We drove a mile to the pub and settled in by the log fire. We sat in our usual seat, a long bench, and snuggled side by side. I watched Mitch at the bar as he ordered our drinks; white wine by the glass. He laughed and joked with the bartender. Without a care in the world was how I remembered my boyfriend that night.

‘How was Oliver?’ Mitch asked. ‘I hear you had lunch with him.’

‘He’s fine. He gave me a little present. I think he still fancies me.’

Mitch didn’t show his usual territorial spike in jealousy. I felt uneasy when I thought about this later.

‘He definitely fancies you. Who wouldn’t?’

There was no interrogation or probing questions. It could have been confidence on his part or apathy. Niggling doubts made me suspect the latter.

Mitch was delighted with his signet ring and it did indeed fit the fourth finger on his right hand. He told me my present was on order and I’d get it in the New Year. I was assured it would be worth the wait.

‘It’ll be something to look forward to,’ he said.

Disappointment filtered through a fuzzy reckoning. It seemed another sign that our relationship had taken a strange turn. I had to remind myself that Mitch loved spur-of-the-moment gifts. There were the pearl earrings when we first made love; the silk camisole and designer perfumes; the rich leather purse with my initials embossed in gold.

‘I don’t do commercial dates,’ he said. ‘My gifts are personal; from the heart.’ Spontaneity was part of his roguish charm. Now it didn’t feel so good.

I stayed over and remember a sad melancholic feeling as we lay on the sofa and listened to music, drinking Cointreau from tumblers. Mitch chose the music, a medley of lovesick ballads. He was an incurable romantic.

Something plucked at my heart strings as Phyllis Nelson crooned above the silence:

We made love, slowly and tenderly, on the floor in front of the fire which Mitch had stoked for the occasion. We lay side by side on the long-haired woollen rug. He stroked my hair as he joined in the lyrics and hummed gently.

I left Mitch’s flat early the next morning. I decided to pack my things and leave for home without delay. I told Mitch I’d catch the non-stop train up to Durham that afternoon rather than wait another day. The weather was too bad to drive.

‘I’ll miss you. Love you,’ he said as we kissed goodbye in the cold frosty air.

‘Love you too. Call me.’

He mouthed time-honoured platitudes about taking care and how the week would fly as he waved me off from inside his front door.

I didn’t realise, as the door closed behind me, that I wouldn’t see Mitch again for the next ten years.

13

Arthur