Under His Influence

“Going my way?” he asked, with a mock lightness that terrified her for a moment. He put a hand on her arm, gently urging her towards the ticket barrier.

“Please…” she protested weakly, buffeted by too many conflicting urges. The urges to run, or to explain why she wasn’t going with him, ever, were overruled by her abhorrence of public scenes, her naturally people-pleasing bent, and her overwhelming surge of need for him. She wasn’t sure how the need had grown so huge so quickly, but when she was with him, she had a sense of belonging she hadn’t experienced since her parents’ death. When her inclinations allied with the touch of his hand on her arm, she was lost. She followed him to the ticket barrier, mutely fed her Oyster card to its hungry maw, and descended the steps to the platform.

They had no time to stand and wait. The northbound train was already approaching, and John nudged Anna through the doors, holding her against his chest while he found a free strap to hang on to as the packed carriage rattled and shunted on its way. She closed her eyes and trusted her soul to fate. Now that she had her face against the hot, dampish cotton of his shirt again, and could breathe him in, and smell and feel him so intoxicatingly close, it was unfair of her wits to intervene and make her forgo this blissful journey. John was here, holding her, and she was wanted, and she would go with him, wherever and whenever he asked her.

The questions still had to be asked, though, and once they were up above ground in the cleaner, more fragrant air of Belsize Park, Anna opened her mouth, only to find that he edged in with the first inquiry.

“So. W

ere you ill?”

He seemed not to want to hear her answer, pulling her across Haverstock Hill, towards the quieter streets behind it.

“No. But I was…enlightened.”

He looked at her, flinty-eyed, and she quailed. She had not realised he could be this intimidating.

“Enlightened? Well, then, perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.”

“You have a wife.”

He stopped, holding on to her by the wrists, staring down at her. He looked rumpled, Anna noticed, not the impeccable man she had been with previously. He needed a shave, he was sweaty and his shirt clung to his chest; moreover there was a bloodshot tinge to his eyes that suggested that he, like her, had not slept well. Curiously, it made her want him more, not less.

“I had a wife,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Had.”

“I saw the photos. Last summer…”

“God.” John sank down onto a wall, clutching his forehead. Anna shifted from foot to foot, feeling once more entirely outmanoeuvred.

“Is she…?”

“Dead? Yes.” He met her eyes, unsmiling now, his fingers looking as if they might dig into the brick.

“Oh my God.”

Quite without warning, making her want to scream with self-loathing and fury, Anna’s tears rushed out. What a self-pitying idiot he must think her. She tried her best to quell them, slamming palms into her eye sockets with vicious force.

“Stop, Anna. Stop. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“No!”

“Not your home. My home. Here.” He took her elbow and half ran with her, all the way along the tree-lined streets until they reached a red brick mansion of Victorian Gothic proportions at the Hampstead end of the hill.

“Is this your house?” Anna looked up at the turret, pointing its accusing spike at the low, dark clouds that gathered over London.

“All mine. Now. Come on. Let’s get inside and dry your eyes before they get rained on.”

Once inside, Anna wanted to wow and gasp at the sheer scale of the place, with its high ceilings and echoing spaces, but she felt somehow that the mood between them was too sombre now, so she followed John mutely into a luxurious sitting room at the back of the house, confining her expressions of awe to her eyes, which stretched and narrowed in rapid series with each new wonder of interior decor.

“Take a seat,” he said, brusque and unsmiling. Anna almost felt that she had been invited to an unpleasant disciplinary interview with a school headmaster. With sweat beading on her upper lip, she was as prickly and tense as a curled hedgehog.

Nonetheless, she sank into a too-comfortable chair, its yielding leather cushions moulding her spine so she couldn’t stiffen it as she wanted to. It felt wrong to relax, doubly wrong to cross her legs, so she sat up, knees clamped together, shoulders hunched, watching John mix what looked like rather stiff brandy and sodas. She wanted to break the silence, which pressed in on her, tying her in knots like those odd snaky things in her dreams. Her mouth was too dry. Her tongue felt large and clumsy. She stared at the floor, waiting, tacitly acknowledging that the greater right to speech lay with him.

“I spent a long time trying to work out why I was so disappointed,” he said, handing the drink to her but choosing to remain standing with his, sipping it while he paced the small area in front of her chair. “I mean, you don’t owe me anything, Anna. I don’t expect anything from you. You’re a free agent. You don’t have to see me. You don’t have to call me. I suppose the minor courtesy of a cancellation call might have sugared the pill… No, not really. It wouldn’t have.”

“M’sorry.” Anna tried to break in, her voice wavering. She wished he would stop pacing and stand still, or at least sit down opposite her.

“And it had only been, what, two, three days? After all.” He ignored her, continuing his monologue, seemingly oblivious to her presence. “It’s not unusual for a promising start to stay just that… But Anna!” He turned now, swung round, dropping on his haunches to face her, his eyes agonised. A drop of brandy mirrored his consternation, splashing up over the side of his glass.