As he sat and listened to Véronique Gens’s warm and sensual vocals, his heart slowed down, but the rest of his body didn’t. Desire tingled in every vein and muscle. If only that kiss on the cheek had missed and hit his lips . . . It didn’t bear thinking about, but how could he not think about it? Our thoughts are not crimes; our desires are not felonies. But why do they feel as if they are? It is only in acting upon them that the fault lies, he told himself, no matter what William Blake said about sooner murdering a baby in its cradle than nursing an unacted desire.

But he still felt guilty for hoping, for that one brief moment when Zelda asked to stay, that she had meant she wanted to stay and sleep with him. The guilt wasn’t so much because of Ray, but more because of Zelda’s past, the way she had been constantly mistreated, used and abused by men. Was he no better than them? If some pimp came up to him right now and said he could sleep with her for a hundred or two hundred pounds, would he pay it? Zelda was younger than his own daughter, Tracy, yet still he lusted after her. Just how good was he when it came right down to it? He felt both relieved and disappointed that it wasn’t him she wanted, merely the proximity of another human being. Relieved because he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of sleeping with Zelda, and disappointed because, well, because it was Zelda, and the damn thing was that he didn’t only lust after her, he liked her.

Banks drank the last of the wine and tried to comfort himself with the thought that his virtue was most unlikely to be put to the test: there wasn’t a hope in hell that things with Zelda would go any further. His feelings would remain unrequited. They would remain friends because that was what she needed most, even though what he needed most was not so much another friend as a lover. It was small comfort, but it was the best he would get for the moment.

Chapter 12

12

WHEN BANKS CAME DOWNSTAIRS ON MONDAY MORNING, Zelda was already up, sitting in the conservatory with a cup of coffee, reading the Guardian. She looked up and smiled when Banks walked in. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all,” said Banks.

“I made coffee. But what do you eat for breakfast? I couldn’t find anything.”

“Ah,” said Banks. “Right. I’m not much of a breakfast person, really. A cup of coffee, then hit the road, that’s me.”

“But breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“So they say. Whoever they are. I’ve never quite been able to believe it, myself. I think there’s some bread left, though. And I’ve got marmalade.”