind Society, baking for the hospital fête, and actually feel Mark’s hands on her, feel his mouth graze her neck, his body enfolding hers, his head pressed into her breasts, his legs entwined with hers, his tongue, his breath, his hands caressing her, it was incredible. Before Mark, she’d never made love during the day.

Where to begin when you start so far behind?

If she were to attempt to make up for time lost when she was twenty or thirty or forty, then she would miss out on the possibilities offering now, to middle-aged Sylvie Morrow. Once time was lost, it seemed you were always in arrears. These days, she found Mark in the pages of books and in the daily newspaper; she found him at the supermarket and at the petrol station. The most mundane aspects of her life had been changed by knowing him.

There had been times during the years when she could have screamed with boredom and frustration, but she had stifled those feelings, knowing they’d pass. And besides, she had no good reason to complain, although she did wonder if other wives experienced the same dissatisfactions. She’d recently read an article about the Women’s Liberation Movement changing the lives of women. It hadn’t changed hers, nor indeed the lives of her friends; the women’s movement simply hadn’t touched her. But Mark Asher had.